I must confess that after the final battle I did become a bit overprotective of Harry. It was against my better judgement as I knew he wanted his own space, but I couldn't help it. Here was the man (boy?) of my dreams, slowly turning into something remarkably like an old war veteran – I had to protect him.
Ronald told me all about Harry's nightmares (he's easy to break when you know how) – how he'd awake to see Harry hunched up in bed, his knees tucked up to his chin as he rocked backwards and forwards, shivering and muttering to himself with a wild look in his eyes. Sometimes I could hear him cry out in his sleep; everyone in the Burrow probably could. He'd either be screaming in terror, crying like his lungs were about to burst out of his chest or gasping for air like a drowning man. I couldn't let him suffer any more than he already had. I couldn't let him cut himself off from the rest of the world. Unfortunately, Harry seemed bent on doing exactly that.
I don't blame him in the slightest for what happened to Fred and Tonks and Remus and all the others that died in the war. Everyone had a choice didn't they? They all chose to fight despite knowing that the consequences could be fatal. But Harry was too deeply buried under all the grief, guilt and trauma to realise that, and even if he did I'm sure he would still blame himself anyway. I found myself becoming more and more depressed as I watched Harry slowly cut himself away from fellow human beings. Not even Ron or Hermione could reach him anymore. Everyone who was staying at the Burrow tried to help. Mum grew anxious at how thin Harry was getting so she took to spoon-feeding him soup. In normal circumstances the Harry I knew would be mortified but these circumstances were far from normal. I don't think he even realised what Mum was feeding him, let alone recognised that she was actually sitting there next to him.
His eyes became distant; they looked through you instead of at you, and they started to fade. I know that sounds stupid – how can your eye colour fade? But it's true. Harry's brilliant emerald green eyes grew duller by the day and when I looked into them I didn't know who he was anymore. I began to forget who I was. My life was being slowly ripped to shreds and I couldn't stop it.
While lying in my bed at Hogwarts in my sixth year I fantasized about the future. It would always take me ages to fall asleep for worrying about Harry so I started imagining what our lives could be like if he defeated You-Know-Who. No, when he defeated You-Know-Who. I was sure that Harry would achieve it - it was his destiny after all, that dusty old sphere had told him that much. Yeah it had also said about how he could die as well but that wasn't going to happen, my Harry wouldn't accept defeat – he'd keep fighting no matter what. He'd already proved that. I admired him so much, the way he kept on living and fighting even after James, Lily, Sirius and Dumbledore had all died to protect him. I trusted him, I thought I knew him. I knew he would defeat You-Know-Who and I was right about that.
I dreamed about how we'd get married in the orchard like Bill and Fleur or on a beach with waves and a beautiful sunset. Or just in a simple field maybe, I've never been one for lavish clothes and decorations. Harry's the same so the simpler the better. I dreamt about how we'd have children, a girl and a boy maybe. And how we'd live somewhere remote where we couldn't be bothered by admirers of The Chosen One. I had our whole life planned out and I couldn't wait to see Harry again and begin our future.