I guess that it gets easier as you go. I still hear the voices and see the stares, but I have learnt to block them out. The only time I can’t is when my professors give me the “stare”. The one where they spend just a couple of more seconds staring at you than they do to anyone else. You can see the pity. It’s the look that says “you poor thing”.
I hate the look. I don’t want to be pitied.
This is probably the reason that my parents, after all this time, have decided that I should see a shrink. Hogwarts has never had one before, but they decided it was time to. In other words, my parents persuaded them with a donation of money, to make sure I am fine. They mean well, but I don’t need a shrink. I think that they might have heard that Scorpius Malfoy is my teacher, although I don’t see how they could. I haven’t even told Lily and Louis yet.
So when someone asks where I am lately, I tell them I was with a shrink.
People aren’t sure how to act around me. They think that by having a shrink, it makes me crazy. I’m not crazy, my parents are. There has still been no news from them. Not even Uncle Harry has owled me to tell me how they are.
The one thing I hate is when people ask me how my session with my shrink was. He isn’t my shrink; I don’t own him. I can’t even stand the guy.
I don’t see how sitting down in an uncomfortable chair in his office, talking about how I am “feeling” is going to help me. He doesn’t know me, so why should he know my feelings. I have never gone into that office and cried. Why should I tell him something I don’t even tell my family?
But, they think he will help me.
Even before I returned to Hogwarts, I was seeing a shrink.
The only useful thing that wanker told me was that it wasn’t my fault my parents split up. Yeah, it was Rose’s.
Now this quack, he acts like Dr. Phil. He takes deep meaningful sighs and holds silences far too long. I know my parents are rich, but is sitting here in silence for an hour, a useful way to spend their money? If they wanted to make it up to me, they could get back together.
He tries to get me to say it. Say the reason why I am in these sessions.
“Are you angry at her?”
His voice is deep, trying to sound like he cares. Truth be told, he doesn’t want to help; he only wants to get payed.
It is my usual response. If I get anything out of these sessions, I want it to be annoying the shrink.
“You know who.”
“I’m sorry, but you know you can say her name. It’s Rose, by the way. If you didn’t know.”
I can hear him groan. Again, it was my normal response. But this time, instead of watching him, I am far more interested in the fraying ends of my jeans. I should really write to mum, so she can send money for a new pair.
“I know what her name is.”
“Then why don’t you use it?”
Again, I hear him groan in frustration. I know I am a pain in the arse and at times like these, I like to use it.
“Are you angry with Rose?”
I sit there in silence. He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. I catch a glimpse of his well worn, woollen socks. The sad thing, I know he wears these at least three times a week.
“Why would I be angry with Rose? She was my sister and I loved her.”
There is another silence. He is waiting for me to continue, but I don’t want to. I have nothing more to say on the matter. I sometimes might be angry at Rose, but I would never tell him that. In the progress report sent back to my parents, I know it would say: hates his sister. I couldn’t do that to my mother.
I watch the clock slowly tick towards the eight. My hour is nearly up for another week and again, no progress. Just mostly silence. I don’t see how this is helping. All he wants to do is talk about my feelings and other things like girlfriends and sex.
And as the clock reaches eight, I pick up my school bag and attempt to walk out of the room. “Hugo, are you ready to talk about your sister?”
I don’t turn around. I leave my hand on the door handle. “Rose is dead. Nothing I say can change that.”
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