Chapter 1
The unusual sunshine this late into autumn was a sign of good will for the land’s new ruler. A stark contrast to the bleak summer that had been filled with abnormal dreariness and storms. As if the entire universe conspired to make clear that the king Draco’s family had put into power deserved to be overthrown in a bloody coup, to be replaced by a younger, brighter, more beloved king. The sort of sign that encouraged the nobles who had once scrambled for Draco’s father’s good will to believe larger powers would forgive them for turning their backs in his moment of need.
Except, when it came to it, no one could turn their backs, could they?
The entire court stood outdoors to watch the glorious sunrise climb over the King’s castle. The courtyard packed solid with bodies, with more people spilling out over the grounds. Nobles with the lowest standing, as Draco supposed he now was, were so far away Draco doubted they could even see the stage.
No such luck for Draco. He and his mother stood rigid in a place of honor, mere meters from the new king himself. The seamstress had told Draco to be grateful for the new king’s generosity when she had painstakingly tailored a new, golden suit with vibrant red outer robes. His mother was dressed similarly in scarlet with gold trimming, stark against her pale skin. It was not lost on Draco these were the finest things they may ever wear again, and they were not given to his family with generosity.
Draco wished the sun would rise all at once and blind him with the light of the morning. Instead it crept, dragging out each millimeter. It was worse because the crowd was silent. Hundreds of people collectively stood at their stillest, watching the sunrise crest over the buildings.
The light first hit the king. He wore bronze armor, meant to resemble the gold on his crest and purely decorative in nature. Draco had seen his battle armor and there was nothing decorative about it. The king wore a simple gold band upon his head as a crown. He’d rejected his predecessor’s more decadent headpiece, and rumor was he wouldn’t have worn one at all if not for his advisors’ conjoling. His dower continence was fitting for the solemn occasion, and on cue his eyes bored out into the crowds, distrusting and judgemental. Yet, they loved him.
Draco didn’t look at the king. He looked only forward, his eyes on the platform in front of him. He captured each moment of his father’s slow reveal in the morning light. Draco wondered if his father appreciated this last beautiful sunrise, or if he wished, as Draco did, that he’d died honorably in battle when their kingdom was taken.
In any case, the time was now.
Lucius Malfoy had long ago learned to look elegant while posturing as contrite. He could hang his head low with a straight back and a graceful tilt to his chin. He demonstrated this now as he lowered to his knees.
The executioner raised a sword, which Draco had been told was the most dignified of murder instruments. That must have taken cajoling by the advisors as well. This new king would not have granted Draco’s father the sword. Draco imagined the king’s desires. Perhaps fire, stoning, or drawing and quartering would have better fit his inclination. The sword was the equivalent of being killed in battle, an honorable death. It acknowledged Lucius’s rank, which had already been stripped from Draco and the Malfoy line. It set Lucius up to stand in place of the former king, who had died so bloodily that not even his body could be displayed to the court to send a message. The message would be seen here, instead.
Draco didn’t dare turn away as the executioner lowered the sword into Lucius’ exposed neck, cutting through the spine and killing him. The ragged tunic they’d dressed his father in had yellowed with age. Now it was caked with his father’s blood. It was a mockery of the gold and scarlet the king had forced Draco to dress in. The entire Malfoy family wore their conquerors' colors.
Draco cheered with the crowd when the mantra began: long live King Harry! Three calls to their monarch broke the silence, and suddenly the crowd was gleeful. This was it, the end of the war!
Lucius’s body was left prone on the platform while the revelry began. Lucius’s blood pooled, leaking through the cracks of the wood, even as the executioner cleaned his blade. Draco was captivated by the blood dripping through to the gravel below. He wondered how long the stain would leave some piece of Lucius here in the castle he had all but ruled.
A figure stepped between Draco and his father’s corpse. Shiny bronze glittered in the sun. Draco’s eyes flitted up to meet the green eyes of King Harry himself.
