CHAPTER I: And I'll Use You As A Warning Sign

Flashing bulbs, a thousand questions, the furore of public in panic, the blustering of a leader trying to retain order. Harry heard none of it. He was sure that looked dead on his feet, staring blankly outward, saying nothing. He could barely remember if he blinked in the last minute or so. Maybe that would explain the sting in his eyes that's drawing fresh tears that blur the chaos in the front of him. It all becomes shapes and noises to him. None of it seems real. Harry hoped none of it was real, because if it was - if this was real - then the previous few hours leading up to this moment were real as well.

The shame of leading his friends into a death trap he should have seen coming. The horror of seeing his best friend hit square in the chest by a stray curse, watching her fall limp to the floor. The powerlessness of looking into the eyes of his godfather as he falls through the veil. The endless infinity of waiting for the body to hit the ground instead met with silence. The violation of having the evilest wizard in history tearing through his brain as if he owned it.

But at least the public believes him now. He's no longer the route of all discontent in the world. Now he's a hero again, the saviour of the Wizarding world. Except, he wasn't. He wasn't the one that drove Voldemort back. He wasn't the one who apparated into the department of mysteries and saved his friends in the nick of time. He wasn't the one who knew what the hell he was doing. He didn't feel like much of a hero at the moment. He felt like a failure. Everyone who had been injured today, everyone who had risked their lives, it was because of him. They were his fault. Sirius was dead, and it was his fault. If anything, the public should hate him, more than ever, just like he does.

Yet, here he was. He was the one who was being photographed, interrogated, applauded. None of the Order. None of his friends, who had been the bravest of them all. Not Sirius. None of the people who deserved it. It would be His beaten, bloody, ugly face in the paper the next day, ready for the rest of the world to see. He couldn't wait to see all of these emotions reappear in stunning detail for the entertainment of people who he didn't even know. He couldn't wait to be their dancing monkey again. That's all he would ever be, to everyone. He was the hero, in a play that just so happened to be his own life.

A hand on his shoulder pulls him away from the scene. His legs move in their own, following whoever was leading him, one at a time. Harry assumes that it's Dumbledore, but in his state, it could be anyone. Maybe it was an Auror, escorting him to his cell. He did break into the Ministry after all. He did get someone killed. It would only be fair if they threw him into a small, dark, lonely cell and left him there. It was how he spent most of his childhood, anyway.

They don't take him to a cell. Instead, Harry's the sensation of falling through a hurricane, landing unceremoniously on the floor of the headmaster's office. Finally, he is alone. No more cameras, no more loud noises, no more people.

The scream that tears its way out of his throat is pointless, but it's the only thing he can think to do. It doesn't bring him any relief. His body still feels numb. He remains a failure and a danger to everyone around him. No matter how sore his eyes, no matter how empty his lungs, it doesn't bring his family back.

He's still the Boy-Who-Lived.

Of all the days that Snape could have picked for Harry to serve detention, of course, he had to pick the day of the House Cup. It wouldn't be enough to have to force him to spend time with his least favourite teacher. No, Snape had to make sure that he stole away the time that was most precious to him. Of course, he would. Anything to help bring down Gryffindor. The few hours that Harry had been forced to spend stuck in the dungeons, knowing that this team were out on the Quidditch pitch, without him, were pure agony. The worst part was that Harry was sure Snape enjoyed every second of it.

Now, having been finally released, Harry was hurriedly making his way up from the dungeons, his heart heavy with anxiety. He slowed down as he passed the first set of windows, straining his ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet ... it was over, then ...

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their own common room.

'Quid agis?' he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside.

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, 'You'll see.'

And she swung forwards.

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room.

"We won!" yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. "We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won! EVERYONE! LET'S HEAR IT FOR OUR CAPTAIN!"

The crowd of ecstatic Gryffindor are all cheering his name. Their cries were so loud, he didn't catch when someone called to him.

"Harry!"

