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The Ministry of Magic was a labyrinth of enchanted windows and bustling memos, but for Ron Weasley, it was simply the place where the love of his life worked.
As a Senior Auror, Ron spent most of his days chasing Dark remnants through the damp alleys of Knockturn or filing endless paperwork in the DMLE. But lunch? Lunch was sacred. Lunch was for Hermione.
He stepped out of the golden grilles of the lifts, his Auror robes slightly singed at the hem from a morning skirmish with a particularly nasty Fire-Slug. He didn’t care. He had a paper bag from a Muggle deli in his hand—the one Hermione liked because they "didn't skimp on the sprouts."
He navigated the Level Four corridors toward the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
He reached Hermione’s office, but before he could knock, a voice drifted through the door—smooth, polished, and dripping with a confidence that always made Ron’s hackles rise.
"Really, Hermione, you’re far too brilliant to be eating at your desk. I’ve booked a table at L'Étoile Magique. You deserve a proper vintage, not... whatever that smell is coming from the hallway."
Ron pushed the door open. "It’s pastrami, actually."
Hermione looked up, her curls a frantic halo around her face, her desk buried under parchment. A small, genuine smile broke through her stress. "Ron! You’re early."
Standing by her filing cabinet was Adrian Pucey. He’d joined the Ministry two years ago, a former Slytherin who had successfully rebranded himself as a "progressive pureblood." He was handsome in a sharp, sterile way, and he currently looked at Ron like he was something the cat had dragged in—and then promptly vomited back up.
"Ah, Weasley," Adrian chuckled, leaning back. "Back from the front lines? You’ve got a bit of... soot? Or is that just the natural Weasley glow?"
Hermione let out a small, distracted huff of laughter as she shuffled papers. "He’s just teasing, Ron. Adrian, we really do need to finish these centaur liaison briefs by five."
Ron felt a twinge in his chest. Adrian’s "teasing" always seemed to center on Ron’s intelligence, his family’s past, or his appearance.
"I’m sure the centaurs can wait ten minutes for the savior of the Wizarding World to deliver his... sandwich," Adrian said, his eyes glinting. "Though, Ron, I did see the Prophet this morning. Quite a tumble you took in that raid. It’s a good thing you have Hermione to handle the thinking for the family, isn't it? If it were left to you, you’d probably try to arrest the broom instead of the wizard."
Adrian laughed. It was a light, "friendly" sound. Hermione didn't look up from her notes. "He’s a bit of a klutz sometimes," she murmured, her mind clearly on the centaur legislation. "But he gets the job done."
Ron’s fingers tightened on the paper bag. "Right. Klutz. Anyway, Hermione, I got the pastrami."
"Just leave it on the corner, darling? I’m right in the middle of this clause," she said, finally looking up, but her eyes immediately darted back to a correction Adrian was pointing out on her parchment.
"Better hurry back to the pits, Weasley," Adrian added with a wink. "Don't want the big, scary criminals getting away while you're playing delivery boy."
Ron stood there for a beat, waiting for Hermione to say something—to tell Adrian to shut up, or even just to look Adrian in the eye and defend Ron’s record as one of the most successful Aurors in the decade.
She didn't. She just nodded at Adrian’s suggestion. "He’s right, the wording here is much better, Adrian. Thanks."
Ron turned and walked out.
This became the rhythm of the month.
Ron would visit. Adrian would be there. Adrian would lob a "joke" that felt like a stinging jinx.
"Nice robes, Ron. Did your mum knit them, or did you find them in a charity bin at St. Mungo's?"
Hermione’s response: "Ron, don't be sensitive, he’s just joking about the vintage trend."
"I heard you lost the suspect in the London Underground, Weasley. It’s alright, maps can be tricky for some people."
Hermione’s response: "Oh, honestly Ron, you did get lost that one time in the Forest of Dean. Adrian’s just having a laugh."
Ron was many things—he was brave, he was loyal, and he was a damn good Auror—but he was also a man who had spent his youth feeling like the "least" of his friends. He had fought those demons and won, or so he thought. But hearing the woman he was about to marry silently acquiesce to Adrian’s subtle barbs was a different kind of pain. It wasn't the insults; it was her silence.
By the third week, Ron stopped going to Level Four.
Ten days passed without a lunch visit. Hermione, buried in work, didn't notice at first. But then came the evening she arrived home to their flat in Gryffindor Square to find Ron sitting in the dark, staring at a cold cup of tea.
"Ron?" she asked, shedding her cloak. "You've been so distant lately. I haven't seen you at the office in ages. Is there a big case on?"
"No," Ron said, his voice flat.
