A Kiss in the Courtyard

The sun beat down on the stone courtyard, and Ron Weasley was doing his best to ignore the girl smiling at him. Ravenclaw, pretty, dark hair, easy laugh—she’d been leaning against the fountain for ten minutes, twirling a quill like she was bored.

He shifted his weight. Ears went red. “Er—nice weather, yeah?”

She laughed. “You’re funny.”

He wasn’t trying to be, but he grinned anyway. Across the courtyard, Draco Malfoy stepped out from behind a pillar, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle like bad bodyguards. He was heading to the dungeons, stopped dead. Grey eyes narrowed.

The girl leaned closer, brushed his arm. “You know, I’ve seen you in the library. You’re not as thick as you pretend.”

“I’m not pretendin’—hey!”

Draco was already striding over, robes billowing. He didn’t slow down until he was right between them, shoulder shoving the girl back a step.

“Malfoy,” Ron growled. “What d’you want?”

Draco ignored him. Turned to the girl with a sneer that could curdle milk. “Sorry, did you think this was worth your time? Weasley? He’s got the charm of a niffler and the fashion sense of a half-drowned kneazle. Run along. Find someone with a functioning wardrobe.”

The girl blinked, mouth open. Before she could respond, Draco pivoted, grabbed Ron’s collar, and pressed a kiss to his cheek—quick, sharp, right on the skin.

Ron froze. The whole courtyard seemed to freeze.

Draco let go, stepped back, turned on his heel, and walked away. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered after him, looking thoroughly confused.

Ron touched his cheek. Face on fire. The girl spluttered something about “Slytherin lunatics” and hurried off. And Draco Malfoy, who had just kissed him in front of half of Hogwarts, didn’t look back.

---

In the Slytherin common room, green light from the lake filtered through the windows. Draco sat on a leather sofa, hands shaking, pressed his palms to his eyes.

“What was that?” he whispered. “What was that?”

He thought of Ron’s star-freckled cheeks, those wide blue eyes, the faint smell of broom polish and grass. Stomach flipped.

A sob escaped him. Then another. He curled forward, elbows on knees, and cried like a first-year who’d lost his wand. Because he didn’t understand. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way—not about a Weasley, not about a boy, not about the person his father called blood traitor and filth.

He cried until his head ached, then sat in the dark, hating himself for wanting to do it again.

---

“He kissed you?” Harry’s fork hovered halfway to his mouth. “Malfoy actually kissed you?”

“On the cheek,” Ron said, slumping at the Gryffindor table. “In front of everyone.”

Hermione set down her pumpkin juice. “That’s… unusual. Possibly a new form of psychological warfare?”

“Nah, it’s mad science,” Fred Weasley said, sliding onto the bench beside George. “We heard all about it. Blonde ferret snogs our little brother. What’s next, Snape starts singing?”

“I’m not little,” Ron muttered.

“You’re the littlest,” George said cheerfully. “So, details. Did he use tongue?”

“He kissed my cheek, George!”

“Shame.” Fred shook his head. “A proper snog would’ve been worth a galleon.”

Harry hid a smile. “Maybe it’s a trick. Trying to throw you off before Quidditch.”

Hermione tapped her chin. “It could be a new tactic to embarrass you. Or…” She paused, voice dropped. “Or he actually likes you.”

The twins howled with laughter. Ron’s face went scarlet. “That’s mental. Malfoy doesn’t like anyone except himself.”

But that night, lying in his four-poster, he replayed the kiss. The split-second warmth, the softness of Malfoy’s lips, the way he smelled like mint and something sharp. Ron pressed his hand to his own cheek and felt his stomach do something strange.

---

The next morning, Ron decided to test a theory.

Lavender Brown cornered him by the Charms corridor, giggling about a spell she’d botched. Ron leaned against the wall, let her touch his arm, laughed at her jokes. He didn’t have to wait long.

Draco appeared as if summoned, sidled up with practiced ease. “Lavender,” he said, voice dripping charm. “Did you know your hair is glowing? Some kind of hair tonic mishap? Need the hospital wing?”

Lavender’s hand flew to her frizzy curls. “It’s not glowing!”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Draco smiled thinly. “Better run. I’d hate for you to be seen like this.”

She scurried off, face crumpled. Ron stared. “That was cruel.”

