the fever breaks
He woke up to the softest hush of nighttime, blinking groggily against the moonlight slanting through the curtains. Everything was quiet, the air warm and still. His pyjamas were damp with sweat, skin clammy and sore, but the tight ache behind his eyes was gone. The fever—finally—had broken.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.
Then his eyes adjusted, and he realized: this was Ron’s room.
And he wasn’t alone.
Ginny was curled in the armchair, a blanket tugged over her knees, wand still clutched loosely in one hand. Her head had fallen against the back of the chair, red hair a mess around her face.
Ron was at the foot of the bed, one foot propped on a stool, snoring lightly. His mouth hung open. Classic.
And next to Harry, slumped in a smaller chair that had clearly been dragged from somewhere else, was Mrs. Weasley. Arms folded, cardigan askew, glasses perched low on her nose. Asleep—but angled toward him. Like she'd just been watching. Just in case.
Harry stared.
There was something so domestic about it. So ordinary. But also—huge. They’d stayed. All of them.
For him.
His throat went tight.
He didn’t want to wake anyone, but the dampness was too uncomfortable to ignore. He shifted slightly, accidentally kicking the covers down. The motion stirred Mrs. Weasley first.
“Harry?” she whispered, sitting up, immediately alert. She leaned forward, brushing a cool hand across his brow. “Oh, sweetheart. You're cooler. That’s good.”
“I—I think the fever’s gone,” he rasped.
She smiled, warm and relieved. “Yes, you’ve sweat it out, looks like.”
“I’m—um—sorry. For the pyjamas.”
Her eyes softened even further. “Don’t you apologize. Let’s get you into something clean, hmm?”
And it wasn’t just the way she said it. It was the way she did it—pulling a fresh shirt and bottoms from a basket in the corner, using a warming charm on the fabric so it wouldn’t feel cold, helping him up gently so he could change with as much dignity as possible. She vanished the damp clothes with a quick flick.
She even rubbed a dab of something minty on his chest and behind his ears—“for your sinuses,” she said, matter-of-factly—and smoothed the sheets when he settled again.
Harry blinked hard against the burn behind his eyes.
“Try to get a bit more rest, dear,” she murmured, smoothing his fringe back. “We’re right here.”
“I saw,” he whispered. “You all stayed.”
Her hand paused. “Of course we did.”
“I didn’t—I’ve never…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish that without sounding so young.
But she understood anyway. She always did.
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “You’re not alone anymore, Harry. Not here.”