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Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling.

Ginger Tea

Ron Weasley was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go back to the Gryffindor boys dormitory, and curl under the soft blankets and sleep for a week, and preferably never wake up. But alas, his rotten luck has other ideas.

He was currently sitting in the Great Hall, minding his own business, well, more specifically finishing up his dinner. It irked him that he couldn't walk back to the Tower, because all he wanted now was to sleep. His gaze fell on two people sitting a few seats away from him, a head of unruly black hair picking on his food looking nothing but miserable, and a head of bushy brown hair trying her best to make the black haired guy eat his food.

Ron's gaze didn't waver from the two of them, even when Seamus Finnigan, a fellow Gryffindor, tried to pull him into a conversation about Quidditch. Which was a surprising feat in itself. But all the while, he kept his gaze fixed on his best friends. At least, they used to be. But Merlin, he resisted the urge to get up from his seat and walk towards the two of them. It hurt him more than he let on to the outside.

No, it wasn't jealousy that made him act the way he did. It was simply the pain of betrayal. Since that first time he sat in that train compartment, Ron and Harry did everything together. From sneaking out at night for useless midnight duels, following spiders into the forbidden forest to going into a dark pit of the Chamber of Secrets to save his sister. Well, almost everything. You can count out bathroom breaks and every other private time out of it, thank you very much. But, in all honesty he blamed himself for his quick temper, and Harry's quick conclusions.

Ron wasn't angry at Harry for putting his name in the Goblet.

For Merlin's sake, with all his heart, he hoped that Harry would win.

It wasn't even because of the heavy load of Galleons that he'd be gaining at the end of the Tournament if he wins it.

No no no!

He felt a sense of betrayal that Harry, his best friend -or was, he wasn't sure- had entered the Tournament, without telling him.

Their row on Halloween was just what it was, -a row. At least, according to Ron. It took him some days to cool down, to put away his steam, but when he did, Harry Potter was avoiding him. Which was- acceptable- on Harry's part, and Ron knew it. Hermione, -bless her soul- was someone sent by Merlin himself. He would have gone crazy without her in the last few days. Last few years, really. But those thoughts are for another time.

Turning his gaze back at Seamus, Ron gave him a half smile and a nod, while patting Dean Thomas on the back as he got up from his seat at the table. Hanging his batted down school bag on his shoulder with its strap, he walked away from his two fellow Gryffindors.

Not towards Harry and Hermione. Although, he wished he could. Harry looked a little paler than he was a moment ago- his green eyes blown wide with a sheen of sweat glistening at his brow. Hermione's bushy hair looked much more fizzy than he was used to. But no, he couldn't stop. He would be late. With another regretful sigh, Ron walked past the two of them, and made his way out of the Great Hall.

To the dungeons.

For detention with Snape.

It was nearly curfew when Ron returned back to the Gryffindor Tower, sweating like a pig and smelling like Hippogriff dung. That greasy git had made him clean off the bedpans in the hospital wing without magic! It is now confirmed among the Gryffindors and the rest of the school, -bar Slytherins for obvious reasons- that Snape is a heartless miserable git. This was Hogwarts, and now the whole school knew what happened to Hermione, and the greasy git's response. 'I see no difference' Bloody Merlin! If it were up to him, Ron would have punched his already crooked nose bloody.

The common room was almost empty when he entered through the portrait hole. Some students were working on homework or studying and Ron thought he saw someone dozing off in a corner. Well, they can suit themselves. Ron was exhausted, and he'd be going to bed.

The fourth year Gryffindor boys dormitory was in the exact way he expected. The first person Ron noted was Neville who had passed out on the side of his bed flat on his stomach, feet askew and softly snoring to his heart's content. Dean and Seamus were not yet off to sleep but they were coped up in their beds, bantering to and fro about the latest League Quidditch matches. If Ron wasn't so exhausted and wasn't smelling like Hippogriff dung, he would have joined in but well, his luck was not on his side that night.

He walked over to his four poster, dragging his feet to the side of his bed and his trunk. A folded pair of faded maroon pajamas sat on the closed lid of the trunk and Ron grabbed the clothes with a slight frown in his lips.

After spending the next twenty minutes in the showers, scrubbing himself raw to get rid of the smell of the hospital bedpans, Ron stepped out of the bathroom, wearing his too short faded maroon pajamas, and drying his red hair with a dry towel. He would probably be needing a haircut soon. Now that he thought about it, Harry would be needing one too. It wasn't until he glanced upon the too quiet fourposter of his friend that he remembered that he wasn't still talking to Harry.