Draco’s mother was already dropping into a low curtsy, prostrating herself before their new ruler before Draco realized he must act. A lifetime of lessons had been ingrained in Draco, the chief of which was never to debase yourself for anyone but King Voldermort himself. Lucius was swift to remind Draco that the court was quick to treat you as lowly as you let them, and so you must never give an inch. Intuition instead of sense drove Draco now to merely nod his head in a bow, to the precise level required by a son of a duke to greet a king. Not one inch more.
The hush around them alerted Draco to what he’d done. It was a slight caused by pride. Not an intentional pride, but one that went back so many generations it would be impossible to note which of his ancestors had made the fateful decision to prove themselves the cleverest and most powerful. The pride that leads a family to make their motto, “Vincet Semper,” or “to always conquer.” The Malfoys conquered much, before being conquered themselves. Draco knew he must let the pride be stripped away, just as everything else had been.
It was too late, now. His mother was already rising, taking Draco’s arm in her own and patting his hand as one might a child. Draco knew she had begged for his life to be saved. His father, who had been long past self preservation, also had begged. Any favor they might have had left after their defeat was spent to rally support to convince the king not to kill their son.
The full force of the king’s glare was put on Draco now, making clear he regretted ever sparring Draco’s ungrateful life.
“Congratulations, your majesty,” Draco said. Ungrateful, but not discourteous.
The king’s bushy eyebrows furrowed as he considered what fault to find in Draco’s words. “He got what he deserved,” said the king. Presumably about Lucius, who was still lying dead just out of sight.
Draco, naturally pale, went white as a sheet. Anyone who hadn’t been watching was paying attention now.
“Your verdict was just, and the kingdom is better for it,” Narcissa attempted to intercept the king’s wrath with words he’d heard from her before.
King Harry only looked at Draco. “Do you agree? Is the kingdom better for it?” the king stepped to the side so he could point at the corpse behind him.
Draco was surprised that he could feel emptier than he had for the last week, which he previously had thought must have been as empty as a human could possibly be. Now, though, there was a cavern in him. A void so large that the king’s words couldn’t reach whatever lay at the end. They just bounced around against walls, losing themselves to the echo. That vacancy let Draco look away from his father’s corpse and to the king who had killed him. “Yes. You’ve brought us peace. Thank you, your majesty.” It was insincere, but the Malfoys never let that stop them from conveying the appropriate message.
The king’s jaw clenched. The only tell of his rage. In a way, Draco understood. He, too, yearned for vengeance. He wished he had a knife so he could stab it into whatever weakness the decorative armor might provide. If Draco could, he would make the new king as dead as the old.
Draco could do no such thing.
However, the king could do plenty. Angled as he was, the entire court could see him hold out his left hand. On it he wore a prominent ring with the symbol of a lion. Noise dimmed as more and more people caught sight of the king’s demand. Draco realized, this is why the king had come to speak to them at all.
Draco, only recently a man, had not cultivated the same grace as his father managed when he bowed. He did his best, though, to bow without belittling himself. The king held his hand low so Draco had to dip far to brush his lips over the signet ring. He wondered, as his lips grazed the metal, how long he should linger. Should he have knelt like King Voldermort would have insisted? Why had no one instructed him on how to pledge fealty? This must be long enough, he figured. Draco pulled himself back to standing.
The king’s eyes were still hyper focused on Draco as he lifted himself back to his full height. He could not hide his unsteadiness or the slight embarrassed flush on his cheeks. Every micro expression laid Draco bare to the king and Draco feared his vulnerability shined bright under the scrutiny. Perhaps this is what the king needed to feel secure in Draco’s submission. Only after cataloging each moment of Draco’s discomfort did the king turn away.
Chatter resumed, louder now as the spectators gossiped over what they had witnessed. Malfoy did his best to sink back into the void where he had no feelings and did not care how low his family had sunk.
The king and his followers all left the royal dias, leaving both the living and the dead Malfoys behind in favor of the celebration.