When you've always known you like girls, it's easy to grow up believing you were really meant to be a boy. After all, that's the way the world works, isn't it? Boys like girls. Girls like boys. If you like girls, you must be a boy, especially if you were born with the bits boys have.
Everyone reminded Draco he was a boy as he grew. The first born son. The much awaited and desired son. The son and heir. His masculinity was celebrated.
Which is why it took so long for Draco to realize he wasn’t a man at all.
The thing was, he wasn’t sure what he was, if he wasn’t a man. He couldn’t be a woman, could he? When he looked in the mirror, he saw that same slim build he’d always had, small nipples standing out against the pale scarred skin. He saw his private parts nestled in among pale hair. He saw those narrow, pinched, almost elfin features, as delicate as they ever had been, but still the same ones he had always known. The ones he had always been told made him a beautiful boy. The ones he would pass along to a son of his own someday.
Draco raised one shaky hand to touch his own cheek, fingers sliding against the pale marble of his skin. Perhaps the mirror was wrong.
Draco decided to try the pronoun on for size first, just in her own mind.
It tasted right on her tongue, thinking to herself that it was her hand holding the wand. Or she was hungry. Or perhaps that she ought to go to work. It helped when she sat at dinner with her parents, as her mother spoke of making a good match, and her father spoke of the Malfoy heritage and how it would be renewed. They didn’t know, she told herself. They didn’t understand.
She moved out of Malfoy Manor and into a small flat in London, because it felt wrong to live with her parents without explaining to them that their son was a daughter. But she knew they would never see her that way.
Draco herself had difficulty understanding it. After all, when she reached down between her legs, she still felt a proper cock and balls. Those were what boys had, and she didn’t find it upsetting that she had them. They were what she’d always had, after all. She did, however, wish for breasts.
And clothes. She truly wished for proper clothing.
She said it aloud, to another person, for the first time standing in the lingerie department of Harrod’s.
She hadn’t intended to say a thing, except perhaps to a salesperson in order to make a purchase. But she became so engrossed in looking through the thin scraps of silk, wondering how to change her chest to properly fill out a bra, that she didn’t hear someone come stand beside her. Not until the soft whisper of, “Draco Malfoy? What are you doing pawing through ladies’ lingerie?”
She blinked to see Hermione Granger standing there, hands on her hips, bushy hair pulled back into a pony tail. Draco blinked again. Perhaps she should have said that she was picking up a gift for Pansy, but caught as she was with silk in her hands, she whispered back, “I need a bra.”
Hermione was clearly startled, with no response for several seconds. Draco dropped her gaze, a rose flush warming her skin.
When she lifted her head again, her pointed chin was tilted up, lips pressed in a thin line. She had mastered the haughty expression long ago, pinched and tight. “And it is absolutely none of your business why,” she snapped, setting the hangar back on the rack so she could push past Hermione.
Draco felt as if Hermione had to be watching her as she walked out. She wondered what the other woman saw, and with lips pressed thinly together, tried to convince herself that it didn’t matter. It only mattered what Draco knew inside. Nothing would ever change the public image of the treasured Malfoy son.
This looked to be about the right size, and I think this colour might be good with your skin tone. You ought to avoid that yellow you were looking at; it would make you look sallow. The bold colours will make your skin look like marble, which could be either very bad or very good. I think this pink will add rosy tones to your skin, which would be nicely attractive.
Draco unwrapped the package carefully to find the matching bra and knickers. She stripped quickly, pulling on the knickers first, feeling how soft they were against her skin. She had to wrestle with things a bit to get the bra on, until she realized that she could hook it in the front, then swing it around and put her arms through after.
Fingers skimmed over the lace, searching for curves that weren’t there. Still, when she looked in the mirror, something that was almost but not quite right stared back at her.
It occurred to her that she was the best wizard in her class, and that Hermione Granger was the best witch. If they put their heads together, they might be able to figure out a proper way to give Draco breasts. Proper ones that would last more than an hour or two.
That thought made it oddly difficult to tuck her prick back between her legs. Surprisingly, thinking of Granger only made the ache worse.
Draco laid down on the bed, eyes closed, one lip caught in her teeth. She thought about Hermione as she wanked, wondering what the other woman would think if she saw Draco in her new underwear. She came in spurts over her stomach as she imagined Hermione sucking on Draco’s breast, her hands on her prick.