The dark haired boy was curled up into a ball with a blanket that only reached halfway up to his knees, and Ron resisted the urge to go ahead and pull up the half ridden blanket. He glanced around the dormitory again, Dean and Seamus were still chatting about the differences between Quidditch and some muggle sport, a simple topic that might soon turn into a heated argument if someone didn't intervene anytime soon.

Ron didn't mind them arguing, he just wanted to curl up and sleep, as long as the dormitory wouldn't end up in flames he's all for it. He padded his way towards his own bed, looked around if he had missed anything in his pre-sleep routine. A snore that almost sounded like an elephant's rumble made him check for invaders, only to realize that it was no other than Neville trying to breathe through his nose.

Ron sighed, walking over to the snoring boy, who was sprawled on his belly, head buried in his pillow. "Move your lump Nev," the redhead said grouchily, pushing the boy's shoulders towards the bed, and making him sleep on the actual bed instead of half way on the floor.

Exhaustion caught up with him just as he buried himself within the covers of his bed, and his mind replayed the events of that day. Ron fell asleep to a pleasant dream of punching the crooked nose of a greasy haired professor.

It was a wheezing cough that brought Ron out of his sleep, disturbing a wonderful dream of being a Keeper in the Chudley Cannons. Well, there goes the Quaffle. Another wheeze interrupted his dreamy mind, and this time he realized that there was someone out there coughing their lungs out, and the thought itself snapped Ron from his haze.

He blearily looked around the half dimmed dormitory, scrubbing sleep from his eyes only to find himself staring at the scrawny dark haired boy shivering under half ridden blankets, wheezing into the pillows.

He blinked again, this time to give himself some time to come to his senses, because- oh, Harry was sick!

Ron did not know how long his friend(?) was feeling under the weather, but he had completely missed the signs that his mother always kept an eye among all the Weasleys. Come to think of it, Harry did look a bit out of it in the Great Hall that evening.

Sighing, and wincing as the dark haired boy once again started coughing hard enough to hackle up a lung, Ron pulled away his cozy blankets and stood up from his bed. The chill in the air made his skin pickle with goosebumps, but the red haired boy ignored it for the time being.

What was it again that his mother did when he was sick?

Right, Something warm and light.

"Harry," Ron whispered, shaking his friend(?) from his uncomfortable slumber once he made his way towards the fourposter, while trying not to wake the other occupants in the dormitory. Giving another shake to Harry's shoulder, and failing to wake the boy, Ron decided on another approach. He couldn't exactly walk all the way to the kitchens to make something warm in the middle of the night could he?

"Er," The youngest Weasley paused. He hadn't exactly done this before, and while he knew what he was doing, that didn't mean he was really comfortable with his request. "Dobby?"

It didn't even take a snap of fingers for the green eyed house elf to pop into the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, dressed in an oversized jumper and bright, mismatched socks. "Harry Potter's Wheezy called Dobby!"

Ron hushed the elf before he could make any more noise to wake up the other sleeping boys in the room, all the while his heart tugged with a strange mix of guilt and pride when he was addressed as Harry Potter's Wheezy by the free elf. He did not know what to think of it.

"Dobby!" The red haired boy huffed out, calming down the elf, while on the bed, Harry started to cough up another lung. "Dobby, Harry is sick, do you think you can do something for him?"

Big, bright green eyes stared back at him, concern radiating from them, and gave Ron a nod. "Dobby would do anything for Harry Potter!"

Ron hid a smile from the elf. It was amazing how a knobby kneed scrawny git like Harry could gain so much loyalty from others. All he was doing was to aim his bright green eyes, and people would give their life for him. Ron hadn't forgotten how tiny Harry had been the first time they had met, when Ron had decided he was keeping the dark haired boy, and treasure his as another brother.

Ahh well, if only Ron was brave enough to swallow his pride and apologize.

None of that mattered now.

"Do you think you can bring a cup of Ginger tea up here mate?"

Later, a coughing Harry would be woken up by a grumpy Ron, with a cup of warm Ginger tea on his hand, urging him to finish the cup before he could go back to sleep. Later he may or may not remember the incident, but an empty cup would sit on his night-stand when he woke up from his slumber with a sore throat, and feeling marginally better than he was the night before. Later, he would ignore the concerned glances shot at him by his friends, and muse on the terrible article written by one terrible journalist.