Ron knew something was wrong before Hermione even spoke. She had been quiet all day—not the studious kind of quiet where her nose was buried in a book, nor the sharp-edged kind that came with frustration at his or Harry’s antics. This silence was weighty, pressing, something that gnawed at the edges of her presence like a shadow.
They were alone in the Gryffindor common room, the fire casting flickering light over her pale face. Her hands trembled slightly, barely perceptible, but Ron noticed.
“Hermione?” he asked gently.
She didn’t respond at first, just stared into the fire, eyes glassy. Then, as if something inside her cracked, she turned to him, her breath unsteady. “There’s something I never told you,” she whispered.
Ron’s stomach clenched. “Okay,” he said carefully, shifting closer. “You can tell me.”
And then she did.
The words came in broken pieces, fragmented and jagged. A memory from years ago—something dark, something that had buried itself deep inside her, only to claw its way back up. Ron listened, his face paling, his fists clenching in useless rage as she spoke. He wanted to fix it, to go back in time and stop it from happening. But he couldn’t. All he could do was listen.
By the time she finished, her entire body was shaking, her breath coming in short gasps. Ron reached for her hand, but before he could say anything, she pressed her knuckles against her mouth, choking back a sob.
And then she doubled over.
“Merlin—Hermione?” Ron barely caught her as she pitched forward, her whole frame convulsing with shuddering coughs. Her skin was clammy, sweat beading along her hairline.
“I—I don’t feel well,” she gasped, clutching her stomach.
It wasn’t just emotional, Ron realized with alarm. She was physically unraveling before his eyes. The stress, the pain, the sheer force of recalling something so deeply buried—it had wrecked her.
He barely had time to grab a bucket before she retched violently, her body heaving as if it was trying to purge the memory itself. Ron held her hair back, murmuring soft reassurances even as his heart hammered in his chest.
“‘S okay, I’ve got you,” he whispered, rubbing slow circles on her back. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”
She hiccupped through tears, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. “I—oh, Ron—I hate this—I hate feeling like this—”
“I know.” His voice was thick. “I know, love.”
She curled against him, her body still trembling with aftershocks. Fever flushed her cheeks, and Ron realized with a pang of worry that she needed rest, warmth, care. But how was he supposed to explain this to Harry? To anyone?
Hermione Granger didn’t get sick. Not like this.
So, when Harry asked the next morning why Hermione wasn’t in the Great Hall, Ron shrugged and muttered something about food poisoning. He ignored the concerned glances, the unspoken questions.
Because Hermione had trusted him with something sacred, something fragile. And if all he could do was hold her, keep her secret safe, and stroke her hair as she drifted into exhausted sleep, then that was exactly what he would do.