He turned. His eyes met Ginny's beaming face, which appeared from out of the crowd and ran towards him. Her smile was bright and beautiful. Her hair, fiery red, was swaying in time with her stride. Her arms were flung out wide, ready to engulf him. Her forehead is covered in blood, and she's screaming-

Harry flinched.

No, there was no blood. What was he thinking? She was right there in front of him. She was clean, not a drop of blood on her. She was perfect. She was excited. She's screaming and running towards him, the green, sickly light of the killing curse rushing past her ear, the mad cackle of-

There it goes again. Harry glanced around him, trying to discern reality from… whatever was happening to him. The adolescent humidity from the party fogged his glasses and the faces in the crowd merged, the mini fireworks exploding into light in the corner of his eye. The sound of dozens of students chanting his name rings in his ears.

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

"Harry!"

"Potter!"

"Harry, are you alright?"

"Potter!"

"Harry Potter!"

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

"Potter! Is it true that-"

FLASH!

"Potter! What is your position on the return of -"

"Potter! Look this way please!-"

FLASH! FLASH!

"Potter! What are your thoughts on the death of the mass-murderer Sirius Black?"

"Did you know that-"

FLASH!

"Will you be returning to Hogwarts next-"

"Will you seeking legal action against-"

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

The reporters are swarming him. The bulbs are lighting up his bloody, broken face. His eyes are unfocused. Their faces are a shapeless mass of colour. Sirius is dead. He's alone. His friends are going to die.

Harry inhales and draws little breath. His throat is closing up. He can't breathe. He tries to draw in as much oxygen as he can, and all that comes are shallow, shaking gasps. The pounding of blood through his head punctuates the suffocating noise. His legs feel loose beneath him.

"Harry?"

Ginny's voice distracted him momentarily. He glanced around and a few seconds later he saw the face it belonged to. She was no longer smiling. Instead, her face was contorted with something else. Her eyes, once sparkling, were now confused. She didn't understand his sudden turn in mood. None of them did, Harry realised. He just looks crazy to them. That's all he'll ever be, to everyone. He was the hero, in a play that just so happened to be his own life. He's a freak to them. Just a freak! Freak!

"FREAK!"

"Get back in your cupboard, boy, and STAY THERE!"

"I'd rather see you rot in that cupboard, freak!"

Ginny's hand reaches hesitantly towards him.

"Maybe we should beat the freakiness out of you!"

A large, silhouetted hand reaches towards him.

"Come here, boy!"

He pushed the hand away from him as hard as he could, and behind it saw Ginny's shocked face. Harry froze, realising what he had done She was trying not to look offended, but Harry could see it clear as day. She was only trying to help. Why wouldn't he let her in? It was his fault. It was because of him. They were his fault. Sirius was dead and it was his fault. The cacophony of the mob attacks him once again, this time with oppressive force, crushing him alongside his shame.

He had to run. He had to get away from there, away from the people. Away from whatever was happening to him. He had to run. He took a step back from Ginny, her heartbroken face ripping a hole in his chest. It's for her own good, he told himself. Ginny was a good person - one of the best. She didn't deserve to be stuck with someone like him. Someone who ruined everything he touched.

He turned around and ran as fast as he could, straight through the portrait hole. He never turned back. His only focus was pumping his arms and legs as fast as they could go. He dared not to stop. He couldn't stop. They were right behind him. Throwing curses over just above his head. He had to keep going, he had to get his friends to safety. He had to-

Harry gasped, bringing himself back to reality. His legs gave way, sinking against the stone wall, curling his robe around himself as he began to shiver. A drop of cold sweat trickled down his face. His breath still evaded him.

He was sure that looked like a wreck. Out of breath, trembling, rocking back and forth in a dark corner of the castle… alone.

Maybe someone would come back and take a picture, sell it to the paper, let the world see what had become of their precious hero. Perhaps then they would find out how he had nearly killed Draco. How he had stared the young man in the eye and cast the curse that sliced him open. How he had stood and watched in stunned silence as the boy slowly bled out onto the bathroom floor. How he could only stand motionless as Snape found him, his eyes wide as he looked upon Harry's doing.

