Harry Potter sat on a wall

Harry Potter had a great fall

All of his Family and all of his friends

Had to put Harry, together again

Harry Potter was losing it. Or at least, he felt that way. It had been two months since he'd defeated Voldemort, and during that time both his physical and mental well-being were starting to go downhill. Combining the lack of sleep and loss of appetite with the occasional spurs of gut wrenching panic, had left him thin, pale, and unsteady on his feet. In his head, he felt as if he were balancing on the edge of sanity, with the already brittle ground crumbling out from under him as he watched unable to pull himself back; with one strong gust of wind he could tumble into an abyss filled with blinding pain and uninhibited anger. The anger was what really scared him. Anger at himself because he had failed. Failed to stop the war sooner. Failed to save those he loved. And beneath that surface layer, there was deeper, harsher anger. An anger that lay with those around him. Those who expected him to be strong; to be brave. Those who wanted him to put on a mask and reassure everyone else, all the people that were still reeling from the tragedies of war. Even when Harry himself was just as lost and broken as they were.

As much as he loathed to admit it, there were some days... Days that were dark and cold. Days where the expectations were too high, and the pangs of guilt were too much. On those days Harry found that more than anything, he longed to fall into that abyss; to take one slight step and tumble all the way down. It would be frighteningly easy. To let all his emotions break free, flooding out of him in a cleansing wave, until there was nothing left inside. He wanted to scream and shout until his lungs were raw and his voice went hoarse. He wanted to punch something until his knuckles bled; Bang his forehead on the wall until his skull cracked open and thoughts went black. Couldn't any of these people see that? Didn't they care? His mind was melting in his head, bubbling up and over-flowing until he drowned in his own thoughts. And what did they do? Ask him to plaster on a smile and pretend. To just hold on- hold on, for a few more days. Just few more interviews. A few more funerals...

"Just a few more hours Harry," Kingsley Shacklebolt had whispered to him just two weeks ago. They were posing together for a photo at the ceremonial opening of the new ministry of magic, one of Kingsley's hands grasping Harry's own, while the other rested firmly on his shoulder, anchoring him to the moment as if the new minister knew just how close Harry had been to falling off that edge. Harry knew it must have been because Kingsley was feeling the same, both of their faces held fake smiles and tired eyes, though, Kingsley's was slightly more practiced than Harry's, but he supposed that was a skill gained after years of dealing with a man like Cornelius Fudge. After that, they had been pushed into separate directions by the masses and forced to mingle, greeting person after person; a few reporters, some new ministry officials, and then a handful of civilians that simply wanted to shake his hand and thank him for saving them all. And every so often, when Harry started to feel the gnawing urge to run away, to hide, Kingsley would make his way back to him with gentle-real smile, and quietly say; "just a few hours Harry, that's all. A few more hours and you can go home." Harry would always nod his head and with a slightly forced smile, go back to mingling, mindlessly nodding along to what was probably a rather thrilling tale about (Needle point?) that the older man he was stand beside was telling him, his thoughts wandering back to Kingsley's words. A few more hours and you can go home. Home. And wasn't that just a laugh. Harry didn't have a bloody home. Not a real one… Nowhere he belonged. He had thought, once, that that the Burrow could have been his home. Someplace he was welcome and loved. But ever since the war- ever since Fred, going to the Burrow began to remind Harry in some ways of his trip to Godrics hollow. A feeling of something not quite being right seemed to shroud the place whenever Harry was around.

O

Right after the war, both Harry and Hermione had gone with the Weasleys back to the Burrow to stay for a while, the two of them bunking up in Ron's room, craving the closeness they'd grown accustomed to all those weeks together hunting horcruxes. But by the end of the first week, despite Ron's reassurance to the contrary, Harry began to feel that his presence was more of a painful reminder to the family than anything else. George hadn't spoken one word to him since they'd buried Fred, along with Remus and Tonks and all the rest of the deceased. Harry was glad for it. If George did speak to him, he didn't know what he could possibly say to the man. How do you talk to someone who lost their twin because of you? Hell, Harry couldn't even look at him without seeing Fred's lifeless eyes staring back, blaming him for all the pain he'd caused.

