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Title: Dancing Through Life with Strangers
Author: crazyparakiss
Pairing: Harry/Draco, minimal Harry/Ginny, and very minimal Harry/OFC, more pairings to come later.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:Girl Draco though "she" isn't a Mary Sue with flowing long blond hair and gigantic tits. Quite the opposite actually. First person POV, angst, infidelity, swearing, baby making, Het sex, quite graphic het sex.
Word count: 10,490
Summary:In a way, this is the start of our lives. It can only go one of two ways from here: up or down. I am hoping for up, but I’ve never had great luck.
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.
Author's Note: First chapter and the second are Draco's POV, he's quite a Weasley hater so it will seem like bashing. But know that I am quite a Weasley lover and no offense is meant. :P
When I was young I never thought of having to work. Nor did I ever dare dream of cooking for myself, cleaning for myself, and the thought of going out to buy menial products seemed downright blasphemous. We had elves, money, a vast manor, and all the time in the world to whirl in splendour. Then the war happened, and things changed.
+++
Perception is something I’ve truly lacked for eighteen of my twenty-two years on this wretched planet. War didn’t really give me the insight I desperately needed, all war did was scare the living piss out of me. It was the aftermath that brought me to a more wizened state.
Father fled the country, to this day he is still number one on the short list of surviving Death Eaters. Mother, poor Mother, she killed herself shortly after Father left, damn him. Leaving me to try and restore our tattered pride ,as a old noble family, and my sentence was worse than death.
+++
“Draco L. Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to a minimum of five years, per count of Physical Endangerment due to use of a Dark Spell or Potion during the course of the war. A total of fifteen, minimal, years to live life as a Muggle. You will serve consecutive sentences, and your assets will be frozen during this time. If you do not accept this generous mercy, our kind Ministry has offered, then you will serve three consecutive life sentences, a minimum of twenty-five years, each, in Azkaban prison. Do you agree to serve your sentence amicably?” The old Wizard sounds bored as he reads the regulations of my new life. He shouldn’t sound so indifferent, this is my life. It means something to me.
“Yes sir,” I say, even as fear grips my body. Muggles horribly diseased Muggles with their weird motorcars, their Wizard killing machines, and their damnable currency; I’d rather be anywhere but with them, however Azkaban isn’t for me. Too many enemies and not enough hope to keep me alive for longer than a day, no my name and line has to live on; that much I know is certain.
+++
The one small mercy I have is that I am allowed to remain in my family manor, with its familiar objects and reminders of what I am.
+++
After a month I understand why they’ve allowed me to remain; everywhere there is proof of magic and no matter how hard I try, I cannot channel the powerful flow. Wand gone, dark artefacts taken, and even the simple grooming tools have been locked in our vaults, until my sentence is served. Fifteen years, I remind myself daily, fifteen years, and I can start my life again. Eighteen to thirty three; I’ll still be young, and I can restore the honour of my tarnished family name.
+++
Restoring honour, the mantra that keeps me rising in the mornings, sending me out into the blistering cold of winter to my job, in one of the small Muggle villages near my home. The pay is terrible; barely feeding me now that I’ve to pay for bills to heat, light, and keep the manor with running water. Since Muggles pay for their heating, lighting, and water then so shall I, it’s bloody unfair; even though it really is fair. The Ministry made a point of telling me how lucky I am to only receive a form of community service. They probably believe if I work with Muggles, it will change my view of them; bollocks, an idealistic thought on their part.
The clothing I have to buy is rather atrocious and course, but I’d rather wear the garish garments than ruin the lustrous linins my mother purchased before her death. They’re sentimental, and I can’t bear to ruin them.
+++
On my twentieth birthday I receive a letter from the Ministry; cordially, letting me know that Father has been caught, and is in holding at Azkaban. My horribly cooked Sheppard’s pie is much more unappetising after that.
+++
By twenty three, I don’t figure how my life can get any worse. I’ve just been fired, and already haven’t eaten in days. The Ministry, in a show of more mercy, allows my parole officer to buy me Nourishment draughts, to keep me from collapsing, but only until I find new work.
It really can’t get worse than this horrid hunger; nothing is more awful than this angry summer, that is racking up fines to the Ministry, for shoddy cooling charms, and it’s a tragedy that I’ve had to pawn off a few oriental rugs. To pay the bills that I could easily afford if my accounts weren’t frozen. It can’t get worse, I think.
Only it does.
Andromeda Tonks dies, leaving behind an orphaned grandson. Godfather, infamous Harry Potter defeater of Voldemort, is in turmoil over what to do for his godson...
Wonderful, isn’t it that I’m the last carrier of Black blood? The boy will need a mother...blood bonds and the things one must do to preserve them; I wonder what I did to piss the Almighty off in my previous life. Must of been ruddy horrible if I’m to become a mum.
I wish I could write Father, and tell him that I’m sorry, for not being able to continue our noble line.
+++
I knew; the moment I saw the headline in the Prophet that in a few days time Potter would whoosh out of green flames in the fireplace, or would come banging at the shoddy wards that I have since the Ministry started regulating them, only to charge me for the buggers. It takes him twenty four hours, and I am not surprised when his green, green eyes full of thinly veiled hostility fall on me.
I sigh from my position on the sofa; where I lie as if waiting for death to come and collect me, only the bastard doesn’t come. Only Potter. He shakes his head, messy hair bouncing about, and I think that, if he wasn’t Potter, he might actually be attractive. Too bad he’s the sort who opens his mouth, letting crap out, ultimately ruining the effect of his broad handsome features. “I figured I’d have at least three more days. Little Miss Muddy certainly works fast doesn’t she?” I ask, my tone bored as if I don’t care that my life is about to be ruined. Even more than it has been...
He scowls, a dark look that could freeze blood, but I pretend to be unfazed. “Don’t call Hermione that Malfoy.”
“ Certainly Master,” I come back dryly.
+++
I’ve my stuff ready to go, a few items that are too sentimental to leave behind. Mother’s wedding rings, her mother’s pendent, Father’s watch and signet ring, my grandfather’s snakehead cane that he left to Father; all that, and the last four sets of exquisite dress robes, the ones Mother purchased as a gift for my seventeenth birthday. With a longing glance behind, I gaze, for the last time, upon my ancestral home, whispering a sorry, the thousandth one I’m sure, as I follow Potter to his black Muggle motorcar.
+++
The drive is fairly quick, considering the fact that Potter has a flying car. I want to punch him, the great git has always had a way around the rules that have been set down by society. As I often have, I wonder why he is allowed to break them while I have to suffer silently for the sins of my father. A father who sits rotting in a cold cell some hundred miles away from me. A father who I am not permitted to see or with whom I cannot have correspondence. He wasn’t even allowed to see me on the anniversary of Mother’s death. All I wanted was to hear his voice. I’m angry at him for leaving, certainly, but he loved her too, in his own way.
Sighing, I look out the window determined not to watch the way Potter moves the sedan easily through the sky, as if it is no different from handling a broom. The swirling white clouds hide us easily and I want to reach out to feel one, because it’s been so long since I’ve felt the cool damp wind from flying. I resist the urge, too afraid of what Potter will do to me with those large hands if I so much as put a toe out of line. Another day, then. I lean my head against the glass window appreciating the cool it brings my face.
+++
He takes me to the hospital, as I knew he would, and we don’t even have to wait. An assistant immediately starts taking my statistics; jotting down any allergies, sicknesses, previous hospitalizations, and inquires about any potions I have taken in the past week. Nothing except a Nourishment draught because most days I am too broke to eat. Rather pathetic really, Draco Malfoy, too poor to buy a loaf of bread or even tea.
+++
The procedure of a sex change operation is a rather long and tedious task. The initial rearranging of my hormones is what takes the longest amount of time. My genetic makeup has to be recompiled, apparently, and I don’t care to know about the details so I beg them to quit telling me about the process. Telling them only to inform me of what to expect after I leave this overly sterile environment.
“Next,” The healer called Justine speaks, “We are going to link your magical signature to the boy’s, after that long process we will tell you what to expect as a woman and as a magically bound mother.”
It all still feels so unreal; I just nod numbly while they escort me to the paediatric ward. The Weasel bint is there with Potter, holding onto his strong bicep with a white knuckle grip. Both staring through the open window into the room I have to enter. Neither look at me as I walk by, and I am rather grateful for that. Don’t need their loathing looks right this moment, I have enough self loathing to last me a lifetime.
+++
For as long as the sex change was this is an infinitely longer process. It takes around thirty six hours total. A linking of magicks both from generations long ago to those that are just solely mine and Teddy’s. It is a weird feeling, having the magic of one’s ancestors rising to the surface to be connected to the magic of the same ancestor in another person. It makes me wonder how much of our bodies are really our own.
When at last the parental magicks are established I feel the overwhelming sensation of knowing what Teddy is feeling. How he is scared and ill, as well as elated to have found someone with a loving magic that comforts him. My magic...
The feeling of knowing someone else so intimately scares the piss out of me, and I suddenly understand the feeling of a parent. Of a mother more specifically. I want to reach out and clutch his little hand.
The healer says that is common, tells me that for the first few months I will have to be in almost constant contact with the boy so that he and I can adjust to the newness. “A magical blood bond,” she says, “is very fragile and can be extremely unstable in the beginning, but if nurtured life it can never be broken. That is the beauty of motherhood, even for a surrogate mother such as yourself.”
On shaky legs I walk toward him when they pronounce us finished; before I can reach for Teddy, Potter pushes me out of the way along with his ginger bint, so that they can hug and kiss the small boy.
It hurts my heart, and I don’t understand. Suddenly I’ve a headache and I excuse myself to the room I’ve been assigned for my brief hospital stay.
+++
Before we are released a healer who specialises in female and transgender male to female bits talks with me.
“For the first year your body will experience radical changes,” she says, handing me pamphlets of reading material on all the subjects she plans to discuss with me. Some of the papers indicated books I can purchase to further my knowledge on the subject. “Breasts will grow, it can be painful so expect that,” she points at the Floo name to call if the pain becomes excruciating, “You might need to come in because too much pain can be a sign of magical rejection and it will need to be fixed as soon as possible. Also your vagina,” I try not to blush furiously at that, “will be quite tender as it is going to have to adjust to the radical change from being a penis.” I miss the damn thing dearly, already. “Remember to wipe front to back when urinating or making a bowel movement.” I want to gag but she continues cutting me off, “Also do not douche, even if you think you smell. Call this Floo name,” She circles yet another one, “ immediately if the smell is unnatural.” I want to shout that I don’t exactly know the difference between natural and unnatural vaginal smells, as I am not usually up in one. She puts her cold hands against my throat, and tilts my head back, humming before she adds, “Your Adam’s apple is disappearing like it should, it may take another few weeks for it to completely settle.”
I want to knock out her teeth for reminding me that I am not even going to keep one feature of my previous masculinity.
+++
Potter’s place is in a quaint village. The old white stone and rotting wood shingled buildings speaking of an old world charm, even if it is a Muggle village I can appreciate the beauty it holds. I’ve dealt with the blighters, and grudgingly I can admit that at times they are rather brilliant. A sparkling river runs beneath a large white, acid rain stained, bridge that we drive over, on the way through the small town awash with summery folk; all who call out to one another merrily. It reminds me of the Hogsmead I remember from my very young childhood years; back before everything got so cocked up.
Teddy looks unimpressed as he watches the building that pass us in slow succession, not the least bit entranced with what is happening around him. I want to touch his cheek in a gentle show of understanding, because I feel in my soul the radiating sorrow he feels at the loss of his grandmother. Along with that, I know the fear that exudes from his gut at the thought of living with Potter. There is undeniable love in there for the man, but in Teddy’s eyes he is still quite a stranger, and that makes me wonder.
+++
It is a two story manor house that Potter pulls up to on the outskirts of the small town. Old brown-white stone peeks out from under the face of ivy every now and then on the front, as do tall leaded glass windows on the second story, and I am breathless by the sheer beauty of the place. Who knew Potter had taste? The terrace is a few feet above the bottom level of the grounds, and we take the wide stone steps up to the long stretch of veranda. It is well kept, if ancient, with a tall rendition of Atlas’ daughters guarding the golden apples of Hera’s garden, and once more I am thoroughly impressed.
