Ron Weasley had spent his entire life being second best, and he was bloody well finished with it.
The Auror training program was his chance to finally prove himself—to show Harry, his family, and most importantly, himself that he wasn't just the sidekick to the Chosen One. That's why, when the first symptoms appeared three days ago—a scratchy throat and a persistent headache—he'd ignored them completely, downing Pepper-Up potions one after another despite the warning label clearly stating not to exceed two doses in a 24-hour period.
"Again, Weasley!" Auror Proudfoot barked, his scarred face showing no sympathy as Ron struggled to his feet. "Your defensive shield is weaker than a first-year's! Focus!"
Ron raised his wand, feeling the familiar burn in his chest that had begun yesterday. His magic felt strange—thin and jittery, like static right before lightning struck. Sweat poured down his temples despite the December chill of the training facility.
"Protego Maxima!" he shouted, forcing every ounce of concentration into the spell. The shield shimmered to life before him, stronger than his last attempt but visibly unstable around the edges.
Proudfoot launched three rapid hexes in quick succession. The first bounced off, the second caused the shield to waver dangerously, and the third—a simple Stinging Hex—shattered it completely, catching Ron in the shoulder and sending him stumbling backward.
"Take five, everyone," Proudfoot called to the group of twelve trainees. "Weasley, a word."
Ron dragged himself over, his lungs feeling tight and hot within his chest. Each breath was becoming more difficult than the last.
"You're off your game today," Proudfoot said, surprisingly gentle for the normally harsh instructor. "And yesterday too. Everything alright?"
"Fine, sir," Ron managed, suppressing the urge to cough. "Just need to work harder."
Proudfoot frowned. "Your magical signature is fluctuating. Might be time for a day off—"
"No!" Ron said quickly, too quickly. "I mean, I'm fine, really. I can handle it."
The older Auror studied him for a long moment. "Your choice, Weasley, but magical exhaustion isn't something to play around with. Potter took last week off with that nasty flu, didn't set him back any."
Ron felt the familiar twist of jealousy. Of course, Harry could afford to take time off—everyone knew he was guaranteed to pass the program regardless. The Boy Who Lived wasn't expendable like Ron was.
"I'll be fine," Ron repeated, more firmly this time.
When training resumed, Ron threw himself into the advanced hex deflection drills with renewed determination, ignoring how each spell he cast seemed to drain more energy than it should. By mid-afternoon, his vision had begun to blur around the edges, and breathing had become a conscious effort, each inhale a struggle against what felt like a band tightening around his chest.
"Weasley, you look like shit," whispered Auror candidate Macmillan during their tactical planning session. "You're practically green."
"Shut it," Ron muttered, hunching over the map they were supposed to be studying. The parchment swam before his eyes, landmarks blurring together. The persistent tickle in his throat finally became too much, and he broke into a violent coughing fit that left him gasping.
When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, tiny flecks of blood dotted his palm. A distant part of his brain recognized this as Very Bad, but he wiped his hand on his robes and continued with the exercise.
By the time their final dueling session began at 4 PM, Ron was functioning purely on stubbornness. His temperature had skyrocketed in the past hour, and he could feel his magic crackling erratically beneath his skin, painful little jolts shooting through his nerves with each spell he attempted.
"Today's matchups," Auror Savage announced, consulting her clipboard. "Patil and MacMillan, Chambers and Wolpert, Potter and Weasley..."
Ron's heart sank. Harry would notice immediately that something was wrong. But backing out would be admitting defeat, and that wasn't an option.
Harry jogged over, grinning. "Ready to get your arse handed to you, mate?"
Ron managed a weak smile. "In your dreams, Potter."
They took their positions on the dueling platform. Ron could feel his heart hammering too fast, too hard against his ribs. His wand hand was shaking. The room swayed alarmingly.
"Begin!" called Savage.
Harry started with a simple disarming charm, clearly planning to warm up gradually as they usually did. Ron tried to counter with a shield charm, but the words caught in his throat. Instead of the spell he intended, his wand emitted a disturbing shower of red sparks that crackled painfully up his arm.
"Ron?" Harry's voice sounded far away.
Ron tried to respond, but his lungs seized. The cough that tore through him was deep and wet, doubling him over. Something was very wrong with his magic—he could feel it surging and receding like a stormy tide, completely beyond his control.
"I can't—" he gasped before another coughing fit overtook him. This time, there was no hiding the blood that spattered across the training mat.
