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His eyes are weak in the dark, weaker even than ordinary human eyes, but he can hear the breath of the man by his bed. His breathing is measured and careful but each inhalation is bracketed by a tight halt: a man who is nervous, but trying very hard to calm himself. Listening to his own breath like the tick of a clock. Harry imagines the lungs spanning open, slacking shut. Again, again. He waits for the man to speak again, only because all the little bitter tablets they’ve given him make him babble each time he opens his mouth like the lunatic they believe him to be.
“Are you awake?” A gentle voice, honest.
“Yes,” Harry risks.
“You must let me help you.”