the warmest room in the burrow
The Burrow in December was everything Privet Drive wasn’t—soft around the edges, crowded in the best way, and full of smells like cinnamon, wool, and something always baking.
It was also warm. Which made it harder to hide when he wasn’t.
Harry had started to feel off the morning of the 22nd. Just a sore throat and a bit of a headache, nothing dramatic. He chalked it up to staying up too late with Ron, playing Exploding Snap and laughing until his sides ached.
But by Christmas Eve, he was dragging.
The ache had sunk deep into his joints, a kind of hollow fatigue that even Fred and George’s antics couldn’t shake. His nose was blocked, his chest tight, and his appetite—normally ravenous in Mrs. Weasley’s kitchen—was practically nonexistent. He didn’t want to make a fuss, though. Didn’t want to ruin the holiday.
Didn’t want to need anyone.
He’d thought he could fake it. Smile through dinner. Keep his sniffles discreet. Sneak tissues when no one was looking.
But Mrs. Weasley noticed everything.
And Ron was watching him like a hawk.
“You alright?” Ron whispered that night after dinner, as they lay in their shared room beneath layers of quilts.
Harry nodded, but it was too fast. He winced as he sat up to blow his nose, trying to make it quiet.
“You’ve got that weird look,” Ron added. “Like you’re about to fall over or bolt.”
“Just tired,” Harry mumbled. “I’ll be fine.”
And Ron—mercifully—let it go.
The Burrow slept deeply on Christmas Eve. One by one the lights went out, and the sounds of chatter turned to creaking floorboards and distant snoring.
Harry couldn’t sleep.
He was too hot, then too cold. His throat was raw. His sinuses throbbed. He felt… fuzzy. Weak. Small.
At around 2 a.m., he gave up.
Wrapped in a blanket, still in pajamas, he padded down to the kitchen in thick socks, shivering slightly. The cold tiles under his feet made him wince. He stood there, blinking blearily at the kettle, not sure what he even wanted. Just… not to feel so awful.
That’s when the door creaked.
Mrs. Weasley stepped in, her hair in a frizzy bun, wrapped in a thick burgundy cardigan. She paused when she saw him.
“Oh, Harry dear.” Her voice was soft. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He blinked. His throat tightened. He shook his head.
“You look a bit poorly,” she said gently, coming closer. “Are you feeling alright?”
He could’ve lied. Could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve gone back to bed and suffered in silence.
But something about the hush of the house, the kindness in her voice, the smell of her lavender lotion mixed with flour—cracked something inside him.
His chin wobbled.
“I—my throat hurts a bit. And my chest, I guess. And I—I don’t know. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Mrs. Weasley’s face softened in that particular way only she could manage. “Oh, sweetheart.”
He looked away fast, ashamed of the way his voice trembled. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said immediately, already putting the kettle on. “Come sit. Let me take a look at you.”
She sat him at the kitchen table and made him tea with lemon and honey. Pressed her hand to his forehead. Frowned at the heat there. Wrapped another blanket around his shoulders.
“You’re burning up, poor thing,” she murmured, brushing his hair back like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”
Harry stared down at his tea. His voice came out like gravel. “I don’t know how. I don’t… I’m not used to someone noticing.”
That was the moment he cried. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just slow, quiet tears down his cheeks, too exhausted and relieved to stop them.
Mrs. Weasley didn’t make a fuss. She just squeezed his hand and said, “Well, I’ll always notice. Always. You hear me?”
He nodded. Sniffled.
“Good.” She smiled, kissed the top of his head, and said, “Now drink your tea and let me fuss over you a bit. That’s what mums do, after all.”
He fell asleep an hour later on the couch, wrapped in a blanket she’d warmed by the fire, a mug on the table and a small pile of used tissues by his side.
When Ron came down in the morning and found him curled up like that, still pale but breathing easier, he just smiled and shook his head.
“Finally let Mum take care of you, huh?”
Harry didn’t even pretend to deny it.