Awakening || Harry & Hermione

Chapter 12.1

No matter how much Harry protested that he was fine, Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let him leave the Hospital Wing.

"I've been here for a day already!" Harry groaned. "I drank all the potions, I'm not hallucinating anymore, and even the nightmares aren't so bad. Isn't that enough?"

"No, Mister Potter. It is not enough." The stern matron put her hands on her hips and glared down at him. "My job is to make sure that you are completely healthy and 'not so bad' won't cut it. Your simple reflexes still show the after effects of being under the Cruciatus for a long duration of time. And Miss Granger tells me that you're still not able to keep down all of your food without feeling nauseous."

"Of course she did," Harry sighed and looked at the empty seat that Hermione had been occupying for most of the day.

Pomfrey's expression softened. "Don't blame her. That girl is going to give herself grey hair from worrying over you as much as she does. She wants the best for you."

"I know," Harry said, feeling guilty.

He knew all too well the lengths Hermione went to for his sake. The hours directly after the third task was still fuzzy for him: all he remembered was a cycle of nightmares, waking up to a hospital bed and a disorienting reality that forced him to confront what he had done. He remembered the eerie contrast of the white curtains surrounding the bed and the visions of red assaulting his mind. He remembered how the silence of the infirmary had amplified the screams ringing in his ears and he remembered—

Hermione. Hermione who had shown up in the graveyard even if it had just been a figment of his imagination, stretching her hand out towards him in the darkness of that night. Hermione who had comforted him when he felt like he was going insane, who had tried to rationalize the madness of the third task in her firm, steady voice and brought peace to the chaos of 'what have I done, what do I do now' swirling through his mind.

He had gone to sleep and woken up to her sitting exactly where he had left her: beside his bed, scribbling on a notebook, and doing what she did best—planning. Not a day had passed and she was already noting down his—their—enemies and thinking of ways to defeat them.

He shouldn't have been surprised. This was the girl who had stood by him through thick and thin, even when everyone else had abandoned him. This was Hermione. No, he was just... relieved. Consoled by the fact that his entire world could turn upside down, Voldemort could return, he could become a murderer of Death Eaters overnight and she would still be there. Waiting to fight by his side.

Hermione returned from the kitchens five minutes later, carrying a tray of food that looked much more appetizing than the bland meals given in the Hospital Wing.

"I just don't like lying here, feeling useless," Harry told her after they had finished breakfast. "Voldemort's back—I should be doing something."

She huffed. "You've hardly had a break this whole year, working yourself to the bones. You can do something after you've rested. One day of rest will hardly kill you."

"No, but boredom might," he muttered.

"No danger of that—I expect that you'll be swarmed with visitors soon enough." At Harry's confusion, she smirked. "I haven't told you of the rumors flying around yet, have I?"

_____

Hermione was right, as usual. A slew of visitors came that day to check how he was doing. Some like Molly Weasley, who cried and engulfed him in a hug as soon as she saw him, were expected.

Others like Cedric Diggory... were not.

"Congratulations on winning," Cedric blurted out after Hermione had left them alone. He winced visibly and gestured to the bag of winnings on the bedside table. "Winning that... not the other stuff."

It was rare to see the perfect Hufflepuff boy look so awkward and uncomfortable.

"Yes, congratulations to me," Harry said dryly. "Only had to fight off a Dark Lord and his minions to earn it. Ten out of ten, would do again."

Cedric exhaled loudly. "That was a bad start. I came to let you know I believe you. About Voldemort coming back. About everything."

"Some of my friends don't. My father—he thinks you're lying for attention. Says that winning wasn't good enough for you so you made it all up. I asked them if they would have said the same thing if it was me who had gotten to the Cup first."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think I've always known," he said hesitantly, "that you were never a liar. When your name was called from the Goblet, you looked like the ground had been pulled from underneath your feet. I was... bitter then. I wanted to believe what they said you were. It was a competition for me—a game I wanted to win. But it was never like that for you, was it? You didn't think twice before telling me about the dragons. You walked around the castle with this serious, heavy air around you—like you were preparing for war—and I thought secretly it was a bit silly. 'There goes that Potter kid acting like he's carrying the world on his shoulders.'"

"But the joke was on me." He smiled sardonically. "I don't know how a fourth year student trained to be better skilled than three seventh years, but if you hadn't, it would have been one of the other Champions taking that Cup. It could have been me facing You-Know-Who."

The irony wasn't lost on Harry. He had trained so hard this year, preparing for the worst. Perhaps if he had abandoned the Tournament preparations altogether, he would have been last and someone else could have taken the Cup. A small, resentful part of Harry wished that someone else could have suffered in his place. Why did it always have to be him? Why was it that no matter what he did, he could never win?

"So you're here to thank me," Harry said dully.

"No," Cedric said, his gaze serious. "I'm here to say that I won't ignore the signs right in front of me again—especially if those signs are telling me that you're right and Voldemort's back. I won't stay silent as my friends and family label you as a liar. Not like last time. "

Cedric's visit had been a surprise, Harry mused after he had left, but not an entirely unwelcome one.