The engagement party was perfect. Draco's mother's stringent attention to lavish details had once again paid off. From the gold flake and lilac-plastered finger foods and pansy-soaked chartreuse cocktails to the carnation-explosive floral arrangements climbing down the walls of the ballroom, his mother had forced the idea of lush springtime blooms into every aspect of this gathering. Even the hundreds of bright candles illuminating the room were dripping more marigold petals than wax, and he didn't know how she had done that.
And he, obviously, was the greatest addition of all. He'd helped his mother design his robes, the red and pink of hibiscus, and he was quite proud. Petals of every kind exploded at his cuffs and collar, reaching his chin and framing his face in small soft leaves. When he moved, the cut blossoms lining his outer robe smelled like an after-rain garden. The jasmine crown woven into his hair almost distracted from the actual metal circlet he wore.
Now all he needed was to actually find his future king or queen. His mother had extended an invite to every young man and woman in the country, though of course he would only be marrying a noble one.
He just needed to pick.
It was just taking far longer than he had expected to do that.
"How about that one?" Pansy asked next to him, a half-eaten flowerful pastry in her hand. Her fingers were lined with woven clover rings. Her dress was shaped like iris petals. Even her name fit the theme. No wonder everyone expected their flower- obsessed prince to marry his best friend, he thought. She was too good a friend for that, though. Pansy knew too much about his stupid pre-teen years.
"No," he said, to a redhead freckled girl in roses and last decade's neckline.
"No," to a bottle-blonde in sunflowers and turnips, with baby's breath in her hair.
"No," to a boy with eyes the colour of ferns and daisy chains around his neck.
"No," to another blonde girl, this one with buttercups on either side of her plaited head and a little red dachshund.
"No," to a head the colour of pink petunias, "And isn't that my cousin Nymphadora?"
"You're royalty. Half the people you are allowed to marry are at some node in your family tree classified as a cousin," Pansy said. "How about that one?"
Draco's tongue was already half-formed around his refusal when every raindrop in his brain turned to hail and he froze like a garden in November.
Chat noir dahlias and the darkest helleborus he had seen in his life coated the lapel of black robes at the corner of the room. A collar formed of coral bells with undersides of wine-red formed a stark black contrast against the wearer's pale neck.
Draco met the other boy's eyes across the room, as red as cosmos flowers and just as infinite, and every thought in his head became butterflies in his stomach.
"Okay," he said instead, and started walking forward.
"Hello," the other greeted politely as Draco approached. His voice sounded like how a black petunia looked, velvety and dark. His nose and cheekbones were so sharp they could cut. His eyelashes looked so long they must be heavy. "It's a pleasure to meet you, your highness. To be invited as a guest was my greatest honour."
"Dance with me," Draco ordered immediately, instead of leaning on any formality, knowing no one would have the nerve to object.
The other stared at him like he had just suggested watering flowers at noon.
But he still took Draco's hand. Draco still got to lead him gently to the dance floor. Draco saw Pansy gesturing at him, sending him good luck signs. He ignored her.
He didn't need luck. He was the prince.
"What's your name?" he asked, because he probably should. He let the other take the lead, because he knew both parts of every relevant dance, but he didn’t recognise the other. He may be a lower class of noble. He might not know more than the ballroom basics.
That's okay. Draco could teach him that. He was already planning their life together. He was already planning on teaching him the trick to healthy hollyhocks.
"Tom," the other said, watching carefully.
"Have you been here before?" Draco inquired next, desperately trying to place any Toms amongst the nobles that he knew of—and hopefully not amongst his relatives.
He realised he couldn’t think of any just as Tom murmured, "Once. I said I'd never be back."
"Oh. Why?" he asked.
"No one quite liked me the last time," Tom said, and Draco couldn't imagine why. The other was so beautiful. He was as tall as a trellis rose and just as fine. Draco wanted to know all his secrets.
"It was different back then," Tom said, instead of spilling secrets. Back when, Drack wondered, but Tom wasn't finished speaking.
"There were less flowers. More gilding. Abraxas was obsessed with metallurgy. Of course, then he met that girl, and suddenly everything was fairytales and stories instead. He didn't even invite me to your father's first birthday." Tom sounded annoyed, frustrated. Bitter like marigold blossoms.
Abraxas? That was the name of…
Abraxas was his grandfather. The first king. Why was Tom talking like he knew him even before he married? Tom looked twenty at most, not a hundred.
"What are you?" Draco asked. Tom smiled at him for the first time. He had teeth like blackberry thorns. He leaned closer, and Draco flinched.
"An old family friend," Tom whispered in his ear. His breath was boiling hot like July on Draco's neck. He could feel the petals on his robes wilting against his skin. "I know I promised your family that I'd never be back after your father woke up, but I just couldn't help myself from crashing the party when I heard you were old enough to pick a bride. You know how some of us are when we're not invited."
He pulled away and met Draco's eyes again. He looked so beautiful. Draco didn't understand what was going on.
Fairytale Prince Charming Draco started to cry, and Tom Riddle kissed him. His lips were soft and he tasted sweet like lilacs. His thorns scraped Draco's lips.
Draco woke up from his dream, sweating and gasping. He inhaled air like he'd been drowning. Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave, and he scrambled to get the covers off.
They weren't his covers.
This wasn't his room.
Draco crawled out of bed and rushed to the nearest window, a massive stained- glass one depicting a climbing rose. His bare feet slammed against stone floors, kicking up petals off the ground. He threw open the window.
Tree tops stretched out below him. The sun shone directly into his eye. Draco learned out the window to look down, and his heart wilted in his chest.
The ground looked so far away that he couldn't make out the grass. The tower stretched down in grey stone and met the earth far below in an explosion of blood-red bushes. Crepe myrtle, he thought, at the same time he realised there were no other windows.
He spun around. The bed he had awoken in sat covered in ivy, and red petals were scattered across the ground. His flowery robes were thrown over an overstuffed chair, the collar wilted by too-hot breath. There was a table full of empty pots and racks lined with green plants. African violets were blooming out of baskets on the walls.
There was no door.
"Do you like it?"
Draco turned to see Tom looming over him, where he definitely hadn't been before.
Black moss was now growing over the other's skin, a patch of it creeping over one side of his face like a masquerade mask. Thorns spiked out around his head. A crown.
A fairy.
"I know it's a bit cliche. But this whole fairytale was going to be cliche, so I thought I'd mix it up," Tom purred, voice poisonous like hemlock. Draco felt cornered. There was no place to run.
"Fairytales are supposed to be darker, you know," Tom said, and leaned in close for another kiss.