"Bloody hell," Harry mutters when he wakes. "I feel like I just went ten rounds with a rogue bludger."
"Mr. Potter, I will not tolerate that sort of language in my infirmary."
He freezes in disbelief. "Madam Pomfrey?"
"Yes, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid so." A hand reaches in, tugs the curtain back, and waves of light fall over Harry's bed. He lifts a hand to try and rub it out of his eyes, but he isn't managing very well.
"How did I end up here?"
"I was hoping that you could tell us that."
"Us?" He trips on the word.
"Yes, Mr. Potter. Us." Minerva's tone is as sharp as he remembers. He winces. "Hagrid practically ran with you up to the castle, beat on poor Poppy's door until she came out in her nightgown, and gave her a fright by shoving your dehydrated rag of a body in her face." The look is pointed. Harry stares at his lap. Tap-tap.
"I'm so sorry, Madam Pomfrey. I didn't ask—"
"Never mind what you did or did not ask. You were unconscious, so there's no bother with that. How did you end up in the forest?"
"Uh, well, um…" He runs his right hand through his hair, the left tapping relentlessly on his thigh. "I don't know."
"That's not good enough, Mr. Potter." Minerva's eyes soften as she sits on the edge of the bed. "I realize that things haven't been easy for you, but you have to let someone in. Mrs. Granger-Weasley tells me that you haven't been returning her owls."
"You talked to Hermione?" He pales, balking at the thought.
"Yes, I did. She did not feel it best for herself to come over at present, so she sent someone else that you might be more comfortable with." Harry is confused. He stares at her, head tilted. Tap-tap, tap-tap-taptaptap.
"Who did she send? I can't talk to Ron right now." TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP. His leg is practically thrumming with the force of his jitters. She places her hand atop his.
"No, Mr. Potter," she says gently. "It isn't the young Mr. Weasley." That gives him pause. "In fact, she sent his father." She turns back toward the door. "Poppy, if you would send him in please?"
A tall man wearing a faded brown suit walks around the corner. Various patches adorn the fabric and Harry smiles at the awkward man as he shirks around the healer, nodding a polite greeting. He removes his hat and holds it in his hands, fingers running along the brim anxiously as he walks up to Harry's bed.
"Hello Harry." They stare at one another. When McGonagall feels that they aren't going to hex one another in her infirmary, she stands and leaves the room.
"Mr. Weasley."
"Arthur, Harry. Call me Arthur."
"Arthur." Harry tips his head awkwardly in greeting.
"Harry, what happened? Molly and I were so worried when Hagrid sent his owl."
"I'm sorry." The tapping is softer, but Harry doesn't look up at Arthur as he speaks. "Gin and I… She just… We had an argument. It's always an argument, isn't it?" He laughs, but the sound is empty, hollow. Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, hat in his lap.
"Harry, you and Ginny are fighting quite often. It's not healthy for either one of you." Arthur's fingers punch out a dip in the top of his hat. "I haven't seen you in a couple of months. When we see Ginny, she's… she's just not the same."
"I know."
"Do you? Harry, you're not the same, either."
"How can I be?" He barks the words, louder than he's meant to. At a concerned look from Poppy, he tries to lower his voice. "How can I ever be the same? I watched so many people die. They died for me. They died because I didn't. They died because I wanted to live. They died because…" He's wringing the blanket between his clenched fingers now. "Because… because I couldn't do it better."
"Harry, my dear son. You can't think any of that."
"It's true!"
"None of that is true. You are belittling every one of their deaths by thinking that. You betray their fight by saying that their choice to die meant nothing!"
"And my choice to live?"
"You had to live," he says, voice clipped. "You needed to defeat him so that the rest of us could live. I'm sorry that it took so much of your life in return." He tries to lay a hand on Harry's nearby calf for comfort, but the young man recoils instantly. Arthur looks aghast at the reaction, but sighs and looks at Harry intensely—really looks at him. "Maybe you should take a break for a bit. Maybe Ginny should come back home."
"Arthur, I—"
"Think about it, Harry. For now, let's get you back home."
"Home?" The concept seems unfamiliar to him. "How long have I been here?"
"You've been in the infirmary for three days. If Ginny told Molly the truth, you were gone for two before that."
"Fuck," he breathes.
Arthur does not comment on his choice of words. The pity in his eyes is enough. Harry has stopped tapping by this point. His fingers are still beside his leg as if they'd lost the will to fight. He nods, shifts his weight enough to get his legs on the edge of the bed and tries to stand. Just as he does so, his legs turn to snakes beneath him and the floor comes up all too quickly.
"Bloody hell," he gasps, "what happened to me?"
"You've lost a lot of strength, Harry. Let me help you." When Arthur reaches out for him, Harry again tries to skirt away from the man's touch. Seeing as though he isn't going to get off the floor without Arthur's help or the indignity of a levitation spell, Harry allows Arthur to slip an arm under his shoulder and lift. Together, they get his jeans and shirt back on. Poppy puts up a fuss about him not having any shoes, so she loans him a pair of slippers. He turns bright red as Arthur slips them on, but the older man has the decency not to comment on his new footwear. As Harry stands, Arthur transfigures the slippers into a basic pair of boots and Harry gives a muted smile in return.
Rather than risk upsetting Harry's frail system with apparition, Poppy offers the use of her personal Floo. They walk slowly into her quarters, where both Harry and Arthur thank her. Stepping into the flames, Arthur calls out "Grimmauld Place."
Harry stumbles into the lounge, followed immediately by Arthur.
"I see you've found him, then." Ginny is lying on a nearby couch, a tub of chocolate swirl ice cream on her stomach. She has a spoon shoved in her mouth and is contentedly lapping at it like a cat.
"Ginny, is that all you can say? You haven't seen Harry for nearly a week and he's had quite the rough go of it. Mostly due to your actions, if I recall correctly." Arthur glares at her, leaning over to try and help Harry up. At the snort from Ginny, Harry flinches. Arthur watches her as he stands there, hunched over, and she does nothing but continue eating. "Come on, Harry. Let's get you to bed." Struggling with the limp weight, they somehow manage to get up the stairs.
"No, not that one." Harry's hand slides against the door and pushes away.
"This is your bedroom, is it not?" Arthur looks to him with confusion on his face.
"No. S'hers."
"Where do you want to go, Harry?"
"That one." He is fading fast. The pointing finger droops and falls.
"All right, then." Arthur shifts Harry's weight and reaches for the doorknob of the room Harry asks for. "In you go."
"This was his room." It's as if Harry needed to say that very thing, at that very moment.
"I know." Arthur nods sadly.
"I miss him."
"I know, son. Let's get you in bed."
Harry falls out of Arthur's arms across the bed. The older man tugs off the transfigured slippers and tosses them aside. Next, he reaches for Harry's glasses. These are carefully put on the bedside table. Harry is drifting in and out of sleep, mumbling about Sirius and Hedwig and other things better remembered in dreams.