Lucius and the Shrink
"This sentence is outrageous!" Lucius boomed to anyone who would listen, which didn't leave a whole lot of people. Already the majority of gawkers at his hearing had meandered off, many of them grumbling precisely because his sentence was outrageously light, not excessive.
Lucius sniffed. Wasn't that just the way of it? He'd done everything in his power to bring about changes to benefit society by ridding it of undesirables, and he was the one being punished! And not even with Azkaban which, dank and miserable as it was, at least wasn't uncharted territory. With a little imagination it could seem like a scary, putrid version of home. How in the world was he expected to follow this ridiculous mandate?
"Come on, honey," Narcissa cooed, smoothing his beautiful locks. "I know it's unfair, but you get to stay home with your family. That must count for something."
The man glanced over at Draco, who at the moment was twirling in circles and giggling like a toddler. "I guess," he moaned.
"Do you want me to make the appointment for you?"
Lucius nodded numbly. He'd been beaten and tortured many times in his life, he could handle a penalty like that. Instead the court had opted for a much more heinous, devious punishment: a minimum of ten sessions with—what did they call him—a si—sycophant. No. Psy—psycho—psychiatrist. A "mind doctor", he fumed, as if there were anything wrong with his mind!
His seething was interrupted by Narcissa, who wore a positively ghastly look of dismay.
"Lucius, I've just been informed there are no wizard psychiatrists."
He brightened for a second. He wouldn't have to go after all!
"You, uh," she hemmed, stepping back and latching onto her wand in the event of a major meltdown. "You have to see a Muggle psychiatrist."
His horrified screams echoed down the corridors of the Ministry.
"Mr. Malfoy," sang the receptionist. "You're right on time."
"Of course I am, you vermin." He considered sitting down in the box-like area with chairs, but thought better of it. He was here under protest; protesters didn't make themselves comfortable in the enemy's waiting room. "Promptness is a virtue."
"Oh, I'm not Vermin, I'm Veronica," she replied, smiling.
"You can go in. Dr. Tate is ready." She pointed at the door clearly labeled Dr. Tate, as if he somehow might confuse the office with the supply closet.
Lucius rolled his eyes, heaved a tremendous sigh, and opened the door. Instantly he understood why the door needed a definitive designation. This place didn't remotely resemble an office. Where was the desk? The bookcase? And why was there a divan in the middle of the floor? Did these filthy Muggles habitually fall asleep while walking across a room?
Dr. Tate popped out from behind the door, startling the wizard. Had Narcissa not taken the precaution to confiscate his wand, he would have hexed the moron. He felt vulnerable, naked almost, without his wand…and not even his pimp cane to pretend he still had it! Before he could prevent it, the doctor grabbed his hand, pumping his arm up and down.
"Hello, Lucius, I'm Dr. Tate."
"Mr. Malfoy will be fine," growled Lucius, yanking his hand away. He rubbed his palm across his pants, grimacing.
"Won't you sit down?"
Lucius looked around the room, then made a beeline for the only available chair. Tate, perceiving his intention, bolted past him and threw himself forward to land belly first across the seat, then slithered to an upright position with a triumphant smirk.
"My chair," he said.
Clenching his teeth and reminding himself that Malfoys do not start brawls, Lucius hissed, "You said to sit down."
"I meant lie down."
"I'm not tired, thank you," clipped Lucius. Because there was nowhere else to go, he grudgingly perched on the edge of the sofa.
From somewhere Dr. Tate whipped out a pen and a pad of paper far too large to fit in his pocket. "So, Lucius, what brings you here?"
"Mr. Malfoy," he reiterated. "Court order."
"Ooooh," said Tate, assiduously taking note. "An unwilling patient."
"Can we get on with it?"
Belligerent he scrawled. "What was your crime? If I may ask."
"I don't believe I have a choice in what you ask. And if you must know, I was railroaded by pureblood-hating, traitorous, back-biting disgraces to the name of wizardry."
Dr. Tate peered over at him, cocking an eyebrow. Pureblood? "So you're an Aryan?" With that gorgeous long blond hair, it seemed unlikely. Nevertheless, he jotted down skinhead.
"Aryan?" repeated Lucius, caught off guard. "Since I don't know what that is, I find it highly improbable that it pertains to me."
Well, he'd also mentioned wizardry. "You're a witch?"
Lucius' eyes narrowed. This 'doctor' was definitely cruising for a bruising. He tossed his mane back. "Despite my uncommon attractiveness and my luscious locks, I am not a witch. I am a wizard, you pathetic excuse for dogmeat."
"I find name calling to be counterproductive," responded Tate.
"I find it very productive."
Arguing like children would hardly accomplish much. Taking in his patient's odd robe-like clothing, he asked, "Did you say you're a wizard? Like Merlin or the Druids?"
Lucius paused. He had no idea who Muggle Merlin might be, but if this ponce thought him important, he couldn't be anyone of consequence. As to the Druids, he'd never in his life been in a band, nor did he see how that related to him being a wizard. Finally he said, "You're an idiot."
