DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter and co. A woman with killer cheekbones does instead. This goes for the other chapters too.

Chapter One – Normality and My Lack of It

It was only when I lied in bed, observing mould on the ceiling that I actually felt at peace. I rid myself of all thought and emotion and then a blissful period of stasis followed. My waking life was utter turmoil. It wasn't what you would call a 'normal' life. What was normal?

I'm a wizard first and foremost – anything BUT normal, as my 'dear' Uncle Vernon liked to point out. Secondly, I'm Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and The Boy Who Lived Again when Voldemort fell to my sword.

While I may sound arrogant and 'Malfoy-esque' to you, Voldemort was defeated because of me. Well, I had help from the Order of the Phoenix of course. But if you narrowed it down to the bare details, he was killed because I killed him. It was a tedious story, really. I was kidnapped somehow by one of Voldemort's cronies during a Hogsmeade visit in my seventh year. Skip a few days and he was killed by me. Whatever happened in between was not really important.

I lived in Silverwater in London for two months. No, Silverwater was not a Muggle housing development but it was a mental institution for wizards and witches. Technically, it was a mental correctional facility for volunteer patients but to me it was a mental asylum for the clinically deranged. I was one of them.

I was clinically deranged ever since Ron, Hermione and Remus Lupin threw me in there like used tissue. One blow and I was amongst the garbage. The reason I was 'volunteered' was because they 'volunteered' me. If I had it my way, I wouldn't have ended up in there.

You may have found me in the Joseph Heller Ward for adolescent patients. The committed patients (the criminally insane and committed) were admitted to Burwood in Scotland and those whose brains had been addled by magic were at St Mungo's (bless the Longbottoms).

I remembered my first day there like it was yesterday. It was September the third, two days after the new school term commenced. I had graduated the year before with abysmal examination results. The only reason why I was allowed to graduate was because I actually passed. However, with my marks there was no way in hell that I was going to become an Auror.

The previous year had been chaotic for me. Upon boarding the Hogwarts Express that year I knew even within the recesses of my mind that I would not have an uneventful year. In the end it turned out that I was right. While juggling school and Quidditch, I had to come to terms with Voldermort wanting my head on a silver platter, messy mop top, glasses and all. Also, I had to deal with my girlfriend's untimely death.

Ginny could have died from a myriad of possibilities, just like every other person. Being a witch, she could have died like Luna Lovegood's mother did. By having both parents and many brothers in the Order of the Phoenix she could have been murdered by Lord Voldemort or by many of his followers. Also, being a Weasley, she could have been eaten alive by a Malfoy. Instead, Ginny Weasley was taken away from us by means of leukaemia.

The diagnosis was made in the very late stages of the illness and she died two weeks later, with family and friends by her side. Ginny had been sick for a long time. I didn't know how long but she was sick and Mrs Weasley tried various magical techniques in order to relieve her of pain. They had worked but only temporarily. They tried almost every magical remedy under the sun until Mr Weasley finally convinced her mother to take her to a Muggle doctor.

Needless to say, the remaining Weasleys were shattered by her death, especially Bill and Ron. To Bill, Ginny was like his little pet. To Ron, she was a close companion; their closeness stemmed further than the standard brother and sister relationship.

From Ginny's death, everything went downhill. It was clichéd and melodramatic but it was true. However, I didn't just 'crack'. I did something that brought me to shame … and brought me here.

A combination of Ginny's death, Lord Voldemort's wrath and the fact that I had been quite lonely for the most part of my life lead to my ultimate demise. All of these factors contributed as to why I stood outside in the rain on the morning of September the third armed with my suitcase in one hand and my wand in the other. Mr Weasley and Remus both tried to coerce me to enter Silverwater, but I stood rooted on the spot as the rain poured down from the sky, down my back and down my trousers.

When I finally did walk inside, a blond, chipper nurse rushed in, took my suitcase and tried to pry the wand out of my grip. "It's Silverwater policy," she informed me. "Patients are not allowed to be in possession of a wand."

That was four weeks ago.

I wondered why I couldn't just go to a normal Muggle mental institution but Dr Bell told me that as a wizard, my brain worked differently to that of Muggles. Hence, we do not respond to Muggle treatment and therapy. Instead of pills and injections we took potions and I took a sleeping potion almost every night.

That was why I was cooped up in that place for two months. Not that there was anything wrong with being in a mental institution. They were great for those who genuinely needed it. At the beginning, I believed that it wasn't for me.

My admission to Silverwater had turned me into a vindictive, cynical and sadistic man who had had enough of the world. I was only eighteen at the time. After the death of my mother, my father, my godfather and my girlfriend, it was safe to assume that I wouldn't have been happy. I was only eighteen and already the world through my eyes was living hell.

"Mr Potter, are you ready to begin?"

And I believed that it was only going to get worse.



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Next Chapter: For My Own Good.