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The summer had barely started when the owl showed up—a Ministry letter with that official crest that sent Mum into a dusting-and-baking frenzy. Dad just chuckled into his tea. Ron was sprawled in the garden with a half-eaten apple, reading over Mum's shoulder, and his stomach dropped.

"Draco Malfoy? Staying here? Have you lost it?"

"Language, Ronald." Mum didn't even look up from her pie crust. "It's temporary. Lucius has business abroad, and the Ministry thinks he needs… supervision."

"Supervision." Ron let the word hang there, bitter. "He's a Death Eater. He tried to kill Dumbledore. He called Hermione—"

"He was a kid, Ron. Like you." Harry's voice came from behind, calm. "He's been cleared. Everyone gets a second chance."

Ron chucked his apple core into the hedge. "Fine. But I'm not playing nice."

Draco arrived two days later, pale and quiet, clutching one trunk. Ron would find out soon enough that Draco was a *she*—but not yet. She wore robes so clean they seemed to fight against the Burrow's cheerful mess. Mum hugged her. Draco went stiff as a cat drenched in water. Ron snorted from the doorway.

"Welcome to the palace. Hope you like toast and spiders."

Her grey eyes swept over him with that same old disdain. "Weasley. Hospitality hasn't improved, I see."

The first week was a string of petty fights. Ron left her fork in the sink; she turned his pillow into a hedgehog. Ron made ferret jokes; she hexed his shoelaces together mid-step. Harry and Hermione visited a lot, rolling their eyes and playing referee. Ginny thought it was hilarious.

The real turning point was the beach.

Mum declared a family outing—"You all need sun and sea air, and Draco dear, you look like you haven't seen daylight in months." It was a Muggle beach, golden sand and gentle waves, one Ron had loved since he was little. They Apparated to a quiet cove, and soon everyone was changing behind towels and rocks.

Ron stripped to his trunks and sprinted into the water with a whoop. Harry followed, then Hermione, then Ginny. The water was cold but good, washing away all that war gloom.

He surfaced and looked back. Everyone was in except Draco, who sat on a towel at the tide line, still fully dressed—pale blue shirt, dark trousers. She'd taken off her shoes, but that was it.

Ron waded closer, smirking. "What's the matter, Malfoy? Afraid a fish'll bite your toes?"

Draco didn't even look at him. "I don't swim."

"You don't *swim*." He dripped sarcasm. "Brilliant. A wizard who can't handle water. What, you cast a Bubble-Head Charm every time you take a bath?"

"Go away, Weasley."

But Ron was already grinning, a stupid idea forming. He didn't think. He charged out of the water, sand flying, and scooped her up before she could react.

"Put me down!"

"Teaching you to swim." He was laughing, carrying her toward the surf. She struggled, but she was light, and her protests were sharp.

"Stop! Weasley, I swear—let go!"

She twisted. Her shirt caught on his fingers. The fabric tore at the collar, revealing something pale and pink. Ron stumbled, lost his grip, and they both splashed into the shallow water. A wave rolled over them. When Ron came up sputtering, Draco was sitting in the foam, her white shirt now see-through, clinging to her body.

And there, clear as day through the wet fabric, was a lacy pink bra. And breasts.

Ron's brain just stopped. He stared, mouth hanging open, as Draco pushed wet hair from her face and glared.

"You utter, absolute, moronic—"

"You're a girl," Ron blurted.

Laughter erupted from the shore. Harry and Hermione were doubled over. Ginny was wiping her eyes. Even Mum, watching from her beach chair, had a hand over her mouth.

"You didn't know?" Harry called, wheezing. "We thought you figured it out days ago!"

"I thought—he—" Ron sputtered. "Draco Malfoy's a bloke! Everyone knows that!"

"Everyone knows that *Draconia* Malfoy," Draco said, standing and wringing out her shirt with deliberate malice, "decided to live as a boy for seven years to avoid her father's disappointment. And to keep her place on the Quidditch team. And to avoid being married off before she turned seventeen."

She peeled off the ruined shirt. Underneath, the pink bra was lacy and delicate. Ron couldn't stop staring. Draco noticed and smiled—slow, dangerous.