"Name calling," sing-songed Tate.
"Would you prefer a fist to the face?"
"Name calling is good," replied the doctor hastily. "Perhaps we should start at the beginning, Lucius. What was your childhood like?"
"It's Mr. Malfoy, and what difference does that make?"
"Your childhood shapes you, makes you who you are."
"In that case, I must have had a glorious childhood," said Lucius smugly.
A withering gaze from Dr. Tate caused him to pull his robes about himself, sulking. He could anticipate ten—or more, God forbid—sessions like this? It was torture, pure and simple. This was inhumane!
"How do you feel about your mother?" persisted the nosy-body.
"I don't remember her, if you must know. She died when I was quite young."
Misses mother. Possible transference—must ask about hookers. "Did you have a good relationship with your father?"
Lucius rolled his eyes again. Nobody he knew had anything resembling a good relationship with their fathers. He and Abraxas had a normal father/son bond: Abraxas told him what to do and he did it. Failing that, he was beaten into submission. Perfectly normal. "It was fine."
"Was there anyone who ever touched you in ways that made you feel helpless or afraid?"
"Of course, you git!" exclaimed Lucius. "Azkaban isn't exactly a country club, now is it?"
"I wouldn't know." He scribbled down Ask-a-ban to look up later. Probably a web site or something. "I meant, did anyone—an uncle or teacher or someone close to you—ever make advances of a sexual nature?"
Lucius' eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped for only a second before he remembered who he was and snapped his mouth shut. The gall of these Muggles! "If you're implying I was sexually molested, I most certainly was not, nor would I confide it to you if I had been! If you're alluding to my wife, I suggest you back off before my foot becomes lodged in your colon!"
Dr. Tate duly noted on his pad Threatens bodily harm. Was likely molested. "Let's approach this in a different way. You tell me what bothered you the most when you were growing up."
Without noticing, Lucius had slipped down on the divan, staring at the ceiling's ugly, stained squares of fake tile. What bothered him the most? "You do mean from my childhood?" he confirmed.
"Hmmm." There was a conundrum. Muggles, of course, topped the list, particularly this one at the moment, although he didn't recall being bothered by them as a child. Schoolwork he'd been unable to bully someone into doing for him had been a nuisance. Girls with prettier hair than his—oh, who was he kidding? None of the girls had nicer hair!
"Dobby," he announced at last.
"Who or what is that?" Dr. Tate dutifully wrote Dobbie.
"The house elf. He hated me," said Lucius.
House elf wrote Tate, then stopped. "What is a house elf, Lucius?"
"Mr. Malfoy! It's a servant, Muggle. Anyway, while my father lived, Dobby belonged to him. Father pampered the sneaky little puke, who spied on me all the time and ran back to tell my father everything I did." He wished Dobby was here now so he could punch the traitor's grotesque head.
Paranoid delusions of owning treacherous slaves—or perhaps talking animals. Jealous of father's pet. "How did that make you feel?"
"How do you think? Furious, betrayed, homicidal. I got him back, though. I'd grab him by his big pointy ears and toss him down the stairs or over the balcony." Lucius chuckled, reminiscing. "For every thrashing I received because of him, I paid him in full."
Father abusive. Lucius possibly tortured small creatures. "How do you feel about "Dobbie" now?"
Lucius twisted his mouth in disgust. "I despise him. If that Potter brat hadn't tricked me into freeing him, I'd still be making him suffer as he deserves."
Enjoys maltreating beasts. Relation to S&M? Enemy or rival a pot maker. "Do you still associate with this potter?"
"Absolutely not! He's caused so much upheaval, although I guess if it wasn't for him I'd still be under Voldemort's thumb. He was good for something."
Lucius sighed. He was tired of explaining to a retard. "The dark lord who ran my life while I was a Death Eater."
Voldemort=nickname for father. Death eater=pet name for abuse of animals. "Lucius, the court did the right thing in ordering you here. Apparently you have numerous issues to work through, and I believe we've only scraped the tip of the iceberg."
"Mr. Malfoy!" shrieked Lucius, leaping to his feet. "Call me Mr. Malfoy!" Hands outstretched, ready to throttle the doctor, he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to desist. "The only issue I have is why a loyal, hardworking man whose sole purpose in life was the betterment of society is being subjected to this cruelty!"
Persecution complex. Anal fixation on name. "And I'd like to discuss that in our next session, Lucius. Our time is up."
As Lucius waited by the elevator he heard Dr. Tate murmur to his receptionist, "We'll need to schedule additional sessions for this patient. It may take years to straighten him out."
A few moments later a man came wandering up the corridor; he stopped at the front desk. "Hello, Veronica. Who's that poor man screaming over there?"
"Dr. Tate's new patient. Seems to be really tormented."
"Yes, so I see. Pity. If Dr. Tate can't help him, no one can."
"Too true," nodded Veronica. "Go on in, Gilderoy, he's expecting you."