Work Text:
She signed contracts to utter secrecy, which she had at first found rather insulting because of course it would always be private. She had been able to tell, however, that this client would need a lot of time. Most clients had one or two traumatic events – and inevitably the sessions pulled up other things too, things they hadn’t realised had troubled them. But merely explaining what had happened to him (though bits of it she knew – everyone did) had taken several weekly sessions now, and despite all her contracts, there were still uneasy shifts, glances, long considerations before eventually, ‘I can’t tell you exactly why, but essentially…’
He was secretive and private and struggled to articulate himself – getting snappy when she gently prodded at sore spots, occasionally treating her with suspicion.
It was hardly unusual, especially with her male clients, who had usually been begged and pleaded with by loved ones before they actually came to her. Now, she thought as she watched him finish scoring out his anxieties over the past week and hand the sheet back to her, it might be the right time to pick up on something she was acutely aware he had stepped around.
‘I want to begin today’s session by talking about your childhood.’
He blinked at her, and though he didn’t move she though he seemed to shrink into himself slightly. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I’m here because of stuff that happened in the war.’
‘I understand that,’ she said calmly. ‘And last week when we outlined some of the events that happened to you, we thought about some of your responses and patterns of grief. Often these reactions are rooted in our childhood experiences.’
He looked away from her. ‘Well you know the story, everyone knows the story. I was orphaned.’
‘Is that your earliest memory?’
‘Only if I think really hard. I can just about remember the green light,’ he said. Something dark crossed his face. ‘I know what happened very clearly now, but that’s all I could remember before. I didn’t know what it meant until much later – I was always told they died in a car crash. When I was really little, I thought perhaps they had crashed into a traffic light or something; it was the only thing I could think of to explain the light.’
‘And what about after that?’ she asked. ‘What’s your earliest memory that has clarity?’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘Tugging on my aunt’s skirt,’ he said at last. ‘To get her attention while she was doing the washing up.’
‘And did you get it?’
‘No.’
‘Your earliest memory, then, is of rejection,’ she said simply.
He was very stoic – she had noticed that. Lots of her patients were, though many cried, or got irritable. He just have a small, single nod, looking down at his knees. ‘Well, yes,’ he said flatly.
‘It wasn’t a happy relationship? With your aunt?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Tell me about it.’
He looked irked. ‘I don’t really want to. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think about it. More important stuff has happened – people died-’
‘I think it does,’ she said firmly. ‘I think it’s directly contributing to how you are processing trauma and grief today.’ She pulled over her notebook; the quill over it paused, and she flicked back a few pages. ‘Last week, you talked about the guilt you carry regarding your godson. You talked about the horror you felt looking down at Remus and Tonks and realising another child had been orphaned. And you said you didn’t want Teddy to have a life anything like yours, that you didn’t want him to have the same loneliness that you did.’
‘I only meant – all orphans probably feel like that,’ he said giving a slight jerk of his head. ‘It just comes with the word. It’s an inherent… You can’t fix that. There’s always going to be a thought that your life could have been different, that you might have been happier.’
She watched him closely, because she could see his cheeks going pink and his mouth opening and closing slightly, his eyes still fixated on his knees.
‘But yeah,’ he said suddenly, in a restrained sort of voice. ‘I’ve thought about, it a bit. Since I got Teddy. About…’ he sighed for a moment. ‘They never wanted me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘They made that clear.’
‘And trying to get your aunt’s attention, and failing – do you think this is characteristic of your childhood?’
‘Yes,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘I… I don’t remember that well but I think Dudley had pushed me over, and I was, you know, all scraped up. But she just carried on with the dishes.’
‘So you asked for help, and you were rejected for it. And I think that’s followed you,’ she said. ‘I think it’s clear, when we look back on the last few weeks and all the things you’ve told me – and it’s something you have said to me yourself – that you never looked to adults for help, or asked for it. You did things on your own and felt you had to take responsibility. And I think that’s left you with a lot of guilt about things you shouldn’t feel guilty for. Because you were a child, and you needed help.’
He was silent for a few more moments, and then he said, ‘I did… I asked some people for help. I asked my godfather for help. I could write to him and he always responded. He came and lived in a cave in Hogsmeade so that he could help, as much as he could.’
‘But then he died,’ she said simply.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Because… I rushed off to go and rescue him, I fell for it… but I did try,’ he added fiercely. ‘I did try and get help before I did that, I did-’
‘But you felt ignored?’
He paused, and nodded. ‘It felt impossible – no one I trusted was there.’
‘So can you see, Harry? Can you see that it was not your fault? That you were a child, taking on an adult responsibility, because of a lifetime of being forced into that role? That you learnt – as one of your earliest life lessons – that you would not get help even when you asked for it from people that were supposed to be responsible for you?’
He did not say anything, and she let the silence stretch for a little while, before speaking again. ‘Tell me more about your childhood. What else do you remember?’