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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It was inevitable, really. Hermione had seen it coming from the moment Ron had spent an entire day cuddled up with their sick daughter. The incubation period had passed, Rose was happily back at her primary school, and now Ron was the one huddled under a blanket on the sofa, looking utterly miserable and decidedly less stoic than their six-year-old had been.

"I think I'm dying," Ron croaked dramatically, his nose redder than his hair.

Hermione pressed her lips together to hide her smile as she handed him a steaming cup of Pepper-Up Potion. "You're not dying. You have exactly what Rose had, and she was back on her feet in a day."

"She's stronger than me," Ron moaned before taking a sip of the potion. Steam immediately poured from his ears, making his already disheveled hair stand on end. "Besides, everyone knows that men get sicker than women."

"That's a myth perpetuated by—" Hermione started, then stopped herself. There was no point in a medical debate when Ron was in this state. "I've left another dose on the kitchen counter. Take it in four hours, not before."

Ron slumped further into the couch cushions. "You're not staying?"

"Someone has to go to work," Hermione said gently, brushing his sweaty fringe back from his forehead. "And someone has to pick Rose up from school later."

Ron muttered something grumpily, his voice muffled by the blanket he'd pulled up to his chin.

"I've already called in about working from home tomorrow if you're not better," Hermione compromised. "But I've got that presentation to the International Healing Association today that I've been preparing for weeks."

Ron sighed dramatically but nodded. "Fine. Go save magical medicine. I'll just be here. Alone. Suffering."

"You'll be fine," Hermione said, fighting another smile. "There's soup in the warming pan, and I've enchanted the kettle to whistle if your temperature goes above 39 degrees."

"What if I need something else? What if I pass out from fever and nobody finds me for days?"

"Then I suggest you use the brand new mobile phone Harry helped us set up last month," Hermione replied, patting her pocket where her own phone sat. "Or, I don't know, perhaps send an owl like you've been doing since you were eleven?"

Ron's eyes lit up slightly at that suggestion, and Hermione immediately wondered if she'd made a tactical error.

"I'll check in on you," she promised, gathering her work bag and bending to kiss his hot forehead. "Try to rest."

"Love you," Ron mumbled, already looking drowsy from the potion.

"Love you too, even when you're a terrible patient," Hermione replied fondly.

The first owl arrived just as Hermione was settling into her office, a familiar tawny creature that hooted impatiently as it landed on her desk.

9:17 AM: The fever reducer potion tastes worse than polyjuice. Is there a reason healing potions can't taste like butterbeer? Also, I'm cold. Then hot. Then cold again. Is this normal? Did Rose go through this? Why didn't you warn me? Ron x

Hermione shook her head, penning a quick response:

Yes, it's normal. The temperature fluctuations will stabilize once the potion fully kicks in. Rose didn't complain nearly as much, I might add. Try the cooling charm I taught you last summer. H x

She had barely gotten through her first set of emails when a second owl tapped at her window, this one carrying a slightly more rumpled piece of parchment.

10:02 AM: I tried the cooling charm. Now the sofa is wet. I think I'm delirious. Is memory loss a symptom? I can't remember where we keep the extra blankets. Also, why do we own so many books? They're staring at me accusingly because I'm too sick to read them. Ron x

Hermione sighed and wrote back:

Extra blankets are in the chest at the foot of our bed. Try not to flood the living room while I'm gone. The books will forgive you. H x

The owls continued throughout the morning, each message slightly more ridiculous than the last.

11:20 AM: Did you know that when you have a fever, the ceiling pattern looks like it's moving? I've been watching it for an hour. I think there's a Hungarian Horntail forming in the plaster. Should I name it? Ron x

12:15 PM: I'm bored. So bored. Merlin's saggy pants, how did Rose handle this so well? I've tried counting the freckles on my arms but lost track at 86. Did you know I have a freckle shaped exactly like a Chocolate Frog? It's on my left elbow. You should check it out later. For science. Ron x

Hermione had just finished her lunch meeting when an owl she didn't recognize arrived, looking somewhat harassed.

1:37 PM: Is it normal to have weird dreams on Pepper-Up? I just dozed off and dreamt you and I were back in the Room of Requirement, but we weren't looking for Horcruxes, if you know what I mean. Very detailed dream. Very. Can you come home early? Ron xx

Hermione's cheeks flushed as she read the note. She glanced around her office, relieved that she was alone, and quickly penned a response:

Inappropriate, Ronald. There are Ministry employees handling these owls. Save those thoughts for when you're better. H x

She had barely sent off her reply when another owl arrived.

