The White Dress

The staircases always groaned louder in September, like the castle itself was bracing for the chaos of students returning. Ron Weasley trudged behind his brothers through the Gryffindor common room, his trunk floating a few inches off the floor, wishing he could just melt into the worn red carpet.

"Blimey, Ronnie, did you eat the whole Burrow over summer?" Fred's voice rang out, light and teasing, but it hit Ron right in the chest like a hex.

George snickered, nudging his shoulder. "Mum must've put extra love in those treacle tarts. And it all went straight to your—"

"Shut it," Ron muttered, his face burning. He pulled his robes tighter, but they strained across his hips. He'd grown taller over the break, sure, but his thighs had thickened, his backside rounded. No matter how he sucked in his stomach, the buttons on his trousers left angry red marks on his skin.

Worst part? His mother noticed too. "Puberty, dear," Molly had said, pinching his cheek with a strained smile. "You'll fill out nicely soon enough. But maybe go easy on the pies, hmm?" She meant it kindly. He knew that. But the words curdled in his stomach like sour milk.

That night, alone in his four-poster, Ron traced the curve of his hip through his pajamas and hated every inch.

---

The white dress had been his secret treasure all through third year. He found it in a secondhand shop in Diagon Alley, tucked between faded robes and mismatched gloves. Simple—cotton, delicate lace collar, fitted bodice that flared into a soft A-line skirt. In the cramped changing room, the mirror showed him someone almost pretty. Someone with freckles like constellations and hair like sunset. Someone worth looking at.

He never wore it outside his room. Not even at the Burrow, where his brothers' teasing would've been relentless. But he brought it to Hogwarts, folded carefully beneath his school robes, dreaming of a night when the common room would be empty and he could twirl in front of the fire.

That night never came. But one Thursday, with Harry and Hermione at the library and the other Gryffindors scattered, Ron pulled the dress from the bottom of his trunk. It smelled of mothballs and hope.

He shimmied out of his trousers and jumper, heart pounding. The dress slid over his head easily enough. The lace collar settled against his collarbone. But when he reached behind to fasten the zip, his fingers fumbled.

It wouldn't close.

He twisted, pulled, sucked in his breath until his ribs ached—nothing. The zipper stopped halfway up his back, baring a strip of pale skin that felt like an accusation.

Tears blurred his vision. He tugged harder, the metal teeth catching the fabric, and a sickening rip split the quiet. Ron froze. Looked down. A jagged tear ran along the seam under his arm.

"No, no, no—" His voice cracked. He clawed at the dress, trying to pull it off, but the stuck zipper trapped him. A prisoner in his own beautiful failure.

The dormitory door creaked open.

"Ron? You left your—oh." Fred stood in the doorway, a textbook in hand, his expression shifting from confusion to something softer. "Ronnie. What's wrong?"

Ron couldn't answer. Just stood there, trembling, the white dress hanging lopsided, tears streaming down his face.

Fred set down the book and crossed the room in three long strides. He didn't laugh. Didn't even smile. He gently turned Ron around, worked the zipper loose with a quiet charm, and helped him out of the dress like he was handling spun glass.

"I'm fat," Ron choked out. "I'm disgusting. I can't even—I just wanted to be pretty for once, Fred. Just once."

Fred's arms wrapped around him, solid and warm. "You are pretty, you idiot. You're the best-looking Weasley, and I'm including myself and George. But you don't need a dress to prove it."

Ron sobbed into Fred's shoulder, but the words didn't sink in. They bounced off the armor of his self-loathing and fell away, useless.

---

The diet began the next morning.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was a symphony of clattering plates and cheerful chatter. Ron stared at his usual pile of eggs and sausages, then pushed it away. Chewed a piece of gum instead, the mint burning his tongue.

"You all right, mate?" Harry asked, fork halfway to his mouth.

"Not hungry," Ron said. He didn't look up.

By lunch, the hollow ache in his stomach was a constant companion. He drank cold water from the fountain in the corridor, letting it fill him up. When his head spun during Transfiguration, he bit his lip until the pain cleared his vision.

Dinner was the hardest. The smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafted from the Gryffindor table, making his mouth water. Ron took an apple and a cucumber slice, cut them into tiny pieces, ate them one by one, counting each bite. His mother's voice echoed: Go easy on the pies. He'd show her. Show everyone.

