A/N: QLFC. Finals. Captain of the Wimbourne Wasps. Captain's prompt: "Why is it always me?" - Neville Longbottom. To my judge, pls be warned that this story is somewhat emotionally abusive, and I apologise profusely if it should trigger you in anyway, and upset you. Mentions of PTSD and depression.
Even fifteen years after the war had ended, those affected by it had never truly recovered. Many of the victims were suffering from lingering PTSD and depression. Some, like Lily Potter, who was brilliant at potions, had researched methods to live with the repercussions of what had happened. She had found ways to help herself and her husband, James, get through each day without doing something stupid to each other, or themselves. It was difficult—some days more than others—but she still put in the effort for their son, Harry.
It didn't always work, though. There would be days when they did nothing but fight; they would argue over the smallest, most inane things, completely ignoring what it was doing to the other, only occupied with their own darkness.
Of course, when Harry was home during the summer, at Christmas or at Easter, they would put up more of an effort. They were both fully aware of the devastating effect their fighting could have on their child. Regrettably, even with Harry home, they would sometimes fail. One or the other would implode, giving in to their pent up darkness. A fight would ensue, sending Harry fleeing to his room to hide under his covers, trying to drown out the sound of his parents' raised voices.
One such occasion occurred when fifteen-year-old Harry was home from school during Easter break. James and Lily had been snipping and sniping at each other all day. Nothing James did was right—every little move he made had Lily riding his ass.
"You bloody idiot, why did you do it like that?" said Lily after James had cleaned up the living room by hand, rather than use his wand to do it.
Exasperation filled her. Her husband was the one who had grown up in a magical household. He should understand how privileged he was and use the tools he'd always been lucky enough to possess. There were more rooms to clean, and now, he had wasted a lot of time.
"Because it helps to keep me focused," said James. The words were spat like acid, corroding the steel walls Lily had put up between them to protect what love remained. "Means I don't have to be inside my own head and regret ever marrying you!"
"I hate you, James Potter! I knew I went against my better judgement when I married you, you asshole!" Lily screamed.
Harry, who had been up in his room, ventured down the stairs.
"Mum, Dad? Is everything alright? I thought I heard raised voices."
"Everything is fine, love. Now come here and give your Mama a cuddle." Lily gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes and reached out a hand towards her son.
As Harry wrapped his arms around his mother's waist, he could feel her trembling.
"Are you sure you're okay, Mum? You're trembling again," whispered Harry into his mother's ear.
Last time he'd felt his mother tremble like this, she'd been on the verge of an anxiety attack.
"I'm okay, darling. I'm just not having one of my better days, that's all," said Lily softly as she drew her son away from herself a little, so that she could give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Now, what would you like for lunch?"
For the rest of the day, Lily and James danced around each other, trying to not upset their son any further, but the damage was done; Harry sat at his desk writing in the journal he kept, his handwriting barely legible because of his ceaselessly shaking hand.
Dear journal,
They've been at it again today! Fighting and snapping at each other. They think I haven't noticed, but I have. They seem to forget that in this house, I can hear everything that's said. They're still pretending that they're actually still in love with each other and that we're just one big happy family, but we aren't, and we never will be! I just wish they'd admit it to each other, and to me. I know this isn't normal. Normal is Auntie Molly and Uncle Arthur. Every time I go to their house, I see the love they have for each other. I just wish that could be my family, just once…
Harry's thoughts were cut off by a crash coming from the kitchen. Harry threw his quill aside and rushed from the room, down the stairs to the kitchen. He raced in to find the crockpot in pieces all over the floor, a river of gravy heading across the kitchen floor.
James, having also heard the crash, came skidding into the kitchen from the garden. Seeing the mess all over the kitchen floor, James let fly at his wife.
"What the hell? You stupid cow!"
"I didn't do it on purpose, James; I lost my grip," snapped Lily.
"Well, you better get this mess cleared up, and pronto," snapped James back. "Oh, and you better find us something else for dinner, too. I want it on the table by six o'clock!"
"Dad, please don't talk to Mum that way," said Harry quietly.
Anger was bubbling away just under the surface; it was like molten lava, waiting to erupt.
"What did you say to me, boy?" asked James threateningly.
"I asked you not to speak to my mother that way," said Harry through gritted teeth.
"Who do you think you are?" asked James, eyes growing dark.
"The one who is going to curse you into oblivion if you talk to her that way again," said Harry, trying to feel a ton more confident than he actually did under his father's menacing glower.
Harry felt Lily put a hand on his arm, motioning for him to be quiet. She then turned to her husband and gave him a deathly glare.
"Don't you dare ever, ever talk to me like that again! I am not a piece of shit; I am your wife!" Lily snarled. "And you will not speak to Harry that way either, because Merlin help you, next time, I won't hesitate to curse you into oblivion myself."
James looked his son and wife up and down, a sneer painted on his face as he turned away and headed back out the door again.
Harry let go of the breath he didn't even realise he was holding, and turned to look at his mother. Only, he found her knelt on the floor, amidst gravy and glass shards, her face in her hands as silent sobs wracked her body.
"Why is it always me?" Lily whined pitifully as she felt her son pull her close.
After that, Harry snapped; he couldn't take seeing his parents like this any longer. He was old enough to be believed—to be able to give evidence, in a manner of speaking.
Once he was back at Hogwarts, he reported his home situation to Professor McGonagall. Discreetly, she made contact with St Mungo's, and James and Lily were hauled in for counselling and therapy. Harry didn't know if it would be enough. He could only hope that maybe, just maybe, his parents would be able to fix things with help, and they could become a proper family.