The Weed in the Garden

The autumn wind smells like fallen leaves and woodsmoke, whipping around the Hogwarts grounds. It tugs at robes, rustles hair. Draco Malfoy stands a few feet from the lake, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other holding a piece of parchment he’s not even reading. His grey eyes—pale, like frost—are locked on something across the lawn. Something that makes his stomach drop.

Ron Weasley is sitting on a low wall near the greenhouses, that ridiculous red hair blazing against the grey stone. A girl—Hufflepuff, brown curls, laugh that carries way too easily—has settled in next to him. Her hand lands on his knee. And Ron smiles. That lopsided, easy grin Draco has watched from the corner of his eye a thousand times during meals, in corridors, when he should’ve been looking anywhere else. The girl leans in, says something Draco can’t hear, but the body language is obvious.

Something ugly and hot twists in Draco’s chest. He curls his fingers into his palm, crumpling the parchment. He has no claim on Ron Weasley. They’ve barely spoken since term started—a few nasty comments in the Great Hall, a hex or two swapped in Defense. But over the summer, something changed. An unwanted pull, like a weed in a garden he can’t be bothered to tend. And it’s choking everything.

Now this girl, with her easy smile and her hand on Ron’s knee, is watering that weed with poison.

Draco moves before he’s really decided to. His footsteps are quiet on the grass. His face is a mask—cool, controlled. He walks up behind the wall and slides an arm around Ron’s shoulders, fingers resting deliberately on his collarbone.

“There you are,” he says, voice low and smooth, pitched just for Ron and the girl. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Ron’s head snaps up, face a mess of confusion. “Malfoy? What—?”

Draco leans in, pressing his chest against Ron’s side, and turns that smile toward the Hufflepuff girl. It’s not a nice smile. Sharp. Predatory. “Hope you’ll excuse us,” he says, dripping with implication. “Ron’s a bit taken.”

The girl’s friendly look falters. She glances between them, cheeks flushing. “Oh. I didn’t… I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Are you two…?”

Draco lets the question hang. He tilts his head, lets his cheek brush Ron’s hair, and then—before he can chicken out—presses a soft, deliberate kiss to Ron’s cheek.

Silence. Ron goes completely still, breath hitching. The girl stammers something incoherent and bolts, curls bouncing.

Draco pulls back like he’s been burned. The kiss was brief, but the warmth of Ron’s skin lingers on his lips, a brand. He can’t meet Ron’s eyes. Panic claws up his throat. He’s crossed a line. Obliterated any plausible deniability.

“Malfoy,” Ron says, voice strange and hoarse. “What was that?”

Draco doesn’t answer. He turns and walks away, pace quickening until he’s nearly running. He heads for the Slytherin common room—dark, cool, safe. He stumbles down the stone steps into the dungeons, past empty green-lit corridors, into the boys’ dormitory. Slams the door. Collapses onto his bed.

He sobs. Hot, fast tears ruining his composure, smearing kohl and mascara across his cheeks. He just kissed Ron Weasley—son of Arthur, blood traitor, Gryffindor, the boy whose every word has felt like a wound for two years. And worse? He meant it. He wants to do it again.

Upstairs, Ron sits frozen on the wall, fingers touching the spot where Draco’s lips pressed. His ears are burning. His chest feels tight.

Across the lawn, Hermione lowers her book, eyes sharp. “Did Malfoy just kiss Ron?” Her voice is flat with disbelief.

Harry, already walking toward Ron, says, “We’re going to have to ask him about that.”

---

The next few days are a blur of confusion. Ron Weasley, who never gave Draco Malfoy a second thought beyond “he’s a git,” keeps replaying that moment. The warmth of Draco’s arm. The soft pressure of his lips. The way his grey eyes looked almost pleading before he fled. Doesn’t help that other students noticed.

“Is Malfoy your girlfriend or something?” Seamus asks at breakfast, eyebrows high. “Swear I saw him press up against you like a lovesick pixie.”

“He’s not my girlfriend,” Ron snaps, fork clattering against his plate. “He’s my enemy.”

“Enemies don’t kiss each other on the cheek,” Dean says, grinning. “Unless they’re French.”

Harry watches Ron with an unreadable expression. “Ron, you okay? You’ve been weird.”

“I’m fine,” Ron says, but he’s not. Because something else is stirring in him—a restless curiosity. What would happen if he did it again? What if he provoked a reaction, just to see if the first time was a fluke?

It starts small. At lunch, he sits next to Lavender Brown and lets her twirl her hair around her finger while he laughs at her jokes. He doesn’t touch her, but he smiles, and he makes sure to glance across the Great Hall toward the Slytherin table.

Draco is watching. Of course he is. His face goes pale, then green creeps into his cheeks. He stands abruptly, walks to the Gryffindor table, and stands beside Ron, glaring at Lavender until she pulls her hand back like it’s been burned.

“Weasley,” Draco says, voice tight. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

“Later,” Ron says, enjoying the power. “I’m busy.”

Draco’s jaw tightens. He leans down, mouth close to Ron’s ear. “If you don’t come now, I will hex her.”

Ron laughs—sharp, almost cruel. “Fine.” He follows Draco out of the hall, but only because he wants to see what happens next.

That pattern repeats over the next week. Ron flirts—with a fifth-year Ravenclaw, a sixth-year Gryffindor, a Hufflepuff boy who brings him a butterbeer at Hogsmeade. Each time, Draco materializes, green with jealousy, possessive and sharp. He pulls Ron aside, or hexes the offender, or just stands so close that the other person feels unwelcome. Rumors spread like wildfire: Draco Malfoy is obsessed with Ron Weasley. Ron Weasley is leading him on.

