Chapter Text
A/N: new romione fic! (sorry for long note!) I came up with this idea not too long ago, and it completely took over my mind in a very short time. I couldn't stop thinking about it, so I started planning. I know there are already quite a few fanfics with a similar premise—like Auror Ron Weasley meets an unknown Muggle (Hermione), or stories such as In Search of Hermione by AzaleaBlue — which I highly recommend. Still, I wanted to create something of my own. I began sketching the plot, the world, and the overall structure on paper, making notes and drafts until everything finally came together. It took me a while because I wanted this story to be something special—something good, something mine. Now it's time to bring it to life on screen. So, I invite you to read the first chapter of this long Romione story. But before we begin, you'll find below the main outline of my plan and early notes (mostly focused on Ron). Unfortunately, Hermione doesn't appear in this chapter—but don't worry, she'll come soon enough. And trust me—it'll be worth the wait. In this story, Hermione did not go to Hogwarts and did not meet Ron, which will affect his personality in this story. At the beginning there's no Romione but later is going to be so much of them. Ron doesn't know Hermione.
!IMPORTANT! I want to inform you that the later chapters in this story will feature drastic scenes - violence, torture, rape, suggestive themes, nudity, and sexual content.
it gets darker with each chapter!
Time of the action – 7 years after the war
It took Ron, Harry, and Neville a little over a year to find and destroy the remaining Horcruxes without Hermione, but in the end, they succeeded — every fragment of Voldemort's soul was destroyed, and the Dark Lord was finally defeated.
Auror Office Structure:
Head Auror – oversees all operations and reports directly to the Minister.
Sub-departments:
a) Enforcement Chief – responsible for bureaucracy, internal management, and administrative matters.
b) Judiciary Operations – supervises Azkaban, interrogations, and the judicial process.
c) Tactical Officers – in charge of field missions and tactical operations. There are three main squads:
-Harry Potter – Phoenix Squad
-Ronald Weasley – Protego Squad
-Neville Longbottom – Lumos Squad
Each of these division heads commands a team of several younger Aurors, working under their leadership in various field operations across the wizarding world.
Ron Weasley is now a 25-year-old Auror. Thanks to his experience from the previous war, countless encounters with dark magic, and a shortened training program, he quickly secured a position as a Junior Auror alongside his friends. His tactical mind and ability to stay calm under pressure soon set him apart, and after three years of service, he was promoted to Officer and appointed leader of the Protego Squad. Disciplined and methodical, he approaches every mission with precision and unwavering focus.
Chapter I
Exhausted, sore, and covered in dirt, Auror Tactical Officer Ronald Weasley — Leader of the Protego Squad — trudged toward the locker room alongside the five other members of his team. Six young men moved at a snail's pace, heading for the showers after another long, grueling day in the field.
It had been several years since the war, yet people still sent in reports claiming to have seen Death Eaters. Unfortunately, most of these sightings turned out to be false alarms — but they couldn't afford to ignore any of them. That had been the case today. An elderly woman from Wiltshire had reported spotting a man wearing a heavy black cloak outside her home — in the middle of a sweltering summer.
Because of that, Ron's squad — along with Neville's Lumos Squad — had spent nearly eight hours hidden in bushes and mud, casting detection charms every few minutes to check for any trace of apparition or dark magic.
Eventually, one of Neville's young recruits had located the supposed "suspect" — only to discover he was a muggle sensitive to sunlight. The poor bloke had a vitamin D deficiency, as proven by the packet of supplements sticking out of his pocket. After bringing him back to the old woman, she confirmed that he was indeed the same man she'd seen.
And that, in short, had been Ron's day.
Of course, not all missions ended in disappointment. Every so often, they did come across remnants of Voldemort's army — though, thankfully (or perhaps frustratingly), they were usually low-ranking dark wizards or deranged blood-supremacists trying to revive the old cause. Still, a handful of dangerous names remained at large… and Ron knew their time would come soon enough.
He undressed slowly, feeling every movement remind him just how worn out he was. Stepping into the cubicle, he turned on the shower. The water came out ice-cold, but he didn't move away — if anything, he leaned into it, letting the chill hit his skin and wash away the grime, sweat, and strain of the day. Droplets ran down his shoulders and neck, taking with them the tension and frustration of eight pointless hours crouched in mud on another false alarm.
Ron liked that moment — the quiet, grounding end to a day at the office. The shower always felt like a kind of ritual, the official line between duty and normal life. Under the water, he stopped being Auror Weasley, Leader of the Protego Squad, and became just Ron again.
But of course, once the work problems were rinsed away, the personal ones took their place — the ones you couldn't wash off. Family, memories, the little things that crept back into your mind.
The sounds of running water, chatter, and laughter from the other Aurors filled the locker room.
Ron stepped out of the shower and ran a towel over his wet hair and shoulders. As he began to dress, a faint sense of unease crept over him — the feeling that he had forgotten something, some plan or appointment that was just beyond his reach. He frowned slightly, then shook his head. Whatever it was, it would come back to him sooner or later.
He slipped into a pair of comfortable trousers and a neatly pressed shirt, throwing on a jacket over the top. Since the war, his style had changed noticeably. He dressed better now — more thoughtfully, with a quiet sense of care. Gone were the days of wrinkled jumpers and robes that hung awkwardly at the wrists. These days, he preferred muggle clothes: well-fitted jackets, clean lines, and fabrics that made him feel oddly grounded.
