ron gets what's coming to him
It was only a matter of time.
Ron had made it through Hermione’s fever and Harry’s delirium on sheer willpower and a lifetime of Weasley immunity, but even that had limits. By the seventh morning, Hermione woke to the sound of quiet retching outside the tent.
She blinked. The fog in her head was finally lifting, the aches mostly faded. She padded to the flap in thick socks, brushing it aside to find Ron on hands and knees by a log, shoulders heaving.
“Oh, Ron…” she said softly, crouching next to him. He didn’t try to hide it—just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave her a sickly smile.
“Hey,” he rasped. “Think it’s my turn.”
Hermione guided him inside, conjuring a basin just in time for him to vomit again. She sat on the edge of his cot, running a hand through his sweaty fringe and wiping his face with a cool flannel. His cheeks were flushed deep red, his hair damp, and his body burning hot beneath the covers.
“You should’ve told us you were feeling bad.”
He gave a weak shrug. “Didn’t want to worry you. Figured I had another day or two in me.”
Hermione looked at him, at the stubborn set of his jaw even now. She tucked the blankets tighter around his shivering frame, brushing his hair gently off his forehead with her fingers. “You absolute idiot.”
Ron gave a breathless chuckle, then winced as a shiver wracked his frame. “You’re not wrong.”
Harry sat up in his bed across the room, his voice still croaky. “Oi. Should’ve told us. We could’ve looked after you.”
“You were dying,” Ron croaked, eyes slipping closed. “Wasn’t about me.”
“Well, now it is,” Hermione said firmly. “So drink this,” she added, pressing a steaming mug of ginger tea into his hands. “And try not to throw it up in under five seconds.”
Ron sipped obediently, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet hers. “You’re scary when you’re maternal.”
Hermione snorted. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Over the next few days, they took turns caring for him—Harry still a little unsteady but eager to repay the favor. Ron was a bad patient. He complained more, whined about the taste of potion, refused to admit when he needed help sitting up. But when Hermione’s fingers combed through his hair or Harry mumbled reassurances beside him, Ron relaxed, and the tension eased from his face.
“You’re both rubbish at this,” he mumbled once, half-asleep as Hermione dabbed a cool cloth over his temple.
“Then it’s a good thing we had an excellent teacher,” Hermione murmured, brushing the hair off his flushed forehead again. “Now rest.”