The interior is mostly empty, the sparse furniture herein covered in white sheets to protect against light and dust. I sniff, the stale air is stifling and I wonder how long this house has sat empty. For such a grand place, though not as grand as my own family manor, it is sad to see it rot in such a way. The hum of magic in the walls is weak but still detectable, speaking volumes on the family who built the structure long ago.
“Where are we?” Teddy asks, wrinkling his button nose as he moves to take my larger hand into his five year old palm. The warmth is quite welcome, and my mouth twitches; it’s as close as I get to a smile anymore.
“My family home.” Potter says, eyeing our clasped hands with distaste. It makes me want to smirk and say something cutting, but the warning in his intense eyes tells me to keep my trap shut.
“What about your flat?” Teddy asks, kicking at the dusty wooden floor. He apparently doesn’t find comfort in opulence like I do. Poor child.
“Gave it to Ginny.” Potter replies curtly, looking at me as if it is my fault. Then with a kind look to Teddy, he motions the boy toward the grand double staircase that stands proudly in the tall off white foyer. “Let’s get up to your room, yeah?” With reluctance, Teddy lets his hand slip from my grasp and walks up the stairs holding hands with Potter. Coldly, the man calls over his shoulder, “You can choose a room if you’d like.”
Of course I want to pick my own room; the man is daft if he thinks otherwise.
+++
There are two master bedrooms, one obviously for the lord of the house and the other for the lady. I know instantly which one belongs to the lady because a nursery door sits in an adjacent corner of the bedroom, and in the lord’s room there is no such area. The bonus of choosing the lady’s room is that it is quite a ways away from Potter’s, the lord’s. Obviously the previous lords didn’t want the ladies catching them with the servant slag they kept round for a spot of fun.
I enjoy examining the large room, with its ceiling done in a swirling painting of the birth of the sun and moon. Very Michelangelo in colours and detail, causing me to wonder about Potter’s family; if they were true cynosures of art like my great grandfather was. However I don’t wonder long at that, for the fading ornate pale gold and blue curtains draw my attention; I move to look out the tall three paned window of the room. Down below I see the expansive grounds that are covered in lush green grass, trimmed trees, and to the left of the house I can see the corner of the maze of bushes that I saw upon arrival. Potter’s home is everything mine once was, and I am envious. I will only get to stay here until Teddy turns eleven. The prearranged chore that Potter said would gain me back my magic. Looking down at my thin body, staring at my tingling chest, I wonder what the cost of this adventure will actually be.
+++
When I return downstairs I follow the sound of Potter’s shouts into the moderately sized dining hall. The long table and its eight chairs covered in the same white sheets as the front receiving room. Two large tarnished candelabras sit on top of the sheets with sagging webs clinging between the fine curves of the candle holders.
Teddy’s small trainer covered feet poke out from under a dusty sheet, before he lifts it up and smiles shyly at me. I cannot smile back but I nod, not wanting the boy to feel more emotional pain than necessary. Mostly because I don’t want to feel it as well. I don’t have a high tolerance for such things.
“I don’t give a toss about how busy you buggers are! I said I need a bed tonight and if I don’t get one then I will bloody well take my business elsewhere!” Potter yells into a small square mirror, “And I will take my publicity with me, do you understand what I am saying?” He whispers dangerously, it’s a nice touch I think because it makes me swallow, and I am not even on the receiving end of his ire.
“Yes Mr Potter, we will have the bed and a dresser to you by the end of the afternoon. For good measure I will even throw in a free nightstand.” The reedy voice of an old man says pleadingly. Potter just snorts.
“See to it that you do.” In an odd way he reminds me of Father. Quickly, I shove the comparison aside.
+++
We have pizza for lunch, a greasy, cheesy thing that tastes downright awful, but I am much too hungry to care. Teddy picks at the meat slices on his own, and takes to drinking the soda more than actually eating. Potter notices this but doesn’t comment, and so neither do I. Potter made it quite clear at Malfoy Manor that I wasn’t to parent Teddy in any way. That is his and ginger bint’s job. Mine is to stabilise the magic within Teddy’s body. In other words I am playing wet nurse to Magic.
+++
After the pizza is cold, with coagulating grease on the surface, a knock sounds at the large double doors. Potter yanks one of them open by a large iron handle and looks down at the mover who fidgets on the doorstep. “Glad that Mr Collins could fit me into his schedule,” Potter’s voice a damn far throw from playful.
They carry expensive looking chocolate stained wood up to Teddy’s room. There is a small bed with a plain but well made frame, a long dresser with square mirror, and a lone night table. Potter doesn’t look at the men when they leave nor does he thank them. Not for the first time I am curious about this new Potter, the angry, vindictive sod that I’ve never seen.
Teddy isn’t impressed with his room. “It’s boring.” He whines, “At Nana’s I had blue walls! I want blue walls Harry.”
Potter sighs and I leave them be, not overly concerned with helping when I am definitely not wanted.
+++
Come dinner time Potter fetches me, from the dusty old rooms I call my own. He doesn’t fidget in the doorway like he may have once done, he looks at me coldly; barking out, “Get up we’re going to dinner.”
“Potter,” I simper sarcastically, in my higher voice that still cracks from the revert, “I didn’t know you wanted my hand in marriage.”
He doesn’t look amused, “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last human on the planet and humanity depended on my impregnating you.”
Batting my lashes I say, “Really? I thought you had a thing for saving the world.”
“Just come on.” He turns and heads down the hall, I hear him on the stairs moments later.
+++
The Weasel brood are having a sham of a get together in honour of Teddy’s saved magic. They blatantly ignore me, but I am fine with that. I am perfectly content with eating in silence, in a corner of the porch, while they all eat at tables under the strings of fairy lights. Teddy, as far as I can tell feels overwhelmed, but seems as if he is trying hard to please his godfather. The man who keeps accepting drinks from his future brother in laws and bites of treacle from his bint.
I hate them all, but continue picking at the mash. It’s rather good, I hate to admit.
+++
“Still don’t understand why you had to bring him.” The girl weasel says when she, Potter, Weasel, and Mudblood walk back toward the house, Teddy in tow.
The light has dimmed drastically in the sky, so I figure it is getting late and we are about to head home. Thankfully. Their plebeian ways might rub off on me if I am here longer than needed.
“He’s got to stay close to Teddy for a bit until the magicks adjust, then Harry can come without him.” Mudblood says diplomatically. Ever the know it all bitch that I cannot stand.
+++
With a leering sneer my way Weasel is the one who makes me gnash my teeth in anger, “Aren’t you all forgetting that he isn’t a he anymore. The healers made him a freak of a woman.”
Potter doesn’t defend me, and I see him as less of a perfect hero for that. It’s Little Miss Muddy who defends my injured female honour. Damned if I can feel good about a Mudblood protecting me.
“Ronald, how’d you like it if it were you who had to do it for a nephew or niece?” Guiltily he coughs and looks away from her with pink cheeks as they ascend the porch.
“Come on Malfoy, time to take Teddy back to my house.” Potter grounds out when he walks past.
+++
The ginger bint follows us home, and I make my way silently to the stairs while ignoring everyone. Teddy is asleep and so I shut my door behind myself, not in the least bit concerned with kissing the child goodnight.
+++
Around midnight Teddy crawls under my duvet that still smells of dust, despite my use of a weak cleaning charm. I wish I was allowed more powerful magic, but alas I’ll take what I can get. I budge over in the large bed, allowing him access.
“Draco,” he whispers against where his face nuzzles my sore chest. I try not to wince from the movement.
“Yes?” I yawn out my reply.
“Can I have some water?”
“Sure,” I drawl, “Sleep isn’t my priority at the moment.” Throwing back the covers I light the bedside candle, with the flick of what I learned was called a match some four and a half years ago. Teddy snuggles deeper into the warm spot I leave. Grabbing my robe before I go out in the hall and down to the kitchen for a glass of ice water. Mildly amused at myself, I think about how I used to send Mum to the kitchen for me at all hours of the night. Though, she had house-elves to do the fetching for her; lucky lady that she was.
+++
When I enter the kitchen, I make short work of making the water then, on my way back to the stairs, I hear a noise from the formal sitting area. Curiously, I turn and walk in that direction. As soon as I stand in the open archway, that gives easy access to the room, I see a sight that makes me wish I were blind.
Potter has his tart bent over the still sheet covered coffee table, thrusting into her, in what looks to be a frantic manner. For her part the slag whines and moans like she is trying too hard to convince him of her pleasure. His pants are husky, and if I had a cock still I know that those alone would make me hard. When I see a part of Potter’s thick shaft, I know that I would practically be creaming myself by this point. As it is, my still tender and changing girl bits feel damp, and I want to die of mortification. Backing away slowly I walk towards the stairs.
Behind me I can hear her moan, “Harry, oh God, you make me so wet Harry!”
Potter grunts, and if he says anything it is too low for me to hear.
+++
Teddy is already asleep when I get back; I want to hex the brat for making me view that awful sight. Snuffing the candle I climb into bed, wishing I could Scorgify my brain.
+++
A month passes in which we establish a routine. Potter wakes up early for work, always looking to kiss Teddy on the forehead before he leaves, only to be angry when he finds the child once again in my bed. He never speaks to me when he leaves and I never care. At noon I take Teddy into town, three days a week, to buy groceries and the other necessities that Potter tells me to pick up. He probably thought that I would be humiliated, but little does he know that I’ve had to survive on Muggle currency for these past years, and so it isn’t as much of a chore for me.
+++
“I want lemon biscuits.” Teddy says one afternoon while we are at the small bakery, in the centre of town.
Lately, Teddy has become more comfortable with me, and he asks more of me than he had in the beginning. I suppose that can happen when you rely on one person as your sole caregiver. Basically. I handle the baths, feedings, play in the yard, and do the laundry; all for Teddy. If I had known Potter wanted a nanny, I’d have told him to fetch Mary Poppins. However, every time those large golden brown eyes of Teddy’s fall on me, sparkling in happiness, I am filled with the kind of joy I’d once thought I’d never feel again.
“Fine,” I say and ask the old man behind the counter if he’s got any lemon biscuits. He winks at Teddy as he fetches a medium size box of them.
“S’on the house ma’am,” he says to me, but I pay him anyways. No need to let him get any ideas.
“Thank you, but I cannot accept them without paying,” I tell him politely, but firmly. I do not want any gifts. I remember what happened the first time I accepted a gift from someone I thought harmless. It wasn’t pretty, that’s for sure.
He tips his old fat head at me, smiling anyways, before handing us a brown paper sack of our purchases.
+++
Most nights Potter’s slag and he arrive via the Floo, usually in time for the dinner I have set out, at around five thirty or six. So I take my plate upstairs, letting them enjoy dinner as a family. Ignoring the tart’s high pitched laugh whenever Potter says something stupid, that he intends to be funny, is rather hard, or so I’ve learned. It’s weird, I think, because I can only hear everything, as if in the room, when she is there. I refuse to acknowledge it as jealousy. Bollocks.
+++
Halfway through the second month my tits have grown, but not so spectacularly that they are overly noticeable. Thankfully, I don’t have to purchase bras yet, and hopefully; I won’t ever. Standing nude ,in front of my full length mirror, I run my hands over them. My nipples extremely sensitive, but not necessarily in a bad way. It is an odd sensation; to feel arousal at cupping and toying with the mounds. I’ve never been that responsive in the chest. “Must be a woman thing,” I murmur, before turning, to note that my hips are still narrow and not a bit feminine. “Thank god for the small miracles I suppose.”
