This is a series of shorts that I've been intending to do for a while, so here goes! There will be one for each Death Eater, and maybe one for the therapist at the end. The verdicts in the summary were created before I actually wrote Severus or Bellatrix' sessions, so they're not exactly consistent.

Enjoy!

Bob Eggleton had been having a perfectly normal day. He listened to three hysterical clients in the morning. He listened to Pandora for an hour while pretending to have another session. He ate twelve donuts for lunch and yelled at his secretary when she suggested he go on a diet. He listened to one heartbroken man in the afternoon. Now he was waiting for his final appointment of the day - a new customer. Said new customer knocked on the door.

A tall, pale, bald man entered, led by his rather hassled-looking secretary. Valerie shot him a warning look behind the man's back before leaving, closing the door with a snap.

"You're the therapist?" the man said brusquely.

"That I am. Would you care to sit down?" Bob asked, gesturing to the sofa opposite him.

"I will not be told what to do."

Oh, so you're one of those ones . . . "Of course, you may do whatever you like," Bob said, suppressing a sigh. Only forty-five minutes . . . forty-five minutes, and he could go home and watch Netflix for the rest of the afternoon . . . "But will you at least tell me your name?"

"You don't know me?" the man asked. After a moment's hesitation, he sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, shoulders hunched and hands clasped. He wore a strange sort of black robe.

"No," Bob said, then after a moment added "And I'm not sure why I should. Who are you?"

"I'm Voldemort, Muggle," the man - Voldemort - spat. "But you shall call me the Dark Lord, my Lord, or Master."

"Do you use these titles as a method of feeling superior to others?"

"I use these titles because I am the Dark Lord, and I am superior to others, especially Muggles like yourself."

"Alright." Bob jotted down a few notes, making sure he wasn't murmuring anything aloud. No need to repeat that mess. "What is a Muggle? Do you use this private insult to again make yourself feel superior, or do you merely like to feel superiority because you do not swear as most men do?"

"Muggle is not a private insult, idiot. A Muggle is . . . a filthy Muggle, that's what a Muggle is." The man had red eyes, no nose and no lips. Noting this, Bob switched topics.

"Tell me, Voldemort, when did you get plastic surgery?"

Voldemort's lip curled in a snarl. "I never got plastic surgery."

"Do you tell yourself this so as to feel superior to others who did get plastic surgery? Do you connect individuality with superiority?"

"My face is as it is because I have created Horcruxes, Muggle, not that you know what they are. I have done as no other wizard ever has before, done what no other wizard has power enough ever to do again . . ."

"So you do," Bob muttered. "Do you use anorexia to feel superior to others in your eating habits?"

"I do not need to feel superior to others," Voldemort snarled, finally catching on, "Because I am superior. I am the Dark Lord; I have created seven Horcruxes; I have thousands of followers . . ."

"Why do you feel the need to feel superior?" Bob interrupted. He scratched his beard with the tip of his pen, smearing ink down his chin, whilst glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes - he could finally finish watching Breaking Bad . . .

"The feeling of superiority comes with superiority itself."

"Why do you feel you have superiority in the first place, then?"

"Because I do."

"Listen to me, Voldemort," Bob said, leaning forward. "You are lying to yourself about the world. Deep down, you want to be superior, to be recognized as something great. But you are not. You are just another man, with another job and another ordinary life. Or you might be unemployed. You haven't really told me about yourself. Stop lying to yourself, Voldemort. It will only bring sorrow."

A tear trickled down Voldemort's pale cheek. "I . . . see, sir," he said. "Psych! You - I will kill and torture you for your disrespect to the Dark Lord!" So saying, he plunged his right hand into the pocket of his robes. And swore. "Damnit Nagini!"

Bob was puzzled. Weapons weren't allowed. "Who's Nagini?" It was the easiest question to answer.

"My snake - but she's human right now - doesn't matter - I will set Bellatrix on you! And Fenrir! I'll give them a crochet hook and yarn and tell them to get creative, we'll see how you feel about my superiority then!"

"Thank you, Voldemort. I believe the session is over," Bob said, not wanting this to get any more out of hand than it already was. "That will be five hundred dollars."

Voldemort dug in his pockets again, threw a handful of gold coins on the table and stormed out, muttering about how he would have to use the Knight Bus.

Liked? Hated? Loved? Review! Tell me who should go next as well.