Dealing with Mrs. Weasley wasn't any easier. She had spent the first three days back at the burrow crying her heart out, going around and making sure that she tightly hugged everyone goodnight at least once before allowing them to go to bed. Just to make sure that they were alive and well. The first night back she must have told Harry and Ron both good night at least five times each, the teary hugs she gave them damping their shirts so much they had to change them again before they could sleep.

Mr. Weasley was slightly better. At least, he didn't burst out into tears when asked if he wanted sugar for his tea. But whenever Harry met his eye, they held a pain that Harry didn't think he'd ever see in the man. His eyes were those of a man that had lost something very dear to him… A man who'd lost a son.

Then there was Ginny. Harry had always thought on some subconscious level, all those weeks traveling around with Ron and Hermione, that after the war, everything between them could go back to the way it had been. But each time he thought he had found the courage to broach the topic, he'd take one look at her and all he could see was Fred. Shaking his head and telling him back off before he hurt another member of his family. Now he didn't know what they were. Those first few nights they would hold one another as they shook with unshed tears, then in the morning, they would barely speak. She'd go off to help her mother, while Harry followed Ron and Hermione around doing whatever menial task had been asked of them. There was one day when the three of them just sat in the garden silently watching for hours as the sun rose into the sky and then slowly lowered back down again.

As for the other Weasleys: Bill, Charlie, and even Percy. Being around them had become almost unbearable. Whenever Harry found himself in the same room with any of them it felt as though they were miles apart, with all the small talk and smiles that never quite reached any of their eyes. And the looks they gave him when they thought he wasn't paying attention. Harry could tell they blamed him for the loss of their brother. And he knew that any anger they felt towards him was justified; if anyone should be there, under that roof, sharing their meals… If anyone had a right to be there, it was Fred. Not him. He had no right to take a place in a family that wasn't his. And the fact that they wouldn't just out-right say it to his face had started to drive Harry a little mad.

So, on the eight night there, after Harry had assured that everyone had retired to their rooms, he stuck a note on Ron's door telling him not to worry, and then careful as to not wake his sleeping friends, he made his way downstairs. It was somewhat reminiscent of that night not so long ago, when both Mad-eye and Hedwig had lost their lives, and George his ear. Except, this time, Ron and Hermione wouldn't stop him. There was no mission that needed completing, no war he had to fight. It was just him, doing what he knew was best for everyone. For Harry, every day spent there left him followed around the Fred's ghost, watching him taking his place. And for the Weasleys… They didn't need him there. They had more than enough on their plates without his issues added to the mix, and… they'd already done so much for him. Lost so much for him. Harry couldn't ask any more of them. Silently closing the door behind him, Harry made his way to the outer limits, far enough away so as not to disturb anyone, and he apparated away.

O

Two wrong apparitions later; one that lead him to a bathroom stall in a small oriental restaurant and another to the broom closet of a rundown auto shop. Harry stumbled onto a dark suburban street, lit only by a single flickering lamp. Pulling himself to his feet, Harry dusted the dirt off his pants, and then in a very unsteady manner, wobbled down passing house after house until he made it to the one he'd been looking for, the only place he had left, given to him after his godfather's death: Number Twelve Grimmauld place.

A month and a half after that, as Harry, tiredly walked down the same street after what had definitely been much more than 'just a few more hours' of mingling at the ministry opening- made his way inside the old house, wandered up the stairs past the hideous wall of decapitated house-elves, dropping himself onto the bed in still cobwebbed room that he'd been keeping his things in; Closed his eyes, letting the shrieks of Walburga Black's portrait downstairs serve as a white-noise while he drifted off into a night of fitful sleep, his last thoughts were of how this old museum of a building, filled with more dust and long forgotten memories then most crypts, would always be more of a prison, than a home. It had been used long ago, by Walburga Black to keep her sons in line. Then by the Order, to keep Harry's godfather Sirius Black, safely squared away. And now it was used by Harry himself; as a place to hide from the world and all its problems, leaving only when asked personally by Kingsley. Or when he was annoyingly forced out by Ron and Hermione. And, on one memorable occasion, when Professor McGonagall showed up and asked him to tea at a small shop a few blocks away. However, Harry found that as the weeks went by, the excursions out were growing few and far between, a mere two months and things with the ministry were finally smoothing out, there were no more funerals to attend. Though, there were still memorials being held almost weekly, and, as 'The-boy-who-lived', he always made an appearance, more out of duty than desire- so many people had lost their lives, and Harry didn't think he'd ever be able to remember who most of them were no matter how many members of their families he met. The growing isolation only served to make his current residence even more prison-like than before.

