The Prince and the Princess

Draco Malfoy returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year looking like a completely different person. Gone were the stiff, perfectly pressed robes of his father’s expectations. In their place were tiny skirts that showed off his pale legs, lacy undergarments that peeked out from under his blouse, and makeup that transformed his sharp features into something soft and ethereal. His nails, long and painted in rich burgundy, clicked against every surface he touched. The Slytherins whispered behind his back, but Draco didn’t seem to care. He laughed louder, flirted openly with boys from other houses, and carried himself with a lightness that was alien to the brooding boy they once knew.

Ron Weasley noticed the change immediately. He couldn’t stop noticing Draco, actually. It was infuriating. Every time the blonde sauntered into the Great Hall in another impossibly short skirt, Ron’s eyes would betray him, trailing down to the delicate chain that hung around Draco’s ankle. He told himself it was just curiosity. It was definitely not attraction.

But at night, in the darkness of the Gryffindor dormitory, Ron’s thoughts took a turn he couldn’t control. He imagined Draco’s soft hands on his skin, those long nails tracing down his chest. He dreamed of pinning the blonde against the wall, of hearing him gasp. Ron would wake up hard and confused, staring at the canopy of his four-poster bed, wondering when his rival had become the star of his most private fantasies.

One afternoon, Ron was sitting with Harry and Hermione in the courtyard when Draco suddenly appeared, running towards them. His eyes were wide, his makeup smudged from tears. "Weasley!" he called out, his voice cracking. "Please—those seventh-year Hufflepuffs, they wouldn’t stop touching me—"

Ron was on his feet before he even thought about it. He put himself between Draco and the approaching group, his wand drawn. "Back off," he said, his voice low and dangerous. The Hufflepuffs sneered but retreated, muttering about "slutty Slytherins." Ron turned to find Draco trembling, his perfect composure shattered.

"Thanks," Draco whispered, looking down at his feet—which were clad in heeled boots, Ron noticed. His skirt was so short it barely covered anything.

"It’s nothing," Ron said gruffly, but his heart was pounding.

From that day on, Ron found himself watching Draco even more closely. He noticed how the blonde struggled with everyday tasks because of his nails. In Potions class, Draco was assigned to brew a complex Draught of Living Death. He tried to stir the cauldron, but the long nails kept catching on the edge of the pewter, making the motion clumsy. Snape was about to berate him when Ron moved.

Without thinking, Ron strode over to Draco’s cauldron, ignoring the shocked stares of the class. "Let me," he said, his voice firm. He took the ladle from Draco’s delicate fingers, their hands brushing. Ron’s hands were rough, scarred from Quidditch and years of hard work. They dwarfed Draco’s. He stirred the potion with practiced ease, the movements steady and sure. Draco watched, his cheeks flushing pink under his blush.

When the potion was perfect, Ron handed the ladle back. "There," he said, not meeting Draco’s eyes.

After class, Draco cornered Ron in the corridor. Before Ron could say a word, Draco rose on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," he whispered, his breath warm against Ron’s skin. Then he was gone, leaving Ron standing there, his face burning.

Harry and Hermione appeared beside him. "Did that just happen?" Harry asked, looking stunned.

"Malfoy kissed you," Hermione said, her tone unreadable.

"It was on the cheek," Ron mumbled, but he could still feel the ghost of Draco’s lips.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team was practicing that afternoon. Ron was in goal, trying to focus, but his eyes kept drifting to the Slytherin side of the pitch, where they were also training. Then he saw Draco.

The blonde was wearing a tiny grey pleated skirt that barely covered his arse, and instead of a top, he had on a lacy green bra that left little to the imagination. His hair flowed loose in the wind, and on his feet—impossibly—were a pair of strappy heels.

Ron nearly fell off his broom. He flew over to the Slytherin side, landing in front of Draco. "What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?" he demanded.

Draco arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Training clothes, Weasley. What does it look like?"

"You can’t play Quidditch in heels!" Ron said, his voice rising.

"Watch me."

Draco tried to mount his broom, but the heels made him wobble. Ron had had enough. He scooped Draco up in his arms, bridal style, ignoring the blonde’s protests and the catcalls from the Slytherin team. "Put me down!" Draco shrieked, pounding on Ron’s chest with his fists.

"No," Ron said simply, and carried him all the way to the Gryffindor changing rooms.

Inside, he set Draco down on a bench. "You’ll hurt yourself," Ron said, his voice softer now. "Please, just wear something else."

Draco looked up at him, his eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached into his bag and pulled out a Gryffindor jersey. It was clearly Ron’s—the name Weasley was emblazoned on the back. Draco pulled it over his head. The jersey hung past his thighs, swallowing his small frame.

"Happy?" Draco asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Ron’s throat went dry. "Yes."

Later that day, in the Great Hall, Ron couldn’t help but look over at the Slytherin table. Draco was sitting alone, pushing his fork around his plate. The fork kept slipping from his fingers because of his long burgundy nails. He gave up and just drank water, his face crestfallen.

Ron stood up. The entire hall fell silent as he walked over to the Slytherin table and sat down next to Draco. "Here," he said, picking up Draco’s fork. He cut a piece of chicken and held it up to Draco’s lips.

Draco’s eyes went wide. "Weasley, you don’t have to—"

"Just eat," Ron said, his voice gentle.

Blushing furiously, Draco opened his mouth and let Ron feed him. They continued like that until Draco was full, the entire hall watching in stunned silence. When Draco finally shook his head, Ron set down the fork.

Draco stood up and threw his arms around Ron’s neck, hugging him tightly. "Thank you," he murmured into Ron’s ear.

Ron’s arms came up automatically, wrapping around Draco’s waist. "It was nothing," he said, his voice rough.

From the Gryffindor table, Fred and George were howling with laughter. "Our brother’s gone soft for a Slytherin princess!" Fred shouted.

"A very pretty princess!" George added.

Ron shot them a deadly look, but he didn’t let go of Draco. And when Draco pulled back, his eyes were bright, and he was smiling—a real smile, not the sneer Ron was used to.

"Your princess, am I?" Draco asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Ron’s ears turned red. "Shut up," he muttered, but he was smiling too.