The Girl in the Mirror

The third-floor bathroom at Hogwarts was basically a forgotten closet—cracked tiles, dim lighting, and a single candle Ron had levitated to the sink edge. He stood gripping the porcelain, hands shaking, staring at a reflection that felt like a stranger even though he'd known it his whole life. Dust and old magic hung in the air, and his heart was doing that trapped-bird thing again.

He tried the revealing charm first. *Crinus Muto.* His hair lengthened in waves, spilling past his shoulders, fiery red. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He'd dreamed of this—late nights in the dormitory when everyone else was asleep, imagining what it'd feel like. Then the potion: a vial of silvery liquid he'd brewed in secret for months, recipe from a tattered Restricted Section book. His hands shook as he uncorked it. Moonstone and rose petals, mixed with the sharp tang of *finally*.

He downed it in one go.

The change wasn't gentle. It was a storm—bones shifting, skin tightening, warmth spreading from his chest to his limbs. He doubled over, gripping the sink, and when he opened his eyes again, the face in the mirror wasn't Ronald Weasley.

She was Ronalda.

Fuller lips, softer jaw, dark lashes over freckled cheeks. She wore the skirt she'd hidden under her robes for weeks—a simple navy pleated one, just above the knees—and a white blouse that actually fit curves she'd never dared imagine. She turned sideways, then back, breath coming in short, delighted gasps. Ran a hand through long silky hair. Laughed—higher, lighter, freer than any sound she'd ever made.

*This is me. This is who I've always been.*

She twirled, skirt flaring, and caught her reflection mid-spin. Candlelight danced in her eyes. For the first time in seventeen years, she didn't feel like she was wearing the wrong skin.

---

Harry stared at the Marauder's Map, brow furrowed. Past curfew, but Hermione had insisted—Ron had been acting weird all week. Skipping meals. Dodging conversations. They needed to talk before the guilt ate him alive. But the map showed something impossible.

"Ronald Weasley" blinked into "Ronalda Weasley" and back again, like a dodgy radio signal.

"That can't be right," Hermione whispered, breath warm against his ear. Harry barely noticed—he was already moving, footsteps echoing down the corridor. Hermione close behind.

They found the bathroom door ajar, amber light spilling into the darkened hall. Harry pushed it open, wand raised, and froze.

A girl stood before the mirror—Ron's nose, Ron's freckles, but long red hair cascading down her back and a smile so bright it almost hurt. She turned at the sound, eyes wide, and for a moment nobody spoke.

Then Hermione stepped forward, mouth opening and closing before she broke into a grin. "Ron?"

Ronalda's smile faltered. "It's Ronalda," she said, voice shaky but steady. "I... I'm sorry. Didn't want you to find out like this."

Hermione crossed the distance in three strides and threw her arms around her. "You brilliant, beautiful idiot," she murmured into her hair. Then pulled back and smacked her arm. "I didn't need a map to know my best friend was a girl. And a pretty one at that."

Ronalda laughed—half-sob, half-joy. Harry just stood there, mind struggling to catch up. He'd seen Ron turn into a girl before—Polyjuice for the Tournament, Polyjuice for infiltrating the Ministry. But this was different. This was Ron, but not. This was a girl who looked more alive than Ron ever had.

"Harry?" Her voice was soft. Uncertain.

He swallowed. "You're... you're beautiful."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. His ears burned. Hermione raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

---

The door burst open. Fred stumbled in, followed by George and Ginny. Fred was waving his wand, half-eaten chocolate frog in his other hand. "Saw Harry's Patronus tearing down the corridor—Merlin's beard."

George stopped dead. "Who's the girl?"

"That *is* Ron," Ginny said slowly, eyes wide.

Ronalda stiffened, bracing for laughter or disgust. But Ginny walked up, tilted her head, and said, "You look like the sister I always wanted. Hope I look half as good when I'm older."

Fred and George exchanged glances. Then Fred smirked. "Well, you're definitely the prettiest Weasley now. No offense, Ginny."

"None taken," Ginny said, grinning.

George added, "But if any bloke tries anything with you, we'll hex his bollocks off. That's a threat, not a promise."

Ronalda laughed—a genuine one that echoed off the damp tiles. She felt lighter than she had in years.

---

Eventually the others left. Hermione promised to cover for her in the morning. Fred and George plotted a "welcome home" prank. Ginny squeezed her hand and whispered, "You're brave, you know that?"

And then there was only Harry, lingering by the door.

The candle had burned low, shadows stretching across the floor. Ronalda smoothed her skirt, suddenly self-conscious. "You don't have to stay," she said quietly.

"I want to."

He stepped closer, green eyes unreadable in the dim light. Stopped a foot away—close enough she could smell broomstick polish on his robes. "I don't understand," he said. "But I know I care about you. And I think... I think I've always known there was something different. Something you were hiding."

Ronalda looked down at her hands—slender now, freckles scattered like constellations. "I've always been Ronalda, Harry. I just had to let her out."

He reached out, fingers brushing hers. A jolt, like static electricity. "I'd like to get to know the real you," he said. "If you'll let me."

She looked up. His face was open, honest, vulnerable. She'd seen that look a hundred times—when he faced Voldemort, when he lost Sirius, when he told her he loved her as a friend. But this was different. This was hope.

She nodded. He leaned in.

The kiss was soft, tentative—a question and an answer all at once. His hand cupped her cheek; she felt the calluses on his fingers, the warmth of his palm. The candle flickered. For a moment, the world outside that bathroom didn't exist.

When they pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright.

"Wow," he whispered.

She laughed—a sound that felt like freedom.

---

The next morning, Ronalda walked through the corridors with Harry at her side. Students stared, whispered, but she held her head high. Hermione had lent her a book on basic transfiguration. Ginny promised to teach her the charm that turns hair into flowers.

A few Slytherins snickered—Pansy Parkinson made some comment about "the new Weasley" that earned a hex from Fred across the Great Hall. Ronalda didn't care.

She was herself.

And when Harry took her hand under the table, fingers lacing with hers, she knew she was loved—not for who she'd been, but for who she'd finally become.