A Steady Hand

The Potions classroom reeked of crushed cloves and something burnt—Slughorn kept insisting that smell meant you'd done the Amortentia antidote right. The textbook said it was easy. Just needed precise timing and a steady hand. Two things Ron Weasley had never exactly excelled at.

"Don't touch that."

Draco Malfoy's voice cut through the bubbling and scratching. Ron's hand froze an inch from the moonstone jar.

"I wasn't—"

"You were. I saw you. That's four measures, not three. You want to blow us both to the ceiling?"

Ron's jaw tightened. It'd been almost a year since the war. They'd both come back for eighth year, and things were supposed to be different. People were supposed to change. But Malfoy still looked at him like he was something stuck to his shoe.

"Fine," Ron muttered, pulling back. "You do it, then. Since you're so brilliant."

"I am." Draco picked up the jar with those long pale fingers and measured the powder like he was performing a bloody ritual. "Not my fault some of us paid attention instead of stuffing our faces with treacle tart."

Ron opened his mouth to fire back something about Death Eaters and second chances, but Hermione cut in from the next table. "Ron, just focus. The base needs to simmer exactly three minutes after the moonstone."

He grumbled and turned back to his cauldron. The potion was a murky grey, like the book said. He stirred clockwise seven times, then counterclockwise three. The liquid shimmered once, then settled.

Draco watched him with this weird expression—part contempt, part grudging amusement. "You're supposed to add the valerian root next. Not the whole thing, you dolt. A single drop of the extract."

"I know that." Ron's ears burned. He reached for the dropper bottle, fingers clumsy. The glass slipped, and a single amber bead fell in.

The potion hissed, then turned violent magenta.

"Brilliant," Draco drawled. "You just made a love philter. Congratulations, Weasley. You're a menace."

Ron stared at the bubbling iridescent liquid. "I followed the instructions—"

"You didn't. You added valerian before asphodel. The order matters, you git." Draco sighed, pinching his nose. "Well, it's ruined. We start over. And I'm not sharing my ingredients again."

"Can't we just—"

"No. Drink it down the drain. Unless you want to serve that to Slughorn? I'm sure he'd love a potion that makes the drinker fall hopelessly in love with the first person they see."

Ron looked at the cauldron. The magenta had darkened to deep rose, and it smelled sweet and floral. He didn't know why, but something pulled him toward it. Just a mistake. A silly accident. No one would drink it.

But his hand moved before his brain caught up. He dipped the ladle in, brought it to his lips, and swallowed.

Taste was honey and firewhisky and something warm and familiar, like a crackling fire on a cold night. It slid down his throat and settled in his chest, and then everything went soft and hazy.

Draco's voice sounded far away. "What the hell are you doing?! Weasley!"

Ron blinked. The room tilted, steadied. He turned his head, and his eyes found Draco.

And the world stopped.

Draco Malfoy was beautiful. How had Ron never noticed? His hair pale as moonlight, his skin smooth and luminous, his eyes the color of stormy skies. He stood there, mouth slightly open, looking at Ron with utter disbelief, and Ron's heart stuttered in his chest.

"Hello," Ron said, voice soft, dreamy.

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"You're beautiful." Ron stepped forward, reached out, touched Draco's cheek—cool and soft beneath his fingers. "I never saw it before. But you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

Draco's face went through a rapid series: shock, confusion, dawning horror. "Weasley, you idiot. You drank the potion."

"I know." Ron smiled. It felt easy, natural. "I love you."

"You don't—you're not—" Draco grabbed his wrist, pulling Ron's hand away. "You're under the influence. This isn't real."

"It feels real." Ron's fingers curled around Draco's, held on. "Can I kiss you?"

"No. Absolutely not." But Draco's voice wavered. He looked around the room—Slughorn was across the way, chatting with Padma Patil. No one watching. "Let me go. We're going to Madam Pomfrey."

"Don't want to." Ron stepped closer until they were almost chest to chest. He was taller than Draco, looked down at him with open adoration. "I want to stay with you forever."

Draco's cheeks flushed. "This is ridiculous. Weasley, stop."

"Call me Ron. Or sweetheart. Or darling. Whatever you want."

"I want you to snap out of this."

"Then kiss me and break the spell." Ron grinned, cocky in a way that was so distinctly him that Draco almost believed it was the real Ron speaking. But the softness in his eyes—that was all potion.

Draco shoved him away. "We're going to Pomfrey. Now."

But Ron caught his hand again, lacing their fingers together. "Okay. If you hold my hand."

"Fine. Whatever. Just move."

They walked out of the classroom, Ron's hand warm and solid in Draco's, and Draco felt a strange, unwelcome flutter in his chest. He told himself it was annoyance. He told himself he was only going along because it was the fastest way to get Ron cured.

He didn't think about how Ron's thumb traced small circles on the back of his hand. He didn't think about how it felt nice.

---

Madam Pomfrey was unimpressed.