1:51 PM: Sorry. Fever talking. But also not sorry because it was a brilliant dream. Anyway, I think the hippogriff storybook is haunted. I swear it just winked at me. Also, did you know our ceiling has exactly 347 tiny cracks? I've named them all. Ron x

Hermione was halfway through her presentation to the International Healing Association when her assistant discretely handed her another note.

3:08 PM: I miss your bushy hair and bossy voice telling me what potions to take. The soup isn't as good when I make it myself. Also, I found an old box of Fred and George's Fever Fancies under the sink. If I take one, will it cancel out my real fever or give me a double fever? Important medical question. Ron x

She managed to scribble a hasty response during a brief break:

DO NOT take ANYTHING from the joke shop while you're ill. I'm serious, Ron. I'll be home in two hours. Rose and I will take care of you. H x

Just as her presentation concluded, a final owl swooped in, causing several distinguished healers to duck.

4:23 PM: Too late on the Fever Fancies. Good news: I can now breathe fire like a dragon. Bad news: I might have singed the curtains. Good news: I'm definitely hot enough that you should take tomorrow off to tend to me. Bring Rose home too. We can all build a fort. I promise not to breathe fire in it. Mostly promise. Your loving, feverish husband x

When Hermione arrived home with Rose in tow, she found Ron sprawled across the sofa, surrounded by crumpled tissues, empty teacups, and what appeared to be the remains of several attempted cooling charms. True to his word, the curtains in the living room were slightly charred at the edges.

"Daddy!" Rose exclaimed, rushing to his side. "Are you sick like I was?"

Ron opened one bleary eye and managed a weak smile. "Hey, Rosie. Yeah, seems like I caught your bug."

"I'll take care of you," Rose declared seriously, placing her small hand on his forehead just as Hermione often did. "You need Pepper-Up Potion and star soup and lots of stories."

"Your daddy's been sending me owls all day," Hermione told Rose, setting down her work bag and moving to straighten the coffee table. "Very silly owls."

"Really?" Rose's eyes lit up. "Like how you sent owls when I was sick?"

"Sort of," Hermione said, giving Ron a pointed look that made him grin sheepishly despite his fever. "Though Daddy's messages were a bit more... creative."

"I was delirious," Ron defended, reaching for Hermione's hand. "And lonely."

"Well, we're home now," Hermione said, squeezing his fingers. "And it seems like you've had quite the adventure without us."

Rose had already begun arranging her stuffed animals around Ron in what she clearly considered a therapeutic manner. "When I was sick," she informed her father seriously, "you said that cuddles are the best medicine. Even better than potions."

"Your daughter is a wise healer," Ron told Hermione, pulling Rose gently against his side. "Must get that from her mother."

Hermione sat on the edge of the sofa, placing a cool hand against Ron's flushed cheek. "You know, for someone who sent me an owl about breathing fire on our curtains, you're being awfully sweet now."

"I save my best material for in-person," Ron replied with a wink that was somewhat undermined by his watery eyes and red nose.

"Can we build another fort?" Rose asked, already eyeing the blankets folded on the nearby armchair.

"Tomorrow," Hermione promised. "If Daddy's feeling better and doesn't set anything else on fire."

"That was the Fever Fancies," Ron protested weakly. "Which, by the way, George should really put a stronger warning label on."

As Rose ran off to fetch her doctor play set, determined to treat her father with the same care he'd shown her, Hermione leaned over to press a kiss to Ron's forehead.

"You know," she murmured, "those owls you sent today will make excellent blackmail material the next time you claim men don't exaggerate when they're ill."

"Worth it," Ron replied, his voice hoarse but his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Especially if it means you'll stay home tomorrow to nurse me back to health."

"I've already arranged to work from home," Hermione admitted. "Though if you send any more inappropriate owls, I might reconsider."

"No promises," Ron said, pulling her down for a quick kiss before Rose returned. "I'm very creative when feverish."

Hermione laughed, settling in beside him as their daughter came running back, toy wand and plastic stethoscope in hand. "That," she said, watching Rose prepare for her first official patient, "I've definitely noticed."

Outside, one of the family owls hooted softly from its perch, finally able to rest after a day of ferrying increasingly ridiculous messages. Inside, despite the singed curtains and the mess of tissues, the Granger-Weasley home was filled with the kind of warmth that no fever could match.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a start at 3:17 AM to the sound of coughing—deep, chesty coughs that seemed to rattle the bedroom walls. Next to her, Ron was sitting upright, his lanky frame hunched over as he struggled to catch his breath between spasms.

