“Harry!”
Hermione’s voice greets him as soon as the doors of the Hospital Wing open. He is holding on to Professor Dumbledore’s sleeve for dear life, feeling like if he let go, he would simply crumble.
Hermione is running up to him, her face a mixture of worry, fear, relief, and anger - but not directed towards him, never towards him. Her curly hair is gathered in a sloppy ponytail, chunks escaping despite the headscarf’s best efforts. Her frantic eyes are red and puffy from tears, and when Harry looks at her, the only thing he can think is:
I’m home.
Her hug feels different. Not as bone-crushing or needy. She is holding him as if he could break at any moment. After so many hours of agony and violence, the tenderness of it all makes him want to cry. He doesn’t know how long they stay there. He is unaware of anything besides Hermione. Her gentle arms wrapped around him as if she could protect him from all of the world's evils. Her familiar scent of old books and cinnamon body wash. Her small hiccups and silent sobs. The feeling of her heartbeat against his chest. There is a wet patch forming against his right shoulder from her tears.
It is not until he starts swaying on his feet that she lets go.
“It's fine Professor, we can take him from here.”
It’s Ron. Oh, Ron. His calm demeanor is a perfect contrast to Hermione’s ever-present emotions. His presence is like a rock, comforting them, grounding them. He looks so soft, so kind. He is carrying what looks like a hospital gown. Harry drinks him in like he did with Hermione, and clings onto him for dear life. Lets him bring his floating mind back down to reality.
“You need help changing, mate?”
He is in the washroom now, the hospital gown in his hands. He doesn’t quite remember how or when he got here. He can feel the coolness of the toilet lid against his thighs, seeping through his trousers. It's okay, this is easy. All he has to do is take off his clothes and put the gown on. He can do this, he’s changed clothes countless times before.
“Harry?” Ron sounds worried now, knocking on his door more urgently.
It's okay, everything is okay. He just needs to take off his clothes. His shirt sleeve is sliced open. There is dried blood on his collar. But, that doesn’t make sense; Cedric never bled. His hands are shaking. Why are they shaking? All he has to do is take the stupid shirt off. He can do this.
There is a soft sigh. The sound of Ron’s body sliding down the door onto the floor. “Just breathe, Harry. Just breathe.”
The knees of his trousers are torn and muddy. There’s even more dried blood. Where did all this blood come from? Harry can feel his heart pounding against his chest, which doesn't make sense. He’s not scared. The danger is gone, there’s no reason to be scared anymore.
“Harry, can you tell me five things you can see?”
Well, that's easy. There’s blood on his clothes. The toilet he’s sitting on. The sink. The cream and white tiles. Blood, so much blood.
“Okay, okay.” Ron breathes in deep and out, Harry subconsciously matching him. “Now tell me four things you can feel.”
The cold of the toilet, the feeling of the dirt and grime on his face, between his nails, his back, his hair. The fabric of his clothes rubbing against his skin. His heartbeat.
Ron’s voice is just above a breath “Good, you’re doing so good. All you need to do is shower and put on the gown, okay?”
Shower? No, he wasn’t supposed to shower. He was supposed to change clothes, that was all. That’s what they agreed on.
“Harry, do you need me to come in?”
Harry can’t shower. No, no, no, he can’t. He just needs to put on his gown. Take off his clothes, and put on his gown.
A whispered spell, the sound of the door unlocking. Then there are soft hands, palms whipping the hair off his forehead, knuckles sliding down his cheeks, fingers curling around his arms. The hands pull him up and guide him to the bathtub. Since when was there a bathtub? Smooth voice, whispering, soothing.
He’s wet now, soap covering his body. The hands wash the dirt and blood off of him delicately, as if he is precious. But he’s not precious, he’s dirty, rough. These hands are being too caring. They should be grabbing him, hurting him. All touch has ever brought Harry, after all, is pain.
“Shhh, don’t think now.” That same voice is blowing cool air on his face. “Just feel the water on your skin, Harry. Just feel. And breathe.”
The hands dry him and put his gown on. They brush through his hair and whisper sweet nothings until his mind is clearer and his eyes can see.
“You ready to go to bed now?” Ron is looking at him so sweetly. His touch has never hurt Harry, not once. No matter how angry he was. No matter how much they bickered or fought. No matter how much Harry misbehaved.
“I love you.”
Harry can almost see how his best friend’s heart breaks. His eyes are glassy, hands carrying Harry’s face in his large palms.
“I love you too, Harry.” He gathers Harry into his arms and pushes Harry’s head so it is resting against his shoulder. “You’ve been so brave. So strong. But now you don’t have to be anything okay? Just let us look after you.”
Harry is lying on one of the rows of beds. Madam Pomfrey is handing Hermione various potions as she nods along to her explanations for each one. Ron is next to him, not touching, but a calming presence. They know him so well: know when to snuggle and when to give him space. Snuffles is curled up by his bare legs, breathing deeply. When did he get here? Harry feels so tired.
Mrs. Weasley was here a while ago, Harry knows, quickly ushered out of the Hospital Wing by Bill. No one else is here now, except the three of them, and the large black dog.
“Please don’t make me sleep,” Harry’s voice sounds so fragile, even to his own ears, so uncharacteristically small. “Please.”
“You need rest Harry,” Hermione kisses his forehead, and tucks him in. “I’ll give you dreamless sleep to make all the nightmares go away, I promise. Besides,” Her smile is a weak thing, but present nonetheless. “Ron and I will be here the whole night, sleeping right next to you, okay?”
Ron brings a small vial to his lips, tips a purple liquid down his throat. He gets into bed next to him, nestling in close. Harry used to think it was weird, the way he and Ron slept together. Hermione had reassured him that it was perfectly normal. According to one of her Muggle psychology books. A coping mechanism, she had said. Now Harry hungrily drinks in the presence of his friends and lets himself drift into a fitful sleep.