"It's a simple love potion," she said after casting a few diagnostic spells. "It'll wear off on its own in a few days, maybe a week. No antidote for this particular variation—the valerian and asphodel interaction creates a unique binding. I can give him a calming draught, but nothing to break the enchantment."

"A week?" Draco's voice came out sharper than he meant. "I'm supposed to be his partner in Potions for the next month. I can't have him mooning over me for a week."

"You could avoid him," Pomfrey suggested mildly.

"He's sleeping in my common room."

"What? No, he's not."

Ron, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed looking up at Draco with devoted eyes, spoke up. "I'm going to stay with you. I already decided."

"You decided nothing. You're under a potion."

"Doesn't matter. I want to be with you."

Pomfrey sighed. "I'll give you the calming draught. Try to keep him away from any romantic stimuli. And Mr. Malfoy—try to be patient. This isn't his fault."

Draco walked out of the hospital wing with Ron trailing behind him like a lost puppy. He already had a headache.

"Where are we going?" Ron asked.

"To the Slytherin common room. I'm going to lock you in my dormitory and wait this out."

"Your bed?" Ron's voice brightened. "I get to see your bed?"

"No. You get to sit in a chair. Far away from me."

But when they reached the Slytherin common room, the armchair Draco pointed to was immediately abandoned. Ron sat on the floor at Draco's feet, resting his chin on Draco's knee, looking up at him with those big blue eyes.

"You're so wonderful," Ron said. "I can't believe I never noticed."

Draco tried to ignore him. He pulled out his Transfiguration essay and attempted to focus on human-to-object conjuring theory. But Ron's hand had found his ankle, and his fingers were tracing lazy patterns on the skin above his sock.

"Stop that."

"Sorry. You're just so soft."

"I'm not soft."

"You are. Here." Ron lifted Draco's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "See? Soft."

Draco's face burned. He pulled his hand away. "You're insufferable."

"You love me."

"I don't."

"You will. Everyone loves me eventually."

That was so absurdly arrogant that Draco almost laughed. He bit it back. "You're delusional."

"Maybe." Ron smiled, warm and genuine. "But I'm happy. I've never been this happy."

Draco stared at him. Ron Weasley, happy. Because of him. Because of a stupid mistake in a cauldron. It was ridiculous. It was temporary. It didn't mean anything.

But a small, treacherous part of him whispered: *What if it did?*

---

The days passed in a blur of Ron's relentless affection.

He brought Draco breakfast in bed—stolen from the Great Hall, wrapped in a napkin. He left notes under Draco's pillow, written in crooked letters: *You're perfect. I love you. —R.* He brushed Draco's hair at night, gentle and careful, his fingers working through the tangles while Draco sat stiffly, pretending not to enjoy it.

"You don't have to do this," Draco said on the third night.

"I want to." Ron's voice was soft. "You deserve to be taken care of."

"Because of the potion."

"Because I love you."

Draco closed his eyes. The brush moved through his hair in long, soothing strokes. It felt good. It felt like something he'd never had before. Affection, freely given. No strings, no expectations. Just Ron's hands in his hair and Ron's breath warm on his neck.

"You're going to be devastated when this wears off," Draco murmured.

"Maybe I won't let it wear off."

"Potions don't last forever."

"Then I'll make you fall in love with me for real."

Draco's heart lurched. He opened his eyes and turned to look at Ron. The firelight caught his red hair, made his freckles look like constellations. He was smiling, soft and sure, and Draco wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that this was real, that the person looking at him with such tenderness was the real Ron Weasley, not a puppet of a potion.

But he knew better.

"Don't say things you don't mean," Draco said, and his voice came out rough.

"I mean everything." Ron leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft. Tentative. Ron's lips brushed against his, and Draco felt something crack open in his chest. He kissed back before he could stop himself—one hand tangling in Ron's hair, the other gripping his shirt.

When they broke apart, Ron was grinning. "See? You do love me."

"I don't."

"You kissed me."

"You kissed me first."

"Same thing." Ron kissed him again, and Draco let him.

---

On the fifth night, Ron came to Draco's bed.

The Slytherin dormitory was quiet, the other boys asleep. Ron slipped under the covers, skin warm, and pressed himself against Draco's back.

"Ron. What are you doing?"

"Want to be close to you."

"You're already close."

"Want to be closer."

Draco turned over. Ron's face was inches from his, eyes dark in the moonlight. He looked serious, determined.

"Tonight," Ron whispered. "I want you to be my first."

Draco's breath caught. "Your first what?"

"First everything."

"Ron—"

"I know I'm under the potion. I know you think it's not real. But I've never done this before, and I want it to be with you. Even if it's just because of the potion. I don't care." Ron's hand found his, squeezed. "Please."

Draco's mind raced. This was wrong. Taking advantage of someone under the influence was despicable. But Ron's eyes were clear, his voice steady. The potion made him affectionate, not mindless. He still had his own will.

"You're a virgin," Draco said, the realization hitting him.

Ron flushed. "Yeah. Is that—is that a problem?"

"No." Draco's voice softened. "No, it's not a problem."

He reached out and cupped Ron's face. Ron leaned into his touch, closed his eyes.

