White Flowers

Flowers lined the walls, practically glowing in their meticulous garb of petals and velvet. Rays of sunlight were sewn into their elegant dresses and suits, glittering with the fresh droplets of water. Someone had come by, probably Hagrid, to water them and they were grateful and refreshed.
When Draco wandered through them--feeling inadequately dressed in comparison to their beauty--he happened to notice their colouring. Every flower was white. White roses, daisies, and flora galore. His deep blue tailcoat stood in stark contrast.
The squat man guiding him throughout the gardens had left him at the greenhouse entrance, cryptically telling him that he’ll ‘find his way eventually.’ He was, in fact, doing the opposite. If he was lost before, he was even more lost now. Somehow, the path kept forking so he wandered in lazy circles throughout the shrubbery. At some point, he gave up trying to figure it out. He was late anyway.

The scent of leaves and dirt was crisp in his nostrils. The air was slightly cold but felt like a glass of iced water on a warm summer day. Like the cool touch of his bed sheets that would brush against his bare skin after a long, sticky night of heavy clothes and socializing. It was, in no uncertain terms, refreshing. Though, he hesitated at the thought. Draco always found himself in stuffy, dusty libraries or stuck at an overwhelming gala, so the feeling was warranted. But, a Malfoy finding solace at a Potter residence? It was worrying.

In all honesty, his father wasn’t thrilled about the invitation. Obviously, they couldn’t exactly politely decline due to the sender’s prestige; instead, they took it out on Draco. More specifically, Lucius yelled at Draco.

He squatted near some low-lying foliage littered with tiny flowers. They peeked through some thin leaves. Their petals were the width of his pinky and splayed in a perfect little circle, like a tutu. Each little ballerina danced as he moved down, reacting to his presence with a giddy sway. They smiled warmly.
“Forget-me-nots,” he whispered, “myosotis sylvatica.” He smiled.

He touched a thin stem, thumbing the head of the flower. He wouldn’t pick the flower, that was far too cruel to the plant. However, the velvet bodice was enthralling and silky. He would never get over the beauty of nature, as much as he felt the need to avoid it.
A brisk breeze tickled the back of his neck and he felt content, tranquil even. Again, he found himself denying the possibility. But, it was happening. It was real. It was all too real. He breathed it in.

Footsteps began to approach. They were loud, annoyed, and rang out with a hollowness that was fear-inducing. The gentle breeze on his nape suddenly felt cruel and chilled--goosebumps ran up his arms. He turned his head, spotting a raven head of hair through the brush.
As Harry rounded the corner, Draco stood up and began to apologize, “Your highness, I-”

The King suddenly grabbed his arm and viciously yanked him in the direction he came from. Deja vu hit Draco like a brick, his blood froze and his body refused to move. The sight of Harry had set his mind on fire, but one touch and he shut down. It was too much like that night. They were surrounded by plants, they hadn’t exchanged a single word, and he was fragile. He was defenseless. He was alone. Again.

Harry tried to pull again, to get him to start walking, but Draco wouldn’t move. He couldn’t move. A small part of his mind kept replaying the scene like an addict, thriving on a feeling that could only be described as toxic. As if there was something special about being dragged away unwillingly, that small part of him drank in the moment like a parasite. The rest of him sneered in disgust.
His grey eyes found their way upwards, taking their time studying the curves and crevices of the other’s suit. It was maroon. He hated how he loved that colour. He took in the angle of his jaw, the slight stubble that made him seem more grown, the curve of his cheek, the slight redness under his eyes--and it made him seethe. As much as he found Harry attractive, they only reminded him of the previous night. He also hated how, despite his aggressive demeanor, Harry had sympathy swirling behind his gaze--pity even.

Draco’s mouth twitched.

“I apologize for bringing this up, sire, but you seem to think I have no bodily autonomy and I don’t really appreciate it.” He spat. The grip on his arm tightened, not exactly appreciating his words either.

“I apologize for stating the law, but I rule over you.” Harry scoffed. “Show some respect.”

A harsh frown found its way to Draco’s lips. He pulled his arm away from him and Harry slightly stumbled closer. “Just because you can’t cope with the fact you made a goddamn mistake doesn’t mean you can take it out on me.” Draco fully accepted the repercussions of his actions, he just couldn't help his anger. He didn’t expect the King to be so rude after trying to sexually assault him.
Draco glared at Harry, attempting to stick it to the man. However, Harry’s mind seemed lost.

By stating the obvious--by bringing Harry’s actions face to face with his conscience instead of dwelling in his ego--Draco had unknowingly plunged him into a forest in his mind. The monarch found himself away from his kingdom amongst swaying trees of green and gold. Those trees held so much life, symbolism, and repressed emotions. He never knew what direction his feet would decide to head and his heart to lead to, but he knew he rarely found himself there. Fog rolled along the dirt, lazy and foreboding. It was meant to hide whatever else he would discover in the future.

