AN- This one's definitely a little darker than most of mine, and it sort of isn't for the weak stomach, I guess. Please tell me what you think of it.
Harry always said he was fine. For the most part, Ron believed him.
But there were moments, when Ron was shaking his screaming friend awake, that Ron wondered. Harry's face was soaked in sweat and incredibly warm to the touch, and Ron knew that soon he'd have to find a fever reductor, and possibly a headache potion.
He'd try to calm his best friend down, try to wake him up gently, and cleaned the mess up as soon as Harry threw himself towards the edge of the bed and vomited the little dinner he'd been able to get down.
"Harry? Wake up, mate, it's all right."
"What?" The barely understandable mumble was cut off as Harry leaned over once again. This time, he took a deep breath, swallowed, and looked back up at Ron. Already, his eyes were focused and his expression was calm. His messy bangs didn't cover his irritated red scar, and Ron knew as soon as he saw it that somewhere else, Voldemort was killing.
"Do you know where you are?" They went through this every time, but Harry merely nodded.
"The Burrow." He answered swiftly. He didn't even bother being annoyed at Ron for asking. There were times that he needed to be reminded that he wasn't halfway across the country, involved in an attack. "Did I wake anyone?"
Ron shook his head as Harry stood and headed towards the bathroom to brush his teeth again. Ron followed, heading down to the kitchen to retrieve a fever reductor potion before heading back up.
Harry downed the vial and climbed back into bed, still looking pale and peaky. Ron climbed into his own bed and turned on his side to face his best friend. "Are you alright, mate? That seemed like it was a little worse than usual."
"I'm fine." Harry answered casually. "Just a little sleepy. `Night Ron."
Ron smiled and said goodnight, then turned on his side, content. Harry was fine, alive and in the same room as him, no longer screaming. Yes, Harry would be fine.
But Ron knew that Harry would be up the rest of the night, worrying about all of those people, because that's just what Harry did. And Ron would stay wide-awake as well, worrying for Harry.
Harry always said that he was alright, and usually, Hermione believed him.
But there were moments when Hermione wondered if maybe Harry hurt a little more than he let on. He wasn't eating his food, just pushing it randomly around on his plate. Hermione couldn't blame him, because that was minor compared to how most would react after seeing their parent's graves for the first time. Harry had knelt there, with one knee in the mud and grass in between his mothers' and fathers' tombstones, in silence, when Hermione knew she would've been crying.
"Aren't you going to eat your dinner, Harry? I mean, I know I'm not the best cook, so I won't be hurt if you don't like it." Hermione knew that it wasn't her food that had destroyed Harry's appetite, but he had to eat. She wasn't sure when they would stop by Grimmauld place again, didn't even know when they would stop somewhere for real food again, and Harry was too skinny as it was.
Of course, Harry was more worried about hurting her feelings than he was about himself going hungry, but Hermione already knew that Harry didn't worry about himself. It was one of the reasons she worried about him.
"No, Hermione! It's delicious, really." Harry reassured her, taking a big bite of the spaghetti she'd pulled together. Smiling at him, Hermione returned to eating her own meal, satisfied that he was eating again.
But she'd keep an eye on him for the rest of the meal and the next few days anyway. It wouldn't do for Harry to go hungry, and he'd be too worried about finding the horcruxes and saving the world to stop and worry about his own needs once they left. She'd just have to worry for him.
Harry always said he was okay, and most of the time, Ron believed him.
But when he saw the large, swelling gash on his friend's back, Ron wondered what Harry would call `bad', if this was okay. The wound had black blood caked and half-dried around it and ran from his upper right shoulder to just past his ribs on his left side. It must have at least been an inch deep, and Ron knew that Harry was lucky he'd kept his arm.
They couldn't go to the hospital nearby because that meant risking going out in the wizarding world. It wasn't a chance they could take, so instead Ron merely bandaged up the wound after Hermione did everything she could to disinfect it.
"Just squeeze my hand when it hurts, Harry." Hermione offered when both of them noticed that their friend was gritting his teeth in pain. Harry gazed reluctantly at the offered hand, and gripped it incredibly lightly, calming Hermione more than himself.
"Do you think you can sit up?" Ron asked, wincing in sympathy as Harry tried to slowly pull himself up. His eyes were screwed tightly shut and his stubby fingernails seemed to be digging into his palms.
"Here, let me help." He moved to give Harry some support, but before he could even begin to steady him, Harry was already sitting Indian-style on the bed of the hotel room they had rented for the night.
"Hermione, did you figure out how to destroy a horcrux yet?" He asked, already focused once again on ending the war. Ron, still worried, watched as Harry and Hermione continued to discuss any ideas they had about how to defeat Voldemort, and joined in when the conversation moved to the latest attacks, shoving aside the little bit of him that wanted to insist that Harry rest for a while, to recover. After all, Harry seemed fine.
Harry always said that he was fine. And for the most part, they believed him.
But everyone knew when they didn't.
Molly Weasley would notice that Hermione and her son took it in turns to slip a little more food on Harry's plate every meal, and watched as Ron nervously made sure that Harry ate at dinner. And as worried as she was for her adopted son, a part of her felt proud of how protective his youngest son was of Harry.
Minerva McGonagall knew because one of her best students, Hermione Granger, left school in a heartbeat to follow her other two friends to the death. And when Minerva asked why, Hermione's only answer was, "Because I'd be too worried about him if I let him go alone."
Lucius Malfoy knew when he saw the mudblood and the muggle-lover's son give the Boy-Who-Lived a little of their food in their cell, despite how little food they were already being given. It took a lot of convincing on their part, but eventually Potter accepted the extra food, and the other two smiled, despite the cold, dark cell and the hunger they were sure to feel later that night.
Voldemort knew when he held his wand to the muggle-born's head and offered to exchange the girl's life for Potter's, and he saw that the girl was more worried about Potter than she was about herself.
The whole world knew it when Hermione took Harry's hand, and Ron had a comforting grip on Harry's shoulder as their friend stood in front of hundreds of witches and wizards to announce that Voldemort was, once and for all, dead.
"Harry, mate?" Ron asked, concerned. For support, he glanced at Hermione. Hesitantly, she finished his question for him.
"Are you okay?" She asked, her eyes measuring him carefully.
Harry smiled wanly at them. His eyes were tired, his right wrist was wrapped in bandages, he had a slight limp and he was pale with fatigue. "I'm fine." He answered, gripping Hermione's hand and nodding at Ron before he turned to face the press.
And this time, they believed him.
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