Ron Weasley was never one to show weakness. But as he lay in his bed at the Burrow, his whole body aching, his head pounding, and the fever simmering underneath his skin, he felt utterly helpless. It had started a few days ago with a low-level headache and a slight tiredness he’d tried to brush off. But it had spiraled out of control quickly. The spells of dizziness were becoming harder to ignore. His feverish hands clutched the bedspread, and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but lie there, wishing the world would stop spinning.
"Ron," Hermione's voice sounded from the doorway, her tone gentle but full of concern. "How are you feeling?"
He didn't answer right away, not because he didn’t appreciate her concern but because he couldn’t find the words. His chest felt tight, as though there was a constant weight pressing down on him. Anxiety was creeping in, filling the gaps where the physical exhaustion had left him hollow. It felt irrational, but he couldn’t help it. Every time Hermione or Harry came to check on him, his mind would start racing.
They’re getting tired of this. You’re useless. You’re making them do all the work while you just lie here like a burden. They’d rather be anywhere else but taking care of you.
His eyes slid shut, trying to block out the anxiety that was wrapping its claws around his chest. He wasn’t used to this. He’d grown up in a large family, surrounded by noise and chaos, and had learned to roll with the punches. But now, with his body uncooperative and his mind turning on him, it was like he didn’t know who he was anymore. And the worst part was, he couldn’t shake the idea that Harry and Hermione were growing weary of him.
"Ron?" Hermione asked again, this time her voice closer. "I brought you some water. You should drink something."
Ron forced his eyes open, meeting Hermione’s gaze. Her brown eyes were full of worry, her brow furrowed as she hovered over him. She looked so concerned, and yet, Ron felt a wave of guilt flood over him.
"I’m fine," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He immediately regretted the words. He wasn’t fine. Far from it. He was a mess.
"Ron," she said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "You’re not fine. You need to rest, and you need to let us help you. We’re your friends, we’re here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone."
But the words, kind as they were, didn’t help. They only made him feel more like a burden. As if his illness was just another reminder of how weak he was.
"I’m just... I’m not good at this," he confessed, his voice cracking. He hated admitting it, but the anxiety had taken hold of him, and it was so much easier to retreat into his own mind than to ask for help. "I don’t want to be a bother. I don’t want to make you guys do everything for me. You’ve already done enough."
Hermione’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on his arm. "Ron, it’s okay to need help. You’re not a burden, not to us. We’re your friends, and that means being there for you—no matter what. We’ll always take care of you, and you never have to apologize for needing that."
Ron’s throat tightened, and he could feel the lump of shame in his chest. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him to lie back down.
"Take it easy," Hermione said, her voice firm but caring. "You’re going to get better, but you have to let yourself heal."
"But what if I’m just... getting in the way?" Ron whispered, his voice small. "What if you’re both getting tired of me being like this? I can’t even do anything to help right now. I just... want to get back to normal."
Hermione shook her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You’re not a burden, Ron. You’re our friend. And friends help each other. You wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for us."
Ron closed his eyes, the weight of her words washing over him, but it didn’t entirely dispel the storm of anxiety in his chest. Still, there was something about the way Hermione said it—like she truly believed it—that made him feel a little less isolated.
At that moment, Harry appeared in the doorway, looking just as concerned as Hermione had. He took one look at Ron and then at Hermione, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if sensing what was going on.
"How’s he doing?" Harry asked quietly.
"Not great," Hermione replied. "He’s... feeling a bit overwhelmed."
Harry walked over to the bed and sat down next to Hermione. He placed a hand on Ron’s shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Ron, mate, we’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to be strong right now. We’ve got you. It’s okay to be sick. It’s okay to need help."
Ron swallowed thickly. "But I’m not... I’m not helping, though. You two are doing everything. You’re just waiting for me to get better, and I’m just... wasting your time."
Harry shook his head. "We’re not waiting for you to get better, Ron. We’re waiting for you to feel better. And in the meantime, we’ll do whatever we can to help. That’s what friends do. You don’t need to carry this alone."
Ron blinked back the tears threatening to spill over, a sense of relief slowly creeping into his heart, though the anxiety still clung to the edges. He could hear the sincerity in Harry’s voice, see it in his eyes. He wasn’t just saying it to make him feel better—he truly meant it.
"I don’t want to be a problem," Ron whispered.
"You’re not a problem," Hermione replied immediately. "You’re our friend, and we’re not going anywhere. Ever."
Ron felt the walls he’d built up around himself starting to crumble, the anxiety loosening its grip on him just a little. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t a burden. He had people who cared for him, people who didn’t see his illness as a weakness but as something they would help him through.
"Thanks," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Harry smiled softly. "You don’t need to thank us. Just rest and get better, alright?"
Ron nodded, and for the first time in days, he allowed himself to relax, to trust that his friends would be there when he needed them. No matter how long it took for him to get better, they would be by his side.
He closed his eyes, the warmth of his friends’ support a quiet comfort, and he let himself drift into a peaceful sleep, knowing that he was not alone, and that he never would be.