The Ministry ballroom gleamed with gold and enchantment, voices rising in polite conversation, glasses clinking in toasts to the latest initiatives. Hermione knew she should be listening, should be fully engaged in the conversations that mattered, but her stomach twisted with a sharp, queasy gurgle that had nothing to do with nerves.
It was just stress. It had to be. A long week, an early morning, a big event —nothing more.
And yet, as she smiled tightly at the foreign diplomat shaking her hand, the ballroom seemed to tilt just slightly. She pulled in a deep breath and clenched her fingers around the stem of her untouched champagne glass.
“Alright there?” Ron’s voice was soft in her ear, his hand pressing lightly against the small of her back.
She forced herself to nod, even as her stomach lurched dangerously at the movement. “Just a bit lightheaded. The room is warm.”
Ron didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. He knew better. He had spent enough years with Hermione to know she would deny feeling unwell until she physically could not anymore.
The night stretched painfully ahead. She could feel it unraveling—her control, her ability to keep her composure. The low-grade nausea she had been ignoring for hours was sharpening into something more urgent, something that clenched at her intestines and sent cold sweat prickling down the back of her neck.
She swallowed hard and shifted on her feet, pressing her thighs together as another wave of dizziness threatened her balance. There was a horrible, heavy pressure building low in her gut, the kind that warned of something far worse than a passing bout of queasiness.
A polite laugh from the woman in front of her, and Hermione forced herself to mirror it, nodding along to words she hadn’t actually processed. The edges of her vision blurred for a moment. Merlin, she needed to sit down. She needed to go home.
Another step forward. Another weak, forced smile. Another vicious cramp twisting deep in her belly, making her shudder.
Ron was watching her closely now, his fingers ghosting over her elbow, barely touching but grounding her all the same.
“’Mione,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for her. “You’re shaking.”
She was. A fine tremor in her hands, her shoulders tight, breath shallow. A wave of nausea surged, so sharp and undeniable that her knees nearly buckled.
She had to get out. Now.
“I—” Her voice cracked. “I need the loo.”
Ron didn’t hesitate. His hand curled firmly around her arm, guiding her through the throngs of people. She barely had the presence of mind to acknowledge the murmured goodbyes, the confused glances as they made their way toward the grand marble corridor outside the ballroom.
They had barely made it out of sight when her body betrayed her completely.
She wrenched herself free, barely stumbling into an alcove before she gagged violently. The sheer force of it wracked through her, her legs giving out so that she sank onto the cold floor. Ron was there in an instant, one hand on her back, the other holding her hair away as she heaved.
The sickness tore through her, relentless, her whole body trembling. Hot tears pricked at her eyes, her stomach a churning mess of nausea and cramps.
“Easy, love,” Ron murmured, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Just let it out.”
The humiliation burned nearly as much as her raw throat. The gala was still going on, and here she was, crouched in some dimly lit corridor, sick and shuddering in Ron’s arms.
“’M sorry,” she rasped, wiping at her mouth with shaking fingers.
“Oi, none of that.” He pressed a handkerchief into her palm. “You’re ill, Hermione. You don’t have to be sorry for that.”
She barely had time to process his words before another sharp cramp seized her gut. A cold sweat broke out over her skin. No. No, no, no—
Her breath hitched, panic flooding her as she clenched down, desperate, barely holding on.
Ron was already moving, already reading her too well. “Come on, love,” he said, voice steady. “We’re getting you home." His hand tightened on her back, his other already summoning a cleaning charm before anyone could stare for too long.
She barely made it into the stall before her body gave in entirely. The sheer humiliation of it had her biting back a sob, body trembling with exertion. She barely registered the sound of the door opening, Ron’s voice quiet and steady outside the stall.
“’Mione, love, it’s alright.” His tone held no judgment, only patience, only care. “Just let it pass.”
Tears burned at her eyes, but she was too spent to argue. By the time she was done, her legs were weak, her body aching. She forced herself upright, shakily fumbling for her wand to clean herself up before she emerged, Ron already holding out a damp cloth from the sink.
She avoided his gaze, but he simply pressed a kiss to her temple, his arm solid around her waist as he guided her out.
---
The ride home was a nightmare. She lasted all of ten minutes before a sharp, merciless wave of nausea overwhelmed her. Ron barely had time to pull over before she was fumbling with the door, retching onto the pavement. His hand was firm on her back, grounding her even as her world spun.
“It’s alright, love,” he soothed, voice low and steady. “Almost home.”
But her stomach wasn’t done punishing her. Less than five minutes later, she barely managed to get the door open again before she was sick right there in the car, too exhausted and miserable to stop it. She heard Ron swear softly before he quickly pulled the car over again, rubbing her back as she gasped for air.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, summoning a cleaning charm without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And then, just as they pulled into their drive, fresh dread seized her.
“Ron—” Her voice was hoarse, panicked. “I need to—”
He understood instantly. Before she could even finish, he was helping her out of the car, half-carrying her up the steps and straight into the loo.
She barely made it, collapsing onto the cool tile, her body wracked with exhaustion and humiliation alike. And still, Ron was there, murmuring soft reassurances, rubbing slow circles into her back, staying with her through every miserable, shaking moment.
By the time she was finally done, she had nothing left to fight. Ron lifted her—far too easily, he thought dimly—and carried her to bed. The sheets were cool, the room dim, his hands still warm as they brushed damp hair from her face.
She exhaled a shaky breath, curling into his side as he settled next to her.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time that night, she relaxed.