"Ron?" She fumbled for her wand on the nightstand, casting a soft Lumos that illuminated her husband's face. What she saw made her gasp.

Ron looked dreadful. His normally pale freckled skin had taken on an alarming grayish tinge, except for two bright spots of color high on his cheeks. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused.

"I think," he rasped between coughs, "this might be worse than Rose's bug."

Hermione pressed her palm to his forehead and immediately pulled it back. "You're burning up! Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"Didn't want to worry you," Ron managed before dissolving into another coughing fit that left him wheezing.

"That's ridiculous." Hermione was already out of bed, summoning potions from their medicine cabinet with a flick of her wand. "You're ill, and I'm your wife. Worrying about you is part of the job description."

Ron attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Thought I could sleep it off."

"Well, that's clearly not working," Hermione said briskly, though her hands were gentle as she helped him take a stronger dose of Pepper-Up Potion followed by a cough suppressant. "This looks like wizard flu, not the mild virus Rose had."

"Brilliant," Ron groaned, slumping back against the pillows. "Just bloody brilliant."

Hermione bit her lip, mentally rearranging her day. There was no way Ron could be left alone in this state, and Rose certainly couldn't stay home with him—both because he needed proper care and because she didn't want their daughter catching wizard flu if that's what this was.

"I'm staying home tomorrow," she decided, casting a cooling charm on a washcloth before placing it on Ron's forehead.

"But your research presentation—"

"Can wait," Hermione said firmly. "There are other healers who can present our findings."

Ron closed his eyes, the cool cloth providing momentary relief. "I hate this," he muttered. "Being sick is the worst."

"I know," Hermione said softly, climbing back into bed beside him and gently running her fingers through his damp hair. "Try to get some sleep. I'll be right here."

By morning, it was clear that Ron wasn't simply being dramatic. His temperature had climbed to 39.8°C despite the fever-reducing potions, and his cough had settled deep in his chest, producing a worrying rattle that reminded Hermione uncomfortably of the time George had developed pneumonia after a product testing mishap at the shop.

"Mummy?" Rose's small voice came from the doorway of their bedroom, her school bag already slung over her shoulder. "Is Daddy okay?"

"He's got a bit more than your sniffle, sweetheart," Hermione explained, ushering Rose away from the bedroom where Ron had finally fallen into a fitful sleep. "Daddy needs quiet and rest today."

"Can I stay home and help?" Rose asked, her eyes wide with concern.

"That's very sweet of you," Hermione said, touched by her daughter's caring nature, "but I think it's best if you go to school. Daddy needs to sleep, and I don't want you getting sick again."

Rose looked disappointed but nodded bravely. "Will you give him my hippogriff?" she asked, retrieving her favorite stuffed toy from her bedroom. "It helped me feel better."

Hermione's heart melted. "That's very thoughtful. I'm sure it will help him too."

After arranging for Molly to collect Rose from school and sending a Patronus to her department at St. Mungo's explaining her absence, Hermione settled in for what she suspected would be a challenging day of caregiving. Ron's fever, cough, and now the aches and pains characteristic of wizard flu had transformed her usually cheerful husband into something resembling an irritable Hungarian Horntail with a toothache.

"This," Ron declared hoarsely when he woke around mid-morning, "is worse than the time Fred and George hexed my teddy bear into a spider."

"I highly doubt that," Hermione replied, helping him sit up to drink a glass of water.

"It is," Ron insisted, wincing as he swallowed. "Also worse than breaking my leg in third year. And getting poisoned in sixth year. And possibly worse than being splinched."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You're comparing a case of wizard flu to nearly bleeding to death?"

"At least with splinching the pain was localized," Ron grumbled, falling back against the pillows. "Right now, every single part of me hurts. Even my hair hurts. How can hair hurt, Hermione? It doesn't even have nerve endings!"

"Your hair follicles do," Hermione pointed out, unable to resist the educational moment despite herself.

Ron shot her a look that clearly communicated this was not the time for a biology lesson. "I'm dying," he moaned dramatically. "You'll have to tell Rose her father died bravely in the line of duty."

"The line of duty being 'taking care of a six-year-old with a cold'?" Hermione asked, fighting a smile despite her genuine concern.