One factor that played a large part in his isolation, was that his friends had stopped trying to force him out into society all the time; Mostly due to his increasing stubbornness, and their fading will to argue with him. "He just needs a little time" he hears Ron tell Hermione one day when they think he's asleep, his voice sounding as exhausted as Harry feels. "He just needs some time away from everything." "How much time Ron? What if- what if-?" Hermione's voice trailed off, leaving Harry to wonder 'what if' what?.

After Harry's first week living at Grimmauld place, (once Hermione had thoroughly yelled at him for disappearing in the middle of the night, panicking everyone at the burrow leading almost into a manhunt until Percy blessedly noticed Harry's note stuck to the bottom of Ron's shoe) Ron and Hermione had made the effort for at least one (if not both) of them to visit him for several hours every. single. day. Bringing him both company and food. Apparently, neither of his friends quite trusted Kreacher to provide adequate meals. In all honesty, if it hadn't been for Ron's family needing him at home, Harry figured that the two more than likely would have just moved in.

O

At some point, during their visits, Harry's friends occasionally started bringing a third visitor with them.

Sometimes it would be Mrs. Weasley, (She doesn't cry as much these days) who always comes with a basket full of food and a couple of dozen remarks on how underweight Harry was starting to look- she means well, but Harry is always relieved when she finally heads home, giving him a warm hug and soft reminder to look after himself.

Occasionally, the extra visitor that shows up is Luna Lovegood, who just talks with Harry in one of the drawing rooms, yammering on about this creature and that- Harry likes her visits, she never asks him to many questions, though there are times when he can feel her looking at him, like he's some small broken thing that she can't quite figure out how to fix. On those days, Harry likes to disappear into one of the upstairs bedrooms and pretend he can't hear his friends calling his name.

There were a few times that Ron brought Neville Longbottom over, he rather liked spending time with Harry in the library, though, just like Mrs. Weasley, he tends to make quite a few comments on how sickly Harry was starting to look; three days after Neville's first visit Harry received a package from him, sent via Ron's owl Pigwidgion, that contained four small vials of nutrition potions that he urged Harry to take. The potions could apparently be made with very few ingredients and little to no work; not long after, Hermione started making them on her own, kindly 'urging' that Harry take at least one a day. Harry wanted to argue that he didn't need the potion, but when he went to open his mouth Hermione leveled him with a glare that was worthy of the late Severus Snape himself- Harry didn't try to argue after that.

After the first couple of times, all of these extra visitors started to bother Harry more and more, not that he minded the company, he didn't- he enjoyed hearing them talk about this and that, it felt normal. But it was the way they treated him. It wasn't the same way the ministry treated him, the way all those people that so very much needed him to be their guiding light in these dark times treated him; like it was his job to be okay- for their sakes. In fact, it was the opposite. All of these visitors treated him the same way the Luna looked at him; like he was broken. Like he needed people around to look after him, to make sure he was eating, getting out and about, talking to people. To watch him and be ready in case he finally went over that edge- or, to be ready when he finally went over that edge. And as a result, he was always left feeling torn between being happy there were people around that cared for him, that wanted him to be well- and angry, because he didn't need to have people take care of him.

