Ron Weasley had faced Death Eaters. He had faced acromantulas. He had even faced his mother when she was in a mood. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for this.
A Muggle clinic.
He slumped in the passenger seat of Harry’s borrowed car, arms crossed tight over his chest, his knee bouncing so aggressively that Harry could feel it shake the entire vehicle.
“You’re making me nervous, mate,” Harry said, flicking the turn signal on.
“You’re nervous?” Ron snapped, twisting his hands together. His skin was clammy, and Harry noted with concern that Ron was a little too pale for a bloke who’d spent his whole life outdoors. “You’re not the one getting stabbed.”
“They’re not stabbing you, Ron. They’re taking a tiny bit of blood.”
“I need my blood, Harry!”
Harry sighed. This was going to be a long morning.
The waiting room smelled too clean. The kind of sterile, vaguely floral smell that made Ron’s stomach turn. He wasn’t the only one there, which only made things worse. An elderly woman with a cane, a man coughing into his sleeve, a bored-looking receptionist who barely glanced at them when they walked in. Ron eyed the medical posters on the wall with deep suspicion, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“This is a mistake,” he muttered. “I should just leave. I can leave, right?”
“Ron,” Harry said, resting a hand on his arm. “You’ve faced worse.”
“That’s debatable.”
A nurse called his name.
Ron shot Harry a desperate look, but there was no escape. With stiff, reluctant movements, he stood, wiping his damp palms on his jeans.
Harry followed.
Inside the exam room, Ron sat rigidly on the edge of the chair, his fingers gripping the fabric of his jeans so tightly his knuckles turned white. The nurse, a woman with a kind smile and blue scrubs decorated with cartoon cats, explained the process.
Ron stopped hearing her at the word needle.
His breath hitched, his heart hammering in his chest. The room suddenly felt much too small, and there was something wrong with the air, thick and hot and not enough of it.
Harry, sitting beside him, nudged his knee. “Ron. Breathe.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Ron whispered, voice tight.
“I know.”
The nurse tied a band around his arm, and Ron flinched so hard that Harry reached out instinctively, pressing a steadying hand against his back.
“I can’t—I don’t—”
Then the needle went in.
Ron made a small, strangled noise, his head snapping away from the sight of his own blood filling the vial.
Harry squeezed his shoulder. “Almost done.”
Ron heard him, but the words didn’t register. The world had begun to tilt, a slow, nauseating spiral. His stomach clenched, his skin prickling with cold sweat. He felt wrong, like he was floating just outside his body, weightless and disconnected.
“Ron?” Harry’s voice sounded distant.
The nurse was saying something too, but it was drowned out by the rising nausea clawing up his throat. The room spun. His hands were shaking. He needed—
“I’m gonna be sick,” he gasped.
The nurse barely had time to react before Ron shoved himself off the chair, staggering toward the nearest bin. His knees hit the floor, his stomach heaving as he retched violently into the plastic-lined container.
Harry was there in an instant, crouching beside him, one hand bracing Ron’s shoulder while the other awkwardly rubbed his back. “Okay, okay,” he murmured. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”
Ron wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, trembling, forehead pressed against the cool plastic rim of the bin. His face burned with humiliation.
When he finally sat back on his heels, swallowing against the lingering taste of bile, Harry handed him a tissue. Ron took it, avoiding his gaze.
“I hate Muggle medicine,” he muttered weakly.
Harry snorted. “Yeah, I got that.”
Somehow, he managed to stand, Harry keeping a hand at his elbow until the world stopped swaying. The nurse, to her credit, was kind about the whole thing, offering him a glass of water and a lollipop like he was a bloody five-year-old. He took it anyway.
The car ride back was silent, save for Ron sucking half-heartedly on the lollipop and Harry drumming his fingers against the wheel.
Finally, as they pulled into the driveway of the Burrow, Ron cleared his throat.
“We never speak of this.”
Harry grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ron stepped out of the car, only to pause and glance back at Harry, his ears still a little red. “…Thanks.”
Harry just smiled.
And that was that.