HP fic: Communion [Draco/Harry, adult]
Title: Communion Author: celandineb Fandom: HP Pairing: Draco/Harry Rating: adult Length: 5548 words Warnings: some sexual activity, none of it terribly explicit; gender ambiguity; angst Summary: Draco decides to tell Harry the truth about the past before anything can happen between them. Note: Written for the lgbtfest, prompt 719: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Draco's gender and/or sexuality are not what everyone has assumed they are (i.e. male and straight), and he has to find ways to cope at school, with his family, and/or in wizarding society at large. Possible spoilers follow, highlight to read: Draco's condition as described here is 5-alpha-reductase deficiency syndrome, which is an autosomal recessive trait resulting in various possible intersex manifestations. There are several known clusters of this condition in the Muggle world, including in the Dominican Republic, Brazil, and Papua New Guinea, in each case indicating origins in a common ancestor. This choice seemed a plausible way to account for Draco's genital and gender ambiguity, given the high degree of inbreeding among some of the pureblood wizarding families.
I came home with you because of the way you've looked at me in the bar over the past two weeks: not just admiring, I get that all the time, and lustful the same. You looked, I don't know, awed, shy, even respectful. As if you saw a person under the hard-edged glamour.
"Go ahead, you can touch," I say.
Stockings are ever so much sexier than tights. There's always the chance that a suspender will come unhooked.
I like that, the way you brush your thumb over the exposed skin just above the sheer silk, expensive and fragile but far better than artificial Muggle nylon. Your fingers are warm and comforting and I've let my skirt be nudged upward although not too far. You still don't know my secret.
But you don't seem to be in any rush, settling me more firmly against you, your other hand also busy, trailing one finger down my neck so that I shiver into the touch, then exploring my chest. My bosom is largely illusory; I use a special bodice that pushes up the skin, making it appear that there is more fullness at the breasts than a man usually has, but there isn't, really. I suppose I could use an Engorgement Charm, but I don't want any more actual flesh than I have by nature, and padding would restrict too much what I can wear. I would rather be able to show a little skin.
You touch me with such reverence that I'm almost afraid. I want to be able to live up to your expectations, whatever they may be. I never have managed to do that with anyone, in any context, in my life, starting with my parents when I was born. Yes, I'll explain. You'll hear the full story in fact, after I steal a little time to enjoy with you first.
"I want to tell you about myself. Then you can decide if you still want me. I've learned the hard way that it's better to handle it like this, rather than setting us both up for disappointment."
You're intrigued, you say? Of course you are. Everyone is at this point; it's only after they hear my story that curiosity changes to something else.
"I'll warn you now, though, that if you react as I expect and want me to leave after you've heard my story, I will put a Memory Charm on you before I go, so that you don't recall any of this."
I have to be careful, after all. Can't let my secret get out to just anyone, and it's dangerous to trust, although I'm more likely to trust you than most.
When I say that I see you flush a little, and you resettle your specs more firmly on the bridge of your nose, your body shifting. I want to feel your cock pressing against me longer, just like this. Between us are your trousers and my skirt, but still I can feel the warmth of your prick, the firm evidence of your desire as we kiss. You're a good kisser. I think that it's because you give it all of your attention. I reciprocate as fully as I can, letting my lips open under yours, tasting the depths of your mouth.
You're glassy-eyed when we finally stop kissing. Your skin is flushed, your breathing fast. I can feel your cock stone-hard now and you make a little noise when I roll my hips against you. I can tell that you want to fuck me right away, and I wish I could let you, but instead I stand up, not quite gracefully as I am in almost the same state of thoughtless lust you are, and I wobble in my high heels on the thick carpet. Recovering my balance, I walk across the room and pour us each a glass of whiskey from the decanter on your sideboard, bringing them back and handing one to you as I settle myself again on the sofa, beside you this time rather than on your lap. You give me a knowing rueful smile as you take the glass and lift it to me in a silent toast before drinking. You rest the glass on your knee, the fabric pulling tight across your groin, and I swallow and look away and begin my story.