My twat is more or less a complete one now, I wouldn’t know really. The only one I can remember was spread wide in a nude magazine, where the witch finger fucked herself. I shudder at the memory; I’d known from then on, after a few nonchalant glances at other blokes during showers, that cocks do it for me. I don’t even derive pleasure from breasts; sure they are soft and pleasant looking. Making a woman more gentle and approachable, but they are still not for me. Continuing the ministrations of my own breasts, finding them oddly fun to play with, I can sort of see why straight blokes enjoy them so much. Glancing down at the thick blond curls, that cover the secrets of my womanly bits, I bite my lip. It’s hard not to see the familiar cock and bollocks, which I used to love fondling so much, on those rare days, when I had a slow lazy knob job.
Studying my reflection, I wonder if Weasel was right, maybe I am just a freak. I am still tall; standing equal with Potter, and a few inches below that of Weasel. My face is still pointy, it’s always been virtually hairless, and with a pang in my heart I realise that it will forever remain that way. My shoulders aren’t as broad as Potter’s, but they are wider than a normal woman’s, my legs longer and leaner in the thighs. My bum too supple, not round or bouncy in the way that Weaslette’s and Mudblood’s are; the way that men like them. Even my feet are too long; lean with the high arch and scrawny ankles. Turning back to the bed I retrieve my clothes. Trying to put out of my mind that I was once a beautiful man, and now am a hideous woman.
+++
My stomach cramps painfully in the late evening. I am lightheaded, and a little bit snappy by the time dinner is done. When Potter comes through the Floo alone I don’t comment, still going to my room, without bothering to so much as really look at him. If this bothers him, I am not aware of the fact.
+++
The pains become worse, and I am damn near howling while I curl against my pale blue and gold duvet. When the constant dampness between my thighs becomes a more persistent wetness I venture to the loo. Pulling down my pants; I see a great amount of blood soaking them, and staining through to my trousers. I can feel my face paling as I shove the offending garments away. When I piss it stains the bowl red, and I am terrified by what it means. Yet, I won’t call out for Potter. Instead, I turn on the taps to the shower, and sit on the tiled floor of the stall while the water rains down on me. Tears mingle so well with the drops; I am almost convinced that I am not crying. It’s the wracking sobs, so similar to that time in Myrtle’s bath, that kill all self delusions.
+++
Teddy is already in his bed when Potter knocks at the door. I try to yell for him to go away, but the words fail in my throat as he unlocks the door easily. Looking at where I sit, pathetically under the ever warm spray, he walks closer. His eyes darting the length of my curled body with a closed expression. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet Potter lifts my wet chin with his calloused hand. I try not to look him in the eye because, when I do, I can feel his mind probing mine.
“What’s the matter Malfoy?” He asks, and it isn’t snide or condescending, just curious if a little suspicious. The tone nearly causes me to smile, for this is the old Potter I remember from school. The nosy do-gooder who often finds reason to believe in humanity; a person very different from myself.
With trembling lips I mutter, “’M bleeding.”
He turns my face, sharply, with his broad hand; with serious eyes, he asks, “From where?” His tone is almost sinister. Reminding me, yet again, that this isn’t the Potter I thought I knew. He’s still Potter, but somehow someone new.
Swallowing, I say, “From my v-,” I cannot bring myself to say the word vagina, and instead I settle for, “gash.”
He drops my face and forces my legs apart, apparently not caring that half of his head, face, and shoulders are now soaking from the warm spray. Having him study the damn thing, almost up close, causes me to blush violently and try to shut my legs, to no avail. “So the transformation is complete,” his tone is bored as he lets go of my legs, a thoughtful look on his face. “Get out of the shower,” Potter commands, “Stuff a sock in between your legs until I get back, or sit on the toilet. Can’t have you bleeding all over the place.”
“Where are you going?” I ask while he hauls me to my feet. I refuse to acknowledge the jolt of electricity my body feels when the smooth hairs on his arms tickle across my sensitive nipples.
“Store,” he replies while throwing a towel at me. Quickly, I cover myself; though it is a little late for modesty.
+++
When he returns he brings me some new knickers, thankfully they aren’t frilly or pastel, and some women’s menstrual products. He tells me to read the instructions on how to use them before he leaves me, alone in the bathroom once more. Walking into my room; I see a couple of bras on the bed, but pretend not to notice, as I slip under the covers.
+++
It is Saturday morning and Potter is home, for once, reading the paper while drinking a black cup of coffee at the dining table when I serve breakfast. Potter eats in silence; Teddy shovels egg into his mouth messily. I’m the only refined being in this house, apparently. “Teddy,” I chastise quietly, “Sit up straight, and try to eat a little more elegantly, yeah?”
“Okay,” he smiles, but Potter folds his paper, giving me a warning glance for what I said, before he too shovels food into his mouth. I want to snort; Heaven be damned if I allow the last of the Black line to grow up as an unrefined buffoon.
+++
Weaslette comes over midday, and she talks with Potter about educational options for Teddy. Apparently, she doesn’t want to be a stay at home mum; at least that is what I can gather, from my spying spot, near the stairs. Potter doesn’t sound pleased by this news, and tries, unsuccessfully, to convince her otherwise. Attempts to tell her, in a more refined manner than he uses with me, that she is needed on the home front. He doesn’t want Teddy going to a Muggle Primary school; preferring a home schooling. I hate to admit that I agree with him. The mum is to coddle and teach, the dad is to work; it’s how things are in proper families. Mother stayed with me; I had private tutors, but she oversaw every aspect of my education.
“You’re such an old fashioned man Harry,” she snaps angrily.
To which Potter calmly replies, “You knew this when we got together. I’m not going to change what I want because it doesn’t suit your desires.” Something hard smashes against the ground and I assume it’s her cheap beaker, of which she’s oh so fond (Weasels, I shudder to understand them), or Heaven forbid the antique bone china I found in the cupboards.
“Then maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore,” she yells. And lately, I think, she’s been doing a lot more of that than when I first arrived, three months ago.
“If that’s what you want.” His indifference is odd, and I almost think I am dreaming.
She leaves in a flurry of whipping red hair and bouncing large breasts. It is a rather comical sight, but I am smart enough not to laugh. Having a good internal laugh; I vacate my spot before Potter sees me, and go to check on Teddy.
+++
Potter takes the break up hard. He drinks most days, and is out most nights. Teddy and I have become quite close, these past three weeks, because there isn’t a Potter here to keep us from being like a mother and son.
+++
One night he comes home drunk again, the ginger bint with him, but only for a few minutes before the screaming starts again. I hear the whoosh of the Floo and instinctively know she’s left. She always storms out when she comes by anymore.
In the kitchen, Potter finds me pouring myself a glass of milk before warming it, with my restricted wand. He eyes me with angry green eyes. Knowing that I should make myself scarce, I start to sweep past him, but a long strong arm grabs me. Potter’s knuckles going white where his fingers grip my arm, painfully tight.
Soon I am flush against the solid muscle of his body; can feel his hard cock, through the thick layer of his trousers. So Weaslette left him hard, and he is angry; demanding service? I swallow to make the tightness of my throat disappear. My heartbeat spikes as excitement courses through me.
“Open your dressing gown,” he says, and I flush because the only pyjamas I’ve found in this house are the old white gowns of women, from generations long since gone. I wish, now, that I’d brought some of my own; packing lightly was a bad idea. Smiling maliciously Potter opens the gown for me, pulling on the strings that hold the thin material closed. It whispers down my sides, tickling as it goes to the floor, and causes goose pimples to rise on my flesh. I shiver and he notices. Licking his thin, lightly chapped, lips, Potter reaches his wide hands for my breasts. They’re still small, but they are breasts, and I can tell that he doesn’t care what they look like or what size they are, as Zabini once said, “Tits are tits.”
His thumbs tease both nipples, simultaneously, while his other fingers kneed the still sensitive skin. Biting my bottom lip, I refuse to moan for him, but God it’s been so long since someone has been intimate with my body. Potter notices my hesitance and knees my thighs apart, pushing his pelvis between them. Rubbing his hard cock over the exposed slit of my wet cunt. I can’t hold back the moan. Wantonly I cry out, gripping his shoulders with my long fingers as he continues to tease me with his rough denim covered cock.
“Beg me,” he husks against the shell of my small ear, biting the little white lobe in an explosion of pain and pleasure. Damn, I’ve missed rough foreplay.
“Please.” I whimper, ignoring how absolutely girly my voice sounds. I refuse to acknowledge the similarities between my voice and the Weaslette’s.
“Gonna fuck you so hard Malfoy.” One of his thumbs moves to stroke the nub on my pussy, the one I’ve experimentally toyed with in the shower. Throwing my head back, I unconsciously open my legs wider, “Mmm,” He groans against my neck, “So wet, all over me Malfoy.”
Suddenly, I realise how humiliating this could become, and try to shove him away but he isn’t having it. Instead Potter shoves two of his fingers in my pussy, knuckle deep and twists. It is fucking painful and yet somehow exquisite. I both want and don’t want him to stop his continuing finger fucking.
“Been awhile since I made a virgin scream.” I don’t bother to correct him, technically my girl bits are virginal. Potter chuckles darkly, gliding down my body, his mouth and tongue hot on every part of me it passes. My breasts, so small, he can almost lave a whole one with the entirety of his mouth. My navel he tongue-fucks in a prelude to what he finally does to my cunt. If I thought I was wet before then I was sorely mistaken; he makes me even wetter than I knew my girl bits could get. My fingers bury themselves in his mess of hair while he thrusts his tongue in and out. His teeth nip gently at that nub and my knees go weak.
“Ah!” I pant and it is mortifying, but the mortification will have to wait until the morning because I am too busy enjoying to think about it for more than a fleeting second.
When Potter stands again I can smell my female fluids on his face, it is both disgusting and extremely erotic. Potter’s trousers shoved down to his ankles he spreads my legs wider, wrapping them about his waist, before he slides into me in one smooth motion. It burns like crazy and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Let it out Malfoy,” he husks against my throat, his cheek sticky from my cunt.
His command makes me whimper and I know, in that second, that I’ve lost. He owns me, and I can do nothing but give myself over to his pleasure. A pleasure he takes without a second thought for mine. Bastard probably only drank me up because he is a sick pervert who likes that sort of thing.
Potter doesn’t last long, and if I wasn’t in so much pain I’d laugh at him for it, but I am glad that I don’t have to endure it forever. With a low, barbaric grunt Potter comes and I can feel the heat, inside of my drying pussy walls. It is weird to know that I have Potter’s seed in me. And it is equally disgusting when I feel it slither down the insides of my thighs.
He waves me off in dismissal, without so much as a courteous thanks, and so I hit the shower before I climb gingerly into bed; my cunt a little sore from the entire ordeal.
+++
We fuck everyday for three weeks. Potter takes me on the couch, dining table, kitchen counter, the stairwell, in the shower, against all the walls, the floors, and, occasionally, in his bed. Never in mine though, for which I am glad. I suspect it’s because Teddy sleeps in there with me, but it doesn’t make sense because Teddy eats at the dining table and sits on the couch. I suppose Potter is just odd.
+++
The last night of the third week he beckons me to his large bedroom, after Teddy is down for the night in my bed. Lying back on the bed nude, I get a full view of his strong body. Thickly muscled calves and thighs, a taut stomach with well defined abs that lead to a broad chest, and finally wide shoulders linked with unyielding arms; all wrapped up in a dark honey skinned package. If I were a girl I’d tell myself how lucky I am to be his bed partner. But I’m not a girl, I am a gay man in a girl’s body, so I look to the only thing about him that I am grateful for. His fat proud cock ,that stands at attention, hungry for my pussy.
Walking toward him slowly, I feign boredom, until he holds out a wide hand and motions me closer, “Strip,” he commands.
Dropping my knickers, I kick them to the side of the room, before I lift the old tattered T-shirt of his over my head. In truth, I don’t know if I like being intimate with Potter, because well it is weird. I like to shag; did as a man and do now as a woman, but I find his idea of intimacy too intimate for my tastes. The fact that he always tries to kiss me, or get me to scream his name, bothers me in a way that I suppose it shouldn’t. I’ve called out names and have kissed blokes I don’t feel anything for; yet something flutters within me now, every time he barks at me to do it. I feel afraid of losing to him, which is odd because I’ve always lost to him. This just feels different. It’s a different kind of loss.
