The Summer of His Becoming

The summer before sixth year, Ron Weasley started becoming himself.

It started with a pair of shears and a stubborn look in the bathroom mirror. His mum was off visiting Aunt Muriel for the weekend, so Bill—home from Egypt—offered to help with the "project." Ron had never been subtle, but this transformation wasn't small. By the end of June, his hair fell in soft waves past his shoulders, and the sharp lines of his body had rounded into something softer, curvier, and absolutely his.

"You sure about this?" Bill asked, holding up a pale blue sundress from a muggle charity shop in Ottery St. Catchpole.

Ron took it, fingers brushing the cotton. "Never been more sure of anything."

First time he wore a skirt—a simple black one that caught the breeze as he stood in the garden—the world tilted. Not dizzyingly. Just right. When his mum got back, she blinked once, twice, then pulled him into a tight hug and whispered, "You look beautiful, dear." His dad nodded, a little red-faced, and muttered something about "modern magic being a wonderful thing."

Harry wrote him a letter: "About time you stopped hiding. You've always had better legs than me."

Ron laughed, but a part of him glowed.

By mid-July, his wardrobe exploded. Skirts in every length, crop tops in jewel tones, delicate lace lingerie that made him feel powerful instead of exposed, and a pair of black heeled boots that added three inches. He learned to walk in them by pacing the Burrow's kitchen while Bill timed him. French lessons came after lunch—Bill was fluent, and Ron was determined. "Je suis belle," he repeated, tasting the words. "Je suis désirable."

The love letters started in August.

They came by owl, by enchanted paper airplane, by a swarm of nervous little birds tapping at his window. Ron sifted through them on his bed, reading lines like "Your eyes are the color of the finest amber" and "I dream of your laugh, Weasley." Flattering, sure. But they all ended up in a shoebox under his bed, unanswered.

"You don't like any of them?" Harry asked during a Floo call, his face flickering in green flames.

Ron twirled a lock of hair around his finger. "They're fine. But I'm not interested in fine."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Then who are you interested in?"

Ron paused. The name sat on his tongue like a sweet, stubborn secret. He'd never told anyone—not even Hermione, though she probably suspected. But Harry was different. Harry had his own secrets, and he'd shared them. "Victor Krum," Ron said quietly. "It's always been Victor Krum."

Harry didn't laugh. He just nodded slowly. "The Triwizard thing with Hermione?"

"I was so jealous," Ron confessed. "I thought it was because of her, but now I think… I think I was jealous that she got to be his date. That she got to see him smile, talk to him, dance with him." He flushed, the pink barely visible under his carefully applied makeup—a shimmer of rose on his cheeks, a touch of gloss on his lips. "I've been losing my mind over him for years, Harry. And now I look like this, and maybe he'll actually see me."

Harry's voice softened. "Then you need to make him see you. Don't wait. I waited too long with Draco, and look what happened. We wasted two years because I was too scared."

Draco Malfoy was, by all accounts, a girl now. Beautiful, sharp-tongued, with a streak of silver in her blonde hair and a smirk that could cut glass. Harry confessed to her at the end of fifth year—they'd been together ever since. If Harry could bridge that gap, Ron could reach Victor.

"How?" Ron asked. "He's a famous Quidditch player. He lives in Bulgaria. I'm just… me."

"You're the most brilliant me I know," Harry said firmly. "And you've got a plan. You always have a plan."

Ron smiled, slow and sensual, his painted lips curving. He did have a plan.

---

The start of term was a parade of gasps and whispers.

Ron chose his first-day outfit carefully: a cream crop top that left his midriff bare, a high-waisted lavender skirt that swayed with his hips, and the heeled boots. Makeup soft but deliberate—pink eyeshadow that made his blue eyes pop, blush high on his cheekbones, gloss that smelled like vanilla. He spent an hour on his hair, letting it fall in loose waves down his back.

The Great Hall went silent when he walked in.

Seamus Finnigan dropped his fork. Dean stared. Even Professor McGonagall paused—a flicker of something like approval crossed her face before she returned to her porridge.