The latter is true. Ron knows it, and he doesn’t care. It’s fun. Intoxicating. He’s never had anyone fight for his attention like this, least of all a Slytherin who once called his family blood traitors. He wants to push further, see how far Draco will bend before he breaks.

He finds out on a rainy Thursday in the Great Hall.

Dinner is in full swing, the enchanted ceiling reflecting a stormy sky. Ron sits with Harry and Hermione, but his eyes wander to the Slytherin table, where Draco sits with his back rigid, not eating. Their gazes meet. Draco’s expression is hollow, almost fragile.

Ron looks away. A girl—pretty sixth-year Ravenclaw named Michelle—leans over the table and asks him a question. He answers with a grin. She laughs, and then, before he can think, she leans forward and presses her lips to his.

It’s a shallow kiss, brief, just a peck. But it’s on the mouth.

The sound from the Slytherin table isn’t human. A wail, a cry of anguish that cuts through the hall like a blade. Ron pulls back, heart lurching, and sees Draco collapse.

He falls to his knees on the stone floor, hands clutching his chest. Breath comes in ragged, choked gasps. Black mascara streams down his pale cheeks, mixing with tears. His whole body trembles, shoulders shaking, nails scraping at his robes like he’s trying to tear his own heart out.

“Draco!” Blaise Zabini is on his feet, reaching for him, but Draco shoves him away—weak, uncoordinated. He’s hyperventilating, a series of desperate keens drawing every eye in the room.

Ron stands frozen. The kiss meant nothing. But to Draco, it was betrayal. He watches, horrified, as Draco’s eyes roll back, his limbs go slack, and he crumples to the floor in a faint.

Silence. Then chaos. McGonagall is already moving, shouting for Madame Pomfrey. Students crowd around, whispering. Ron can’t move. He did this.

“You absolute git,” Hermione hisses, voice shaking with fury. She grabs his arm, grip like iron. “Look what you’ve done to him!”

Harry’s face is cold, eyes hard. “Was it worth it, Ron? Was it fun?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know he would…” Ron’s voice cracks.

“You did know,” Hermione says, sharp enough to cut. “You saw him follow you like a lost puppy. You saw the look in his eyes. And you played with him like a toy. You are cruel, Ron Weasley.”

Ron has no reply. He watches Draco being carried out on a stretcher, face slack and tear-streaked. That image burns into his mind: the absolute, consuming vulnerability of a boy who showed his love openly, and got repaid with mockery.

---

After Madame Pomfrey pronounces Draco stable but sedated, Ron is left alone in the hospital wing with him. The other occupants have been moved, or it’s late—he doesn’t know. He sits in a chair beside the bed, watching Draco sleep. His face is soft in repose, free from sneers and sharp edges. He looks young. Breakable.

When Draco’s eyes flutter open, the first thing he sees is Ron. His lips part, a fresh wave of tears welling up. He doesn’t speak. Just stares, defeated.

Ron’s throat is thick. He picks up a glass of water from the bedside table and holds it out. “Drink this.”

Draco looks at the glass, then back at Ron. His voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from crying. “Is it poison?”

The question hangs in the air. Ron blinks, startled. “No, of course not. It’s just water.”

Draco’s gaze doesn’t waver. His hand trembles as he reaches out and takes the glass. He brings it to his lips, but before he drinks, he speaks again, so low Ron has to lean in.

“I would drink it if it were.”

Ron’s breath catches.

“I would drink it,” Draco repeats, grey eyes locked on Ron’s blue ones, “because you gave it to me. Because I trust you. Because I love you, even if you’re cruel, even if you destroy me. I would drink poison from your hand and die happy, if it meant that for one moment, you looked at me the way you look at her.”

The words land like stones in Ron’s chest. He sees, in that moment, the absolute depth of what he’s done. The sincerity. The raw, unguarded love Draco has been offering all along, and which he trampled with careless boots.

He reaches out and wraps his hand around Draco’s on the glass. “Don’t drink it.”

“It’s water,” Draco says, a tear sliding down his cheek. “You said so.”

“I lied,” Ron whispers. He takes the glass and sets it aside. Then, hesitating only a heartbeat, he pulls Draco into his arms.

The embrace is clumsy. Draco is stiff with shock, then slowly—like ice warming—he melts against Ron. His fingers curl into the back of Ron’s robes, his face buried in the crook of Ron’s neck. He sobs, but quietly now, tears soaking into the fabric.

Ron holds him, and speaks, voice rough with remorse. “I’m sorry. I was a prat. I was confused, and I hurt you, and I don’t deserve you. But I—I think I feel something too. I think I did all that because I didn’t know how to handle it. Seeing you jealous made me feel wanted, and that was addictive. But it was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Draco pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes red-rimmed, face blotchy. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” Ron says. And he leans in and kisses him—soft, gentle, nothing like the showy kiss on the cheek. It’s real. Apologetic. A beginning.

Draco kisses him back, lips salty with tears, breath still unsteady. When they break apart, he presses his forehead to Ron’s and lets out a shuddering exhale.

“You’re going to break my heart again,” Draco whispers.

“No,” Ron says, and he means it with every fiber of his being. “I’m going to keep it safe. I promise.”

Outside the hospital wing, the rain has stopped. The moon breaks through the clouds, casting silver light across the stones. And in the dim glow, two boys who were once enemies find something they never expected: each other.