The Other Cot

The mold crept through Gryffindor Tower like a slow green plague. It started in the seventh-floor corridor, then spread into the common room, up the tapestries, and finally into the dormitories. McGonagall looked genuinely sorry when she announced the temporary arrangement. Gryffindors would be billeted with other houses. Ron Weasley's name got called with Slytherin. Worse—with Malfoy.

He stood outside the prefect's quarters in the Slytherin dungeons, trunk in hand, jaw clenched. The door swung open before he could knock.

Malfoy leaned against the frame, arms crossed, blonde hair loose around pale shoulders. That familiar smirk played at her lips—no, *his* lips. Ron blinked. Malfoy was a boy. Always had been. But the silk dressing gown hung open just enough to show a smooth chest that curved in ways that didn't make sense.

"Changed your mind, Weasley? The mold isn't so bad, is it?"

Ron shoved past him. "Shut it, Malfoy. I'm not here for a chat."

The room was surprisingly tidy. Deep green hangings around a four-poster, a writing desk with a single silver quill, and a second cot pushed against the far wall—clearly conjured for him. Ron dropped his trunk and turned his back to Malfoy, staring at the damp stone wall.

First night passed in silence. Ron lay stiff under the covers, listening to Malfoy's soft breathing from across the room. No insults. No hexes. Just the drip of a leaky pipe somewhere in the wall.

Then came the second night.

Ron was sitting on his cot, pulling off his trainers, when Malfoy walked past without a word. She—*he*—reached up and pulled her shirt over her head in one smooth motion. Ron's brain stuttered. The shirt came away, and there was a woman's torso. Slim waist. Pale skin. Black lace bra cupping soft, unmistakable breasts.

His mouth fell open. Malfoy turned, caught his stare, and laughed—light, knowing.

"Oh, don't tell me you didn't know," she said, tossing the shirt onto her bed. "I thought everyone figured it out by third year. The whole 'Draco in the girl's loo' thing? Honestly. My father had the records sealed before I even started, but still—I didn't think you were *that* dense."

Ron's voice cracked. "You're a—you're a *girl*?"

"Draconia, technically. But I prefer Draco. Don't make it weird." She walked to the wardrobe in her bra and trousers, utterly unbothered. "And don't tell anyone. I'll pretend your stupidity is endearing."

Ron didn't sleep that night. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, that image stuck in his head. Black lace against pale skin. Malfoy—*Draco*—was a girl. A fit girl. How was he supposed to hate her now?

Over the next few nights, it got worse. She changed freely. Once she came out of the shower in just a towel, water dripping down her collarbone. Another time she sat cross-legged on her bed in a camisole and shorts, reading a Potions essay. He caught himself watching her fingers turn pages, the curve of her neck. He started offering her toast at breakfast. Holding doors. He even laughed at one of her snide remarks instead of snapping back.

Draco noticed. She said nothing, but her smirks grew softer, more curious.

On the sixth night, Ron found himself standing by her desk while she wrote, hands jammed in his pockets.

"Something on your mind, Weasley?" She didn't look up.

He swallowed. "I've never, uh—I'm a virgin. You know. And I was wondering..."

She set down her quill. Turned to face him. Grey eyes steady, disarming. "You want me to show you?"

He nodded, face burning.

Draco stood slowly, walked to him, and placed a hand on his chest. "Strip. Lie down on my bed."

Everything after that was a blur—warmth, instruction. She knelt over him and guided his hands to the clasp of her bra. "Undo it." He fumbled but got it, and the lace fell away. Small breasts, firm, pink nipples. "Kiss them. Lick them. Slowly." He did. She sighed, fingers threading through his hair. Then she pulled off his trousers, then hers, and straddled him. Her hand wrapped around him, guiding him inside. "This will hurt a little at first. Then it won't." It did—sharp—but she moved with a rhythm he didn't have to think about. Her hips rolled, her breath hitched, and soon the pain faded into something deeper, hotter. She rode him until he gasped, then flipped him over. "On your hands and knees." He obeyed. She entered him from behind, her breasts against his back, her mouth at his ear. "Faster. Yes. Like that." Her nails dug into his hips.

Later, she knelt in front of him and took him in her mouth. He cried out, fingers in her hair, and she didn't stop until he came with a shudder.

Finally, she guided him on top of her, face-to-face, legs wrapped around his waist. "Now finish properly," she whispered. He thrust deep, and this time she moaned—loud, unrestrained. Her voice rose higher and higher until she screamed his name.

"*Ron!*"

The sound echoed off the dungeon walls, through the corridors, past the portrait of Salazar Slytherin and up into the Great Hall. Heads turned in the common room. Pansy Parkinson's jaw dropped. Seamus Finnigan choked on his pumpkin juice.

In the prefect's quarters, Ron collapsed beside Draco, chest heaving. She was still trembling, a lazy smile on her lips. "Not bad for a first time," she murmured.

He didn't know what to say. He just lay there, her hand on his chest, her body warm against his. The enemy was gone. In her place was a girl who'd given him something he'd never forget.

By morning, rumors flew. Ron walked into the Great Hall and heard his name whispered with snickers and admiration. He didn't blush. He sat down next to Hermione, who raised an eyebrow, and across from Draco, who winked.

He grinned back.

Glory never tasted that sweet before.