The Daisies on the Skirt

The Burrow was in its usual summer chaos—dishes clattering, Fred and George laughing somewhere in the garden as something exploded, and that ever-present smell of Molly’s cooking. But for Ron, this summer felt different.

He stood in front of the mirror in his tiny attic room, running his fingers over the soft fabric of a new sundress. Pale yellow, with little white daisies scattered across the skirt. It hit just above his knees—Arthur had put his foot down about anything shorter, even though Ron argued his legs were one of his best features.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered to his reflection. And he meant it.

Ron had always known he was different. While his brothers roughhoused and fought over Quidditch, he’d been drawn to his mum’s sewing basket, to the way fabric moved, to how a splash of color could change everything. By thirteen, he’d saved enough Galleons for his first pair of heels from a discreet shop in Diagon Alley. By fifteen, he could do eyeliner wings sharp enough to cut glass.

His family’s acceptance came in patches. The twins just shrugged and asked if he could do their makeup for their next party. Ginny stole his nail polish. Harry—in that quiet, loyal way of his—never treated him any differently. That might’ve been the best gift of all.

Arthur struggled the most, but not how Ron expected. “I just don’t want you getting hurt, love,” he’d said, voice thick. “Men can be cruel. And those skirts you like… they’re so short.”

Ron hugged him then, feeling the solid warmth of his dad’s chest. “I know, Dad. I’m careful.”

Molly started buying him clothes from a witch who specialized in gender-enchanting garments, so everything fit perfectly. She still didn’t quite understand—and she never needed to—but she loved her son. That was enough.

The one thing Ron never had was a boyfriend.

He’d thought about it, dreamed about it. But boys his age seemed confused by him—drawn to his features, then put off by the cognitive dissonance of finding a boy pretty. He’d kissed a few in dark corners at parties. Nothing ever caught fire.

He wanted fire.

He wanted someone who’d look at him the way he looked at himself in the mirror—with appreciation, with hunger, with love.

He wanted someone older. Someone who knew what they wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it.

The afternoon Sirius Black walked through the Burrow’s front door, Ron’s whole world tilted.

He’d seen Sirius before—at Grimmauld Place during the war, at a few family gatherings since his exoneration. But Ron had been a kid then, wrapped up in fear and survival. Now he was seventeen, and the man stepping through that doorway was… devastating.

Sirius was tall, lean in that way of someone who’d survived Azkaban but somehow came out more beautiful for it. Dark hair falling to his shoulders, gray eyes with a depth that made Ron’s breath catch. Leather jacket over a simple black t-shirt, and when he smiled at Molly, the lines around his eyes crinkled in a way that made Ron’s knees weak.

“Sirius!” Harry bounded down the stairs, launching himself into his godfather’s arms. “You’re early!”

“Couldn’t stay away,” Sirius said, voice a low rumble that Ron felt in his chest. “The manor gets lonely.”

Ron stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs, clutching his new handbag—a tiny white thing with a gold chain, which Ginny had called “ridiculously impractical.” He’d worn his favorite outfit: a pink crop top showing a sliver of midriff, a white pleated skirt, strappy sandals. His nails were a perfect ombre—pink to white—and his makeup was flawless.

He’d been feeling confident. Beautiful.

Now he felt like he was on fire.

Sirius’s gaze swept the room, landed on Harry, then Molly, then Arthur. And then—his eyes found Ron.

Everything stopped. The dishes, the explosions, the beat of Ron’s heart.

Sirius’s eyebrows lifted slightly—a flicker of surprise—and then his lips curved into a slow, appreciative smile.

“Well,” Sirius said, voice dropping even lower. “You must be Ron. I don’t remember you looking so… grown up.”

Ron opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I’m—yes. I mean, I am Ron. Grown. Up.”

Merlin, kill me now.

But Sirius’s smile only widened, and something warm and knowing flickered in those gray eyes. “It’s good to see you, Ron.”

