A / N : Hello. This is just a random oneshot I wrote one day when I was feeling in a Barty-ish mood. I didn't think it was great, but what the hell. No harm in uploading it I suppose.

Therapy

Healer Brown pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. He liked being a Healer, he really did. The Galleons were good, and every now and then he got to chance to really help people. Unfortunately, he couldn't deny that some days simply tested his patience.

"Well," he said, smiling as pleasantly as he could at the boy in front of him, "Clearly we aren't getting anywhere. Why don't we just start again?"

The boy shrugged indifferently. "If you want,"he said in a bored tone.

"Alright. Well . . . first of all, this is a safe space. I want you to know that. Nothing you share with me here will ever leave this room. So . . . is there anything you'd like to tell me, son?"

Irritation flashed across the boy's features. "Don't call me that," he snapped.

The Healer frowned. "Call you what?"

"Son," the boy spat. He managed to make it sound as offensive as 'lunatic', somehow. Brown kicked himself. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? His training had taught him to always be careful with labels. Even the most innocuous of them could have painful connotations for the patient.

"I'm not your son," the boy continued, scowling. "So why would you call me that?"

"Of course you're not," Brown said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend you. It was just a turn of phrase. Forgive me."

"Seems pretty stupid to me." The boy's tone was sneering now, and Brown found himself less and less inclined to pity him.

"Is that a topic you'd like to discuss?" he said. "Your relationship with your father?"

That got a reaction alright. The boy glared at him. "No," he said. "Why would I want to do that?"

Brown tugged uncomfortably at his collar. "Well, I don't know," he said patiently, trying to loosen the knot of his tie. "It might be an area you have . . . problems with. "

"I don't," the boy said shortly.

"Are you sure? It's just that, well, thirteen is a difficult age. Many young people feel their parents just don't understand them. And of course, in your situation, it's only natural for you feel under immense pressure."

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Immense pressure?" he said blandly. "What sort of pressure, exactly?"

"We-ll . . .it would foolish of me to pretend I don't know who your father is. After all, he's a very high-profile figure, and he's certainly shaping up to be the sort of strong figure we need in these increasingly unstable times. I for one sleep a lot more soundly at night thanks to some of the protective measures he's put in place. But, you know, I can understand it if you feel neglected. The past few years have been very . . . turbulent. The rise of this self-styled "Dark Lord" -" Brown gave an involentary sort of shudder. "Well. Your father must be spending a lot of time at the office. I wouldn't be surprised if you hardly saw him, in fact . . . Does that bother you?"

"Why would it bother me? After all – my father's a hero. He ensures the entire wizarding population sleeps more soundly in their beds. I've always known my father's job comes first. Why would I mind?"

The boy was sitting up properly now, no longer half-slumped in his swivel chair. His eyes were wide and honest looking, and he was chewing his bottom lip, apparently unconsciously. He was the picture of uncomplaining self-sacrifice, and his voice was warm and sincerely impassioned -sounding. The transition had occurred startlingly quickly, but what was most unnerving about it was how convincing the boy's act was. Brown cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Now stop that," he ordered. "There's no need to play games with me, s- young man."

"Games?" The boy couldn't have nailed wounded innocence more accurately if he'd been a seasoned method actor.

"I think you know what I'm referring to, young man."

"Do I?" The boy smiled, and the older man thought he saw a hint of malice in it.

"Yes you do!"

Brown cleared his throat again, red-faaced, and shuffled some papers on his desk. He had the uncomfortable feeling the boy was gaining the upper hand. He sighed.

"Perhaps we should start again," he said delicately.

The boy shrugged. "Your call," he muttered, back to sullen indifference.

"Very well. Bartemius – may I call you Bartemius?"

No response.

"Bartemius!" The Healer couldn't help it. He was overheated and impatient, and this boy was . . . .well. A little shit, not to put too fine a point on it. "Answer me when I'm talking to you, please!"

Bartemius looked up. "Sorry," he said with obvious insincerity. "I got bored."

"Hmm. Well, as I was saying," Brown said wearily, "I think we ought to start again. Something simple, maybe. How did you feel when your mother brought you here? Nervous? Angry? Relieved, maybe?"

The boy was being defensive, and he seemed to be more than a little sensitive. Brown expected him to fly off the handle at the last comment, which was fine by him. At least the boy would be talking. Bartemius, however, seemed to have other ideas. He had put his feet up on the desk and was leaning back in his chair, wearing an expression of complete and utter boredom.

"Bored," he said at last. "I feel bored. How much longer are you going to keep me here for?"

"That is my affair, young man, but I will say this – I will keep you here until I feel we've made some kind of . . of . . " He trailed off, distracted by the ominous creaking of the chairlegs. "Perhaps you could stop that," he suggested weakly.