Sometimes, he thought it was because he'd had enough of magic. Not in the literal sense — he would always be a wizard — but there were moments when it all felt too close, too heavy, like a reminder of a life he was still trying to make peace with.
That was why he had chosen to live where he did. A quiet, well-kept, mostly Muggle richer part of London — far from the hum of Diagon Alley and the faint crackle of magic that lingered in wizarding districts. He couldn't quite explain it, even to himself. Perhaps it was the silence, or the normality, or simply the comfort of being surrounded by people who had no idea who he was.
He straightened the cuffs of his jacket, giving himself a final once-over in the mirror. The man looking back at him didn't entirely resemble the boy who had once charged into battle with little more than courage and luck. His freckles were the same, his eyes still kind — but there was a steadiness now, a quiet confidence he hadn't noticed growing until recently.
Stepping out of the changing room, he entered the corridor and came face to face with Neville — his old friend and now the leader of the Lumos squad — already dressed and running a hand through his still-damp hair.
Neville looked slightly tense. Ron sighed, which immediately caught his friend's attention, and together they headed towards the exit of the Department. Ron kept glancing at Neville from the corner of his eye; the man was staring at the floor, fiddling nervously with his fingers.
Ron came to a halt and looked at him sharply.
"Right, what's going on?" he asked bluntly.
Neville lifted his head, startled.
"What… what do you mean?" he replied, as if he genuinely didn't understand the question.
Ron rolled his eyes.
"Oh, come off it. I can tell something's bothering you." He studied him for a moment. "Is it Hannah?"
He wasn't entirely sure why, but it was Ron whom Neville always came to whenever something troubled him about his relationship with Hannah Abbott. Ron tried to give the best advice he could — though sometimes not without irritation, especially when Neville dragged him away from his rare and cherished solitude.
Ron often wondered why Neville had chosen him as his unofficial "relationship adviser". Harry, after all, had a fiancée — Ron's sister — and had always been more popular with girls at school. And Ron? Ron had had exactly one girlfriend: Lavender Brown. A pretty blonde from their year, but to call it a relationship was generous. They mostly snogged, Ron grew bored, she began to irritate him, and after a few months he ended things.
Neville cleared his throat, dragging Ron out of his thoughts.
"I… I want to propose," he blurted out quickly, as if the words frightened him.
Ron gave him a seemingly indifferent look, though surprise flickered somewhere deep inside. Neville had changed enormously since their school years, yet a trace of that old shyness still lingered in him. Even so, this decision had only been a matter of time — they lived together for three years now above the Leaky Cauldron and the way he and Hannah looked at each other sometimes made Ron feel a faint ache of longing for someone who might look at him like that.
"That's brilliant. When?" Ron asked.
"I'm planning to do it next week, at the weekend," Neville said. "Do you… want to know how?"
"Go on then," Ron replied and resumed walking. Neville followed beside him.
"We'll go to a restaurant for a normal date, so she won't suspect anything…"
"Mhm."
"Then we'll take a walk. To a Muggle park. Under the moonlight," Neville added, sounding dreamy.
Ron snorted at the expression on his face.
"Sounds romantic."
"Yeah… I suppose."
"So why're you so nervous?" Ron asked.
Neville grimaced.
"I'm not afraid she'll say no. It's just…" He hesitated. "Sometimes I think she deserves someone better."
Ron stopped again, turned towards him and gripped him firmly by the shoulders.
"Mate. You're a war hero. A brilliant auror. You're loyal, brave, and you're a bloody good friend. The only person who deserves Hannah… is you," he said with quiet conviction.
Neville held his gaze for a moment before nodding. Ron released him and they stepped into the lift, which carried them down towards the Ministry's Atrium.
"And you?" Neville asked suddenly.
"What about me?"
"Have you got someone?"
"I don't need a girlfriend," Ron replied coldly.
Neville let out a short huff.
"You do. You're always grumpy and miserable. You need a woman. And I'm not talking about those… encounters you have sometimes after nights out."
Ron muttered something under his breath, clearly displeased.
It was true that he didn't have anyone — no girlfriend, not even anyone he was interested in. It was also true that he often felt lonely, that something was missing, even if he refused to admit it. Work consumed him completely, and Ron liked to tell himself that love was a luxury he didn't have time for.
From time to time, women approached him when he was out in the city — young, pretty, intrigued by the "war hero". Sometimes it turned into a brief, casual meeting that faded within days. Ron suspected that more than a few were fascinated by the legend rather than the man himself. That was why he avoided anything serious nowadays; he preferred solitude over the feeling that someone wanted the name Weasley and not Ron.
During his most isolated moments, he had even turned to professional companionship — not to use anyone, but simply because he needed a closeness he couldn't seem to find elsewhere. He never treated those women poorly or like objects; he paid fairly, remained polite, and respected every boundary. It was only a brief, uncomplicated escape, nothing more.
They approached the Floo fireplaces.
"Where are you headed?" Neville asked.
"The Leaky Cauldron. I need a drink," Ron replied.
