“You’re in love with her, brother. The arguments and fights you both have are without a doubt the result of sexual tension.”
Draco Malfoy spluttered out vehement denials, trying to ignore the smugly amused face of his adoptive brother Tom Riddle-Malfoy.
“I am not!” he hissed, glaring with all his might.
Tom shrugged, taking a sip of his wine before he spoke, sounding oddly wistful: “There’s no shame in love. I would know.”
Draco stared at his brother, eyes wide as he asked: “You’re in love?”
Tom merely smirked down at him (damn that bastard for being so tall), back to being his cold-hearted, genocidal self.
“Now where on Earth did you get that impression?”
“You- you literally just-”
Tom hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head and questioning: “Did I?”
Draco still stuttering incoherently, he turned to walk away, only to swivel back and tap Draco’s chin.
“Close your mouth before you start catching flies, Draconis. You’re a scion of House Malfoy, not some random peasant we plucked off the street. Act like it.”
~
Draco brushed down his lapels hurriedly, causing Narcissa to chuckle fondly and remove his hands from his jacket, saving the fabric from his frantic actions.
“You look stunning, dragon. Any girl would accept your offer of courtship.”
He blushed furiously at the nickname, but before he could say anything to deter his mother from continuing to use it, Tom’s voice washed across them.
“Mother, Father, Lord Black wishes to see me.”
“Is there a reason why?”
His father’s worried response immediately rang out, Draco scowling bitterly at the plain concern on his usually impassive face. Tom was an orphan, a powerful one, sure, but an orphan nonetheless. And yet, here he was, mingling with the elite of France, a charming smile on his face and a wineglass in his hand as if he had always been there.
Even the old, cranky - but dangerous - fart that was Arcturus Black wanted to speak with him, and Merlin knew why.
Tom smiled placatingly, deep voice soothing as he reassured: “Most likely to congratulate me on my recent win in the duelling tournament. The Black family seems to have taken a great interest in me recently.”
Oh shit. He had just implied Tom was Merlin.
A bright smile appeared on Lucius’s face, the man clapping Tom on the shoulder and saying: “Congratulations Tom. Not an easy feat, but I knew you could do it.”
He sounded to all the world like he was praising his adoptive son for his dexterity in fencing, but Draco knew better. The underlying message had been clear for all to hear: The Blacks have chosen to ally with me. They will support me in whatever endeavours I wish to undertake. Narcissa nodded her agreement with her husband, taking Tom’s hands in her own and smiling softly at him.
“Well done, dear.”
Tom returned the smile, inclining his head in grateful thanks and slipping away.
“He really is amazing, isn’t he Cissa?”
The awe in his wistful murmur was evident for all to hear, Draco stiffening in hurt at his father’s words. He was the heir of the Malfoys, the sole biological son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, the Lord and Lady of one of France’s most prestigious Noble House, second to perhaps the Blacks only. He ought to be Heir Malfoy already, he should have taken on the title on his recent birthday, but his parents had decided to wait until Yule, until- until after Tom’s birthday.
Surely they wouldn’t?
Surely they wouldn’t be so cruel as to raise him with the knowledge that he would one day be Lord Malfoy, only to rip it away and give it to his more talented, more alluring, brother?
Lucius Malfoy was a family man, he adored his children and his wife dearly, and Draco was certain he wouldn’t give the Heirship to someone who wasn’t family. And, as much as he loathed to admit it, Lucius did consider Tom family, he had ever since he had taken to social and political lessons better than Draco ever did.
Narcissa Malfoy née Black was Draco’s mother and she cherished him, he knew she did, but somewhere deep in his heart, suppressed by his pride and arrogance, Draco knew she treasured Tom far more than him. Despite what others dubbed her currently, she was a Black through and through. She knew how to uncover power, how to cultivate and nurture it to her advantage, how to propel it straight into an enemy’s heart.
And so Draco came to the answer that yes, if given the chance, they would pick Tom over him.
~
Draco fought the blush that threatened to spread over his cheeks as Harriet Lyra Potter-Black curtseyed demurely, voice courteous as she greeted: “Malfoy, Lucius, Cissa, Merry Yule.”
“Merry Yule, Lyra,” responded Narcissa warmly, smiling at the goddaughter of her favourite cousin, husband and son chiming in after a glare from her.
After a few rounds of polite conversation, in which Draco realized that this was the most civilized conversation he had ever had with her and that their history wasn’t exactly the most stable of foundations for a relationship, Narcissa cleared her throat, calling out with no small amount of pride: “Tom, come here for a second, would you dear, there’s someone I would like you to meet.”
Tom made his way back to them, a plastic smile already appearing before he took in the woman standing in front of him. It vanished as he spotted Harriet, turning into something wider, something more brillant and dazzling, and most shockingly, something completely and utterly real.
