To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching - the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup, and Cedric's body. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting ... waiting for someone to do something ... something to happen ... and all the while, his scar burnt dully on his forehead ...
It was Voldemort, Harry thought, staring up at the canopy of his bed in the darkness, it all came back to Voldemort ... he was the one who had torn these families apart, who had ruined all these lives ...