The only person who surprisingly, didn't leave him feeling like this was Ginny. Barring Ron and Hermione, Ginny probably visited the most. Her visits are nice because she never tries to get him to go out like Hermione and Ron do. She also doesn't mention his health- in fact, she rarely talks to him at all. When she comes, she just she immediately goes off to find Harry, checking his bedroom first, then the other rooms Harry tends to keep himself to; the library, the drawing room with the Black family tapestry on the wall, and the kitchen. Once she's found him, she silently drags him to the closest couch and makes him sit down beside her. Then with more care and gentleness then Harry has ever thought possible from another human being, she reaches over and takes his hand in hers, and begins to rub small circles on across the back of it- always ignoring the words I must not tell lies that had been cut into his right-hand years ago by Umbridge's cursed quill.

Perhaps, because of the lack of sleep he's had since the war, or maybe just because he's relaxed by her presence, he starts to drift off; it becomes a pattern that the most sleep he gets these days, which is still only two to three hours straight, always happens when she visits. Which is sort of good he thinks, the dark bags under his eyes did seem to be getting more and more prominent, which made it harder to pretend they weren't there.

O

Today had been a Ginny visit. At around five in the afternoon she had found him reading an old copy of Quibbler in his favorite drawing room. As always, she sat down beside him, rubbing his hand, this time as he idly watched Hermione and Ron mess around with the Piano on the other side of the room. His eyes slowly falling shut as he listened to the soft tune of Heart and Soul.

Harry doesn't exactly know what happens after he falls asleep, or maybe he's just too embarrassed to find out. But whenever he wakes up, he's always been moved upstairs and tucked into bed; usually with Ron or Hermione sitting somewhere in the room, and Ginny nowhere to be seen. This time, Harry woke up to find that he was alone. Grabbing his glasses from the nightstand beside him, he saw that there were two empty mugs sitting on one of the rooms end tables, and an opened book on one of the arm chairs. He hasn't asked, but Harry thinks the reason that his friends continue to stand vigil as he sleeps might be because of his history with nightmares. Thankfully, nightmares are one of the only things that haven't plagued him since the war ended. On the other hand, Harry found that along with an absence of nightmares, he seemed to have stop dreaming altogether. He'd debated mentioning this to Hermione, but there was this voice somewhere in the back of his head that warned him against it.

Looking out at the orange clouds of sunset visible through the window, Harry realized that he must have been asleep for hours. Guessing that his friends had probably gone downstairs for dinner, Harry quickly pulled himself out of bed, swing his feet on to the ground, the act leaving him a winded and lightheaded as he attempted to stand, having to grab onto the bed's headboard to hold himself steady. Not good. Harry knew that he'd been neglecting his health, as his friends never seemed to quit reminding him. But this was getting out of hand. It seemed to Harry, that even the simplest of things were leaving him weak these days. Whether it was physical exertion, or magical; four nights prior, Harry had been down in the kitchen making some tea to try to help him get some sleep, and he had pulled out his wand to place a simple cooling charm on the mug only to find his vision growing dark. He'd had barely enough time to set the tea down on the table before his eyes rolled back in his head and his body fell rather ungracefully to the floor. Ron found him the next day still passed out on the floor at one in the afternoon and it had taken almost an hours' worth of arguing to convince him not to tell Hermione, and even then, Ron hadn't looked convinced. But, he did concede. Telling Harry though that if it happened again, Hermione would find out. And Harry would be the one that has to tell her.

Once his head felt more solid, and his breathing wasn't reminiscent of a plague victim, Harry slipped on his shoes and then, slowly, managed to make his way down to the ground floor. He then stopped just short of the partially closed dining room door -a room once used to hold the secret meetings of the Order of the Phoenix, when he heard the raised voices of Ron and Hermione coming from the other side, along with several other voices he recognized, and one or two he didn't. What are all of these people doing here? Harry wondered. He debated throwing open the door and demanding just that, but in the state he was in currently, he didn't imagine it would be as effective as he would like. So, he opted to eavesdrop instead.

"This is bloody Ballocks!" Ron's voice shouted, much louder than any of the other occupants. Harry could hear anger in his words.

"Now Ron," Kingsley's voice placated, "I know that you don't like it-"

Another voice cut him off- "Oh course he doesn't like it!" Hermione cutting off Kingsley? What?

Ron's voice broke through again taking on a desperate tone; "Dad please, tell them!"