Exercise came naturally. Ron had always been restless, but now he channeled every twitch into movement. Walked the corridors at a near-run, skipped shortcuts, did lunges in the dormitory until his legs screamed. At night, he lay on the floor and did sit-ups until his abdomen cramped.

The weight melted away. His cheekbones sharpened. His trousers hung loose on his hips. The mirror showed a thinner boy, and Ron stared at it with hollow eyes.

"Still ugly," he whispered to his reflection. "Still worthless."

---

His siblings noticed, of course. Ginny cornered him in the common room one evening, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

"You're not eating," she said. Not a question.

"I'm eating enough."

"You had a celery stick for dinner. That's not enough, Ron. You look like a ghost."

"Thanks for the compliment."

"I'm serious. Mum would kill you if she saw you."

"Then don't tell Mum." His voice came out sharp, defensive. He turned away, but Ginny grabbed his wrist.

"What is wrong with you? You used to laugh at everything. Now you just—stare. At yourself. In the mirror. Like you're trying to find someone to hate."

Ron yanked his arm free. "Maybe I don't like what I see, Gin. Maybe I never have. But at least now I'm smaller. At least now I'm closer to something decent."

Ginny's face crumpled, but she held her ground. "You don't have to be small to be decent. You don't have to be anything. You're my brother, and I love you, and I don't care if you weigh ten stone or twenty."

"Then why does everyone else?" Ron whispered, and he fled up the stairs before she could answer.

Fred and George tried too, in their own way. They'd wave treacle tarts under his nose, make jokes about how Mrs. Norris was starting to look better fed. Ron smiled through gritted teeth and refused.

"One bite," Fred pleaded one afternoon in the common room. "For me. Your favorite brother."

"You're both my favorite," Ron said flatly. "And no."

George frowned, his usual grin fading. "Ron, this isn't healthy. You're—you're wasting away. Literally. Your ribs are showing."

"Good," Ron said. "That means it's working."

"Working for what?" Fred's voice lost its levity. "What are you trying to do?"

Ron looked down at his hands, veins visible beneath pale skin. "I'm trying to be pretty," he said, so quiet the words barely carried. "I'm trying to be someone worth looking at. Someone someone might want to kiss."

Fred and George exchanged a long, heavy glance. Then Fred knelt in front of Ron, hands on his brother's knees.

"You are already worth kissing, Ron. You are already pretty. And if anyone ever tries to tell you different, George and I will hex them into next week."

Ron wanted to believe him. He really did. But the voice in his head was louder than Fred's, and it whispered, They're just being nice. They have to say that. They're your family.

He smiled, thin and brittle. "Thanks, Fred."

And he went on starving.

---

By the second week of October, Ron was a shadow. His robes hung on him like a borrowed coat. His face gaunt, freckles standing out like bruises on pale skin. He'd stopped looking in mirrors, because every reflection was a battlefield, and he always lost.

That Thursday, Hermione found him in the library, chewing gum and glaring at a blank parchment.

"Ron," she said, sitting across from him. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She'd been crying. "Please. Please eat something. Just a sandwich. I'll get it for you. I'll sit with you."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry anymore. You're starving yourself. And I can't watch you destroy yourself because you think you're not good enough." Her voice broke. "You were always good enough, Ron. You were always beautiful to me. To Harry. To everyone who matters."

Ron's jaw tightened. "You don't know what it's like, Hermione. You don't have to look in the mirror and see someone who's—wrong. All wrong. Too soft, too round, too much."

"You weren't too much. You were perfect."

"Then why did I hate what I saw?" Ron's voice rose, drawing a glare from Madam Pince. He lowered it to a whisper. "Why did I always feel like I was wearing someone else's skin? Now at least I look like the person I want to be. Now maybe someone will see me and think I'm worth something."

Hermione reached across the table, fingers brushing his. He pulled away.

"Don't," he said. "Just—don't."

He left the library before she could say anything else, steps quick and unsteady. The castle corridors stretched before him, empty and cold. He didn't know where he was going. Only that he had to move, had to burn the anger and hunger and shame out of his limbs.

He ended up in a bathroom on the third floor, old one with chipped tiles and a rusted mirror. The door swung shut behind him with a groan.

Ron leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain edge so hard his knuckles went white. He looked up.

The mirror showed him a stranger. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles. Hair like straw. He looked ill. He looked fragile. He looked—

Not pretty enough.

