I don't own Harry Potter, and I do not gain anything other than depressing pleasure from writing this.
Warnings include a mental disorder, depression, and kind-of-suicide.

Topic: bipolar disorder
Prompts: newspaper, fairytales, "I don't know what's going on."

He supposed it was inevitable, being diagnosed as psychotic, what with the pressure that was constantly being piled upon his shoulders to save this person, defeat that person, learn this, do that... But it didn't mean he enjoyed having the new title of Crazy to go with Delinquent passing the lips of Privet Drive residents.

His best guess was that the Triwizard Tournament really set it off. It was the first time he actually saw and understood death, and as it would any fourteen year old boy, it hit him hard.

But it hit Harry harder than most. Surviving the Killing Curse wasn't something to take lightly, especially at a young, delicate age, and there was bound to be some mental trauma from the near death attack – not only that, but he remembered it every time he was near a Dementor, plus the habitual nightmares.

He had another face-off with the Dark Lord Voldemort at age eleven, and then again at twelve which included a fifty foot basilisk that sent venom flowing through his veins, rendering him inches from death once again.

If he included the emotional disturbances throughout the years of being worshipped, hated, loved, feared, and then pitied, along with his criminal godfather supposedly betraying his family – plus huge fairytale-esque conspiracies to do with a prophecy and a cult of followers and magic, which alone would put anyone in a mental hospital...

The whole concept of magic is easy to grasp when you're a half-blood or pure-blood with an entire lifetime of growing up with it, but for Muggle-borns and Muggle raised children, it's a shock to the system.

With the additional fame, Harry was in way over his head.

It was Petunia that first noticed it. Whilst he was always the 'abnormal child', he acted, emotionally in particular, in a way that was unusual and vaguely worrying.

She didn't know the entire story (and did not want to, thank you very much), but there was definitely something about the wizarding world that upset her nephew in a way no yelling or cupboard confinement ever did in his youth; he was sad, deeply. As if someone with magic could be depressed – how laughable!

After his fifth year of Hogwarts schooling and his beloved godfather's death, his behaviour became even more erratic. His depression was expected then, but to the extent of barely moving for days on end? It wasn't as if Petunia liked the boy, not at all – but he was family, and he was living under their roof, and she noticed.

She also noticed the way that he'd always bounce back up and obediently slave over the chores the next day. Not like before, when he'd do everything in perfect timing, putting in just enough effort to get the reward of a chunk of meat with his leftovers dinner, but with gusto and restlessness, as if he enjoyed the work.

Over the holiday during which he turned sixteen, Harry had multiple 'episodes', as Petunia was wont to call them, and they grew in severity.

On the morning of his birthday, she found him huddled in the corner of his room, wedged between the wall and the desk, muttering dark thoughts to himself, shuddering and obviously not capable of anything useful. It was three days before he returned mentally, and instead of seeming lethargic or slowly cheering up, he was bounding round the kitchen with cleaning supplies in hand and three full English breakfasts waiting on the table, steaming and smelling wonderful.

His chores were done in record time, and he was almost manic in his access energy – though where it had all come from, Petunia had no idea. But he was irritable, too, if interrupted or criticised, and she saw him sometimes pause in his organised madness to share at nothing, his features crumpling in what looked like despair that would vanish minutes later.

'Erratic mood changes' was surreptitiously typed into Google that afternoon, and unless the boy had menopause, she was definitely taking him to the hospital in the hope that they would dope him with medication to save her family from his potentially dangerous behaviour.

The doctor, stern but smiling comfortingly, asked lots of questions; some Harry could answer, some that he couldn't, and some that Petunia disagreed with his answers on. When the topic of Sirius was brought up, the wizard could practically feel the black claws digging into his chest and tightening their grip, not allowing him to think so much as one happy thought. It was his fault, after all, that his godfather was dead, and why was he allowed to live when he caused murder, why did Sirius die, innocent Sirius, rather than stupid, stupid Harry who never did anything right –

Unaware that his own nails had been digging into his arms, trying to shred the skin in disgust at himself, Harry came back to focus as the doctor and his aunt distracted him with questions about inconsequential topics. He saw the doctor trying to pass significant looks at Petunia, but she was too busy trying to decide whether she was annoyed at the hassle he was causing or pitying at the pathetic boy.

It was only a few days later that he was dropped off at King's Cross, a bottle of Muggle medication in hand – enough to last him a long time, but not of strong enough dosage to harm him if he recklessly swallowed a handful during one of his down times. He wasn't feeling all that great, Hogwarts bringing the memories involving his godfather and Death Eaters at the front of his mind, so he avoided the busy compartment of his Gryffindor friends in search of a quieter place.

Harry saw a flash of bright white hair and ducked into a luggage gap beside a door. Draco Malfoy walked past none the wiser, and reminded the Boy Who Lived of the suspicions he harboured against the Slytherin and had planned to check out. But Merlin, it seemed so insignificant and trivial in comparison with everything else swirling round his head, so Harry shook himself and carried on.

Luna Lovegood was recognisable by her similarly pale hair, plus the unusual jewellery, wand behind her ear, and latest edition of The Quibbler in hand. Like the year previous, she was alone in her compartment.

"Luna, would you mind me joining you?"

She looked up, familiar dreamy look in her eyes, and replied, "Harry, hello. I don't mind."

Harry sat on the opposite seat to her, though he squashed himself against the window. His legs came up to his chest and he wrapped his arms around his knees as if to protect himself, or perhaps hold himself together. They were silent for a few minutes, and Harry alternated between peering at an oblivious Luna and watching through the window. As the train began moving, he spoke.

"I don't think I want to see what the Daily Prophet is saying."

"No, I don't think I do, either."