Ron’s face burned. He could feel the blush creeping down his neck, staining his chest. He managed a shaky smile. “You too.”

That night, Ron lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart racing. He’d never felt anything like this. The way Sirius had looked at him—like he was something precious, something desired—had awakened a hunger he didn’t know he had.

He wanted Sirius to look at him like that again.

He wanted it always.

The next morning, Ron put on his shortest skirt.

Black denim, barely covering his hips, paired with a sheer lace top that showed the outline of his bralette. He spent an hour on his makeup—smoky eyes, perfect contour, glossy pink lips. Fresh nails, a delicate silver chain around his ankle.

When he walked into the kitchen, Sirius looked up from his coffee.

The way his eyes traveled down Ron’s body—slow, deliberate, hungry—made Ron’s breath hitch.

“Morning,” Sirius said, voice rough.

Ron smiled, feeling powerful. “Morning.”

That’s how it started.

Over the next few weeks, Ron transformed. He ditched his comfortable sundresses for outfits designed to provoke: micro crop tops that barely covered his ribs, skirts that showed the curve of his hips, heels that made his legs look impossibly long. He started wearing lacy thongs that peeked above his waistband, just visible when he bent over.

He wanted Sirius to see. He wanted Sirius to want.

And Sirius did.

Ron noticed the way Sirius’s hand would linger when passing him the salt, the way his gaze caught on Ron’s legs, the way his voice dropped when they were alone. Sirius started finding excuses to be near him—offering to fly, sitting next to him at dinner, brushing against him in crowded hallways.

“You’re driving me mad,” Sirius murmured one afternoon, breath hot against Ron’s ear.

They were in the garden, hidden behind overgrown rose bushes. Ron had been picking flowers for his mum, wearing a tiny halter top and cutoff shorts showing the tops of his thighs. Sirius appeared out of nowhere, trapping him against the trellis.

“Am I?” Ron’s voice was breathless, but he didn’t pull away.

Sirius’s hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbone. “You know you are. Those skirts. The way you look at me. You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I want to get caught.”

Sirius’s eyes darkened. He leaned in, and Ron felt the ghost of his lips—close, so close, but not quite touching. “Not yet. Not here. But soon.”

He pulled away, leaving Ron trembling, aching, desperately in love.

The broom rides became their secret ritual.

“Come flying with me,” Sirius would say, voice casual but eyes burning. “Just us.”

Ron would nod, heart racing, and they’d climb onto Sirius’s old broom, Ron sitting in front, his back pressed against Sirius’s chest. Sirius’s arms circled around him to grip the handle, and they’d soar into the sky, leaving the Burrow far below.

“Hold on,” Sirius would murmur, and Ron would lean back, feeling the solid warmth of Sirius’s body, the strength of his arms.

One evening, as the sun painted the sky orange and pink, Sirius landed on a secluded hilltop. He stepped off, then turned to help Ron down, his hands lingering on Ron’s waist.

“You’re beautiful,” Sirius said, barely a whisper. “Do you know that?”

Ron’s throat tightened. “No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that.”

Sirius’s hands moved up, cupping Ron’s face. “Then they were blind. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I want you, Ron. I want you so much it scares me.”

Ron’s knees buckled. He grabbed Sirius’s leather jacket to steady himself. “Then take me. Please.”

Sirius kissed him then—deep, hungry, possessive. His hands roamed down Ron’s back, gripping his skirt, pulling him closer. Ron moaned into the kiss, fingers tangling in Sirius’s dark hair, body melting against him.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping, Sirius rested his forehead against Ron’s.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” Sirius admitted. “About anyone. I thought I was too old, too broken. But you make me feel alive again.”

Ron smiled, eyes shining. “Then stay alive with me.”

They flew back to the Burrow in silence, Ron’s hand resting on Sirius’s thigh, Sirius’s lips pressing soft kisses against Ron’s neck. They were careful, quiet, stealing moments when no one was watching.

But secrets have a way of unraveling.

Arthur found them in the hallway.