Harry was at his side instantly. "Ron! What the—Savage! We need a Healer!"
"'M fine," Ron slurred, even as his knees buckled. He was burning from the inside out, his magic roiling beneath his skin like something alive and angry. "Just need to..."
The room tilted sideways. The last thing Ron registered was Harry's panicked face above him and the alarming sensation of his magic flaring wildly beyond his control, crackling visibly around his body in bright orange sparks.
Then darkness.
Ron floated in and out of consciousness, catching disjointed fragments of conversation.
"...magical burnout, compounded by a severe respiratory infection..."
"...should have noticed sooner..."
"...dangerous levels of Pepper-Up in his system..."
"...could have permanently damaged his magical core..."
At some point, he became aware of being moved. St. Mungo's, he assumed from the antiseptic smell and the sterile white ceiling that occasionally swam into focus. His chest felt like it was being crushed under a troll's weight. Breathing was agony.
Time passed strangely. Sometimes his mother was there, her cool hand on his forehead. Once he thought he heard Hermione's voice, tight with worry. But most consistently, there was Harry, a constant presence at his bedside.
When Ron finally clawed his way back to full consciousness, it was night. His throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass, and every muscle ached profoundly, but his head was clearer than it had been in days.
"You absolute idiot," came Harry's voice from beside the bed.
Ron turned his head slowly to see his best friend slumped in a visitor's chair, looking like he hadn't slept in days. The familiar guilt twisted in Ron's gut.
"Sorry," he croaked.
"Sorry?" Harry repeated incredulously, sitting up straight. "You nearly died, Ron! Your magical core almost ruptured. The Healer said if you'd cast one more spell, you might have lost your magic permanently!"
Ron winced, both at Harry's words and the pain in his chest. "How long...?"
"Three days," Harry answered, rubbing a hand over his stubbled face. "Three days of watching you cough up blood and delirious with fever while they tried to stabilize your magic."
Ron closed his eyes. "The program—"
"Fuck the program!" Harry exploded, then immediately looked guilty when Ron flinched at the volume. More quietly, he continued, "Why didn't you tell anyone you were sick? Why didn't you tell me?"
The question hung between them. Ron stared at the ceiling, unable to meet Harry's gaze.
"Couldn't," he whispered.
"Couldn't what? Couldn't take a sick day like a normal person? Couldn't admit you're human?"
Ron's eyes burned with humiliating tears. "Couldn't fall behind."
Harry made a frustrated noise. "Behind who? Me? Is that what this is about?"
When Ron didn't answer, Harry leaned closer.
"Look at me, Ron. For Merlin's sake, just look at me."
Reluctantly, Ron turned to face his friend.
"You have nothing to prove," Harry said firmly. "Not to me, not to anyone in that program. You're already one of the best in our class."
Ron scoffed, the motion triggering another coughing fit that left him gasping. Harry quickly helped him sit up, supporting his weight as Ron's body convulsed.
When the fit subsided, leaving Ron trembling and exhausted, Harry carefully helped him lie back against the pillows.
"It's true," Harry insisted, once Ron had caught his breath. "Savage told me last month that your strategic planning skills are the strongest in our year. Proudfoot says your defensive spellwork is more creative than half the current Auror department."
"Stop," Ron whispered.
"No, I won't stop. Because apparently, you've been killing yourself trying to measure up to some standard that only exists in your head." Harry ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Do you have any idea what it was like watching you collapse? Seeing your magic go haywire while you couldn't breathe?"
The raw emotion in Harry's voice made Ron's chest tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with his illness.
"I thought I was watching my best friend die," Harry continued, voice breaking slightly. "All because you're too bloody stubborn to admit when you need help."
"I'm supposed to have your back," Ron said, the admission painful. "Not the other way around. Not again."
Harry stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
"I left you once," Ron said, memories of the Horcrux hunt still painful years later. "I can't be the weak link again. I can't be the one who can't keep up."
Understanding dawned on Harry's face. "Ron, that was years ago. It was the locket, it was—"
"It was me," Ron interrupted. "The locket just brought it out. And now, with the Auror program, everyone's waiting for me to fail again. To be the one who can't hack it."
Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then, with uncharacteristic gentleness, he said, "No one thinks that except you."
Ron laughed bitterly, triggering another smaller cough. "Right."
"I'm serious," Harry insisted. "You want to know the truth? Everyone looks to you when the training scenarios get complicated. You're the one who spotted the flaw in Savage's containment protocol last month. You're the one who modified the standard Shield Charm to deflect dark magic residue."
