On The Couch | DRARRY

Chapter 1

Your couch smells like the cow it came from."

My newest patient stands in the middle of my office, looking around with an expression of disdain. I have to swallow my irritation. I know it's silly, but criticism of my office is my Achilles' heel. It's the one place on earth that is wholly my own.

"I like that painting. Is it an original?"

"Yes," I say tersely. In my notebook, I write: Apparently enjoys subtly insulting people. An original? Not only is it an original, but it was given to me as a gift by the artist himself who's been a patient of mine for years. I saw him through three marriages and at least a dozen affairs.

He walks to one of the windows and draws his wand so that he can spell the mahogany blinds up and down. Several times.

"Humph," he says noncommittally and strolls over to a bookshelf. He picks up the marble carvings I use as bookends and examines them.

"I have work by the same sculptor at home, except the marble is Rosa Aurora. What is this? I don't believe I've ever seen it before."

I clear my throat. "I have no idea to be honest."

Draco Malfoy turns his head and regards me with an arched eyebrow. This is the first time he's looked at me since he walked in.

As I'd been told, he is handsome, but nothing I'd heard prepared me for his eyes. Please excuse the cliché, but they are as cold as ice. The thought comes to me unbidden: his are the eyes one might expect to see on a sociopath.

"I will not sit on that couch," he says. "It smells of the abattoir."

I give him my blandest expression and gesture to the upholstered chair. Like all the furnishings in my office, it's white with two pillows: one is burnt orange, and the other is a rich chocolate brown. One of the first things we learn as apprentice Mind Healers is to avoid Hogwarts house colours at all cost. They often provoke anxiety.

With seeming reluctance, he sits in the chair and makes an extravagant show of adjusting the pillows. He finally settles back with a look that exudes discomfort.

"I thought you lot want your patients to be comfortable. This chair clearly was not intended to be sat on."

"You are free to remove the pillows," I tell him.

He pointedly ignores me and pulls a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He taps it against his palm and then leisurely withdraws a cigarette. He rests it on his bottom lip and lights it with a snap of his fingers. He takes a deep drag and leans back. His legs are crossed and the leather of his expensive shoes gleams in the late afternoon light. He releases the smoke and Transfigures one of my clay Buddhas into an ashtray.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says with feigned chagrin. "I didn't ask if you minded that I smoke."

The comment does not invite an actual answer.

We sit in silence for a minute or two while he smokes. His body looks relaxed, but his eyes are still surveying his surroundings.

"Lovely view," he says and takes another drag.

Of course it is. My windows look out on Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.

I clear my throat again. "So, Mr. Malfoy. Would you like to tell me why you're here today?"

He looks me straight in the eyes and holds my gaze until it's distinctly uncomfortable. I do not look away. To do so would be to lose his respect and thereby any chance of a meaningful relationship. It's easy to screw things up at this early stage.

He smiles a humourless smile and stubs out his cigarette. I've passed his first test – or rather his second. The contemptuous perusal of my office had been the first.