"I'm coming with you. But I'm not drinking tonight," Neville said with a tired smile. "I'm exhausted. Besides, I'm sure my future fiancée wouldn't want you left unsupervised."
Ron forced a smile. Both grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it beneath their feet and shouted their destination.
Moments later they stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace, brushing soot off their clothes.
The pub looked different now. Ever since Hannah had taken over, it had become brighter, cleaner, more welcoming. Better food, better drinks, more space.
Ron sank onto a barstool with a heavy exhale. The moment Hannah spotted them, she practically sprinted from behind the counter and threw herself into Neville's arms, kissing him passionately. Ron turned away to give them privacy — though it hardly mattered, as several patrons had already begun clapping.
At last the couple pulled apart, and Hannah immediately launched into a rapid-fire stream of questions.
"How was it? Did anyone get hurt? Did you catch the Death Eaters?" she asked, looking quickly between the two men.
"False alarm. Whole bloody day wasted," Ron muttered.
"But what—" she began, but Ron cut her off as he rose from the stool.
"I'm going for a piss. Neville, tell your girlfriend what happened," he said, heading towards the toilets.
When Ron returned to the bar and slid back onto the same stool, he caught sight of Neville leaning close to Hannah, whispering something into her ear. Hannah's eyes widened with a secretive sparkle, and she shot Ron a mysterious smile that only made him frown in confusion. Neville kissed her softly, then waved at Ron in farewell before heading towards the stairs that led up to their flat above the pub.
"What can I get you?" Hannah asked once Neville disappeared.
"Something light. To start with," Ron replied.
A moment later she placed a glass filled with clinking ice in front of him. Ron wrapped his fingers around the cold glass and took a slow sip, savouring it. It was Friday, yet the pub was far less crowded than usual — and Ron found the emptiness comforting. Silence suited him tonight.
"Neville told me you need a woman," Hannah murmured, leaning over the bar towards him with that far-too-knowing expression she tended to wear whenever she felt like meddling.
"What? I do not need a woman!" Ron blurted out, far louder than he intended.
Hannah burst into soft laughter. "I could set you up with someone, you know. I've got a couple of friends who'd be thrilled to meet you."
Ron let out a short, sarcastic snort — half amusement, half disbelief. As if dating was something he could just… slot in between near-death missions and sleepless nights.
"I'm serious, Ron," she continued gently, her tone shifting into something closer to concern. "It's about time you found some love. You look like someone who'd actually benefit from it."
He looked away, jaw tightening. If only she knew how complicated the whole thing was in his head. How the very idea of letting someone close again made something inside him pull tight and recoil. How every time he imagined a relationship, a voice whispered that he would ruin it, or that he'd choose wrong, or that he'd lose them like he had nearly lost everyone else.
Hannah sighed when he didn't answer. "Alright, have it your way. But if you change your mind," she added lightly, already turning to another customer, "just say the word. I'll find you someone good."
"Thanks," Ron muttered into his drink, his voice low, almost swallowed by the clinking of glasses and quiet music drifting through the pub.
As she moved down the bar, Ron stared at the melting ice in his glass, feeling a strange, uncomfortable heaviness settle in his chest.
He didn't need a woman.
He didn't need anything.
At least, that's what he insisted to himself — even though a small, traitorous part of him whispered that Hannah might not be entirely wrong.
As he sat alone, nursing his drink, that irritating, nagging sensation crept back into his chest — the feeling that he had forgotten something. Something he didn't want to remember. Something he certainly didn't want to do. Or someone he didn't want to meet. He wasn't sure which.
But his peace didn't last long.
The door creaked open, and a burst of cold air swept inside — along with Ginny Weasley and her fiancé, Harry Potter. They walked in hand in hand, glowing with that annoyingly warm, contented couple's energy Ron had long stopped pretending he understood. Ginny was laughing at something Harry had just whispered, and Harry looked at her like she was the only light in the room.
Ron immediately shut his eyes and prayed — genuinely prayed — that they wouldn't see him. That they'd sit in some dark corner and leave him to the one thing he'd been craving all week: quiet. He didn't want to interrupt their date, and he especially didn't want to deal with Harry's inevitable questions about the mission. Questions loaded with concern, understanding, and that bloody look Harry always gave him — the look that said I know you're not fine.
He didn't want to be known tonight. Not even by them.
Still staring into his glass, Ron kept watching them through the reflection on the polished wood, and then over his shoulder, though he pretended he wasn't. Some part of him — resentful, fond, tired — wanted to admire how easy it all looked for them. How simple love seemed when other people had it.
Ron's thoughts drifted hazily.
Harry and Gin. Gin and Harry. Perfect pair. Always have been.
Their presence tugged at something inside him — not jealousy, not exactly — more a hollow ache. A reminder of things he was avoiding thinking about. Things he told himself he was better off without.
He kept staring without realising it… until Ginny's gaze suddenly snapped to his.
Their eyes met.
She let out a delighted, high-pitched gasp — almost a squeal.
"Oh, fucking hell," Ron muttered under his breath.
It wasn't that Ron didn't like them. He loved them more than anything in the world. Ginny, his baby sister, the fireball he'd sworn to protect from the moment she was born. And Harry — the brother he'd chosen, the brother who chose him back. His best mate, his family in all but blood.