Ron blinked, surprised. "That was just common sense."
"No, it was brilliant," Harry countered. "And it's exactly why you're going to make an excellent Auror—if you don't kill yourself first."
Ron looked away, uncomfortable with the praise but secretly drinking it in.
Harry sighed. "The Healers say your magical core needs at least two weeks to recover. Your lungs are in even worse shape—magical pneumonia complicated by exhaustion. You'll be staying with me while you recover."
"I don't need—"
"This isn't negotiable," Harry cut him off. "Unless you'd prefer your mother to take care of you?"
Ron blanched. "You fight dirty, Potter."
"I learned from the best." Harry's expression softened. "Let people help you sometimes, you stubborn git. That's what friends do."
Ron felt too exhausted to argue further. His eyelids were growing heavy, the brief conversation having drained what little energy he had.
"Get some sleep," Harry said, noticing. "I'll be here."
As Ron drifted off, he felt Harry's hand briefly clasp his shoulder—a familiar, grounding touch that said more than words ever could.
Ron's recovery was neither quick nor pleasant.
The first week was the worst, with his body purging the magical toxins that had built up from his overexertion. This manifested in violent, painful episodes of vomiting that left him shaking and weak. His fever cycled unpredictably, sometimes breaking long enough for him to hold a conversation, other times spiking so high that he hallucinated Death Eaters in the corners of Harry's spare bedroom.
Through it all, Harry was unfailingly, almost uncomfortably present. He held a basin when Ron was sick, changed sweat-soaked sheets without complaint, and practically force-fed him potions on the Healer's strict schedule.
"This is humiliating," Ron groaned on the fifth day after Harry had to help him to the bathroom because his legs were too weak to support him.
"Consider it payback for all the times you dealt with my nonsense at Hogwarts," Harry replied easily, adjusting the pillows behind Ron's back.
The lung infection proved stubborn. Ron's cough persisted, deep and painful, often bringing up alarming amounts of discolored phlegm streaked with blood. The Healers explained that the magical nature of the illness meant conventional remedies were only partially effective; his body would need to heal both physically and magically.
By the end of the second week, Ron was able to stay awake for longer periods and move around Harry's flat carefully. His magic, however, remained strictly off-limits.
"Don't even think about it," Harry warned when he caught Ron eyeing his wand on the nightstand. "Your core is still recovering."
Ron sighed, leaning back against the sofa cushions. "I feel useless."
"You're healing. That's your job right now."
"What about your job?" Ron asked. "You've missed nearly two weeks of training because of me."
Harry shrugged. "Savage approved my leave. Said there was no point me being there distracted anyway."
The guilt that had become Ron's constant companion flared again. "I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing," Harry said firmly. "It's getting old."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the enchanted wireless play a Quidditch match between the Chudley Cannons and Puddlemere United. The Cannons were getting thoroughly destroyed, as usual.
"Do you remember," Harry said suddenly, "when you got poisoned in sixth year?"
Ron looked over, surprised by the change in topic. "Bits and pieces. I remember waking up in the hospital wing with everyone staring at me."
Harry nodded. "I was terrified. Watching you collapse, not knowing if you'd—" He broke off. "It felt the same when you collapsed in training. Like I was about to lose the most important person in my life."
Ron felt a lump form in his throat that had nothing to do with his illness.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said gruffly.
"Good." Harry's voice was equally rough. "Because I need my partner watching my back. But I need him alive and well, not killing himself trying to prove something."
Ron felt something settle in his chest—not the painful tightness of his infection, but a different kind of release, like a knot finally unraveling.
"I might need reminding of that occasionally," he admitted quietly.
Harry grinned. "I can arrange that."
By the time Ron was cleared to return to limited duty four weeks later, things had shifted between them—not dramatically, but fundamentally. The insecurities were still there, like old scars that occasionally ached. But now they were acknowledged, spoken aloud rather than festering in silence.
On his first day back, Ron found himself paired with Harry for a tracking exercise. His magic was still not at full strength, but the Healers had assured him it would return completely with time and care.
"Ready?" Harry asked as they prepared to begin.
Ron took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand fully for the first time in weeks. He was still thin, still tired more quickly than before, but he was healing.
"Ready," he confirmed. Then, more quietly, "And Harry? Thanks. For everything."
Harry clapped him on the shoulder, green eyes bright with understanding. "That's what partners do."