My parents wanted a boy. My father wanted one because he needed a son to inherit, but also partly I think because he wanted another copy of himself. My mother, I suspect, simply never cared for other women very much, not even her own sisters; perhaps she saw other women as rivals, I don't really know. In any case, when my mother became pregnant, my father consulted a witch reputed to have great skill in determining a child's sex before its birth, and she assured them that my mother was carrying a son.
Of course I don't personally remember the circumstances of my birth. What I'm going to tell you, I pieced together over the years, from things that my parents let slip from time to time, and also, frankly, from overhearing them talk, mostly by spying. I listened at doors quite often. If my parents were going to talk about me, I figured it was my right to know what they said.
I was five years old, maybe six, when I first realised. No, five, it must have been five, because it was in the summer sometime after my birthday, but I hadn't begun any schooling yet – those lessons with Miss Margreath, who came in to teach me to read and write and do simple sums. I suppose there was a Muggle school nearby, but Father and Mother would never have permitted me to attend it, and there were no other suitable children of wizarding parents who lived close enough for a group of us to be educated together. So Miss Margreath Flooed in daily and taught me alone.
But that came later. As I said, I realised that I was different before she came. You would think that I would remember more clearly how it happened, but I don't. I suspect that someone, probably my mother, modified my memory... I say my mother, because I do remember some things, and Mother always had a more delicate touch with magic. She would have argued Father into agreeing that I ought to be aware, so that I could avoid such problems in the future.
That's my belief, anyhow. I suppose it doesn't matter much which of them did it.
The way it happened was this. The Parkinsons were visiting my parents and had brought Pansy with them, of course, to play with me while the adults had their boring adult conversations. I thought Pansy was rather a brat – looking back, I'm sure she felt the same way about me; we were both only children and made much of at home – but playing with her was nevertheless more interesting than playing with the house-elves or by myself. The weather was fine and warm and we were out in the gardens, playing hide-and-seek... I think that's what we played. Something of the sort. At any rate, we did that for a while, and then Pansy wanted to play house. She would be the mother and I would be the father, and we had leaves and flowers and sticks and stones as our furniture and dishes and so forth, and it was all very well until she decided that it was time for us to go to bed, and we had to undress to do so.
I don't remember exactly what occurred after that. I can only guess that she laughed, or said something, that told me that I didn't look like her boy cousins. That I was missing something important. She pointed and laughed, and I yelled, and then my father was there and after that my memory becomes a blur.
Pansy doesn't remember any of this, mind you. I asked her at school years later, in a roundabout way, and she didn't even recall visiting us that summer, though she remembered other times that she'd come and we'd played together. So probably one of my parents Obliviated her completely, though I kept at least some of my memory.
I do know that my parents argued afterward about what to tell me, because I heard them shouting and I crept down the stairs and crouched outside the door to the drawing room to listen. My mother insisted that I should be told enough to be cautious. My father wanted to wait several more years before explaining matters.
It's rather surprising that my mother won. She rarely did. But then, she rarely raised her voice, either. Perhaps that fact alone shocked Father into agreeing that time.
You're looking at me, squinting from behind your specs, hardly even bothering to disguise your stare. You've doubtless guessed who I am by now -- well, that's not surprising, is it? -- and perhaps begun to suspect what I am as well.
This isn't in order. I'm sorry. I'm not good at telling this story, even though I've done it before, as I mentioned. Let me back up to my birth again.
Even before I was born, my parents had had that witch check my mother and so they were certain that I would be a boy. They had already chosen a suitable family name. I can't imagine their shock when they saw me, though I'm sure my father was desperately angry, because he did something almost unthinkable: he took me to a Muggle physician, who carried out all sorts of tests on me, and confirmed that I was indeed male, even if I didn't entirely look like it. My father was advised to let the doctors perform surgery on me, reshape me to look normal. No matter how angry I sometimes am at him, I can never stop loving him for the fact that he refused. No crude Muggle knife would touch his son. From what I have learned since, that was a rather unusual reaction for a parent at the time.