But after a day as wretched as this one — a false-alarm mission, wasted hours, exhaustion seeped into his bones, and that vague sense of being stuck in a life far too big and far too empty — Ron wanted nothing more than solitude. To collapse into his own thoughts and stay there for a while. To just… disappear.
And of course, tonight of all nights, the universe had other plans.
Ginny rushed toward him, and Harry trotted after her. Ron rolled his eyes but allowed his sister to throw herself into his arms.
His sister hugged him so tightly he could barely breathe. He hadn't known Ginny was so strong! After she finally let go, he and Harry shared a friendly hug.
They sat on either side of him. Great, Ron thought.
"Ron! Are you alright? Were there any Death Eaters?" Ginny asked eagerly, her eyes wide with concern.
"Exactly! Tell us everything!" added Harry, leaning closer as if he could draw the whole story out by sheer proximity.
"Yes, Gin, everything's fine, thanks for worrying," Ron replied, trying to keep his tone even. He cast a quick glance at his glass before continuing. "Unfortunately, false alarm — no dark wizards at all."
"What? But…" Ginny began, only to be cut off by Ron rolling his eyes.
"Honestly, Ginny, we've explained this to you countless times," he said, sighing. "Most of our missions involving Death Eaters these days are false alarms. They're either extinct, locked up in Azkaban, or hiding in some bloody hole. They're harmless. We're chasing other idiots now."
"Well, I don't know, Ron… they still turn up sometimes," Harry began cautiously.
"No!" Ron interrupted sharply, his frustration surfacing. "I've had enough of treating these pathetic remnants of Death Eaters as if they're the highest priority! They're not dangerous! Take today, for example — there was no reason to deploy two entire squads for this operation. It's ridiculous. There are far more important things to deal with than this shit."
The couple exchanged glances but said nothing more. After a while Hannah broke the awkward silence.
"Oh! Hello, Potters!" she called out brightly. Ginny smiled and immediately flushed a deep red.
As Hannah set their drinks down, Ron suddenly caught a dangerous glint in her eye — the kind that made his stomach tighten. He recognised that look. It meant trouble.
Before Ron could even prepare to defend himself, Hannah leaned over the bar and announced cheerfully, "Ginny! We were just talking about girls before you two walked in! Ron desperately needs a woman, doesn't he?"
Ginny's face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Oh, absolutely!" she squealed. "Ronnie, do you have someone in mind?"
"No." His answer was flat, immediate, and carried the weight of a man already exhausted by the conversation.
"Well then we have to find someone for you! Right, Hanns?" Ginny turned to her friend with a conspiratorial grin.
"Of course! The real question is — who on earth would be brave enough to take him on?" Hannah teased, glancing at Ron with a wicked smile.
"STOP. Both of you. Just—stop. I don't have time for dates, Gin," Ron snapped, heat rising in his cheeks.
"But Ron, you need a girlfriend! You're getting worse and worse. You're not the cheerful, joking Ron anymore — you're… quiet, sad, and completely lifeless," Ginny replied with a slightly cracking voice.
"Funny, that's the third person who's told him that today," Hannah murmured.
"People change," Ron muttered, suddenly unbearably tired.
"No. Absolutely not, Ron!" Ginny nearly shouted, slamming her hand on the bar. Ron blinked at her, startled, then glanced at Harry — who stared intently at the ceiling, clearly pretending he had never met any of them.
"I'm not letting my brother kill himself or something—"
"I'm not going to kill myself, Ginny!" Ron shouted back. "For Merlin's saggy balls, what are you even talking about?!"
"Look at yourself, Ron! You drink every day—"
"Not every day!"
Ginny ignored him completely and ploughed on, "You always look exhausted—"
"Work," he mumbled.
"—and you look so sad. I can't even remember the last time you laughed!" she cried, her voice breaking as tears filled her eyes.
The sight hit Ron like a curse to the chest. Ginny, his baby sister — fiery, fierce, unshakeable Ginny — standing there trembling because of him. A mixture of guilt and shame washed over him. He should have been the one protecting her, comforting her — not the other way around.
"Alright! Ginny, I'll go on a bloody date!" Ron blurted out, pulling her into a tight hug before she could fall apart. She sobbed into his shoulder, and Ron felt something twist painfully inside him.
He held her tighter, rocking her slightly, whispering apologies into her hair.
"I'm sorry, Ron… I'm sorry I snapped. I just worry so much," she whispered shakily.
"It's alright, dear. Nothing to apologise for," he murmured, brushing her tears with his thumb. He exhaled heavily, defeated. "You can set me up. Fine. I'll go on the date."
"I love you," she breathed against his shoulder.
"I love you too," he answered softly.
Ginny hugged him once more — hard, fierce, almost desperate — then pulled away, wiping her tears quickly with the back of her hand. Within seconds, she snapped back into her usual, fiery, determined self. Ron couldn't help but smile to himself. Typical Ginny: emotions like storms, fast and powerful, but gone before you had time to breathe.
"So!" she said brightly. "Who do you suggest?" she asked Hannah, her red hair bouncing as she turned.
Hannah tapped a finger thoughtfully on the counter.
"Amanda Brocklehurst?"
"She lives in Canada. Susan Bones?"
