The Burrow was always loud. It was a living, breathing thing, full of shouts and laughter, clattering dishes and stomping feet. It was, in most cases, a source of warmth and joy. But today, for Hermione Granger, it was pure agony.
The migraine had crept in early that morning, a dull ache behind her eyes that blossomed into something monstrous by midday. She had tried to push through it, tried to smile at Ginny’s jokes and nod along to Mrs. Weasley’s endless offers of tea, but by the time the Weasley twins had burst in from the garden, cackling over some new prank, she had nearly collapsed.
Thankfully, someone had noticed. She wasn’t sure who—her thoughts were a muddled haze of pain—but the next thing she knew, she was being gently guided up the stairs. Someone’s warm hand rested on her back, and another held her wrist as she was led to Ginny’s room.
The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out the harsh afternoon sun. She was settled into bed, a cool cloth pressed against her forehead. There were murmured voices—Mrs. Weasley’s gentle fretting, Ginny’s quiet reassurances. Someone—Percy, maybe—was shushing a particularly rowdy exchange from the twins downstairs.
“Just rest, dear,” Mrs. Weasley whispered, tucking the blankets around her.
A steaming cup of peppermint tea was placed on the nightstand. A faint waft of something floral drifted through the air—probably from the little lavender sachets Hermione had seen tucked around the Burrow. She sighed, shifting slightly to ease the pounding behind her eyes.
Hours passed in a haze of warmth and whispered comfort. A soft knock on the door announced the arrival of someone else—Ron, judging by the awkward way he cleared his throat before quietly setting something down beside her tea. She cracked her eyes open just enough to see a plate of toast, cut into neat triangles. It was such a small thing, but it made her heart swell.
Bill must have passed through at some point—she caught the faintest glimmer of a rune-stone charm beside her pillow, one she vaguely recognized as a ward for soothing pain.
Even Fred and George had reined in their usual chaos, their voices hushed as they moved about downstairs. At one point, Hermione thought she heard one of them mutter, “If she wasn’t already our favorite, she would be now,” followed by the distinct sound of someone being elbowed in the ribs.
She drifted in and out of sleep, the sharp stabs of pain in her skull gradually dulling into something bearable. When she finally stirred properly, blinking blearily at the room, Ginny was perched at the edge of the bed, flipping through an old copy of Witch Weekly.
“Hey,” Ginny said softly, setting the magazine aside. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better,” Hermione croaked. Her throat was dry, but her head no longer felt like it was about to split open.
Ginny handed her the tea, now just warm enough to sip without burning her tongue. “Mum says you should stay in bed for the rest of the evening, but if you’re up for it, Dad just got back from work. He brought home some of those Muggle chocolate biscuits you like.”
Hermione smiled, small but genuine. “That sounds nice.”
Ginny grinned. “Good. Because Ron has been hoarding them in the kitchen, and I need backup.”
The Burrow was always loud. But today, in its own way, it had been quiet for her. Gentle. A place of love, in all its warm, chaotic forms. And as Hermione settled back against the pillows, she thought there was no place she’d rather be.