You look surprised.
"Think about it," I say. "You grew up with Muggles; if their son had been less than perfect, physically, what would they have done? Everything and anything they could to 'fix' him, I'm sure."
You nod and say, "I suspect most Muggle and most wizarding parents would do the same."
"So they would."
In fact my parents did do everything that they could, it's just that they weren't willing to take Muggle measures. Perhaps they thought it beneath them. Having taken me to be seen and diagnosed by a Muggle physician was disgrace enough.
In any case, and whatever their reasons, I remained physically intact.
Psychologically -- that's another kettle of potion altogether. I don't know what to call myself any more. I try to avoid labels altogether as much as I can, but it seems as if someone always wants to know. I know, you haven't asked -- not yet, at any rate, but I expect sometime you will. Biologically I'm male, according to the witch my father consulted and according to Muggle medicine as well. As a young child I was always dressed like a boy, referred to as a boy, given no hint that there was anything different about me. When Pansy's reaction made me realise that I wasn't shaped like other boys, my parents had to tell me some part of the truth, what they thought I could understand.
My father promised me that one day I would look like other men. I don't know if he genuinely believed that that would happen, or if he was speaking from blind hope, but it did comfort me at the time. No more was said until I was ten. That is, neither of my parents mentioned my condition to me. They talked about it occasionally between themselves, and as I grew older, I eavesdropped on some of those conversations. So when my father finally did speak to me about it once again, I wasn't taken entirely by surprise.
Perhaps I should note that it was because of my condition that my parents decided not to have any more children. However much they might have wanted a normal son, they didn't know for certain why I was the way I was, and they didn't want to risk having another like me. There have been other such wizards in the past, even in my own family, I learned eventually. It could happen again.
At any rate, I was ten, nearly eleven, when my father came to talk to me. Both he and my mother had always impressed on me that when I went to school, it would be important not just for what I would learn of magic, but also for the other students I would meet, the connections that I could forge with them. Now my father explained that he was concerned that it would be difficult for me to be accepted as I should be if my fellow students were aware of my physical differences. He told me that he and my mother had concluded that the best thing to do would be to use spells to alter my appearance when necessary, any time that I was naked and others might see. They had talked about keeping me home and having me tutored, not by Miss Margreath by someone with more advanced training, but that would have put me and our family at a social and political disadvantage in the future.
The spells my father proposed I should use were complex. At that age it took me several months to master them, through sheer rote practice. There were two: one was a glamour, an Illusion Spell, to make anyone who looked think that my appearance was the same as that of any other boy. I would have to learn to modify that one slightly as the years passed and the appearance of my genitals would be expected to change. The second was a Memory Charm in case I ever slipped up or forgot the first and someone saw me unaltered. There was a third he wanted me to use too, but I was unable to master it: self-transfiguration to change the actual physical flesh temporarily. That one proved difficult not only because of the complexity of the spell, but also because the results were very painful. I am not a Metamorphmagus and although my genitals do not have the same shape as do others', they are still sensitive. Reshaping them assaults the nerves, and I would no sooner begin the process than I had to change back. If there had been some way to manage such a transformation without pain, either temporarily or permanently, I think that would have been the method my father would have preferred, but it quickly became clear that that would not be an option.
So I went off to Hogwarts fully prepared to conceal who and what I really was.
You're nodding. You look sympathetic, but you don't know everything yet. I have to say that I'm impressed that you haven't tossed me out, and that you don't have that salacious titillated look that I've seen far too many times; a prurient curiosity as to just what exactly I look like.
"Perhaps I'd better get us both another drink?" I suggest.
At your assent I get up and refill our glasses. You've been mostly silent this whole time, except when I asked about your Muggle relatives. I appreciate the way that you pay such focussed attention to me and to the history of myself that I'm telling.
Now where was I? Of course, going to school for the first time. Before we went to King's Cross Station for me to catch the train, my parents impressed on me yet again how important it was that I uphold the family honour, that I never let slip how I differed from others. I promised that I would behave as they expected and never let them down.