“She’ll forgive me by third period.” Draco’s eyes flickered over Ron’s face, then away. “Stay away from her.”

“Or what?”

But Draco was already gone, robes swishing.

Ron watched him turn the corner and felt a grin tugging at his mouth. That was interesting.

---

Over the next few days, Ron flirted shamelessly—with Hannah Abbott on the lawn, with Susan Bones in the library, with a pretty Hufflepuff boy during Potions. And every single time, Draco materialized like a vengeful poltergeist.

Hannah was warned about a jinx on her braids. Susan was told that redheads were “proven carriers of nargles.” The Hufflepuff boy was cornered in the corridor and informed, in a low voice, that Weasley had “a contagious bout of dragon pox.”

“He made that up,” Ron told Harry, half-laughing, half-astounded. “He’s actually jealous.”

Harry shrugged. “Looks like Hermione was right.”

“But it’s Malfoy!”

“And you’re blushing,” George observed, appearing out of nowhere.

“I’m not!”

“You are,” Fred agreed. “You’ve got a full-on Weasley sunset happening.”

Ron shoved past them, heart thumping. He had to know for sure.

---

On the fifth day, Ron stood alone in a narrow hallway on the third floor, waiting.

He’d sent a note—just two words, scrawled on a scrap of parchment: Meet me. He’d given it to a first-year Slytherin, and now he leaned against the cold stone, trying to look casual, feeling anything but.

Footsteps echoed. Draco rounded the corner, silver hair messy, dark circles under his eyes. He stopped when he saw Ron, and something in his face crumpled.

“What do you want?” His voice was hoarse.

“Wanted to ask you something.”

“Then ask.” Draco’s hands were shaking. He stuffed them into his pockets.

Ron took a breath. “Why did you kiss me?”

Silence stretched. Draco’s jaw worked. “I don’t know.”

“You keep chasing everyone away. Like you want me to yourself.” Ron stepped closer. “Is that it, Malfoy? Do you fancy me?”

The words hung in the air. Draco’s face went pale, then red. His breath started coming faster. “I don’t—that’s not— Weasley, you’re a blood traitor. You’re everything I’m supposed to hate.”

“But you kissed me.”

“I don’t know why I did that!” Draco’s voice cracked. His knees buckled. He dropped to the stone floor, hands clutching his head, chest heaving. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

Ron’s heart lurched. He dropped to his knees in front of Draco, grabbing his shoulders. “Hey. Hey, Malfoy. Listen to me. Breathe. In and out, slowly.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Draco gasped. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “I think about you all the time. I hate it. I hate you. I hate that you make me feel like this.”

“You don’t hate me.” Ron’s voice came out soft. “And I don’t think I hate you either.”

Draco looked up, eyes red-rimmed, disbelief stark on his face. “You… what?”

“I’ve been watching you too,” Ron admitted. He felt his own face heat. “When you kissed me… it didn’t feel bad. That’s why I kept testing you. Wanted to see if you’d keep coming.”

Draco’s breath hitched. “You wanted me to come?”

“Yeah.” Ron squeezed his shoulder. “I think I wanted you to prove it.”

They stayed there, kneeling on the cold stones, inches apart. Draco’s hand crept out, fingers brushing Ron’s. Neither pulled away.

“If anyone asks,” Draco whispered, “I will deny everything. I will hex you into next week.”

“That’s fine.” Ron’s lips twitched. “But maybe we could… talk? Or something?”

Draco scrubbed his face with his sleeve, trying to look composed. “Fine. But in the Room of Requirement. And never after dark on Tuesdays.”

Ron laughed. “Why Tuesdays?”

“Slytherin Quidditch practice. I need to maintain my schedule.”

“Of course.” Ron stood and offered a hand. Draco took it, letting himself be pulled up. Their fingers lingered.

From the end of the corridor, two redheads watched, identical grins spreading across their faces.

Fred nudged George. “Did you get that?”

“Got it all,” George said, pocketing a small enchanted mirror. “Mum’s gonna be thrilled.”

“Or horrified,” Fred said cheerfully. “Either way, we’re putting it in the family album.”

They slipped away into the shadows just as Draco and Ron turned, hands still clasped, toward the moving staircase. The castle hummed around them, old and full of secrets, and for once, neither of them minded being one of them.