Harry hadn’t realized how much effort it took just to exist until he had to start doing it while recovering from pneumonia.
The worst of the illness had passed—Madam Pomfrey had kept him in the hospital wing for nearly a week, fussing over his fever and muttering about “bloody reckless boys who refuse to take proper care of themselves.” But now that his fever had broken and his lungs were no longer crackling with every breath, she had reluctantly let him return to class. “You’re not contagious, but you’re certainly not back to full strength,” she had warned. “Take it easy.”
Easy. Right. Because that was so simple when he had a full load of classes to catch up on, a pile of homework waiting for him, and an insistent weight of exhaustion settling over him like an invisibility cloak.
Even with Ron and Hermione flanking him at breakfast, Harry felt like he was moving through treacle. Every breath still felt too shallow, every step dragging. He was already shivering despite the Great Hall’s warmth, and the thought of climbing all the way up to Divination made his stomach twist.
“You’re not eating,” Hermione said, frowning at his barely touched toast.
Harry blinked at it. He thought he had been, but his arms felt heavy, and the idea of chewing was exhausting.
“’M not that hungry,” he muttered, rubbing at his chest where his ribs ached from coughing.
Ron elbowed him lightly. “Eat something, mate. You need the energy.”
Harry sighed but nibbled at the crust, more for their benefit than his. The movement set off a tickle in his throat, and he barely had time to turn away before a deep, wracking cough overtook him. His lungs squeezed, sharp pain streaking through his ribs, and he barely managed to muffle the sound into his sleeve.
Hermione’s frown deepened. “Maybe you should go back to bed, Harry—”
“I just got out,” he croaked. His voice was wrecked, and he hated how weak he sounded. “Pomfrey said I was fine.”
“Pomfrey said you weren’t contagious,” Hermione corrected, pursing her lips. “That’s not the same as fine.”
Ron sighed. “Look, if you’re determined to go to class, at least let us help.”
Harry wanted to argue, to insist that he was fine on his own, but then he saw Hermione exchange a glance with Ron—one of those silent, knowing looks that meant trouble—and realized he wasn’t going to win this fight.
“Fine,” he mumbled.
But by lunch, he wasn’t sure he could even pretend he was fine anymore.
Divination had been a disaster. The trek up the North Tower’s winding staircase had left his head spinning, and by the time he sat down, his lungs were burning. Halfway through class, he’d gotten hit with another coughing fit so violent that even Trelawney had abandoned her usual airy mysticism and pressed a steaming cup of tea into his shaking hands.
Ron had been in class with him, but after lunch, they had to split up—Harry had Transfiguration while Ron and Hermione had Arithmancy. Harry steeled himself for the walk to McGonagall’s classroom, but before he could even get up, a cup of hot honeyed tea appeared in front of him.
He blinked up to find Neville shifting awkwardly beside him. “Uh. Hermione said you should drink this before class,” Neville mumbled. “It’s got ginger and stuff. Helps with coughs.”
Harry stared for a moment, throat tight, then curled his fingers around the cup. “Thanks, Nev.”
Neville shrugged but smiled before hurrying off.
That was only the beginning.
As the day stretched on, Harry realized that his friends—his ridiculous, stubborn friends—had somehow conspired to take care of him even when they couldn’t be at his side.
Seamus had saved him a seat in Transfiguration so he wouldn’t have to scramble for one.
Luna (who had shown up outside the classroom despite not taking Transfiguration) had pressed a handful of strange-tasting lozenges into his hand, saying vaguely, “These help with chesty coughs. Daddy swears by them.”
Ginny, passing him in the corridor, had tucked a chocolate frog into his pocket and squeezed his wrist without a word.
By the time he made it to Potions, Dean had already set up his cauldron and ingredients for him, and even Malfoy had refrained from any snide remarks, only giving him an odd, appraising look when Harry struggled to stir his potion properly.
By the time the day was over, Harry was exhausted, but there was something warm in his chest that had nothing to do with fever.
When he dragged himself up to Gryffindor Tower, Ron and Hermione were already waiting for him with a blanket, a warm bowl of soup, and an expectant look.
Harry, throat thick, just let himself be bundled up on the couch.
“You absolute menace,” Hermione muttered, but her hands were gentle as she passed him a cup of tea.
Ron just grinned. “Told you we’d help.”
Harry took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through him. For once, he didn’t argue.
He just let himself be cared for.