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Dress You Up (in My Love)

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Dress You Up (in my love)

Gonna dress you up in my love
All over, all over
Gonna dress you up in my love
All over your body
Gonna dress you up in my love, in my love
All over your body, all over your body
In my love
All over, all over
From your head down to your toes

-Dress You Up, Madonna; Lyrics by A. LaRusso and P. Stanziale


You’ve always been told you were good-looking.

When you were a child, they had cooed over your flawless complexion and the silken paleness of your hair. When your eyes turned from the blue of a babe’s to a silvery grey, they had called you stunning.

When you turned fifteen, the softness of your childhood transformed itself into high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a defined chin. The years of etiquette and dance lessons had gifted you with a perfect posture and a feline grace. They had called you beautiful. Desirable. The perfect heir.

Your looks suffered a bit during the war; servitude to a madman was bound to have that effect. For a while, the words being directed towards you were no longer full of honey and longing, but censure and vituperation.

Luckily, it wasn’t enough to break your will and determination. You became an Auror despite the whispers, the hexes, and the not-so-covert attempts to undermine your training. Your body grew strong—well-muscled and lean, complete with mile-long legs and an incomparable arse that looked bloody amazing, both in and out of your trousers.

They started calling you fit. Gorgeous. Tempting.

It was your looks which allowed you to catch the eye of the most eligible bachelor of the Wizarding World, your body that seduced him into embarking on a whirlwind relationship with a former Death Eater—public opinion and his own golden reputation be damned. For two glorious years, you discovered what it meant to be truly happy. How it felt to be loved by him.

The one who calls you his sweet, his beautiful boy, his darling.


“Lift up for me, Draco,” he pleads. “Just a little bit.”

You try, but your legs don’t move like they used to. There’s a pang of disappointment as he sighs, then flicks his wand tiredly as he mutters a Levitation Charm. It’s a simple spell, one that he used to cast both wordlessly and wandlessly, and the effort it takes him now makes your heart sink.

He slips on your trousers, one leg at a time. You had just recently warmed to the idea of wearing jeans, knowing how much they had turned him on. You never lasted long in them anyway, his desire often getting the better of the both of you. But the soft wool of your pants are now more comfortable against your skin, more familiar. The thought provides you with some solace, when you think about those lazy weekend mornings that you used to share. When he’d prefer to have your legs entwined around his hips, with nothing but a layer of sweat and your laughter between you.

He saves the jumper for last. It’s your favourite; the soft blue colour warms the steel grey of your eyes. It’s also the one you were wearing when he first kissed you.

He runs his thumb slowly along your bottom lip, as if he were remembering that time as well. As if hoping that with each swipe, the flesh beneath it would swell, warm and wet, moistened by the heat of your breath and your desire.

He stares at you, ever so intently. His impossible hair hangs long in his face—how many times have you told him it needs a trimming?—while his green eyes shimmer, his long lashes growing dark and wet.

“I’ll take care of you. I promise,” he whispers, pressing his lips to yours. They’re still chapped, but the taste is no longer sweet, only sour. He gazes at you once more as he makes a move to stand, as if memorising your perfection.

When he leaves, you try not to think about why that thought makes your blood run cold. 


It’s four hours later when he returns, his strong arms straining from the weight of a tray laden with fruit and pasties and sweets. The work it must have taken him to scrounge up such a feast on such short notice has to be considerable; it’s no wonder he’s resorted to doing things the Muggle way.

Sometimes you wonder how he’s managing to hold on to his magic. How he’s not running himself into the ground.

“You have to eat, Draco. Please.” He holds up a chocolate croissant that looks like it’s from Laurent Duchêne. It’s not fair, tempting you like that; he knows how much you love them. How you made sure to spend at least one Sunday a month where the both of you would Portkey into the 13th arrondissement to enjoy a decadent pastry and a spot of tea. But you haven’t had any sort of an appetite for the last several weeks, and you can’t bring yourself to open your mouth to taste its buttery, flaky sweetness, as much as you would like to.

He places a piece on top of your tongue. When that fails to elicit a reaction, he throws it back down onto the tray in a show of frustration. His hands clench at his sides, and perhaps the stress is too great, because the nightstand begins to rattle dangerously as his magic grows unstable. You watch as the tray jumps, then slides, your beautiful lunch spilling onto the floor.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” A piece of caramelised apple clings to your face, the splattered residue of its sticky juices staining your jumper. “I’m so sorry, Draco.” His fingers, normally so self-assured, tremble as he pulls off your top. It snags against your nail; he doesn’t realise, at first, until he tugs harder, and the brittle edge breaks.

The look on his face makes you want to scream. All that guilt. All his pain. You long to take him into your arms, to tell him ‘It’s okay.’ That even though it hurt in the beginning—when the curse first hit, searing your skin, the agony of it burning you from within—you no longer feel its physical aches or sting.

That he was not to blame.