Harry pulled himself out of yet another lapse of sanity, gritting his teeth and cursing his own mind for betraying him. What was happening to him? Was this Voldemort's doing? Why was he having these visions? Why was it so difficult to breathe all of a sudden? Why did every shadow send a spike of panic down his spine, as if each and every one of them were some new horror coming to get him? He felt ill. Worse than ill, he felt broken. He felt like he was going insane.

Maybe he was. Maybe they were right last year. Maybe he was really was crazy. Maybe they were right to doubt him. After all, how could this tiny, broken thing be the chosen one? How was he supposed to defeat Voldemort? He could barely stand up at the moment. He couldn't muster the effort to pick himself up off the floor, let alone fight the Dark Lord. How was he going to win?

Harry felt a small tear run across his face as he realised the truth. He wasn't going to win. Voldemort was going to kill him, and everyone he loved. The Wizarding world, who trusted him, swore by him, expected so much of him, was going to fall into the Dark Lord's hands, and the blame will be on his shoulders.

With the barrier broken and no one else around to help him or care, Harry hung his head and began to sob.

Hermione twirled the unopened bottle of butterbeer in her hand, watching the hibiscus inside rotate and swirl hypnotically. Every so often she would glance up towards the portrait hole, expecting to see it open, disappointed when it didn't, then back to her bottle, distracting herself from the mounting anticipation.

Gryffindor had won the match, in a landslide victory, despite the absence of their captain. It had been a brilliant match - or at least to her, it had been brilliant. Hermione was never an enthusiast when it came to Quidditch, she only watched Harry's games because… well, because of Harry. This time was an exception, but since she and Ron had decided that maybe they could be a thing, she thought it appropriate to turn up, to support him and all. Still, it wasn't the same without Harry there. It just didn't seem as necessary if it wasn't him up in the sky, risking life and limb to secure a victory for the house. Still, Ron was there, and Ginny and they had flown exceptionally well.

She couldn't wait to see Harry's face when he found out.

Luckily, Hermione didn't have to wait long, because not a few seconds later, the common room erupted into applause, and her best friend was dragged into the room, his eyes full of surprise. She saw Ron bound up to him, shouting something - presumably about how they won - and Harry's face bloomed into a brilliant smile that she found herself mirroring.

The common room exploded into chanting, a celebration of Harry's leadership - well-deserved after months of rigorous training. The area was consumed with sound, from the repeated call of "Potter! Potter!" mixed with some of the twins' miniature fireworks, the place was alive, and the mood was ecstatic. Hermione turned herself to take it all in, glancing around to see the happy faces of Gryffindor house, a feeling shared by Ron and Seamus and Dean and Ginny - who was pushing past them to get to Harry. Hermione glanced back to her best friend and was taken aback by what met her.

The broad smile he was wearing only a moment before was gone. Instead, his eyes were wide, his face paling rapidly. His shoulders were stiff as if frozen by a body-lock spell, but his hands were shaking violently. His chest was heaving, and his mouth was hanging open - Hermione could tell his breathing was laboured and panicked. His eyes were moving erratically in their sockets, running along the line of faces in the crowd. He looked like he expected to be attacked at any second. He looked… terrified.

Her eyes widened as she put the pieces together.

Hermione stood, pushing past Ron, trying to get closer to Harry as Ginny began to reach towards him. Before her hand could make contact with his cheek, Harry swatted her away violently. Ginny recoiled in shock, and Hermione saw a fresh wave of horror fall over his face.

Before she could reach his side, he bolted from the room, sending the people behind him tumbling as he barged through. He was out of the portrait hole and sprinting down the hallway before anyone noticed he had even left. The furore of the party died down, replaced with confused murmurs as people as the gathered Gryffindors wondered why their Quidditch had suddenly fled the scene. It was only Hermione who had the initiative to chase after him.

She called after him, but he refused to stop. He simply kept on running until he turned a corner, out of sight. Hermione began to run, trying to match his speed, but with the head-start he had gained in those vital few seconds, she inevitably lost him.