He lifts me up on his lap; moving my knees on either side of his thighs, until I am straddling him in a way that he obviously loves. Between my thighs, he toys with my damp clit, rubbing his fingers along the lips; dipping lightly between the folds, coaxing me to a state of wet that is pleasurable for us both.
Pulling his soaking fingers from me minutes, or who knows perhaps hours, later he shoves them in his mouth. Tasting the flavour that I never want to know. But the look on his face is rapturous, and it makes me feel as if I am as sweet or delightful as candy floss.
“So good.” He moans, and I flush from the intensity of his usually cold eyes.
Without hesitation I push down on him, wanting him deep in me. I want to feel him to the hilt; bollocks smacking my arse when I thrust down. That’s what I need. My thin arms circle round his neck, hands holding his face closer to my collar while our rutting speeds up. Potter meets me, equally hard, on every downward thrust I make, and it is absolutely brilliant. I’ve been close many times, but this time, I know, he is going to pull me with him when he falls over the edge.
Sure enough when we become so frantic that our rhythm is ruined, I feel it in the centre of my sex, forbidden and glorious as it radiates to every corner of my body. Making me numb and tingly in a way I have never known before, my orgasm claims my body. Wetness drips thickly, mingling with Potter’s thick spunk, and the sensation is more honed than usual. Every breath, every subtle move of his body, of mine, I feel them all as if my nerve endings are on high alert. It is exquisite, and I wonder why I miss being a man if orgasms can be this intense, this magical. Trembling in his arms he hugs me to him, his body chilled, so I can feel his small hard nipples as they come into contact with my own. I nearly come again from the sensation.
“You came,” he chuckles, and the sound is dirtier than the sex.
“Doesn’t make you Jesus, Potter,” I sneer, trying to push myself up, but my arms are all wonky. It makes me want to go another round, yet I know I should leave.
“Damn near,” he looks too smug; ignoring him I roll over, falling asleep moments later, despite my intentions to leave.
+++
In the morning Potter is gone, and I suspect he’s been called in to perform some hero-ly duties. Ever the saviour, it seems. Teddy and I play in the labyrinth of tall hedges, laughing and chasing one another through the cold. Leaves crunching under our feet as we go. Autumn is upon us and feels glorious.
+++
I make a pot of rabbit stew, and warm a few slices off the fresh loaf of bread I bought yesterday. Potter still isn’t home by six, so Teddy and I eat without his arse. At close to seven the Floo whooshes, Teddy is upstairs colouring in his room and I look up to see Potter looking tired, but happy. Before I can ask if he’s shot the pope, the Floo whooshes again and Potter’s “ex” tart tumbles out.
My face stays controlled, blank, and I am proud of myself when I don’t strangle her, for laughingly saying, “I see you allow your pet Malfoy to sit about reading in his spare time, Harry.” If only she knew how many times he’d used his pet as a cum dumpster.
He smiles at her, in that sick adoring way that he only uses when she’s around. I hate him more for it. Seeing red, I stand and make my way silently to my room, where I sit on the bed; numbly staring at the wall until Teddy comes into my bed at nine.
“Night,” he whispers; curling his little arms around my thin neck and kissing my cheek sweetly.
I pat his soft brown hair, some days he wears it shockingly blond, when he rests his head against the pillow.
+++
That night I find them, fucking, again. Feeling ill, I watch, punishing myself; because I wish it were me getting the fuck of my life. I hate Potter and his glorious cock, for letting my cunt realise what she’s missing.
+++
I see Potter even less than before. Cowardly of me to hide from him, I know, but I pretend that I am busy with nanny like projects. Darning socks and all that rot.
+++
The sickness starts, and at first I try to take those crummy Muggle potions Potter keeps in the cabinets. They help as about as well as a hole in the head. So I rummage through the old potion stores I find in the basement, there’s not much, but a few things help.
+++
By the fourth week Teddy asks me, in a small voice, if I am dying.
I pat him on the head and lovingly reply that I will not die.
“I love you Mummy,” he whispers that night, when he curls into my side. My heart constricts and I rub my fingers through the strands of his hair; hair that is staying blond, more often than not, now a days.
+++
My back hurts all the damn time, and I am bloated no matter how much I chase Teddy round the yard. There is also the fact that my horrible monthly river of red has been absent, for the past two and a half months. If I didn’t know any better I’d think I was up the duffer. With a scornful laugh at myself I turn a smile on Teddy, who is playing on the old tire swing. His little hand frantically waving at me as he does so.
Suddenly, I don’t know why, I am crying like I did when my mum died. I see him scramble down, and soon I have an armful of Teddy Lupin-Potter. He wraps his arms around my neck, trying to rock me in a comforting way while he whispers, “Shhhh, it’s okay Mummy.”
+++
In the attic, I find an old trunk of dated dresses. Luckily for me, they are maternity and have spells embedded in them, to keep my large bump from showing. Large at three months, that makes me terribly afraid. If it keeps going like this Potter is bound to notice sooner or later. I keep banking for later.
+++
I get Christmas Eve with Teddy, and on Christmas day Potter takes him to the Weasel den, despite the little boy’s protests. I watch them go feeling rather forlorn. At least Teddy enjoyed the chocolates I managed to get him from Honeydukes. He wasn’t quite so fond of the sweaters and trousers, but loved the play chalk and colour books. Potter’s gift of course will be infinitely better, because it is a broom. Though, he’s reserved that gift for opening with the Weasleys. I hope Teddy has fun. At the same time I hope a thousand hot pokers fall in Potter’s lap, right on his bollocks. What right does he have to take Teddy away from me? I know he’s plenty of rights, but I am emotional and want to be petulant about how he’s treated me; like a common whore, he has. When three o’clock chimes, from the old clock in the hall, I make my way to bed.Pretending that I don’t waddle as I go.
+++
Waking in a panic, at around seven, I shoot out of bed. Still in my night clothes , I focus on Teddy. He needs me! Leaving, with a loud pop; I open my eyes to the sight of a ton of gingers, their wives, and respective children. Not taking in their hostile suspicious looks, I search the room for Teddy, who is sitting next to Potter’s tart and the Mudblood. His wide pale brown eyes frightened, as they look down at a rather large album. Both women have the book open, on his lap between them, speaking while pointing to pictures.
“This is your mum Teddy,” Weaslette says firmly, “Not Draco.”
Big fat tears roll down those lovely little cheeks, that are generally pulled into a smile, and I am livid. Fuck those bitches, hurting my Teddy so blatantly! “No she’s not, Draco’s my mummy! She’s my mummy,” he wails, balling his little fists and banging them against the album before him.
Instantly, I am at his side, scooping him into my arms, and shushing his tears. “Mummy,” he hiccoughs, throwing his arms around my neck, so tight that it almost hurts, “They tried to say you wasn’t my mummy.” His tears soak through my thin T-shirt, and I don’t much care that the Weasels are getting an eye full of my tits. I’m not here to impress, that need left long ago, I just came to do my duty, as a mum.
“You’re fine now, Mummy’s got you,” I whisper against his ear. All the while glaring at Potter’s ginger bint for hurting my little boy, and not a bit for her taking Potter back. Not really.
“You are not his mum,” Potter says coldly behind me. It makes me tense, and causes Teddy to wail harder.
“Is too. Tell him Mummy!” He begs, digging his fingers into my shirt. Clutching me as if he’s afraid that I will leave him, if Potter commands me to do so; I won’t, not this time.
Pulling back, I snatch the album from Mudblood’s filthy hands; barely, I resist the urge to clean it, pointing to my bubbly departed cousin and her Werewolf of a husband. “These are your mummy and daddy,” I say slowly, again he looks ready to deny it, but then I hold up a hand and shush him adding, “But I am your mummy now, if you want me to be.”
“You can’t be his mum, Ginny will be and he can’t have more than necessary,” Potter says, and I want to turn around, yell, and beat the living crap out of him; make him hurt the way Teddy is hurting. Weaslette tries to pry Teddy off of me, but the young child’s grip is strong. She wants to reaffirm her place as his future mum, yet Teddy is having no part of it. I smile vindictively at her over his small shoulder, causing her to scowl. The look makes her uglier, and serves to make me happier.
“Fuck off Potter,” I say vehemently, clutching Teddy to me as I stand, intending to leave. When I turn, I forget to cover my ugly bulging belly. What’s beneath is undeniable, even to ignorant fools.
“What the hell?” Potter asks, eyes wide as he backs away. Weaslette and the others notice his line of sight, and all stare at me in mixed looks of awe and disgust. Fighting down an embarrassed flush, I try to pull Potter’s old shirt down, to no avail.
“Just a bit bloated Potter, that’s all.” I flippantly turn, intending to head to the Floo, when Mr Noble stops me.
“Is it mine?” His voice holds a reverent awe, that reminds me of when I did something good, making my parents proud.
Somewhere, in the background, there is a commotion at his words. All I can do is nod. He lets out a low breath, when his angry bint comes and grabs him by the arm. With him no longer commanding my line of sight, I turn, only to wish I hadn’t, seeing the small ginger army glaring at me. Thankfully Teddy is too busy, burying his face in the crook of my throat, to notice. My skin itches from the intensity, and I begin to curse my hasty departure. Should have worn the old world gowns, damn them if they laughed, and I wouldn’t have come to be in this predicament.
“You slept with Malfoy on our break?” Her voice is shrill, and brings me back to the confrontation at hand. Ronald, my favourite ginger; offers the most hate in his glare, directed solely at the proof of Potter’s and my liaison. As if I lured Potter away or something, I want to snort. The berk did it on his own. Mostly.
Potter turns a cold look on her, and it is one I know well. However, she takes a step back looking extremely frightened, I’ve never been that brilliant when it comes to Potter’s facial cues. “As if you weren’t getting plugged by Dean and Seamus during that time,” she sputters at Potter’s angry tone, trying to deny it when he hisses, “We’re mates, word gets round. Had to take my frustrations out somewhere. Too damn bad I didn’t count on getting Malfoy up the duffer.”
“You bastard,” she snarls, jabbing a sharp looking, violent blue, fingernail into his chest. I want to kick her for touching him. He shoves her back, not bothering to apologise to anyone, before he grabs my arm; popping us all out of the place.
+++
We don’t speak any more, Potter and me. We rarely see each other except, at late hours of the night, on those nights when neither of us can sleep. Me because of his spawn, him because of a case that needs solving, or from guilt of being an arse to his ex. I’ve seen the pile, of crumpled letters, in the rubbish bin. Mostly I don’t care, or so I tell myself.
+++
The baby grows restless, moving constantly in my belly by late spring. It is weird to feel the movements of something I will have for the rest of my life. It is odd to know that I made it, me and Potter. It is a combination of us. Scary and thrilling at the same time.
+++
The day of my birthday my water breaks. I Floo the hospital and a Medi-Witch comes to the house, it is Potter’s way of avoiding the press. In the birthing bed, that is attached to my own, I writhe as pain clouts my body. Numbing potions only help so much. Potter and Teddy are outside playing, no doubt hearing me in the gardens. The heat of the summer presses down on me while I bear down, despite the constant cooling charms. I feel fevered, and wish the damn thing would hurry the hell up; pop out of me already.
They make it seem so easy on the telly; those soaps that I will never admit to watching, while Potter is away at work.
+++
Finally, after hours and hours of wet towels, encouraging nods, and potions being shoved down my throat, there is a head coming. Soon a loud wail permeates the room, filling it up to the beautifully painted ceiling. When the boy is in my arms another contraction grips my body, and the healer is shouting that I’m not done yet. Before I can damn her, for not telling me there would be more pain after the child, another loud wail breaks through my pain induced haze.
Twins, little boys, both with mops of feather soft black hair and grey blue eyes. I’m a sobbing mess as I kiss their still swollen faces, identical cheeks and noses.
+++
Potter holds them, looks at them as if he’s never seen anything as miraculous as those two little boys, and names them; Sirius and Severus. I think him a sentimental fool, but don’t comment; far too exhausted, and in too much pain to do more than sleep.
