The pamphlets were what had eventually done it. The first had appeared one morning, on his kitchen table, the bold red print on it reading “Are you depressed?”. That one he had incinerated and thought the matter would end there; but, as with so many other recent happenings he was wrong. More of the daft little Muggle publications began appearing, finding their way into books, onto bedside tables, and even into the compartment at the back of Rudolph’s head.

He took to making small paper airplanes from them, and then flying them out the window. Or, on occasions where he bullied his magic into working for any length of time he would fly them about SHOP dive bombing customers when the fancy took him. Ignoring them only worked for so long though and then the owls came bearing contact information for a psychiatrist at a Muggle hospital. Shortly following those had been the commands and shortly after that worried urgings from his mother. Valiant though his struggle was he knew he had lost when one morning he woke to find an appointment card resting on his nightstand.

The name was familiar, but Atlas’s memories of the man were vague and fleeting. Unimportant. In the half week prior to the appointments date he had gathered what information he could about the man, what he found had been rather interesting. He assured himself that it was curiosity and a desire to ease his mother’s obvious worry that caused him to throw on his over coat and venture into Muggle London to keep this ludicrous appointment.

MENTAL HEALTH CENTER
The words made him grimace but he’d dealt with worse before. Resigned he approached the front desk, handed the secretary his card and waited to see how things would proceed from there.

"No, I'm not willing to--no. Don't hang--"

Nick was left holding the receiver, lifelessly buzzing, over its cradle. He set it down with a sigh, then sat back in his leather chair (comfortable creak) and ran a hand over his jaw. She never had much minded calling him at work; turning his celphone off did no good at all. They were trying to figure out what to do about Dan when he came home for the holidays. He had, sensibly enough, suggested letting him go home with Vincent, as he'd requested, but when she'd retorted that she might as well take him herself he had gone off again.

He did miss Dan. He missed Cate too; both were natural feelings, and both were born of impatience. If Dan went home with Vincent he'd be near both of them for Christmas, could come to see him in his apartment and his mum in their old flat on Diagon Alley. And he needed friends, Nick could see he was painfully shy, they had put him in that House no one seemed to think much of. So smart, but he needed friends, he was too attached to them anyway. Nick got an owl from him every other day.

--and he should be thinking of none of this while he was at work.

He shook it all off and settled back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. So much for lunch break. After a quick spin on his chair, he swiveled back and caught himself on the shining edge of his walnut desk. The intercom buzzed.

'Your one o'clock, Doctor."

"Thanks, Irene. Send him in."

Nick set the telephone down and reached into a drawer for a fresh file. He had two drawers, though not marked in such a way as to be noticeable. Caedmon's was in the second. Io had been talking to him about it for weeks, though she'd always been Cate's friend... at least they'd managed to keep that much separate. Of course he wouldn't trust her diagnosis.

He recalled Atlas Caedmon as a tall young boy with straight hair and round blue eyes, a bit antisocial; he'd been studying autism spectrum disorders at the time and had been guilty of looking at the lad as a test case, but years intervening and an increasing distaste for diagnoses had revised his opinion. Now, as always, it was best to go in with a blank slate. He picked up the file and a pen, so he could take notes as they spoke, and stood, tucking them under his arm. The door opened.

"Mr. Caedmon, it's been a long time." Nick smiled at him and held out a hand. "Take a seat where you like. How are you today?"

The secretary smiled sweetly as she spoke into what Atlas clearly recognized as a telephone. He glanced up down the wards wide corridors coming back to himself when the woman tapped him on the arm and indicated that 'The Doctor' was ready to see him. With the clinched phrase ringing in his ears Atlas made his way to the proper office using the directions the woman had given him once she had placed the phone back on the receiver. A few twists and turns and he was standing before the door, still wondering if this might be the best idea. Before he could allow himself to think about it further he pushed open the door and stepped into the spacious office and found himself starring directly at Nick Preston. Well Doctor Preston he supposed was more appropriate.

Mr. Caedmon, it's been a long time.. The man offered his hand and Atlas thought it only polite and decent to shake it in return. “Doctor.” He offered a brief smile before glancing around the office, various framed certificates bearing different academic accolade's lined the walls the brain doctor was behind a large polished desk and there were several comfortable looking chairs arranged in a half circle around it. Take a seat where you like. How are you? After careful consideration Atlas the chair to the far right of the desk, the one closest to the door, settling himself before he considered what might be the best way to answer.

