Chapter 1
The Burrow had never smelled better—Mrs. Weasley had outdone herself with a thick stew bubbling on the stove, fresh rolls cooling on the counter, and something sweet baking in the oven. Ron was practically bouncing on his heels as he paced in front of the fireplace, waiting for Hermione to step through. He'd been looking forward to her visit for weeks.
When the Floo roared to life, he grinned, stepping forward to catch her hand as she stumbled into the kitchen. But the moment he saw her face, his excitement faltered.
Hermione looked pale—too pale. Her usual rosy cheeks were absent, her lips chapped, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the warmth of the kitchen. She gave him a weak smile, but before she could even say hello, her body tensed, and she clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh—Merlin—”
Ron barely had time to react before Hermione turned and bolted out the back door, disappearing into the garden. He heard the unmistakable sound of retching a moment later.
He winced. “Bloody hell.”
Mrs. Weasley was already moving, a concerned frown on her face as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Go after her, Ron! The poor dear—”
Ron didn’t need to be told twice. He was out the door in seconds, stepping into the humid summer air. Hermione was doubled over by the garden fence, her hands gripping the wooden slats as she heaved. His stomach twisted in sympathy.
“Hermione?” he said softly, stepping closer.
She groaned, spitting weakly into the grass before wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Ron,” she whispered hoarsely, not turning to face him. “I—I think I’m sick.”
Ron’s heart sank. She looked miserable—shivering slightly despite the summer warmth, her hair sticking to her damp face. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, pressing a hand between her shoulder blades. She felt too warm. Feverish.
“Come on,” he murmured, guiding her up gently. “Let’s get you inside.”
“But I just got here,” she protested weakly, her voice trembling. “I don’t want to ruin—”
“You’re not ruining anything,” Ron interrupted firmly. “You’re sick. That’s all. We’ll fix it.”
She let out a soft whimper, swaying slightly on her feet. Ron acted quickly, sliding an arm around her waist and half-carrying her back inside. Mrs. Weasley was already at the table, a cool cloth and a steaming cup of tea waiting.
“I set up Percy’s old room for her,” she said, voice warm with motherly concern. “Ron, help her upstairs.”
Hermione tried to protest again, but Ron shushed her, practically lifting her up the stairs. By the time he got her to the bedroom, she was trembling, eyes glassy with fever. He helped her onto the bed, tugging the blankets up around her before pressing the damp cloth to her forehead. She sighed in relief, eyelids fluttering.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, guilt heavy in her tone. “I know you had plans for us—”
“Oi, stop,” Ron said, sitting beside her. “You think I care about that? The only plan I’ve got now is making sure you don’t feel like rubbish.”
Her lips wobbled like she might cry, but instead, she reached for his hand, squeezing it weakly. “You’re sweet.”
Ron flushed. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell anyone.”
She gave him the smallest of smiles before her eyelids fluttered shut. Within moments, she was asleep, still clutching his hand. Ron didn’t move, watching over her as she rested, determined to be there when she woke up.
Because no matter what, he wasn’t going to let her feel alone in this.