Hermione’s first inkling that something was wrong came in the form of a bone-deep chill that settled in her spine, making her shiver despite the thick socks on her feet and the wool blanket draped over her shoulders. She tried to ignore it. She had too much to do. Ron had been gone for four days now, off on some Ministry mission in Merlin-knows-where, and she had foolishly believed she'd enjoy the quiet.
She had not accounted for getting sick.
By the time the fever properly took hold, she could hardly hold her wand without her fingers trembling. A churning nausea made it impossible to eat, and her body ached as though she’d taken a dozen poorly aimed hexes to the ribs. But worst of all—worse than the burning in her throat, the relentless shivering, the feverish dreams that made time slip through her fingers—was the loneliness.
She curled up in their bed, Ron’s side of the mattress too cold, too empty. Her throat was too raw to call for him, so she did the next best thing: she summoned an owl.
-----
Ron,
I think I’m dying. Or at least, I wish I were. I haven’t been able to keep anything down since yesterday, and I can barely sit up. I keep thinking I hear you in the other room, but it’s just the house settling. It’s stupid, but I hate how quiet it is here without you.
I hope your mission is going well. I miss you.
Love,
Hermione
-----
Ron read the letter twice, rubbing a hand down his face. “Bugger.”
“What?” Harry looked up from where he was poring over maps.
“Hermione’s sick. Like, properly sick. And she’s alone.”
Harry frowned. “Can you get back early?”
“No.” Ron swore under his breath. “Not unless I fancy losing my job.” He shoved his chair back and snatched up a quill, barely pausing to think before scribbling a response.
-----
Hermione,
Merlin, love, I feel awful that I’m not there. Do you need me to get someone to come check on you? Have you at least tried a fever potion? You do remember where we keep them, right? (Spoiler: second cupboard, left of the sink.)
I wish I could be there. I’ll be home in three days—hold tight till then, yeah?
Miss you too. Don’t die. I’d be properly cross with you.
Love,
Ron
-----
Three days. Hermione wasn’t sure she’d last three hours.
Her fever spiked that evening, leaving her curled in a miserable ball on their sofa, blanket tangled around her legs, sweat dampening her hair. Her thoughts drifted in and out of consciousness, fever dreams warping reality. She dreamt of Ron’s voice whispering to her, of his hands stroking her hair, of cool lips pressed to her forehead. But when she reached for him, there was nothing but air.
At some point, she found the strength to write again.
-----
Ron,
I took the fever potion. It did nothing. You’re a liar and I hate you.
(Not really, obviously. But I do feel awful, and I might resent you for not being here.)
I had a dream you came home, but it wasn’t real, and I woke up crying like an idiot. I don’t even like crying. You’re a bad influence.
I’m going back to sleep. I hope your mission is worth me suffering alone.
Love (begrudgingly),
Hermione
-----
Ron swore when he read the letter. “That’s it. I’m getting someone over there.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Ginny.”
Within minutes, he’d sent a frantic owl to his sister.
-----
Hermione was barely coherent when she heard the knock on the door. She thought it was another fever dream—until it happened again, louder this time.
With great effort, she stumbled to the door, gripping the handle weakly. She opened it to find Ginny standing there, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed.
“For Merlin’s sake,” Ginny sighed, pushing past her. “You look like death.”
“I feel like death,” Hermione muttered, swaying slightly.
Ginny caught her before she could collapse. “Bed. Now.”
Hermione would have protested, but her legs didn’t seem particularly interested in supporting her weight. Ginny guided her back to bed, muttering under her breath about idiot men and stubborn witches who don’t know when to ask for help.
By the time she was settled, wrapped in warm blankets with a fresh cooling charm on her forehead, she barely had the strength to murmur, “Ron sent you?”
Ginny smirked. “He’s a pushover where you’re concerned.”
Hermione felt a pang of longing so strong it nearly made her weep. “I miss him.”
“I know.” Ginny smoothed damp curls back from her forehead. “You’ll see him soon.”
Hermione didn’t have the strength to respond. Sleep took her, and this time, her dreams were filled with warm arms and quiet whispers, promising that soon, the loneliness would end.