Hermione was halfway through annotating a particularly dense report on Wizengamot regulations when the enchanted parchment on her desk let out a soft hum. She glanced at it, ink blooming across the surface in messy, slanted handwriting.
Ron:Ugh. Just sneezed 5 times in a row. Everyone in the office hates me.
Hermione rolled her eyes, dipping her quill into the inkpot before responding.
Hermione:Because you should be home in bed.
It took mere seconds for Ron’s reply to scrawl itself across the parchment.
Ron:M’fine. Just a bit sniffly. Also, you should know that Harry is a traitor—he just hit me with a Bubble-Head Charm and moved his desk further away. Rude.
Hermione:Maybe because you’re coughing on everything?
A beat of silence. Then—
Ron:…Maybe.
Hermione sighed, adjusting the tight bun at the nape of her neck. Ron had been sniffling and coughing the night before, but of course, he had insisted he was “right as rain” this morning before Apparating straight to the Ministry. The man had survived a war but still refused to admit when he needed to rest.
The parchment hummed again.
Ron:My nose is so stuffed up I think I forgot what breathing feels like.
Hermione:Go home, Ronald.
Ron:Can’t. Important meeting. Auror things. I’m very crucial, you know.
Hermione:You are crucial to me, and I’d like you not to collapse on our sitting room floor.
Ron:Romantic.
Hermione:I’m serious.
Ron’s response came a little slower this time, and when it did, it was shakier than before.
Ron:Head hurts. I think my skull is trying to evict my brain.
Hermione chewed her lip, then sent back:
Hermione:I’ll come to you at lunch with some Pepperup Potion. Don’t argue.
Ron:Wouldn’t dream of it. Ow, sneezed again. That one hurt. My nose is staging a rebellion.
Hermione:Blow your nose, for Merlin’s sake.
There was no response for a while, and Hermione tried to focus on her own work, but every now and then, she found herself glancing at the parchment, waiting for his scrawled complaints. When the next message finally came, it was barely legible.
Ron:Think I might actually be dying. Tell Mum I love her.
Hermione:I’m rolling my eyes so hard I can see my own brain.
Ron:Nice. Can you see if I left mine at home? Feels like it’s missing.
Hermione smiled despite herself.
By the time Ron finally got home, he looked awful.
His red hair was sticking up in a way that suggested he’d fallen asleep at his desk and then startled awake. His nose was a raw, chapped pink, and his freckled skin was a few shades paler than usual—except for the flush of fever high on his cheekbones. A damp handkerchief was crumpled in his hand, and he was sniffling miserably, his breath hitching even as he tried to remove his cloak.
Hermione clicked her tongue and stepped forward to help. “I told you to go home earlier.”
Ron sniffed. “M’home now.”
“Barely.” She reached up and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Merlin, you’re boiling.”
Ron made a half-hearted attempt at a cocky grin. “Yeah, well. I am pretty hot.”
Hermione swatted his arm. “Come on, let’s get you out of these clothes.”
Ron waggled his eyebrows. “Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley. I am a sick man.”
“You are a sick man,” she agreed. “So sick you’re delirious. Upstairs. Bed. Now.”
With a dramatic groan, Ron trudged up the stairs, sneezing twice before he even made it to their bedroom. Hermione followed behind, already mentally listing off the potions in their cabinet. She grabbed a blanket from the armchair and wrapped it around his shoulders the moment he sat on the edge of the bed.
Ron, pathetic and exhausted, immediately flopped onto the mattress. “Don’t feel good,” he mumbled into the pillow.
“I know,” she said softly, brushing her fingers through his hair. He sighed at the touch, eyes fluttering shut.
Hermione left the room briefly and returned with a tray—Pepperup Potion, a steaming cup of tea, and a bowl of soup she’d Summoned from the kitchen. She coaxed him into sitting up just long enough to drink the potion. His ears immediately steamed, and he made a deeply unattractive groaning noise as the congestion began to clear.
“Oh, that’s horrible,” he whined.
“But it works.”
Ron made a face but didn’t argue. Instead, he curled into his blanket cocoon, watching her with glassy eyes. “You’re the best.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, smoothing the blanket over his shoulders. “And you are an idiot for going to work.”
Ron hummed, already drifting off. “Y’r stuck with me.”
Hermione smiled, brushing a hand over his fever-warm cheek. “Yes, I am.”
And really, she wouldn’t have it any other way.