"Doesn't fit and I am pretty sure that she's taken"
They kept going, name after name, tossing them out like sweets at a parade — and Ron realised, with a sort of numb amusement, that he barely recognised half of them. Some he had maybe seen once at the Ministry, others perhaps at Hogwarts years ago, but their faces were blank shadows in his mind.
And the more they talked, the more Ron felt the weight of it settling on his shoulders.
What am I even doing?
Why is everyone so desperate to fix me?
Is it really that obvious? That I'm… slipping?
He watched Ginny — bubbling with excitement, already imagining dresses and dates and "the perfect girl for Ronnie" — and he felt a mix of warmth and embarrassment twist in his chest.
Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
Another part wanted to put his head down on the bar and disappear.
And a third, quieter part — the one he hated acknowledging — wondered whether they were right. Whether maybe he had become the empty, grey version of himself that Ginny had just described. Whether maybe he really did need something… someone to shake him out of whatever pit he'd fallen into.
He was just sitting there only because they cared. Because Ginny cried. Because he didn't want to see that look on her face ever again.
Even if every name they said made him feel like he was being fitted into a suit that didn't belong to him.
"I know!" Ginny shouted so loudly that Ron actually flinched beside her.
"Who?" Hannah asked excitedly.
"Daphne Greengrass," Ginny said proudly.
"What?!" Ron snapped before he could stop himself. Remembering his earlier behaviour, he forced himself to calm down. "Why her? She's a Slytherin!"
"I know this may be unbelievable for you, but she's not like the other Slytherins," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "Besides, I've kind of become friends with her. My Quidditch team has medical check-ups in St Mungo's every few weeks, and Daphne works in the Sports Department. I've talked to her a couple of times and she's great. I know she was a stupid bitch in Hogwarts and believed in blood supremacy, but she's changed. And besides—she's gorgeous and hot!"
Ron felt his neck muscles tighten. Daphne. Greengrass. Merlin. The last person he expected to hear right now.
It was true that Daphne was hot but he could still see her as she had been in Hogwarts — that cold stare, the raised eyebrow, the icy superiority that all Slytherins seemed to cultivate from birth. He couldn't reconcile that image with someone Ginny would call "great."
But… he knew his sister. Ginny didn't say things like this lightly — especially about other girls. And if she said Daphne had changed… maybe she had.
Still, Ron had years of school memories carved into his mind — all the snide comments, the looks down their noses, the whispered insults. That kind of crap didn't just vanish.
And yet… he couldn't ignore the fact that he'd been alone for ages. Alone as hell. And Ginny was looking at him now with that mixture of concern, stubbornness, and determination he knew far too well.
It was the look that said: I know what I'm doing. And unfortunately — she was usually right.
Have mercy...
Ron sighed. "Alright."
Ginny squealed for what felt like the tenth time that day and threw her arms around him. When she finally let go, he added:
"But nothing's going to come out of this, I can bet on it."
"Oh, we'll see about that, Ron," she replied with a smile.
The three of them shifted the conversation to other topics — in reality, mostly Harry and Ginny talking, slipping into that easy rhythm of theirs, full of half-sentences, inside jokes and quick glances. Ron sat beside them, nodding occasionally, but he was listening only with half an ear.
Because his mind had gone somewhere completely different.
Daphne Greengrass. Merlin, what a ridiculous idea. Absolutely ridiculous.
He'd always seen her from a distance — beautiful, yes, he could admit that, but cold as ice. She never hesitated to look down on people, especially Gryffindors. Especially Weasleys. As if freckles and second-hand robes somehow justified every disdainful glance she threw.
He couldn't imagine… talking to her. Her. A Slytherin who'd spent her entire school life walking like a queen, chin high, with that frosty, calculating smirk.
What the hell would he even say to her?
And she — what would she possibly say to him?
Then again… Ginny didn't throw names around for no reason.
If she said Daphne had changed, maybe there was something to it. Maybe adulthood had knocked some sense into her. Maybe she'd gone through something. Maybe she'd realised the world didn't revolve around blood status and polished family trees. Maybe life had bent her the way it bent everyone.
But then came that small, familiar sting in Ron's stomach — the same one he'd carried for years, like a splinter that never quite healed.
Why would someone like her want him?
He was just Ron Weasley. Yes, he wasn't poor now. Actually he was rich now. But today he's the man who worked too much, talked too little, and claimed he had "no time for pointless rubbish like dating."
When the truth was, he was afraid of it. Afraid of the expectations, the vulnerability, the whole dance of it. Afraid someone might see him exactly as he feared he was not enough. Full of gaps, insecurities, and all the mess he hid behind jokes or silence.
And then there was her — Daphne Greengrass.
Confident, beautiful, sharp-tongued. A Slytherin. A completely different world.
Ron was confident and strong only in work.
Ron sighed again, deeper this time, heavier than he meant to.
Maybe Ginny was wrong.
Or — Merlin forbid — maybe she was right. Maybe he really should try. Maybe it was time to stop running, stop hiding behind work, stop pretending none of it bothered him.
But still — it was Daphne bloody Greengrass.
After about an hour, Ginny said,
"Alright, I think we should get going, Harry?"
"Yes."
"Okay." She then turned to Ron, "I'll message Daphne once we get back and set you up, Ron. I'll let you know tomorrow what she says, alright?"
"Yes, Ginny."
