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She had been the only person in his life that made him feel worthwhile. He, the youngest boy in a long line of men. He, the goofy sidekick to the Boy Who Lived. He, the one who never knew how to help anyone, apart from simply being around.
Ron had spent so much of his life feeling like he’d stumbled into his good fortune. He hadn’t deserved his friends. And he certainly hadn’t deserved Hermione Granger’s love.
So when she sat him down, her voice a gentle whisper, he hadn’t been surprised when she told him she wasn’t happy anymore. He’d known all along that this day would come. She’d come to her senses, and he would have to stand aside and let her leave.
He could remember all the times when they laid in each other's arms whispering sweet nothings. His most consistent refrain was, “I can’t imagine my life without you.”
But it turned out that his imagination had just been insufficient. Their lives, which had once seemed entangled from root to tip, fell away from each other without any significant tugging from either of them.
She took the liberty of vacating the townhome they had shared, and in a matter of a few short weeks, all evidence of her presence had vanished. It was like the smell of her lemon biscuits had never filled the kitchen or the sound her laughter had never floated in the living room.
They occasionally crossed paths in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, but they were always cordial. Any onlookers might’ve mistaken them for old colleagues, certainly not former lovers or former best friends.
Ron could imagine that this was exactly what Hermione had envisioned their break up would be like. And, because she was Hermione, the world bent itself into whatever shape she envisioned. Ron had never been able to be so in control of his fate.
He’d ride the lift until it deposited him on the sixth floor and then he’d follow the turns of the corridors where they led him to the Portkey Office.
Beatrice, the head of the office, would saunter over and toss a folder onto his desk. “A lot of fines are going out today.”
He wasn’t sure why she felt the need to say so. It was the same every day.
The majority of fines for improper portkey use were sent out by owls. But Beatrice insisted that he hand deliver infractions for repeat offenders. She claimed that it would help make their jobs easier in the future. He wasn’t sure how. Something about offenders addressing consequences face to face.
But then no one was ever happy to see Ron’s face. It had been a difficult thing to adjust to at first, but now Ron was so used to it that he’d find himself pleasantly surprised when he entered a room and wasn’t immediately confronted with someone else’s irritation.
“Fucking hell, Weasley. What did I do wrong this time?”
“Thought I might be having a good day until I saw you, Weasley.”
“Are you serious? Again? Don’t you have anything better to do with your day than coming to my door to hand me a fine?”
He heard some variation of these complaints every day. It gnawed at him that everyone felt the need to make any cutting remarks at all, as though they’d say something clever that he’d never heard before.
“Just doing my job,” was his usual reply.
But there was no reply he could utter that would cool anyone’s anger.
There were some people, like Hermione, who were destined to have a job that made a difference in the world. She often said that she couldn’t imagine doing something where the only reward was money. Ron had known even then that the comment was a dig at him, but he’d pretended not to notice.
The one thrilling variation in his schedule was when he’d occasionally have to visit Muggle London. There were a few wizards and witches who lived or worked among Muggles when he’d come to deliver their fines. It was little more than a change of scenery, but he would take what he could get.
On one such day, Ron had just left a pastry shop in East London after facing a young witch who cried when she saw the price of the fine. Those were certainly the hardest visits. He didn’t like thinking about the financial strain that some offenders felt, especially when he knew how many wealthy people simply flouted the regulations because the price of the fines weren’t significant for them.
He was headed down the street and towards an apparition point a few blocks away when he heard a man yelling nearby.
“Wait, stop that! I’m right here! I’m here!”
The young man ran along the sidewalk towards a broad-shouldered gentleman dressed in what Ron knew was a muggle police uniform, though he wore a bright yellow vest over it, while he scribbled onto a notepad.
“I’ve already started writing the ticket, you’ve run out of time,” The man in uniform replied.
“Are you serious? Were you just standing around and waiting for the time to run out on the parking meter? You don’t have anything better to do?”
“I’m just doing my job.”
Ron felt a pang of empathy so sharp that it made his steps away from them falter.
But that only made the other man rage harder. He yelled something that Ron could hardly make out, and swiftly raised his fist before landing a jab squarely on the officer’s cheekbone.
Before he could think twice, Ron crossed the street towards them. When he saw Ron’s approach, the angry man turned and ran, still yelling something, leaving the officer clutching his face.
“Are you alright?”
Ron acted without thinking, moving the man’s hand so that he could see the injury. Ron had been worried that the punch may have landed close to the man’s eye, but it seemed that only the skin on his cheek was affected. There was a red welt that would certainly leave a bruise, but nothing more.
Ron sighed in relief. “Okay, it doesn’t look too bad. Do you have…anything to heal it?”
The officer’s eyebrows pinched together and he took a step back. “To heal it? You mean an ice pack? Yeah, I’ve got one.”
Ron’s eyes widened and he stared at the man’s cheek again. He seemed tough enough, like he’d been carved from a mountain. But surely muggles had better methods for healing than…ice, didn’t they?
“Are you sure?”
That seemed to irritate him, but he made no move to step away again. “It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. He’ll get an additional fine in the mail for assaulting a police officer, it’s not a big deal.”
Ron hadn’t realized that he should count himself lucky that he had never been assaulted at his thankless, miserable job. He blinked rapidly, eyes shifting onto various features of the man’s face. There was something so familiar about him, but Ron couldn’t put his finger on what. Maybe it was just the bizarre feeling of meeting what seemed to be his muggle counterpart.
They held each other’s gaze for a while, silently, before the officer cleared his throat and started writing something in his notepad again.
Ron felt his face heat and his heartbeat quicken, uncertain what to expect. But then his face fell when the officer ripped the paper from the pad and stuck it on the windshield of a parked car.
“Can I buy you a beer?” Ron asked, surprising himself.
The man looked over his shoulder at him. Ron wasn’t sure if the expression on his face was one of surprise exactly. He looked guarded. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. You deserve a break right now. That guy was an arsehole.”
His assent was reluctant but Ron smiled anyway. The muscles in his cheeks strained from the shift, like they’d forgotten how to arrange and stretch for this particular movement.
The officer led Ron to his car, where he had a cooler and an ice pack in his backseat. Ron couldn’t help but wonder how often exactly this man was physically harmed on the job.
His expression must have betrayed his line of thought because the officer grinned at him and said, “I don’t get punched that often, by the way. I just have this because of a knee injury. I’ve been needing to ice it at the end of the day.”
“That makes sense. Strained yourself from working out too hard, I take it?”
The officer blinked, and his grin widened. “You could say that. I was playing football with some coworkers a few weeks ago. I’m not very good, though.”
Ron nodded, and looked down at his hands, suddenly feeling odd that they were just hanging by his sides. It seemed like he should have something to do with his hands.
In lieu of a response, he offered, “I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”
The man’s eyes flashed in recognition and he seemed cautious as he replied, “Dudley Dursley.”
There was no way his smile didn’t falter. Ron was certain it had, but he recovered and asked, “Alright, which pub should we go to, then?”