His memory was one brain function that hadn't been failing him of late and he could recall Preston fairly clearly. He had met the man only a few times, at social functions he had attended with his mother, those rare occasions where she had been going out with friends and had found no one to watch him for the time. The man had seemed nice, if a little odd. The husband of one of his mother's school mates he was that rare and unfortunate Muggle who, through odd circumstance, had found himself immersed in the magical world. It was highly controversial even today and Atlas had always found the man rather intriguing but had never really bucked up enough to ask him any questions.

The questions where still there but exhaustion and a need to just get out, and run from this place, back to the lab and his work pressed them down until all Atlas could really think to do was answer the mans questions. “I've been better. Although I suspect if you didn't already know that I wouldn't be here.” The man made him uncomfortable maybe not the man so much but the idea of the man. He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face, he sounded like Calixtus. Maybe he did therapy.

Atlas leaned forward to scrutinize the items on the desk. “My mother tells me I am depressed. Which I suspect she also told you, she can be very persistent. I'm sorry but I think this is going to be a waste of both of our time.”

"Maybe," Nick said noncommittally (he had perfected a neutral tone over the years), watching Atlas.

He seemed tired; there were faint dark shadows under his eyes. He sat nearest the door. He didn't want to be here, but of course, why had he come? In Nick's experience, the ones who wound up coming reluctantly were often those who most needed to talk to someone. Reluctance implied sincerity. The more eager his visitors, the great the likelihood they were performing, or using the sessions to fuel something unhealthy. Of course, eagerness could develop over time, but it was never supposed to be pleasant to face the darkest parts of oneself.

"Lots of people think therapy's very helpful. I see someone myself. But you've heard the spiel, you know about confidentiality, all of that stuff." He clicked his pen open against his folder, an idle gesture, and sat down, putting one ankle over the opposite knee. "You can talk about whatever you like, or nothing. I'm paid to sit here either way, and I like my job. Don't worry, by the way, about your mother. I have no trouble keeping mothers out of this room, unless, of course, you want to discuss your Oedipal complex."

He smiled. "That was a joke. Anyway, Atlas, you needn't feel obligated one way or another, but if there's something you'd like to talk about, I'm here. If you like I can tell your mum to bugger off."

Maybe. Atlas felt the mans eyes on him but didn't or squirm really he was used to being scrutinized. It was normal in almost all social situations and he would think that in this case the visual once over was a must for the therapist. While Nick watched him Atlas took a moment to look over the man for himself. Well put together, immaculate really. He stole another glance around the office, at least he didn't have any of those silly inspirational posters papering the wall. Atlas in particular had trouble abiding the one with the kitten in peril spouting encouragement, he found it sanctimonious.

Lots of people think therapy's very helpful. I see someone myself.[b] This caught Atlas's attention and he turned his head back, frowning slightly and reassessing the man behind the desk. [b]But you've heard the spiel, you know about confidentiality, all of that stuff. He had, in muggle movies and the occasional crime show that he had seen. They weren't allowed to tell anyone what went on within the confines of their offices but that in and of itsef wasn't the most reassuring thing Atlas had ever heard.

An unexpected sound from Nicks direction made Atlas flinch visibly, struggled for a moment to compose himself, succeeded. You can talk about whatever you like, or nothing. I'm paid to sit here either way, and I like my job. Don't worry, by the way, about your mother. I have no trouble keeping mothers out of this room, unless of course, you want to discuss your Oedipal complex..

Atlas blinked at him and began to weigh the awkwardness of sitting here and saying nothing to the man for however long this continued, or the awkwardness of actually speaking to him. It was a strangely close race. That was a joke. Well, yes, he would hope so. If you like I can tell your mum to bugger off..

“Doubt that would do either of us any good.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Shes just worried thats all, she worries too much.” Lowering his hands he made the effort to make eye contact. “You said everything is confidential how can you guarantee that? Are you allergic or immune to veristerum? Any training in occlumency?” The man was a muggle, and Atlas was doubtful that the wizarding world would have any kind of respect for his so called confidentiality. Atlas leaned his head back letting it rest on the chair back and exhaled. “I own a small personal business, my friends are mostly liars, thieves, or fasionistas, the only person I speak to with any regularity is a skeleton named Rudolph, he's in love with the girl down the street. On Tuesday nights I pick through peoples garbage, I once met a mafia crime boss doing that another time I met a journalist posing as a street performer. There is a living my Little Pony that lives in the garden next door. I haven't slept properly in two weeks. And Oh!” He lifted his head from the back of the chair and leveled his eyes at the doctor. “I can't make my magic work properly.”

