Chapter Three

Draco ran out of breath by the time he reached the top stair of the tower. Panting and wheezing, it was all he could do to weakly bang on the door. Someone called for him to enter and he roughly pushed the door inwards and stepped into the room.

The man sitting behind the desk looked up from a sheaf of papers at him. He was a man of small built, with brown hair and small brown eyes set in pale, round face. He wore faded dark blue robes which had a layer of dust on the shoulders and collar. There was nothing remarkable about the man –forgettable and easily lost in a crowd. Draco's derision grew; the man had his wand stuck behind his ear.

"Oh, this?" the man asked noticing Draco's eyes on the wand.

"I always seem to forget where I keep it," he explained with a shrug. "This way atleast I'll be able to get my hands on it before being hexed to pieces!"

Draco pondered about testing that little theory of his, but desisted - he didn't need any more detentions, anyway.

The man cleared his throat.

"I am D J Prod," he said extending his hand; Draco considered it with a raised eyebrow and then turned around to sit down on the couch, which was the only seat present on this side of the desk.

"And yes, please sit…" the man with the bloody stupid name trailed off uncertainly.

Prod or whatever hell the man was called tapped his fingers on the desk nervously for a few minutes and rearranged the papers rather unnecessarily, apparently trying to steel himself or something. Hmph. Draco felt a sneer forming on his face: plebes can so easily be cowed.

The man cleared his throat.

"So, Mr Malfoy – er Draco?" the icy glare directed at him made Prod blanch. "So, Mr Malfoy, then," he said hastily.

Draco crossed his arms across his chest and sat ram rod straight and set his face into an arrogant scowl; he hoped his body language would convey some of his unquestionable superiority, and the intense disapproval he felt at being there in the stupid cylindrical room and on the rather lumpy red (Ew!) couch.

"It says here," he indicated the papers, "that you er, had in class um, assaulted a student?"

Draco looked on as the man blathered incoherently, and raised his eyes in the general direction of Heaven.

"So, what made you, er, I mean was there any provocation involved?" he mumbled still staring down at his papers so he could avoid looking at Draco.

"I didn't do it!" Draco snapped; he was getting tired of repeating it, and more bloody tired of people giving him an incredulous look when he said it. Just like the Prod man was giving him now.

"Ah," the man said slowly.

Was that a disbelieving tone? Draco was livid. "Do you think I'm lying?"

"No!" the man said hurriedly, "I was only, erm…so what really did happen, then?"

"You want to really know?" Draco sneered and narrowed his eyes. "Alright. I'll tell you -what happened was that I have been victimised in this giant conspiracy; one, whose aim seems to be to tarnish my reputation, destroy my mental peace and cause damage to my person! A dastardly and nefarious plot to chip away at my resilient strength and sully my soul until I remain but a hollow shell of despair and nothingness, eternally cursed to suffer the pain of humiliation and languishing at the bottom of the sea of darkest loneliness—a truly horrid plight designed for me by my enemies. Although, I have to admit that it is a rather ingenious and clever ploy—I give them that." Draco sniffed, and admitted to himself he rather had nice way with words; but, of course that was obvious – he was a Malfoy afterall and not some cultureless, illiterate mountain-troll like someone he knew.

Prod could only gape at him. "And who would you say is behind this, er, ploy?" he asked rather worriedly.

Draco looked at him as if he was a sloth with brain damage, which probably wouldn't be that big a stretch of the truth.

"Dumbledore, why of course!" Draco said as though it was glaringly obvious and rolled his eyes at the man for good measure.

"ah," said Prod slowly, in a tone that Draco recognised that someone would use for when a five-year old declared that he was going to rule the world and that the bog-monsters in his cupboard were his first minions, aiding him to loot all the ice-cream in the world.

Draco wanted to slap the man. Or Avada him. Either; He wasn't choosy.

OoOoO

Prod had just carefully adjusted the papers he had received from Dumbledore on his desk, when someone banged on the door. Quickly taking a seat in the chair he called out a 'come in!'

The door burst inwards and a rather muddy black shoe clad foot stepped onto the threshold. The figure entered the room and light fell on a tall, lanky looking pale young man. He had silver-blond hair arranged in slight disarray. His grey eyes narrowed upon seeing him and the rather pointy features of his face were set in a scowl.

He looked startlingly like his father, right down to the derision in his sneer. Oh, Prod knew Lucius Malfoy alright; everyone at the Ministry did – crude, sniggered remarks described how Malfoy had Fudge tethered on a leash of generous 'donations' of Galleons. And it was a general consensus that he was a slimy, evil bastard who terrified the heebie-jeebies out of you. And this was his son.