Ron felt the weight of their gazes like a second skin. He didn't mind. He'd chosen this. He walked to the Gryffindor table with his head high, and Hermione, after a beat of shock, grinned and pulled him into a seat beside her.

"You look stunning," she said, warm. "Absolutely stunning."

"Thanks," Ron said, and meant it.

Over the next few weeks, the novelty faded, but the attention didn't. Boys—and some girls—approached him in corridors, in the library, in the common room. He turned them down gently, politely, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His focus was elsewhere.

He tracked Victor Krum's schedule through the Daily Prophet and Quidditch magazines. He knew Victor's upcoming matches, recent injuries, rumored interest in a new broom design. He even found a photograph of Victor at a charity event—looking shy and uncomfortable in formal robes—and traced the lines of his face with his fingertip.

Then, in mid-October, an announcement appeared on the Hogwarts notice boards:

"Special Guest Exhibition Match: Viktor Krum of the Bulgarian National Team will visit Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on 31 October for a friendly exhibition match and guest lecture on advanced Quidditch techniques. All students are encouraged to attend."

Ron read it three times, heart hammering. This was it.

Harry found him in the library, still staring. "You're going to do it, aren't you?"

"I'm going to do it," Ron said.

He spent the next few days preparing. Chose an outfit that screamed confidence: tight black crop top with a plunging neckline, short plaid skirt in crimson and gold, strappy heels that made his legs look endless. Practiced his walk, his smile, the way he'd hold his body. Even practiced a few phrases in Bulgarian, rehearsing under his breath until he was sure he wouldn't forget them.

On the morning of the exhibition, the castle buzzed. Ron arrived at the Quidditch pitch early, slipping into the changing rooms near the stands. He'd arranged a meeting with Harry's help—a note slipped to Victor's team manager, a murmured word about a "private fan who wished to express admiration."

He didn't know if Victor would come. He only knew he had to try.

---

The match was spectacular.

Victor flew like a god—movements fluid and precise, Seeker instinct honed to a razor edge. Ron watched from the stands, breath catching every time Victor swooped past. The crowd cheered, the snitch vanished and reappeared, and by the end, Victor caught it with a triumphant roar that sent the stadium into a frenzy.

Ron clapped until his hands were raw. Then he slipped away.

The changing rooms were empty when he arrived, lit by the dim golden glow of a few hovering candles. He'd told Harry to keep Hermione distracted, told the team manager to direct Victor to the visitors' locker room afterward. He leaned against the wall, pulse a wild drum, and waited.

The door opened.

Victor Krum walked in, still in his Quidditch robes, sweat darkening his hair. Taller than Ron remembered, broader, with a jaw carved from stone. But his eyes—those dark, deep eyes—were soft as they landed on Ron.

"You are… the one who asked for meeting?" Victor's voice was low, accented, hesitant.

Ron pushed off the wall. "Yes. I'm Ron Weasley. We—we met a few years ago. At the Yule Ball. I was with Harry Potter."

Victor's brow creased. "Weasley… the red hair, yes. But you are different now."

"I know," Ron said, and let himself smile. "I changed."

Victor took a step closer. His gaze traveled slowly down Ron's body—the curve of his waist, bare skin of his stomach, long line of his legs—and when it returned to his face, there was heat there that made Ron's knees weak.

"You are… beautiful," Victor said, the word heavy and deliberate.

Ron's breath caught. He'd imagined this a hundred times, but the reality was so much more. "Thank you. I wanted you to see me. I mean—really see me. Not the boy who was jealous and awkward. I've been thinking about you for years, Victor. Since the Triwizard. I thought about you all the time."

Victor's mouth parted. "You… thought of me?"

"I dreamed of you." Ron stepped forward, closing the space until he could smell the cedar and sweat on Victor's skin. "I know it's insane. I know we barely know each other. But I've read every article, watched every match, looked at every photograph. And I thought—if I could just meet you again, and if you could just see me as I am now—"

Victor reached out, his calloused fingers brushing Ron's cheek. "I saw you at Yule Ball. You were with Granger. I remember you were frowning. I thought… he is not happy." His thumb traced Ron's jaw. "Now you are happy?"

