A/N: The past week has been long and harrowing for a lot of people, for a lot of different reasons, so here is your not-so-subtle reminder from a stranger on the internet:

Take care of yourselves.

Drink your water. Take your meds. Pet a dog. Go outside and touch some grass.

Slow down.

Ask for help if you need it, and don't be afraid to unplug for a little while if it gets to be too much. We can't pour from an empty cup; give yourselves the same compassion and understanding that you give others, because you deserve it.

Chins up, lovelies.

Now, go and read.

oOoOoOo

21 June 1996

"You're certainly eating like someone that's just escaped death, little brother," George observed, reclining languidly on the vacant bed opposite Ron's in the Hogwarts hospital wing. He and Fred had just arrived to find half of Gryffindor house was visiting, along with Luna and a few others from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.

Ron, who was actively shoveling a plateful of roast and mash into his mouth for lunch, made a face. "Sod off, I've earned it; I have battle scars," he said proudly, gesturing to the white, ropelike marks wrapping around the length of his arms. They were still tinged a raw, angry pink color on the edges.

Fred was happy George was steering the conversation because he hadn't been able to speak since they'd walked into the room. He was also thankful that it wasn't just Harry and Ron because nobody was paying much attention to him in particular. George glanced to the left and seemed to take note of his twin's expression.

"So, how is Hermione doing?" He asked innocuously.

Harry's face flickered with guilt, and even Ron's demeanor changed a little. "She's okay," Ron said slowly, shrugging. "The potions make her sleep a lot, and it seems like it still hurts some, but she's… she's okay."

"Who was it that cursed her?" Fred inquired, breaking his taciturnity and surprising himself a little. He didn't realise how much he wanted to know until he'd asked.

"Dolohov," Neville supplied darkly. "Nobody could figure out what he used, though."

"Even Mungo's couldn't identify the spell, but it was some kind of purple fire," Harry expanded, looking a little ill. "They… they said if she hadn't managed to silence him when she did, weakened it, it would have killed her."

Fred's heart stuttered in its rhythm, and it felt like the walls of the room were beginning to close in, dark spots blooming around the edges of his vision. When they'd arrived at the school, he'd considered just being out with it, sod anyone's reaction, but now he was barely keeping it together.

He looked again toward the curtained-off bed on the other side of the hospital wing. George, intuitive saint that he was, hopped up and strode around the foot of Ron's bed, launching into an animated story about a crate of fireworks that had inadvertently ignited in the shop's storeroom the other day.

Eager to hear about the goings on at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and bask in the levity that came with the change of topic, all eyes fixed on his counterpart and Fred backed slowly toward Hermione's bed, knowing George would come up with an excuse should anyone ask where he'd gotten off to.

He made it to the edge of the curtain before he felt eyes on him. It wasn't any of the visitors, though. As he looked around, he finally saw Madam Pomfrey watching from her desk, the door of her office half-opened. She held eye contact with him for a lengthy second overtop her reading glasses before offering a single, subtle nod and turning back to the paperwork in front of her.

Fred slipped behind the partition and drew his wand, muttering a silencing charm to both give them privacy and quiet the noise across the room. Then he turned and saw her, and his stomach dropped.

Hermione looked small, fragile and pallid. She was in the standard-issue blue pyjamas that everyone in the hospital wing wore, and her hair was braided to the side, laying on her right shoulder. She didn't wear it like that normally, so he assumed either his mother or the school matron had done it for her. There was a small apothecary of potions on the table beside her, ranging from Dreamless Sleep to extremely potent pain relievers.

He crossed the curtained-off area on unsteady legs before sinking into a chair next to her bed. Glancing down, he saw a small leather-bound book tucked tightly beside her in the blankets; her library. For whatever reason, that sight, more than anything, made his throat tighten.

Reaching out, he gently grabbed her hand. It was limp, coaxed into that state by whatever treatments she was receiving, but it was warm, and he could feel the thrum of a pulse in her wrist. Alive. She was alive. He realised that was what he'd needed.

He needed to verify that she was okay, even if she was unconscious. It was one thing to hear it from his father or his brother, but another to actually feel her hand in his, watch her chest rise and fall in its steady, familiar rhythm.

Fred hated so much that after two months apart, this was their reunion. That it wasn't dinner at The Burrow, or him whisking her away to the shop to show her everything they'd accomplished. The place was admittedly still in a state of chaos, but it was beginning to take shape and he wanted to share that with her. He wanted to share everything with her.

He drew his thumb in a light circle on the back of her hand and she made a quiet noise, rolling to the side but remaining deeply asleep. The button-front on her pajamas shifted a little and he saw a thick band of sterile white cloth encircling her chest, coming up high over her sternum.

… some kind of purple fire…

… seems like it still hurts…

… would have killed her.

Would have killed her.

He'd almost lost her. Everything he wanted for them, everything she was going to become, all of it had almost vanished, been ripped away in a blink.

Fred released a shuddering breath, the corners of his eyes prickling, and leaned forward. He kept a grip on her hand but laid his forearms side by side on the edge of the mattress and lowered his head to rest on them. Then he focused entirely on the feel of her and let it ground him, keep him tethered and sane.

This was the same hand he'd grabbed a year prior, as just a friend beside the lake. The hand that had gripped a broom handle and trusted him, even though she'd been terrified. The hand that had comforted him when he was the one that was scared, when he was the one that was hurting.

Fred vowed in that moment that he would do anything, everything, that he could to protect her. That he would sell his fucking soul to never have to be in this position again.

And he also vowed that, should he ever be given the opportunity, he would be the end of Antonin Dolohov.