White Flowers

He looked over his residence's grounds. From his window, the flower gardens below seemed smaller, minuscule in his perspective. They extended to the greenhouses, growing upon and blending into their walls. Colours sprinkled between the various greens and he was reminded of a specific gown. It had modest, pale-coloured flowers embroidered into its thick fabric. The sleeves hung low on her arms and the neckline wide, having her collarbones on full display. It snuggly squeezed around her waist, almost allowing his hand to wrap halfway around it. He was reminded of that night; how he silently undressed her, peeling the garment off and trying to admire her body. Bile began crawling up his throat. He turned his head away, taking a sharp breath in. He closed his eyes, immediately regretting it because all he could see was that night. He had to open his eyes.

Quickly, he marched out of his office. Ron silently fell into step behind him, a concerned expression fighting its way onto his face. He didn’t dare ask, not while his friend--his king--was fuming.

When they got to his chambers--only a little way down from his office--Harry acknowledged Ron, his steward.

“Dinner will be in an hour. I shouldn’t see you until then.” He swiftly shut the door in his closest friend’s face. Ron grimaced. Harry had been acting like this for a week now.

---

People stood around the room, conversing and drinking with soft smiles and knowing looks. It was the first ball of the season so, obviously, it was hosted by the Grangers. Women gossiped in the far corners of rooms while certain men openly paraded around their privilege. Others stood to the side, not as prideful; it was because they didn’t have anything to show or were reasonable enough to understand subtlety is key. Either way, the household was overflowing with people dancing, laughing, and enjoying their formal night.

Draco waited near a random door at the edge of the ballroom. His parents usually abandoned him at events the second they spotted another ‘pure and noble’ family. This time, it was the Notts. His mother didn’t want to, but his father, Lucius Malfoy, thought him to be a disappointment. Neither Draco nor his mum dared to defy Lucius’ demands, so he was left to his own devices.

He stood silently, his gaze sweeping over the loud, extravagant home. Blatantly expressing his disdain, he crossed his arms and leaned on a plain, stout dresser. Luna Lovegood was holding the arm of some random lord and sneaking cheeky glances with Hermione, who was rolling her eyes. She took a defiant stand, gripping her drink with irritation and refusing a dance with any gentleman who approached her. Both were dressed in elaborate gowns, as half the room was. He saw Cedric Diggory--the prime bachelor of the season--chat with an ever-growing circle of ladies, each one blushing and slyly grinning. What a dunce, Draco thought as Cedric was cornered by these women.
He let out a loose and ragged sigh. Though he believed these events--these formalities--were repetitive and unwarranted, a small part of him pleaded to be included in them. His father once admitted to a close, but not-close-enough, colleague that he had sent funds to the other side of the war all those years ago because he supported the dictator’s, Voldemort’s, beliefs. He thought all people born half-noble should be executed. This subsequently spread around, dividing the courts into purebred extremists and half-blood supporters. Though, the purebreds nicknamed them mudbloods. Originally, Draco firmly stood with his father. In his younger years, he had bullied, harmed, and targeted half-bloods. He felt that it was his duty as a Malfoy. After he grew up and gained access to books recounting the war itself, he realized the error in his ways. He was now of age, twenty-one, and repenting for his mistakes. But, the damage had been done. Still an outcast, he was searching for a wife to bear his children--children he’d raise to be educated and accepting.

While lamenting his misfortune, Draco turned his head in time to see Harry Potter trudge in. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his stance. Immediately straightening his posture, he stumbled over his words as he bowed his head slightly. He kept his eyes on Harry. “Your, uh, Majesty.” It was barely audible.

Harry’s eyes flicked to him for a moment before scanning the room. Draco held a breath and waited for something to happen, for someone to at least acknowledge that The King had entered the room, but no one did. Eventually, Harry grabbed his hand and dragged him through the door he just entered. His mind fizzled as so many rules were broken: It was common etiquette not to wander someone's home without a host, it was absolutely rude to leave an event without informing somebody, and it was near treason for a lord such as himself to touch his majesty without guards around. He was also flooded with questions: Why was his majesty wandering the halls of the Granger residence, why did he grab Draco of all people, and where was he taking him? As he was guided through winding hallways, his confusion turned into rage. Harry was the monarch, but what good is a man who can’t obey simple rules?

They ended up in the gardens, far away from the night's events. The tall shrubbery hid them. Harry suddenly threw Draco to the ground. He landed with a small grunt. Before he could begin protesting, Harry’s hands were undoing the buttons on the blonde’s tailcoat. Once done, he began working on the layer underneath. Harry straddled him and basically ripped the waistcoat off Draco’s poor body. All that was left were his pants and shirt, though the king seemed content with leaving them be. Only after completely violating Draco and untucking his shirt, revealing his bare chest, obviously.

While being undressed, Draco blanked. He didn’t even realize when he began getting groped. Large hands found their way to his waist, then up his chest to his pecks. They were gentle, but not asking. They were commanding. For what, he didn’t know, but there was no lust in the air.

Moments felt like days which felt like months before the hands were gone. All that was left was the brisk night air, nipping at his exposed flesh as Harry stared down at him. Eventually, there were small droplets of water landing on his upper chest.

Draco came back, everything hitting him in the head like a brick as his expression contorted into fear. He held still, noticing Harry’s tears. The silence felt too loud, even as the night chirped. They sat there, motionless.

Eventually, Harry began silently buttoning Draco's clothes back up. He then got up and left.