Draco considered her actions carefully, before putting quill to paper. She had taken the picture that morning of how the soft satin clung to her hips and outlined her bits. Of how it lay flat against her chest, wistful and waiting for something to fill it. She carefully tucked those pictures into the envelope, then penned the note to go with them.
Thank you very much for the gift. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and your silence.
Perhaps we could shop again sometime. I find myself in need of more items for my closet.
It occurred to her that perhaps she needed a different name. But she had been Draco Malfoy for almost twenty years; she couldn’t conceive of being anyone else yet. Perhaps that would come with time, much like her breasts.
Draco’s first dress was silk, and a blue so pale it shimmered almost silver when she moved. It had soft puffs of taffeta at the shoulders for straps, nipping in to her narrow waist, then spilling out with stays beneath skirts to make it seem as if she had more hips than she did. When she looked in the mirror, her breath caught. “I haven’t any place to wear it,” she said wistfully.
Hermione stood behind her, fluffing the skirts until they flowed properly. “You could find a place, if you truly want it,” she said. She looked into the mirror, meeting Draco’s eyes. “You haven’t called me Mudblood since we ran into each other.”
Oh. Well. Draco drew in a deep breath and let it out. “You haven’t called me a pervert, either,” she pointed out.
“You have a point.” Hermione huffed a small sigh, and leaned closer, wrapping her arms around Draco’s waist, her chin resting on her shoulder. “There are Muggle ways of giving you breasts, you know.”
Draco’s smile wavered and she shook her head. “Magical, it has to be magical. I just can’t be comfortable with it otherwise.” She knew it wouldn’t feel right to do it any other way. She wanted something she could feel taking her apart to her bones and putting her back together.
“Then we’ll just have a lot of work to do, won’t we.” It wasn’t a question, not the way Hermione said it, and that alone brought Draco’s smile back.
Draco turned, staying in the circle of Hermione’s arms. “Pick out a dress. I’ll buy it for you. I want to take you out.”
“Someplace we could wear dresses like these?” Hermione’s fingers drifted over the taffeta on Draco’s shoulder. When Draco nodded, she nodded in return. “It’s a date then.”
Draco shivered pleasantly. “Is it?” She never would have considered this when they were younger. But in this new life, Hermione had become an unexpected ally. Draco remembered her fantasy and shivered again.
Hermione brushed a kiss against her lips, barely a momentary touch. “It is.”
Hermione found the spell, but it was Draco who knew the language to interpret it properly. Together they determined how it would work, and what care to take with preparations. It wasn’t a simple thing, but a daily process, changing each morning over and over until time stretched and it lasted a little longer each time. It would become permanent, eventually, but that would be years down the road.
The first time they cast it, it took an hour before it was done quite right. Draco stripped by herself afterwards, wanting this moment of privacy to stare into the mirror and lightly touch the image she couldn’t believe was her own.
The same sharp, pointed featured, with delicate eyes and cheekbones. The same pale hair, sweeping now past her shoulders, curling slightly. The same grey eyes, made to seem larger by a now deft application of makeup. The same thin build, with narrow waist, almost boyish except for the spare curves that rounded her chest and flared so very slightly at her hips.
It had been months since that morning Draco first looked at herself in the mirror and knew who she was. And this time, she saw herself staring back.
The door opened and Hermione came in to sit quietly on the bed, not disturbing her moment.
“I can’t lie anymore,” Draco said softly. “I have to tell my parents. My boss. There may be repercussions.”
“I know,” Hermione replied.
“And it will take years before it’s done, before I’ll be put together properly.” Draco cupped one breast, feeling the curve of it.
“You are exactly who you are,” Hermione said quite firmly. “And exactly who I think you were always meant to be. I love you, and I will be by your side every step of the way.”
Draco picked up her bra—her first bra, the one Hermione had given her—and carefully put it on, then checked her profile in the mirror. A small smile tilted her lips, sharp and biting and utterly pleased with herself. “Then pass me that skirt, if you would. I should like for my parents to meet their daughter, and her love.”
After all, the mirror had finally stopped lying. Now it was time for Draco to do the same.