Of all the calamities I've suffered in my short, but colorful, lifetime, no tragedy has been so excruciating as the agony of unrequited love.
Naturally, I've experienced plenty of pain in my nearly twenty-six years of life. As a child, I was pecked and bitten aggressively by my father's albino peacocks. I've loathed the blasted creatures ever since. At twelve, no thanks to the precious "Saint" Potter, I was humiliated on the Quidditch pitch and suffered a long night of pain in the infirmary. At thirteen, a savage chicken nearly killed me. The world never treated me the way I deserved.
Receiving the Dark Mark the summer I turned sixteen opened my eyes to an adult's sting of the enchanted tattoo dissipated, though the Murtlap Essence from mother's stores was barely potent enough to touch it even after a few weeks. It was bad at first, but then the Dark Lord demanded that I kill Albus Dumbledore. Precious Potter was slapping his forehead the year before, at any itch across that ostentatious scratch across his forehead, and I had to endure constant sting on my forearm throughout the entirety of my sixth year. It was almost as irritating as the constant hovering of Snape, who ultimately stole my glory. I could have certainly killed Dumbledore. I was moments away from it - I merely needed more time.
Being on the receiving end of the Cruciatus Curse during my seventeenth year of life wasn't particularly pleasant, now that I reflect on it. Dear Aunt Bellatrix's Cruciatus Curse resulted in more of a sharp, stabbing sort of torture. The Dark Lord's Crucio , however, transcended all previous anguishes, mental and physical. The Dark Lord's bouts of torture had once been the cruelest, most traumatizing experiences of my life.
All previous suffering couldn't compare to my current state. In the past, when I was hurt or tortured, I simply wished for death. Slipping away into the sweet oblivion of death was a mercy that was repeatedly denied.
I don't want to die anymore, but I can live no longer with the heartbreak and torment of unrequited love. The misery of physical aches and Torture Curses would eventually come to an end, whether by loss of my sanity or death.
I survive on the tiniest fraction of hope. I live a cursed life – a half-life – marked by the loud ticking of my heartbeat.
Nothing else matters. Food has no taste. Life passes me by in a blur of images, lights, sounds, and incoherent babble from the idiots that fill my days.
I endure it all for her. I see her daily, with her rosy cheeks, bright eyes, angelic voice, and supremely squeezable arse (if I ever get the chance to squeeze it one day).
She has no idea who I am.
Well, that's not quite true .
The thought makes my skin itch a bit, and I find myself adjusting the clasp of my robes. She knows Draco, perhaps, but does she know I am Draco Malfoy ? With all that name entails? That would be an entirely different story.
For certain, I'm friendly with Ambrosia. Merlin's knickers , even that name is beautiful and mysterious, which makes it the perfect appellation to encompass her grandeur. Her Majesty, Her Divinity. How appropriate that she is an Unspeakable. It is no mystery why. I dare not call her a friend , not when I madly desire that she become so much more. Lover? Wife? Mother to my heir?
It was her physical beauty I noticed at first. I'm not afraid to admit this to myself, or anyone who asks. I am a man, after all – an accomplished, well-liked wizard – and I find great beauty in Ambrosia. She has creamy, smooth skin, bright, almost iridescent honey-green eyes, and pink cheeks that make her truly ethereal-looking.
She isn't meant for the world of mortals. She is meant to be adored and admired, and I can think of no better way to admire her than to offer every inch of my body to her, to use however she likes.
Ambrosia is everything I ever wanted: beautiful, pureblooded, soft-spoken, and steady. The witches I'd met at Hogwarts were grating at best and revolting at worst. Pug-faced Parkinson and mountain-troll-Millicent? Lucky to be called eyesores against Ambrosia's glorious visage. The merest thought of approaching either of them makes me shudder. A whisper of the possibility of waking up next to either one of them every morning for the rest of my days makes my gorge rise, especially knowing I could've had another.
After meeting Ambrosia, a pairing with anyone else is justification for a jump off of a cliff without a broomstick.
As for my love herself, Ambrosia could calm the wildest storm with a moment's presence. She could soothe a rampant hippogriff with a glance. Just a whisper of her musical voice would put a cerberus in a coma. Her magnificent gaze could return the soul to a Dementor's victim.
