The Grand Tour
Feb. 23rd, 2008 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
girlyswotI came across this community yesterday and laughed so much at the prompts I just had to claim one. So that's how I come to have written Charlie and Draco genfic. It's 5000 words or so, and wholly DH-compliant. There's even a nod to the epilogue.
Mine was: Draco would love to learn more about dragons, please. Charlie and Draco didn't end up shagging each other.
That's not a bad summary of the story, although Draco's perhaps not as eager to learn about dragons as that implies.
If you're interested,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
unusuallygen still has some fun prompts to claim for HP or original fic (and some other fandoms too). You don't even have to be a member of the community. I'm quite tempted by "An evening of clever and witty conversation with Snape at a social event doesn't lead Hermione to question her marriage with Ron. Snape gets invited by the couple for dinners, becomes a 'friend of the family', and even learns to enjoy playing chess with Ron" or perhaps "A nerdy girl receives/gets a makeover. Said makeover does *not* win her the attraction of her object of affection, and she realizes she is better off being herself." Padma Patil, perhaps?
######
No one ever told you what was supposed to happen when it was all over. Draco watched Potter defeat the Dark Lord and was only a little surprised to find that his overwhelming response was relief. He really hoped that Potter had done it right this time. The last thing Draco needed was for Voldemort to resurface in ten years time demanding allegiance from his supporters. Because Draco wasn’t. A supporter of the Dark Lord. Not really. Not after he’d seen…well, anyway, not now that Potter had won. And saved his life. Twice. Draco turned and kicked at a handy pillar. Hard.
So now what? It didn’t look like anyone would be worrying about N.E.W.T.’s in the near future. Not that that was going to matter for him. Draco had no illusions. Even if he didn’t actually have a Dark Mark inked onto his forearm, no one was going to want a Malfoy around. He could travel, he supposed. Europe, perhaps. The Grand Tour. There was still money in the family vault. His parents would understand, he thought.
Draco pursed his lips and forced himself to look out across what remained of the Great Hall. There was chaos, of course. His eyes swept over the piles of bodies and the lines of those waiting to be bandaged and dosed. Some were sitting at the tables, staring out with bemused expressions, unable, perhaps to believe it was over. Others were busily organising the world as if their lives depended on it. As if it mattered, now. His gaze moved on, out through the wide-flung gates where pockets of the battle lingered on. Death Eaters who hadn’t managed to escape quickly enough were still being chased down. Giants rampaged largely unchecked. Draco shuddered. He hoped his parents had been wise enough to flee the grounds. After the Granger incident… Draco’s hands curled into fists inside his pockets as he fought to keep back the memories… it was clear they’d all be on the list for Azkaban. Unless, he continued with a deliberate sneer, Potter and his cronies didn’t believe in prison. He could just imagine Granger spouting left-wing liberal nonsense for the others to lap up. They shouldn’t be punished, Harry, she’d say with that irritating look that claimed to know it all, they need our help. Draco was damned if he’d let them help him. Again.
He’d never thought much about the future. Not since his third or fourth year, anyway. Surviving had always seemed so much more important. Now he’d apparently survived, it looked as if there wouldn’t be much of a future for him. He could stay at home and breed peacocks. Or travel. Yes, that was the thing. Paris, first, then Rome, Milan, Athens. He rather fancied Prague for a while.
‘Hey, you there!’ Draco stiffened automatically as a hand clasped over his shoulder. ‘Give us a hand, won’t you?’
He turned slowly, wondering what response he’d get when the person saw who he was talking to. God, it was a Weasley. Draco glared.
‘Well, come on.’ The man indicated that Draco should take the other end of the large chest he was carrying. It seemed easier to do it than to argue.
‘That’s better, thanks.’ The Weasley grinned. ‘Bit too much for just me.’
Draco said nothing.
‘You all right, there?’ He was peering at Draco now. ‘Hey, you’re not injured are you? Should’ve said something, mate. Look, why don’t you go and see old Pomfrey. She’ll sort you out.’
‘I’m fine,’ Draco replied curtly.
