MetaFic

Ginny looked down at Harry and smiled. When he was asleep, when the weight of the world was off his shoulders, he looked so peaceful and she was reminded of why she had fallen in love with him.

Age had been kind to him; his hair was flecked with grey, but he could pass for forty if he wanted to. She brushed his hair with her good hand, smiling to herself as she did. One day Harry, she thought, one day.

The door behind her opened and the Healer in charge of Harry's case shuffled in.

"Ah Mrs Potter. Wasn't sure we'd be seeing you today, not a day to be reminded that you married such a man, is it?"

Ginny looked the man up and down with contempt. What she did on her wedding anniversary was her business.

"Whatever my husband is, you are more than happy to live in the freedom that he won, aren't you?"

"Point taken; now shall we move on? I have a lot of cases to see this morning. I won't beat about the bush Mrs Potter, your husband is a hopeless case. Whatever is going on in the dark recesses of his mind it's a mystery to us all. You might as well give up and go home."

"Is that all you have to say? Is that the best that the Wizarding world can offer to the man who gave his life and his sanity to free it? You make me sick, get out of here."

The Healer shuffled out of the room, shaking his head at her outburst. "He may be Harry Potter, lady, but he's still an animal."

Ginny let out a sigh of relief when the door closed behind him. He had no idea of the nightmares that had haunted her husband up and till the defeat of Voldemort. Then for two brief years he had been as carefree and happy as anyone else. They had married and she dreamt of the future that they were going to build together. But then the nightmares started again, and she'd come home and found him locked in the bathroom sobbing. As she'd held him in her arms and rocked him, she'd had little idea as to where it would lead.

He'd become increasingly angry; lashing out those around him, particularly her. Her friends and her family had advised her to leave and take their young children but she vowed she would stay. She knew the children were never in danger and she thought that she was safe too. She shuddered when she remembered their last night together. The left side of her body was still partly paralysed a fact that made her life increasingly difficult as she grew older. But it wasn't the thing that hurt the most. The physical pain she could bear; she'd experienced enough of that during the final two years of the war. No, it was that he knew exactly what to say to hurt her the most, and that he'd done so, repeatedly. Her friends had been quick to rally round and just as quick to condemn him. She felt bitter-sweet, that the same mouths that had encouraged her were as quick to condemn the man she loved.

Eventually she bowed to the inevitable, and Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding world, was committed to a psychiatric ward at St Mungo's.

He can tell she's there. If he reaches out with his magic he can tell what mood she's in. Not that he had to bother. She's feeling sad. Always sad. He wonders why she comes. For a few more moments he pretends he's asleep and enjoys the feeling of her fingers running through her hair. When he wakes, she will retreat and put up her shield to protect herself. Not that it would work; it's so flimsy a child could break through it, but I makes her feel safe and part of him is happy it does.

Deep. He knows that he is way below the surface, far away from her. He hears her voice; it is soothing and he desperately tries to claw his way to the surface, to let her know that he is here and he loves her. But her voice begins to fade and he is in darkness once again. Next time he, promises himself, he will be stronger and he will get to the surface and back into the light again.