It starts like a slow burn in his chest.
Ron doesn’t know where it comes from—one moment, he’s sitting in the Gryffindor common room, pretending to read his Transfiguration essay, and the next, his thoughts won’t quiet down. His fingers are gripping the parchment too tightly, his breathing feels a little off, and there’s an uncomfortable heat crawling under his skin.
It’s not new. He’s had moments like this before—heart pounding before a Quidditch match, stomach twisting when he thought Harry had died, nerves crawling through his body before a duel. But this?
This is different.
The common room is too loud. The fire crackles too sharply, the pages of books turn with a deafening rustle, and the laughter of second-years by the window grates against his ears like nails on stone. He tries to ignore it, but suddenly, his head feels too light, too dizzy. He blinks rapidly, gripping the edge of the table, trying to steady himself. His chest is tight.
Too tight.
Why can’t he breathe properly?
The noise presses in on him, and his vision tunnels. His fingers feel numb, tingling, and his stomach lurches like he might be sick.
Oh, God. Oh, Merlin. What’s happening?
Ron jerks to his feet. His chair scrapes against the floor, but he barely hears it over the roaring in his ears. His hands are shaking, and he can’t get enough air into his lungs, can’t make sense of what’s happening inside his own body. He stumbles past a group of Gryffindors, hardly noticing their confused glances, and practically crashes into the staircase leading up to the boys’ dormitories.
He doesn’t make it all the way.
Halfway up the stairs, his knees buckle, and he grips the railing, gasping. He can’t—he can’t breathe. His heart is pounding too fast, like it’s trying to escape his ribcage. His vision is blurring at the edges.
He thinks he might die.
He actually, genuinely thinks he might die.
"Ron?"
A voice. Familiar, worried.
Ron barely registers it through the static in his head. His chest is rising and falling too fast, his fingers digging into the wooden railing. His skin is clammy with sweat, but he’s shivering.
"Ron!"
Hands—small, warm—on his arm, steadying him. He blinks, and suddenly Hermione is there, kneeling beside him on the staircase, her face tight with concern.
"Ron, what’s wrong?" Her voice is softer now, careful, like she’s afraid to startle him. "Are you hurt?"
He can’t answer. His throat is locked up, and the only sound he manages is a ragged, shuddering inhale that doesn’t feel like enough.
But Hermione is Hermione—she’s quick, observant. She sees his trembling hands, the wild panic in his eyes, the way he can’t seem to get a proper breath.
Her expression shifts.
"Oh," she breathes. Understanding.
She’s seen this before. Not in Ron, but in Harry—after nightmares, after battles, after Cedric. She’s read about it, too, because of course she has.
Ron is having a panic attack.
"Ron, listen to me." Hermione’s voice is calm but firm. She shifts closer, blocking out the rest of the world. "You’re safe. You’re not dying. I promise."
He shakes his head—he can’t think, can’t process—but she squeezes his arm, grounding him.
"I know it feels like you can’t breathe," she says gently. "But you are. You’re getting air. Your lungs are just going too fast, that’s all."
Too fast. Yes. His chest is rising and falling too quickly, like a Snitch flitting out of control.
"Okay. Look at me." Her hand cups his cheek, guiding his gaze to hers. "I want you to breathe with me, all right? Can you do that?"
He doesn’t know if he can. But Hermione is staring at him with such determination, such quiet steadiness, that he forces a nod.
"Good. Breathe in—slowly, through your nose."
She inhales deeply, exaggerating the motion so he can follow. Ron tries. His breath stutters, but he pulls in air.
"Hold it for a second. Just one. Now, let it out—nice and slow."
She exhales, and he does too. It’s shaky, uneven, but it’s something.
"Again," she encourages. "In—slow. Hold. Out."
He follows her lead. They do it again. And again. And again.
Slowly—so slowly—his heartbeat starts to steady. The tingling in his hands fades, the dizziness lessens. He still feels wrung out, exhausted and shaky, but the crushing weight on his chest begins to lift.
Ron sags against the railing, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels drained, embarrassed, raw. He’s never—never—felt that kind of helplessness before.
But Hermione just sits there with him, her hand still resting lightly on his arm. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, just lets him breathe.
Finally, she speaks. "It’s okay, you know."
He exhales shakily. "That was—" He swallows. "That was horrible."
"I know." She squeezes his arm. "But you got through it."
He lets out a small, humorless laugh. "Not alone."
Hermione gives him a soft, knowing smile. "You don’t have to do things alone, Ron."
He looks at her then, properly looks at her, and something in his chest loosens.
"...Thanks."
"Anytime," she says, and he believes her.
Because this is Hermione, and she keeps her promises.