‘Well, if you’re sure. Only Mum’s determined that Fred should be taken home in state. She sent me all the way back home for this.’
Draco swallowed hard. He was carrying Fred Weasley. Dead Fred Weasley. He shouldn’t be doing this. ‘Couldn’t someone have gone with you?’ Surely there were enough of them still left?
Weasley shook his head. ‘They wanted to stay. I told them I’d manage it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It seemed like a good thing to say.
‘Yes. Well. It happens.’ The Weasley was manoeuvring the… the coffin, Draco realised, round a pillar. His voice cracked slightly but Draco couldn’t see his face.
He was smiling again by the time they’d got into the corridor. ‘He died laughing, you know. Mum says he was laughing when he was born, too.’
Draco didn’t know what to say to that. Did it make it better if you were laughing when you died? You were still dead, weren’t you?
‘Nearly there.’ They were halfway up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.
‘I thought they’d put all the… um, the…’
‘Dead people.’ The Weasley gave Draco a curious look. ‘You can say it.’
Draco didn’t think he could, actually. ‘I thought they’d put them in the Great Hall.’
‘They did. But George wanted to bring Fred up here one last time.’
Oh. ‘I, um, I’m not… I wasn’t… in Gryffindor. I can’t come into the Common Room.’
‘No problem.’ The Weasley had stopped and indicated that Draco should put the chest down. ‘I can get it from here. Thanks.’
He held out his hand. Draco stared at it for moment, taking in the thick, rough fingers and the freckled skin. He couldn’t just shake it. He had to say something. If only he could get his mouth to work.
‘You’re not okay, are you?’ The Weasley had his hand on Draco’s shoulder again. ‘Look, go and get someone to take a look at you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you do this.’
Draco shook his head, opening his mouth once more.
‘Charlie, is that you?’ The loud, unmistakeable tones of Ginny Weasley rang out from the hole in the wall. The Weasley looked over his shoulder and nodded at his sister.
‘Be in there in a minute,’ he told her, and turned back to Draco.
But Draco was still watching Ginny’s face waiting for the moment when she noticed him. He wrenched himself free of Charlie’s grasp before she could cry out. Draco took the steps two and three at a time, blindly rushing to get away from them, to be out of this place, to breathe again.
####
He didn’t know what to do with the letter. Draco hadn’t expected it and he had no idea what it meant. The Weasley – Charlie – was thanking him. Thanking Draco for his help. Draco hadn’t wanted to help, it had just been easier than not helping. He certainly hadn’t done it for Fred Weasley’s sake. He shuddered at the thought. If that had been all, though, Draco would have shrugged it off and thrown the parchment into the fire. But Charlie had added another brief sentence, inviting Draco to visit him, ‘if ever you’re passing through Romania.’ No matter how long Draco stared at the short note he couldn’t fathom it out. What sort of person invited a stranger to visit them? On a dragon reserve in Romania? And not just any stranger, Draco thought bitterly, an enemy. Former enemy. Whatever.
Romania was not on the list for the Grand Tour. The Wizengamot had oh-so-graciously refrained from locking him up and Mother had agreed that a year or so travelling around Europe would be an ideal way for Draco to finish his education. Neither of them had mentioned the alternative. Father hadn’t said anything much, though that was pretty normal for Father these days. So Draco made his plans, secured his letters of introduction, ordered new robes and devised his itinerary. And didn’t reply to Charlie Weasley.
####
Paris was fun. Draco worked hard at forgetting everything that had happened in a fog of absinthe and sex. For a couple of months it was an effective strategy in a city where the alcohol ran freely and the girls adored his high cheekbones and clipped accent. He’d have stayed there quite happily if it hadn’t been for Francine. Or, more accurately, Francine’s husband.
Draco moved on to Rome. There he discovered Bellinis and Linguine alle Vongole and men. Italian men with dark hair and tanned skin and talents that Draco had never dreamed of. He bought designer robes and fine leather shoes and slicked his hair back to show off his pale complexion and bright blue eyes. Draco could have been happy in Rome if only it weren’t for the drama. Endless tantrums and wizarding duels all reminded him too forcibly of the world he was running away from. After six weeks it was too much. Draco departed in search of more congenial company.