“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
The Malfoys paused at his lightly teasing words, shock overtaking their features as Harriet laughed airily, allowing herself to be drawn into Tom’s embrace and gracefully accepting the light peck delivered to her cheek.
“You look stunning, Harry.”
His compliment was quiet, but for the first time in his life, Draco would quite happily bet his entire vault that Tom actually meant it. He wanted her, Draco realized with a slowly dawning horror. His brother, who was intelligent and skilled in all the ways that mattered, wanted the same girl that Draco did, the girl whom Draco had desired since he had first laid his eyes on her.
“You two know each other?”
His mother’s tentative question was enough to break the two apart, Tom’s arm sliding around her waist as he pulled her flush against him. Strangely enough, Harriet “I don’t need a man and if anyone thinks otherwise I’ll be happy to acquaint my knuckles with their face” Potter didn’t even try to shove him off, simply rolling her eyes fondly and leaning closer into him.
“I’ve known Tom since we were 17.”
Draco paled, feeling like he was going to throw up. They had known each other since they were seventeen, six whole fucking years ago.
“We met when I was claiming my heirship rings,” explained Tom, subtly reminding them all that Tom wasn’t just a nameless orphan, he was a Gaunt, and a masterfully manipulative one at that.
“Speaking of heirship rings,” continued Tom, turning to the woman still nestled in his arms with a smirk. “Congratulations, Heir Peverell.”
The ballroom around them hushed, Tom’s voice had this unnatural quality to it, floating over and covering any conversation that might have been taking place, and it was unquestionably that odd gift that made the room privy to any conversation Tom might have wanted them to hear. And it was no mystery why he wanted this particular piece of information to be known either The Peverells, the family that had ruled over Magical France for over two centuries hadn’t been heard of since the last King, Ignotus Peverell the second, had abolished the regime of the Crown and with it the system of the Three Estates, decades before the muggles attempted to do the same thing with a poorly thought out rebellion.
The Peverells had moved to Britain, but even then the sheer power that name wielded was still spoken of to this day, with hushed whispers and awe-filled remarks.
If Harriet wished to, she could seize back the leadership of France, and from the top of his head, Draco could name more than fifty Lords and Ladies who would support her in her attempt.
The woman in question smiled placidly in response to the silence, replying: “Thank you so very much for your kind words, Heir Slytherin.”
It was as if you could hear a pin drop with the way the silence plummeted even further, his parents staring at the smirking pair with stricken looks on their faces.
Slytherin, much like Peverell, had ruled over France, the two families often squabbled for power before Ignotus had chosen his bride, Iolanthe Slytherin herself.
If the two were to marry, no one could deny them the right to take back France, not even the Blacks. It would be a perfect mirror of history; a twisted, bloody, mirror but a flawless one nonetheless.
A sudden crash broke them out of their reverie, Draco blinking as he noticed everyone turn to him. He was suddenly aware of a sharp sting in his hand, a puddle of glass shards at his feet as champagne soaked his leather shoes.
“Oh dear,” fussed Narcissa, attention being drawn to the new source of commotion as she snapped her fingers and called for a servant.
Two servants rushed in, no doubt squibs that Narcissa had taken pity on during her last philanthropic endeavour, averting their eyes from the guests, sweeping up the glass shards and mopping up the spilt drink.
Narcissa bent down under the pretence of looking him over, whispering into his ear quietly: “Go to the infirmary and get back in time for the beginning of the dance.”
“But-”
“Go Draconis,” ordered Lucius tightly, eyes fixed on Rita Skeeter, who was flitting over to them with all the eagerness of a predator spotting its next meal.
When Draco didn’t move, Lucius snapped his fingers covertly, one of the servants gently taking his arm and guiding him out of the room, flinching when Draco sneered at him, hissing poisonously: “Unhand me, you freak.”
Before they stepped past the threshold of the grand double doors, Draco turned around, something ugly blossoming in his chest when he saw his family shift to face Skeeter, Tom’s arm wrapped still snugly around her waist as he spoke, voice audible even from so far away.
“Like the Potters, the House of Malfoy still has some dealings in Britain, so Harry and I do spend quite a bit of time together. About a third of every year, I would say.”
~
Draco returned a few minutes later, hand bandaged tightly as he made his way to his family. They were conversing in low tones, faces looking uncharacteristically serious as they talked. He watched as Tom nodded acceptingly, Lucius reaching out and clapping him on the shoulder, satisfaction apparent in his actions. Tom walked away, where on Earth to Draco had no idea, probably to go and mingle with the other guest like he often liked to do.
“Mother, Father, shall I commence the dancing?”
Draco waited impatiently for their approval, barely stopping himself from bouncing on his heels in anticipation. Draco and Tom were at the age where the Heir would be declared, if there were two siblings then they would wait until the youngest had reached their twenty-third birthday, where the Lord and Lady would announce their chosen heir.
During these heir ceremonies, they would begin with a dance, which the most successful scion - and by default, the heir - would open. Their situation was admittedly similar to that of Lords with two sons, but since Tom wasn’t related to them by blood there was no chance of him being selected as the heir.
