There was a warm weight in each of Harry's hands and he did not want to open his eyes.
He had hoped that he might be granted a moment of peace, a few minutes of sleepy in-between before he had to remember, but reality came to him much too quickly.
Wormtail's dagger. Voldemort's voice. Cedric's body.
Fudge's absolute denial.
He became aware that he was not alone, only now realizing that the warm weight was both of his hands being held. He struggled to remember who might be with him - Bill had left, he thought, off to do something with some order, and Sirius had gone too. The last thing he remembered before drifting off again was the sight of the great black dog looking back at him just before exiting the hospital wing.
The hand on his right was small and soft. The one on the left was larger and rougher. Ron and Hermione.
He opened his eyes. It was late evening, it seemed; the light through the small window at the end of the hospital wing was dim and grey. A few candles dotted the long room, but their light did not spread. Ron was looking down at him; Hermione appeared to have nodded off, her chin sunk to her chest.
"Hey, mate," whispered Ron. Harry tried to return the weak smile but only managed a sort of grimace.
He searched for something to say but his mind felt murky, as if all of his thoughts had to wind their way through very thick mud. "How..." He swallowed hard against the unexpected dryness in his throat. "How long has it been?"
"The third task was last night. You've been out all day."
Harry pondered this information silently. Dumbledore would already have spoken to the school, then; everyone would already know. He was unsure how he felt about that.
"Do you feel better? Are you in pain?"
Harry winced as he turned his head slightly to see Hermione, not having noticed that she was awake. He found himself unsure how to respond. His head was pounding and a sick, heavy feeling was pooling in his stomach as he become more awake, but he was almost certain that neither affliction was one that could be fixed by Madam Pomfrey. He settled for a shrug.
Ron had dropped his left hand as soon as Harry opened his eyes but Hermione held his right in both of hers now, rubbing it gently. "Dumbledore told us everything," she said quietly. She looked scared and sad and sorry but Harry caught no trace of pity in her face, for which he was grateful.
When Harry said nothing, she continued, hesitantly, "You can...if you want to - if you need to - to talk about it, we'll listen." Harry saw her glance at Ron as she said this, but could not muster the energy to turn his head to see how Ron reacted. "And...if you'd rather not talk about it, that's okay too."
Harry was keenly aware of the growing lump in his throat and the way it suddenly hurt to look up at her. He closed his eyes, willing himself back to calm.
"We're here for you, Harry," she whispered, sounding as if she herself was on the verge of tears. "Always. You know that, right?"
"Yeah," echoed Ron, sincere despite his obvious discomfort. "We got your back, mate."
And then it was too much, all of it, the pain in his head and the nauseating guilt and Voldemort's return and Cedric's clammy skin under his pleading hands, and last night he had been so desperate not to cry in front of Ron but now the pain in his throat was turning into a sob and he felt a tear run its hot course down his cheek.
"Oh, Harry..." murmured Hermione, and wiped away the tear with her thumb. She let her hand linger there a moment, cradling his head, and then brought it back to hold his hand again.
Harry took a shuddering breath and tried to control his emotions. "I just want it to stop," he whispered shakily. "The danger and the battles. Voldemort. Being the - the boy that lived. I just want it to stop. All of it." His next breath was more of a gasp and did little to calm the dizzy nausea that was threatening to overwhelm him. He was vaguely aware that Ron was patting his shoulder and Hermione had begun stroking his hair.
"I know," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
Harry took another gasping breath and then felt as if he were choking as another sob overwhelmed him. "I want –" he began, but was unable to get the words out. Another tear slipped out and he brought his hand up to wipe it away furiously. "I want –"
"Breathe, Harry," said Hermione, her own voice tight with tears, and Harry wanted to scream because he was trying, couldn't she see that, only there was no air in the room.
His eyes were still closed but he knew the face Hermione was making, all crinkled with concern, as she whispered across him to Ron, "He's hyperventilating."
"Harry," Ron said urgently. "Mate – you've got to breathe."
He fought to draw in a deeper breathe even as the nausea continued to pool in his stomach and he tried to say I can't but what came out instead was, "I'm going to be sick." Even to his own ears the words sounded garbled and very far away.
Hermione jumped aside and held up the wastebasket to the side of Harry's bed, and he felt Ron push him a little roughly onto his side. He propped himself up on shaking arms just enough to position himself above the wastebasket as he gagged and then began to heave. Somewhere outside the desperate panic and the pain and the sensation of choking he felt the bed dip slightly as Ron sat beside him, holding him on his side.
"You're okay," said Hermione, stroking his hair away from his face. "It's almost over."
Nothing came up and eventually the nausea subsided. As Ron lowered him carefully back down and Hermione resumed her position by his side he became aware of the tears that streaked his face. He was breathing now, the panic having drained away along with the nausea, but he thought he might have preferred the panic. There was nothing now to distract him from the dead weight of guilt and grief that sat heavily on his chest.
Ron and Hermione both were holding his hands again. He stared up at the ceiling, not having any desire to move or speak ever again and feeling that he would not have been able to muster the energy even if he wanted to.
"You should try to get some sleep," Hermione murmured eventually.
He did not want to sleep. It would be so much worse when he woke up again. He did not think that he could handle having to re-realize what had happened all over again. Perhaps he would stay awake forever. Perhaps he would just lie in this bed, staring up at the ceiling, for the rest of his life. It was not a life he deserved to have anyway. If he should still be here when Cedric had died then surely he could deserve no happiness.
He did not even realize he was crying again until Hermione's hand returned to his face to wipe away more tears. "It's okay," she said softly.
Harry shook his head despite the pain. "It's not," he choked out, and closed his eyes against a fresh wave of tears.
Ron began rubbing his shoulder again, awkward and hesitant but comforting all the same.
"Oh, Harry." Hermione squeezed his hand. "What can we do? What can we do to help you?"
Harry squeezed back and opened his eyes to see her leaning over him, tears streaming down her own face but a fierce determination in her eyes. When he looked to his left Ron was gazing down at him too, expression full of what Harry knew, gratefully, to be love.
"This," he said honestly.
The enormous weigh pressing down on him felt just a little bit lighter as he drifted off again, lulled to sleep by the gentle support of his two best friends.