The night passed uneventfully afterward, with no one hearing about Harry’s unsolicited rendezvous. However, people gossiped about the Malfoy's eldest son's tattered appearance as everyone left. His parents were only able to get a single explanation from him: “I fell.”

His voice wavered when he said it.

---

His foot tapped impatiently. The rug beneath his feet had a permanent indent from his incessant fidgeting. An overwhelming stream of regret ran through his gut. Last night was pitiful, it was unwarranted, and it was emotional for no good reason. His back leaned into the plush armchair, the uneven stuffing rolling against his firm back. A seething heat dusted his cheeks at the mere idea that Draco ignored his invitation.

“Is it four yet, Ron?” Harry grumbled over his shoulder.

“Only a quarter till, your majesty.”

Fifteen minutes. Draco had fifteen minutes to appear and be as gracious and remorseful as possible before Harry trudged over to the Malfoy manor and burnt it to the ground. It was only a couple of hours away on horse.

“Now?” The more he thought, the more impatient he became.

“Only fourteen minutes, your majesty.” Ron felt a small, curious smirk rest on his lips. Harry had never been so keen on spending tea time with an individual, especially not with a Malfoy. There was a history laced into the Malfoy and Potter households, one spanning decades. They clashed--butting heads and bearing teeth--though the Potters always seemed to be on the right side of the battle. Whether that was because the winners wrote the history books is up in the air. Eventually, the Potters reigned over England and the Malfoys had no choice but to fall into line beneath. It had been decades since.

So, when Harry Potter sent a letter to the Malfoys requesting Draco’s company for tea, Ron felt a twinge of interest in his best friend’s happenings.

“Sir, if I may speak freely?” The ginger shifted uncomfortably as Harry turned his head toward him. It had been a week since he attempted to speak to him as a friend rather than a king.

“You may.”

“Could I ask why you are so… insistent on speaking to, uh,” he contemplated whether he should use titles, immediately deciding not to, “Draco?”

“Lord Draco Malfoy.” Harry corrected. He took a long, vulnerable breath before quietly adding, “And if you must know, Ron, I may have-” searching for a word to describe their interaction, Harry fell short, “I might‘ve attacked him.” He settled.

The ginger nodded, humming in understanding. He then comprehended his best friend’s words. “Wait, what.”

Harry crossed his right leg over his left and rubbed his jawline. His words fell from his mouth in a barely coherent, shameful ramble. “It was a… rough night. I wasn’t thinking and I ended up taking the first person I saw, which happened to be Draco, to the gardens. I pushed him to the ground and-”

“Jesus, Harry!” Ron was now in front of him, standing like a disappointed parent. All formalities were dropped. “You can’t go around taking your anger out on random bystanders, even if it’s a Malfoy!”

“But-”

“Do you understand how this can affect the royal family’s reputation?” He was always concerned about social whiplash.

“Ron-”

“No, you don’t get input. If you left even a scratch on Draco, he could tell his father and Lucius would have a reason to overthrow you.” He started to pace. “I know you think you’re strong and independent but, ever since your parent’s passing, you have been reckless and downright childish and-”

“Ron, I undressed him.” It was a blunt confession.

The silence was palpable. Their throats felt too dry to continue the conversation, but Ron had to interject, “What.”

The brunette thickly swallowed and sat for a moment, enraptured in his thoughts. Why did he defile Draco like that? Why did he pick a boy, a man? He had never felt such a need, such an urgent lust to touch someone--not with any woman, much less a man. However, the thought of it didn’t cause his stomach to churn and regurgitate his breakfast.
Instead, he felt warm.

“You touched Draco Malfoy like that?” Disgust was evident in his tone.

“Yes, I think I may-” a silence passed between the two of them before he finished--a silence so long and dreary he could feel the weight of his heart in his throat, “be a-”

A swift knock rapped against the door. It rang hollow throughout the room, not allowing Harry to finish his sentence. A stout man heaved the door open. His ears were large and he had a few thin, wiry hairs sticking out from the top of his head. The large pupils in his bug-like eyes darted from Ron to Harry, anxiety present but not overbearing.

“Apologies for interrupting, but his majesty’s guest has arrived at the gates.” He squeaked, then bowed his head slightly. It was only enough to show his respect and still keep an eye on the two of them.

“Thank you, Dobby.” Ron reciprocated with a slight nod.

Harry drew in a long breath, suddenly straightening his posture. A slight glance was thrown in Ron’s direction, but the steward kept his eyes towards the door. A long, sullen exhale passed through the king’s lips. He stood up and walked towards the door, stopping only a few feet from Dobby.

“If you will, please bring him to the greenhouse and bring us some tea.” With that, the small butler hurried away. Harry glanced over his shoulder, now not daring to look at Ron. “Please leave us be.” Ron knew what he meant, and he knew his words were a threat. He also knew that Harry didn’t have it in him to be completely hostile. His conscience would make him offer an apologetic gesture for his poor actions, even if he thought himself to be in the right. It was his hero complex.

The brunette headed out of the room, pushing the heavy wooden door open. He held it open for his friend, both of them unable to meet their gazes or exchange another word. As he began walking down the hallway, his heart weighed heavy and he could sense the adamant staring from Ron. He stopped walking and closed his eyes, sighing slightly.

Only stating it loud enough for the other to hear, he uttered, “Go send a letter to Hermione inviting her over. It’d be good for you two to see each other again.”