"Now I'm myself," Ron whispered. "And I want you."

The word hung between them. Victor's eyes widened, then darkened. He leaned in slowly, giving Ron time to pull away. But Ron didn't. He lifted his chin, parted his lips, and when Victor's mouth met his, it was like being struck by lightning.

The kiss was soft at first—experimental, tasting. Ron's hands came up to cup Victor's face, feeling the slight roughness of stubble. Victor's arms slid around his waist, pulling him close, and the kiss deepened. Hunger and surrender, a promise without words.

They broke apart only when they needed air, foreheads pressed together.

"I have wanted you for so long," Victor murmured. "I saw you in the stands today, and I could not focus. I kept looking for you. When I caught the snitch, I was thinking only of finding you."

Ron laughed, breathless and giddy. "I wore this for you. All of this—for you."

Victor pulled back to look at him, gaze traveling down again, this time with reverence. "May I see?"

Ron's throat went dry. He nodded.

Victor's fingers found the hem of the crop top, sliding underneath to brush the bare skin of Ron's stomach. Ron shivered. Victor's touch was warm, gentle—like handling something precious. He lifted the fabric slowly, revealing the delicate lace of the bralette Ron had chosen—deep burgundy, trimmed with black, hugging his curves.

"You are… art," Victor breathed.

Ron's heart swelled. He reached behind his back, unclasped the bralette, and let it fall. The air was cool on his skin, but Victor's hands, when they cupped his breasts, were fire.

They moved together—kissing, touching, murmuring in broken sentences. Ron's skirt fell to the floor, his heels kicked aside. Victor's Quidditch robes pooled around his ankles. They tumbled onto the bench, a tangle of limbs and whispered confessions.

"I love your body," Victor said, his mouth trailing down Ron's neck. "I love everything about you."

Ron arched into him, fingers tangled in Victor's hair. "Tell me again."

"I love you." Victor paused, meeting his eyes. "I know it is fast. But I have felt this for a long time. I was too shy to say."

"I love you too," Ron said, and the words tasted like freedom.

---

They lay together afterward, wrapped in each other's arms on the cold bench, draped in discarded robes. Ron's head rested on Victor's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"You will stay?" Ron asked, voice drowsy.

"I will stay as long as you want me," Victor promised.

Ron smiled, nuzzling closer. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go."

And he didn't.

Over the next weeks, Victor extended his visit, citing "additional research" for a new broom technique. They spent every spare moment together—walking the grounds, sharing meals in hidden corners of the library, in the quiet of the astronomy tower kissing until the stars blurred.

They wrote letters when Victor finally had to return to Bulgaria—long, intimate letters filled with longing and plans. Ron received a package of Bulgarian chocolates and a hand-stitched scarf in his house colors. Ron sent back a photograph of himself in a new dress with a note: "I'm counting the days until I can wear it for you."

Harry and Draco became their biggest cheerleaders. Draco, in particular, had a surprising soft spot for romance. "You're absolutely glowing," she told Ron one evening. "It's disgustingly cute."

"Says the girl who cried when Harry brought her a bouquet of enchanted roses," Ron shot back.

Draco's cheeks flushed pink, but she smiled. "Fair point."

At the end of the school year, Ron graduated with top marks in Charms and a permanent invitation to visit Bulgaria. He took a portkey to Sofia the week after, where Victor met him at the arrival point—nervous, utterly smitten.

"I have something for you," Victor said, handing him a small velvet box.

Ron opened it to find a delicate silver ring, set with a deep red garnet. "Victor…"

"It is not engagement," Victor said quickly, ears reddening. "It is promise. That I will always come back to you."

Ron slipped the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. "And I promise the same."

They kissed in the middle of the bustling square, and a few Bulgarian witches took photographs that ended up in the society pages of the Daily Prophet. Ron's mother framed one and put it on the mantelpiece.

It was the summer of his becoming, and the beginning of everything.