Prod had politely introduced himself but had been rather pointedly ignored. Why, that impudent brat..!

He had tried to calm down his nerves and the constant glaring by the young man wasn't helping much. Prod ducked his head and tried to stare at the table, chanting 'I can do this I can do this' under his breath.

Finally he had composed himself enough to look at the young Malfoy and address the issue at hand. Only, he had not expected the lad to go on a spiel about some 'conspiracy'.

"And who would you say is behind this, er, ploy?" he had asked, genuinely concerned.

"Dumbledore, why of course!" the brat had drawled in a petulant tone.

That had certainly put things in perspective. Well, the brat had proved himself to be a Malfoy alright.

"ah," he had said, unable to think of a proper response. Draco Malfoy had glared at that.

Prod sighed to himself. He had been thinking of how exactly to go about this 'therapy' business for the past few days. He had even ventured into muggle London and bought a book called The Idiot's Guide To Psychoanalyses – A general assessment of the human mindin a thrift store; and had got Flying Over A Cuckoo's Nest –How to help a mate going for sixes and sevensfor free with the former.

He had learnt enough after reading the books to know how exactly to go about this; he fished out a notepad and a quill and ink pot from his pockets and laid them out on the table, aware of the Malfoy heir's scrutinising glare on him. He then carefully wrote 'Malfoy, Draco' at the top of the page.

"Uh, Mr Malfoy you were saying…please, continue," he said with his quill poised ready over the page.

Malfoy's pale, silver eyes were fixed on the quill. "Huh? Oh, yeah – as I said, Dumbledore tricked me into this whole mess!"

'Persecution complex' Prod wrote and marked it as point number one. "So, you say that you did not assault a fellow student, and that it was actually Professor Dumbledore who had done it?" he asked.

"Yes! Wait –no," Malfoy said distractedly craning his neck trying to read what was being written from his position on the couch. "I never said that Dumbledore attacked – he may have, I don't know – all I know is that I don't remember hitting anyone."

"Hmm," Prod intoned. 'either is lying—concocting wild theories, or may have blocked out the incident—but why?'

"What are you writing down?" Malfoy burst out suddenly, sounding annoyed and petulant. "I demand you show me!"

"Oh, nothing," Prod said mildly, quite enjoying the brat's frustration. "Just some notes on this session; you need not be bothered: they're very boring."

The young man huffed and leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms more tightly, and stared at the ceiling. Prod was amused at the childish display.

"So, you were saying something about Dumbledore…?" Prod prompted.

Malfoy maintained a stubborn silence.

Prod decided to try a different tack.

"So, if you were to have —hypothetically – punched the Mr er-" Prod sifted through the papers, "—Mr Potter?" he exclaimed shocked at reading the name on the parchment. He punched the Wizarding world Saviour – the Boy Who Lived? Blimey! This one surely was a Malfoy through and through.

Malfoy had not even deigned to look at him at his exclamation. Prod decided to continue.

"So, hypothetically if you had punched Harry Potter, what do you say the reason could have been?"

Malfoy gave a small, irritated growl. Prod could feel a headache coming on.

"Alright," Prod decided to brush over the issue for the time being, "how would you describe your relationship with Mr Potter?"

That got him a reaction, alright. Malfoy leapt from the sofa, his eyes wild and his fists shaking.

"What?" He screeched. "What relationship? What the hell is it that you're implying? I am not in any relationship with Potter!" he took Potter's name with particular heartfelt loathing.

'ah,' Prod said to himself, 'interesting.'

"Mr Malfoy, I was not implying anything. Calm down and take your seat."

He wrote down 'Potter' on the note and made a small question mark next to it.

"What did you just write?" Malfoy's voice was attaining high levels of squeakiness and loudness.

"Nothing, nothing," Prod lied smoothly and again indicated for the young man to take his seat. "As I was asking, what would be your major emotion regarding Mr Potter?" he worded carefully.

"Hate. Loathing," Malfoy replied promptly. "A mutual feeling of deepest detestation."

Prod noted it down and Malfoy sat back on the couch.

"And when would you say it started?"

"The moment I laid eyes on the prat, I knew he would be of the insufferable breed."

"So, you don't like him? Why—if you could be specific?"

"I abhor him! He is the most sanctimonious, self-righteous Gryffindor on the face of the earth! Viewing the world from his stupid high horse, like the rest of the world is scum! Always so desperate for any kind of attention, I wouldn't be surprised if half the trouble he gets himself into isn't staged or purposeful – for a front page splash of his stupid mug in the papers! And the whole Boy Who Lived drivel - the whole sycophantic Wizarding world eating out of his hands! Who would actually want that stupid bloody ugly scar, anyway?"