He still hated what he saw.

A sob tore from his throat, raw and ugly. He slammed his fist against the mirror, and the glass cracked, splitting his reflection into jagged pieces. The pain was distant, unimportant.

"Why can't I be pretty?" he screamed at the fractured image. "Why can't I be enough? I did everything right. I starved. I ran. I—I gave up everything—and I still hate what I see!"

He slid to the floor, back against the cabinet under the sink, and buried his face in his hands. Tears came hot and fast, soaking his sleeves, his knees, the dusty floor. He was so tired. So hungry. So empty.

He didn't hear the door open.

"Well, this is a pathetic sight."

Ron's head snapped up. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, silver eyes sweeping the room with that familiar sneer. Pristine in his school robes, not a hair out of place, the very image of cold perfection.

"Get out," Ron snarled, voice wrecked. "Leave me alone."

"You're in my bathroom," Draco said, stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him. "My usual hiding spot. You're the one intruding."

Ron didn't have the energy to fight. He dropped his head back to his knees. "Fine. I'll go."

He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled. The dizziness from days of near-starvation crashed over him, and he staggered, catching himself on the sink. The cracked mirror reflected his pale, tear-streaked face.

Draco was closer now, close enough that Ron could smell his cologne—something clean and sharp, like pine and frost.

"You look terrible," Draco said, but the sneer was gone. Flat, almost clinical.

"Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear."

"I didn't say it to be mean." Draco was quiet for a moment. Then: "I've been watching you, Weasley. The way you've been shriveling up like a dried fig. The way you push your food around your plate and never eat it. The way you look in every reflective surface like you're searching for a monster."

Ron's breath caught. "You don't know anything."

"I know what it's like to look in the mirror and see something you want to destroy." Draco's voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "I know what it's like to hate yourself so much that you'd do anything to change."

Ron looked up. Draco's face was unreadable, but his eyes—there was something raw in them. Something wounded.

"Why are you telling me this?" Ron asked, voice hoarse.

"Because I found you crying in a bathroom, and I couldn't just walk away." Draco took another step forward. Close enough now that Ron could see the faint flush on his cheeks, the tension in his jaw. "You're not ugly, Weasley. You were never ugly. You were—you were beautiful when you were soft and round. You had curves that made me—made me want to touch you."

Ron stared at him, disbelieving. "You're making fun of me."

"I'm not." Draco's hand came up slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. His fingers brushed the tear track on Ron's cheek. "You're beautiful the way you are. You were beautiful before. You're beautiful now. But you're killing yourself for an ideal that doesn't exist. And I can't watch you do that."

Ron's lip trembled. "I don't believe you."

"Then let me show you."

Draco leaned in, his lips brushing Ron's with a softness that stole Ron's breath. It was chaste, almost hesitant, but it carried a thousand words that Draco would never say aloud. When he pulled back, his silver eyes were bright.

"You are perfect," Draco whispered. "Exactly as you are. And if you ever want to wear that dress again, I'll be the first to tell you how stunning you look."

Ron's knees buckled. Draco caught him, pulling him into an embrace that smelled like pine and frost and something achingly tender. Ron buried his face in Draco's shoulder and sobbed, not with pain this time, but with relief.

"I'm so tired," Ron whispered. "I'm so tired of hating myself."

"Then stop," Draco murmured against his hair. "Let me help you see what I see."

He pulled back just enough to cup Ron's face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. "I like your dresses, Ron. I like your curves. I like the way you blush when you're embarrassed. I like your freckles. I like your laugh. I like everything about you that you've been trying to destroy."

Ron let out a shaky breath, a fragile, trembling smile crossing his lips. It was weak, barely there, but it was real.

"Okay," he said. "I'll try."

Draco kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, pouring every unspoken word into the press of lips and the brush of tongues. Ron's hands found Draco's waist, clutching at the fine fabric of his robes, anchoring himself to something solid.

When they broke apart, Draco leaned his forehead against Ron's. "Eat something tonight. Please. For me."

"I'll try," Ron repeated, and this time he meant it.

They stayed on the cold bathroom floor, tangled in each other, until the candles guttered and the darkness wrapped around them like a blanket. Draco's hand found Ron's, and he held it tight.

For the first time in months, Ron looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror and didn't see a monster.

He saw someone worth loving.

It wasn't belief yet. It was a beginning.