Warm
Author's Note: Originally published on July 18, 2021
Hermione eased through the door and shut it quietly behind her, not wanting to draw the attention of Madam Pomfrey. She knew it was far too early for visiting, but she hadn't been able to sleep, her own thoughts still fueling her worst fears.
The early morning light was just starting to shine through the windows of the Hospital Wing. It was early March after all, and the days were just in that transition period between winter and spring. Days were lengthening, and it seemed like things were thawing, not only outside of the castle.
She tiptoed over to where he lay, his bedclothes thrown off as he slumbered. She stood over him for a moment, taking in his pale skin and disheveled ginger hair. The steady rise and fall of his chest calmed her slightly.
She hated how things were between them. She never would have forgiven herself if something had happened to him, while their friendship was in tatters. Her eyes were suddenly glassy, and she stifled a sob.
Ron almost died. The thought of him helpless, choking and sputtering for his life—as Harry had described it—caused her own throat to tighten and her tears to pool and slide down her cheeks.
They had been at each other for months, every interaction increasingly petty and spiteful. Things seemed like they were on track earlier in the year, and then everything took a turn for the worst. She still couldn't figure out why.
She'd been so angry and lonely, but that seemed to melt away the second she heard the news of the poisoning. As they awaited his fate, all that seemed to remain was shame and regret.
She could see the gooseflesh on his skin and spied the bunched up blanket at his feet, tangled with the sheets. The standard issue grey wool was a comforting sight, even while serving as a sad reminder that they had spent far too much time in these beds over the years.
She hesitated, worrying her bottom lip. Would he even want her here? Sure, much to her delight, he'd mumbled something that resembled her name—but was that enough to know where they stood now?
She felt like she was in slow motion as she paced back and forth for a moment. She came to the very practical conclusion that her friend was cold, and she really should do something about it. She quickly glanced back, as if to ensure no one was watching, before deciding to proceed.
It seemed like such an intimate gesture, to take care of him in this way. Her guilt over how she had handled things with him came crashing down on her, and she could feel the tears again. She knew they were both responsible, but seeing him lying there, she was sure of one thing. Ron Weasley was an important part of her life, even if it was just as her best friend, and not something more as she had hoped.
She started by untucking the corners of the blanket from underneath the thin mattress. She knew he hated it like that, fondly recalling his complaints of the charmed beds at Grimmauld Place, which he always said were like sleeping in a coffin.
She gently lifted the grey cloth and the sheets up, careful not to nudge him awake. The soft worn wool slid through her fingers as she tugged at it, straightening it out before pausing. She would have looked silly to a bystander, hovering over Ron with bedclothes in hand, and not doing anything further as doubts flooded her.
I'm being silly, she thought to herself. I'm just helping a friend, that's all.
Finally making up her mind, she carefully slid the sheet and blanket up his prone form. She tucked it in around his chest, fingers gripping the wool mere centimeters from his pale skin. She stopped to pick off a few pieces of imaginary lint and smooth the material with her hands, trying to tell if he was comfortable.
"There you go, that should keep you warm."
She stood over him for a moment more, before making up her mind to go. Just as she turned to leave, she heard him shift and suddenly, his hand was holding hers.
"Hermione?"
His voice was rough and groggy, and he was squinting at her in the barely-there light, his eyes still half-closed. "That really you? Or a dream?"
She blushed at the thought of him dreaming about her and let out a quiet chuckle. "Yes, it's really me."
He closed his eyes, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Knew it… the smell of the potion."
He was still obviously delirious from the healing tonics administered by Madam Pomfrey, but even so, hope exploded in her chest. He couldn't have been talking about what she thought, could he? That lesson about Amortentia had been months ago. Had he really smelled her? She had to know.
"W-Which potion, Ron? What are you talking about?"
The smile never left his lips, even as his head lolled sideways with exhaustion. "Stay here, Er-my-nee. Miss you so much."
He let out a soft snore as he stilled again. His hand was still wrapped around hers, and she relished the warmth of him. It meant he was going to be alright. Maybe that would mean they would be alright.
She looked down at him, and he seemed content. "I suppose I could stay a bit longer," she whispered to the air, as if trying to convince herself. Never letting go of his hand, she pulled up a nearby chair and sat down, again watching the steady rhythm of his breathing.
She placed her other hand on top of his, cocooning his larger hand between her two smaller ones. She gently rubbed her thumb across a spattering of freckles on his skin, thankful that he had survived such a horrible situation.
Daringly, she brought his hand up to her lips and placed a soft kiss on that group of freckles. His lips upturned slightly in his sleep, and she couldn't help but smile as well.
She swore to herself she would fix things between them. She needed to. She needed him.