King Draco I

King Draco I

I: The White Rose

In layers of lush green velvet sheets, King Draco I was falling rapidly into the clutches of Death. Life had used him harshly. At the age of fifty-five, he appeared seventy. The silver eyes had lost their cynical gleam, the sleek blonde hair was now dishevelled and grey, and the once svelte, muscular body had been lost in mounds of fat. He looked perfectly disgusting, yet his wife, Queen Virginia, sat faithfully at his side.

No one had expected Virginia Weasley to end up with the King. She had been hesitant to marry him for several reasons. He was a known womaniser. He'd gone through five other wives; beheading or divorcing them all. Virginia hadn't wanted to become just a number either, but that was what had happened. The King's Sixth was her title, as far as the public was concerned.

On the wall next to the King's bed hung a portrait of the fiery haired queen. Draco's effects on her were very physically obvious. Virginia did not need a glance in the mirror to know that her hair had become streaked with silver, or that her wide, brown eyes seemed lacklustre. Her face was very hollow, she'd lost weight since their marriage.

"We were happy, though," the king rasped.

Virginia smiled and nodded, all the while thinking of the violent, vicious arguments they'd had and the warrant Draco had signed for her death several years back.

"Yes, my king. Our time together was a divine miracle," Queen Virginia whispered, running her hand through his grey hair.

Draco sighed, "Virginia, see what life has done to me. Look what I've become! I'm old, I'm fat, I'm useless-"

"You are not useless to me, Draco," Virginia cooed softly, her saccharine voice dripping with flattery.

"-of course, quite a bit of it was Her doing..." As he spoke, a great anger swelled inside King Draco. He seemed utterly incapable of speech.

"Do not think of Her, my King. It will only hasten Death's pace."

Virginia's words seemed to have a calming effect on the king, though a series of loud coughs erupted from his throat. He lay back down in his bed, dreaming of his discarded past. There were so many things he had chosen to forget: his daughter Mary, his daughter Elizabeth, Her...

...And he was a young boy again. Or rather, a young Prince. His parents, King Lucius I and Queen Narcissa of York had reminded him constantly of this title and the responsibilities it entailed.

Though his princely eyes, Draco remembered the day he met Nymphadora of Aragon, his brother's betrothed.

To Prince Draco, Nymphadora was an angel, an object of desire. Every time she came near him, a hot sensation drifted over him. His tongue seemed to tie in knots and his creamy white face glowed pink.

Nymphadora of Aragon was a Metamorphmagus, she could change her appearance at will. Every time the prince saw her, she looked different.

"Announcing Princess Nymphadora of Aragon!" As the princess entered, Draco felt the familiar flush creeping up into his cheeks. Her hair was the colour of amber and was drawn up in braids. She took a step down the grand, sweeping staircase, wobbled dangerously, attempted to steady herself, and crashed noisily down the steps. A rip appeared in her midnight blue gown.

"Announcing Prince Harry!" Draco's brother Harry appeared, attempting to disguise his amusement and clearly failing. His black hair looked curiously tousled and his green eyes glimmered behind round spectacles.

He retraced Nymphadora's footsteps in a casual manner, stooped over, and helped her up. In a rather ungainly manner, she stood up and brushed herself off. As Harry looked at him, the corners of Draco's mouth faded into a frown. He'd always had a certain... fascination with Harry, and though they bickered quite often, the two were generally on good terms. This, unfortunately, was not one of those times. Draco's constant jealously of the prince and his betrothed led him to new, desperate lows that enraged Harry.

Delight shone in Prince Harry's green eyes as Nymphadora gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. As Harry walked past Draco, he gave him a curt nod. Draco looked back rather stonily, his eyebrows knitted and his eyes as cold as ice.

The two young princes glared at each other for awhile, Draco burning with the acute internal agony of jealousy. Harry's eyes personified a strange emotion, one that was entirely unreadable to Draco. For a fleeting second, Draco thought he saw want shining in those bright green eyes, but that second soon passed.

