To The Victor

Out of need springs desire, and out of desire springs the energy and the will to win.

- Denis Waitley

Draco lovingly ran his fingers along the smooth blade, admiring the way the light seemed to splinter as it caught the honed edge. Eltanin. The hilt was a jade dragon, wings outstretched, head resting atop the polished steel blade. Draco curled his hand around the dragon's body and lifted the great weapon easily, as he had a thousand times before. Breathing deeply, he began the slow, familiar moves of his training, revelling in the weight and feel of it.

Eltanin had been forged the day Draco was born and named, as every Heir's sword had been for time immemorial. Every Malfoy firstborn had such a sword, a symbol of power and purity, but it was not mere decoration. They kept the old ways, the honourable ways and so Lucius had begun training with a wooden blade when Draco was six and unable to even lift the heavy broadsword. Draco had progressed quickly until his eleventh birthday when he could finally start training with the real weapon. It had been then the sword was named, his father watching in approval as the sword was baptised with the blood of his master.

Years later and the sword felt like an extension of his body, almost more a part of him than his wand. The blade fairly hummed with magic, though Draco could not use the power until he attained adulthood. In the meantime he whirled and lunged alone; eyes half-closed in the familiar routine.

His trance was disturbed with soft clapping.

Instinctively he twisted into a defensive pose, sword raised before him, to see a dark-haired boy leaning languidly against the doorframe.

"You look like you know what you're doing," the boy drawled in softly accented tones, eyes alight.

"I assure you, Blaise, I am more than competent with my sword," Draco snarled, lowering the blade. The boy smirked and Draco bit his lip angrily, for the innuendo had been unintentional. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, resenting the intrusion.

"I have no wish to discuss the latest fashion with Mama and your mother, and our fathers are privately engaged," Blaise said, uncoiling himself and wandering along the rows of weapons that were displayed in the room. "So I came looking for you."

For reasons unknown to Draco, his father had invited the Zabinis to spend the last few weeks of the summer at Malfoy Mansion. The Zabinis were an old Italian family and they spent the summer in their family villa. Blaise's mother however was British-born, hence the decision to send their son to Hogwarts, and a great friend of Narcissa's. Draco assumed that his father was trying to determine the elder Zabinis as yet unknown loyalties and so had not complained, but he hated having Blaise in his home. He had worked hard to uphold the Malfoy reputation and had been wildly successful - of all his peers only Potter dared challenge him, only Potter would face him without fear. Except that Blaise had never shown the slightest nervousness around him and this had bred a desperate desire to crush Blaise's lazy insolence. For years now the mere sight of Blaise was enough to make his hands itch and his blood burn. Just the way he moved, or the sound of his voice was enough to have Draco reaching for his wand and now was no exception.

Save that instead of wand, he was holding a very large, very sharp sword.

Draco opened his mouth to inform Blaise that sharp swords and soft skin are a bad combination, but Blaise had paused, hand trailing along a thin sabre that had not been used for years.

"Do you fence, Draco?"

Draco made a sound of derision. "Malfoys do not prance about with blunted excuses for swords. We fight with true weapons."

Blaise turned and smile was mocking. The need to master, to overpower this upstart boy who invaded his territory swamped Draco and he unconsciously lifted Eltanin.

"Do you think that is a truer weapon that this?" Blaise asked, lifting the thin sabre from its stand.

"Of course," Draco said proudly. Blaise cocked his head, still smiling.

"Then prove it," he said and lunged, lightning fast, the sabre a thin ribbon of flashing steel. Draco tried to parry but Blaise and the sword were gone, dancing nimbly away. Seconds later, Draco's expensive shirt made a quiet ripping sound and the strips of silk puddled on the floor. Draco growled, angry, and lunged for Blaise, twisting the razor sharp blade at the last moment to catch and tear Blaise's shirt. There. Equals. Blaise nodded, seemingly pleased, then resumed the attack.

Steel clashed on steel, blades flickering as Draco brought his greater power to bear on the catlike Blaise. Yes, he was quicker and more manoeuvrable, but Draco had been training all his life and had a Seeker's wiry strength and reflexes. Slowly and inexorably, Draco bore down on his rival, driven by a furious desire to dominate, to assert himself as Prince of his House. He forced Blaise to fight at close quarters, denying him his slash and leap technique, locking the blades so it became almost a wrestling match. Draco was careful not use the full weight of the blade - his father would be furious if he shattered the sabre - but still, Zabini was tiring and there was a sudden doubt in his eyes. Elated, Draco wrenched his sword upwards and the sabre flew from Blaise's grasp, skidding across the floor and far from reach. Draco saw the defeat in Blaise's eyes but it wasn't enough and so with a decidedly Slytherin technique, kicked his feet out from under him. Blaise fell, his mouth a round O of surprise and as he hit the floor Draco straddled him, using his weight to keep him pinned and then pressed Eltanin's razor sharp edge to Blaise's exposed throat.

Dark eyes met silver and Draco saw the fear. At last. For a heartbeat he wanted to press the blade home and see Blaise's lifeblood spill out over the cool floor...but he had no real desire to kill, only to dominate. The boy beneath him was frozen in abject terror, yet it wasn't enough and Draco wanted...he wanted...

"I yield."

The words jerked him to the present but he remained still. Dark eyes regarded him carefully and something sparked beneath the fear. Blaise raised his hand and closed it around Draco's wrist, slowly lifting it and Draco allowed it, feeling something else rise within him, something that he couldn't name. The blade passed over Blaise's face and as it did, Blaise licked his lips. Draco was captivated by the way they shone and almost without knowing it, he bent closer, their harsh breath echoing and suddenly he knew, he understood the need that had always burned at the sight of Blaise and just as their lips met he heard Blaise's voice, thick with lust,

"I yield to you, Draco."

To the victor go the spoils.