Heather Anne

As my time with my therapist was winding down yesterday afternoon, she asked me where I was going on vacation this summer.

I said, "2727 Bethel Road, Suite 4D. That's where."

She said, "You're coming to my office for vacation?"

I said, "Yes, because your office is where all my disposable income goes."

She laughed and I told her what I really had planned for the summer. I also mentioned that in July the last Harry Potter was coming to me. I said it nonchalantly, like, "I think the last Harry Potter comes out around the end of July or something." Instead of, you know, "44 days until Deathly Hallows!" She asked if I was excited, and I told her I guessed so. Then she asked who would live and who would die.

"Dr. P," I answered. "I can't talk about this."

She put down her notepad, where she'd been jotting down notes on our session. "Why not?" she asked.

"I can't be in therapy about Harry Potter. I will have seriously gone round the twist when I start telling you how I am afraid Ron Weasley's going to die."

Dr. P laughed. "I'm not asking you as your therapist. I am asking as your friend."

I gasped. "You can't be my friend!"

I could tell she was a little hurt when she said, "Um, why not?"

"It's in the literature!" I explained. "You gave it to me when I started seeing you. It said about how you can be my therapist but not my friend because it goes against attorney-client privilege or the Hippocratic oath or whatever."

"Heather," she said. "We spent the first ten minutes today talking about Tony Soprano's leggy therapist quitting him. I think you and I have a little leeway here."

I shrugged. "Yeah, okay. But first you tell me what you think."

"I don't want Luna Lovegood to die," she said with such earnestness that I thought about giving her a hug.

"I don't want Neville Longbottom to die," I told her.

We talked for a while about Horcruxes and whether Snape was an evil genius or a misguided man-child. It was well after my alloted hour when I finally got up to leave. "Good work today, doctor," I said.

She inclined her head. "Thank you."

"Am I your favorite client?" I asked, as I shouldered my backpack.

"I don't have favorite clients," she answered.

"Yeah...but?"

She shook her head. "But... what?"

"You don't have favorite clients, but...I'm your favorite?"

Dr. P rolled her eyes.

"Well, if I am your favorite, and it causes you some sort of emotional turmoil or something, I'll help you work through that. Or if Luna dies, and you're depressed, I'll help you work through that, too. For $100 an hour."

"Nobody likes a smart ass therapist," Dr P. told me.

I sighed. "Then clearly this is not my line of work."

"Yeah," Dr. P said. "Clearly. We'll talk about that next week."