You never thought you'd be here—Mrs. Weasley. The title tastes foreign in your mouth, like it belongs to someone else. Maybe someone happier, someone in love. But certainly not you. And definitely not in this house, where every creaking floorboard and half-packed box serves as a reminder of what this marriage truly is: a contract. A solution to a problem. Not love, not even friendship—just duty.

Ron stands across the room, leaning against the kitchen counter. His arms are crossed, his blue eyes fixed on you, unreadable. The silence between you stretches, taut and uncomfortable. It’s always like this. Awkward. Strained. As if the air itself resents having to be shared.

“Tea?” he finally asks, his voice low and gruff. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, fiddling instead with the hem of his shirt—an old Chudley Cannons tee that’s frayed at the edges.

You glance at him from your spot by the window, where the morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. It’s a simple question, one that any husband might ask his wife. But you both know it’s not simple at all.

“Sure,” you reply, your voice cooler than you intend. “Thanks.”

Ron moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling out cups, filling the kettle, setting it to boil. You watch him from the corner of your eye, noting the way his shoulders have broadened over the years, how his hair catches the light in shades of copper and gold. He’s grown up, filled out. This isn’t the boy you remember from Hogwarts, the one with quick jokes and a lopsided grin. This is a man—a man who fought in a war, who lost a brother, who carries his scars in ways you can’t quite see but can feel all the same.

And yet, for all his changes, some things remain the same. His stubbornness. His temper. His ability to get under your skin with just a glance.

The kettle whistles, breaking the silence. Ron pours the tea and brings you a cup, setting it down on the table in front of you without a word.