"Then what is it? I missed you today. I actually had to go down to the canteen and eat that dreadful sludge they serve."
Ron looked at her then, and the look in his eyes made Hermione’s heart stutter. It wasn't anger. It was exhaustion.
"I’m not coming to your office anymore, Hermione. I can’t watch you let him do it."
Hermione blinked, genuinely confused. "Let who do what? What are you talking about?"
"Adrian Pucey," Ron said the name like it was ash in his mouth. "Every time I walk in there, he spends ten minutes tearing me down. He calls me stupid, he mocks my family, he treats me like an errand boy. And you just... you just sit there. You laugh with him. You agree with him."
Hermione’s face went pale. "Ron, he’s just... he has a very dry sense of humor. He’s a colleague. I thought you two were getting along! I thought it was just banter."
"Banter?" Ron stood up, his height filling the room. "Banter is between friends, Hermione. He isn't my friend. He’s a man who spends his entire day trying to make me look small in front of my future wife. And the worst part isn't even him. It’s that you don’t even notice. You don’t have my back."
"I... I didn't think..." Hermione stammered. She thought back to the comments. The soot. The charity bin. The maps. She had been so focused on her work, so accustomed to "keeping the peace" in the office, that she had tuned out the venom. She realized, with a sickening jolt, that she had been rewarding Adrian’s behavior with her smiles and her silence.
"I’m an Auror, Hermione. I deal with Dark Wizards every day. I can handle an idiot like Pucey," Ron said, his voice cracking. "But I shouldn't have to handle him in your office while you watch."
He walked past her into the bedroom and closed the door.
Hermione stood in the kitchen, feeling smaller than she ever had in her life. She was the "brightest witch of her age," and she had been utterly blind.
The next morning, Hermione didn't go to her desk. She waited by the elevators for Adrian Pucey.
When he arrived, looking smug and polished in silk robes, he beamed at her. "Hermione! Just the person I wanted to see. I have some thoughts on the goblin liaison—"
"In my office. Now," she said. Her voice was ice.
Adrian followed, sensing a shift in the air but misreading it as professional stress. Once the door clicked shut, he leaned against her desk. "Tough morning? If it's about that Weasley fellow, I'm sure he'll—"
"Do not," Hermione whispered, "speak his name."
Adrian froze. "Pardon?"
"I have been blind, Adrian. I have been so buried in my work that I allowed your 'humor' to pass for collegiality. But I see it now. Every insult, every 'joke' about his intelligence, his clothes, his family. You weren't being funny. You were being a bully."
Adrian’s expression shifted. The mask of the "friendly colleague" dropped, replaced by something more desperate. "Hermione, come on. He’s a bit of a brute, isn't he? He’s not on your level. I was just trying to show you that you... you could have more. Someone who understands the nuances of your world. Someone like me."
He stepped closer, reaching for her hand. "I’ve loved you since the day I started here. I’ve been trying to show you that he’s not worthy of you."
Hermione recoiled as if he had tried to hand her a venomous snake. "You think that by insulting the man I love—the man who is braver, kinder, and more honorable than you will ever be—you would win me over? You think I would value 'nuance' over loyalty?"
"Hermione, be reasonable—"
"I am being very reasonable," she said, her voice trembling with a controlled, terrifying rage. "I am going to Kingsley Shacklebolt's office now. I will be requesting a formal transfer for you. If you are not out of this department by the end of the week, I will file a formal harassment claim that will make sure you never work in the Ministry again."
"You can't do that! I'm your top researcher!"
"I am Hermione Granger," she said, opening the door wide. "I finished the research for the downfall of Voldemort while I was on the run at seventeen. I think I can manage without you. Get out."
That evening, Hermione didn't wait for Ron to come home. she went to the DMLE.
Ron was at his desk, staring at a pile of reports. He looked up as she approached, his expression guarded. Without a word, Hermione walked around the desk and pulled him into a hug so tight it knocked the wind out of him.
"I am so sorry," she sobbed into his shoulder. "I was so stupid, Ron. I let him say those things and I didn't see what he was doing. I've dealt with it. He’s gone. He’s never coming near me again."
Ron’s arms slowly came up to wrap around her. He buried his face in her hair, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. "You really told him off?"
"I threatened to have him blacklisted from the Wizarding world," she muffled into his chest.
Ron let out a weak, shaky laugh. "That’s my girl."
He pulled back, looking at her. "I don't need you to fight my battles, Hermione. I just need to know you're on my side."
"Always," she promised, reaching up to cup his face. "From now on, the only person allowed to make fun of you is me. And even then, only about your snoring."
"Fair enough," Ron grinned.