What the Water Hides

The Burrow was buzzing that summer, warm and crowded and loud in that way only the Weasleys could manage. Ron stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching a Ministry escort deposit Draco Malfoy onto the front lawn like a stray someone didn't want. War was over, trials done. Lucius Malfoy had bolted before his own sentencing. And the Ministry, in all its infinite brilliance, decided the safest place for the last Malfoy was with the family who hated them most.

"Brilliant," Ron muttered.

Harry offered to stay, but Hermione dragged him off to dig up old pots in Egypt. So that left Ron, his mum, and a pale, silent Draco Malfoy who barely spoke that first week. Ron watched him—her, he corrected himself, but it felt wrong—with a mix of suspicion and irritation. The kid was thin. Gaunt, almost. Sharp jaw, hair so blond it looked white in the sun. Never swam when the family went to the beach. Kept a long shirt on even in the heat.

"What's the matter, Malfoy? Afraid of the water?" Ron kicked sand at him one afternoon. "Or just too posh to get your hair wet?"

Draco's grey eyes flickered. "Something like that, Weasley."

Ron snorted. "Probably can't swim. All those pure-blood manors and no proper beach, right?"

"If you say so."

That evening, Ron's mum announced Draco would be sharing Ron's room. "No space anywhere else, dear. Be nice."

Ron groaned. First night, Draco changed in the bathroom, came out in full pajamas. Ron pretended not to notice.

Next beach day was hotter. Ron, fed up with Draco's refusal to join the water, grabbed her arm. "Come on, you coward. I'll carry you in if I have to."

Draco's eyes went wide. "Don't."

But Ron already had her up, one arm under her knees, the other across her back. The moment he lifted, something felt off. She was light—too light—and the shirt rode up. His hand brushed fabric, then skin, then something that made his brain short-circuit.

A curve. A swell. A bra.

Draco went rigid. "Put me down."

Ron stumbled backward into the surf, water splashing their legs. He lowered her, but his hands were frozen. "You—you're a *girl*?"

Draco's face was unreadable, but a slow smirk spread across her lips. "Took you long enough, Weasley."

The world tilted. Ron looked at the beach. Bill was laughing. Charlie was shaking his head. Even his mum, from behind her sun hat, waved with a knowing grin.

"Everyone knows?" Ron's voice cracked.

"Of course they do. The Ministry told them. Did you think they'd let a boy share your room?"

Ron felt his ears burn. "Why didn't you *say* something?"

"I thought you knew." She tilted her head, grey eyes dancing. "Honestly, Weasley, I thought you were being polite by not mentioning it. Or maybe you were trying to pretend you'd never seen a girl before."

"I've seen girls! I—you—you just—" He spluttered.

Draco laughed. A real laugh, warm and surprising. She pulled off the wet shirt, revealing a simple black bikini underneath. Slender body, pale skin, small firm breasts. Ron's gaze dropped before he wrenched it away.

"Going to stare all day, or are you going to teach me to swim?"

The rest of the afternoon was torture. Every time Draco turned, every time she laughed, every brush of her arm against his sent a jolt through him. She was close, so close, and her breasts kept pressing against his side when she splashed him. He blushed so hard he thought his face might melt.

By the time they got back to the Burrow, Ron had a headache from sheer confusion. Why her? Why did it have to be Malfoy?

That night, they shared the room again. Ron changed in the wardrobe corner, keeping his back turned. When he finally climbed into his bed, the lamp was still on. Draco was lying on hers, wearing only a lacy black bra and matching panties, her hair loose on the pillow. Reading a book, completely unbothered.

Ron stared at the ceiling, but his mind was a riot. The curve of her hip. The dip of her waist. The way her bra straps cut into her shoulders.

"You can look, Weasley. I don't bite."

"I'm not looking."

"Your eyes are moving. I can see the reflection in the window."

He groaned and turned over. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Her voice was innocent, but he could hear the smirk.

"Being… *you*."

"I've always been me." She set the book down. "You just didn't want to see it."

Silence stretched. Ron felt the weight of the past week, the strange tension that had built between them. He thought about Ginny, about Lavender, about all those clumsy kisses and fumbled feels. He'd never gone all the way. Too scared, too awkward, too uncertain. And now, lying three feet from a girl who had once tormented him, he felt a different kind of fear.

"Malfoy?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Draconia," she corrected. "But you can call me Draco."

"Draco… have you ever…?" He couldn't finish.

She sat up, sheets pooling around her waist. Her grey eyes were serious now, soft in the lamplight. "Have I ever what?"

"You know." He made a vague gesture.

A pause. Then, "Yes. With someone I cared about. Why?"

Ron's throat was dry. "I haven't. And I—I don't know why I'm telling you this."

She slid off her bed and padded across the floor, bare feet silent. She sat on the edge of his mattress, close enough that he could smell the lavender soap from her shower. "You're telling me because you trust me," she said quietly. "Even if you don't want to."

"I don't trust you."

"Then why are you shaking?"

He was. His hands trembled under the covers. "Because I don't know what to do."

Draco reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cool, her grip firm. "I can help you, if you want. No strings. Just… experience."

Ron's heart pounded so loud he could barely hear her. "You'd do that?"

"You tortured me for years, Weasley. But that was then. This is now." She leaned closer. "And I've always been curious what you're like when you're not being a prat."

He kissed her. Clumsy and desperate, but she met him halfway, her tongue sliding against his. She tasted like mint and something sweet. Her hands found the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, and he let her.

The night unfolded like a slow wave. She guided his hands to her breasts, showed him how to touch her. Taught him where to lick, how to bite softly on her nipple until she gasped. Then she pushed him onto his back and took him in her mouth, and Ron saw stars behind his eyelids.

When he was ready, she straddled him, sinking down with a low moan. She rode him slow at first, then faster, until he couldn't think anymore. She turned over, showed him how to take her from behind, her hands gripping the headboard.

And when he was about to finish, she slid down again, taking him in her mouth until he spilled, trembling, into her heat.

He lay there, panting, his entire body tingling. Draco crawled up beside him and kissed his cheek.

"There," she whispered. "Now you know."

Ron stared at the ceiling. He felt raw, exposed, and utterly alive. "I didn't know it could be like that."

"It can be," she said, "if you trust someone."

He turned to look at her. In the dim light, she was just a girl—pale, beautiful, and infuriatingly smug. But for the first time, she didn't feel like an enemy.

"Stay," he said.

She smiled and curled up next to him, her head on his chest.

Outside, the Burrow settled into its quiet nighttime hum. Inside, Ron Weasley drifted off to sleep, his arm around a girl named Draco, wondering how on earth he was going to survive the rest of the summer.