It was a pleasant shock for me to discover she was a pureblood, as her surname wasn't one I recognized; after some personal research into her family, I discovered she came from a very old, very respectable Canadian pureblood family.
A most welcome transplant to Britain, I thought, when I learned of her origins.
If only she showed any interest in me, the " bachelor of the decade ," according to Witches' Weekly's latest article. True, I still have a faded Dark Mark on my forearm, but I'm unashamed of showing it off. Being a pureblood herself, I hope Ambrosia will understand why I took the Dark Mark and what it meant. She hasn't stopped talking to me, despite the many times I've caught her staring at my bare, muscled forearms.
With my 26th birthday looming in the distance, I've decided it is time to make a move. I'm not sure how long I've longed for her, but my life has been divided in two parts: the time before Ambrosia and the time after Ambrosia.
I've come up with a foolproof plan. I will make her mine.
I woke earlier than usual that sunny spring morning: I don't dare leave my chambers until every white-blond hair on my head is perfectly placed. A glance in the mirror on my way out the door shows a reflection that applauds my choice of soft, pale blue robes. So much more becoming than the crisp navy . The effect brings a knowing smirk to my face; the color will soften my appearance for Ambrosia - I don't want to seem too imposing.
Malfoy men certainly have the tendency to command a room wherever they go, and I am no exception.
I snatch what's on the breakfast table. Flakes of a tasteless, sugary pastry cover my front, dotting it with crumbs that look too much like dandruff.
It's positively revolting.
"Blasted flakes!"
A Tergeo follows and I'm presentable once more.
The only taste I want is Ambrosia; I'm certain she'll be sweet, and if I accomplish my duties in the bedroom, she'll be juicy, too. The idea of her in my mouth is causing blood to flow toward my groin.
I inhale and exhale rhythmically, imagining the crash of waves against the private Malfoy beach in the French Riviera. The memory of salty, warm air is only partially effective at calming me out of my arousal.
Ambrosia joins me on the beach and I surrender to my fantasy, if only while I walk to the Apparition point.
A wandering Muggle has lost its handkerchief. The thin, white cloth flies in the distance, reminding me to order a house-elf to replace the linens in my bedroom. If I succeed, I want Ambrosia to feel nothing but the softest, silkiest fibers against her perfect skin.
My arousal has yet to disappear. I close my eyes near the Apparition point and imagine those old days of torture, but it only confuses me more. Ambrosia, tied up, begging me for more, haunts me.
Sweet surrender is my only option.
I step into the Atrium, confident in my plan. My appearance shines in the black tiles of the Atrium floor as I swagger toward the lifts.
I had no need to take a job there, not with all my family's gold; my usual luxurious robes, gold watch, and top-of-the-line dragonskin boots ought to have been proof of my wealth.
But, when I'd first seen Ambrosia and learned she was an Unspeakable, I knew I had to see her again. Father disapproved of my constant donations to various causes - when Granger used a donation to secure house-elf rights, I realized I had to take drastic measures to continue seeing Ambrosia.
I applied for – and got – the first respectable job the Ministry of Magic offered. I work for the International Magical Trading Standards Body and my superior is one of the Weasels – or was it the She-Weasel? I can hardly tell the difference; a red-headed, freckled being tells me what to do, and I endure it all to see Ambrosia.
My work Weasel is prattling on about air quality this morning, for whatever reason, and I dutifully nod along, catching a glimpse of Ambrosia as she travels from one side of the Atrium to the other. She's breathtaking this morning. Her vibrant violet robes hang beautifully on her frame. An ethereal light encircles her, bathing her in celestial glory. I catch her eye before the lift doors close and I'm dragged to my small office.
I can hardly concentrate. I feel my hands trembling, unable to hold a quill for longer than a moment without drifting away into daydreams of Ambrosia on my lips, my teeth nibbling at her supple skin, or my tongue lavishing every curve of her body.
I stop and adjust myself. It's too early for these thoughts.
Mindless reports and memos later, it is lunchtime at last and I carefully make my way to the Ministry dining hall. Ambrosia sits with her two closest friends. One is a dark-haired witch, one of the Greengrass girls I went to school with, and the other, a blonde witch with sharp, aquiline features. The blonde is vaguely familiar but I never bothered learning her name. She's older and nowhere near as pleasing as Ambrosia.
