Ron Weasley did not consider himself an expert in many things. Quidditch? Sure, he had some skill. Chess? Definitely, but that wasn’t much help in real life. Taking care of sick people? Not even remotely in his wheelhouse.
Which was precisely why he was wondering what in Merlin’s name he was doing in Luna Lovegood’s cluttered little sitting room, perched awkwardly on the armrest of a squashy chair, staring at the faintly greenish girl curled up beneath a pile of knitted blankets.
“Are you sure you don’t need Madam Pomfrey?” he asked for the fourth time. Luna turned her dreamy, fevered eyes toward him and smiled as if he’d just told her the most charming bedtime story.
“I don’t think I’m dying, Ronald,” she said, her voice rough as sandpaper. “Just a flu, I think.”
Ron made a noncommittal noise. It was just a flu, sure, but she looked like absolute rubbish. Pale and flushed all at once, her long, wispy blonde hair tangled against the pillow. Her usual air of otherworldly tranquility was dampened by the congestion in her voice and the deep circles beneath her eyes.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling absurdly out of place. When he’d first found out Luna was sick—via an owl from Ginny, of course, who was too busy with Quidditch practice to come herself—he’d expected to pop in, drop off some soup, and leave. Easy. Except now he was here, and Luna was looking at him like he was some sort of important guest, and he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do.
“You should drink some of this,” he muttered, lifting the mug of tea he’d made in what he hoped was a helpful manner. “Got honey in it. Helps with the—er—throat stuff.”
Luna accepted the mug with both hands, taking a slow sip. “Mmm. Thank you, Ronald. This is very nice.”
Ron shifted on his feet, unsure whether to feel proud or embarrassed. He opted for both.
Luna sighed and set the mug down. “You really didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
“Well, you live all the way out here,” Ron pointed out, gesturing vaguely at the odd assortment of magical artifacts and stacks of The Quibbler that made up the Lovegood home. “What if something happened? Your dad’s still off chasing… er… snorlacks, right?”
“Crumple-Horned Snorkacks,” she corrected sleepily, but there was a flicker of amusement in her gaze. “And yes, he won’t be back for a few more days.”
Ron felt justified in his presence, then, even if he didn’t know exactly what to do with himself. “So what do you usually do when you’re sick?” he asked, glancing around for some sort of clue.
Luna hummed. “Mostly sleep. Dream. I like listening to the wireless, too.”
“Well, alright then,” Ron said, standing abruptly. “I can… I dunno, read something? Or turn on the wireless for you.”
Luna blinked up at him, and for a brief moment, Ron worried he’d said something stupid. Then she gave a small nod, tucking herself further into the blankets. “That would be nice.”
Feeling oddly pleased with himself, Ron fumbled with the ancient-looking wireless set on the nearby table, twisting dials until a soft stream of wizarding folk music floated through the room. Luna sighed contentedly, her eyes fluttering shut.
Ron hesitated, then dropped back onto the chair beside her, elbows on his knees. The music was gentle, filling up the silence without pressing in too much.
After a few minutes, Luna cracked one eye open. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”
“I know,” Ron said, staring determinedly at a spot on the rug. “But it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
“Liar,” she murmured, but she was smiling, just a little. “But it’s alright. I don’t mind.”
Something in Ron’s chest twisted in a way he wasn’t used to. He cleared his throat. “Well. Good.”
They sat in companionable silence, interrupted only by the occasional sniffle or cough from Luna. Every now and then, Ron glanced over to check if she was still awake, but soon enough, her breathing evened out, and she drifted into sleep.
Ron exhaled slowly, leaning back. This wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t a healer, or even particularly good at this sort of thing, but Luna didn’t seem to expect much from him—just company. That, at least, he could manage.
Maybe taking care of someone wasn’t about knowing exactly what to do. Maybe it was just about being there.