Prague was as beautiful as everyone had told him it would be. It wasn’t much fun, though. Draco mooched moodily about the old streets, turning his nose up at the cheap restaurants and cheaper women. He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered, wishing he'd ordered a thicker cloak. He bought larger and larger bottles of the clear, odourless alcohol that he couldn’t give a name to. He stayed up late and slept in most of the day, drinking and sleeping, sleeping and drinking until he’d forgotten what daylight looked like. He was miserable, so he drank until he forgot why. Then he’d wake and reach for the bottle that helped him survive.
He’d always survived. Hadn’t done much else, as it turned out, but he’d survived. Not like Snape. Or Aunt Bellatrix. Or Fred Weasley. Draco took another swig from his bottle and lay back down.
####
‘Out!’ The large woman with the frightening facial hair glared at Draco. His eyes darted towards his bottle but she was too quick for him. ‘No more! Not at the Alchymist. Now get your things and get out.’
Draco thought about this for a moment. ‘How far is it to Romania?’
####
‘You said… if I was passing through…’ God, this had been a terrible idea. Draco’s head was still pounding and he was sure he was shivering. The Weasley was staring at him like he had two heads and everyone else in the room was watching in amusement.
‘Yes. So, you were in the neighbourhood…’ Charlie made a gesture that had the rest of the room laughing.
Draco pressed his lips together. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go.’
‘No.’ Charlie grasped his elbow firmly. ‘You’re not in any fit state to go anywhere. Stay. At least for tonight.’
Draco found that it was easier to agree.
Charlie took him to his own quarters.
‘You’ll have the bed,’ he told Draco in a tone that brooked no debate. ‘I’ll take the couch. Sheets are clean,’ he added. ‘I’ll run you a bath, shall I?’
He gave Draco an old, fraying towel and a clean pair of pyjama bottoms to put on afterwards. ‘You need a sleeping potion?’
Draco shook his head.
‘Okay, then. Sleep as long as you like. I’m on an early shift tomorrow, so you can do as you please. Help yourself to whatever you want for breakfast.’
He seemed to wait for a moment, as if expecting Draco to say something. Then he reached over to ruffle Draco’s hair and smiled. ‘I’m glad you came.’
####
Draco opened one eye experimentally. Light, but not unbearable. The Weasley had closed the curtains for Draco’s benefit. On further inspection, Draco rather thought that the swirling purple and green would be better opened. He sat up, but was brought up short by a fierce thump inside his head. Draco grimaced and closed his eyes, falling back down on the pillows. A few minutes later he tried again, this time noticing the small bottle on the bedside table and a scrawled note in familiar handwriting.
‘In case you’re still sore.’
Draco sniffed cautiously at the contents of the small bottle than threw caution to the winds and swallowed, only noticing the telltale ‘WWW’ label when it was too late. Damn that tasted revolting. He pushed the covers off the bed and went to the bathroom.
He assembled a breakfast of strong coffee and a single slice of toast, turning up his nose at the mess of crumbs and milk Weasley had left behind him. Draco sat at the table and contemplated his life. He’d had the world at his feet in Paris and Rome. Money, looks, a name that still meant something. Women and men had wanted him. Why, then, was he here in a tiny tent that smelt of dragon shit, sharing with a Weasley? A Weasley he barely knew, but yet like all the rest, self-righteous and – Draco shuddered – altruistic.
After breakfast, he’d pack. Maybe he’d try Madrid, or Barcelona next. Or somewhere in the Med, perhaps. Yes, that could work. A Greek island where Draco could hire a yacht and swim in secluded coves with selected guests. He’d wear loose linen shirts and dark glasses and he’d hang out in the coolest bars. There wouldn’t be any jealous husbands or temperamental Italians to make life difficult.
‘How are you feeling?’
Draco swallowed his coffee and eyed his host disdainfully. ‘Fine.’
Charlie grinned. ‘The potion worked, then?’
Draco shrugged and continued eating his toast. Charlie found a clean mug among the debris and poured himself a cup of coffee adding, Draco noticed with some distaste, milk and two spoonfuls of sugar.
