picking up the pieces
Hermione woke up feeling like she had been trampled by a herd of Hippogriffs. Every muscle in her body ached, her stomach was a hollow, aching pit, and her mouth tasted like something had died in it. But the worst of the illness had passed. No more frantic dashes to the bathroom, no more violent retching—just exhaustion and weakness.
Ron was sprawled beside her on the couch, his arm draped protectively over her waist, his breathing slow and steady. He had refused to leave her side all night, even when she had weakly mumbled at him to go to bed.
Carefully, she tried to sit up.
“Oi,” Ron’s sleepy voice rumbled immediately, his grip tightening. “Where d’you think you’re going?”
“I need to shower,” she murmured. “And change. I feel disgusting.”
Ron cracked open one eye and took in the sight of her—pale, exhausted, but stubborn as ever. He sighed, sitting up. “Alright, but you’re not doing it alone. You can barely stand.”
Hermione scowled. “I don’t need help.”
Ron simply raised an eyebrow. “Right. Try walking to the loo without wobbling, then.”
She stubbornly swung her legs over the couch and stood. The room spun immediately, her knees buckling. Before she could hit the ground, Ron was there, catching her with ease.
“Right,” he said, deadpan. “You’re in top form.”
Hermione groaned, too weak to fight him as he scooped her up and carried her toward the bathroom. “Ron—put me down.”
“Not a chance, love,” he said, nudging open the door with his foot. “You’ve spent the last day and a half purging everything in your body. You’re not about to crack your head open just because you’re too proud to accept help.”
She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “I hate being sick.”
“I know,” he said, setting her carefully on the closed toilet lid. “But at least let me take care of you properly, yeah?”
Hermione managed a small smile, watching as Ron turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature with a practiced hand. He grabbed a fluffy towel, setting it within reach, before kneeling in front of her, his hands warm on her knees.
“I’ll be right outside,” he promised. “Just call if you feel dizzy, alright?”
She nodded, and as much as she hated being fussed over, she couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through her at how gentle he was.
Maybe being taken care of wasn’t the worst thing in the world.