As she turned the fifth, sixth, seventh corner, she swivelled on her heel, gazing down each end of the corridor. She sighed in frustration, knowing he could have gone down either one and that she didn't have time to explore both, not at the speed Harry was running. He could have been anywhere in the castle, and she needed to find him quickly, before someone who would want to cause him any more humiliation did.

She glanced around the space, noticing the row of portraits dozing lightly on the wall.

"Excuse me," she implored, waking the sleeping subject, an old man in a dressing gown and nightcap, "My friend came running past a few moments ago. Did you see where he went?"

"Do you know what time it is, young lady?" the old man groaned back. "Honestly, students these days. So disrespectful!"

"Please," she begged. "I need to find him! He's hurt, he's not feeling well! He needs to go to the medical ward!"

"So, it's an emergency?" the old man pondered. She nodded vigorously, her bushy hair flying in disparate directions. The old man straightened up in his seat. "Very well."

He shuffled around, leaning past the back of his chair towards a lady in a long, blue dress reading idly in the neighbouring frame.

"Guinevere, dear?"

The lady stirred, glancing at the old man.

"Yes, Baldric?"

"This young lady is looking for her friend," he explained. "Apparently he was around in these corridors not moments ago."

The lady - Guinevere, Hermione reminded herself - hummed.

"Young madam," Guinevere addressed her, "did he happen to have black hair upon his head and glasses upon his nose?"

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I see. He went in that direction," she replied, pointing to Hermione's left. Guinevere grabbed a dove from a nearby branch and whispered to it. "Emmanuel will guide you to him."

She released the bird, and Hermione dutifully followed as it flapped from one painting to another, guiding her deeper into the castle. Eventually, the small dove rounded one last corner, resting on the rim of a painted fruit bowl. Beyond it, Hermione could make out a dimly lit hallway, illuminated only by the moonlight piercing through the windows.

Tucked away in the vertices, she saw Harry, and her heart broke.

His robes were tightly wrapped around him, diminishing him even further, making him appear so very small, so very fragile. His shoulder shook with quiet sobs; his face was hidden behind his arms as if trying to mask his suffering. It hardly worked, then again she saw it through her eyes. She had a talent for seeing through Harry's facade, whatever form it took.

She trod toward him carefully, as if approaching a spooked animal, making herself known. He pretended not to notice. She crouched down, placing her hand on his, stroking it softly.

"Harry…"

The sound of her voice coaxed him up from himself, his head raised and revealed his face her. It was clear that he had been crying heavily, his eyes were red, his cheeks covered with lines of moisture. His face was still pale, his eyes still wide, his breath coming only gasps.

"M-Mione…"

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, cupping his cheek. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head desperately.

"I-I don't know…" His bottom lipped trembled. "I don't know what's happening. I just… I can't breathe…"

"Shh," she called to him. "Shh. I want you to take deep breaths for me, Harry."

"I-I can't."

"Yes, you can. Just breathe. Copy me."

She began inhaling loudly, prompting him to copy. He started to draw in air, fighting against his sobs to slow down his respiration. After a few moments, encouraged by her constant guidance, he began to calm down.

"That's better," she smiled. "You're doing great. You're doing brilliantly. It's okay."

He tried smiling back.

"Thank you," he gasped. "I don't know what came over me."

"I think I do."

He glanced at her, his brow furrowed.

"I'm not entirely sure," Hermione explained, "but I think I know what happened to you. Harry, I think you just had a panic attack."

Harry blinked.

"I… You..." He gulped. "What's that? I-Is it a spell, or…?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Harry, a panic attack is something psychological."

His eyes widened.

"You think I'm going crazy?"

"No," she quickly assured him. "No, Harry. Never. A panic attack… it's something that can happen to anyone, especially if they're experiencing a lot of stress or anxiety."

He frowned.

"Have you e-ever had a panic attack, 'Mione?"

"No, I haven't," she admitted. "I have felt stressed before - Lord knows I have - but never enough to have an attack."

"I haven't felt anxious recently," Harry protested.

"Haven't you?"