Malfoy panted, angry splotches appearing on his pale face; it seemed like he had been dying to say that out loud for ages. Prod had hastily written everything down. 'exhibits a lot of anger on the subject of Harry Potter.'

"Mr Malfoy, I need you to be more specific: what particularly annoys you about him?"

"Potter annoys me by just existing!" Malfoy snapped.

Oookay…"Would you please describe the events leading up to your alleged assault on Mr Potter in class?" he ventured cautiously.

Malfoy glared daggers at him for a while, and then closed his eyes in resignation.

"It was right after lunch and a Double Transfiguration; Pansy was being an annoying chit and I was about to tell her off when I happened to look at Potter," he said rapidly. "And then I was being attacked by Weasley and given an unjust detention. And then, I ended up here with you."

"Wait, wait!" Prod said confused, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"No," Malfoy replied churlishly. "I told you I don't remember what happened in between."

"You really don't remember?" Prod asked surprised.

"No," Malfoy said irritated. "One moment I was looking at Potter scribbling his notes down illegibly – it's a wonder if it could be ever be read by any civilisation -then Potter was all frowny like his brain had been Accioed out of his skull –which would have been probable if the gimp actually possessed a brain –and then I watched him chew on his quill, which aptly demonstrated his uncultured and barbaric upbringing! I mean, that is such a disgusting habit – I wouldn't be surprised if those muggles that raised him lived in caves, fed on rats and communicated via grunts with each other!...anyway, the only thing I remember after that was I was flying inexplicably towards the green-eyed git, focussed solely on his disgusting mouth sucking on the quill – surely, to teach that arrogantly red mouth a lesson!...and then everything went black, and I regained my senses to being strangled by Weasley… " he finished slowly.

'Ah,' Prod thought to himself. Now, despite his under-achieving state in his life, Prod wasn't stupid. And he certainly wasn't stupid enough to not notice the issue at hand; it was actually blaringly clear if one listened, really listened to the young Malfoy, and his very evident obsession with the Boy (who he said) Lived To Annoy Him. He smiled to himself – Ah, it must be good to be young, and to be hopelessly misled by one's own feelings.

"Stupid, four-eyed freak…those ugly, thick glasses belong at the bottom of the lake…Saint Potter and his snot-nosed, drooling fan club…godawful muggle rags – probably thinks would get him more sympathetic attention…hmmph…"

Prod could hear Malfoy muttering under his breath as he laid down once more on the couch and stared at the support beams of the high ceiling.

A plan suddenly formed in Prod's head. It was ingenious and technically he'd only be providing the slight prod in the right direction; he was starting to quite enjoy this psycho-babble ordeal….Oh! he thought happily, Dumbledore and Fudge are going to be so very sorry for using him as a pawn in their little feud!

OoOoO

Draco was pondering about if Potter's eternally messy hair was really the result of a Dark Curse, as it was rumoured to be, when he suddenly realised that he had been absent-mindedly tugging at his own hair. He froze with shock and extracted his offending hand from his locks, and stared at it. Merlin's balls! What was wrong with him? Mussing up his own hair, when he spent the better part of an hour in the morning smoothing it into its perfect state?

Draco was so shocked at his own actions that he barely registered the evil, little laugh issuing from across the room.

"Mr Malfoy!"

Draco was startled and spun his head towards Prod.

"I was just wondering if you would answer a few of my questions." Prod began.

Draco raised a supercilious brow.

"How would you describe Potter – I mean how he looks- physically?"

"Why? Haven't you ever seen a picture of the git in some publication somewhere?" Draco said dryly. "It is rather hard to ignore; I've tried."

"Yes, yes," Prod waved dismissively. "But, I want you to describe him – how you see him."

"I guess he's just a scrawny git," Draco said, observing that Prod wrote down the information rapidly, "looks like an underfed orphan –which he is—short, but not that short as he is about my height; lanky; has atrocious hair that defies all laws of gravity; face is plain and looks a bit pinched; has okay looking eyes I guess, but shame really that those stupid ugly glasses of his obscure them from view most of the time…"

Prod was nodding encouragingly and motioned him to go on.

"His clothes are an assault on the senses. I mean, you'd think the Wizarding World's Saviour would not go around looking like a tramp. Shabby, frayed and almost twice his size; he makes me think of a house elf-"

"What do you think makes him the Saviour, that everyone is sure he is?" Prod interrupted him making Draco scowl at the man. "Is he really that magically strong? Does he have any other special powers?"

Draco snorted. "If Potter is really that powerful, then he had been hiding it really well all these years. At best, he is mediocre in his magical education. You should see his Potions' mark."