+++
In a way, this is the start of our lives. It can only go one of two ways from here: up or down. I am hoping for up, but I’ve never had great luck.
Chapter Two Part One
Author: crazyparakiss
Pairing: Harry/Draco, minimal Harry/Ginny, and very minimal Harry/OFC, more pairings to come later.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:Girl Draco though "she" isn't a Mary Sue with flowing long blond hair and gigantic tits. Quite the opposite actually. First person POV, angst, infidelity, swearing, baby making, Het sex, quite graphic het sex.
Word count: 10,490
Summary:In a way, this is the start of our lives. It can only go one of two ways from here: up or down. I am hoping for up, but I’ve never had great luck.
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.
Author's Note: First chapter and the second are Draco's POV, he's quite a Weasley hater so it will seem like bashing. But know that I am quite a Weasley lover and no offense is meant. :P
When I was young I never thought of having to work. Nor did I ever dare dream of cooking for myself, cleaning for myself, and the thought of going out to buy menial products seemed downright blasphemous. We had elves, money, a vast manor, and all the time in the world to whirl in splendour. Then the war happened, and things changed.
Perception is something I’ve truly lacked for eighteen of my twenty-two years on this wretched planet. War didn’t really give me the insight I desperately needed, all war did was scare the living piss out of me. It was the aftermath that brought me to a more wizened state.
Father fled the country, to this day he is still number one on the short list of surviving Death Eaters. Mother, poor Mother, she killed herself shortly after Father left, damn him. Leaving me to try and restore our tattered pride ,as a old noble family, and my sentence was worse than death.
“Draco L. Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to a minimum of five years, per count of Physical Endangerment due to use of a Dark Spell or Potion during the course of the war. A total of fifteen, minimal, years to live life as a Muggle. You will serve consecutive sentences, and your assets will be frozen during this time. If you do not accept this generous mercy, our kind Ministry has offered, then you will serve three consecutive life sentences, a minimum of twenty-five years, each, in Azkaban prison. Do you agree to serve your sentence amicably?” The old Wizard sounds bored as he reads the regulations of my new life. He shouldn’t sound so indifferent, this is my life. It means something to me.
“Yes sir,” I say, even as fear grips my body. Muggles horribly diseased Muggles with their weird motorcars, their Wizard killing machines, and their damnable currency; I’d rather be anywhere but with them, however Azkaban isn’t for me. Too many enemies and not enough hope to keep me alive for longer than a day, no my name and line has to live on; that much I know is certain.
The one small mercy I have is that I am allowed to remain in my family manor, with its familiar objects and reminders of what I am.
After a month I understand why they’ve allowed me to remain; everywhere there is proof of magic and no matter how hard I try, I cannot channel the powerful flow. Wand gone, dark artefacts taken, and even the simple grooming tools have been locked in our vaults, until my sentence is served. Fifteen years, I remind myself daily, fifteen years, and I can start my life again. Eighteen to thirty three; I’ll still be young, and I can restore the honour of my tarnished family name.
Restoring honour, the mantra that keeps me rising in the mornings, sending me out into the blistering cold of winter to my job, in one of the small Muggle villages near my home. The pay is terrible; barely feeding me now that I’ve to pay for bills to heat, light, and keep the manor with running water. Since Muggles pay for their heating, lighting, and water then so shall I, it’s bloody unfair; even though it really is fair. The Ministry made a point of telling me how lucky I am to only receive a form of community service. They probably believe if I work with Muggles, it will change my view of them; bollocks, an idealistic thought on their part.
The clothing I have to buy is rather atrocious and course, but I’d rather wear the garish garments than ruin the lustrous linins my mother purchased before her death. They’re sentimental, and I can’t bear to ruin them.
On my twentieth birthday I receive a letter from the Ministry; cordially, letting me know that Father has been caught, and is in holding at Azkaban. My horribly cooked Sheppard’s pie is much more unappetising after that.
By twenty three, I don’t figure how my life can get any worse. I’ve just been fired, and already haven’t eaten in days. The Ministry, in a show of more mercy, allows my parole officer to buy me Nourishment draughts, to keep me from collapsing, but only until I find new work.
It really can’t get worse than this horrid hunger; nothing is more awful than this angry summer, that is racking up fines to the Ministry, for shoddy cooling charms, and it’s a tragedy that I’ve had to pawn off a few oriental rugs. To pay the bills that I could easily afford if my accounts weren’t frozen. It can’t get worse, I think.
Only it does.
Andromeda Tonks dies, leaving behind an orphaned grandson. Godfather, infamous Harry Potter defeater of Voldemort, is in turmoil over what to do for his godson...
Wonderful, isn’t it that I’m the last carrier of Black blood? The boy will need a mother...blood bonds and the things one must do to preserve them; I wonder what I did to piss the Almighty off in my previous life. Must of been ruddy horrible if I’m to become a mum.
I wish I could write Father, and tell him that I’m sorry, for not being able to continue our noble line.
I knew; the moment I saw the headline in the Prophet that in a few days time Potter would whoosh out of green flames in the fireplace, or would come banging at the shoddy wards that I have since the Ministry started regulating them, only to charge me for the buggers. It takes him twenty four hours, and I am not surprised when his green, green eyes full of thinly veiled hostility fall on me.
I sigh from my position on the sofa; where I lie as if waiting for death to come and collect me, only the bastard doesn’t come. Only Potter. He shakes his head, messy hair bouncing about, and I think that, if he wasn’t Potter, he might actually be attractive. Too bad he’s the sort who opens his mouth, letting crap out, ultimately ruining the effect of his broad handsome features. “I figured I’d have at least three more days. Little Miss Muddy certainly works fast doesn’t she?” I ask, my tone bored as if I don’t care that my life is about to be ruined. Even more than it has been...
He scowls, a dark look that could freeze blood, but I pretend to be unfazed. “Don’t call Hermione that Malfoy.”
“ Certainly Master,” I come back dryly.
I’ve my stuff ready to go, a few items that are too sentimental to leave behind. Mother’s wedding rings, her mother’s pendent, Father’s watch and signet ring, my grandfather’s snakehead cane that he left to Father; all that, and the last four sets of exquisite dress robes, the ones Mother purchased as a gift for my seventeenth birthday. With a longing glance behind, I gaze, for the last time, upon my ancestral home, whispering a sorry, the thousandth one I’m sure, as I follow Potter to his black Muggle motorcar.
The drive is fairly quick, considering the fact that Potter has a flying car. I want to punch him, the great git has always had a way around the rules that have been set down by society. As I often have, I wonder why he is allowed to break them while I have to suffer silently for the sins of my father. A father who sits rotting in a cold cell some hundred miles away from me. A father who I am not permitted to see or with whom I cannot have correspondence. He wasn’t even allowed to see me on the anniversary of Mother’s death. All I wanted was to hear his voice. I’m angry at him for leaving, certainly, but he loved her too, in his own way.
Sighing, I look out the window determined not to watch the way Potter moves the sedan easily through the sky, as if it is no different from handling a broom. The swirling white clouds hide us easily and I want to reach out to feel one, because it’s been so long since I’ve felt the cool damp wind from flying. I resist the urge, too afraid of what Potter will do to me with those large hands if I so much as put a toe out of line. Another day, then. I lean my head against the glass window appreciating the cool it brings my face.
He takes me to the hospital, as I knew he would, and we don’t even have to wait. An assistant immediately starts taking my statistics; jotting down any allergies, sicknesses, previous hospitalizations, and inquires about any potions I have taken in the past week. Nothing except a Nourishment draught because most days I am too broke to eat. Rather pathetic really, Draco Malfoy, too poor to buy a loaf of bread or even tea.
The procedure of a sex change operation is a rather long and tedious task. The initial rearranging of my hormones is what takes the longest amount of time. My genetic makeup has to be recompiled, apparently, and I don’t care to know about the details so I beg them to quit telling me about the process. Telling them only to inform me of what to expect after I leave this overly sterile environment.
“Next,” The healer called Justine speaks, “We are going to link your magical signature to the boy’s, after that long process we will tell you what to expect as a woman and as a magically bound mother.”
It all still feels so unreal; I just nod numbly while they escort me to the paediatric ward. The Weasel bint is there with Potter, holding onto his strong bicep with a white knuckle grip. Both staring through the open window into the room I have to enter. Neither look at me as I walk by, and I am rather grateful for that. Don’t need their loathing looks right this moment, I have enough self loathing to last me a lifetime.
For as long as the sex change was this is an infinitely longer process. It takes around thirty six hours total. A linking of magicks both from generations long ago to those that are just solely mine and Teddy’s. It is a weird feeling, having the magic of one’s ancestors rising to the surface to be connected to the magic of the same ancestor in another person. It makes me wonder how much of our bodies are really our own.
When at last the parental magicks are established I feel the overwhelming sensation of knowing what Teddy is feeling. How he is scared and ill, as well as elated to have found someone with a loving magic that comforts him. My magic...
The feeling of knowing someone else so intimately scares the piss out of me, and I suddenly understand the feeling of a parent. Of a mother more specifically. I want to reach out and clutch his little hand.
The healer says that is common, tells me that for the first few months I will have to be in almost constant contact with the boy so that he and I can adjust to the newness. “A magical blood bond,” she says, “is very fragile and can be extremely unstable in the beginning, but if nurtured life it can never be broken. That is the beauty of motherhood, even for a surrogate mother such as yourself.”
On shaky legs I walk toward him when they pronounce us finished; before I can reach for Teddy, Potter pushes me out of the way along with his ginger bint, so that they can hug and kiss the small boy.
It hurts my heart, and I don’t understand. Suddenly I’ve a headache and I excuse myself to the room I’ve been assigned for my brief hospital stay.
Before we are released a healer who specialises in female and transgender male to female bits talks with me.
“For the first year your body will experience radical changes,” she says, handing me pamphlets of reading material on all the subjects she plans to discuss with me. Some of the papers indicated books I can purchase to further my knowledge on the subject. “Breasts will grow, it can be painful so expect that,” she points at the Floo name to call if the pain becomes excruciating, “You might need to come in because too much pain can be a sign of magical rejection and it will need to be fixed as soon as possible. Also your vagina,” I try not to blush furiously at that, “will be quite tender as it is going to have to adjust to the radical change from being a penis.” I miss the damn thing dearly, already. “Remember to wipe front to back when urinating or making a bowel movement.” I want to gag but she continues cutting me off, “Also do not douche, even if you think you smell. Call this Floo name,” She circles yet another one, “ immediately if the smell is unnatural.” I want to shout that I don’t exactly know the difference between natural and unnatural vaginal smells, as I am not usually up in one. She puts her cold hands against my throat, and tilts my head back, humming before she adds, “Your Adam’s apple is disappearing like it should, it may take another few weeks for it to completely settle.”
I want to knock out her teeth for reminding me that I am not even going to keep one feature of my previous masculinity.
Potter’s place is in a quaint village. The old white stone and rotting wood shingled buildings speaking of an old world charm, even if it is a Muggle village I can appreciate the beauty it holds. I’ve dealt with the blighters, and grudgingly I can admit that at times they are rather brilliant. A sparkling river runs beneath a large white, acid rain stained, bridge that we drive over, on the way through the small town awash with summery folk; all who call out to one another merrily. It reminds me of the Hogsmead I remember from my very young childhood years; back before everything got so cocked up.
Teddy looks unimpressed as he watches the building that pass us in slow succession, not the least bit entranced with what is happening around him. I want to touch his cheek in a gentle show of understanding, because I feel in my soul the radiating sorrow he feels at the loss of his grandmother. Along with that, I know the fear that exudes from his gut at the thought of living with Potter. There is undeniable love in there for the man, but in Teddy’s eyes he is still quite a stranger, and that makes me wonder.
