You sat at the kitchen table, head resting on folded arms as the soft clatter of dishes and chatter echoed faintly in the background. The lights felt too bright, even with the curtains drawn against the golden afternoon sun. Your temples throbbed in rhythm with the ticking clock on the wall, and every sound in the Weasley household—usually comforting—felt like a personal attack.

Ron entered with a clumsy swagger and a half-eaten treacle tart in hand. The moment he saw your slumped form, he froze mid-bite.

“Whoa… migraine?” he said quietly, setting the dessert aside with unusual gentleness. “Is it the kind that makes your brain feel like it’s being hexed by a swarm of Cornish Pixies?”

You gave a weak nod, eyes shut tight against the light.

Ron sprang into action like he was prepping for a Quidditch match. He tiptoed around the room (a heroic feat, given his usual clatter), fetched a cold flannel from the sink, and dimmed the lights using a makeshift charm Fred had taught him—Notturna Glow, mostly used for sneaking snacks at night, but surprisingly useful here.

He placed the flannel on your forehead, then rummaged through the cupboards until he found Molly’s chamomile and peppermint infusion—head-soother tea, she called it.

“Don’t worry, mate,” he said, settling beside her with exaggerated care, “I’ve dealt with Fred and George’s experimental fireworks in my room. If I survived that, I can definitely handle your migraine.”