"Something on your mind, Weasley?"

Ron's face burned. "You're a *prat*."

"I'm a prat who just fooled you for a week. And apparently for our entire school career."

She reached into a small bag she'd left on the shore—how had she brought that?—and pulled out a sleek black bikini. Without an ounce of shame, she stripped off her trousers, pulled on the bottoms, and tied the top around her neck like it was nothing.

Ron's mouth went dry. She was slender, but the curves were there—subtle but real. Wider hips than he'd thought. Smaller waist. She looked like a Slytherin princess who'd just decided to grace the riffraff with her presence.

"Well?" She stepped past him into the water. "Are you going to gawk all day, or teach me to swim?"

Ron couldn't form a sentence. He stood waist-deep, watching her stretch and dive under, her pale figure vanishing into blue.

The rest of the day was torture. Every time he looked at her, she was doing something that made his stomach flip—laughing at something Ginny said, flicking water at Harry, adjusting her bikini strap. She caught him staring once and winked. Ron nearly drowned.

That night, Mum announced the sleeping arrangements. "Ginny and Hermione are in Ginny's room. Harry's on the sofa. Draco, you'll share with Ron. We don't have another bed, and his room has two cots."

"What?" Ron and Draco said at the same time.

"No arguments. It's just sleeping. You're both adults."

Ron's room was small, crammed with Quidditch posters and old comic books. The second cot was lumpy, dragged from the attic. Draco eyed it with horror, then sighed and started unpacking.

Ron tried very hard not to look when she changed into a silk nightdress. He failed. Pale green, thin, falling to mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare. She climbed into her cot with queenly dignity, though the springs creaked.

"If you snore, Weasley, I'll hex your tongue to your palate."

"If you keep wearing that, I'll hex my own eyes out."

She laughed, low and real. "You're such a mess."

The tension grew over the next few days. They bickered constantly, but the edge softened. Ron found himself seeking her out, making excuses to be near. She caught him staring at her mouth once, and her smile turned knowing.

One night, Ron woke to a sound. Dark room, thin moonlight. He rolled over and saw Draco kneeling beside his cot, her nightdress slipping off one shoulder.

"Can't sleep?" His voice was rough.

"Not yet." She didn't move, just stayed there, grey eyes luminous. "I've been thinking."

"About?"

"About how you looked at me on the beach. About how you keep looking at me now."

His heart hammered. "Draco—"

"Don't." Her voice was soft. "Don't tell me you don't want this. I can see it."

She reached up and touched his face, fingers cold. He shivered. She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

"On your knees, Weasley. I want you on your knees for me."

He didn't think. He sat up, slid off the cot, and knelt in front of her. She smiled, slow and triumphant, and pressed her mouth to his.

The kiss was soft at first, then urgent. Ron's hands found her waist, pulling her closer. She tangled her fingers in his hair, and the world shrank to heat and breath and rustling sheets.

"Don't be gentle," she murmured against his lips. "I'm not going to break."

And he wasn't.

They lay tangled afterward, sweat cooling. Her head rested on his chest, her white-gold hair a mess across his arm. Ron stared at the ceiling, mind a hurricane.

"This is mad," he said.

"Completely."

"We're going to have to sneak around."

"Obviously. I'd rather not have your mother walk in on us."

Ron laughed. She lifted her head and looked at him, and for a moment, all the walls were down. She looked almost vulnerable.

"I've never—" she started, then stopped. "Never mind."

"Me neither," he said. "Not like that."

She smiled, real. She leaned up and kissed him again, softer.

"We can keep this," she said quietly. "For the summer. Pretend it's nothing else."

"And after?"

"After…" She traced a line down his chest. "We'll see."

They fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other. When morning came, Ron woke to an empty cot and a note on his pillow in elegant handwriting: *Breakfast at ten. Try to look less smug.*

He grinned. The summer stretched ahead, full of secrets and stolen glances. The war felt very far away.

He folded the note into his pocket and went downstairs. Draco was already at the table, sipping tea, and she caught his eye over the rim of her cup. One perfect eyebrow arched.

And Ron knew, with absolute certainty, that this was only the beginning.