It is a two story manor house that Potter pulls up to on the outskirts of the small town. Old brown-white stone peeks out from under the face of ivy every now and then on the front, as do tall leaded glass windows on the second story, and I am breathless by the sheer beauty of the place. Who knew Potter had taste? The terrace is a few feet above the bottom level of the grounds, and we take the wide stone steps up to the long stretch of veranda. It is well kept, if ancient, with a tall rendition of Atlas’ daughters guarding the golden apples of Hera’s garden, and once more I am thoroughly impressed.
The interior is mostly empty, the sparse furniture herein covered in white sheets to protect against light and dust. I sniff, the stale air is stifling and I wonder how long this house has sat empty. For such a grand place, though not as grand as my own family manor, it is sad to see it rot in such a way. The hum of magic in the walls is weak but still detectable, speaking volumes on the family who built the structure long ago.
“Where are we?” Teddy asks, wrinkling his button nose as he moves to take my larger hand into his five year old palm. The warmth is quite welcome, and my mouth twitches; it’s as close as I get to a smile anymore.
“My family home.” Potter says, eyeing our clasped hands with distaste. It makes me want to smirk and say something cutting, but the warning in his intense eyes tells me to keep my trap shut.
“What about your flat?” Teddy asks, kicking at the dusty wooden floor. He apparently doesn’t find comfort in opulence like I do. Poor child.
“Gave it to Ginny.” Potter replies curtly, looking at me as if it is my fault. Then with a kind look to Teddy, he motions the boy toward the grand double staircase that stands proudly in the tall off white foyer. “Let’s get up to your room, yeah?” With reluctance, Teddy lets his hand slip from my grasp and walks up the stairs holding hands with Potter. Coldly, the man calls over his shoulder, “You can choose a room if you’d like.”
Of course I want to pick my own room; the man is daft if he thinks otherwise.
There are two master bedrooms, one obviously for the lord of the house and the other for the lady. I know instantly which one belongs to the lady because a nursery door sits in an adjacent corner of the bedroom, and in the lord’s room there is no such area. The bonus of choosing the lady’s room is that it is quite a ways away from Potter’s, the lord’s. Obviously the previous lords didn’t want the ladies catching them with the servant slag they kept round for a spot of fun.
I enjoy examining the large room, with its ceiling done in a swirling painting of the birth of the sun and moon. Very Michelangelo in colours and detail, causing me to wonder about Potter’s family; if they were true cynosures of art like my great grandfather was. However I don’t wonder long at that, for the fading ornate pale gold and blue curtains draw my attention; I move to look out the tall three paned window of the room. Down below I see the expansive grounds that are covered in lush green grass, trimmed trees, and to the left of the house I can see the corner of the maze of bushes that I saw upon arrival. Potter’s home is everything mine once was, and I am envious. I will only get to stay here until Teddy turns eleven. The prearranged chore that Potter said would gain me back my magic. Looking down at my thin body, staring at my tingling chest, I wonder what the cost of this adventure will actually be.
When I return downstairs I follow the sound of Potter’s shouts into the moderately sized dining hall. The long table and its eight chairs covered in the same white sheets as the front receiving room. Two large tarnished candelabras sit on top of the sheets with sagging webs clinging between the fine curves of the candle holders.
Teddy’s small trainer covered feet poke out from under a dusty sheet, before he lifts it up and smiles shyly at me. I cannot smile back but I nod, not wanting the boy to feel more emotional pain than necessary. Mostly because I don’t want to feel it as well. I don’t have a high tolerance for such things.
“I don’t give a toss about how busy you buggers are! I said I need a bed tonight and if I don’t get one then I will bloody well take my business elsewhere!” Potter yells into a small square mirror, “And I will take my publicity with me, do you understand what I am saying?” He whispers dangerously, it’s a nice touch I think because it makes me swallow, and I am not even on the receiving end of his ire.
“Yes Mr Potter, we will have the bed and a dresser to you by the end of the afternoon. For good measure I will even throw in a free nightstand.” The reedy voice of an old man says pleadingly. Potter just snorts.
“See to it that you do.” In an odd way he reminds me of Father. Quickly, I shove the comparison aside.
We have pizza for lunch, a greasy, cheesy thing that tastes downright awful, but I am much too hungry to care. Teddy picks at the meat slices on his own, and takes to drinking the soda more than actually eating. Potter notices this but doesn’t comment, and so neither do I. Potter made it quite clear at Malfoy Manor that I wasn’t to parent Teddy in any way. That is his and ginger bint’s job. Mine is to stabilise the magic within Teddy’s body. In other words I am playing wet nurse to Magic.
After the pizza is cold, with coagulating grease on the surface, a knock sounds at the large double doors. Potter yanks one of them open by a large iron handle and looks down at the mover who fidgets on the doorstep. “Glad that Mr Collins could fit me into his schedule,” Potter’s voice a damn far throw from playful.
They carry expensive looking chocolate stained wood up to Teddy’s room. There is a small bed with a plain but well made frame, a long dresser with square mirror, and a lone night table. Potter doesn’t look at the men when they leave nor does he thank them. Not for the first time I am curious about this new Potter, the angry, vindictive sod that I’ve never seen.
Teddy isn’t impressed with his room. “It’s boring.” He whines, “At Nana’s I had blue walls! I want blue walls Harry.”
Potter sighs and I leave them be, not overly concerned with helping when I am definitely not wanted.
Come dinner time Potter fetches me, from the dusty old rooms I call my own. He doesn’t fidget in the doorway like he may have once done, he looks at me coldly; barking out, “Get up we’re going to dinner.”
“Potter,” I simper sarcastically, in my higher voice that still cracks from the revert, “I didn’t know you wanted my hand in marriage.”
He doesn’t look amused, “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last human on the planet and humanity depended on my impregnating you.”
Batting my lashes I say, “Really? I thought you had a thing for saving the world.”
“Just come on.” He turns and heads down the hall, I hear him on the stairs moments later.
The Weasel brood are having a sham of a get together in honour of Teddy’s saved magic. They blatantly ignore me, but I am fine with that. I am perfectly content with eating in silence, in a corner of the porch, while they all eat at tables under the strings of fairy lights. Teddy, as far as I can tell feels overwhelmed, but seems as if he is trying hard to please his godfather. The man who keeps accepting drinks from his future brother in laws and bites of treacle from his bint.
I hate them all, but continue picking at the mash. It’s rather good, I hate to admit.
“Still don’t understand why you had to bring him.” The girl weasel says when she, Potter, Weasel, and Mudblood walk back toward the house, Teddy in tow.
The light has dimmed drastically in the sky, so I figure it is getting late and we are about to head home. Thankfully. Their plebeian ways might rub off on me if I am here longer than needed.
“He’s got to stay close to Teddy for a bit until the magicks adjust, then Harry can come without him.” Mudblood says diplomatically. Ever the know it all bitch that I cannot stand.
With a leering sneer my way Weasel is the one who makes me gnash my teeth in anger, “Aren’t you all forgetting that he isn’t a he anymore. The healers made him a freak of a woman.”
Potter doesn’t defend me, and I see him as less of a perfect hero for that. It’s Little Miss Muddy who defends my injured female honour. Damned if I can feel good about a Mudblood protecting me.
“Ronald, how’d you like it if it were you who had to do it for a nephew or niece?” Guiltily he coughs and looks away from her with pink cheeks as they ascend the porch.
“Come on Malfoy, time to take Teddy back to my house.” Potter grounds out when he walks past.
The ginger bint follows us home, and I make my way silently to the stairs while ignoring everyone. Teddy is asleep and so I shut my door behind myself, not in the least bit concerned with kissing the child goodnight.
Around midnight Teddy crawls under my duvet that still smells of dust, despite my use of a weak cleaning charm. I wish I was allowed more powerful magic, but alas I’ll take what I can get. I budge over in the large bed, allowing him access.
“Draco,” he whispers against where his face nuzzles my sore chest. I try not to wince from the movement.
“Yes?” I yawn out my reply.
“Can I have some water?”
“Sure,” I drawl, “Sleep isn’t my priority at the moment.” Throwing back the covers I light the bedside candle, with the flick of what I learned was called a match some four and a half years ago. Teddy snuggles deeper into the warm spot I leave. Grabbing my robe before I go out in the hall and down to the kitchen for a glass of ice water. Mildly amused at myself, I think about how I used to send Mum to the kitchen for me at all hours of the night. Though, she had house-elves to do the fetching for her; lucky lady that she was.
When I enter the kitchen, I make short work of making the water then, on my way back to the stairs, I hear a noise from the formal sitting area. Curiously, I turn and walk in that direction. As soon as I stand in the open archway, that gives easy access to the room, I see a sight that makes me wish I were blind.
Potter has his tart bent over the still sheet covered coffee table, thrusting into her, in what looks to be a frantic manner. For her part the slag whines and moans like she is trying too hard to convince him of her pleasure. His pants are husky, and if I had a cock still I know that those alone would make me hard. When I see a part of Potter’s thick shaft, I know that I would practically be creaming myself by this point. As it is, my still tender and changing girl bits feel damp, and I want to die of mortification. Backing away slowly I walk towards the stairs.
Behind me I can hear her moan, “Harry, oh God, you make me so wet Harry!”
Potter grunts, and if he says anything it is too low for me to hear.
Teddy is already asleep when I get back; I want to hex the brat for making me view that awful sight. Snuffing the candle I climb into bed, wishing I could Scorgify my brain.
A month passes in which we establish a routine. Potter wakes up early for work, always looking to kiss Teddy on the forehead before he leaves, only to be angry when he finds the child once again in my bed. He never speaks to me when he leaves and I never care. At noon I take Teddy into town, three days a week, to buy groceries and the other necessities that Potter tells me to pick up. He probably thought that I would be humiliated, but little does he know that I’ve had to survive on Muggle currency for these past years, and so it isn’t as much of a chore for me.
“I want lemon biscuits.” Teddy says one afternoon while we are at the small bakery, in the centre of town.
Lately, Teddy has become more comfortable with me, and he asks more of me than he had in the beginning. I suppose that can happen when you rely on one person as your sole caregiver. Basically. I handle the baths, feedings, play in the yard, and do the laundry; all for Teddy. If I had known Potter wanted a nanny, I’d have told him to fetch Mary Poppins. However, every time those large golden brown eyes of Teddy’s fall on me, sparkling in happiness, I am filled with the kind of joy I’d once thought I’d never feel again.
“Fine,” I say and ask the old man behind the counter if he’s got any lemon biscuits. He winks at Teddy as he fetches a medium size box of them.
“S’on the house ma’am,” he says to me, but I pay him anyways. No need to let him get any ideas.
“Thank you, but I cannot accept them without paying,” I tell him politely, but firmly. I do not want any gifts. I remember what happened the first time I accepted a gift from someone I thought harmless. It wasn’t pretty, that’s for sure.
He tips his old fat head at me, smiling anyways, before handing us a brown paper sack of our purchases.
Most nights Potter’s slag and he arrive via the Floo, usually in time for the dinner I have set out, at around five thirty or six. So I take my plate upstairs, letting them enjoy dinner as a family. Ignoring the tart’s high pitched laugh whenever Potter says something stupid, that he intends to be funny, is rather hard, or so I’ve learned. It’s weird, I think, because I can only hear everything, as if in the room, when she is there. I refuse to acknowledge it as jealousy. Bollocks.
Halfway through the second month my tits have grown, but not so spectacularly that they are overly noticeable. Thankfully, I don’t have to purchase bras yet, and hopefully; I won’t ever. Standing nude ,in front of my full length mirror, I run my hands over them. My nipples extremely sensitive, but not necessarily in a bad way. It is an odd sensation; to feel arousal at cupping and toying with the mounds. I’ve never been that responsive in the chest. “Must be a woman thing,” I murmur, before turning, to note that my hips are still narrow and not a bit feminine. “Thank god for the small miracles I suppose.”