Nicholas made note of Atlas's reactions. He remained oddly unmoved, blank-faced, by his friendly banter. Not an autism spectrum disorder, but he was very guarded, worried about something, hiding something. It didn't seem to be a matter of conscience. Atlas Caedmon didn't strike him immediately as someone who had broken a personal code; he seemed to have oddly excellent self-control. There was some extra thing that was the matter. He jumped when Nicholas clicked his pen. Atlas seemed like the kind of person who would play happily on his own, in worlds of his own construct, until bothered by something outside--which might, Nick mused, happen pretty easily. He was sensitive, oversensitive, or so it seemed.

As usual Nick let these thoughts and judgments surface and then sloughed them off, and settled back to listen with impartiality.

He seemed really affectionate, if patiently so, about his mother. He didn't answer the paranoiac questions about veritaserum immediately.

"I'm fallible like anyone else, Atlas, but rest assured that Wizarding law is on my side regarding confidentiality." He didn't offer any unrealistic assurances; Atlas, if he were as sane as Nick hoped, would realize he couldn't and decide either to take the risk or, more sadly, to succumb to his obvious paranoia. He went on. Nick listened.

Atlas's quixotic list seemed to be half humorous description and half complaint, a parody of the neurotic spiel. Nick nodded, smiled when appropriate ('thieves or fashionistas'--but the gist was that he felt alone) and was silent until he had finished. He made a note to give Atlas the card of a thaumaturgic psychologist at Mungo's, to see about his magic. Then Nick nodded.

"What do you think's the matter, then?"

I'm fallible like anyone else, Atlas, but rest assured that Wizarding law is on my side regarding confidentiality. He let the information sink in and considered it during the pause that followed. Atlas honestly wasn't sure about how medical laws worked in the Wizading world. It had never been something he had ever imagined would be prudent for him to know and so hadn't wasted the time. Hospitals as a rule were places he had neither desire nor cause to visit and the very idea of therapy was enough to make him scoff, and for his skin toe crawl uncomfortably. Now he would have to return home and rummage in that pile of law books he was using to prop up his work table in the attic. See if what Nick said was true, it was entirely plausible, though the man being muggle certainly had to make things complicated.

Still unsure about how much trust he was willing to place with this man Atlas spouted a random sampling. All the while carefully watching for the doctor's reactions, seeing if he blinked, if his expression would change and wondering if he might be immediately sectioned. He didn't think Nick had that sort of authority but he was already on edge as it was, could Wizards be sectioned? More things to look up.

Nick said nothing, just nodded robotically. So he wasn't fooled? Or shocked, both were promising. Rude had really been his trigger point, people had an irrational fear of the dead to begin with add the talking undead and you tended to get some sort of reaction. Married to a witch or not the man was till a muggle and Atlas was quickly having to reform his idea of what that meant exactly. The only sound in the room was the scrape of the man's pen against his notepad.

What do you think's the matter, then?.

Atlas looked up from the pen top, his head falling to the side. Now there was a question. He knew the answer, or thought he knew the answer but could he say it? The reason for his predicament was wrapped up in his little excursion to the ministry, and his excursion to the Ministry carried with it no less than 67 separate felony crimes. So what would Nick's rules be on that? He should done more research before he came here, he hadn't even intended to sit down.

“I believe I suffered a shock.” A half truth then, that could be enough for now.

Atlas hesitated. He looked torn. He looked torn, Nick made note, like an honest man in conflict with himself. It wasn't something he'd thought he would see from Atlas, he'd thought he would see a hive of neurosis and self-entanglement, and he did, but there was obviously something outside of himself he was worrying about now. Nick tried to think of the right thing to say. Had he witnessed a crime? Seen something traumatic and failed to act? He didn't know, but arranged himself in the move neutral way he could, put one hand to his jaw, and nodded.

"A shock?"

Nick sat back, fingers moving just a little, inviting Atlas to continue.

"Everything you say really is confidential, Atlas, I won't tell anyone. Not the authorities, not anyone." One of the perks of his peculiar place, in limbo between Muggle and Magical, was that in a very real sense he had greater freedom than practitioners who existed in either single sphere. "If you feel you want to continue, feel free."

