The library was quiet, as usual, but Hermione was anything but. Her cheeks were flushed with an unhealthy pink, her skin clammy with sweat. She insisted she was fine, though, even as the room swayed and the edges of her vision blurred. Her usually perfect posture slumped, her notes scattered across the table in disarray.
"I really need to finish this essay," Hermione muttered, voice thick with the congestion of her fever. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, barely pausing to look up at her two best friends, who were clearly staring at her with disbelief.
"Mate, you’re burning up!" Ron exclaimed, stepping closer to her. He placed the back of his hand on her forehead, only to quickly pull it away. "I’m telling you, Hermione, you’ve got a fever. You need to lie down."
But Hermione shook her head stubbornly, pushing her books back in an attempt to focus. "I’ll be fine, Ron. I just need to finish this research... it’s... it's important," she stammered, her usual confidence replaced by a disjointed slurring of words.
"Important?" Harry frowned, glancing at Ron before bending down next to Hermione. He didn’t want to alarm her, but the fever was alarming. Her forehead was so hot he could feel it through the skin of his fingertips.
"You’re absolutely not fine," Ron said firmly, his voice softer now. "Come on, we’re taking you back to the common room."
Hermione looked at them both, the words lost in her head for a moment as she tried to focus on them. "I... I need to know where I put the book on Transfiguration... it’s in the right drawer... the... the drawer... right?"
Both Harry and Ron exchanged a look, silent but understanding. There was no way she was okay.
-----
Back in Gryffindor Tower, Ron and Harry made Hermione sit on the couch by the fire, though she protested weakly. She barely seemed aware of the argument they had over whether she should rest or continue working, her words getting muddier with each passing minute.
"Why do the house-elves always smell like old... old socks? It’s not very... it’s not very proper," Hermione muttered, her eyes drifting aimlessly across the room as she stared at the opposite wall. "And... and you can’t always trust people who wear scarves in summer... it’s... it’s just... wrong."
Ron blinked, confused by her strange musings. "Hermione," he said, his voice quieter now, "you’re not making sense."
"Ron," Hermione replied with an exaggerated sigh, sounding completely exasperated, "the frogs... the frogs... they’re... they’re... too wet. The toads, though..."
Ron and Harry couldn’t help but stare at her, but Harry took a deep breath. "She’s delirious. We need to get her some water and maybe something for the fever. A Potion, or... something."
Ron nodded but stayed by her side. "She’s never been this out of it. You think... we should just let her sleep?"
Hermione shook her head weakly. "I’m not sleeping... no... I’m... I’m going to... the... the library... and you can’t stop me!"
Her words were barely intelligible by the end, and Ron’s worry intensified. Without thinking, he reached out to touch her arm gently. "Hermione, stop. You need to stay here. We’re not letting you go anywhere."
-----
The hours passed with Hermione drifting in and out of fevered dreams, her words becoming even more nonsensical. Ron couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, a tight knot of worry in his chest as he kept vigil. Harry sat across from them, occasionally fetching water or offering suggestions, but it was clear that Ron was the one most invested in making Hermione comfortable.
At one point, Hermione’s voice broke through the fog of her fever. "Ron... Ron, can you... can you... tell me the stars... tell me about the stars, okay?"
Her words slurred again, but the sincerity in them struck Ron in a way he hadn’t expected. Without a word, he sat down beside her on the couch, adjusting the blanket around her, and began to speak softly about the constellations. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but it felt right to him. It felt like he was doing something important. Something... personal.
"Uh, well, there’s Orion," Ron started, his voice hesitant, but Hermione smiled faintly at him, the delirium still heavy in her eyes. "He’s got these three stars in a line that make up his belt. And, uh, there’s the Big Dipper... you know, for finding North."
To his surprise, Hermione didn’t interrupt him this time. She simply lay there, listening, as if his words were the only thing keeping her tethered to the present.
-----
It wasn’t until hours later, when Hermione’s fever finally began to subside, that she spoke again—this time clearer, though still weak.
"I’m... I’m sorry. I was... I was being difficult, wasn’t I?" she asked, her voice small and tired.
Ron simply looked at her, his expression softer than he expected. "You were pretty out of it, yeah," he said, trying to sound lighthearted. "But you’re not bothering us. We’re your friends, Hermione. We’ve got you."
And as she looked at him with gratitude, her fever finally breaking, Ron realized that he’d never quite seen her in this vulnerable a state. She wasn’t the brilliant, unflappable Hermione Granger he was used to. She was human—fragile, sick, and needing him.
Somewhere in the quiet, something shifted between them. Something that, neither of them were ready to name, but they both felt in the air, lingering.
-----
The next day, Hermione was feeling much better, though a lingering weakness hung in her voice. She glanced at Ron from across the room, and for a moment, their eyes met—longer than normal, softer than usual.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice just above a murmur. "For taking care of me."
Ron smiled sheepishly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. "No problem, Hermione," he said quietly. "I’d do it again in a heartbeat."
Harry, sensing the moment, shifted uncomfortably and looked away.
And as the trio settled back into their routine, neither Ron nor Hermione mentioned the strange, vulnerable moments they’d shared—those moments that meant something more, but they didn’t yet know what.