My twat is more or less a complete one now, I wouldn’t know really. The only one I can remember was spread wide in a nude magazine, where the witch finger fucked herself. I shudder at the memory; I’d known from then on, after a few nonchalant glances at other blokes during showers, that cocks do it for me. I don’t even derive pleasure from breasts; sure they are soft and pleasant looking. Making a woman more gentle and approachable, but they are still not for me. Continuing the ministrations of my own breasts, finding them oddly fun to play with, I can sort of see why straight blokes enjoy them so much. Glancing down at the thick blond curls, that cover the secrets of my womanly bits, I bite my lip. It’s hard not to see the familiar cock and bollocks, which I used to love fondling so much, on those rare days, when I had a slow lazy knob job.
Studying my reflection, I wonder if Weasel was right, maybe I am just a freak. I am still tall; standing equal with Potter, and a few inches below that of Weasel. My face is still pointy, it’s always been virtually hairless, and with a pang in my heart I realise that it will forever remain that way. My shoulders aren’t as broad as Potter’s, but they are wider than a normal woman’s, my legs longer and leaner in the thighs. My bum too supple, not round or bouncy in the way that Weaslette’s and Mudblood’s are; the way that men like them. Even my feet are too long; lean with the high arch and scrawny ankles. Turning back to the bed I retrieve my clothes. Trying to put out of my mind that I was once a beautiful man, and now am a hideous woman.
My stomach cramps painfully in the late evening. I am lightheaded, and a little bit snappy by the time dinner is done. When Potter comes through the Floo alone I don’t comment, still going to my room, without bothering to so much as really look at him. If this bothers him, I am not aware of the fact.
The pains become worse, and I am damn near howling while I curl against my pale blue and gold duvet. When the constant dampness between my thighs becomes a more persistent wetness I venture to the loo. Pulling down my pants; I see a great amount of blood soaking them, and staining through to my trousers. I can feel my face paling as I shove the offending garments away. When I piss it stains the bowl red, and I am terrified by what it means. Yet, I won’t call out for Potter. Instead, I turn on the taps to the shower, and sit on the tiled floor of the stall while the water rains down on me. Tears mingle so well with the drops; I am almost convinced that I am not crying. It’s the wracking sobs, so similar to that time in Myrtle’s bath, that kill all self delusions.
Teddy is already in his bed when Potter knocks at the door. I try to yell for him to go away, but the words fail in my throat as he unlocks the door easily. Looking at where I sit, pathetically under the ever warm spray, he walks closer. His eyes darting the length of my curled body with a closed expression. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet Potter lifts my wet chin with his calloused hand. I try not to look him in the eye because, when I do, I can feel his mind probing mine.
“What’s the matter Malfoy?” He asks, and it isn’t snide or condescending, just curious if a little suspicious. The tone nearly causes me to smile, for this is the old Potter I remember from school. The nosy do-gooder who often finds reason to believe in humanity; a person very different from myself.
With trembling lips I mutter, “’M bleeding.”
He turns my face, sharply, with his broad hand; with serious eyes, he asks, “From where?” His tone is almost sinister. Reminding me, yet again, that this isn’t the Potter I thought I knew. He’s still Potter, but somehow someone new.
Swallowing, I say, “From my v-,” I cannot bring myself to say the word vagina, and instead I settle for, “gash.”
He drops my face and forces my legs apart, apparently not caring that half of his head, face, and shoulders are now soaking from the warm spray. Having him study the damn thing, almost up close, causes me to blush violently and try to shut my legs, to no avail. “So the transformation is complete,” his tone is bored as he lets go of my legs, a thoughtful look on his face. “Get out of the shower,” Potter commands, “Stuff a sock in between your legs until I get back, or sit on the toilet. Can’t have you bleeding all over the place.”
“Where are you going?” I ask while he hauls me to my feet. I refuse to acknowledge the jolt of electricity my body feels when the smooth hairs on his arms tickle across my sensitive nipples.
“Store,” he replies while throwing a towel at me. Quickly, I cover myself; though it is a little late for modesty.
When he returns he brings me some new knickers, thankfully they aren’t frilly or pastel, and some women’s menstrual products. He tells me to read the instructions on how to use them before he leaves me, alone in the bathroom once more. Walking into my room; I see a couple of bras on the bed, but pretend not to notice, as I slip under the covers.
It is Saturday morning and Potter is home, for once, reading the paper while drinking a black cup of coffee at the dining table when I serve breakfast. Potter eats in silence; Teddy shovels egg into his mouth messily. I’m the only refined being in this house, apparently. “Teddy,” I chastise quietly, “Sit up straight, and try to eat a little more elegantly, yeah?”
“Okay,” he smiles, but Potter folds his paper, giving me a warning glance for what I said, before he too shovels food into his mouth. I want to snort; Heaven be damned if I allow the last of the Black line to grow up as an unrefined buffoon.
Weaslette comes over midday, and she talks with Potter about educational options for Teddy. Apparently, she doesn’t want to be a stay at home mum; at least that is what I can gather, from my spying spot, near the stairs. Potter doesn’t sound pleased by this news, and tries, unsuccessfully, to convince her otherwise. Attempts to tell her, in a more refined manner than he uses with me, that she is needed on the home front. He doesn’t want Teddy going to a Muggle Primary school; preferring a home schooling. I hate to admit that I agree with him. The mum is to coddle and teach, the dad is to work; it’s how things are in proper families. Mother stayed with me; I had private tutors, but she oversaw every aspect of my education.
“You’re such an old fashioned man Harry,” she snaps angrily.
To which Potter calmly replies, “You knew this when we got together. I’m not going to change what I want because it doesn’t suit your desires.” Something hard smashes against the ground and I assume it’s her cheap beaker, of which she’s oh so fond (Weasels, I shudder to understand them), or Heaven forbid the antique bone china I found in the cupboards.
“Then maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore,” she yells. And lately, I think, she’s been doing a lot more of that than when I first arrived, three months ago.
“If that’s what you want.” His indifference is odd, and I almost think I am dreaming.
She leaves in a flurry of whipping red hair and bouncing large breasts. It is a rather comical sight, but I am smart enough not to laugh. Having a good internal laugh; I vacate my spot before Potter sees me, and go to check on Teddy.
Potter takes the break up hard. He drinks most days, and is out most nights. Teddy and I have become quite close, these past three weeks, because there isn’t a Potter here to keep us from being like a mother and son.
One night he comes home drunk again, the ginger bint with him, but only for a few minutes before the screaming starts again. I hear the whoosh of the Floo and instinctively know she’s left. She always storms out when she comes by anymore.
In the kitchen, Potter finds me pouring myself a glass of milk before warming it, with my restricted wand. He eyes me with angry green eyes. Knowing that I should make myself scarce, I start to sweep past him, but a long strong arm grabs me. Potter’s knuckles going white where his fingers grip my arm, painfully tight.
Soon I am flush against the solid muscle of his body; can feel his hard cock, through the thick layer of his trousers. So Weaslette left him hard, and he is angry; demanding service? I swallow to make the tightness of my throat disappear. My heartbeat spikes as excitement courses through me.
“Open your dressing gown,” he says, and I flush because the only pyjamas I’ve found in this house are the old white gowns of women, from generations long since gone. I wish, now, that I’d brought some of my own; packing lightly was a bad idea. Smiling maliciously Potter opens the gown for me, pulling on the strings that hold the thin material closed. It whispers down my sides, tickling as it goes to the floor, and causes goose pimples to rise on my flesh. I shiver and he notices. Licking his thin, lightly chapped, lips, Potter reaches his wide hands for my breasts. They’re still small, but they are breasts, and I can tell that he doesn’t care what they look like or what size they are, as Zabini once said, “Tits are tits.”
His thumbs tease both nipples, simultaneously, while his other fingers kneed the still sensitive skin. Biting my bottom lip, I refuse to moan for him, but God it’s been so long since someone has been intimate with my body. Potter notices my hesitance and knees my thighs apart, pushing his pelvis between them. Rubbing his hard cock over the exposed slit of my wet cunt. I can’t hold back the moan. Wantonly I cry out, gripping his shoulders with my long fingers as he continues to tease me with his rough denim covered cock.
“Beg me,” he husks against the shell of my small ear, biting the little white lobe in an explosion of pain and pleasure. Damn, I’ve missed rough foreplay.
“Please.” I whimper, ignoring how absolutely girly my voice sounds. I refuse to acknowledge the similarities between my voice and the Weaslette’s.
“Gonna fuck you so hard Malfoy.” One of his thumbs moves to stroke the nub on my pussy, the one I’ve experimentally toyed with in the shower. Throwing my head back, I unconsciously open my legs wider, “Mmm,” He groans against my neck, “So wet, all over me Malfoy.”
Suddenly, I realise how humiliating this could become, and try to shove him away but he isn’t having it. Instead Potter shoves two of his fingers in my pussy, knuckle deep and twists. It is fucking painful and yet somehow exquisite. I both want and don’t want him to stop his continuing finger fucking.
“Been awhile since I made a virgin scream.” I don’t bother to correct him, technically my girl bits are virginal. Potter chuckles darkly, gliding down my body, his mouth and tongue hot on every part of me it passes. My breasts, so small, he can almost lave a whole one with the entirety of his mouth. My navel he tongue-fucks in a prelude to what he finally does to my cunt. If I thought I was wet before then I was sorely mistaken; he makes me even wetter than I knew my girl bits could get. My fingers bury themselves in his mess of hair while he thrusts his tongue in and out. His teeth nip gently at that nub and my knees go weak.
“Ah!” I pant and it is mortifying, but the mortification will have to wait until the morning because I am too busy enjoying to think about it for more than a fleeting second.
When Potter stands again I can smell my female fluids on his face, it is both disgusting and extremely erotic. Potter’s trousers shoved down to his ankles he spreads my legs wider, wrapping them about his waist, before he slides into me in one smooth motion. It burns like crazy and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Let it out Malfoy,” he husks against my throat, his cheek sticky from my cunt.
His command makes me whimper and I know, in that second, that I’ve lost. He owns me, and I can do nothing but give myself over to his pleasure. A pleasure he takes without a second thought for mine. Bastard probably only drank me up because he is a sick pervert who likes that sort of thing.
Potter doesn’t last long, and if I wasn’t in so much pain I’d laugh at him for it, but I am glad that I don’t have to endure it forever. With a low, barbaric grunt Potter comes and I can feel the heat, inside of my drying pussy walls. It is weird to know that I have Potter’s seed in me. And it is equally disgusting when I feel it slither down the insides of my thighs.
He waves me off in dismissal, without so much as a courteous thanks, and so I hit the shower before I climb gingerly into bed; my cunt a little sore from the entire ordeal.
We fuck everyday for three weeks. Potter takes me on the couch, dining table, kitchen counter, the stairwell, in the shower, against all the walls, the floors, and, occasionally, in his bed. Never in mine though, for which I am glad. I suspect it’s because Teddy sleeps in there with me, but it doesn’t make sense because Teddy eats at the dining table and sits on the couch. I suppose Potter is just odd.
The last night of the third week he beckons me to his large bedroom, after Teddy is down for the night in my bed. Lying back on the bed nude, I get a full view of his strong body. Thickly muscled calves and thighs, a taut stomach with well defined abs that lead to a broad chest, and finally wide shoulders linked with unyielding arms; all wrapped up in a dark honey skinned package. If I were a girl I’d tell myself how lucky I am to be his bed partner. But I’m not a girl, I am a gay man in a girl’s body, so I look to the only thing about him that I am grateful for. His fat proud cock ,that stands at attention, hungry for my pussy.
Walking toward him slowly, I feign boredom, until he holds out a wide hand and motions me closer, “Strip,” he commands.
Dropping my knickers, I kick them to the side of the room, before I lift the old tattered T-shirt of his over my head. In truth, I don’t know if I like being intimate with Potter, because well it is weird. I like to shag; did as a man and do now as a woman, but I find his idea of intimacy too intimate for my tastes. The fact that he always tries to kiss me, or get me to scream his name, bothers me in a way that I suppose it shouldn’t. I’ve called out names and have kissed blokes I don’t feel anything for; yet something flutters within me now, every time he barks at me to do it. I feel afraid of losing to him, which is odd because I’ve always lost to him. This just feels different. It’s a different kind of loss.
