Harry Potter had faced many challenges in his fifteen years of life: a three-headed dog, a basilisk, dementors, dragons, and even Lord Voldemort himself. Yet nothing had prepared him for the sight that greeted him on the third morning of his winter holiday at the Burrow: seven redheads in various states of misery, and one very frazzled Mrs. Weasley trying to tend to them all.
"Oh, Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said when she spotted him hovering uncertainly in the doorway of the living room, which had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary. Her normally rosy face was pale, her hair disheveled. "I think we've all come down with something rather nasty."
That, Harry thought, was an understatement. Fred and George were sprawled across one sofa, both an alarming shade of green. Ron was huddled beneath a mound of blankets on the floor, occasionally emitting pitiful moans. Ginny was curled into a ball on an armchair, shivering despite the roaring fire. Percy, who had come home for the holidays in a rare show of family solidarity, sat rigidly in a corner, a bucket clutched to his chest, looking mortified at his condition. Mr. Weasley was propped up in another armchair, his glasses askew, attempting to read the Daily Prophet but clearly unable to focus.
"Dragon Pox?" Harry asked, remembering the magical disease he'd heard about.
"No, nothing so serious," Mrs. Weasley replied, pressing a cool cloth to Ginny's forehead. "Just a particularly nasty strain of Wizard's Flu that's been going around. Very contagious among magical folk, I'm afraid. Though you might be spared, being raised by Muggles. Something about different immunities."
As if to punctuate her words, George lurched forward suddenly, grabbing a basin from the floor. Harry winced at the unmistakable sound of retching.
"Sorry 'bout that, Harry," Fred managed weakly, before his own face contorted and he reached for a second basin.
"Mum," Ron croaked from his blanket nest. "My head feels like it's going to split open."
Mrs. Weasley sighed, moving to feel Ron's forehead. "You're burning up again. I've got a fever-reducing potion, but I'm running low. Bill and Charlie are supposed to bring more supplies from Diagon Alley, but they haven't—"
She was interrupted by her own sudden fit of coughing, and Harry noticed with alarm how she swayed slightly on her feet.
"Mrs. Weasley, maybe you should sit down," Harry suggested, stepping forward.
"Nonsense, dear. I'm perfectly—" But her protest was cut short as her legs seemed to give way beneath her. Harry rushed forward, helping her to the nearest chair.
"Oh dear," she murmured, pressing a hand to her flushed face. "Perhaps I am coming down with it too."
A crash from the kitchen made them all jump. Harry hurried to investigate and found Mr. Weasley leaning heavily against the counter, surrounded by broken glass.
"Just tried to get some water," he explained sheepishly as Harry guided him back to his chair. "Room started spinning."
Harry looked around at the miserable Weasleys, his heart sinking. "What about Bill and Charlie? When are they coming?"
"Owl just arrived," Percy said weakly, gesturing to a parchment on the side table. "They've both got it too. Won't be able to come until they're better."
Harry picked up the letter and confirmed Percy's report. Not only were the eldest Weasley brothers ill, but the note warned that this particular strain of Wizard's Flu was especially virulent and long-lasting, with symptoms that could persist for up to two weeks.
Mrs. Weasley attempted to stand again but collapsed back into her chair, her face now alarmingly pale.
"Harry," she said faintly, "there's a book on the kitchen shelf—'Common Magical Maladies and Their Remedies.' The recipe for the fever reducer is marked. And there should be ingredients in my—" She was interrupted by another fit of coughing.
"I've got it, Mrs. Weasley," Harry assured her. "Just rest."
And so began Harry's crash course in magical nursing.
By nightfall, every Weasley was officially bedridden. Harry had managed to help them all upstairs to their rooms—except for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who remained in the transformed living room because Mrs. Weasley insisted she needed to be near the kitchen to supervise Harry's potion-making attempts, despite the fact that she was now running a fever of 102 degrees.
Harry's first attempt at brewing the fever-reducing potion had resulted in a cauldron of what looked suspiciously like cement. His second try, with careful guidance from a semi-delirious Mrs. Weasley, produced something closer to the intended light blue liquid, though it smelled faintly of burnt toast.
"That's close enough, dear," Mrs. Weasley had assured him weakly. "The important part is the essence of winterbloom. The rest is just... flavor and consistency."
Harry wasn't entirely convinced, but with no other options, he dutifully administered the potion to each Weasley. To his relief, their fevers seemed to abate slightly, though the other symptoms remained in full force.
He spent that first night running between rooms with basins, cool cloths, and glasses of water. The twins, despite their illness, still managed to joke weakly every time Harry entered their room.
"Look Fred, it's Florence Nightingale," George croaked as Harry changed the cloth on his forehead.
"More like Florence Nightmarish situation we've put him in," Fred replied, before turning a concerning shade of green and lunging for his basin.