A shock?. Was there an echo? Or did they all parrot whatever had last been said to them, maybe it was to try and cause some sort of ease in the patient. Atlas hated that word, patient, it implied that there was something wrong with you, something that had to be fixed. The doctor was cupping his face, giving off an air of calm and collected indifference, maybe not indifference but something kindly close to it.

Everything you say really is confidential, Atlas, I won't tell anyone. Not the authorities, not anyone. If you feel you want to continue, feel free. Atlas looked pointedly at the floor turning the words over carefully, inspecting them for possible hidden meanings. The man had the power to have him committed, could call in the authorities, but why would he? What motivation could he have toward that end? What had happened in the Ministry was something that Atlas had decided straight off needed to be known by as few people as possible…this plan had gone sailing into an inferno when Carmen printed her letter (though some details remained unpublished) and then again when he had broken down and informed Jasper.

Telling Jasper had been a necessity, should something have happened to him Atlas needed someone who would have known the details but what reason then did he have to tell this man, basically a stranger, and an official to boot? Because he might be able to help.. Atlas’s head snapped to the right, looking around at the empty air and wondering when he had started hearing voices. He scrubbed his hand over his face several times before clasping his hands together on his lap, frown firmly set in place.

“I,” There was the realization that once he started he might not be able to stop. He closed his eyes; it was easier if he wasn’t looking at anything. “I killed someone. A mediwizard…I” his mouth worked but it suddenly felt very dry, and his breath kept hitching. This had been a horrible idea, completely horrible. Maybe he could obliviate the man and flee, was that legal? Magic wasn’t working anyway, then it would only be attempted assault of a Muggle…wanting to think about anything aside from what he had just said Atlas’s mind kicked into overdrive, going through all the laws he could think of in rapid succession.

Nick blinked and schooled himself not to put one hand out for his phone. He knew enough about Wizards to be able to tell that he was in no immediate danger. Besides, he knew Atlas's mother. He knew Atlas himself, he fancied, a bit; it was possible that he was exaggerating. Nick heard outrageous confessions more often than he cared to ponder sometimes, and knew when to give over the benefit of the doubt.

At the same time, he did feel a little nervous. He sat back just a hair, very carefully, and nodded to Atlas.

"Atlas, I would encourage you to be clear about what you mean. What did you actually do?" He would need to take action if Atlas had actually killed someone, but first he wanted to hear the full story. After the histrionic, entertaining list of foibles, he doubted it was a case of murder.

The man made a careful movement backwards; Atlas barely caught it out of his peripheral vision. Atlas, Atlas raised his eyes but kept his head down .[b]I would encourage you to be clear about what you mean. What did you actually do?{/b]. Atlas shook his head, being more specific wasn’t going to solve this problem, and it certainly wasn’t going to change his initial statement. What it would do was alleviate some of the guilt and that was neither what Atlas wanted or deserved. Some form of forgiveness was not this therapist to bestow.

But if he stayed with what he had said there was a very real chance he would be somehow detained, questioned by people who had the authority to lock him up, to stop him from continuing his work. Unacceptable. The headache that seemed to be ever present was building steadily, he pressed his hands against his temples, massaging them, at least it gave him something to do with his hands. “I was conducting an investigation. One you might have read about in the Daily Prophet.” He paused for a moment before adding, “If you read the Daily Prophet….I needed a medic for tactical reasons. So I found Da—,” The rest of the name stuck and wouldn’t seem to come up. He went on. “I found the medic, coerced him into coming along.” He wasn’t comfortable, his head was pounding and now he kept glancing around the room nervously, waiting.

“Something went wrong, there was a variable that I hadn’t prepared for. Holywell…that was his name. He died.” Atlas chest hurt and there were little black spots dancing at the sides of his eyes. This had been a terrible idea. “He was murdered, I didn’t see his attacker coming, I didn’t even know he was there. I should have known he was there, I planned for everything else, just wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Then I just left him down there….alone.”

Nick listened intently, and thought back to the Daily Prophet. Someone had broken into the Ministry, that he recalled; there had been a casualty, Undersecretary Garrow was blamed... right. He relaxed. As unbelievable as it seemed that Atlas had been involved, he did not give off the rank smell of the liar. Nick listened.

"Listen to me, Atlas," he said at last. He took a box of tissues and passed them to him. "There's a reason I'm asking you to explain what happened. It isn't that I'm suspicious of you; I read the news article and I believe I understand what happened." It was a point of pride for him to keep up with current affairs. He believed that sane people had a picture of what was happening in the larger world.