Also on the train that day were a number of other students whom I already knew. Pansy, of course, and Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle, and several more first-years, not to mention a few of the older students. I slipped easily into acting the way I had done when I had met them in other circumstances; assuming that they would want to be friends with me for my blood and connections, I could in turn be somewhat standoffish and proud, just as I had seen my parents act toward theirs. It worked beautifully, and reassured me that I would be able to carry out the deception I had to practice without arousing suspicions.
The real trouble with the whole situation was something that I didn't dare admit to my parents, and indeed scarcely allowed myself to be conscious of, either. That is, that although I was biologically male, and had been raised to think of myself as a boy despite my unusual physical appearance, and moreover was required to conduct myself in a masculine manner to uphold my family's honour, there was a part of me that found all this foreign and abhorrent.
I knew that I was a boy, but I felt more at ease thinking of myself as a girl. My parents, especially my father, had assured me time and time again that I might well develop a more normal appearance at puberty, and that failing that they would do all they could, even stooping to Muggle medicine if necessary, to ensure that my adult self would be able to lead a normal life as a man, to marry, even -- they hoped -- to have children. The thought filled me with dread, so much so that I tried not to think about it at all. I used the Illusion Spell regularly, and the Memory Charm on occasion too, when there was horseplay in the showers and someone bumped into me. Each time I used one of the spells, though, it tore at my peace of mind a little more.
I had to be careful in the Slytherin Common Room too. I was very careful to always have on hand a good supply of sobriety potion and a truth serum antidote. Surely you Gryffindors played those embarrassing truth-telling games? I didn't dare risk being caught unprepared for that, so I became quite adept at finding ways to dose myself as necessary, when I couldn't avoid playing, and no one ever found me out. Thinking back on it now I suspect that others were doing the same; we pretended that we asked such intimate and intrusive questions because we were drunk, but now I believe alcohol was just the excuse to do what we wanted anyhow. What some of us wanted.
As my father had hoped and I had come to fear, when I was fourteen and puberty set in, I did begin to develop in ways that made me appear much more like the other boys. As the changes took place, I adjusted the Illusion Spell gradually.
To my intense embarrassment, over the Christmas holidays two years later, my father took me to a Muggle hospital to be evaluated again. I recognised -- as so often with my father -- that he did what he did out of love and concern for me, not out of any sort of disgust with my abnormality. He simply wanted me to be able to lead the same kind of life that he led. I appreciated that he went to such efforts to help me during a time when he was facing great troubles of his own, even though I have since come to see his actions as misguided.
The Muggle physician poked me and prodded me, took blood, and required me to masturbate for a test to determine if I was fertile. To my father's great joy the results were affirmative; I would be able to father children of my own. I didn't tell him that I found the idea appalling.
Yet in some ways after that point my ongoing double deception became easier. Now that my father was certain that I was a fully functional male, he was less concerned to ensure that I acted completely masculine at every moment. I was not able to let down my guard very often, though, for by this time I had established certain patterns of behaviour with others and it would have aroused surprise, even suspicion, had I altered them too much. Nevertheless when I was alone at home in the summer or on rare occasions even at school, I could relax and think of myself not as an imperfect boy, nor as the even less likely girl I had once superficially resembled, but simply as myself, as someone who had certain physical characteristics but was not defined by them. Those moments were rare. At that same time outside events were affecting my family and our whole world. I can't justify my actions then nor what my parents chose to do, except to say that I know that I, and I firmly believe that they, did what we did because it seemed then to be best for our family and its survival. That judgment may have been wrong -- in fact I would now go so far as to say that it was wrong -- but it was the best any of us could do at the time.
"The best at the time, yes," you say, your expression sad. You take a draught of your drink and look into it as if there were some answer there.
I watch you carefully. You know better than anyone else in the world, probably, the strains and stresses of that year when the Dark Lord was in action once again, and I expect you to say something about that, but you don't.