Ron was pressed against the wall, his leg wrapped around Sirius’s hip, his skirt hiked up to reveal lace. Sirius’s hand was under his shirt, lips against his throat, and they were both lost.

“What the—” Arthur’s voice shattered the moment.

They sprang apart. Ron’s face went scarlet. Sirius’s expression shifted from passion to alarm. Arthur stood in the doorway, pale, hands shaking.

“Dad, I can explain—”

“Explain?” Arthur’s voice cracked with anger. “Explain what? That my son is being used by Harry’s godfather? That you’ve been sneaking around behind my back?”

Sirius stepped forward, hands raised. “Arthur, it’s not what you think. I care about Ron. I—”

“You stay away from him!” Arthur’s wand was out, face twisted. “He’s a child, Sirius. Seventeen. And you’re—”

“I’m in love with him,” Sirius said, voice steady despite the wand aimed at his chest. “I know it’s complicated. I know the age gap troubles you. But I would never hurt him. Never use him.”

Ron moved to stand beside Sirius, their hands finding each other. “Dad, please. This is my choice. I love him.”

Arthur’s face crumpled, anger warring with pain. “You don’t know what love is. You’re a child.”

“I’m not a child!” Ron’s voice broke. “I know what I want. I know who I am. And I want him.”

The confrontation ended with Arthur asking Sirius to leave, with Ron grounded to his room, with Molly crying in the kitchen. But Ron refused to apologize. Refused to say it was a mistake.

The twins found out, of course. Fred and George always knew everything.

“We need to have a word with your boyfriend,” George said, tone light but eyes hard.

“Don’t hurt him,” Ron pleaded. “Please. He’s not what you think.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” Fred said.

They cornered Sirius in the garden the next day, wands out, twin grins that didn’t reach their eyes.

“So,” Fred said, twirling his wand. “You’ve been touching our little brother.”

“He’s not so little anymore,” Sirius said, refusing to be intimidated. “And I haven’t touched him without his consent. I love him.”

“Love?” George snorted. “You’ve known him for three weeks.”

“I’ve known him for years. I just didn’t see him before. And now I do.” Sirius’s voice softened. “I know you’re protective. I would be too. But I won’t hurt him. I’d die before I let anyone hurt him.”

The twins exchanged a look, something silent passing between them.

“Fine,” Fred said, lowering his wand. “But if you break his heart, we’ll make you regret it.”

“And we can be very creative,” George added.

Sirius nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “I don’t doubt it.”

Harry was the hardest.

He found Ron in his room, staring out the window at the darkening sky. Ron wore a favorite outfit—a soft pink sweater falling off one shoulder, a flowy midi skirt. Subtle makeup, nails painted a gentle rose.

“Can we talk?” Harry asked, voice careful.

Ron nodded, not turning around.

Harry sat on the bed, hands clasped. “I don’t know how to feel about this. Sirius is my godfather. He’s family. You’re my best friend. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Ron turned, eyes glistening. “I’m not going to get hurt. Sirius loves me, Harry. I know it sounds fast, but I feel it. I feel it in my bones.”

“What if it’s just physical? What if he’s just attracted to the way you look?”

“Then I’d rather have that than nothing.” Ron’s voice was fierce. “But it’s not just that. He looks at me and sees me, Harry. Not just the makeup and skirts. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel worthy.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t like it. But I trust you. And I trust Sirius. If you’re happy, then I’ll support you.”

Ron crossed the room and hugged him, burying his face in Harry’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

The family meeting was held in the living room, a tense gathering of redheads and one very uncomfortable Sirius Black.

“This is unnatural,” Arthur said, voice heavy. “You’re a boy, Ron. You dress like a girl, you act like a girl, and now you’re throwing yourself at a man old enough to be your father.”