"Precisely," Ron said with as much dignity as a man with a red nose and watery eyes could muster. "Parenting is dangerous work."

Hermione cast another diagnostic charm, frowning slightly at the results. "Your fever's still too high. I think we need something stronger than the standard Pepper-Up."

"No more potions," Ron protested weakly. "They taste like troll bogeys."

"And you know what troll bogeys taste like because...?"

"Educated guess," Ron muttered, pulling the blankets up to his chin and shivering despite the warmth of the room. "Where's George with his joke shop medicinals when you need him?"

"The same joke shop medicinals that had you breathing fire yesterday and singing the curtains?" Hermione reminded him, summoning a stronger fever reducer from her personal stock of healing potions.

"At least that was interesting," Ron said, eyeing the new potion with suspicion. "What's that one going to do? Turn my ears into radishes?"

"It's going to bring down your fever before your brain starts cooking," Hermione replied crisply, though worry creased her brow. "Now stop being difficult and take your medicine."

"Bossy," Ron muttered, but he obediently swallowed the potion, making a face at the taste. "Merlin's beard, that's foul. Are you sure you haven't mixed up your potions with one of Hagrid's creature remedies?"

"Quite sure," Hermione said, stroking his hair back from his forehead. "Though if you'd prefer, I could call my mother for some Muggle medicine instead."

Ron looked horrified at the prospect. "The stuff in those little paper packets that doesn't do anything for hours? No thanks."

"Then stop complaining and try to rest."

Ron's expression softened slightly as he caught sight of Rose's stuffed hippogriff tucked beside him. "Rose lent me Buckbeak Jr.?"

"She thought it might help you feel better," Hermione said, smiling at how quickly Ron's demeanor changed at this evidence of their daughter's concern.

"Best kid ever," Ron murmured, his eyes drifting closed as the potion began to take effect.

By lunchtime, Ron's fever had reduced slightly, but his mood had not improved. He refused the soup Hermione had prepared, claiming it wasn't "star-shaped enough" like the pasta he made for Rose, then immediately apologized for being difficult, blaming it on the fever.

"I'm a terrible patient," he admitted, watching Hermione organize the various potions he needed to take throughout the day. "How do you put up with me?"

"Years of practice," Hermione replied dryly. "Though I must say, you're even worse than I remembered from the last time you had wizard flu."

"When was that?" Ron asked, genuinely confused.

"About two years after Rose was born. You were convinced you were on your deathbed and made Harry come over to discuss who should get your Chudley Cannons memorabilia."

Ron had the grace to look sheepish. "Oh. Right. Forgot about that."

"Harry hasn't," Hermione said with a smile. "He still has the parchment where you formally bequeathed him your signed team photo."

Ron was about to respond when he was interrupted by another coughing fit, this one leaving him gasping for breath. Hermione quickly conjured a glass of water and helped him drink it slowly.

"Maybe we should call a healer," she suggested, not liking the sound of his breathing.

"I'm married to the best healer at St. Mungo's," Ron pointed out between labored breaths. "If you can't fix me, no one can."

"I research magical ailments. I don't typically treat them," Hermione reminded him, though she was touched by his confidence in her abilities.

Ron reached for her hand, his larger one hot and slightly clammy with fever. "You're doing fine. I'm just being a git because I feel awful."

"I know," Hermione said, squeezing his fingers gently. "It's allowed when you're ill."

"Does that mean I can send more inappropriate owls?" Ron asked with a weak attempt at his usual cheeky grin.

"Absolutely not," Hermione said firmly. "Besides, who would you send them to? I'm right here."

"Good point." Ron yawned, the potions making him drowsy again. "Stay? At least until I fall asleep?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Hermione promised, settling into the chair beside their bed with a book.

The afternoon brought a new development: the discovery that a feverish Ron was apparently incapable of keeping his thoughts to himself, especially when those thoughts were complaints.

"Did you know," he announced as Hermione helped him to the bathroom and back, "that being tall is actually a disadvantage when you're sick? More body means more places that can hurt."

"Fascinating theory," Hermione replied, steadying him as he shuffled back to bed.

"It's science," Ron insisted. "You should research it at work. 'The Correlation Between Height and Suffering During Wizard Flu.' You could publish it."

"I'll add it to my list," Hermione said, tucking the blankets around him once he was settled.

Barely ten minutes later: "Did you ever notice how loud the clock is? Tick-tick-tick. It's like it's inside my head."

Hermione silently cast a muffling charm on the offending timepiece.

