It was an ordinary Thursday afternoon at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when both Harry Potter and Ron Weasley began to feel the unmistakable weight of illness settle over them. What had started as a mild headache for Ron quickly escalated to feverish chills, and Harry, who had been feeling off all day, suddenly found himself shivering despite the warm corridors of the castle.
At first, they both tried to brush it off, stubborn as ever, refusing to acknowledge that anything was wrong. But when Harry began to feel his legs go weak in the Gryffindor common room, and Ron’s usual loud voice faltered, they both knew something was amiss.
“Oi, mate, you look a bit... green,” Ron mumbled, his freckled face flushed with heat but his usual sarcasm still evident.
Harry, who was trying not to groan as his headache worsened, gave him a faint smile. “Right back at you, Weasley. You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”
Ron managed a half-hearted chuckle, but it was clear that both of them were far from okay. Harry’s eyes were glassy, and Ron’s hands trembled as he ran them through his messy hair.
“I think we should go to the hospital wing,” Harry suggested, his voice tinged with reluctance. “Just to... you know... get some rest. Madam Pomfrey can sort us out, right?”
Ron grunted. “S’pose so. But I’m not gonna lie down in there like some sort of invalid. I don’t need a bunch of potions or whatever. Just... just some rest, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, although the idea of potions didn’t sound too terrible to him at this point. The pounding in his skull was relentless, and his body ached with a strange intensity he’d never felt before.
They both trudged to the hospital wing in silence, each too stubborn to admit just how awful they felt. When they arrived, Madam Pomfrey took one look at them and sighed in exasperation.
“Potter, Weasley... I don’t know how you two manage to get yourselves in trouble so often. Sit down, both of you.”
Ron slumped into one bed while Harry took the one beside him. Madam Pomfrey muttered something under her breath as she bustled around, preparing potions and spells to help bring their fevers down.
“I’m fine,” Ron grumbled, pulling the covers up to his chin and turning his head toward Harry. “Don’t need any of that... whatever it is.”
Harry glanced at him, an expression of amusement flickering in his feverish eyes. “If you’re so fine, then why are you lying down looking like you’ve been hit by a Cruciatus curse?”
“Shut up,” Ron mumbled, closing his eyes as he tried to ignore the uncomfortable heat radiating off of him. But even in his discomfort, there was a sense of comfort in having Harry there with him. It was always like this—whenever they were in a bad spot, it was as if their friendship was the thing that kept them going.
As the day wore on, they both grew progressively worse. Madam Pomfrey’s potions provided little relief, and they spent much of their time tossing and turning in bed, barely speaking as the fever crept up higher. When they did speak, it was mostly to complain about how miserable they felt or how awful the food was.
“I swear,” Ron grumbled through clenched teeth, his brow damp with sweat, “this is the worst stew I’ve ever had in my life.”
“I think it’s just the fever messing with your taste buds,” Harry replied, his voice sounding hoarse and thick, as though every word was a struggle.
“No way,” Ron protested weakly, “even when I’m sick, I know when food’s bad.”
Harry snorted, which made his throat ache even more. “I think we both know you’d eat anything if it meant you didn’t have to leave your bed.”
“That’s not true,” Ron muttered, though Harry could see the familiar gleam in his eyes that indicated he was just being stubborn. “I’m not that bad. You’d eat anything, too, if you didn’t have to leave the hospital wing.”
Harry chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his congested breathing. “Not if it’s as bad as this. I might actually give up on food altogether.”
The conversation died down after that, both boys too tired to argue anymore. As the hours passed, they each found themselves drifting in and out of sleep, the fever making their minds hazy. At some point, Harry shifted in his bed, his hand reaching out instinctively toward Ron’s. It was a small gesture, but it was all they needed. They were in this together—however miserable it was.
Ron blinked at Harry’s hand, momentarily confused, but then, seeing the desperate look in Harry’s eyes, he didn’t hesitate to grasp it.
“Thanks,” Harry muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I’d want to be here alone.”
Ron just squeezed his hand back. “Don’t worry, mate. I’m not going anywhere.”
In the midst of their fever-induced delirium, they both found solace in each other’s presence. It wasn’t grand gestures or big speeches. It was just the simple act of being there for one another when the world felt overwhelming and the only thing that made sense was the bond they shared.
By the time Hermione arrived, looking frantic and carrying a tray of soup from the kitchen, the two of them were lying in bed, groaning about the state of their illness, and in some ways, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Hermione raised an eyebrow at them, but her concern was evident as she gently placed the tray down on the bedside table.
“You two are impossible,” she scolded gently, shaking her head. “But I’ll make sure you get something to eat, so don’t even try to argue.”
Ron groaned dramatically as she set the soup down. “Honestly, Hermione, I don’t think I can eat anything right now. Not unless it’s a full-on roast dinner.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. “You’re such a drama queen, Ron.”
Harry’s voice broke in, sounding even worse than before. “I’ll have some. It’s not like we have any better options.”
Hermione tucked them both in carefully, as if they were little children again, and they relaxed under the warmth of the blankets, content in their shared misery. She was the one who took on the role of caregiver, but it didn’t feel like a burden—it felt like part of the unspoken understanding they had. Harry and Ron, through all their bickering and teasing, would always look out for each other.
“Don’t think I’ll be doing this for you again,” Hermione muttered, though her tone was more affectionate than stern.
“Next time, I’ll just bring my own soup,” Ron mumbled, still half-asleep.
Harry chuckled quietly, grateful for the comfort of his best friends, even in the midst of their feverish discomfort.