The Burrow is quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only settles after a long day of laughter, clattering dishes, and mismatched socks drying by the fire. Upstairs, the old clock ticks faintly, its rhythm steady against the hush of the night.

You’re curled into Ron’s chest beneath a patchwork quilt that smells faintly of lavender and woodsmoke. His arms are warm around you, one hand resting gently on your back, the other tangled in your hair. The flu has left you pale and heavy-limbed, your body aching and your mind fogged—but it’s the fear that keeps you from sinking into sleep. That creeping dread of what dreams might come.

Ron knows. He felt it earlier, in the way you hesitated before lying down. In the way your fingers clutched his shirt just a little too tightly. He’s seen the night terrors before—the way they grip you, twist your breath, leave you gasping and disoriented. He hates that you have to face them alone, even in sleep.

You stir slightly, brow furrowing, breath catching. He tightens his hold just a little, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice low and rough with sleep. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”