Ron was possibly the worst patient, alternating between pitiful moans and irritable demands.
"Harry, my throat's on fire," he complained. Then, moments later: "This water tastes weird. Is this from the tap? Why can't I have pumpkin juice?"
Harry patiently explained for the third time that Mrs. Weasley had said clear fluids only until the nausea passed.
Ginny, by contrast, was stoically silent, which somehow worried Harry more. She simply lay in her bed, eyes closed, accepting Harry's ministrations with whispered thanks.
Percy maintained his dignity as best he could, sitting upright in bed with a book he was clearly too dizzy to read, accepting Harry's help with stiff gratitude.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were possibly the most concerning. As the oldest, the flu seemed to hit them hardest. Mrs. Weasley's fever refused to break completely despite the potion, and Mr. Weasley developed an alarming wheeze.
By the time dawn broke, Harry was exhausted but determined. He'd managed to brew another batch of fever reducer (this one the correct color and consistency, thanks to careful reading of the instructions), administered it all around, and even figured out how to make a magical chest rub for Mr. Weasley that seemed to ease his breathing.
The third day brought new challenges. The Weasleys' symptoms had evolved from primarily fever and nausea to include spectacular magical side effects.
Harry discovered this when he entered the twins' room to find Fred hiccuping tiny fireworks that exploded near the ceiling, while George's sneezes were accompanied by small puffs of purple smoke that formed rude words before dissipating.
"It's the magical immune response," Percy explained knowledgeably from his bed when Harry brought him tea. "Our magic tries to fight the viral invasion and—" His explanation was cut off as he suddenly floated six inches off his mattress, hovering there for several seconds before dropping back down with a thump. "—sometimes manifests in unpredictable ways," he finished, looking embarrassed.
Ron's pillow had turned into a large mushroom that kept softly singing "Weasley is Our King" in a mocking voice. Ginny's hair repeatedly changed colors every time she coughed. Mrs. Weasley's sighs caused all the objects in her vicinity to rearrange themselves, creating chaos in the living room. And Mr. Weasley's snores made the wireless radio turn on and off, broadcasting random snippets of wizarding stations.
"Perfectly normal," Mrs. Weasley assured Harry weakly when he expressed concern. "The magic has to go somewhere when our bodies are fighting so hard."
Harry found this far from reassuring, especially when he had to duck a shower of sparks that erupted from George's ears.
By mid-afternoon, Harry was dealing not only with the physical symptoms and magical side effects but also with the logistics of caring for seven bedridden people. Laundry was piling up at an alarming rate—magical illness, it seemed, produced copious amounts of sweat, tears, and various other fluids that Harry tried not to think about too much as he stripped beds and replaced sheets.
The kitchen was a disaster zone of half-brewed potions, dirty dishes, and failed attempts at soup. Harry had never been more grateful for his enforced cooking experience at the Dursleys, though nothing had prepared him for trying to make seven different variations of toast for seven different Weasleys who all suddenly had very specific preferences about how burnt their bread should be.
"Just a light golden brown," Percy had requested primly.
"Charred to a crisp," Fred had countered.
"Still basically bread-shaped dough," had been George's preference.
Harry had drawn the line at Ron's request for toast cut into the shape of a Quidditch pitch, complete with goal hoops formed from melted cheese.
By the fifth day, Harry was beginning to feel the strain. He'd barely slept more than a few hours at a stretch, constantly awakened by calls for water, potions, or assistance to the bathroom. His eyes felt gritty, his back ached from carrying trays up and down stairs, and his hands were raw from washing sheets and clothes.
But there was also a strange satisfaction in being needed, in knowing exactly how each Weasley liked their tea or which cool cloth placement worked best for Ginny's headaches. He'd memorized the fever-reducer potion recipe and could now brew it with his eyes closed. He'd learned that Percy needed absolute silence to sleep, while the twins actually rested better with quiet conversation in the background. He knew that Mrs. Weasley would only take her medicine if he pretended to have taken some himself, and that Mr. Weasley could be distracted from his discomfort with questions about Muggle inventions.
On the sixth morning, Harry woke on the living room sofa (his makeshift bed) to find Mrs. Weasley standing over him, her color much improved.
"Harry dear," she said, her voice stronger than it had been in days, "you've been absolutely marvelous. But I think you need to rest. You look exhausted."
Harry sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley. How are you feeling?"
"Much better. Arthur too. It seems we're over the worst of it. The children might take another day or two, but—"
She was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and they both looked up to see the twins, still pale but no longer green, making their way carefully down.
"We've come to relieve you, Harry," Fred announced.
"Can't let you have all the glory of nursing duty," George added.
Harry felt a surge of relief, followed immediately by a wave of dizziness as he stood. Mrs. Weasley caught his arm, her expression changing to concern.