He hugged his sister and his friend, while Harry shouted a farewell as they made their way to the door: "See you tomorrow!"
Wait… what? Did I agree to meet them somewhere? — Ron thought, completely bewildered. He couldn't remember any arrangement.
"What? What's tomorrow?" he asked, sounding like a complete idiot.
"Dinner at the Burrow. Don't tell me you've forgotten!"
Ron groaned inwardly. That was it — the nagging, unpleasant sense of having forgotten something that had been gnawing at him all evening. Suddenly it all made sense. And he really didn't feel like going.
"No! I haven't forgotten, and now just leave!" he shouted at last, having completely had enough. He wanted, more than anything, to be left alone, to clear his head, and to finally breathe after such a long, draining day.
The pair nodded with mild disapproval before leaving the pub. Ron waited a moment, then tossed a few Galleons onto the bar and said goodbye to Hannah, hoping now, finally, he could have some peace and quiet. He entered the fireplace, shouted the name of the target and was already in the living room of his large but spacious apartment.
He stepped through the fireplace, muttered the name of his destination, and in an instant found himself in the living room of his large but impressively spacious apartment.
He paused for a moment, letting his eyes sweep across the room. The living area was generous, airy, and effortlessly elegant. In the centre, a broad, plush sofa rested atop a perfectly round, meticulously chosen rug, its subtle patterns reflecting a careful blend of comfort and style. Opposite it stood a large Muggle television, framed by sleek, low cabinets that seemed to balance practicality with understated sophistication. Bookshelves lined portions of the walls, crammed with tomes both magical and mundane, ranging from spellbooks to history, literature, and personal journals that hinted at countless late nights spent in study or reflection.
Giant windows stretched from floor to ceiling, letting in the soft glow of the London skyline. Even now, in the fading light, he could see the city alive below him: the Thames winding through the heart of the metropolis, rooftops punctuated by chimneys and the occasional dome, distant twinkling lights of the streets — a city that never truly slept. The sight gave him a sense of ownership and belonging; it was his own little corner of the world, a sanctuary from the chaos of magic and the ever-demanding expectations of others.
As he walked down the corridor towards the bathroom, his gaze drifted across the walls, where pictures and memorabilia chronicled the history of his family. There were photographs from holidays to Egypt, snapshots of birthdays and ceremonies, and clippings from newspapers heralding each milestone: him receiving the Order of Merlin pf first class for wartime achievements, Ginny's first Quidditch victory with her team, the announcement of him, Harry, and Neville being promoted to lead three new Auror squads, the grand reopening of Fred and George's shop. There were joyful family moments too — Bill and Fleur welcoming their first child, friends and relatives celebrating milestones, parties, and informal gatherings immortalised in candid smiles.
Ron slowed, letting his eyes linger on each framed memory. Each piece was a reminder of the legacy of his family, the pride in their accomplishments, and the unspoken responsibility he carried with the Weasley name. He felt an almost tangible connection to his roots, as if the walls themselves were whispering the history and heart of those who had come before him. It was comforting and grounding, a stark contrast to the unpredictable, often dangerous life of an Auror.
Finishing brushing his teeth and changing into his pyjamas, Ron stepped into the bedroom, where a huge, king-size bed awaited him, soft and inviting. The sheer size of it made him feel almost indulgent, a little guilty even, as he sank his hand into the plush bedding.
Ron had received a considerable sum of money from the awards and recognition following the war, yet he and his friends had decided to give much of it away to those in need and to help rebuild the magical world, still recovering from Voldemort's reign. The remainder had been donated to Muggle charities, supporting causes that were close to their hearts. Even with so much wealth, he felt a strange lightness in knowing it was being put to good use rather than hoarded.
Auror work had always been prestigious and well-paid, even before the war, but in the aftermath of the conflict, salaries had doubled. Thanks to recent promotions, Ron now earned more Galleons each month than he could comfortably spend, enough that he had to expand his vault at Gringotts every few months. Sometimes he found it almost laughable, how much money he had — far more than a single person could need — and yet, paradoxically, it offered a sense of security, a buffer against the unpredictable chaos of his job.
As he moved around the room, changing into his pyjamas, Ron let his mind wander. Despite the wealth, despite the comfort, he knew it wasn't the money that made him content. It was the knowledge that he had survived, that his friends had survived, and that he had a place in the world where he could relax without fear or constant expectation. The bed before him, the spacious apartment, the quiet hum of the city outside — all of it represented freedom, autonomy, and a rare kind of peace.
Sinking onto the bed, he exhaled deeply. Life had given him a lot, perhaps more than he deserved, but he'd made it count, even if quietly. And in this moment, as he felt the softness of the mattress beneath him, he allowed himself a small, guilty smile. Wealth could buy comfort, but it was the choices he had made — for family, for friends, for those less fortunate — that gave his life its true weight.
Family.
At the thought of tomorrow's family gathering at the Burrow, Ron groaned quietly to himself. He loved his family dearly, truly he did, but lately these get-togethers had begun to wear on him. Everyone around him would be cheerful, laughing, sharing stories, while he would sit quietly, lost in his own thoughts, feeling almost like a stranger among them.