"But surely, getting top marks in classes doesn't really measure one's inherent raw power, does it?" Prod prodded lightly.

"Well, that may be true," Draco said frowning, "you don't really have to be good at brewing the perfect Draught of Death, when all you can do in the battlefield with it is to dunk it over the enemy's head."

Prod grinned.

"And I suppose, Potter is fairly good with Spells and curses," Draco admitted grudgingly. "And also a damn go—I mean decent flier."

"Oh, yes, the TriWizard Championship quite illustrated that," Prod said remembering all the glowing articles about Potter's exploits in the papers.

"Yes, yes – famous, perfect Potter," Draco muttered darkly; although, Prod noticed that his expression lacked much of the sourness that was present in his tone.

"And all this would you say has made him conceited?" Prod ventured.

"Yes!" Draco said immediately. "I've been saying that for ages; but no one believes me!"

"And so, naturally, you detest him. Conceit is a very detestable trait, indeed," Prod placated him. "And how do you say this conceit has made him act, behave?"

"Potter thinks he is better that everyone! Strutting in the corridors- Professor and students fawning over him!" Draco said agitatedly.

"ah," Prod said soothingly. "So, how do you want him to behave? Surely, you must have some ideas on how Potter can better himself?"

"What?" Draco asked confused. "Well, may be…not be such a Griffindorkish stuck-up all the time, I guess…"

"And?" Prod prompted.

"Well, may be by looking presentable for once, and not like something the Giant Squid spit out—you know, tame that hair a bit, wear proper, decent robes…perhaps, go correct his eyesight magically or something—I'm surprised why it hasn't been done yet…"

Prod motioned for him to go on.

"uh, may be not glare so much all the time, especially at—I mean, before his face permanently freezes like that," Draco frowned. "And smile a bit—he doesn't look half that atrocious when he does that…and may be stop disgusting habits like chewing on quills!"

"Him chewing on his quill bothers you that much?" asked Prod raising his brows a little.

"Yes!" Draco said exasperatedly. "It is such a foul habit – sucking on a bloody bird feather like it's a lollypop, for Merlin's sake! Don't you see how distrac—I mean disgusting to look at that would be?"

Prod hid a grin as he scribbled in the notebook.

"So, I conclude that you quite dislike Mr Potter?"

Geesh! What was the man's first clue?

"Yes" Draco said in a long suffering tone.

"And especially because he chews on bird feathers?"

"Yes! Wouldn't you hate someone like that, too?"

Prod hmmed vaguely, and made more notes on the parchment; it was almost completely covered in inky, squiggly scribbles.

Prod abruptly put down his quill, placed his elbows on the notepad and looked at him, a small smile playing about his lips.

"Now, Mr Malfoy," he said pleasantly, "what are your feelings towards Harry Potter?"

OoOoO

Prod smiled at the young man sitting on the couch fiddling absently with the hem of his sleeves.

It was time to go for the kill.

OoOoO

Draco stared at the man. His feelings towards Potter? Wasn't that what he had been talking about for the better part this stupid session? Merlin's balls! Was the man an imbecile? Draco was going to murder Dumbledore for inflicting this bloody torture on him.

The idiot seemed to be staring intently at him, apparently expecting an answer.

Draco rolled his eyes to Heaven.

"Haven't I already answered that?" he asked stonily.

"Have you?" Prod asked calmly. Draco looked annoyed and confused; Prod was starting to love this Psychoanalysis business—may be he could try it on Plenwitt sometime.

"Yes, I have!" snapped Draco, then faltered at the look on Prod's face. "Haven't I?" he asked slowly.

"I'm afraid you haven't really answered the most important issue," Prod said peering solemnly at him.

"uh, I haven't?" Draco said frowning slightly.

Prod nodded. "The most important issue, Mr Malfoy, is how you truly feel in the depths of your being."

Huh? Draco wasn't really aware that he had any further hidden depths; Malfoys were proclaimed to be a rather shallow lot by the general populace – and Draco had had no reason to believe otherwise, until now.

"It is essential that we understand this, in order to solve the problem."

What was the problem, again? Draco pondered, increasingly mystified.

"What, Mr Malfoy, we must know," Prod continued, "is how you feel in your heart!"

Draco looked gob-smacked and stared like a guppy-fish at the man: did he just say something about feeling through you heart? That was such stupid and improbable notion –and anyway, everyone knew that the Malfoys were above such common, vile, silly things like hearts and feelings; it was left for unfortunately ugly and poor people to do.

Prod's smile sagged a little as he looked at the young man's face.

"You know…" Prod said gesticulating wildly at his chest, then he sighed and sagged in the chair.