"Why?"

"Well . . you might fall." It seemed a reasonable suggestion to Healer Brown. The boy only laughed.

"So? By the way," he added, "do you have to add 'well' to every sentence? What is that, some kind of subliminal thing?"

The Healer frowned. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you. I didn't think I used the word 'well' particularly often. And how would it be subliminal, exactly?"

"Well", - the boy's eyes sparkled - "You know. Maybe you think that if you slip the word into conversation as often as you can, your, er, 'patients' will pick up on it. And be inspired to get well." He rolled his eyes.

That was about as much as Brown could stand. Standing up, he slammed his palms onto the surface of the desk. "That's enough!" he cried. "I mean it! I've had about enough of your tone, son! I won't put up with it, you hear me? This is my office, and you ought to start showing some respect!" He paused, panting.

The boy, to his surprise, didn't even flinch. Bartemius simply fixed the Healer with an even stare. "Wow. Maybe you are my father," he said, leaning back even further in his chair. Brown spluttered incoherently for a few minutes and then sank back into his chair, lost for words. He was cradling his head in his hands, utterly defeated, when he felt someone pat him on the shoulder. He looked up, confused. Bartemius was sitting on the desk now, wearing a pitying expression.

"It's ok, you know," he said reassuringly. "I like you. Really I do. And I wanted to be nice to you. But you weren't nice to me. It wasn't my fault."

"I was trying to help you," Brown muttered. "Don't you want that? For someone to help you? To listen to you?"

The boy frowned. "Why don't you just let me go? There's nothing wrong with me," he said flatly.

"But of course there is!" Brown said wildly. "There could any number of things wrong with you! You have issues with your father, that much is obvious. Your past behaviour indicates a desperate need for approval or attention or . . ." He shook his head and continued. He just couldn't seem to calm himself. "You might be a pathological liar! You could have childhood depression, bipolar disorder . . . any number of conditions! I can't just let you walk away. It goes against everything I . . ." He trailed off, his chest heaving.

"Calm down," the boy said. "I don't know why you're getting so worked up. Look. All I want is for you to let me out of here. Just tell my mother I'm fine. Make something up, I don't know. You're the expert. And there's nothing wrong with me. Really – I've always been like this."

"Bartemius," the Healer said slowly, "You don't seem to understand. I can't look at your reasons for referral to me, and your behaviour in this office today, and simply disregard them. I can't lie to your mother. Do you understand that? I can't tell her I think you're fine if it isn't true."

"Why not?" the boy challenged. "It's what she wants to hear. Why do you think she sent me to someone like you? She doesn't want you tell her there's something wrong with me."

Brown pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. Ignoring the insult, he decided to make one last effort to reach the boy.

"Bartemius," he said quietly, "telling people what they want to hear only keeps them happy in the short term. It isn't a solution. And you do realize that you've as good as admitted you know there's something wrong with you? Think about what you've just said."

The boy was silent. Brown let the silence swell uncomfortabably, and then he leant forwards, trying to make eye-contact.

"Bartemius," he said gently, "you don't have to make this hard on yourself. I meant what I said earlier - this is a safe space. You can talk to me. I want to help you."

There was a long pause. Brown was just about to give up and change tactics when the boy spoke at last.

"I'm a bad person," he said, staring at the floor.

Brown sat up a little straighter. "Go on . ." he murmured encouragingly.

"I lie," his patient said. "I lie all the time, actually. It's fun. And . . . I watch people. I watch them, like I'm looking for something. Because I am. I am looking for something. I'm looking for something I can use against them. Secrets, and lies, and little stupid habits . . . ." He looked up. "I do so many things, doctor. And I don't even know why. I honestly don't. I lie and steal and sometimes I hurt people. And I don't care, because it's all part of the game."

"Game? What game? I don't understand."

The boy narrowed his eyes. "Oh, everything's a game, doctor. You just can't see it. I can. I don't always know where I'm going with it, or who I'm playing against, but that doesn't really matter. Everything's a game. One day, it'll all make sense. But until then . . . I just have to keep playing. Do you understand that, doctor? I have to anything I can to stay in the game. I have to lie, and sometimes I even have to steal."

His arm moved so swiftly it was a blur, and then Brown felt something pointed press into his temple. He gave a cry of alarm and thrust his hand into his pocket, but it was empty.

"You stole my wand!" he shouted, incredulous.

Bartemius nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "Really, I am. But you wouldn't listen. You wouldn't do as I asked. So I don't think you get to be in the game any more. Obliviate!"

