all the things you never got

It started with the dreams.

The Burrow was warm. Too warm, maybe. The kind of warm that sunk into your bones, made you forget the chill of a cupboard beneath stairs or the unspoken rules of a house where silence meant safety. But that warmth didn’t reach Harry’s dreams. Not yet.

He'd lie on the cot Ron dragged into his room—because Harry still flinched at the idea of sharing a bed, even with a best mate—and shake through long, vivid dreams of green flashes of light, belt buckles, Aunt Petunia’s bony fingers yanking his ear.

At first, he thought he could manage it. The bedwetting was new. Not new in the general sense, but new here, where someone might notice. At the Dursleys’, it was just another thing to clean quietly in the early hours before anyone woke. Here, Mrs. Weasley did laundry. Here, people cared.

Too much.

So, Harry woke up first. He always did. He folded the damp sheets up in a tight, practiced ball, wadded his pajamas inside, and shoved the mess into the bottom of his trunk with a muttered Scourgify.

But magic didn’t get rid of the smell entirely. And Mrs. Weasley noticed things.

It wasn’t until the fever started that things got harder to hide.

At first, Harry thought he was just tired. He was tired—nightmares and early wake-ups meant he never slept more than a few hours straight. His head hurt constantly. His stomach turned at the smell of eggs in the morning. He blamed it on nerves, on being too happy, too full, too out of place.

Then the chills came. Then the throwing up.

Mrs. Weasley found him crouched beside the loo, flushed and trembling, trying to clean up with a flannel he couldn’t stop shaking. His glasses were askew. His knees were wet. He looked small.

“Oh, Harry, dear,” she murmured. No anger. No disappointment. Just warm hands on his back, gathering him up like she’d done it a hundred times before.

And Harry flinched.

“I can do it,” he said quickly, voice hoarse. “I—sorry—I’ll clean it—”

But Mrs. Weasley had already pulled him into a gentle hug, pressing his head against her soft apron. She smelled like soup and lavender. Like safety.

“I’ve got it, love. You just need rest.”

And for some reason, that broke him.

The fever spiked the next day. Ron found Harry curled up on the cot, eyes glassy, muttering through another nightmare. His sheets were wet again—sweat or something else, Ron couldn’t tell—and Harry thrashed when Ron tried to wake him.

“Mum!” Ron shouted. “Harry’s really sick!”

The house exploded into movement.

Fred and George went quiet. Ginny peeked in once, then disappeared. Mrs. Weasley took over, bustling into the room with a basin, cool cloths, a potion that smelled like wet leaves. Mr. Weasley stood by the door, murmuring about how they’d take him to St. Mungo’s if it didn’t break soon.

But Mrs. Weasley just said, “It’s the kind of sick that’s waited a long time to come out.”

And Harry cried through it. Not loudly. Not like a tantrum or panic. Just soft, exhausted sobs, almost soundless, as Mrs. Weasley wiped his face and Ron held his hand, pretending not to notice.

“I didn’t mean to be a burden,” Harry mumbled once, barely conscious. “Don’t send me back.”

“Oh, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, gently. “You’re home, son. No one’s sending you anywhere.”

It took three more days for the fever to break. By then, Harry was too weak to pretend he wasn’t scared. He couldn’t eat without help, couldn’t get to the bathroom alone without Ron or Mrs. Weasley walking him.

He wet the bed again. Twice. He sobbed harder the second time, clutching the sheets like they might protect him from shame.

“I’m sorry,” he kept saying. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Please don’t be mad.”

“Harry, love,” Mrs. Weasley whispered, folding him into her arms again. “You don’t need to apologize for being sick. Or scared. Or needing us. That’s what family’s for.”

Harry stiffened. That word—family—hurt more than the fever.

But when she stroked his hair back and kissed his forehead, Harry melted. Cried until he shook. Cried until he hiccupped and burrowed into her like he was five. Cried like it was the first time someone had ever really held him.

Maybe it was.

When he was well enough to walk again, Ron shoved a Chocolate Frog into his hand without comment.

“You still snore,” Ron said. “So don’t act like you’re all delicate and tragic now.”

Harry laughed weakly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, mate. Just… don’t scare me like that again.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just bumped his shoulder into Ron’s and smiled.

That night, he slept the whole way through. No nightmares. No accidents. Just warmth.

And when Mrs. Weasley peeked in around dawn, Harry didn’t pretend to be asleep. He smiled at her.

And let her tuck the blanket higher over his shoulders.