He could just as easily have stayed at home, letting the evening stretch out in solitude, his mind wandering freely without the weight of forced conversation or expectations. Yet he knew he had no choice. He had to go. He couldn't let his family down, and above all, he couldn't disappoint his mother. That thought alone made him sigh again, a mixture of obligation, love, and that familiar prick of guilt.
Ron shifted on the bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining the bustling chaos of the Burrow — the familiar clutter, the smell of Molly's cooking, the boisterous laughter of his siblings. It was comforting in its own way, yet at the same time, exhausting. He had survived the war, he had built a life for himself, and yet these moments reminded him that no matter how far he went, or how independent he became, he was irrevocably tied to the people he loved.
Greengrass.
Another thought, another topic, another swirl of ideas he couldn't quite shake. As he imagined the idea of a date with her, a mixture of nerves and curiosity began to bubble up inside him. He told himself, as he always did, that nothing would probably come of it, that it was all just talk, just a plan Ginny had hatched. Yet even so, the thought made his stomach tighten and his pulse quicken slightly as he was thinking of meeting someone who could be really intrested.
He found himself wondering what she would be like now, years after Hogwarts, how much of the old rivalry or distance might still linger, and how much had truly changed. Despite his scepticism, a small spark of anticipation crept in, making him aware of his own heartbeat and the slight thrill of the unknown. It was strange, he thought, how even the faintest possibility could stir something inside him after so many years of doing everything alone.
Ron woke up feeling unrested, a slight headache nagging at the back of his skull. He got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom to wash his face, the cool water helping to clear the fog of sleep. The morning sunlight streamed through the large windows of his apartment, casting a warm glow across the modern, tidy space. He could hear the distant hum of the city beyond, a comforting reminder of the world outside his walls.
After freshening up, he moved into the sleek, contemporary kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered faintly in the air. He began preparing breakfast — slices of bread topped with cheese, a couple of fried eggs sizzling in the pan. As he carefully laid the cheese on the bread, a familiar sense of reluctance crept over him. The thought of the family lunch at the Burrow later that day weighed heavily on his mood.
He ate his breakfast slowly, eyes occasionally drifting to the television where a replay of a Muggle football match played. The commentary and the familiar sights of the game were a pleasant distraction from the persistent knot of anxiety in his stomach.
By ten o'clock, Ron began to get ready properly. He pulled on a pair of smart black trousers and a pale blue button-up shirt, tucking it neatly in and fastening his belt. Today, he decided against wearing his jacket; the forecast promised a hot day, and he didn't want to feel suffocated in layers. Standing in front of the mirror, he straightened his shirt and took a deep breath, bracing himself for the long day ahead.
He grabbed his wand and pictured the Burrow, instantly Apparating himself to the familiar curtains of his childhood home.
As he made his way toward the front door, he paused just before knocking, pressing his ear lightly against the wood. The house was already alive with sound — cheerful chatter, laughter, and the high-pitched squeals of children filled every corner. The familiar, chaotic warmth of his family enveloped him even before he stepped inside, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of nostalgia.
Ron knocked, and the lively voices inside fell silent at once. A moment later, his mother opened the door and immediately pulled him into a tight, enveloping hug.
"Oh, Ronnie, thank goodness you're here. Everyone's already arrived!"
"Don't call me that," he muttered automatically. He still didn't know why — but somehow he only ever let Ginny get away with that nickname. From anyone else, even his mum, it made him feel twelve again.
He stepped inside, following her towards the kitchen, and saw that indeed everyone was already gathered. The long wooden table was overflowing with food — steaming dishes, homemade pies, roast meats, vegetables charmed to stay warm, and the unmistakable smell of Molly Weasley's cooking filling every inch of the Burrow.
He spotted Bill with Fleur beside him, Percy and Audrey, George and Angelina, his dad, Ginny and Harry — all squeezed comfortably around the table. And by the smaller one — the children's table — sat Victoire, Molly and little Fred, arguing over who got which seat.
As soon as Ron appeared, the room erupted. Chairs scraped. People stood. The women took turns hugging him tightly, the men shook his hand with cheerful slaps on the shoulder, and the children — Merlin, the children — immediately tried to climb him like a tree.
"Uncle Ron! Uncle Ron!" Victoire squealed, bouncing around him excitedly. "I practised chess at home! Can we play later? Pleeease?" she asked, her voice sweet as honey, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
And just like that, Ron felt something warm loosen in his chest. How could he have even thought, for a moment, that he didn't want to come today? He would do absolutely anything for these kids. The way they threw themselves at him, the way they adored him without hesitation… it melted him completely. He couldn't stop the small smile tugging at his lips.
"Of course, Princess. But first—food, yeah?"
Victoire gasped happily and ran back to her seat, tripping over her excitement.
Ron followed slowly, looking around the chaotic but loving room — the laughter, the smells, the warmth, the familiar mess. And even though part of him still felt out of place sometimes, still felt like the quiet observer at family gatherings… at least here he wasn't alone. Here, he was wanted.
The conversations flowed easily around the table. Everyone was talking at once — Percy rambling about new regulations in the Ministry, George bragging about some ridiculous new product the shop was launching, Bill mentioning a Quidditch match he'd seen, Ginny laughing loudly as she teased Harry about something he'd said earlier. All of it blended into the familiar, chaotic symphony of a typical Weasley family lunch.