The older man's eyes glazed over and he slumped back in his seat. Barty replaced the stolen wand carefully on the desk and sat down, regarding his victim with interest. He had never tried a Memory Charm before, but it seemed to have worked. The Healer sat up, looking groggy and disorientated. Barty gave him a moment to get his bearings and schooled his own expression.

"Healer Brown?" he said politely. "Are you alright?"

Brown jumped, startled, and wheeled around to face him. "Who . . who . . are you?" he said after a moment, looking bemused. Barty groaned inwardly. Apparently he hadn't cast the charm perfectly. Brown looked more confunded than anything else. Still, the overall effect wasn't bad, for the first effort of a thirteen year old wizard. Thankfully, Barty's involuntary smirk passed unnoticed, as his mother chose that moment to knock on the door. Perfect timing.

"That's my mother," he said helpfully.

"Oh. . . ." Brown leafed through some papers on his desk, stopping when a page caught his eye. "Ah!" he said triumphantly. "Bartemius Crouch Jr! Referred to me for . . . ." He frowned, looking distinctly worried.

Barty scowled. That wouldn't do. Thinking fast, he smoothed the angry set of his mouth and blinked at the healer. "Of course," he said, laughing uneasily. "Don't tell me you forgot my name already . ."

Brown stared at him. "Forgot?" he said weakly.

Barty nodded. "We've been talking for ages," he said worriedly, chewing his lip. He hesitated, then smiled shyly at the healer. "You were really nice," he added.

"N-nice?" Brown echoed faintly. "Was I?"

Barty resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Or throw up in disgust. Maybe the last bit was overdoing it . . . .

And then, just when Barty had started to worry he might be out of the game, the gods smiled on him, and Brown chose that moment to pull himself together.

"Well," he said, forcing a smile, "that certainly sounds like me! I mean - well, I'm glad you think so son!" His smile shrank a little. "Tell me," he said uncomfortably, lowering his voice as Barty's mother pushed the door open, "did we, er . . .make much progress? In your own opinion," he added quickly.

Barty stared blankly back at him, feigning confusion. Eventually he nodded. Brown broke into a huge, relieved smile. Clapping his hands briskly, he stood up.

"Mrs Crouch!" he cried. "So good to see you. I expect you want a word?"

Barty's mother nodded timidly. Barty resisted the urge to grin as the healer cleared his throat and straightened his tie. He could have laughed out loud. Brown was going to lie. He was actually going to lie, because he couldn't remember what had happened and he was frightened. So much for your morals, doctor . . . .

Barty's mother moved to stand behind her son's chair and put her hands on his thin shoulders, running her fingers nervously through his hair. "Well?" she said anxiously. That little word almost cracked Barty's composure. In fact, he was fighting so hard to keep his face straight that he almost missed the doctor's diagnosis. He tuned in halfway through.

"Your son seems fine, Mrs Crouch," Brown bluffed. "I mean, I can see, of course, why you were concerned . . ." - his gaze wandered to the fallen report sheet on the table, and it was clear he was struggling to remember its contents - " . . .but really, you mustn't worry! Young, er, Bartemius, is at a delicate age, and children . . . well, they act out sometimes. You know, for, er, attention."

Barty felt his mother's fingers shake. "Are you sure?" she asked. "It's just that I was so worried . . ."

Brown's smile faltered momentarily, but then he pushed the papers on his desk to one side and beamed at her.

"Of course!" he said cheerfully. "Mrs Crouch, there really is no need to worry. I've spoken to your son, and he seems to be a perfectly normal boy. Who clearly feels a lot of regret about what happened. And . . ." he hesitated, and then inspiration struck. "He clearly loves you! Yes, we talked about it in detail and that was something I felt very strongly."

Barty gaped at him. Where the hell did that come from? He didn't have time to be too offended though, as his mother chose that moment to attempt to strangle him. "Oh, Barty . . ." she sobbed, apparently overcome with emotion. Healer Brown allowed himself a self-indulgent smile. Barty put up with the hug for a minute, and then he prised his mother off him.

"Can we go now?" he asked.

"Of course, darling." His mother pressed a cheque into the healer's hands and steered Barty towards the door, too relieved to do much more than smile. Brown watched them go, and then sank into his chair, suddenly drained. He had such a headache, and he was so tired . . .It was hot in here too. Why was it so hot? Brown shrugged. He could find out later. It wasn't important . . .Halfway through pouring himself a glass of firewhiskey his eyelids drooped and his head fell onto the desk. He was snoring soundly within minutes, oblivious to the steady drip drip of alcohol falling to the floor, or the quiet rustle of the flames swelling in size underneath his desk.

BANG.

Barty was waiting for the lift with his mother when the healer's office exploded. He smiled. He had a feeling the game had just moved up a level.