This was proving to be a tough cookie to crack.

Yes! He thought getting an idea –perhaps specific examples would do.

"Yes, true feelings!" Prod rallied. "How did you feel during the incident –before the socking?" he added hastily.

Draco frowned thoughtfully.

"When you saw Potter and his quill?" Prod added helpfully.

Draco frowned some more.

"I don't know," he said shrugging. "How was I supposed to feel?"

"Think!" Prod begged. "Visualise the scene and remember how you had felt at the time!"

Draco scrunched up his nose and thought. He closed his eyes and replayed the scene in his head.

"I remember looking into brilliant emerald eyes – Potter has those distinctly unnatural coloured ones—his fringe kept falling into his eyes and I remember contemplating to chop them off myself…Potter was frowning, there's this small crease that forms between his brows whenever he does that…there was an ink splotch on his cheek—he was leaned so low over his writing—and I felt derision at his goody-two-shoes attitude, Potter is such a Hufflepuff sometimes. And then I had felt the sudden urge to scrub at the ink mark, not with my handkerchief ofcourse, the stain would never come off the silk, but with something, it was bloody bothering…"

Prod couldn't contain his smile.

"Potter started playing absent-mindedly with his quill…and I remember getting dizzy just by watching its course…and then – then he brought the eagle quill to his lips," Draco licked his own dry ones, "and then…and then…"

"Yes?" Prod queried in an amused tone.

But Draco could already see the images in his mind, moving in slow-motion: the quill touched a pink bottom lip, then the mouth was opening slightly, the tip of a tongue came out to poke at the shaft of the quill and then disappeared instantly inside again; a warm breath ghosted outwards; and then the mouth closed around the tip… Draco felt his breathing becoming laboured, just as it had at that time, and it felt like something monstrously large had been conjured inside his chest –smothering him from inside. His head swayed and that buzzing had returned, like it had never left him in the first place; multicoloured stars erupted in his vision and he felt like he was swimming futilely in a sea of thick treacle. And above all these sensations that were creating a pandemonium in his skull, one thought had risen clearly to the surface, compelling him to obey it at once: he had been gripped by a sudden compulsion to yank the silly feather from Potter's mouth, because it was infuriatingly and obviously in the way…and then, suddenly those verdant eyes were focusing their full power at him…and then everything was obscured by darkness.

Draco's eyes snapped open. Of course!

Prod was looking at Draco expectantly.

Draco turned towards him with a stunned look.

"I, now, understand," he whispered; Prod's grin grew wider. "I can't believe how I didn't notice before."

Prod was nodding and smiling benevolently.

"Its Potter," Draco said softly to himself. "It has always been Potter."

"Yes," Prod said closing his eyes to savour the fact that it was through his help that the rather clueless young man before him was finally about to find truth and happiness; there was a warm, tingly feeling in his belly – and all this after just one session! Imagine what he could do with the other helpless souls. He could revolutionalize the world through his astounding skills!

"Potter," Draco said solemnly, "was the one to bewitch me."

"Yes –say what?" Prod snapped open his eyes.

"Potter was the one to place me under that, surely, Dark curse that caused me to act the way I had!" Draco was saying; there was a mad, feverish gleam in his eyes. "Yes! I see it all now – the buzzing, the entrancement to look into his accursed eyes (which allowed him place my mind under his control!), the whole ploy with the quill to distract me…It must have been a modified version of the Imperius curse –that's why it didn't alert anyone!"

"What?" Prod was saying weakly, unable to believe his ears.

"Potter cursed me! With something unnatural and Dark!" Draco said with absolute conviction, his eyes over bright.

"B-but why? Why would he need to do something like that?" Prod said desperately, trying to bring back sanity into the proceedings.

Why? How the hell should he know, why! He didn't know how the mind of a deranged, power-happy, loon like Potter's worked, after all. May be he was after Draco's secret collection of ink pots or something.

"Don't ask me to fathom how the mind of Potter's works!" Draco replied snootily.

Prod stared in silence at him for a long time.

"So what do you propose to do now?" he asked almost fearfully.

"Stop Potter, of course!" Draco said at once. "Thwart his plans! Stop whatever he's doing -that he's doing to me!"

And then Malfoy left, muttering to himself.

Prod grabbed his notepad and flung it at the wall.

OoOoO

A/N : Draco is thick.

And yes, he collects ink pots. –shaddup!-

ugh,I sound like a broken record, but please – R&R.

On another sad note, I've just been informed that my classes start tomorrow! Total number of hols I got? Four measly days…yes, I know – my life sucks… epically.

:(

Sorry about slow pace of the chaps…oh,well.