"The pillows are wrong," Ron declared twenty minutes after that. "They're too soft. But also somehow too firm? How is that possible?"

Hermione fluffed them with her wand, rearranged them, then fluffed them again until Ron grudgingly admitted they were "acceptable."

"My throat feels like I've swallowed a Blast-Ended Skrewt," he rasped after another dose of cough potion. "Do we have any honey? Not the regular kind—the special Honeydukes one that tastes like Butterbeer."

"We have regular honey," Hermione said, summoning patience she wasn't entirely sure she possessed.

"It's not the same," Ron sighed dramatically. "The Butterbeer honey has healing properties. George told me."

"George tells you a lot of things," Hermione pointed out. "Like how Fever Fancies are perfectly safe to take when you're already ill."

Ron's ears reddened slightly. "Fair point."

Just as Hermione thought he might finally drift off to sleep again, Ron's eyes popped open. "Wait—who's picking up Rose from school? Is she okay? Does she know I'm not dying, just feels like I am?"

"Your mother is collecting her," Hermione assured him, touched by how even in his misery, Ron's thoughts went to their daughter. "And yes, Rose knows you have wizard flu and will be fine with rest and care."

Ron nodded, seemingly satisfied. Then: "Do you think we should get a cat? Rose wants one. A cat might help me feel better right now."

"We are not getting a cat because you have a fever," Hermione said firmly. "Besides, you're allergic to cats."

"Oh. Right." Ron frowned, then brightened. "A dog, then?"

"Go to sleep, Ron."

Remarkably, he did.

The real crisis came in the late afternoon when Ron's fever spiked again despite the potions Hermione had been diligently administering. She found him tangled in the bedsheets, murmuring incoherently about spiders and Quidditch scores.

"Ron?" she called, alarmed by the heat radiating from his skin. "Ron, can you hear me?"

His blue eyes fluttered open, unfocused and bright with fever. "Hermione? Why are there two of you?"

Hermione's healer training kicked in, overriding her panic. She cast a stronger cooling charm directly on the sheets, then summoned a basin of cold water and cloths.

"You're going to be fine," she told him firmly, beginning to sponge his face and neck with the cool water. "Your fever's just spiked again."

"M'not fine," Ron mumbled. "Feel terrible. Worse than the time I ate those slugs for you."

Despite her worry, Hermione smiled at the memory. "Yes, well, that was self-inflicted."

She worked methodically, cooling his overheated skin while monitoring his temperature with regular diagnostic charms. Slowly, the fever began to recede, and Ron's ramblings became less frequent. Finally, his eyes cleared, focusing properly on her face.

"You're really good at this," he said hoarsely. "The whole taking-care-of-people thing."

"I should hope so," Hermione replied, relief making her voice slightly unsteady. "I've had plenty of practice with you and Rose."

Ron caught her hand as she reached to refresh the cloth on his forehead. "I mean it. You're brilliant. Even when I'm being the world's worst patient."

"You're not the world's worst patient," Hermione said automatically.

Ron raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, you're in the top ten," she amended with a small smile. "But you're my patient, so I don't mind."

"Liar," Ron said, but there was affection in his voice. "You've been counting the minutes until you can go back to work and deal with reasonable people."

"Not true," Hermione insisted, and meant it. For all his complaints and dramatic declarations, there was something endearing about caring for Ron when he was vulnerable. It reminded her of those early days after the war, when they were all broken in different ways, learning to rely on each other in new ways.

"I love you," Ron said suddenly, his voice clearer than it had been all day. "Even when I'm being a complete prat."

"Especially then," Hermione replied softly. "That's when you need me most."

"No," Ron shook his head slightly. "I need you all the time. Sick, healthy, happy, sad. Doesn't matter."

Hermione blinked rapidly, surprised by the sudden emotion welling up. "Well," she said, trying to keep her tone light, "right now you need to take another dose of fever reducer and try to eat something. Your mother's sending over chicken soup—the real Weasley family recipe, not my attempt."

Ron's face lit up. "With the secret ingredient?"

"Apparently so, though she still refuses to tell me what it is."

"Love," Ron said with unexpected seriousness. "That's the secret ingredient. Mum always says so."

Hermione smiled, thinking of Molly's message when she'd responded to Hermione's Patronus earlier. Tell my Ronnie I'm sending soup with extra love. It never fails.

"In that case," she said, pressing a kiss to Ron's clammy forehead, "you should recover quickly, because there's plenty of that here."