It was your choice, after all, your decision to shield him from that Dark Wizard’s spell. In a way, you can almost appreciate the beauty of the irony: the penance dealt you from the end of a pureblood’s wand, an act made possible because you had finally learned what it meant to love someone other than your family or yourself.

You’d laugh if you could. But as much as you try, the sound won’t exit your throat.

He cleans you off, sets you to rights. Too often, he treats you like one of those porcelain figurines your mother used to buy in Dresden and Meissen, cloaked in a fragile shell of frozen lace. Their painted faces used to fascinate you, until you realised their resemblance to the masks which your father and his friends used to wear. The masks which you grew to hate.

Too often, nowadays, it feels like you’re trading one false face for another.


It’s a bleak end of the day. The rain hits hard, lashing against the panes of glass, rattling the frames. You think you must be somewhere north; much further north than the flat which the two of you once shared in Muggle London, further than even your beloved Wiltshire. When the sun is setting, it casts a red brilliance over the granite peaks of what you believe to be the Cairngorms in the distance.

He lights a fire, the warm glow of it filling the room. He’s taught you to enjoy these, too. Now, when you hear the crackling sounds of the woodsy sap heating and turning to steam, you think of winter cabins and holidays in the Swiss Alps. When you feel the fire roar, the flames licking red, then orange, then blue, you no longer think of Fiendfyre but of teasing and lazy shags on your living room floor.

You know he thinks of those times, too. Especially at night, and more so when there’s a half-empty Firewhisky bottle at his side. He approaches your bed slowly, the alcohol already dulling his senses, numbing his guilt. His eyes grow less conflicted and more purposeful as he lowers the coverlet and determinedly unzips his trousers.

He’s already dressed you in your pyjamas, and a deft pull on the drawstring of their waistband exposes your prick. You hear the spit as it hits the palm of his hand; it’s crude, but subtlety is hardly what he’s looking for. The sounds of his tugging grow loud, the graceless slapping of skin on skin. You feel a bit of pain at the memory of how he used to feel when it was your hand—the fat, soft shape of his cock filling and hardening under your expert strokes, the look of awestruck pleasure and even gratitude on his face. As if he couldn’t believe his good fortune, of how it felt to be with you.

There’s none of that now; his expression is dark and unseeing, driven only by his need to come. For one brief moment his left hand falters, reaching out to you of its own accord. His fingers trace the delicate line along your inner thighs, continuing upwards until they rest against the curves of your buttocks, their roving tips seeking that sensitive spot which sits between your cheeks.

Perhaps it’s the fact that you can’t moan in response, or arch towards him, or thrust back against his greedy fingers. He pulls away as if burnt, but it’s not enough to stop his actions. There’s a desperation to his movements, as if each time could be the last. There’s a part of you that wonders how much more time you both could have had, if he had just taken your proffered hand when you were children. If you hadn’t thought of yourselves as Malfoy and Potter for half a lifetime, but as Draco and Harry.

He comes with a sob, the sound of it only half-human. When he coats you with his release, it’s the first time that day you feel his warmth.


He should know better.

Eventually, they find you. No matter how safe he thinks the two of you are, or how hard he tries.

His job as Head Auror can shield you only so much, take the two of you only so far. Even if—or, perhaps, especially if—his name is Harry Potter.

The door threatens to rattle off its hinges. His magic must have weakened, because the entire front of the house shakes, followed by a loud, splintering sound. Even from the next room, you can hear the sizzle of the spells as they ricochet about, the safe haven he’s created for the two of you left in tatters.

“Lay down your wand, Auror Potter!”

“Harry, please!”

There’s a lull in the volley of spells. “Hermione,” he gasps, his voice sounding strangled. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Don’t do this, mate. He’s in there, isn’t he?”

The accusation causes him to hesitate. “I can’t let you take him, Ron. They’ve already buggered up everything at St Mungo’s and his fucking assailant's still on the loose. He’s staying here with me.” The door to the bedroom jiggles; you can hear the heaviness of his panting, his need to save you separated by only two inches of battered oakwood.

“Come back with us, Harry,” Hermione pleads. You envision her tears as they streak down her face. “You and Draco both; we’ll do what we can to...”

He pushes the door open, blocking the entrance with his powerful body, but it’s not enough to stop the stench of the acrid smoke that pours in from the next room. “I’m telling you for the last time, don’t come any closer. I—”

“He’s dead, Harry!” Weasley bellows. “Bloody Hell, Malfoy was AK’d, and there’s no one who can save him from that, not even you!”

Harry’s beautiful face twists into something ugly. He lifts his wand, an Unforgivable spilling from his lips just as someone casts a Jelly-Legs Jinx, and suddenly, somehow, the tip of his wand is trained on you.

You see the green flare coming, his eyes panicking, but Harry, my love, you can’t kill someone who’s already dead. Not when the only thing that remains of you is your decaying body—an empty vessel, a shell of who you used to be.

You're no longer anything beautiful.

There’s no pain, the second time around. Instead, your spirit sighs, and you welcome your freedom as, like a porcelain doll, the last line tethering you to this life finally shatters when Harry’s spell rings true.