The smell of Molly's cooking hung thick in the air, warm and comforting — roast beef charmed to stay hot, buttery potatoes, carrots glazed in honey, fresh rolls that kept refilling themselves. Plates scraped, cutlery clinked, and every few seconds someone burst into laughter.
Ron sat at the far end of the table, half-turned so he could see everyone at once. He listened. Nodded when someone addressed him. Tossed in a word or two when the silence demanded it. But for the most part, he stayed quiet — and nobody seemed to notice.
He kept his hands folded loosely on his lap, pushing a piece of carrot around his plate while the others carried the energy of the room without him. It wasn't that he wasn't happy to be here. He was. Merely sitting in this room, surrounded by the voices he'd known his whole life, gave him a strange sense of comfort.
"Ron, I heard you had a mission yesterday," his father said.
The room fell silent in an instant.
Just like that — every conversation, every clatter of cutlery, every laugh — snuffed out. All eyes shifted toward him, as if someone had flicked a light onto a stage and he was suddenly the main act.
Ron felt it like a physical weight.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Harry and Ginny exchanging a concerned look — one of those don't-start-this-again expressions they gave him far too often lately.
"Yes," Ron said evenly, stabbing at a piece of potato on his plate. "But it was a false alarm. Like I've said before — there are hardly any Death Eaters left."
Percy leaned forward, brow furrowed with that familiar earnest curiosity. "And when was the last time a call wasn't a false alarm? I mean, the last time you actually encountered Death Eaters on a mission?"
Ron shrugged, keeping his tone casual. "Last real one was… what? Seven months ago? Nothing major. But I know Harry's Phoenix Squad caught a couple of those bastards two months back." He added quickly, hoping to redirect attention away from himself: "Ask Harry — he'll tell you about it."
"We know about Harry's mission," George said sharply. "He tells us what's going on in his life. Unlike you."
"George!" Angelina hissed, elbowing him under the table.
Ron lifted a hand slightly, stopping her. "It's fine, Angelina." Then he forced a small, steady smile. "There just isn't much happening in my life lately. Nothing worth talking about. I'm perfectly happy listening to all of you."
"Actually…" Ginny chimed in.
Ron's stomach dropped.
He shot her a warning glare — brows raised, eyes wide, subtle headshake. A full silent Don't you dare, Gin. Don't you bloody dare.
But Ginny Weasley had never been deterred by silent signals.
"…something has happened," she finished brightly, eyes sparkling. "And Ron might finally change! Want to tell the rest of the family what it is?"
Ron felt his entire face burn. Heat crawled up his neck, settling under his ears. Once again, every pair of Weasley eyes zeroed in on him like wandtips.
"I don't think that's necessary, Ginny," he said tightly.
"Oh no! You have to tell us!" Bill insisted, grinning.
"No." His voice dropped into that cold, clipped tone he rarely used with family — the one that usually did end conversations.
But not today.
"Alright, I'll say it!" Ginny announced triumphantly. "Yesterday, Hannah and I arranged a date for Ron — with his permission!"
For a split second, there was silence — stunned, wide-eyed silence — as the words sank in.
Suddenly cheers exploded from all sides, so loud the dishes rattled. Hands clapped, chairs scraped, someone whistled. Fleur gasped dramatically, Percy applauded like Ron had just passed another N.E.W.T., George pounded the table so hard a spoon jumped, and even his Dad let out a delighted "Oho!"
The children, confused but thrilled by the noise, started singing something that vaguely resembled a victory chant, jumping around their tiny chairs in pure chaos.
Ron felt stupid. Was it really that bad?
Why were they acting as if he'd never spoken to a girl in his entire life? As if the simple fact he'd agreed to a date was some historic, earth-shattering achievement?
"Alright, alright, calm down already," Ron muttered, lifting his hands as the room slowly settled. Once everyone finally returned to their seats—still grinning like a bunch of idiots—he sighed and asked, "So… did she answer your letter?"
"Yes!" Ginny practically burst with excitement. "You're meeting today at eight o'clock in the Leaky Cauldron!"
"Today?! Oh, Merlin…" Ron groaned, his stomach dropping straight into his shoes.
"And who is this lucky woman?" his father asked, leaning forward with curiosity.
"Daphne Greengrass," Ron grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Oh, she's lovely! I know her from St Mungo's," Audrey said brightly, clasping her hands together as if Ron had just announced an engagement.
"That's exactly what I told him," Ginny cut in, looking far too smug for Ron's liking, "and he still refuses to believe she could've changed!"
At last, after a few hours — several meals, and a couple of chess matches with his niece — Ron was finally able to go home. He said goodbye to his family, who all wished him luck, and then stepped out of the Burrow. A moment later, he Apparated to his flat, carrying with him a messy mix of stress and anticipation for the date.
He was supposed to meet Daphne in exactly two hours.
A/N: In this chapter I showed you Ron's character. I'm sorry Hermione wasn't in this chapter yet, but I promise it's worth the wait! (Even if we have to get over that date with Daphne, hah) I can't wait to show you my planned Romione in this story. This chapter was pretty normal, but I keep saying this story will get darker and more mysterious.
And you can see the bond Ron and Ginny have, I think if Ron had never met Hermione he would have needed a lot of support and I think Ginny would have wanted to take care of him.