Our American Cousin

XVII

Therapy and Transfigurations

"Come on Harry, it isn't that hard." Sara had been brow beaten by Hermione and McGonagall into tutoring Harry Potter. Her regular teachers had learned early on that while Sara was practically an idiot savant when it came to Transfigurations, she was a terrible tutor. In fact, there was a note in her permanent record clearly stating that she should never be allowed to tutor Transfigurations, after an unfortunate incident with a five-year-old, a badger, and the schools copy machine. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, this file had not made its way to Hogwarts. The truth was, Harry wasn't that bad at Transfigurations. His O.W.L. results had been more than passable. The problem was, he hadn't been able to study or practice all summer and was a bit behind the class.

"Look, you might be able to do this in your sleep but I can't!" Harry snapped back as a half built model castle turned into a battered carrot.

"Ok, you know what Harry, screw it." Sara threw her arms into the air. "You've obviously got other things on your mind right now. Let's just sit here for half an hour and wait for Hermione to come and collect us."

Harry sat down, letting the room fall into silence. He looked at the American. She was biting her fingernails down to the quick, and then magically regrowing them. He wasn't quite sure he entirely liked her. She seemed a little too friendly with Snape and Draco, and was a little too blunt with the way she talked. Not to mention the way she had sped past everyone in that race. Harry rubbed his scar, which had a dull throb almost constantly now.

"That hurt?" Sara gestured vaguely to his forehead.

"Always," was Harry's reply, full of dry bitterness.

"Occlumency, not helping?"

"Not really." There were several more long minutes of uncomfortable silence that Sara felt a need to break. "Sucks having a mad man out for your blood, don't it?"

"You have no idea."

"Actually I do, but that's a discussion for when I'm very drunk so...."

The room fell into silence again. Then Harry spoke.

"I don't think it would be so bad having someone try to kill me if the rest of my life was vaguely normal."

"It wouldn't help. Trust me." The clock on the wall ticked.

"At least I won't have to live with my family anymore."

"I can't believe no one called Child Services or something for you." Sara had gotten a condensed version of Harry's home life and childhood from Hermione and Ron.

"I think Dumbledore had something to do with it."

"Schmuck." The clock stopped ticking long enough to scratch it self. "What are you doing after graduation?"

"Trying not to get killed."

"And after that?" Harry shrugged. There was silence again as several minutes ticked by. "Be an artist."

"What?" Harry looked up. Sara shrugged.

"Be an artist."

"I repeat. What?"

"You don't really want to be an Auror. You'll have people trying to kill you the rest of your life."

"An artist?" Harry asked. He had people suggesting what he should do with his life all the time. The thought of being an artist had never even occurred to him.

"You hate being Famous Harry Potter so Pro Quidditch is out."

"An artist?" Harry asked again.

"Well, I've seen your doodles. You're pretty good."

"An artist?" Harry asked for a third time. Sara shrugged again.

"Well, either that or rest on your laurels and get lots of therapy. Actually, you probably need therapy anyways." Harry bristled.

"I don't need therapy!" he stated sharply. Sara just laughed.

"Harry, your life is stranger than mine, and that's saying something."

"I do not need therapy." This time Harry crossed his arms and turned away.

"Right," Sara managed to drag the word out. "Let us run down the list shall we? You've been orphaned, abused, hunted, and tortured. You had your entire paradigm shifted on your eleventh birthday. You've watched people get killed in cold blood, and had your brain fused with three other people, one of them a completely psychotic megalomaniac. And after all that, you are perfectly normal, healthy, sane and one hundred percent functional, capable of living out the rest of your days in a perfectly ordinary fashion, despite having screaming nightmares every other night; and don't think the entire tower doesn't know about those." Harry worked his jaw for several moments as Sara's litany ran in his head. He knew she was absolutely right, but he was fairly sure that wizards didn't have shrinks and there was certainly no way he would be able to explain everything to a Muggle.

"I'm fine," he finally said.

"Harry. Look at these" Sara rolled up her sleeves to reveal long, thin, white lines crisscrossing her arms in a very methodical pattern. "I did not put these on my body. The person who did put them there did many other Very Bad Things. Bad enough that it drove me insane. Bad enough that I spent the last six years of my life learning how to do one thing very, very well and that's kill. The person who did this is still out there, and one day I will kill him, preferably with my bare hands. If possible I have every intention of eating his liver while he's still alive enough to watch." Harry scooted his seat back a little but Sara continued. "So, when I tell you, you need therapy, yes, it is the pot calling the kettle black, but the pot does understand a thing or two about what it's like to be a kettle and sit in that fire, and before you ask, yes, I plan to go see a shrink myself, as soon as I've committed one very specific murder." Harry looked wide-eyed as the American rolled her sleeves back down. She looked back at him waiting for Harry to make the next move.

"I still don't think I'd make a good artist," he finally said. Sara gave a sharp laugh at the rather blatant change of subject.

"Harry, I went to a school that teaches wizarding art. OK, you're not quite as good as some of our seniors, but they've also had anywhere from seven to thirteen years of training. There's a hell of a wizarding art scene in New York, and L.A. these days. You'd make a splash." Harry didn't reply. Sara cracked her neck a few times. "Ok, let's try this." She picked up the carrot and waved it in Harry's face. "This is not a carrot, it is a pencil, it is clay, it is paint, it is all the things you need to make a small castle, broken down and put into the shape of a carrot. Don't think about turning that carrot into a small castle. Think of making a castle, completely unique, your own, like you were drawing a picture, or modelling in clay. Your clay, and your pencil, and your paint are this carrot."

Harry squinted at the carrot. After a moment, he pointed his wand and took a deep breath. The carrot shimmered and morphed into a fairytale castle of exquisite detail. The spires came to fine points, topped with flags that had carrots on them, fluttering in an invisible breeze. Sara conjured a black beret and plopped it onto Harry's head.

"See. You're an artist. You even look good in that silly hat."