Draco turned tail and sulked morosely off to his chambers. Just before he exited the room, he turned to see Harry and Nymphadora proceeding regally down to the evening meal.

As the young prince passed through the echoing halls, his slim figure casting wraith-like shadows on the stone floor, he considered the situation at hand. He wanted Princess Nymphadora to be his, he wanted her so much that he would do anything for her.

He was a Malfoy. And Malfoys always got their way when it came to women. Yet, who would win if two Malfoys warred over the same woman?

*~*~*

Prince Harry and Princess Nymphadora were married not long after. The ceremony was very lush and lavish, with massive quantities of roses, the Malfoy crest, and several realistic-looking falcon statues, the emblem of Nymphadora's family. The tables were clothed in handsome green and white velvet cloths, and the walls were strung with matching draperies. Noblemen from all over the country attended. Queen Narcissa fussed and fretted over everything from Prince Harry's hair to the state of his tunic.

Prince Draco looked jealously on as friends and family slopped ale and victuals. His father's voice boomed out above all others, it was obvious he was inebriated from the high quantities of alcohol he had consumed.

Queen Narcissa was sitting primly in a laced white gown, her austere but attractive face upon King Lucius's. Her white blonde hair was coiffed expertly in an attractive fashion with the ladies of the day. Sir Blaise Zabini, seated on her left, had a slight frown on his grim face. He cast Prince Draco a casual glance and nodded his head over at Harry and Nymphadora.

They had distanced themselves from the feast, quietly seated in their seats stealing sly glances at one another. They turned toward each other, Harry leaning in ever so slightly...

Prince Draco stifled a startled cry when he realized they had engaged in a session of passionate snogging.

"Nay, I must correct that statement," the prince muttered, "It appears that their tongues are engaging in battle."

Harry's eyes were darting shiftily around the room. They paused for a moment on Sir Zabini, then locked on to Draco's.

For a moment, the piercing green eyes stared into the soft grey ones. They seemed to be searching, imploring, yet challenging. They were daring him, yes, daring Draco, almost inviting him...

As quickly as they had come, they left.

Shrugging the whole incident off, Draco commenced to enjoy the feast.

*****

The hour had drawn late, and at long last, everyone appeared to have left, save several of the ladies in waiting and King Cornelius, a round-faced man with a laugh like a braying donkey.

Prince Draco stood up, stifling a yawn, and proceeded to his chambers.

As he slipped in the large, luxurious bed, he couldn't help but think of Harry. That look they had shared earlier had struck a chord in Draco's mind.

He had to see Harry. The slender xanthochroid slipped out from the green satin sheets, his silvery eyes twinkling with a passionate fervour. As he stood, the spicy, evanescent fragrance of roses met his nose. He turned toward the rich mahogany boudoir, heavily contemplating, and cast his unfaltering gaze upon a single creamy white rose.

It was a fashionable token of admiration to give another a lone blood red rose. Yet the rose that the prince saw so clearly in his steady gaze was white. White was the colour of cowardice, the rose was the symbol of love. Draco knew full well what it meant.

His shaking hands reached forward to grab the ivory coloured flower. It was freshly cut, there were still beads of dew gathered vulnerably on the tender petals. The stem was a beautiful bottle-green. It looked so fragile, so tempting, and so exquisite in his pale, quivering hands. Yet the fair-haired prince knew that the intent of the rose was to strike fear into his heart. When he had so carefully picked it up from its resting place, he knew that he had agreed to play the game. The deadly game of seduction.

Dropping the rose on the floor, Draco ran from the room. Perhaps he was running from the confirmation he had made only seconds before. Or was he just running from himself? Either way, Prince Draco was afraid. He was deathly afraid to lose the game.

Automatically, he began to walk. Footstep after systematic footstep, his wraith like figure trod through the eerily echoing corridors, a stony expression gracing his white face.