"I'm afraid that I agree Kingsley kids" Mr. Weasley? Harry hadn't seen him since he'd left the Burrow. "It might not seem like it, but they're only trying to help."

"Quite right," said a man's voice that Harry didn't recognize. "We only have Mr. Potter's best interests in mind."

What the hell are they talking about? Harry wondered, inching forwards to see if he could get a better look in. He couldn't see either of his friends, nor Kingsley and Mr. Weasley, but he could see what he assumed was the backside of the man who had just been speaking, and as well as a woman that Harry failed to recognize either.

Ron started to laugh. "His best interests? What a load of crap! If any you cared about what's best for him then you'd know that it's us!"

Hermione 'harrumphed' in agreement. "The point is minister" she said with an air of sarcasm, "Harry. Is staying. Here."

Kingsley let out a sigh, "I'm sorry Hermione, but that just isn't going happen. It's been two months and he's not getting any better, in fact every time I see him he looks worse! It's obvious he's not sleeping like he should, and I'm not even going to get into all the weight he has lost- the boy needs help; and keeping him here isn't doing him any favors."

"You want him to get help? Fine! We'll take him to a mindhealer! You want him out of this place? We'll take him back to the Burrow! Just don't take him away!" by the end Ron's voice was breaking so much Harry almost couldn't hear the last part.

Harry heard shuffling from the other side of the door, then Mr. Weasley's spoke in a tone so soft that Harry had to strain to hear him.

"It's not going to be forever Ronald, just until he gets better. And then he can come home- Happy and healthy."

Harry didn't know what Ron's response was, maybe he gave some form of non-verbal agreement, but the next voice that spoke up was that of the woman who Harry didn't know.

"In order for us to detain a patient involuntarily, we need to have the signature of someone who takes responsibility as their guardian" She said, her voice shrill. "And seeing as Mr. Potter has no close relatives, the Minister had suggested that it be one of you two."

"One of us?" Hermione asked cautiously, "What exactly would that mean?"

"It means that you would be the ones in charge of Harry's care. You would be free to visit him without the restrictions usually placed on non-family members, in emergency's you would get the final say in his treatment; and, if you decide that you no longer think that Saint Mungo's is the best place for him, you would be allowed to have him released into your custody." Kingsley told her.

"And…" Hermione's voice wavered "And we could take him out- whenever we decided?"

"Hermione! You can't actually be considering-! We can't do that to him!"

"I-What else can we do Ron? I don't- I don't know how to help him."

Harry didn't want to hear what happened next. He couldn't. His friends were going to send him away! Kingsley wanted to lock him up! Sure, he wasn't coping as well as he could be, but it wasn't like he was crazy! He wasn't drooling on the floor, he wasn't planning on offing himself anytime soon. It's not like he's losing sleep on purpose! He just- he can't. Every time he closes his eyes he sees their faces. The faces of all the people who died because of him. And when he wakes from sleep it's always to their screams. He's doing the best that he can! Why can't they see that! He's held up his mask, played the role of savior for them, done everything they asked! All these past weeks he's held on! Is that what this is? Now that they don't need him around to shake hands and pose for photos.. they want to hide him away? Lock him up and throw away the key? No! They can't do this! They- they wouldn't- Ron wouldn't!

With his thoughts racing and new-found adrenalin rushing through him, Harry ran back up to his room. He pulled an empty backpack out of the closet and shoved a couple shirts down into it. Going over to his old school trunk that was resting against the wall, used these past weeks as a make-shift dresser, he pulled out a few pairs of pants and trousers. Finally, he went over to the nightstand next to his bed, in the top draw were the last three things he needed. His wand, his wallet, and folded up neatly beside them; his invisibility cloak. Shoving his wallet into his pocket, and keeping his wand in his hand, he threw his invisibility cloak over his head and as quickly and silently as he could, made his way back down to the ground floor, past the dining room, and swiftly out the front door. As soon as he made it past the building's wards, he held out his wand and with fleeting prayer that his magic not fail him, apparated away.

(Authors note: I own nothing. Hope you enjoyed)