Title: Soldier
Summary: The Muggles call it post-traumatic stress disorder. They say it's caused by witnessing trauma. And that explains a lot, doesn't it? / Because darling, that's what happens when you're a child fighting in a war. A soldier from the time you set foot in that graveyard.
Warnings: Mentions of suicide attempts, PTSD, swearing and minor mention of alcohol.
A/N: I've always thought the "All is well" ending is kind of bullshit, mostly because Harry was a child when he was expected to save the world and brought up as a lamb to be slaughtered to save everyone. I don't really see how he could move on from that unscathed.
The Muggles call it post-traumatic stress disorder. They say it's caused by witnessing trauma. And that explains a lot, doesn't it?
You were 19 before PTSD was discovered by your world and you was diagnosed with it. Dozens of therapy sessions, none of them working because after all, who can counsel Harry fucking Potter?
"It'll be okay."
"It's over now."
"Everything is fine now."
They're all just band-aids. They cover the problem but don't fix it. After all, you can't patch a wounded soul with a band-aid.
Nightmares.
Guilt.
Isolation.
You had so many problems. They all came crashing down after the war, after you stopped being a soldier, after the world was saved.
You always did love her, and she took care of you when you needed her the most.
You get married, and you realise that maybe you do need a family after all. Because fuck, you always miss yours.
You can build a life, slowly but it works. And maybe you can help people on the way.
The trauma was too much, so you had to retire when you were 30.
You finally had a little daddy's girl, and life seemed okay, because maybe, just maybe, you'll turn out okay.
Your best friend is an alcoholic, your family is either insane, alcoholics, druggies, or a little bit of everything.
Nightmares, screaming in the middle of the night. Everyone has them.
Because darling, that's what happens when you're a child fighting in a war. A soldier from the time you set foot in that graveyard. You were only fourteen.
You're just waiting for everything to fall apart, everyone to leave you, because everyone always disappears, just at different speeds.
Stop turning them away, Harry.
The scars won't fade, and you can't get help, because who can help Harry fucking Potter? It's a lost cause.
You were on suicide watch for three years after the war. Somehow you managed to survive eighteen times.
Drugs.
Jumping off a tower.
Hanging from a rope.
Slashes on your wrist.
Sectumsempra
Drowning.
Chugging alcohol.
But somehow, you manage to survive every time.
But darling, you're still fucked up. It's no wonder no one stays.
Because who wouldn't be fucked up after everything you've lived through?
Scars and screams, is that all the Boy Who Lived is? A lamb brought up for slaughter, at just the right moment. And it's not fair, is it? You were still a child when you were told you were going to die, that there's no way around it.
You're fucked up and broken, Harry Potter.
This isn't living. It's just trying to survive. It's not swimming, it's not drowning, it's just floating, with your head just above the water.
You have to swim, darling. Otherwise, eventually, you're going to sink and drown.
A/N: So, there you have it. Because I like writing about how messed up everyone is after the war.
Let me know how I did!
thanks,
AuroraWeasley