ron's got it from here
Harry drifted in and out, sweat-soaked and mumbling, cheeks flushed too pink. The fever was being stubborn.
Molly sat by his bedside with a hand on his forehead, lips pursed in worry. “It’s still too high. I’ve got to get dinner started—Arthur’s bringing home someone from the Ministry.”
She turned to Ron. “Sit with him? Cool cloth, water if he wakes?”
Ron nodded, face serious. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”
She paused in the doorway. “And if he gets sick—don’t panic. Just be there.”
That, Ron could do.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Harry twitch in his sleep. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His breath caught now and again, like he was dreaming something he didn’t like.
“Hey,” Ron said softly, nudging his shoulder. “You’re alright. Still in bed. Not fighting anything. Just a flu.”
Harry stirred, eyes slitting open. “Ron?”
“Yeah. Mum had to cook. I’m on... nurse duty or whatever.”
A weak smile tugged at Harry’s mouth. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. Still doing it.”
Harry blinked slowly. “Thanks.”
Ron didn’t say you’d do the same for me—but it hung in the air between them. Instead, he dipped the cloth in cool water and wrung it out with a frown of concentration. He pressed it gently to Harry’s forehead.
“You’re really hot,” Ron muttered, and then, realizing how that sounded, flushed red. “I mean. Fever-hot. Not—not like—shut up.”
Harry let out a weak chuckle. “Not my type anyway.”
“Oi,” Ron said, grinning.
They sat like that for a bit. Ron replaced the cloth every so often, offered sips of water, awkwardly patted Harry’s arm when he whimpered through a dream.
At one point, Harry whispered, eyes closed, “My uncle never let me lie down when I was sick. Said it was laziness.”
Ron stiffened. “That’s... not normal, mate.”
Harry gave a tiny shrug, like maybe he knew that now. Or maybe he didn’t.
“You’re allowed to rest here,” Ron said firmly. “Mum says it’s important. That people heal better when they’re comfortable.”
Harry was quiet.
Then: “I don’t know how to do that.”
Ron looked at him. His best friend, the Chosen One, the boy who faced death a dozen times and still said please when asking to borrow a quill.
He swallowed. “Well. You’re doing it right now.”
And he tugged the blanket a little higher up Harry’s chest, like Molly always did for him.