Ron flinched but didn’t back down. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone. I love him. And yes, I dress like this because it makes me happy. Because I feel like me. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Because I’m scared for you!” Arthur shouted, voice cracking. “The world is cruel. People will hurt you for being different. And Sirius—” He gestured wildly. “He’s not a safe choice. He’s broken, damaged—”

“I know he’s broken,” Ron interrupted, quiet but steady. “So am I. That’s why we fit.”

Sirius stepped forward, his hand finding Ron’s. “Arthur, I know I’m not what you would have wanted for your son. But I love him. I love him more than I thought I could love anyone. And I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you, if you’ll let me.”

“I want to see you try,” Arthur said coldly.

Harry stood up, eyes finding Arthur’s. “Mr. Weasley, I’ve known Sirius my whole life. He’s made mistakes. He’s been through things that would break most people. But he’s never been dishonest with me. He’s never been cruel. If he says he loves Ron, I believe him.”

Molly, who had been silent until then, spoke up. “Ron, are you happy?”

Ron turned to his mother, tears streaming down his face. “I’ve never been happier. Please, Mum. I just want you to accept me. Both of me. The way I dress, and the man I love.”

Molly’s eyes filled with tears. She stood up, crossed the room, and wrapped her arms around her son. “Of course we accept you. We’ve always accepted you. We just worry.”

“I know,” Ron whispered, hugging her back. “But you don’t have to worry about Sirius. He takes care of me.”

Arthur watched them, his face a storm. Finally, he sighed, the fight draining out of him. “I don’t understand this. But I understand that you’re my son. And I love you.” He looked at Sirius, eyes hard. “If you hurt him—”

“I won’t,” Sirius said, fierce. “I promise you, Arthur. I will never hurt him.”

The tension broke. The twins started joking about wedding presents. Ginny hugged Ron, whispering congratulations. Harry clapped Sirius on the shoulder, a small smile on his face.

And Ron stood in the center of his family, holding Sirius’s hand, feeling more whole than ever.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Ron and Sirius sat on the porch swing, watching fireflies dance in the garden.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” Ron said, leaning his head on Sirius’s shoulder.

“Don’t be. He’s just trying to protect you.” Sirius pressed a kiss to Ron’s hair. “You’re lucky to have a family that cares so much.”

“I know.” Ron looked up at him, eyes shining. “Thank you. For fighting for me.”

Sirius cupped his face, thumb tracing over Ron’s cheek. “I would fight a thousand battles for you, Ron Weasley. You’re worth every single one.”

Ron smiled, leaning in to kiss him—soft, sweet, full of promise.

The summer ended, but their story was just beginning.

Ron went back to Hogwarts for his seventh year. Sirius wrote him letters every day—poetry, promises, professions of love. Ron read them in bed, a silly grin on his face, heart swelling.

When Ron came home for Christmas, he wore a beautiful emerald dress that brought out the blue in his eyes. Sirius met him at the door, kissing him breathless in front of the whole family.

The Weasleys had accepted them fully by then. Arthur still tensed when he saw them kiss, but he was learning. Molly baked them a cake for their three-month anniversary. The twins stopped threatening Sirius and started teasing him instead.

And Harry—Harry was just happy to see the two people he loved most finding happiness together.

On the last summer before Ron’s graduation, the family gathered for dinner at the Burrow. Ron sat next to Sirius, wearing a beautiful white sundress with embroidered flowers, hair curled, makeup perfect.

Sirius held his hand under the table, fingers intertwined.

“To Ron,” Harry said, raising his glass. “And to Sirius. For finding each other.”

“To love,” Molly added, eyes soft.

“To love,” everyone echoed.

Ron looked around the table—at his family, at his friends, at the man who had changed his life. A warmth spread through his chest, a joy so deep it made him breathless.

This was who he was. This was who he had always been.

And he was loved. Completely, unconditionally, beautifully loved.

Sirius leaned in, lips brushing Ron’s ear. “I love you, Ron Weasley. Every version of you.”

Ron turned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too. And I’m never letting you go.”

They sat together, hand in hand, as the family laughed around them.

It was perfect. It was home. It was everything.