Buried Things Claw Up

The Entrance Courtyard was barely holding on to March sunshine, and Draco Malfoy was bored out of his mind. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him like mismatched bookends while he scanned the crowd for something interesting. What he found stopped him cold.

Ron Weasley was leaning against the fountain, hair even messier than usual, grinning like an idiot. A Hufflepuff girl stood next to him—pretty, honey curls, laugh like cheap bells. She touched his arm. Ron laughed at something she said. Something hot and unfamiliar twisted in Draco’s stomach.

He knew that twist. He’d felt it before: second year, watching Weasley play chess through the portrait hole, or that time in Potions when their hands brushed. He’d buried it, called it hatred. Now, watching that girl lean closer, the buried thing clawed up his throat.

Before he could think, he was moving.

“Weasley,” he drawled, loud enough to cut through the noise. He stepped between Ron and the girl, ignoring Ron’s startled look. Draco turned his best sneer on the Hufflepuff. “Honestly, this is the best you could do? A third-year with roots that need a salon and robes that look slept in? I’d say you’re slumming it, but you’re a Weasley—you don’t know any other way.”

The girl’s face crumpled. She shot Ron a hurt look, grabbed her books, and scurried off, her laugh replaced by shuffling footsteps.

Ron’s expression went from confused to angry. “What the hell, Malfoy?”

Draco’s heart pounded. He hadn’t planned past making her leave. Now he was close enough to see gold flecks in Ron’s blue eyes, smell broom polish and treacle tart. His mind went blank. He did the only thing that felt right.

He stepped forward, pressed two manicured fingers against the worn fabric of Ron’s robes, right over his chest, and leaned in. He kissed him.

Not on the lips—too much, too obvious—but on the cheek, just below the corner of his mouth. Quick, almost chaste, and utterly scandalous in the middle of the courtyard.

Then he broke away, turned on his heel, and walked—ran, really—toward the castle, face burning. He heard Crabbe and Goyle calling after him, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. Just kept moving until the dungeon corridor swallowed him whole.

---

The Slytherin common room was empty, greenish lake light casting ghostly shadows on the sofas. Draco stumbled to his dorm, slammed the door, and slid down against it, chest heaving.

What had he done? He’d kissed Ron Weasley. In public. Half the courtyard saw. His father would hear. His mother would cry. His whole House would think he’d lost his mind.

And worse—he’d meant it. He’d wanted to mark Ron, claim him, make sure that girl knew exactly who Ron belonged to—even if Ron didn’t know it yet.

Draco pressed his hands to his face. Hot tears stung his eyes. He hated crying—weak, pathetic, out of character. But here, alone in the cold silence, the mask cracked. He sobbed into his sleeves, hating himself for caring so much about a stupid, messy, infuriating Gryffindor.

---

Upstairs, Ron stood frozen in the courtyard, hand pressed to his cheek where Malfoy’s lips had been. The faint warmth lingered, more confusing than the insult. Students whispered and pointed, but he barely noticed.

“Ron! Ron, what was that?” Hermione’s voice cut through. She was running toward him, Harry at her side, both wearing identical expressions of bewildered amusement.

“I don’t know,” Ron said honestly. “He just… kissed me.”

“Kissed you?” Harry repeated, a grin threatening to break. “On the cheek, yeah? That’s not exactly a hex.”

“It’s Malfoy,” Ron said, like that explained everything.

Fred and George materialized out of the crowd, ears practically flapping. “Did we hear correctly? Our baby brother snogged a Slytherin?” Fred said.

“It wasn’t a snog, it was a kiss,” Ron said, ears turning red. “And I didn’t do anything. He just came up and did it.”

“So Malfoy’s your secret boyfriend, then?” George asked innocently. “Should we expect him for Sunday dinner? Mum would love that.”

“Shut up,” Ron growled, but his mind was racing. Malfoy had been odd all year—looking at him during meals, going out of his way to insult him, sometimes just staring. Ron had written it off as rivalry. But now… could there be more? The idea was ridiculous. And yet.

That night in the common room, Ron couldn’t sleep. He lay in his four-poster, replaying the moment. Malfoy’s fingers against his chest, soft and precise. The brief brush of lips on his skin. The way Malfoy’s eyes had looked—not triumphant, but scared.

It made Ron’s stomach do a strange flip.

---

The next day, Ron walked the corridors with new purpose. He didn’t know where Malfoy would be, but he had a hunch. Potions was coming up, and Malfoy was always early. So Ron ducked into the empty corridor just outside the classroom and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. Malfoy appeared around the corner, alone for once, gait stiff, eyes fixed on the floor. When he saw Ron, he stopped, whole body rigid.

“What do you want, Weasley?”

“A straight answer,” Ron said, blocking his path. “What was that yesterday?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Malfoy tried to sidestep, but Ron moved with him.

“The kiss, Malfoy. You kissed me. In front of everyone. Why?”

Malfoy’s face flushed a deep, mortified red. “It was a joke. A prank. To embarrass you.”

“Then why did you look like you were about to cry?”

That hit home. Malfoy’s composure cracked, just a little. His jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do,” Ron said, softer now. He took a step closer. “You jealous of that girl?”

Malfoy’s breath hitched. He looked away, hands clenched at his sides. “It’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business when you kissed me,” Ron said. He was surprised at his own boldness. He reached out and gently took Malfoy’s wrist. Malfoy flinched but didn’t pull away.

“If you’re going to hex me, just get it over with,” Malfoy muttered.

“I’m not going to hex you.” Ron sighed. “Look, I’m not stupid. You’ve been weird around me for ages. And that kiss… it didn’t feel like a joke.”

Malfoy’s eyes glistened. He took a shaky breath. “I’ve had a crush on you since second year,” he blurted, the words tumbling out like a confession under Veritaserum. “I couldn’t stand seeing you with her. It made me feel sick. And I’m sorry, all right? I know it’s pathetic. I know you hate me. I know—”

Ron cut him off by leaning in and pressing his lips to Malfoy’s. Clumsy, noses bumped, and Malfoy made a surprised squeak. But then Malfoy’s lips softened, and his hands came up to grip Ron’s robes, and for a moment, the world was silent.

They broke apart, both breathing hard.

“I don’t hate you,” Ron said quietly. “I mean, I did. But maybe I don’t. Maybe I feel something too.”

Malfoy stared at him, eyes wide, the mask completely gone. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Ron grinned, suddenly lightheaded. “It’s weird, right? We’re supposed to hate each other.”

“Very weird,” Malfoy agreed, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “We should probably keep this… whatever this is… between us. For now.”

“Agreed,” Ron said.

They stood there, two boys from opposite worlds, sharing a secret in the empty corridor. Then footsteps echoed from around the corner, and they sprang apart.

But Ron caught Malfoy’s eye as they headed into class, and the smile they exchanged was worth every strange, confusing moment that had led them there.