Ambrosia's friends work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, based on their robes. As planned, ten minutes after I arrive in the dining hall, urgent memos arrive in front of each DRCMC worker, whisking them away from their current task. Ambrosia's friends scatter, leaving her quite alone.
With my heart racing and the world around me becoming fuzzier, I set my eyes on what my heart most desires. My legs follow, and moments later, I find myself half-babbling at Ambrosia.
I know the words coming out of my mouth are borderline incoherent. My hair falls into my forehead, sticking to it. My hands tremble and something hot threatens to escape into my pants. I half-shout, covering the sound of flatulence, terrified she'll refuse me.
But, in the mess of that awkward conversation, she agrees. That very night, we will dance, dine, and if I am very lucky, perhaps adjourn to my home for more.
The rest of my workday is spent mulling over my upcoming date. I feel as if my mouth is stuffed with cotton; all my basic bodily functions are more pronounced, too. I am marginally grateful that my Weasel superior has given me a mostly private office space: the odors coming from my rear end are offensive and more than once, I thought I might have needed to change my pants before my date.
I blame the bodily reactions on my nerves as I work a little later than usual. I know myself too well; if I stop at home, I may be late for my date. The pale blue robes are stunning on me and I don't want Ambrosia to think I'm pathetic. I take potions to stifle the effects of the flatulence - a regrettably necessary measure, and pop around the loo to ensure I'm ready.
"You are a Malfoy," I murmur to myself, looking at my perfectly combed hair. "She should be lucky to have you." Adjusting my collar one last time, I step out and Apparate to Ambrosia's London flat and wait patiently for someone to answer the door.
Ambrosia finally appears in fine, scarlet robes, accented by gold, embroidered leaves. Under normal circumstances, the Gryffindor-esque color scheme would've led me to turn up my nose, but Ambrosia looked simply radiant in those colors.
"Shall we?" I ask smoothly, offering my arm to her. Ambrosia nods, bids her roommates goodbye, and goes out the door with me.
Dinner is going so much better than I could have hoped . The rosy hue of Ambrosia's cheeks is clearly the blush of a gentlewoman affected by my lavish praise and attention. It cannot just be the wine, either, for both her cup and meal sit nearly untouched, so deeply is she enraptured by my conversation. While her silence might bode ill in a common drupe, my pome hangs on my every word as I describe my early days in Wiltshire.
Whether trial, trevail, or trifle, her face shines in earnest fascination. The one cost of her comely silence is that I don't learn much about Ilvermorny, Ambrosia's alma mater, though I detect some piquancy in moments that might compare it unfavorably with Hogwarts, though she clearly recognizes the superiority of Slytherin House therein.
Nevertheless, her rapt attention flatters me, and her silences are punctuated with just the right combination of demureness and boldness to convey her enchantment as I regale her with tales of my many Quidditch victories, expound on the honor of my family (and its natural relationship to our position in British magical society), and recount my many achievements (by and large sorely unrecognized) to the hallowed art of potion-making.
"I am within mere hours of perfecting a revolutionary antidote against all serpentine venoms," I explain, trying to use language that she will appreciate without coming off as some snotty professor or dweebish technician. "As informed as you are, you surely recognize, as I do, that current antivenins are neither potent nor speedy enough. My work will be a landmark in the field, as you can plainly see. If only I had more time to devote to it, but it is consigned to my ever-decreasing free time . Unfortunately, the department would be lost without me, and so I so rarely find a respite from my work at the Ministry."
I am nearly flattened by joy with Ambrosia's appreciative nod, and as her wondering smile sets my heart aflutter, she also seems intent on setting my loins ablaze, where even now the fire kindles.
Everything is going marvelously, I think, allowing myself to grin foolishly at her. She'll be in my hands by the end of the night!
"I've got a few scars from experimental potions," I add lightly, thinking of the scar Potter left on my chest from the sixth-year incident. She never needs to know it was Potter's doing. "I've even had to go to our hospital, St. Mungo's, to sort myself out. Potions experimentation is more challenging – and dangerous – than you might think."
Ambrosia seems properly impressed, so I recount a recent experiment in which I'd made a breakthrough on my new antivenin, but there had been a small explosion. It launched me into a stone wall, breaking half my bones, but the pain had been worth it. I can't remember how long I had to stay at St. Mungo's. Regrowing and resetting my bones left me going in and out of consciousness for days.
