Chapter 1
It started with a headache.
At first, Hermione chalked it up to exhaustion. Late nights at the Ministry, early mornings, too much coffee and not enough food. Ron had even scolded her the night before, prodding her with his wand when she’d groaned at the kitchen table and told him, “Go on without me, I’ll eat later.”
Now, though, her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
Ron was already gone for the morning, having left for the Auror office before she even dragged herself out of bed. Normally, she was the early riser, but as she sat hunched on the toilet lid, arms wrapped around herself, sweat dripping down her forehead despite the chilly air, she knew something was wrong.
Her stomach clenched. A hot, twisting wave of nausea climbed her throat. She barely made it to the toilet before she was violently sick, gagging and retching until she was left gasping for breath, shivering, gripping the cool porcelain like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
For a long moment, she sat there, heart hammering, throat burning, a sticky sheen of sweat on her skin. Maybe it was just bad food. Maybe it was nothing.
Then the cramping hit.
With a strangled moan, she stumbled from the toilet to the sink, gripping the counter as another sharp wave of nausea rolled through her. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself before she fell. Her stomach roiled—something was coming from both ends, and she was too weak to decide which direction to run.
Just as she lunged for the toilet again, the front door banged open.
“Hermione?” Ron’s voice echoed through the flat. “Are you here? I forgot my—bloody hell.”
Footsteps thundered closer. Then he was at the bathroom door, ginger hair tousled, blue eyes wide with alarm as he took in the scene: Hermione, pale and clammy, curled over the toilet, shaking. The acrid stench of vomit still clung to the air.
“Ron,” she croaked, but speaking sent another wrenching spasm through her stomach. She barely had time to shove her head over the bowl before she was sick again, violently heaving until nothing was left.
“Merlin,” Ron breathed, crouching beside her. “Hermione, love—what’s wrong?”
She barely had time to shake her head before another cramp twisted through her intestines. With a mortified groan, she doubled over, clutching her stomach.
Ron wasn’t an idiot. He understood immediately.
“Alright, okay—bathroom emergency. Got it,” he muttered, scrambling backward. “Er—need help?”
“Out,” she gasped, already struggling to pull herself up onto unsteady feet.
He left, albeit hesitantly, lingering just beyond the door.
The next half hour was hell. By the time she was finished, she felt like she’d been wrung dry, her body trembling and weak. When she finally stumbled out of the bathroom, Ron was waiting, arms crossed, brows furrowed in deep concern.
“You’re sick,” he said, as if she didn’t already know.
She nodded, her breath shallow. “I think it’s a stomach virus.”
Ron frowned. “Should I Floo St. Mungo’s?”
“No,” she said quickly. “It’s not magical, just—just one of those awful Muggle things.”
Ron looked at her blankly. “Alright, so…what do I do?”
She wobbled toward the couch. “Nothing. Just—let me sleep.”
But sleep was impossible. The next several hours were a blur of stomach-wrenching misery. Hermione drifted between feverish naps and desperate dashes to the bathroom, barely aware of time passing. Ron never left her side, though, bumbling and unsure, but determined to help.
He tried a Cooling Charm when she started sweating through her shirt, but it made her shiver violently. He attempted to conjure a stomach-settling potion, but she groaned, curling into herself. “No magic,” she muttered. “It’s different.”
So, with no spells to rely on, Ron did his best to care for her the Muggle way.
He wet a flannel with cool water, dabbing her burning forehead. He held back her hair every time she retched, rubbing slow, soothing circles over her back. When she whimpered about stomach cramps, he fumbled for answers, eventually pressing his warm hands against her lower belly, as if that alone could drive the pain away.
Once, after another miserable bout in the bathroom, she collapsed back into his arms. “Ginger ale,” she murmured. “Crackers.”
“Er—what?”
“Muggle cure,” she mumbled. “Helps settle the stomach.”
Ron hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll be back.”
When he returned nearly an hour later, he looked utterly frazzled, hair sticking up, an assortment of strange Muggle items in his arms. “Alright, I got this—er, fizzy ginger stuff. Some weird dry biscuit things. And this thing that’s supposed to have—uh, ‘electrolytes’?”
She peeked at the sports drink in his hand, managed a weak smile. “Good job.”
Ron grinned, clearly proud of himself, before cracking open the ginger ale and handing it to her. “Here—sip it. Not too much.”
She obeyed, taking a small, cautious sip. The cool, fizzy sweetness hit her dry throat, soothing some of the raw burn. She sighed in relief, sinking further against Ron’s side.
“Better?” he asked, brushing damp curls from her face.
She nodded. “You’re a good husband, Ron.”
His ears went pink. “Yeah, well…‘s what I signed up for, isn’t it?”
She closed her eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull her into rest. The worst had passed, but even in her weakest moment, she had never felt so cared for.
Ron might not have known the first thing about Muggle remedies, but he had done everything that mattered.
He had stayed.