Harry clenched his fists and tipped his head back against the seat. "I hate newspapers."

"Are you okay?"

Lowering his eyes from the ceiling, he could see no sympathy or pity in her huge eyes. Perhaps that was how he knew, for some reason, that she wasn't referring to Sirius' death so much as Harry's health and happiness at the present time. If anyone was trustworthy, though, it was Loony Lovegood.

"Have you ever heard of Bipolar Disorder? I don't know if it's a thing in the wizarding world."

Luna blinked and thought, but answered negatively. "I do not know much about Healers or their work."

"It's where – it's where sometimes I feel happy, and sometimes I feel sad. But it's extreme; I feel really, really happy and alive and – and then suddenly I feel really, really sad and maybe I want to die."

For all her unusual declarations in mid conversation of made-up creatures, Harry thought Luna looked a little speechless.

Throughout the year, and throughout Harry's ever-changing mood, Luna and Harry grew closer. He tried not to draw away from the Gryffindors too much, but they dismissed his twitchiness and temper as nothing more than Voldemort's influence from fifth year.

The pair met a week after the beginning of term on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, where Harry was wandering forlornly and Luna was visiting the Thestrals, and they sat together for hours and chatted peacefully. It became a weekly thing – and sometimes spur of the moment visits when Harry's mood demanded it. The two went arm-in-arm to Slughorn's Christmas party; Luna in her colourful dress and Harry in simple robes with equally colourful accents – he was feeling particularly excitable that night, as he twirled round the party with his friend.

Once, when they were by the lake at the beginning of spring, Luna suggested seeing a Mind Healer at St Mungos wizarding hospital. Harry frowned and ignored her, continuing to viciously throw stones at the slightly frozen surface of the lake. He was worn out twenty minutes later and flopped down beside her, and lied quietly, "Maybe next year."

And one day, when they were having a lazy day in the library, flipping through books on magical creatures as they sketched a Thestral together, Harry said, "I don't want to fight."

Luna knew that. She knew that he hadn't got a single detention for the entire year so far, and that he avoided confrontation as much as physically possible – and when he couldn't, he'd find something to distract his opponent with whilst he'd disappear. She also saw the defeated expression he got whenever the war was on his mind, and it almost always guaranteed a week of gloom.

"Have you told the Headmaster anything yet?"

"No. I don't know what to say."

Luna hummed thoughtfully, shaded carefully between the ribs of the horse-like creature, and countered, "Don't you? Or are you scared of his disappointment?"

He had been attending the extracurricular training with Dumbledore where they would watch memories of a young Tom Riddle, and he always left in a melancholy mood with the images of a neglected child changing into a bitter adult.

"I don't know what to say," he repeated, because he had begun not to care what the Headmaster would think. The job of assassination had been placed in his future without a care for his wellbeing, and he was expected by thousands of witches and wizards to kill someone that was so much like himself, so much like he could have turned out to be had he been stronger.

"I want him dead, but I don't think I can do it. Physically or – or mentally."

It was in April that Harry found someone else crying.

The day had started off bad, and at breakfast Luna suggested he take a sip of the Felix Felicis potion that he'd won in Potions class to cheer him up. At midday, he'd passed Slughorn in the hall and said hello. He realised that perhaps he could get the memory that Dumbledore wanted, so he followed his professor to the Potions classroom and listen to half an hour of sob story before escaping with a vial of the wispy steam-like substance that contained the answer to Voldemort's defeat.

After picking up a salad roll for lunch, Harry skipped about the long corridors of the school, occasionally getting lost or stuck at a dead end and having to turn back. He reached a bathroom and the sound of weeping just as he swallowed his last bite of food, and since he was definitely in a happy mood and nothing could go wrong, he strolled inside.

The noise of footsteps drew Draco's attention from where he was sitting huddled beside the sinks, and he froze – fear and dread and wracking sobs hindering his instinct to grab a wand. Harry, who had just that morning felt as bad as Malfoy looked, hopped forward and curled up next to the horrified boy, perhaps a little too close for comfort.

"I don't know what's going on," he said, "but I think this will help." The Gryffindor pressed a tiny, familiar, and half full vial into the Slytherin's hand, which had been hovering in front of his face from where he'd been swiping at his tears. He then sprang back up and pranced out, as if Draco wasn't his schoolyard rival for the previous five years.

Luna said that he'd done good, and they petted the Thestrals as Harry's extra energy and luck wore off, and then Harry dropped Slughorn's memory off at the Headmaster's office before going to bed.

He didn't fight Voldemort, in the end. The two opponents met at the end of Harry's sixth year, and Dumbledore wasn't there because he had just died, and they were on the field beside Hogwarts and they were glowing in the light from Hagrid's burning house.

"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord said softly, whispering and almost caressing the words, "The boy who lived."

Green eyes stared into red, and then thin, scaly lips moved and a green light flashed –

And then there was silence, and it was over.

(He opened his eyes to a ghostly white King's Cross, and there were two different trains waiting for him.)

"He didn't want to fight," Luna thought aloud, silently crying as she remembered Harry speak the same words. "I don't think he wanted to fight for his life, either."

Whilst Voldemort gloated and took over the Ministry and Hogwarts with no fight because no one had any fight left in them, the remainders of the Order of the Phoenix found the other Horcruxes and then destroyed them all at once between Luna's Transfiguration and Dark Arts lessons on a Tuesday during her last year of schooling.

The resistance went to Hogwarts. Voldemort was mad, and there was a fight on the school grounds between the Death Eaters and the Order – and the students who finally had something to fight for again –

And against so many, Lord Voldemort wasn't so great, and a stray stunner caught him in the back, and someone threw a Killing Curse.

And Harry didn't have to fight.