We order dessert, a scrumptious apple tart, and I move onto the next part of my plan.
Ambrosia accepts my offer to dance, so I take her to an exclusive jazz club in Diagon Alley. Though I rarely enjoy jazz, Celestina Warbleck's remix of "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" isn't half-bad, especially with a pretty witch in my arms. Ambrosia's hand was in mine, and I find it hard to care about the warbly tune when Ambrosia holds me tighter.
I feel her hot breath against my cheek, her ample bosom grazing my chest, and her soft, delicate fingers on my wrist.
Everything is falling into place.
Indeed, something falls on us at the end of "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me." Unknowing if it is a friend or foe, I lead Ambrosia out of the jazz club hurriedly.
We are in an alley nearby and with the adrenalin pumping in my heart, I work up the nerve to tentatively place my lips on hers. At first, she hesitates, but she sighs into the kiss, returning it with fervor. She tasted as sweet as I imagined, her soft, hot mouth melting every lesson on propriety I ever endured. I don't care that we are in public; the witch of my dreams is tracing her tongue against my bottom lip, nipping at it softly, causing all my blood to rush away from my brain.
"Come home with me," I whisper against the shell of her ear, finally gasping for air. "Please."
Ambrosia smiles, and I Apparate us onto my front step.
Everything became a series of firsts. Our robes are left on the floor of the entrance hall. Our shoes are kicked off haphazardly, leaving a messy trail through the parlor. My shirt is thrown over the banister; Ambrosia's skirt is left somewhere halfway up the stairs.
We find my bed, freshly made with crisp, white linens and remove whatever barriers of clothing that remain and sink into the soft mattress, our mouths moving hungrily against each other.
I can't believe I'm not dreaming. My hands roam where they like, and hearing Ambrosia respond to my ministrations is turning me on in a way I can't articulate. All coherent thoughts were lost to guttural moans and eager, passionate kisses.
When Ambrosia has been sufficiently pleased – twice, I think smugly – I feel ready to ravish her. My movements become frantic as I love her, kiss her all over, desperate for my release.
At once, the feeling overcomes me, and waves of pleasure wash over my body. Nothing else matters but the little stars in the back of my eyes and the feeling of Ambrosia's warm body wrapped around mine.
Satisfied with myself, I draw Ambrosia into my arms, kiss her temple, and fall promptly asleep.
My first awareness in the morning is that of gauzy cradling in cool bed linens. Surprisingly cool. Alarmingly cool. As the dimness of the day confronts my newly-opened eyes, I cast about for her in vain. Where is Ambrosia? If these wretched sheets, no doubt entangling my limbs due to our frenetic nocturnal contortions, would just let me free, I could begin my flight in pursuit of my love again. The only temporary peace is an imagining of her in repose within steaming water, a hot bath to ease the inevitable soreness from a night of ecstatic paroxysms. Yet a glance through the bathroom shows no sign of her radiance, morning or otherwise, and the chasm of yearning opens under my feet. I must find her .
By this thought alone, I am propelled down the hallway, and I cannot help but become aware of the conspicuous lack of crimson clothing. What was once cast aside in the anticipation of their climactic joinder is now, undoubtedly, brought back to the detested orderly position that preceded their passion, and his view of her majesty will be sadly obscured by taffeta and lace once more. I come across my own shirt on the banister, and my trousers in a heap beside the topmost stair. I find one of my fine boots upright upon the landing, and the other sitting upon its side, as once I did beside her. This thought itself is nearly enough to drive what sense remains from my head, as the evidence of our grandiose union is clearly now all of my splendiferous clothing and none of her or hers!
I frown pensively, giving magnified consideration of whether Ambrosia happened to inject the notion of an early going away from the darkness before or some other committal that drew her away from himself.
Upon entry to the breakfast chamber, I find detestable origami: a piece of folded parchment on the table where I wish my love would be.
A single line of script is calligraphed in what I assume to be Ambrosia's print:
"I'm still looking for my happily ever after."
Perplexed and hurt, I acquire the nearest object, a lime-colored apple, and chuck it at the wall.
My heart will never come back to me.