Hermione Granger prided herself on her resilience. She had fought trolls, battled Death Eaters, and memorized half of Hogwarts: A History, all without breaking a sweat. But none of that quite compared to the absolute torment that came with the first day of her period.
It had started that morning with the dull ache in her lower back, a familiar warning. By the time she had made it through Transfiguration, her entire abdomen was a war zone, cramps twisting deep and unrelenting. A cold sweat had broken out along the back of her neck, and every muscle in her body felt like it was pulling inwards, coiling tight against the pain. She had pushed through Potions, pretending she wasn’t doubling over in her seat, and by dinner, her hands were trembling slightly as she reached for her goblet of pumpkin juice. Even the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, usually so inviting, felt suffocating.
Ron was the first to notice.
“Oi, Hermione, you alright?”
Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose and forced herself to sit up straighter. “I’m fine,” she murmured, voice tight, though the slight tremble in her hands betrayed her.
Ron frowned. He knew that tone well—he’d heard it countless times when she was stressed about exams or when she was trying to convince them she wasn’t absolutely exhausted from their latest adventure. But this was different. His eyes flickered over her pale face, the way she had her arms wrapped around herself, the subtle way her foot tapped like she was trying to shake off discomfort.
Then, something clicked. He’d seen this before.
Ginny got the same way sometimes.
Ron’s eyes widened slightly in realization. He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck, trying to think of the right way to say it. “Oh,” he said finally, his voice quiet but understanding. “Er—do you need anything? Hot water bottle? Chocolate? Er, hexing privileges?”
Hermione blinked up at him, caught between appreciation and mortification. “Ron, I—”
Harry, meanwhile, was glancing between them, looking thoroughly lost. “What’s going on? Is she sick?”
Ron shot him a look. “Harry. It’s her time of the month.”
Harry’s eyes widened in alarm. He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “Oh. Oh! Right. Er—should we take her to Madam Pomfrey?”
Hermione let out a pained laugh, clutching her stomach. “No, Harry, I don’t need the hospital wing.”
Harry looked genuinely troubled, like he was racking his brain for some kind of useful response. “But—what do we do? Is there a spell? A potion? Do I need to get McGonagall?”
Ron sighed, standing up. “We get her a hot water bottle and some tea, that’s what.”
Harry scrambled to his feet, eager to be useful. “Right. I’ll do the tea.”
Ron shot Hermione a knowing look, as if to say brace yourself, before jogging up the boys’ dormitory stairs. Harry, meanwhile, marched toward the small kitchenette in the common room, looking determined, though he cast one last glance at Hermione like he was afraid she might collapse in the meantime.
Hermione, despite herself, let her head rest against the back of the sofa, exhaling slowly. It was ridiculous how much she appreciated their clumsy concern.
Minutes later, Ron returned, pressing a warm, transfigured water bottle against her stomach. The heat seeped through her jumper, soothing the worst of the tension in her muscles. “This should help,” he muttered, plopping down beside her with an air of practiced ease, like this was no big deal.
Harry, meanwhile, emerged from the kitchenette looking triumphant, with a steaming mug of tea. “It’s a bit strong,” he admitted, handing it over, “but it’s got honey. That’s supposed to help, right?”
Hermione took it gratefully, her fingers curling around the warmth. “You two are being very uncharacteristically sweet.”
Ron scoffed, nudging her lightly. “Don’t get used to it.”
Harry grinned. “Yeah, but, you know. You save our arses on a regular basis. Least we can do is get you a cup of tea.”
Hermione smiled, the pain still a dull roar but somehow easier to bear. She took a slow sip of the tea, letting the warmth spread through her chest. As much as the cramps were still present, the presence of her best friends—their earnest attempts to make things better, even in their clumsy, ridiculous ways—was its own kind of comfort.
They didn’t say anything after that, just sat there with her, Ron’s arm loosely draped along the back of the couch, Harry’s knee bumping against hers in quiet solidarity.