Instead you ask, "What about Pansy? When you went to the Yule Ball, were you just using her?"
You want to know about Pansy? Well, of course I used her. I had to. It isn't as if that were a one-way street, you know; she was using me just as much. Her parents may not have explicitly told her to seduce the Malfoy heir, but any pure-blood child knows the rules of the game. If you're lucky there's someone of the opposite sex and approximately the same age who belongs to a suitable family, and if you're very lucky it's someone to whom you are at least mildly attracted. Pansy didn't have that many choices, and I can say without false modesty that I was the best of them, or rather, without any knowledge of my condition I would certainly have seemed so. Vince and Greg were useful followers for me, but I can't imagine any girl with half a brain wanting to marry either of them. Blaise's mother was a major liability, and between Theo and me, his ancestry is distinctly inferior. And of course Pansy wasn't the only pureblood girl in our year, and the girls below her in school might be potential rivals as well.
So no. Given that she and I had grown up knowing each other, I was obviously going to be her preferred choice, whatever her personal feelings might have been. I think actually that she fancied Adrian Cadwallader, who was two years ahead of us, but there was something questionable about that family, as I remember -- several Squib cousins, or some such. Her parents would never have approved of him as a son-in-law.
I can't say I'm proud of leading Pansy on, but I'm not ashamed of it either. It was just something that had to be done.
I'll tell you something, though. When I took Pansy to the Yule Ball I wanted so badly to be dressed in those frilly pink robes she wore that I could almost taste it. Boys' dress robes are so dull, nearly always black, and all that. I know, yours were green, and Weasley's were some dreadful faded maroon colour, but mostly they're black and boring as shit unless you're Dumbledore and can get away with being flamboyant. Even he couldn't have, if he hadn't beaten Grindelwald, I suspect. Or maybe he could have. That generation of wizards did better by themselves than those of today.
Anyhow, envying Pansy's dress at the Yule Ball was perhaps when I first consciously realised how badly I wanted to be a girl and to be able to dress like that if I wanted.
Back to how I finally acted on that. After the war was over, I had a very difficult decision to make. My parents' world had just crumbled around them. I had to choose whether I would continue to let them think that I was who they wanted me to be, or if I would tell them the truth, that in my mind I was not, never would be, and did not want to be a man.
I didn't decide. I delayed for several years, actually. I was afraid of telling them, of losing their love if they knew the truth. When they began to talk about finding me a suitable wife, however, I had no choice. If I didn't tell them then, I would be trapped for the rest of my life in a role I increasingly hated. After all that I had suffered already for my family, I felt I deserved a chance at happiness on my own terms.
So at last I told them.
You've been remarkably patient as I've told you my life story so far, and I'm a bit worried that you're taking it so calmly. I'm not used to that, you see. I pause and take a deep gulp of my drink. It almost seems that I can feel the alcohol trickling through my veins. I move a little closer to you, feeling the warm press of your leg against my own, solid and comforting, and you put your arm around my shoulders as well, not speaking, waiting for me to continue.
I tried to soften the blow a little by explaining that I had no intention of trying to make any permanent alterations to myself in any physical way, neither through magic nor through Muggle medicine, which at least left open the possibility that I could sire a child someday if I wished to. I merely intended in future to conduct myself in dress and action as the woman I felt myself to be.
My parents were distraught, my father in particular. He made wild threats about disinheritance and so on, but my mother begged him not to do anything irrevocable right away. He finally settled for declaring that I should not enter the family home again until I had reconsidered my attitude.
It wasn't quite as bad as it sounds. I was already living in a flat of my own, and there is a trust fund in my name that my parents can't touch. It's not a great deal of money; if I'm not working, it's just about enough to live on, if I'm careful. But I would rather have some sort of job to keep me busy at least part of the time, as well as providing some extra income.