He knew the place he was destined to go. There stood Prince Harry, white as a ghost, green eyes sparkling with the same cynical, austere light that shined in the Queen's eyes.

Neither boy said a word. It was as though they were having a silent argument, speaking through the anger in their eyes.

Harry, being the elder, finally won the right to speak first.

"You have just lost the game, brother," he smirked, a strange look in his eyes.

"No, I have not lost the game. I have merely lost the battle. What is one battle when there are so many more to come?" the blonde replied, a fire kindling in his beautiful grey eyes.

"You have lost the first battle, just as you will lose the game. You allowed yourself to be seduced. That will not do," Harry replied smugly.

"I did not allow myself to be seduced here, I was invited through the presence of the rose."

"You are too young to win this game, little brother," Harry said, adopting a lazy tone.

"I am fifteen years old, brother. I am a competitor, a force to be reckoned!" Draco glared, the white-blonde hairs on the back of his neck prickling in his rage.

"Then show yourself competent, oh naïve one. Are you ready?"

Draco merely nodded, his eyes fixed on his brother's.

Before Harry could make a move, Draco closed n. His eyelids fluttering shut softly, he locked his lips over Harry's. He could feel his heart pounding. It was not a peaceful, happy feeling. He could feel the agony of corruption; of bitter, cynical shattered lies in the kiss.

It was a soft kiss, just Draco's lips lightly brushing Harry's. There was really no dignity in the situation, two brothers kissing in a corridor late at night. Yet Harry and Draco, between all the arguments and the war declaration, seemed to actually enjoy it.

Harry pulled away first, green eyes wide and shining like leaves in the rain.

"You have shown yourself more than worthy of my respect. But you have not come close to winning the war, nor even the battle," Harry breathed, running his long fingers through Draco's blonde hair.

"That was amazing," Draco whispered, his arms around Harry's thin waist. His soft fantasies seemed to drift through his head like feathers; he longed to kiss Harry as he just had.

"Tell no one, Draco," Harry's voice intoned. Draco was pleased to note an edge of panic in it.

"Now you have lost the battle! You are weak because of your fear, brother. Love should know no fear!" Draco laughed softly.

"But I do not love you. This is merely a battle of dominance, of rights," Harry replied, now running his hands along Draco's pale neck.

"You kissed me. Yet you do not love me? I do not understand."

"The kiss did not make you any wiser, brother. You are still naïve. There are many ways to dominate people, and I have merely shown you one of them," Harry replied, his hands now sliding down Draco's back.

Though a long way off, you could hear a plaintive pair of footsteps trudging slowly through the corridor.

&ldquoYou should go, Draco," Harry said, a sudden fear aroused in him.

"Yes, you are as afraid as I am naïve. We do not underestimate each other for a moment. What would you do if I stayed?" Draco smirked, pleased to have gained the upper hand.

Harry's fist went flying towards Draco's face. A jolt of pain shot through the blonde's body as it connected with his nose.

"That will happen," Harry glared, though Draco had already taken off down the corridor. Smirking, Harry re-entered his chambers, sighed, and laid back down.

*~*~*

In the hours that followed, Draco slept not a wink. Half of the time, he buried his pale, pointed face in a feather pillow and sobbed. Why, oh why did it have to be Harry? They had been close as boys; never, of course, in a romantic sense. He was in love with a man, and his beloved brother, no less! Love, Draco mused, was not the term for it. As Harry had said, it was more a strive for dominance than anything.

The rest of the time Draco had spent staring comatosely out the window. The moon sailed upon the clouds like a tempest-tossed Galleon upon a rough, stormy sea. A sprinkling of stars twinkled like a million tiny grains of sugar above the walls of the regal palace he now slept in. No, prison was more like it. He was a prisoner of his own experiences now. He had been seduced by a man, his brother at that; and he was captive inside his own head. Resistance was futile, all exits had been blocked, yet Draco was still pleased. Harry had chosen him over Nymphadora.