Which was brillant for Draco, as the heir would also have a chance to announce his intention to court a girl of their choosing. There had only been one recorded case of the girl in question rejecting the heir’s advances, which had been his aunt Casseiopia Black, who had rejected her would-be suitor by quite literally punching him.
And that was Harriet’s favourite aunt.
He suppressed the shudder that threatened to wrack his frame, looking at his parents expectantly.
“You won’t be opening the ball, Draco. Tom will.”
His mother’s calm words took a few moments to register in his head, but once they did he looked furious, sucking in a deep breath as he prepared to yell up a storm.
“Control yourself, Draco,” snapped Lucius, the ice in his voice causing Draco to stare up at his father fearfully. “That is the exact reason you will never be my heir. You are supposed to wield your emotions as a knife you can plunge into those that oppose you, not allow them to control you and your actions like some weak-minded child.”
Right.
Some weak-minded child.
That was who Draco was, who he would ever be.
And how could he dispute that when he would always be placed next to Tom?
Tom, who was handsome, witty, charming, and a genius.
And then there was Draco.
Who was handsome, sure, it would be impossible for him to not be with who his parents were, but that was all he was. Handsome, easily manipulated, and the expected Malfoy heir.
The perfect ally.
He knew that, he had always known that while he would live a life of glamour and prestige, he would be nothing but someone’s puppet. And he had made his peace with it because at least puppets were of use, and the alternative of being unwanted and unloved was too horrible to even consider.
But now, stripped of his future, he was nothing.
His nightmare was now his reality.
~
Draco watched enviously as Tom made his way across the ballroom, strides determined and steady. He glided over to a group of huddled Lords, holding out a hand and bowing. And as if Moses himself had come to part the Red Sea, they moved away, revealing a stunningly dressed Harriet Lyra Potter-Black. Well, Potter-Black-Peverell now.
She was dressed in a shimming virescent dress, the silvery fabric wrapping around her chest with a modest neckline before the fabric plunged down to her feet in a soft swirl of emerald and viridian green, the cloth billowing around her fair legs. Her inky hair was pulled up into an elaborate updo, a few strands artfully framing her face in carefully curled waves.
As she was pulled onto the floor, looking utterly radiant under the glow of the chandeliers, the diamonds weaved into the expensive material of her dress shone brightly, the sparkles doing nothing to take away from the sight the pair made, entwined with each other as they spun around the dance floor.
It was obvious to anyone who knew what to look for in their dance, the way Tom’s hand slid a little lower than necessary, the way Harriet’s fingers tangled into his hair as she was dipped.
It was obvious they were in love.
He had guessed Tom loved her, but the way he looked at her, with complete adoration and worship, he had only ever seen that when his father smiled at his mother, when that Granger twit looked at Weasel.
It would be night when he realised that the pang in his heart was caused by the fact that no one had ever looked at him in that way, that it was likely no one ever would.
~
And it would also be night when it would be sickeningly clear what he had missed. A necklace of pure gold had adorned her neck, a pretty and no doubt expensive thing. He had noticed that, had attributed the unlikeliness of her wearing such a pricey piece of jewellery to the fact that she had wanted to garner his attention.
And she had.
But in his haste to fuel his ego, to presume that she returned his affections, he had missed the engraved snake that curled on the expanse of the pendant, twisting to form the unmistakable shape of an S.
Slytherin’s emblem.
Tom’s emblem.
Now, any onlooker might presume that it had been nothing more than an innocent gift, a sweet gesture for a man to give to the woman he was courting.
But Draco knew better.
And that was no gift.
That?
That necklace had been a claim and a warning, one that Draco had foolishly missed.
He had encroached on Tom’s territory, had sought to claim what Tom had labelled as his and only his. He had grown up with Tom, he knew what made him annoyed, what made him angry, and also what made him ready to stab someone. And like a petulant child, when someone touched what he deemed as his, when someone tried to pry, Tom made sure they paid.
And that was exactly what Draco had done.
He had paid.
Tom had never wanted the Malfoy Heirship - why would he when he had plenty of his own already? - and he had always regarded it with a cool detachment, amused enough to take note of who held it but not enough to actually bother with attempting to obtain it.
But because Drace had pursued Harriet, had wanted so badly for her to be his, Tom had decided he needed to learn his place.
So he had searched up countless family trees, exhausting the resources and connections he had spent years making, and finally, finally, he had found some obscure, unrecorded, marriage that proved the Gaunts and the Malfoys had intermingled, that he was family by blood.
Which meant that Lucius finally had the justification and right to make Tom his heir.
Which meant that after all the games, all the times Draco had accepted his shiny silver medal, had gloated despite that because he knew Tom would never be the heir, they meant nothing.
Because now, despite his certainty, Draco was not, and would never be, the Malfoy Heir.