"Harry, are you feeling alright?"
"Fine," Harry insisted, even as the room tilted alarmingly. "Just stood up too fast."
But Mrs. Weasley's cool hand was already on his forehead, and her eyes widened. "You're burning up! Oh, I was afraid of this. Sit down, sit down right now."
Harry tried to protest but found himself being firmly guided back to the sofa. The twins hovered nearby, looking worried.
"But I can't get sick," Harry argued weakly. "I'm supposed to be immune because I grew up with Muggles."
"Less likely to get sick, dear, not immune," Mrs. Weasley corrected, tucking a blanket around him. "And you've been exposed to extremely high concentrations of the virus while caring for all of us. Not to mention running yourself ragged."
As if his body had been waiting for permission to acknowledge its state, Harry suddenly became aware of the ache in his bones, the scratch in his throat, and the pounding in his head. He swallowed with difficulty.
"I still need to check on Ron and Ginny," he protested feebly.
"We'll handle it," Fred assured him.
"Consider it payback for all those basins you've emptied," George added with a grimace.
Mrs. Weasley was already preparing a dose of fever reducer. Harry tried to focus on her but found his vision blurring.
"I don't feel so—" was all he managed before lurching sideways and vomiting spectacularly onto the floor.
To his horror, what came out of his mouth wasn't just the toast he'd managed to eat earlier, but a stream of tiny, fluttering golden Snitches that buzzed around the room before dissipating into sparks.
"Oh my," Mrs. Weasley said, vanishing the mess with a wave of her wand. "That's quite a dramatic magical manifestation."
"Sorry," Harry mumbled, mortified.
"Nonsense, dear. Fred produced singing slugs, and George's bogeys turned into actual bogeymen. This is positively tame by comparison."
Harry wasn't sure if this was meant to be comforting. He shivered, suddenly freezing despite the blanket and the fire roaring in the grate.
"Drink this," Mrs. Weasley urged, holding the potion to his lips. Harry complied, grimacing at the taste.
"Tastes better than mine did," he managed to joke weakly.
Mrs. Weasley smiled, stroking his hair back from his forehead in a gesture so maternal it made Harry's chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his illness.
"That's because I've had decades of practice, dear. Now rest. We'll take care of everything."
Harry wanted to protest, to insist he was fine, but his eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The last thing he was aware of was Mrs. Weasley tucking the blanket more securely around him and murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like, "Poor dear, probably never had anyone to care for him properly when he was ill before."
Harry's illness hit him harder than it had any of the Weasleys. Whether because of his Muggle upbringing, his exhaustion from caring for everyone else, or simply bad luck, he spent the next three days in a feverish haze, drifting in and out of consciousness.
In his more lucid moments, he was aware of different Weasleys taking turns sitting with him. Mrs. Weasley's cool hands on his forehead. Mr. Weasley awkwardly patting his shoulder. The twins entertaining him with whispered jokes when he was awake enough to listen. Ron sitting beside him in solidarity, still wrapped in his own blanket. Ginny quietly reading aloud from a Quidditch magazine. Even Percy took a turn, reciting potion ingredients in a monotonous voice that somehow helped Harry fall asleep.
His magical symptoms were particularly embarrassing. Every time he sneezed, his glasses would replicate themselves, until there were dozens of identical pairs scattered across the living room. When he coughed, his hair would stand on end and form itself into shapes—antlers, lightning bolts, and once, mortifyingly, a perfect replica of Snape's hooked nose. Most alarming was his tendency to speak in Parseltongue during his fever dreams, which had sent Ron scrambling away in panic the first time it happened.
The worst came on the second night of his illness, when his temperature spiked dangerously high. Harry was vaguely aware of urgent voices, of cool cloths being placed on his body, of someone holding his hand tightly as he shivered and burned alternately.
"Should we call a Healer?" he heard Mr. Weasley ask worriedly.
"If his fever doesn't break by morning, yes," Mrs. Weasley replied, her voice tight with concern.
Harry wanted to tell them not to worry, that he was used to being sick alone, that they shouldn't trouble themselves, but all that came out was another stream of hissed Parseltongue that made someone nearby gasp.
"He's talking about his mother," came Ginny's unexpected voice. When there was silence, she added defensively, "What? It's obvious from his tone. He sounds... sad."
Harry wasn't sure if he'd actually been talking about his mother or if Ginny was just making things up to cover for his strange hissing, but either way, he was grateful when a cool hand stroked his cheek and Mrs. Weasley's voice said firmly, "Well, he has us now."
The fever broke sometime in the early hours of the morning. Harry woke feeling weak and wrung out, but his head was clearer than it had been in days. The living room was dim, lit only by the dying fire. He could make out Mrs. Weasley dozing in an armchair nearby, and to his surprise, Ron sprawled on the floor beside the sofa, snoring softly.
