A Change of Heart

Draco Malfoy returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year looking like an entirely different person. Gone were the stiff, pristine robes and the perfectly gelled hair. Instead, he wore tiny skirts that barely reached mid-thigh, lacy camisoles that peeked from beneath his robes, and his platinum hair flowed freely, catching the light. His face was painted with subtle makeup—gloss on his lips, a hint of eyeshadow, and blush that made his cheeks look perpetually flushed. And his nails, long and painted burgundy, clicked against every surface he touched.

His demeanor had shifted too. The sharp edges of his personality had softened; he was quieter, less quick to sneer. The change baffled everyone, none more so than Ron Weasley. Ron found himself staring at the Slytherin table during meals, watching the way Draco’s lips curved around a goblet, the way his delicate fingers toyed with a napkin. His thoughts, once filled with rivalry and resentment, now swirled with something far more confusing.

It was in Potions class that the crack in their animosity widened. Snape had them brewing a complex Draught of Living Death. Draco stood at his cauldron, stirring with a practiced rhythm when his long nails caused him to fumble. The stirrer slipped, and he barely caught it. He tried again, but the nails made it impossible to maintain the correct motion. His frustration was visible, a tiny frown marring his painted lips.

Ron watched from his own cauldron, his heart pounding. Without thinking, he crossed the room, ignoring Hermione’s gasp and Harry’s raised eyebrows. He stopped beside Draco, whose wide grey eyes met his. “Let me,” Ron said, his voice gruff. He took the stirrer, his large, calloused hand dwarfing Draco’s. He stirred the potion with practiced ease, his movements firm and controlled. The class fell silent. Snape’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing.

When the potion was back on track, Ron handed the stirrer back. Their fingers brushed, and a jolt went through him. Draco’s hand was so small, so soft, like a princess’s. Ron’s own hands were rough, scarred from Quidditch and chores. He stepped away quickly, returning to his own cauldron, his ears burning.

After class, as students filed out, Draco approached Ron. In front of the entire class, he rose on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Ron’s cheek. It was soft, fleeting, but it sent a shockwave through the room. “Thank you, Ron,” Draco murmured, his voice sweet. Then he swept out, leaving Ron frozen, his hand touching the spot where Draco’s lips had been.

That afternoon, the Quidditch pitch was divided. Gryffindor trained on one side, Slytherin on the other. Ron was stretching when he saw Draco emerge from the Slytherin changing rooms. He was wearing a mini grey skirt and a lacy green bra as a top. His hair flowed in the breeze, and on his feet were heels—actual heels. Ron’s jaw dropped. He was about to play Quidditch in heels? Unacceptable.

Ron jogged across the pitch, ignoring the curious stares. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded when he reached Draco. Draco blinked up at him, innocent. “Getting ready for practice.” Ron shook his head. “Not in those. You’ll break an ankle.” Draco’s chin lifted stubbornly. “I can manage.” Ron didn’t argue. He simply scooped Draco up, bridal style, ignoring the blonde’s squeak of protest. “I’m taking you to the Gryffindor changing rooms,” he said firmly. “You’re changing into something sensible.”

Twenty minutes passed. When they emerged, both were flustered. Draco wore a Gryffindor jersey that was far too large for him, the name “Weasley” emblazoned on the back. It hung off his shoulder, and his cheeks were pink. Ron’s ears were red. They didn’t look at each other as they parted, but Ron’s hands still tingled from where he’d helped Draco into the jersey.

That same afternoon in the Great Hall, Ron watched Draco struggle to eat. His long burgundy nails made the fork slip, and he kept dropping his food. He gave up, reaching for a goblet of water. Ron’s heart clenched. He stood up, walked across the hall, and sat down next to Draco at the Slytherin table. The hall went silent. Draco looked at him, surprised. “What are you doing?” Ron didn’t answer. He took Draco’s fork, speared a piece of chicken, and held it up. “Eat,” he said softly.

Draco’s eyes widened, but he opened his mouth. Ron fed him, bite by bite, until Draco shook his head, full. Draco stood up and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Ronald,” he said, his voice carrying in the silent hall. “It means more than you know.” Ron shrugged, his face red. “It’s nothing.” Fred and George started wolf-whistling from the Gryffindor table, and Ron cursed under his breath, but he couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips.

That night, as Ron lay in his four-poster, he thought of Draco’s soft hands, his painted lips, his grateful eyes. Something had shifted between them, and Ron knew, with a certainty that scared him, that he wanted more.