Seriously, I get too many author's blocks. :/

This is just a small story. I don't even have a proper plot yet. Oh, and Cpt. J . Harkness gave me this idea.

"What are the dreams usually about?" The therapist, a middle-aged woman with way too much make-up, said as she pulled out a yellow, lined note-pad.

Harry wringed his hands nervously, and glanced up at the ceiling, noticing the white paint was peeling off, smirking when he saw a little patch looked like Elvis' head. Glancing around the room, he frowned, what was he even doing here? Ah, yes, Hermione had convinced him to go to post-trauma therapy.

The room was large, and airy, although the blinds were down, letting little light through. Four sofas (on one of which Harry was sitting, the therapist on the one opposite) had been set up to create a sort of rectangle with a table in between.

There was a mahogany desk near the windows. It was messy, covered with files, papers and books about medicine but it was nothing compared to Harry's. There wasn't a computer or a technological device anywhere in sight, which didn't make much sense as this was a muggle practice. Probably because the therapists didn't want their patients to get distracted.

Hermione had insisted him on going to a muggle one, claiming they were better than wizarding ones. Harry was starting to doubt that.

"I don't know," Harry said, eyes finally resting on his battle-scarred hands. In the distance he could already hear his therapist writing on her pad. "They always start out the same way..."

Glancing up he noticed the writing had stopped and the therapist was staring at him intensely. She nodded once in encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Harry continued, "I'm in the middle of battle. Fighting, trying to hit any enemy on sight," Her face remained expressionless but he could still see disgust behind her weak mask. Somehow, after the war it had become easier to read people, to read the fears, joys... well anything really. It was like the battle at Hogwarts had made him stronger, more mature... yet very scarred.

"Then, suddenly I'm catapulted backwards. A grenade or something. Then there's someone dragging me into a room." He could see her writing on her pad quickly now, but because of the distance, he couldn't read what was being written. The story he was telling was a parallel to the one in his dreams. In his dreams, he had been thrown back by a banishing spell, then someone had dragged him back to Hogwarts.

"Then suddenly the dream changes, and I'm running, running for my life. I feel my heart hammering in my chest, quicker than it ever has. I look over my shoulder... And I see a reflection of me in a mirror." He paused as she looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"What does this reflection look like?" She asked, setting her pen on the paper once more. Harry ruffled his hair. He hadn't told anyone this part yet. Not even Hermione.

"Well..." Harry paused as she quickly started writing again. How could she find out so much from one word? "It's me... only older. Mid thirties... I'm wearing a tailored suit. My hair is jelled back. I have a maniac grin on my face. But my eyes, they look old, like they have seen so much. They aren't sad though." Pausing, Harry listened to his heart beat which was accelerating. He could feel the delighted blush on his cheeks and he tried to fight it down, "They are the eyes of a sociopathic genius. And there at the top of the mirror." He closed his eyes, remembering every single detail of the golden framed mirror. "At the top," He reopened his eyes, only to see the therapist staring at him again, "There's a long sentence."

"What is that sentence, Jim?" The therapist asked, crossing her legs. Harry had given her a fake name. James Moriarty. He didn't want someone to go digging for gossip and find his name in this database. Him being a celebrity in the wizarding world... Well, he just didn't want to risk it.

"It says: The mirror of Erised." Pausing for a second, he re-linked his hands once more. "Desire spelled backwards."

When he looked up again, the therapist had finished writing. She cleared her throat.

"That's very detailed." She commented and placed the pad on the table between them. Harry glanced at it, quickly catching the words, abused, running from past and war on it. His response was a lazy shrug. Wizards, after all, did have a more advanced mind. Especially those who pracitced occlumency, which Harry was trying to master. So far, he'd managed to create a flimsy library in which he could store memories.

"Well, Harry. Our time is up for today." She said and Harry glanced at the clock. An hour had passed since he'd come in. Great. He'd just wasted an hour of his life. Harry stood up quickly, and re-buttoned his too-large blazer. He'd gone along with Hermione's pleads for once, and dressed in a slightly more formal way than usual. Usually he just slipped on a baggy t-shirt, loose trousers and a pair of black converse. Today, however he'd actually put on a blazer, albeit with a pair of blue jeans, but nevertheless, it was something.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Ms. Thompson," Harry said formally, face completely emotionless. The therapist stood up as well and took the proffered hand with a gentle smile.

"I've already told you, Jim, call me Ella." Harry nodded once but didn't obey. He only called people by their first name if they were family (kind of) or just close friends. "I hope you decide to come back," Ella said quietly. Harry shrugged.

"I'll think about it." Yeah, as if he was ever coming back to this place.

When he stepped out of the room, and back into the waiting room, he looked around. An old lady was sitting in a corner, murmuring something to a teddy-bear, and wiping her eyes with a tissue every now and then. A young man in his early twenties was sitting closer to the door, headphones plugged into his ears, staring at the floor and a Walkman in his hand.

A secretary on the other side of the room looked up as Harry left the therapy room and she glanced down at her notes.

"Watson, John!" She called out, "For pre-war counselling!"

Harry glanced at the young man who suddenly jumped up, grinning as he stuffed the Walkman into his large pocket. Then without another sound, he disappeared into the room.

"We hope to see you soon!" The secretary said as Harry left through the front door.

"Yeah, see you," He muttered quietly.

He never came back.

So there... A prologue for this story! I hope you liked it.

This was just something I typed up in an hour or two... So, I don't really have a real plot yet (well, more or less).

Anyway, like it? Hate it? Should I continue it? Is Harry too out of character?

Oh, and did anyone notice that John's therapist's name was Ella Thompson? XD

Anyway, thanks for reading. XD

Oh... And has anyone realized who Harry will be in the future?