He lifts me up on his lap; moving my knees on either side of his thighs, until I am straddling him in a way that he obviously loves. Between my thighs, he toys with my damp clit, rubbing his fingers along the lips; dipping lightly between the folds, coaxing me to a state of wet that is pleasurable for us both.
Pulling his soaking fingers from me minutes, or who knows perhaps hours, later he shoves them in his mouth. Tasting the flavour that I never want to know. But the look on his face is rapturous, and it makes me feel as if I am as sweet or delightful as candy floss.
“So good.” He moans, and I flush from the intensity of his usually cold eyes.
Without hesitation I push down on him, wanting him deep in me. I want to feel him to the hilt; bollocks smacking my arse when I thrust down. That’s what I need. My thin arms circle round his neck, hands holding his face closer to my collar while our rutting speeds up. Potter meets me, equally hard, on every downward thrust I make, and it is absolutely brilliant. I’ve been close many times, but this time, I know, he is going to pull me with him when he falls over the edge.
Sure enough when we become so frantic that our rhythm is ruined, I feel it in the centre of my sex, forbidden and glorious as it radiates to every corner of my body. Making me numb and tingly in a way I have never known before, my orgasm claims my body. Wetness drips thickly, mingling with Potter’s thick spunk, and the sensation is more honed than usual. Every breath, every subtle move of his body, of mine, I feel them all as if my nerve endings are on high alert. It is exquisite, and I wonder why I miss being a man if orgasms can be this intense, this magical. Trembling in his arms he hugs me to him, his body chilled, so I can feel his small hard nipples as they come into contact with my own. I nearly come again from the sensation.
“You came,” he chuckles, and the sound is dirtier than the sex.
“Doesn’t make you Jesus, Potter,” I sneer, trying to push myself up, but my arms are all wonky. It makes me want to go another round, yet I know I should leave.
“Damn near,” he looks too smug; ignoring him I roll over, falling asleep moments later, despite my intentions to leave.
In the morning Potter is gone, and I suspect he’s been called in to perform some hero-ly duties. Ever the saviour, it seems. Teddy and I play in the labyrinth of tall hedges, laughing and chasing one another through the cold. Leaves crunching under our feet as we go. Autumn is upon us and feels glorious.
I make a pot of rabbit stew, and warm a few slices off the fresh loaf of bread I bought yesterday. Potter still isn’t home by six, so Teddy and I eat without his arse. At close to seven the Floo whooshes, Teddy is upstairs colouring in his room and I look up to see Potter looking tired, but happy. Before I can ask if he’s shot the pope, the Floo whooshes again and Potter’s “ex” tart tumbles out.
My face stays controlled, blank, and I am proud of myself when I don’t strangle her, for laughingly saying, “I see you allow your pet Malfoy to sit about reading in his spare time, Harry.” If only she knew how many times he’d used his pet as a cum dumpster.
He smiles at her, in that sick adoring way that he only uses when she’s around. I hate him more for it. Seeing red, I stand and make my way silently to my room, where I sit on the bed; numbly staring at the wall until Teddy comes into my bed at nine.
“Night,” he whispers; curling his little arms around my thin neck and kissing my cheek sweetly.
I pat his soft brown hair, some days he wears it shockingly blond, when he rests his head against the pillow.
That night I find them, fucking, again. Feeling ill, I watch, punishing myself; because I wish it were me getting the fuck of my life. I hate Potter and his glorious cock, for letting my cunt realise what she’s missing.
I see Potter even less than before. Cowardly of me to hide from him, I know, but I pretend that I am busy with nanny like projects. Darning socks and all that rot.
The sickness starts, and at first I try to take those crummy Muggle potions Potter keeps in the cabinets. They help as about as well as a hole in the head. So I rummage through the old potion stores I find in the basement, there’s not much, but a few things help.
By the fourth week Teddy asks me, in a small voice, if I am dying.
I pat him on the head and lovingly reply that I will not die.
“I love you Mummy,” he whispers that night, when he curls into my side. My heart constricts and I rub my fingers through the strands of his hair; hair that is staying blond, more often than not, now a days.
My back hurts all the damn time, and I am bloated no matter how much I chase Teddy round the yard. There is also the fact that my horrible monthly river of red has been absent, for the past two and a half months. If I didn’t know any better I’d think I was up the duffer. With a scornful laugh at myself I turn a smile on Teddy, who is playing on the old tire swing. His little hand frantically waving at me as he does so.
Suddenly, I don’t know why, I am crying like I did when my mum died. I see him scramble down, and soon I have an armful of Teddy Lupin-Potter. He wraps his arms around my neck, trying to rock me in a comforting way while he whispers, “Shhhh, it’s okay Mummy.”
In the attic, I find an old trunk of dated dresses. Luckily for me, they are maternity and have spells embedded in them, to keep my large bump from showing. Large at three months, that makes me terribly afraid. If it keeps going like this Potter is bound to notice sooner or later. I keep banking for later.
I get Christmas Eve with Teddy, and on Christmas day Potter takes him to the Weasel den, despite the little boy’s protests. I watch them go feeling rather forlorn. At least Teddy enjoyed the chocolates I managed to get him from Honeydukes. He wasn’t quite so fond of the sweaters and trousers, but loved the play chalk and colour books. Potter’s gift of course will be infinitely better, because it is a broom. Though, he’s reserved that gift for opening with the Weasleys. I hope Teddy has fun. At the same time I hope a thousand hot pokers fall in Potter’s lap, right on his bollocks. What right does he have to take Teddy away from me? I know he’s plenty of rights, but I am emotional and want to be petulant about how he’s treated me; like a common whore, he has. When three o’clock chimes, from the old clock in the hall, I make my way to bed.Pretending that I don’t waddle as I go.
Waking in a panic, at around seven, I shoot out of bed. Still in my night clothes , I focus on Teddy. He needs me! Leaving, with a loud pop; I open my eyes to the sight of a ton of gingers, their wives, and respective children. Not taking in their hostile suspicious looks, I search the room for Teddy, who is sitting next to Potter’s tart and the Mudblood. His wide pale brown eyes frightened, as they look down at a rather large album. Both women have the book open, on his lap between them, speaking while pointing to pictures.
“This is your mum Teddy,” Weaslette says firmly, “Not Draco.”
Big fat tears roll down those lovely little cheeks, that are generally pulled into a smile, and I am livid. Fuck those bitches, hurting my Teddy so blatantly! “No she’s not, Draco’s my mummy! She’s my mummy,” he wails, balling his little fists and banging them against the album before him.
Instantly, I am at his side, scooping him into my arms, and shushing his tears. “Mummy,” he hiccoughs, throwing his arms around my neck, so tight that it almost hurts, “They tried to say you wasn’t my mummy.” His tears soak through my thin T-shirt, and I don’t much care that the Weasels are getting an eye full of my tits. I’m not here to impress, that need left long ago, I just came to do my duty, as a mum.
“You’re fine now, Mummy’s got you,” I whisper against his ear. All the while glaring at Potter’s ginger bint for hurting my little boy, and not a bit for her taking Potter back. Not really.
“You are not his mum,” Potter says coldly behind me. It makes me tense, and causes Teddy to wail harder.
“Is too. Tell him Mummy!” He begs, digging his fingers into my shirt. Clutching me as if he’s afraid that I will leave him, if Potter commands me to do so; I won’t, not this time.
Pulling back, I snatch the album from Mudblood’s filthy hands; barely, I resist the urge to clean it, pointing to my bubbly departed cousin and her Werewolf of a husband. “These are your mummy and daddy,” I say slowly, again he looks ready to deny it, but then I hold up a hand and shush him adding, “But I am your mummy now, if you want me to be.”
“You can’t be his mum, Ginny will be and he can’t have more than necessary,” Potter says, and I want to turn around, yell, and beat the living crap out of him; make him hurt the way Teddy is hurting. Weaslette tries to pry Teddy off of me, but the young child’s grip is strong. She wants to reaffirm her place as his future mum, yet Teddy is having no part of it. I smile vindictively at her over his small shoulder, causing her to scowl. The look makes her uglier, and serves to make me happier.
“Fuck off Potter,” I say vehemently, clutching Teddy to me as I stand, intending to leave. When I turn, I forget to cover my ugly bulging belly. What’s beneath is undeniable, even to ignorant fools.
“What the hell?” Potter asks, eyes wide as he backs away. Weaslette and the others notice his line of sight, and all stare at me in mixed looks of awe and disgust. Fighting down an embarrassed flush, I try to pull Potter’s old shirt down, to no avail.
“Just a bit bloated Potter, that’s all.” I flippantly turn, intending to head to the Floo, when Mr Noble stops me.
“Is it mine?” His voice holds a reverent awe, that reminds me of when I did something good, making my parents proud.
Somewhere, in the background, there is a commotion at his words. All I can do is nod. He lets out a low breath, when his angry bint comes and grabs him by the arm. With him no longer commanding my line of sight, I turn, only to wish I hadn’t, seeing the small ginger army glaring at me. Thankfully Teddy is too busy, burying his face in the crook of my throat, to notice. My skin itches from the intensity, and I begin to curse my hasty departure. Should have worn the old world gowns, damn them if they laughed, and I wouldn’t have come to be in this predicament.
“You slept with Malfoy on our break?” Her voice is shrill, and brings me back to the confrontation at hand. Ronald, my favourite ginger; offers the most hate in his glare, directed solely at the proof of Potter’s and my liaison. As if I lured Potter away or something, I want to snort. The berk did it on his own. Mostly.
Potter turns a cold look on her, and it is one I know well. However, she takes a step back looking extremely frightened, I’ve never been that brilliant when it comes to Potter’s facial cues. “As if you weren’t getting plugged by Dean and Seamus during that time,” she sputters at Potter’s angry tone, trying to deny it when he hisses, “We’re mates, word gets round. Had to take my frustrations out somewhere. Too damn bad I didn’t count on getting Malfoy up the duffer.”
“You bastard,” she snarls, jabbing a sharp looking, violent blue, fingernail into his chest. I want to kick her for touching him. He shoves her back, not bothering to apologise to anyone, before he grabs my arm; popping us all out of the place.
We don’t speak any more, Potter and me. We rarely see each other except, at late hours of the night, on those nights when neither of us can sleep. Me because of his spawn, him because of a case that needs solving, or from guilt of being an arse to his ex. I’ve seen the pile, of crumpled letters, in the rubbish bin. Mostly I don’t care, or so I tell myself.
The baby grows restless, moving constantly in my belly by late spring. It is weird to feel the movements of something I will have for the rest of my life. It is odd to know that I made it, me and Potter. It is a combination of us. Scary and thrilling at the same time.
The day of my birthday my water breaks. I Floo the hospital and a Medi-Witch comes to the house, it is Potter’s way of avoiding the press. In the birthing bed, that is attached to my own, I writhe as pain clouts my body. Numbing potions only help so much. Potter and Teddy are outside playing, no doubt hearing me in the gardens. The heat of the summer presses down on me while I bear down, despite the constant cooling charms. I feel fevered, and wish the damn thing would hurry the hell up; pop out of me already.
They make it seem so easy on the telly; those soaps that I will never admit to watching, while Potter is away at work.
Finally, after hours and hours of wet towels, encouraging nods, and potions being shoved down my throat, there is a head coming. Soon a loud wail permeates the room, filling it up to the beautifully painted ceiling. When the boy is in my arms another contraction grips my body, and the healer is shouting that I’m not done yet. Before I can damn her, for not telling me there would be more pain after the child, another loud wail breaks through my pain induced haze.
Twins, little boys, both with mops of feather soft black hair and grey blue eyes. I’m a sobbing mess as I kiss their still swollen faces, identical cheeks and noses.
Potter holds them, looks at them as if he’s never seen anything as miraculous as those two little boys, and names them; Sirius and Severus. I think him a sentimental fool, but don’t comment; far too exhausted, and in too much pain to do more than sleep.
In a way, this is the start of our lives. It can only go one of two ways from here: up or down. I am hoping for up, but I’ve never had great luck.
