It started as an ordinary afternoon, with the autumn breeze pushing through the open windows of the small flat Ron and Hermione had rented just outside London. The two of them had spent the morning at the library, Hermione buried in research for a case she was working on with Harry, while Ron had done his best to keep up with a book about Muggle economics, even though it didn’t make much sense to him. They had returned home for lunch, and Hermione had been eating her usual salad, when she suddenly stopped, a strange look crossing her face.
“Are you okay?” Ron had asked, glancing up from his own sandwich. Hermione was pale, her hand clutching her stomach as she winced.
“I—I’m fine,” she had replied, her voice tight. But she didn’t look fine. She looked... off. As though something was simmering under the surface.
Ron, always attuned to her moods, had gotten up to her side in an instant, reaching for her hand. “You sure? You look a bit green.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Hermione had murmured, giving him a weak smile as she waved him off. “Just a little stomachache. I’ll be alright.”
But she wasn’t alright. Over the next few hours, things took a turn. Hermione’s nausea worsened, and she spent more and more time in the bathroom. Ron kept knocking on the door, asking if she needed anything, but she insisted she was fine. It was just a bug, she said. It’d pass.
--
The next day, it didn’t pass.
Hermione could barely get out of bed. She felt faint and weak, her stomach churning in a constant rhythm that wouldn’t stop. She had tried to eat a piece of toast, but the moment it touched her lips, her body rejected it, and she found herself bent over the toilet once more.
Ron had heard her vomiting and rushed to her side, his heart hammering in his chest. The sight of her so pale, her hair tangled and face drawn, left him feeling helpless.
“Ron,” she had whispered weakly, her voice trembling.
He helped her sit up, holding a glass of water to her lips. “You need to see someone, Hermione. This isn’t just a stomach bug.”
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, though the words didn’t have much conviction behind them. “I don’t want to worry anyone.”
“Stop it,” Ron said gently but firmly, placing his hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to the healer. Now.”
--
By the time they arrived at the healer’s office, Hermione was barely able to walk on her own, Ron supporting most of her weight. The healer immediately took her in, running several tests. Ron, pacing outside the room, felt his stomach tighten with worry. Something was wrong, and he could feel it deep in his bones.
When the healer finally emerged, her face was grim. “It’s an acute gastrointestinal condition,” she said. “I’m afraid the symptoms are more severe than a simple stomach bug. We’ll need to run more tests, but I suspect she has a bacterial infection that has severely irritated her digestive system.”
Ron’s stomach churned. He knew it wasn’t just a stomach bug. He had seen Hermione fight through far worse in the past, but this—this was different.
“Can we treat it?” Ron asked, his voice hoarse.
“It will take some time,” the healer answered. “She’ll need medication to help with the nausea, and I recommend complete rest for the next few days. We can start an infusion to hydrate her, but if her symptoms persist, we may need to take more drastic measures.”
Hermione was barely conscious when Ron returned to her side, still holding her hand. “You’re going to get better,” Ron whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead. “I’ll be here with you. You’re not alone.”
--
The days that followed were exhausting for both of them. Hermione, barely able to eat or keep anything down, was stuck in a cycle of nausea, vomiting, and exhaustion. Ron stayed by her side, helping her to the bathroom when she needed it, offering her sips of water when she could stomach them, and always making sure she knew he was there.
It was one night, after a particularly bad episode of vomiting, that Hermione began to cry. Ron had tried to comfort her, but she felt utterly defeated. “I hate this,” she sobbed, her face hidden in her hands. “I just want it to stop.”
Ron sat beside her, his hand rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. “I know, love,” he whispered. “I know. But we’ll get through this. Together.”
--
But as the days dragged on, the illness didn’t subside. Hermione’s energy was gone, her body frail and thin, and Ron couldn’t shake the feeling that something more serious was at play. He needed help, someone who could offer advice or support when it felt like they were running out of options.
That’s when he turned to Harry.
“Harry,” Ron said, his voice tight with anxiety, “I need you to come over. Hermione... she’s not getting better.”
Harry had rushed to their flat the moment he’d heard, and when he saw Hermione’s state, his face went pale with concern. “What’s going on?” Harry asked, kneeling beside her. “She’s... she’s so weak, Ron.”
“She’s been this way for days,” Ron said, his voice cracking. “It’s like she can’t keep anything down. I’ve taken her to the healer, but... I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“I think we need a second opinion,” Harry said softly. “Let’s get her to St. Mungo’s. They’ll have more resources.”
--
St. Mungo’s had the specialized care they needed. Hermione underwent more tests, and after a tense few days, the diagnosis came in: a severe gastrointestinal disorder. The healer explained that it could take months for Hermione to recover fully, and during that time, she’d need rest and special care.
Ron had barely let go of her hand throughout the entire ordeal. As they sat in the hospital room, Hermione’s head resting against his shoulder, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to be so much.”
“Don’t apologize,” Ron said softly, kissing her forehead. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here, always.”
As they moved through the recovery process together, small moments of tenderness became their lifeline. When Hermione was strong enough to smile again, it was because of Ron’s unwavering care and Harry’s constant presence. And though Hermione’s physical health was slowly improving, something else was steady and sure: the way she looked at Ron, the quiet connection they shared in every glance, every touch.
Ron didn’t need to say anything. Hermione could see it in his eyes—his care, his patience, his love.
And as she leaned against him, she was reminded of what she had known all along: in the midst of sickness, they had something beautiful.
--
End.