Harry shifted slightly, and Mrs. Weasley's eyes opened immediately. Years of motherhood had clearly given her the ability to sense movement in her sleeping charges.
"Harry," she whispered, moving to feel his forehead. Her face relaxed in relief. "Your fever's broken. How do you feel?"
"Like I've been trampled by a hippogriff," Harry admitted hoarsely. "But better."
Mrs. Weasley helped him sit up slightly and held a glass of water to his lips. The cool liquid was heaven on his raw throat.
"You gave us quite a scare," she said, setting the glass aside. "I don't think I've seen anyone react so strongly to Wizard's Flu before."
"Sorry," Harry mumbled.
"Don't apologize, dear. It's not your fault. If anything, we should be apologizing to you. You took such good care of all of us, and then we let you get sick."
"You didn't let me get sick," Harry protested. "And anyway, I wanted to help."
Mrs. Weasley's eyes softened as she adjusted his blanket. "You did more than help, Harry. You basically ran this household for days while all of us were useless lumps."
From the floor, Ron stirred. "Speak for yourself, Mum," he mumbled sleepily. "I was a very dignified lump."
Harry couldn't help the weak laugh that escaped him, which unfortunately triggered a coughing fit. Ron sat up in alarm as Harry doubled over, hacking painfully.
To Harry's horror, each cough produced a small cloud in the shape of his most private thoughts: a tiny Voldemort that dissolved immediately, a Snitch, a Hogwarts castle, and most embarrassingly, what was unmistakably the entire Weasley family gathered around a Christmas tree.
When the fit subsided, Harry kept his eyes fixed firmly on the blanket, his face burning with something other than fever. Neither Mrs. Weasley nor Ron commented on the revealing nature of his magical symptom, though Harry was sure they'd both seen.
"Well," Mrs. Weasley said briskly after a moment, "I think we could all use some breakfast. Ron, why don't you go see if your father needs help with the toast?"
Ron nodded, giving Harry's shoulder an awkward pat before heading to the kitchen.
When they were alone, Mrs. Weasley sat on the edge of the sofa and took Harry's hand. "Harry," she said gently, "I want you to know something. You are as much a part of this family as any of my children by birth. I hope you know that."
Harry swallowed hard, still unable to meet her eyes. "I know you're very kind to me, Mrs. Weasley."
"It's not kindness, dear. It's love. There's a difference."
Harry did look up then, startled by the frank emotion in her voice. Mrs. Weasley's eyes were suspiciously bright, but her smile was warm and sure.
"Now," she continued, patting his hand, "as your honorary mother, I'm prescribing at least two more days of bed rest, plenty of fluids, and absolutely no hero business until you're fully recovered. Understood?"
Harry nodded, a lump in his throat making speech impossible.
"Good boy," Mrs. Weasley approved, standing up. "I'll bring you some toast and tea. Any preference on how burnt the toast should be?"
Harry managed a smile. "However it comes out is fine, Mrs. Weasley. I'm not picky."
"That's what makes you such an easy patient, dear. Unlike certain redheads I could mention."
As she bustled off to the kitchen, Harry leaned back against his pillows, listening to the sounds of the recovering Weasley household: Fred and George's laughter from upstairs, Percy's methodical footsteps, Ginny humming as she passed through the hallway, Mr. Weasley and Ron bickering good-naturedly about the proper toasting technique.
For the first time in his life, Harry found himself actually grateful for being sick—not for the misery of it, but for the revelation it had brought: that being cared for and caring for others were two sides of the same precious coin. That this was what family meant—seeing each other at their worst and loving each other anyway. Cleaning up each other's messes, literal and figurative. Being there, simply being there.
Harry closed his eyes, a small smile on his face. He might be the Boy Who Lived in the wizarding world, but here, in the Burrow, he was just Harry—who could get sick like anyone else, who could need help like anyone else, who belonged, just like anyone else.
As he drifted back to sleep, his body still fighting off the last of the illness, he found he didn't mind the weakness quite so much anymore. After all, it had shown him a kind of strength he hadn't known before—the strength that comes from letting yourself be loved.
By the time the winter holidays ended, all the Weasleys and Harry had fully recovered from their bout with Wizard's Flu. The experience had become another shared story, another bond tying them together. Fred and George had even created a commemorative "Burrow Plague Survivor" badge for each of them, charmed to occasionally produce a tiny, harmless symptom as a reminder: a miniature sneeze, a microscopic floating sensation, a quick color change in one's fingernails.
Harry wore his pinned to the inside of his robes when he returned to Hogwarts, hidden from view but close to his heart—a tangible reminder that even in sickness, he had found a kind of healing he hadn't known he needed.