the invisible battle
Hermione Granger-Weasley had defeated Dark wizards, helped overturn discriminatory laws, and was now the youngest Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in a century. She had cataloged her victories meticulously, just as she now cataloged her calories.
It started innocuously enough. Late nights at the Ministry meant irregular meals. Important meetings with international delegations meant fancy dinners where she'd pick at her food while focusing on diplomatic language. The stress of heading a department reform initiative left her stomach in knots too often to eat properly.
"Just a bit stressed," she'd tell Ron when he noticed her pushing food around her plate. "I'll eat properly once this legislation passes."
But the legislation passed, and another took its place. The pattern continued, and somewhere along the way, the restriction became intentional rather than circumstantial. The control she exerted over her intake became a comfort when the rest of her world felt chaotic with responsibility.
The ritual of emptiness became something she craved. The lightheadedness that came with skipping meals for a day made her feel ethereal, above mundane concerns. Her mind, always sharp, seemed to take on a crystalline clarity when operating on minimal fuel—at least at first.
When she slipped below eight stone, her office robes had to be magically altered. She told herself it was simply more practical to adjust the clothing than to waste time shopping for new ones. The hollows beneath her cheekbones deepened. Her wedding ring slipped off her finger one day while signing documents; she solved this problem with a quick spell to resize it, avoiding examining why it had become loose in the first place.
Ron noticed, of course. At first with concerned glances, then with gentle questions, and finally with outright worry.
"'Mione, you've barely touched your shepherd's pie. It's your favorite," he said one evening, his fork paused midway to his mouth.
"I had a late lunch with Kingsley," she lied smoothly, the words practiced. She had, in fact, skipped lunch entirely to review case files.
"Did you?" Ron asked, his blue eyes searching her face in that way he'd developed after the war—looking for signs of distress she might be hiding. "Because Harry mentioned you declined when they invited you."
Hermione felt her face flush. She was usually so careful with her excuses.
"I—I meant I had tea. With the files. While reviewing the Werewolf Employment case." She stood abruptly, taking her plate to the sink. "I'm just not hungry tonight."
Ron followed her, placing his own plate down gently before turning her to face him. His hands were warm on her shoulders, and she realized with a start how cold she had been.
"Hermione," he said softly, "this is the third night this week you haven't eaten dinner. And you're wearing your winter robes in June."
"The Ministry is always freezing," she said defensively, though they both knew the truth—she was always cold these days, no matter the surrounding temperature. Her fingernails had taken on a bluish tinge that she disguised with a subtle charm.
Ron took a deep breath. "I've been reading," he said carefully.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. Ron reading voluntarily was typically reserved for Quidditch statistics and Auror manuals.
"About eating... problems," he continued. "Disorders. I think—" he swallowed hard, "—I think maybe you might be dealing with something like that."
Hermione's first instinct was to laugh it off. The very idea that she, logical and rational Hermione Granger, could succumb to something so seemingly vain as an eating disorder seemed absurd. But the laughter died in her throat as she caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window—her collarbones protruding sharply from beneath her robes, her cheeks hollow beneath her high cheekbones.
"That's ridiculous," she said weakly. "I'm perfectly fine. Just busy. Important work doesn't always leave time for three square meals."
Ron's expression was a mixture of determination and heartbreak. "Your work is important. But so are you." He reached for her hand, and she was struck by how small hers looked in his. Had her hands always been this thin? "Please, Hermione. Talk to someone."
"I talk to plenty of people every day," she replied automatically, the deflection practiced. "The entire Wizengamot, in fact."
Ron's eyes glistened. "That's not what I mean, and you know it."
For the first time in months, Hermione felt something crack in her carefully constructed façade. The realization that Ron had been researching—reading books about a topic he'd never have chosen himself—just to understand what might be happening to her, broke something loose inside.
"I can't be sick," she whispered. "I have too much to do."
"You can be both brilliant and struggling," Ron said, surprising her with his insight. "You taught me that, years ago, when I was dealing with those nightmares after the war."
Hermione felt tears threatening. She had indeed told him that—that strength wasn't about pretending weaknesses didn't exist, but facing them head-on.
"I don't know how to stop," she admitted, the first truth she'd spoken about her relationship with food in months. "It started as just... control. When everything at work was chaos. And now I don't know how to eat normally anymore."
Ron pulled her into his arms, and she let herself be held, feeling both terrifyingly fragile and somehow safer than she had in ages.
"We'll figure it out," he promised into her hair. "Together."