Despite having never felt more exhausted in his whole life, in the end Madame Pomfrey had been forced to give Michael a potion to help him sleep. His body simply didn't seem to get the concept of "not alert". Thus the Sleeping Draught had catapulted Michael into an unnatural but ultimately healing sleep that lasted almost twenty-four hours.
Michael came back slowly, still clinging stubbornly to each moment of blissful unconsciousness. Holding on to a moment longer where he didn't have to face the fact that those days - had it really only been such little time? - had inevitably changed him. It was something Michael would have to face upon waking and quite frankly, the last childish part of him, the part that would die the moment he opened his eyes and took up the challenge of facing the world after "it" happened, that part longed to pretend just a little longer. He slipped back into sleep, nevertheless comforted by the feeling that he wasn't alone.
Hours later it was the sound of a stifled sob that woke Michael. He blinked lazily, feeling a lot stronger than before. Apparently, though not surprisingly, he'd somehow ended up in the hospital wing. So he was still alive, after all. Michael took a deep breath and turned around - only to face his best friend.
A small smile spread across his face and immediately Michael winced. Smiling with a split lip hurt.