Harry gazed at her, and she could see his resolve weakening.

"What with the Quidditch match, Snape's detention, the prophecy, Malfoy, the book," Hermione listed, "I'd be surprised if you weren't feeling stressed about it all. You've been working so hard recently. You've accomplished so much this year. I'm so proud of you, Harry. You might just be tired."

He shook his head.

"No… I don't think that's it…"

Hermione tilted her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"When I was in the common room, I…" He thought carefully about how to describe it. "I… saw things."

Hermione's heart flipped.

"Saw what?"

"It was… like a memory," he explained, "Or a nightmare. It was like I was experiencing it again."

Her hand gripped tightly around his.

"Harry, what were you seeing?"

"The press," he admitted hesitantly. "After the Ministry raid last year. Before Dumbledore took me away, there was a moment when the press were taking pictures of me, asking me questions about Voldemort. That was night Sirius died."

Hermione exhaled, her eyes shining.

"Harry," she said, placing a finger under his chin, drawing his head upward, so the two were staring each other in the eye. "I think you need to see Madam Pomfrey as soon as possible."

"What for?" he asked.

Hermione sobbed, clasping her arms around him, bringing him closer into her embrace.

"Hermione?"

"Oh, Harry," she lamented. "I'm so sorry."

"Hermione? What's wrong with me?"

She hugged him tighter to her chest, refusing to let him go. She counted the symptoms in her head. Every one of them pointed to the same thing, the same horrible, heartbreaking conclusion.

She didn't answer his question. Instead, she held him, as long as he needed her, as long as he wanted, until he found the strength to stand. All the while, she sat with him, wishing that he wasn't cursed with the life that had been thrust upon him, that Harry Potter had the chance to be a normal, care-free young man for once in his life. He was only sixteen-years-old, and already so much had been taken from him. His family, his security, his confidence, his mental health, possibly his future.

But not her.

That was the moment that Hermione Granger promised to herself that no matter what - no matter how bad it seemed; no matter how bleak the horizon; no matter how little odds stacked in their favour - she would stand by Harry Potter forever.

He would never lose her.

Never.

Harry went to Madam Pomfrey's the very next day. He described everything he had explained to Hermione the night before, in as much detail as he. He told her about his regular nightmares in fourth year and beyond, the flashbacks he had experienced in moments such as in the common room, his first panic attack, his feelings of self-loathing that had accumulated over the years.

He didn't have to wait very long for a diagnosis. It was only a few days later, during a similar talk with a mind healer from St Mungo's, when Harry finally had a name for it:

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. P.T.S.D. as it was commonly referred to.

Honestly, it made a lot of sense in retrospect. Facing constant, life-threatening danger was bound to leave somewhat of an impact, especially at a young age. Then Harry learned just how uncommon it actually was, how usually the only people who had PTSD were soldiers, war refugees, people who had been through extreme danger and come out the other side scarred for life. Suddenly Hermione's anxiety over the issue all the more appropriate.

He wasn't crazy, though, and with that securely in his mind, he felt he could stand a little taller, a burden slightly lifted from his shoulders.

When he found Hermione, anxiously waiting in the common room, and he finally confirmed her suspicions, he was surprised when she began to cry. She flung herself into his arms, holding him as if he were her only lifeline. He reciprocated, pulling her close, reassuring her that he was still breathing, just as she told him to.

They stayed that way, wrapped in each other's embrace, for a good long while. For that moment, it was only himself and her, alone, together. Harry realised as he rested his head in the cushion of her chocolate brown hair, that Ron was the luckiest man in the world, because Hermione…

Hermione was everything anyone could ever want in a friend… in a partner...

Ginny was normal, sure. Ginny could make Harry feel like any other person, and he loved that about her. Hermione, though… Hermione made him happy in who he was - or if not happy, at least glad. Hermione made him feel good to be Harry Potter, because if Harry Potter could be friends with this amazing witch, then how bad could he be?

Judging by the warm feeling in his chest, resting just beneath where her face was pressed against his chest, not bad at all.