By the time Rose returned from school, escorted by a concerned Molly who insisted on checking Ron herself before leaving, Ron was sitting up in bed looking considerably better. His fever had reduced to a more manageable level, and though the cough persisted, it no longer had the alarming rattle that had worried Hermione.

"Daddy!" Rose exclaimed, climbing carefully onto the bed after Hermione had assured her it was okay. "Are you feeling better? I told everyone at school that my daddy has wizard flu but he's very brave."

"Is that right?" Ron asked, his voice still hoarse but his eyes twinkling as he hugged their daughter. "And what did your friends say?"

"Ellie Matthews said her dad cried when he had wizard flu," Rose reported solemnly. "But I said you wouldn't cry because you fought in a real war and have a chocolate frog card."

Ron shot an amused glance at Hermione over Rose's head. "Well, I haven't cried... today."

"Daddy," Rose said, suddenly very serious as she patted his hand, "it's okay if you did cry. Mummy says it's brave to show your feelings."

"Your mummy is very wise," Ron agreed, equally serious. "But I promise I've been very brave. Ask her."

Rose turned expectantly to Hermione, who tried to keep a straight face. "Your father has been... stoic," she said carefully.

Ron snorted, which triggered another coughing fit.

"What's stoic?" Rose asked, watching with concern as Ron caught his breath.

"It means bearing pain or hardship without complaining," Hermione explained.

Ron made a choking sound that had nothing to do with his cough.

Rose nodded sagely. "Like how I didn't cry when I got my wizard shots at the healer?"

"Exactly like that," Ron said quickly, before Hermione could correct the definition as it applied to his behavior. "Very stoic, me."

"Well," Hermione said, picking up the empty potion vials from the bedside table, "since Daddy is feeling a bit better, perhaps he'd like to hear about your day at school while I clean up?"

Rose immediately launched into an elaborate tale about her friend's new pet Puffskein and how their teacher had taught them about magical plants that could cure common ailments.

"And I told everyone that my mummy is the smartest healer in the whole world," Rose finished proudly, "and that she can fix anything, even daddy when he's super grumpy with wizard flu."

Ron chuckled, pulling Rose into a one-armed hug. "She certainly can," he agreed, meeting Hermione's eyes over their daughter's head. "And I'm very lucky for it."

Later, after Rose had been bathed and tucked into bed with promises that Daddy would be much better tomorrow, Hermione returned to their bedroom to find Ron propped up against the pillows, looking thoughtful.

"Knut for your thoughts?" she asked, sitting beside him on the bed.

"I was just thinking about how different this is from when I was a kid," Ron said, absently playing with a loose thread on the blanket. "Being sick, I mean."

"How so?"

"Well, Mum was brilliant—don't get me wrong. But with seven kids, getting ill was... I don't know, just something that happened. You got soup and a blanket and were left to get on with it unless you were really bad off." He looked up at her. "But you... you stayed home from work. Monitored my fever. Put up with my endless complaining."

"That's what partners do," Hermione said simply.

"Is it?" Ron asked. "Because I'm pretty sure most people would have hexed me silent about the third time I whined about the pillows."

Hermione laughed. "I did consider it."

"But you didn't," Ron pointed out. "Instead you fixed the pillows. Again and again."

"Well," Hermione said softly, "that's because I love you. Even when you're being impossible."

"Especially then?" Ron asked, echoing her words from earlier.

"Especially then," she confirmed. "Though I wouldn't object if you tried to be a bit less impossible tomorrow."

Ron grinned, looking more like himself than he had all day. "No promises. But I'll try."

He tugged her hand gently until she moved closer, settling against him on the bed. Despite his lingering fever, there was something comforting about the familiar warmth of his body next to hers, the steady rhythm of his breathing (albeit still congested).

"You know," Ron murmured, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep, "being sick is awful, but having you take care of me almost makes it worth it."

Hermione smiled against his shoulder. "Almost?"

"Well," Ron amended, yawning, "maybe not the fever and coughing bits. But the rest? The you bits? Those are pretty wonderful."

As Ron drifted off to sleep beside her, Hermione reflected on the day—the worry, the frustration, the moments of tenderness amid Ron's grumpy complaints. There was something profound, she realized, about caring for someone you loved when they were at their most vulnerable and difficult. It stripped away pretenses, leaving only the essential truth of their connection.

Ron might be the world's most dramatic patient, but he was hers. And somehow, that made all the difference.