"I'll be gentle," Draco said. "I promise."

And when Ron's clothes came off, Draco saw the lacy baby blue lingerie.

He blinked. Ron's face went crimson.

"I—I bought it last year. From the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes catalog. I don't know why. I just thought—it looked nice. And I wanted to feel—" He trailed off, mortified.

Draco stared at the delicate fabric, the lace edges resting against Ron's freckled skin. It was absurd. It was surprisingly beautiful.

"You're wearing lingerie," Draco said, a note of wonder in his voice.

"Do you hate it?"

"No." Draco traced the edge of the lace with his fingertip. "I think I love it."

Ron's breath hitched. "Really?"

"Really."

And then Draco kissed him, and there was nothing else.

---

Afterward, they lay tangled together, sweaty and spent. Ron's head was on Draco's chest, and his hand was splayed over Draco's heart.

"Thank you," Ron whispered.

"For what?"

"For being patient. For not laughing at me."

Draco stroked his hair. "You were perfect, Weasley."

"Ron."

"Ron." The name felt strange on his tongue. Intimate. "You were perfect, Ron."

Ron smiled against his skin. "I love you."

"I know."

"Say it back."

Draco was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "I think I might love you too."

Ron lifted his head, eyes bright. "Really?"

"Don't make me repeat it."

Ron kissed him, deep and joyful. "I won't. But I'm going to remember this. And when the potion wears off, I'm going to hold you to it."

---

Draco started flaunting their relationship the next morning.

He walked into the Great Hall with Ron's hand in his, pulling him along. Ron was flushed but smiling, and Draco made sure to plant a kiss on his cheek in front of the entire Gryffindor table.

"Morning, Granger," he said, smirking at Hermione's shocked face. "Weasley's mine now."

"Draco," Ron said, a note of protest in his voice.

"Don't worry, love. I'm just telling them how it is."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Ron, are you okay?"

"Never better," Ron said, and he sounded sincere. "I'm with Draco."

"You're under a love potion," Hermione said flatly. "I read the ingredients from your cauldron. The valerian and asphodel—it's a classic love philter. You're not in your right mind."

"I'm in my right mind," Ron insisted. "I know what I feel."

"You don't. You can't. It's a potion."

Draco's grip on Ron's hand tightened. "I know it's a potion. I've been waiting for it to wear off for five days. It hasn't. And in the meantime, I've realized something."

He turned to face Hermione and Harry directly. "I care about him. Even with the potion, he's still Ron. He's still stubborn and sweet and ridiculous. And I don't want to give him up."

"You can't keep him under a spell," Harry said, his voice hard.

"I'm not keeping him. He chose to stay. Even after I offered to take him to Pomfrey, he refused. He's been sleeping in my bed every night. He's been making me breakfast. He kissed me first." Draco's voice cracked slightly. "I know it's not real to you, but it's real to me."

Hermione's face softened, just a fraction. "Draco... if he decides to stay after the potion wears off, then we'll support him. But you have to let him make that choice."

"I will." Draco looked down at Ron. "When it wears off, I'll let him go. But I'm going to fight for him."

Ron smiled up at him. "You won't have to fight. I'm not going anywhere."

---

The potion wore off on the seventh day.

Ron woke up in Draco's bed, his head clear for the first time in a week. He remembered everything. Every kiss. Every whispered word. The lingerie. The way Draco had held him afterward.

He sat up slowly. Draco was asleep beside him, hair tousled, face peaceful.

Ron's heart ached.

He wasn't sure if the feeling was real or leftover. He wasn't sure if he'd loved Draco because of the potion or because Draco had been so gentle with him, had seen him at his most vulnerable and hadn't run.

But he knew one thing: he wanted to find out.

"Draco," he whispered, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up."

Draco stirred, blinked. "Ron? Are you—"

"It wore off."

Draco's face went through a rapid series of emotions: hope, fear, resignation. "How do you feel?"

"Confused."

"That's fair."

"But I remember everything." Ron took Draco's hand. "And I want to stay."

Draco stared at him. "You're sure? You're not just—the aftereffects?"

"I'm sure. I've been thinking about it. The potion made me feel things, but it didn't make me do things. I chose to kiss you. I chose to stay in your bed. I chose to wear that ridiculous lingerie because I wanted to impress you." Ron laughed, a little shaky. "I've been in love with you since you held my hand in the hospital wing."

Draco's eyes glistened. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

"Then I'm going to hold you to that." Draco pulled him close, kissed him, and Ron kissed back with everything he had.

Later, they walked into the Great Hall hand in hand. Hermione looked up, ready to fight, but Ron shook his head.

"It's fine, Hermione. I'm not under the potion anymore."

Her eyes widened. "And you're still—"

"Still with him. Yes."

"Ron—"

"I know what I'm doing." He squeezed Draco's hand. "For the first time in a long time, I know exactly what I'm doing."

Draco smirked, that familiar, insufferable smirk. "Told you, Granger. Weasley's mine."

And Ron laughed, bright and free, and didn't let go.