A thought entered his mind as he took the first step, kneading and rolling over, and over, and over. ‘He’s not wrong,’ it was smug, ‘you think you’re so right all the time. At least, you act like it; like you’re God’s messenger. Always righteous. Always just.’

He opened his mouth to retort but was silenced again.

‘There. Did you see it? You tried to correct me even though you know what you did was wrong.’ The thought explained.

“But I’m not wrong,” his ego retorted.

‘I’m proof you know you’re wrong,’ it sounded tired, ‘so deal with it.’

Harry suddenly snapped back, Draco’s piercing grey eyes and violently blonde hair cutting through the blur of his thoughts. He swallowed something down, something as thick as honey; it was his will to keep fighting. It scraped against the walls of his throat, and all he could do was deal with it.

He let go of the other’s arm and took a step back. Draco brushed off his sleeve, fixing the crinkling caused by Harry's hand.

The king stood there, unable to find the right thing to say, the right words to explain his convoluted reasoning and flawed tact, but his extensive education decided to fail him then and there. He took another step back.

“Can we get to tea now, your majesty? I’m getting thirsty.”

Harry knew he could execute him then and there, maybe excommunicate him, but he didn’t. The king felt obligated to listen to Draco for a very obvious reason to everyone but him. He felt guilty and couldn’t even figure it out.

Starting to turn around and guide Draco, he hesitated. A chilled breath made its way through his nostrils and to his veins. He started to walk.

---

The outdoor seating was simple; two metal chairs with plush pillows for comfort and a small circular table. A spread of milk, lemons, finger sandwiches, and small biscuits covered the surface of the small table--including tea cups and a small teapot. It was all dainty; the china was pristine and delicately arranged. The small painted flowers around the rim of the cups matched the flora Draco noticed earlier, just bluer.

Draco sat--his legs finding a comfortable crossed position--and set his hands in his lap. Though he had the confidence to snap at Harry, he knew he would now face repercussions.

He brought the cup of tea to his lips, his posture rigid and upright. His eyes stared into the bottom of the cup, noticing the microscopic tea leaves that swirled with the movement. It was either maintain his composure or admit fault, and the latter was too much of a blow to his ego. The tea was sweeter than he expected. He put the cup back down.

Glancing to his right, he caught a glimpse of an agitated king. He was tapping his foot against the brick ground and keeping his eyes downcast, seemingly in deep thought. His raven bangs cast a shadow over his brow and his shoulders were rolled back, calm. It was even more frightening than if he just killed Draco then and there.

Honestly, this wasn’t their first interaction, discounting the night prior. When they were teens, their parents attended social events and forced them to follow. When they did, they would sometimes chat, not knowing who the other was. It was always a brief greeting and parting, but they both cherished those moments. However, Draco found out who Harry was and stopped talking to him completely. He found it unseemly for the future king to speak to him, of all people. This was when Draco was struggling to correct the error in his thinking, his discriminatory practices, and his flawed upbringing.

The unspoken tension between the two was palpable, Draco nearly choked on it when he took another small sip of tea. But, he just choked on the tea. He kept himself from hacking it up, hoping Harry wouldn't notice his discomfort. The blonde let out a small cough into his handkerchief, repressing the rest. The feeling itched at his throat. Harry let out an audible sigh and began eating a biscuit. The sudden clinking of china and food made Draco jump a little, causing him to cough again.

A small, raspy voice broke through the tension, “I’m sorry.” It had come from Harry. The blonde felt a pang of unease that just made him hack up the rest of his coughs.

Harry’s concerned eyes were suddenly on Draco’s doubled-over figure. The blonde was just letting go of the itchy feeling because of his shock.

“Are you ok?” There was genuine worry in his voice.

“Yup-” he coughed some more, then took a big gulp of tea to wash down the dryness, “just choked on,” he let out one final, small cough, “some tea.” He corrected his posture and took a deep breath. “As you were saying?”

“Uh,” confusion plagued the other’s expression, “I was saying I’m sorry.” Silence followed for a moment. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Draco nodded, stuck trying to understand why Harry apologized. Pity again? No. He actually felt sorry. What a shocker. “I appreciate your apology, I truly do. However, I hope you can understand that I don’t accept it.” He might’ve been pushing his luck because Harry was glaring. Draco was too scared to keep making eye contact, so he looked at his lap. “I don’t think you are a bad person. Your apology proves that you have a heart, but you have only treated me poorly. If you want me to accept your apology, you’re going to have to prove to me that you can treat me well, your highness.” He was just rambling so he didn’t fully think through his words.

Harry continued to glare. Draco knew because he kept awkwardly glancing over to check. For a moment, Draco feared for his life again.

The same voice broke through the silence again, “Okay, I understand.” Another heavy sigh fell from his lips.

Time passed like that for the rest of their evening. They only spoke when necessary, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable. There were no more notable moments. None, until they were saying their farewells and Harry said, “I’ll see you again.”