My family connections were probably a detriment in that respect. I'm still not sure if no department in the Ministry would hire me because of my family's connections to Voldemort, or if my father pulled strings to make sure I was turned down, in the hope that I would then give up my dreams of independence and come back into the family fold where he so desperately wanted me to be. Of course, the fact that I had decided to dress the way I felt comfortable -- that is, as a woman -- might well have worked against me too. However I looked, people in the Ministry knew who I was, and the discrepancy doubtless made them reluctant to employ me.
In any event, the only job I could get was as a waitress in a bar, which you already know, since that's where you found me two weeks ago.
It was amusing, watching you stare at me that first night, trying to figure out where you'd seen me before. You're not the first one to have reacted like that, if it's any consolation. Most people never do place me. They remember the boy Draco Malfoy, probably as someone who was spoiled and arrogant, or petulant and cowardly. You don't need to deny that. It's true, and I know it. I was all those things. The point is, they remember me as a boy, as a male. Being called Electra at the Scrying Glass, I am virtually anonymous. And, as I hinted earlier, I make judicious use of Memory Charms when it proves necessary.
I quite like being a waitress, actually. I'm good at it, and it gives me the opportunity to socialize as a woman, that faux-socializing one does with customers anyhow. And sometimes they become more than customers, as you know.
So there you have it. My history in a nutshell. Born looking like a girl, raised to think of myself as a boy, given a more masculine appearance through the miracle of puberty, but all along wishing I were truly the woman I now pretend to be. I'm someone in between, someone who doesn't fit those nice neat categories that society prefers to apply to its members.
You're between categories in some ways too, aren't you? One of the most powerful wizards of our age, yet you were raised by Muggles, and I expect sometimes you still think of yourself as one of them. Perhaps I should have understood that years ago, but like most children, most adolescents, I was very self-centred. I had plenty of pity for my own lot in life, but none to spare for anyone else, always being terrified that my secrets would be found out.
I look down at my glass, and swallow the rest of the liquor. You reach to take it from me, setting it aside, and then draw me closer to you, resting your fingers on my cheek. I feel that it should be wet with tears, but I rarely weep, and did not do so tonight. You stroke the skin of my face, which is smooth, like a woman's. I use a strong Depilation Charm each morning and evening. I hear that there is some Muggle method of permanent hair removal using electricity, but I'm not sure that I trust it.
When you pull me into a closer embrace I acquiesce, letting my head rest on your shoulder. I am taller than you are, tall even for a man and very tall indeed for a woman, but I have always remained slender, and now I can curl up and nestle against you. To my own surprise I trust you completely, despite all the history of mutual dislike we have from our school days. You have listened to me tonight and accepted and not judged, and if I was a little in love with you before -- for who isn't a little in love with Harry Potter when it comes right down to it? -- I'm in a fair way to fall head over heels now.
You hold me, stroking my back soothingly. I know that you still desire me despite my story -- and I know you must have guessed who I was, early on -- for I can feel your prick firm against my leg, but you make no effort to do anything to relieve your arousal. You merely wait, and hold me.
I take a few deep breaths. I too am aroused, and at last I take your hand and guide it underneath my skirt, between my legs. Your touch is tentative, your eyes searching mine as you stroke me.
"What do you want?" you ask. "Shall I just touch you, or would you like me to make love to you some other way?"
You use the expression "make love" unselfconsciously, and my heart seems to break at that. I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone; I want you inside me, possessing me completely, but I don't yet dare to say so. Powerfully though I am drawn to you, deeply though I trust you, I am too frightened to act on either trust or desire so quickly. Instead I let you continue to caress me as you have been doing, and I reciprocate, kissing you all the while until we wrench the orgasm from each other's body and rest, sated for a brief moment, in each other's arms.
Eventually I disentangle myself and rise to leave. I consider whether or not to use a Memory Charm as I pause with my hand on the doorknob, looking back at you. You smile at me. The moment passes, and I leave you there, memory intact, holding my fate in your hand. I return to my own flat, and am dressing to get ready for work the next afternoon when an owl arrives with a note that says you want to see me again, that you'll come to the bar that evening. I feel my mouth stretch in a smile.