First Year – The Cold in the Common Room
Hermione Granger had never been one to let something as trivial as a cold slow her down. As a Muggle-born student at Hogwarts, she had learned quickly that magic was a wonderful thing, but that didn’t mean the normal rules of the world didn’t apply. She was used to being in control of every situation, whether it was a classroom debate or her homework. After all, she had spent most of her life working diligently to stay ahead of the curve—literally in every sense of the word.
But the first time she got sick at Hogwarts was not something she had prepared for. It started with a slight scratch in her throat, something she had dismissed as nothing. “I’m fine,” she had told herself. “It’s just a little sore. It’ll pass.” But when she woke up that morning, she felt a dull ache in her head, and her body was heavy, as though the weight of the entire castle rested on her shoulders.
By the time she sat in the Gryffindor common room, her nose was beginning to run, and the odd chills she couldn’t shake made her cheeks flush. She tried to focus on her textbooks, her mind struggling to ignore the pounding behind her eyes. It was the middle of the day, but the warmth of the fire, coupled with the thick woolen blanket she had draped over her legs, was enough to make her eyelids droop.
It was then that Ron Weasley entered the common room. He had a habit of making his entrance loud and chaotic, usually with some sort of joke or loud exclamation to get a laugh. Today, though, his usual enthusiasm seemed tempered by concern when he spotted Hermione hunched over her homework, looking as though she might fall asleep at any moment.
"Oi, Hermione! You alright?" he asked, his voice unusually soft, yet still carrying the same note of curiosity and friendliness.
Hermione glanced up, startled by his voice. The moment their eyes met, she could see the concern etched on his freckled face. He was leaning against the arm of an overstuffed chair, looking at her with a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity.
“I’m fine, Ron,” Hermione replied, though her voice came out a little scratchy. She hoped the excuse would be enough, but when she saw the skeptical look in Ron’s eyes, she realized it was an empty one. He had known her long enough by now to recognize when she was lying.
“Uh-huh,” Ron muttered, walking over to her. He paused when he saw her looking less-than-healthy, her skin pale and flushed in strange patches. He sat down across from her, a slight frown on his face.
“You don’t look fine. You look like you’ve got a bad cold—or worse.”
“I just need to finish this essay,” Hermione insisted, glancing back down at her parchment. The words on the page were blurry, the sentences making little sense. She shook her head, trying to focus, but the throb in her temples was growing worse.
Ron didn’t buy it for a second. Without warning, he grabbed the parchment from her hands, carefully folding it up and setting it aside. "Hermione, seriously. You're not going to do yourself any favors if you keep working through this."
“I told you, I’m fine,” Hermione repeated, though she couldn’t muster the usual conviction in her voice.
Ron raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying that, but I can see the way your nose is running and your face is—well, let’s just say you don’t look like the Hermione Granger I know. I’m getting you something from the kitchens.”
“No,” Hermione said quickly, her head still foggy with a mix of illness and stubborn pride. “I don’t need anything, Ron. Really. I just need to finish my homework.”
Ron, however, was already on his feet, looking down at her with that strange, determined look he often wore when he was ready to take on a task. “You’re not fine, Hermione. If you were, you wouldn’t be this miserable just sitting here. Now, stay put.”
“Ron,” Hermione started, but he was already halfway out of the common room.
She sighed, leaning back into the chair and trying to ignore the discomfort creeping through her limbs. She wasn’t used to feeling helpless—she had always prided herself on being the one others relied on. She was the bookworm, the problem-solver, the one who knew how to get things done. But for once, she couldn’t focus, couldn’t push through. The thought of trying to make sense of her Potions essay felt like an insurmountable task, especially with the cold that seemed to be wrapping itself around her like a suffocating cloak.
Ron came back soon after, arms laden with steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of biscuits. His hair was tousled, and he looked slightly out of breath, as though he had sprinted all the way to the kitchens. “Here,” he said, handing her the cup. “Drink up. It’ll help you feel better. And eat these—Madam Puddifoot’s is probably using magic to make them taste good, but it’s the thought that counts.”
Hermione stared at the cup, hesitant. “I don’t want to put you out, Ron.”
“You’re not. You’re my friend, and you’re sick,” he said simply, sitting back down beside her.
It was strange, Hermione realized. She had always been independent, rarely needing anyone’s help. Yet, here she was, sitting in the common room with Ron Weasley—a boy who had, up until that point, been more concerned with making jokes and talking about Quidditch than about caring for anyone. And yet, there he was, showing an unexpected kindness that made her feel warm inside, despite the chill in her bones.
With a sigh, she took the mug from him and cradled it in her hands. She sipped slowly, the warm liquid soothing her throat and calming the ache in her head. As the minutes passed, she began to feel a little better—more alert, less like a puddle of exhaustion.
“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing over at him.
Ron smiled sheepishly. “No problem. You’d do the same for me, right?”
Hermione nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Maybe she hadn’t realized before how much she appreciated his easygoing nature, how his ability to laugh at the smallest things helped her feel grounded in a world full of magic and chaos. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to their friendship than she had allowed herself to see.
The rest of the evening was quiet. Ron stayed by her side, chatting about trivial things to keep her mind off the fog of her illness. When it was finally time for bed, Hermione felt lighter, the weight of her sickness lifted a little by the simple act of someone caring for her.
As she lay in bed, she thought about the day—how Ron had refused to leave her alone when she needed help, how his thoughtfulness had made her realize that maybe she didn’t always have to be the one in control.
The next day, her cold was gone, but she would never forget the way Ron had stepped up for her when she was at her weakest, without a single complaint.