Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Happy Sunday, dear readers!!! This chapter is a Doozy...

Warnings for the following: Non-inclusive discussions regarding ASD, child development, and ABA therapy, as well as conflicting points of view regarding therapy and memories regarding improper practice. Discussions of past child abuse and developmental regression.Non-inclusive discussions surrounding broader mental health and OCD. Homophobia (but it's not anything worse than what we've seen so far).Minor violence (minor and accidental).

Note that BSL stands for British Sign Language

And also... Sorry in advance...

Please let me know what you all think! And, as always...Enjoy!

Harry's leg bounced anxiously up and down as he sat hunched over a waiting room chair. His heart was in his throat, and his headache was pounding away with persistence.

The office in itself was clean and quaint. There was a machine releasing sweet scents into the air, and relaxing music was playing from overhead speakers that Harry did not care to look for. There were baskets with magazines, pamphlets, and books in multiple areas, and there was one large wooden play box for children.

"Harry?"

His head whipped upward. There was a woman in yellow wearing a welcoming smile. "We're ready for you. Come on in."

Harry huffed out a breath, realising belatedly that his breaths were coming in short and not filling his lungs the way they ought to. The woman guided him to a room and went inside with him. The room was, thankfully, not as bright as the waiting room, but it had the same air of calm surrounding it. There were plants, posters, a comically large beanbag chair, a bookshelf, and another scent-sprayer. The walls were a cool beige, and there was a lumpy, comfortable-looking midnight blue sofa on one end of the room, and a chair across from it.

"You can have a seat wherever you like," she began. "The beanbag is a popular choice."

Harry sat stiffly at the edge of the blue sofa, trying not to become lightheaded from his lack of proper breathing. The muscles in his neck began to ache from the tension.

"Hello, Harry. I'm Dr. Olivia Sereno. But you can call me Olivia. I'm glad to have you! Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you feel more comfortable in my office. What brings you in?"

Olivia had an accent that Harry didn't quite recognise. And it brought him a modicum of relief. If this woman truly knew who Harry was, she was doing a stellar job of not showing it. Harry steeled himself, heaving in a large breath. It still didn't fully fill his lungs.

"I've never done this," he admitted. His leg was bouncing up and down again, and he was holding his hands together tightly, almost as though he was holding his entire composure in his hands. "I er... I dunno where to even start. There's just... a lot." He looked all around the room, his eyes darting around between different areas. Everywhere except the woman's face. "My whole life has been a lot. I guess." Harry thought that if he wasn't so wound up he might have been able to give a small chuckle. It never quite reached his throat. His brain was full to bursting with thoughts and what-ifs. It was hard to stay focused on what he was doing and how he was going to do it. He thought about the Dursleys, about Hogwarts, about Voldemort and a war. He thought about Teddy, and about his failed relationship with Ginny. He thought about his friends, from whom he isolated himself since the war ended. He thought about Draco. A self-important, stuck-up, prejudiced boy he used to loathe, turned into a man who's lost everything and is working hard to change despite countless obstacles. A man Harry has fallen deeply for, and who was struggling beyond anything Harry could begin to understand.