"It's because you need to be able to face things yourself, Atlas. You need to lay out what happened and you need to look realistically at where the blame lies. If you are histrionic you will never search out and find your guilt, if it exists, and you can never deal with it. What happened, happened. You must be clear about it, however painful, and then you can decide what to do."

He sat back and steepled his fingers. Atlas had a conscience. He didn't need or want soothing; and, in fact, he didn't deserve it yet.

"So. Does that sound like a sensible plan to you?"

Listen to me, Atlas. A direct command, Atlas lifted his head to meet the therapists eyes. The man had produced a box of tissues from somewhere and was now offering them to Atlas. Was he crying, he raised a hand to the side of his face running it along his left cheek and grimacing when he felt wetness there. Wonderful, he was no better than Calixtus. He accepted the box grudgingly and cleared the mess from his face. The panic was still there but it was manageable, at least for now.

..You need to be able to face things yourself, Atlas. You need to lay out what happened and you need to look realistically at where the blame lies. If you are histrionic you will never search out and find your guilt, if it exists, and you can never deal with it. What happened, happened. You must be clear about it, however painful, and then you can decide what to do..

If it exists. of course it existed it tended to manifest itself at the worst possible times. So. Does that sound like a sensible plan to you?. He considered it, leaning back in the chair and wondering if he could give an answer that would satisfy both himself and the man seated across from him. “What is it I need to be more clear about? I wasn’t holding the wand that killed him, I didn’t say the spell, I didn’t have anything to do with it. But I am directly responsible for him being there and that means blame falls to me. My fault. If I had died, fine, one less crackpot in the world, I was aware of what I was getting into. Holywell wasn’t.” He needed the anger, at least that could be twisted into something useful, something that could motivate, letting go of it would mean he’d leave himself completely wrung out. “So what am I supposed to do with that?”

"All right." Nick held up a hand. "You feel guilty because you brought Holywell with you without a--without warning him of what might happen." He watched Atlas keenly, recording his reactions. It wasn't the time to make a judgment. Besides, he knew what he thought of relatively clear-cut situations like this--what he thought of his role, anyway. Had he been in Atlas's position it would have become more complicated.

"I can't 'cure' you or make the judgment for you. There are all different sorts of views of morality. Legally, you are not at all to blame; unless you had a lot more information than anyone else, you didn't know you were getting into something so dangerous. But legal morality isn't the morality you need. Anyway, there's no punishment you're supposed to give. If I were a priest, a Catholic priest, I could assign penance, but I'm not; and anyway that's not what you came for. I'm afraid I can only tell you what I believe, which is: I think you need to decide for yourself what you should do. It's your personal transgression, it's your moral code; nothing anyone else tells you to do can solve it. Understand?"

He paused, then, putting his hands together in a motion that looked, perhaps, half-pleading and half-conciliatory, added,

"But don't harm yourself. That won't do any good."

All right. Atlas stopped, giving the man the opportunity to speak. He shifted his weight in the chair, and raked a hand through his hair before settling it back on his lap. I can’t ‘cure’ you or make the judgment for you. There are all different sorts of views of morality.. Atlas successfully resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t need someone to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, and either Nick was aware of that fact or believed it himself. Either way it was pleasant to not be patronized. This wasn’t normal for him, speaking this openly with some, someone he knew an exceptionally small amount about. The fact that he was doing so, truthfully and willingly was a testament to how bad he had allowed things to become.

It's your personal transgression, it's your moral code; nothing anyone else tells you to do can solve it. Understand?. He nodded, oh yes he understood. That was part of the problem he had come up with a method of penance, finding out where the soul he had taken should go, he had accomplished that and still felt the guilt eating at him. So he had changed tactics, deciding to continue researching the spell see if he could find a counter curse. But considering his exhaustion and his magic’s unpleasant tendency to come and go had made it very slow going.

But don’t harm yourself. That won’t do any good. Atlas baulked at him, blinking for a moment and then frowning. “I have no intentions of…” He sputtered, an uncharacteristic move for him. “You think I’m a danger to myself?!” He had lost some weight, was sure he looked tired but that was hardly cause for any sort of alarm. “I don’t want forgiveness, I just want to fix the problem. To do that I need to stay motivated, to stay motivated I need to remember why I should be working.”