hermione's vigilance
Hermione didn’t know how much longer she could keep doing this.
She sat beside Harry’s bed, her hand gripping his with a firmness that was almost desperate. His skin was cold and clammy, and his once-vibrant eyes were barely opening. The fever came in waves, wracking his body with tremors, and it was clear that even though they had won the war, Harry was still fighting a battle of his own. One that she couldn’t help him win.
The air in the room felt thick, like it was closing in on her, and every time she glanced over at Ron, she could feel the quiet terror in the air—the fear that they were about to lose Harry, that everything they had fought for would end in the worst possible way.
She couldn't get rid of persistent, unshakable feeling that she wasn’t doing enough. That she should be doing more to save him. That she should be doing something to fix it all.
Instead, she sat here, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest, the constant ache that seemed to gnaw at her from the inside out.
Her heart was beating too fast again. She’d noticed it in the last few weeks—the palpitations. It wasn’t just the stress from everything that had happened in the war; it was something more. The quiet pressure in her chest, the dizziness, the feeling that her heart was a little too eager, a little too frantic. Her chest would tighten in the dead of night, when everything was still and silent, when her thoughts could overwhelm her with the weight of all that had happened. She was holding on to too much, and her body was beginning to betray her.
Hermione hated how out of control she felt. She had always prided herself on her intellect, her ability to solve problems, to keep things in order, to make sense of chaos. But nothing made sense now. Not the war, not the deaths, not the way Harry was slipping away from them in front of her eyes.
Ron’s hand brushed hers as he sat down next to her, and for a moment, the contact grounded her. She could always count on Ron to be there when she needed him, even if she couldn’t always admit just how much she needed him. He was quieter now, more reserved, ever since the battle. She could feel the weight of it pressing on him, too. They were both struggling, but they weren’t talking about it. They couldn’t afford to. Not with Harry, the world, in this state.
“Any change?” Ron’s voice was low, almost a whisper. He looked at Harry, his face drawn and pale, dark circles under his eyes. Ron hadn’t been sleeping either. Not with the nightmares that haunted him every night.
“Not yet,” Hermione replied, her voice thick with exhaustion. “He’s still not responding properly. His fever’s still high.”
She hated the helplessness that flooded her as she said those words. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shake Harry awake, force him to respond, to snap out of it. But no amount of shaking or pleading was going to do that. It wasn’t magic they needed, it was time—time for Harry’s body to heal, to fight whatever illness had gripped him in the wake of the battle.
But time wasn’t something they had in abundance.
Her pulse quickened again as she reached up to adjust the cloth on Harry’s forehead, and she couldn’t ignore the feeling that had been bubbling inside of her for weeks. The sense that she was always on edge, always waiting for the next shoe to drop, for the next tragedy to strike. She had been so hyperaware of every sound, every movement, that it felt like her nerves were permanently frayed, like the world around her was too loud, too bright, and her body was betraying her with every erratic heartbeat.
When they were in the midst of the battle, it had been easy to push everything down. There had been no time to think, no time to feel. It was all just survival, one moment after the next. But now, when they were back here, in the quiet of the Burrow, everything was catching up to her. The weight of it all. The grief of losing Fred. The terror of almost losing Harry. The endless worry that gnawed at her, that always seemed to hang in the air like a dark cloud she couldn’t escape.
It was hard to breathe sometimes. And not just because of the constant pressure on her chest, but because everything felt so fragile now. Like anything could shatter at any moment.
“I don’t think he’s going to make it,” Ron said, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear him.
Hermione turned to look at him, her chest tightening at the rawness in his voice. She hated that he felt this way. She hated that any of them felt this way.
“I’m sure he will,” Hermione said, trying to offer some semblance of comfort, but even as the words left her mouth, she didn’t believe them herself. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She could see Ron's shoulders slumping, the grief evident in his eyes. He was struggling with the weight of Fred’s death, with the guilt of not being able to do more for his brother. And now this. Now Harry. It felt like they were all falling apart at the seams, but none of them knew how to put each other back together.
“He’s been through so much,” Ron continued, staring at Harry. “I don’t know how much more he can take. We’ve all been through too much, but it’s like—like he can’t take a breath without something else going wrong. I can’t lose him too, Hermione. I can’t.”
Hermione’s heart cracked at his words. She reached out, pulling Ron into a tight embrace. He stiffened for a moment, but then his arms wrapped around her, and they held on to each other for a long, quiet moment.
"I know," she whispered into his ear, feeling the tremor in his body. "I know, Ron. But we’re not going to lose him. We can’t."
But even as she said it, her mind couldn’t stop flashing back to the battle, to the moments when she had feared she was going to lose both Ron and Harry. The explosions, the curses, the screams—it had all been too much. She had thought she might lose them both, that no matter how much she fought, how much she tried to protect them, she couldn’t stop what was coming.
Now, it felt like she was in the same position. Watching helplessly as Harry fought an illness she couldn’t heal with a spell, a potion, or a charm.
Her heart was pounding again, and the pressure in her chest was unbearable. She had to focus. She had to help Ron. She had to be strong for him, for Harry, for everyone else. But the truth was that she didn’t feel strong anymore. She felt like she was coming apart at the edges, that the tension in her body, the racing of her heart, would eventually shatter her.
And yet, she stayed. Because she had to. Because she couldn’t give up. Not now. Not after everything.
“I’ll go check on Ginny,” Ron said, pulling away from her reluctantly. “She’s been in and out of the kitchen all day. She needs to rest.”
Hermione nodded, though her eyes didn’t leave Harry’s face.
“I’ll stay with him,” she said softly, almost as if to herself. “I’ll stay with him.”
Ron squeezed her hand once before standing up and walking toward the door, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. Hermione watched him go, her chest tightening again as she turned back to Harry, watching him breathe, hoping that somehow, some way, he would pull through.
But there was no guarantee. There never was. And as much as she hated to admit it, the uncertainty gnawed at her.
They were all so tired.