a good hand to hold

The forest was colder than expected. Damp air clung to the trio as they trudged through fallen leaves and mossy roots, searching for somewhere—anywhere—to set up the tent. They’d been on the run for weeks now, and every day was a new worry. Snatchers. Horcruxes. Survival.

When Hermione first complained of a sore throat, no one thought much of it. She had barely slept and had been speaking in a whisper for days to avoid detection. But by the next morning, she was curled under the heavy quilt in the tent’s narrow bed, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, and her voice reduced to a raspy croak. She coughed violently into her scarf, the sound wet and rattling. Ron winced, then placed the back of his hand against her forehead.

“She’s burning up,” he muttered, brow furrowed.

Harry tried to respond, but his voice came out hoarse. He blinked at them from his spot near the tent entrance, a shiver rippling through his frame. His glasses slid down his sweaty nose.

“Oh, brilliant,” Ron sighed, standing. “Two down.”

He worked quickly. The pot bubbled with weak broth within ten minutes. He filled a bowl and brought it carefully to Hermione, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, spooning it into her mouth with the kind of patience she didn’t have when he was sick.

“Ron,” she murmured, halfway lucid. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he said gently. “Now open your mouth.”

She obeyed. The heat of the broth made her eyes water, but it soothed her raw throat. Still, she had to stop halfway through, chest spasming with a wet cough that brought up thick phlegm. She turned into a handkerchief Ron held out instinctively. He didn’t flinch as she coughed into it, even when it left the cloth heavy and sodden. He folded it, set it aside, and pressed a cool rag to her forehead.

Harry had managed to stagger to the corner cot, where he now lay curled up, knees to his chest. Ron approached him next, gently replacing the damp towel on his forehead. “You too, mate?”

Harry gave a weak nod. His skin was clammy with sweat, but he shivered uncontrollably. “Think I’m dying,” he muttered.

“You’re not,” Ron said simply, tucking a second blanket over him.

Over the next two days, Ron barely slept. Hermione’s fever climbed so high she started muttering nonsense—Arithmancy formulas, bits of Hogwarts: A History, snatches of spells. Her breathing grew fast and shallow, and more than once she dry-heaved into the basin beside her bed, her pale face wrinkling in misery. Ron held her curls back with one hand and rubbed circles on her back with the other. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “Let it out.”

Harry wasn’t much better. The fever made him lethargic and confused, and when he wasn’t sweating through his sheets, he was throwing off blankets, convinced he was too hot to breathe. His cough was a hacking bark that shook his ribs. Once, he sat up too fast and promptly vomited down the front of his jumper. Ron didn’t say a word—just summoned a cloth, Vanished the mess, and helped him change.

Neither Hermione nor Harry noticed at first how quietly competent Ron was—until Hermione surfaced from her fevered haze and found herself sipping peppermint tea from a warm mug, her head propped up on Ron’s lap while he ran fingers through her tangled curls. The touch was careful, rhythmic. She blinked up at him. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

He looked down at her with a crooked smile. “Seven of us, remember? Fred had bronchitis once for two weeks. Ginny used to puke if she even thought about shellfish. Mum would stick me on bucket duty.”

She let out a hoarse laugh that turned into a cough. Ron shifted her upright, handed her a fresh handkerchief. “Easy, now.”

Harry, from his cot, blinked blearily at the two of them. “Why aren’t you sick?”

“I’m built different,” Ron said solemnly.

The rest of the week passed slowly. Hermione’s fever broke on day four, leaving her weak and dizzy but no longer delirious. Harry took longer, but with Ron coaxing him to drink water, to eat dry crackers, and to rest, he slowly started to recover too.

On the fifth night, both of them asleep, Ron sat alone by the magical fire. His shoulders sagged, exhaustion finally catching up to him. He looked over at Hermione’s peaceful face, her breathing soft and even, and then at Harry, who now snored faintly with his mouth open.

For all the times they’d thought of him as the third wheel—the jokester, the comic relief—it was Ron who had held them together.

And maybe, Hermione thought as she stirred and watched him through half-lidded eyes, maybe he always had.