The air was crisp as Harry landed with a heavy thud on the pitch, his broom swaying beneath him as if it was tethered to his very soul. The game had been a brutal one, the Slytherins taking every opportunity to knock him off course, sending bludgers in his direction with a relentless ferocity. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like lead, and his breath came in ragged bursts, but the adrenaline of victory was a drug he couldn't refuse.
When the match finally ended, Harry had shaken hands with Malfoy, gritted his teeth through the pain of the adrenaline fading, and slipped into the locker room. He wasn’t the sort to ask for help, not for something as trivial as sore muscles. He just needed to get through the night. He showered quickly, ignoring the stiffness in his joints, dressing in his clothes with a kind of mechanical precision.
By the time he made it to Gryffindor Tower, his head had begun to throb. His limbs felt like they'd been dipped in concrete. But Harry wasn’t one to linger on discomfort. He pressed forward, navigating through the common room and up the stairs to his dormitory.
"I’m fine,” he muttered under his breath, though the words felt foreign, almost hollow. He’d said them to himself for years, ever since the Dursleys, ever since Voldemort. He had a habit of burying the pain, never letting it surface.
But that night, as Harry collapsed into his bed, he couldn’t shake the faint tremor in his hands. He brushed it off as a residual effect of the match. The cold was likely to blame too. He wrapped himself tightly in his blanket, closing his eyes, willing sleep to take him.
-----
The following morning, Harry awoke with a jolt. His chest felt tight, his throat raw, and his head spun with a dizzying intensity. He wiped his forehead, feeling the wetness there—slick with sweat. His hands were still shaking, the tremors stronger now, crawling up his arms like icy tendrils.
“Must be the flu or something,” Harry thought groggily, attempting to sit up. But his body refused to cooperate, a wave of nausea crashing over him.
He stumbled out of bed and dressed, but every movement felt like a betrayal. His skin burned, his heart raced, and his body felt like it was cracking from the inside out. But there was no time for this. He had to go to class, to push through, to not make a fuss.
By the time he reached the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry had to lean heavily on the doorframe, fighting to stay upright. His stomach churned, and his vision swam, but he pressed on. Hermione was already seated at the Gryffindor table, chatting animatedly with Ron. As soon as she looked up, though, her face fell.
“Harry, you look—”
“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, the words automatic.
“No, you’re not,” she shot back, her voice firm. “You’re pale as a ghost, and your hands are shaking. What’s going on?”
“I just—just need a bit of food,” Harry muttered, trying to steady himself. He wasn’t used to her seeing him like this, exposed, vulnerable.
“Harry,” she repeated, standing up and stepping toward him. She caught his arm just as he swayed dangerously. “You’re not fine. You’re burning up, and you can barely stand. Don't sit down. We’re going to the hospital wing.”
-----
Hermione didn’t give him a chance to argue. The moment they reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey’s sharp eyes immediately went to work, her magic already diagnosing what Harry had tried to ignore.
“Severe exhaustion, fever, dehydration, and a mild concussion,” she muttered under her breath, her hands glowing as she conjured potions and salves. “How long has this been going on, Mr. Potter?”
Harry flushed, the weight of his own refusal to care for himself pressing down on him. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, slumping against the hospital bed. “I just need some rest. I’m fine, really.”
Madam Pomfrey’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing. She handed him a potion and insisted he drink it. Harry complied, though his stomach recoiled at the taste. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillows, unable to shake the overwhelming sense of defeat.
Hermione sat next to him, her hand resting lightly on his, her gaze soft. “You know,” she said quietly, “there’s no shame in asking for help. You don’t have to keep pushing yourself until you break.”
Harry didn’t answer at first, his throat tight. He wasn’t used to being cared for. To letting anyone in.
“Why didn’t you stop?” she asked, her voice low. “Why didn’t you tell anyone how bad you felt?”
“I’m fine,” Harry said again, though the words tasted bitter in his mouth now. “I can handle it.”
Hermione shook her head, her expression firm. “Not this time, Harry. You’re not fine. You’re allowed to rest.”
-----
The next few days were a blur. Harry spent most of his time in the hospital wing, the fever ebbing and flowing as he slept through the worst of it. It was Hermione who stayed by his side, Ron visiting when he could, both of them gently coaxing him into accepting that it was okay to be weak sometimes.
But it wasn’t just the physical illness that Harry had to face. It was the constant mental battle, the nagging voice in his head that told him that rest was for the weak, that any sign of vulnerability was an invitation for the world to tear him apart.
“You don’t have to be perfect, Harry,” Hermione said softly one evening, her voice threaded with concern. “It’s okay to not be okay.”
Harry had never truly heard that before, not in those words. His entire life had been about survival, about doing what he had to in order to keep fighting. But as Hermione’s hand gripped his, the gentle pressure grounding him, something inside him cracked open.
For once, Harry let himself rest. He let the weight of the world slip from his shoulders, allowing the comfort of his friends' care to fill the space where his pride had once resided.