Ron Weasley
Ron was her first. Not in the conventional sense, of course. That ‘honour’ went to a random muggle on her street just before she ran away in the war. But her first victim. Or that’s what people had started calling them at least, the men who had tried in vain to win her hand.
Whatever that bullshit really means. What had started as an ill-timed and ill-advised kiss in the Chamber of Secrets, spanned into a (five months too long in her opinion) quasi-relationship between her and Ronald which was about to have an even sourer end than their rocky period in sixth year. Who knew that was possible?
It all started on a crisp, frosty morning, where British winter had seemed to drag itself out for as long as possible (as usual), having pierced its claws far into the new year. However, today was looking up with the sun finally piercing foggy London with its rays, and seemingly inviting people to enjoy their morning commute instead of just trudging along. Hermione did not notice anything amiss when she woke up to an empty bed next to her instead of the usual snoring Ron (who never was a morning person anyways). That should have been her first sign.
But alas, she continued naively throughout her daily routine, fixing her breakfast, walking to the ministry to get those extra steps in, and stopping to browse a cute windowsill of her resident bookshop. In fact, she remained painfully oblivious to all of the malarkey around her. For of course, it was Valentine’s Day, the day of her having to dodge disastrously pink banners and horribly potent bouquets of flowers. Little did she know, what was waiting for her behind her office door…
“BANG!” The sudden noise when turning her door handle made Hermione jump and go to tightly grasp her wand. Did her mind deceive her or was music playing from inside? And were those flashing lights? Bewildered, Hermione flung open the door and her eyes widened when she saw the horror inside.
Someone had repainted the interior walls of her office to a light, baby pink, scattered so many rose petals over the room that you couldn’t make out a word of the documents on her desk, and charmed a phantom string quartet to play in the cramped, forgotten corner. Now, don’t get her wrong, Hermione enjoyed Mozart’s whatever symphony as much as the next girl, but at 9am? On a Tuesday? In front of all of her colleagues? Damn, she was never gonna live this down.
Worst of all, Ron came at her, beaming with (more) roses in hand, scampering across the room like a golden retriever. Suddenly, Hermione had this growing pit of anxiety in her stomach, there’s no way he would- would he? But apparently the universe was not her side today because he totally would. Did. Was doing…
“Hermione, you know that you’re my best friend in the world and we’ve been through everything together right?”, he seemed to blurt out, almost gasping for breath. “Please no, god no.” She chanted in her head, thinking that this might all just be some horrid, wicked nightmare that some follower of the long gone Dark Lord had forced her to participate in.
Ron, obliviously, continued rambling on. “Well, it’s been over half a year since the Battle of Hogwarts and what better way to commemorate the occasion than two of the war heroes getting together?” Bleh, this was his logic? Also why did he always seem to drop in their supposed heroism into conversation. If it wasn’t that, then it was their Order of Merlin or the money that the ministry had awarded them to start their lives anew etc etc. God, it was exhausting.
“You know you love me, and you know everyone thinks we belong together.” Again, not exactly a ringing endorsement of his affection for her but whatever… “Will you finally do what everyone wants and marry me?” At this, Ron seemed to collapse to one knee, clearly ignoring the look of growing dismay behind Hermione’s eyes, which was all the more embarrassingly noticed by all of her coworkers crowding unsubtly outside her open office door.
She even caught a slight smirk on Draco Malfoy’s lips, but that was for another time. The looks on all of her coworkers’ faces was enough emotional blackmail to last her for a life time.
Taking a deep breath (inhale for four seconds, exhale for four seconds - exactly as her post-war therapist had taught her), she flicked her wrist, promptly slamming her door shut. Then she added a silencing charm for good measure. “Ron,” she said beseechingly, “I do love you.” And then noting the imploring look on his face, quickly changed tracks.
“But I can’t marry you… I mean we don’t make sense, do we?! We don’t even live together, or like eating the same foods, and you throw a tantrum anytime you find one of Crookshank’s hairs on your clothes.” She trails off upon seeing the dejected tears sliding down Ron’s usually handsome face… though his face did seem to be growing steadily redder?
“I should’ve known you would never get down off your high horse to be with someone as lowly as me,” he scowled. “You always just do what you want anyways!”, sneered in her direction with his spit flying inelegantly from his mouth. Turning on his heel, Ron wrenched open her office door - much to the surprise of her secretary, who had been listening so intently that they had balanced their entire body against the door. Crashing somewhat silently, her secretary winced whilst everyone beyond the door seemed to follow Ron’s lead and scuttle off. Thank fuck.
Hermione sighed, running her hands through her unruly curls. Orientating towards to the explosion of pink and red, she resigned herself to cleaning all of this mess herself. Though there were perks to being a witch of course, and the entire thing did not take her longer than ten minutes with the last, lonely rose petal being vanished seamlessly by her wand.
She never should have entertained Ron for that long she chastised herself, and more than that she should have tried harder to shut him down whenever he brought up the idea of marriage and kids. Still she didn’t think he’d do something so brash after just six months of official dating.
Making her way over to departmental kitchen, she noticed a shock of blond hair belonging to none other than the Draco Malfoy. Now, that was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Despite his supposed changed nature (mainly in that he was now aloof, and ambivalent to every other ministry worker), all he seemed to do when they were assigned a case together lately was to rile her up.
Yes, sometimes him rejecting her plans for proposed law changed ensured that she covered every single basis and made sure there were no loopholes for the ministry to take when it came to their now non-discriminative policies towards werewolves, but it still fucking stung. Not that she would ever tell him that (she couldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Approaching him from behind, she was confused to see him stirring two cups of hot liquid. One was black coffee and the other a milky tea, which was weird because she knew he didn’t even like tea that wasn’t freshly imported from some far away country and, per his words, ‘had floral notes and not the overwhelming taste of wet leaves’. Turning upon sensing her entering the room, he swiftly handed her the cup of tea and she accepted warily.
“What is this for?” she questioned, blowing once into her tea and then taking a tentative sip. She sighed, it was perfect - just the way she liked it with ‘too much’ milk and two sugars. Of course, Draco stupid middle name something Malfoy would be the one to make her one of the most delicious cups of tea, and everyone knows it tastes better when someone makes it for you. He just shrugged and said, “You look like you needed it.”
Hermione, taking this to mean she looked tired and unkempt, just patted her hair and humphed. Sodding hell, this man took every opportunity to dig at her, didn’t he? She raised the mug towards him as a gesture of her thanks, and left to properly address the pile of work that had built up on her desk that had surely tripled over the past hour. Damn, this day had too long already.
Draco just watched her leave, hesitating over whether to call after her, or even to accompany her to her door to check if she was okay. But the moment passed, and he just dropped his head and busied himself with straightening out the kitchen.