‘So what are your plans for the day?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be leaving just as soon as I’ve finished my coffee.’
Weasley laughed. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. Do you want to come for a ride this afternoon?’
‘Ride?’ Draco frowned. He didn’t know much about dragons but he was sure he didn’t want to ride them.
‘Sure. I’ll lend you a broom. Ron said you played Seeker.’
A slight tilt of the head was sufficient to acknowledge the truth of this.
‘Well, then. You’ll enjoy it.’
He didn’t have to leave today, Draco supposed. It wasn’t as if he was expected anywhere. And it had been too long since he’d played Quidditch. Draco found himself urgently needing to feel the thrill of flying again, the feel of wind rushing through his hair, the freedom of being in the air, the concentration that excluded the world from his mind.
‘Fine.’
####
One afternoon drifted into another. A week became three. Charlie was an easy host and Draco found the routine of the reserve oddly comforting. Charlie had never asked him whether he wanted to help out, he’d just assumed that Draco would. Soon he knew not only the names of Charlie’s Horntails but their breeding for three generations back. He could recognise an Ironbelly or a Fireball in the air at three miles. He’d taken his turn at cleaning out the pens in the hospital wing and he’d flown through the night with Charlie to rescue a baby dragon abandoned by its mother.
They’d found the Horntail cowering in a thicket of thorn bushes. Just a few weeks old, the dragon was already more than half Charlie’s height and had a ferocious spurt of flame that he was demonstrating. Draco watched as Charlie first sent up a flare for help, then began to approach the baby slowly and carefully, wand out before him.
‘Take the other side.’ Charlie had spoken without turning.
Draco backed around to the other side of the thicket, keeping his eye on the dragon and his wand at the ready, though really, he had no idea what spell he could use on the thing. He moved forward, trying to step through the dry brambles as quietly as he could manage. He had no desire to become baby Horntail barbecue. Draco stopped for a moment, assessing his way through, when a most extraordinary sounded hit his ears.
Charlie Weasley was singing.
Well, Charlie was producing a noise which Draco thought was supposed to be singing. The words were recognisably those of a lullaby Draco’s own mother had once sung to him, but the tune was like nothing he’d heard before. In the dark, Draco rolled his eyes and planned how he would tease Weasley about this forever. The Horntail seemed to be enjoying it, however. It was swaying and its shoulders seemed to have dropped a little. Draco took another tentative step and, carried along by some bizarre impulse, joined in the song.
He could see Charlie now, just yards away, his eyes fixed on the Horntail. Weasley’s wand was
still pointed but his other hand was held out to the dragon. He’d brought a dead chicken with him and was now distracting the Horntail with it.
‘Stupefy,’ Charlie sang. ‘Aim for the eyes.’
Draco nodded, then realised Charlie still hadn’t taken his gaze from the dragon. ‘Right.’
‘On three.’ Charlie was still singing. ‘One… two… three.’
Draco sprang forward, casting the spell swiftly and precisely. The dragon stared at them both for an instant then slowly toppled over, landing with its forehead on the bedraggled chicken.
‘Good job,’ Charlie told him. ‘He’ll only be out for about ten minutes, though. Can you help me lift him?’
‘What will we do?’ They were hours from the reserve and Draco didn’t fancy being around when the dragon awoke in ten minutes time.
‘Get him onto the clearing. The others should be here any minute with the gear. We’ll wrap him up and put him in a sling.’
They levitated the animal and carefully picked their way back out to the grassy area where they’d left their broomsticks.
‘Can I touch him?’
Charlie gave Draco a strange look but nodded. ‘While he’s under, there’s no danger.’
‘I thought it would feel like dragonhide,’ Draco explained. ‘But it’s much rougher. Like scales.’
Weasley laughed. ‘It is dragonhide. But I know what you mean. You wouldn’t believe you could make clothes out of this stuff.’
‘I used to have a dragonhide belt,’ Draco told him. ‘When I was younger. I pretended I was an explorer.’
‘And now you are.’
Draco wanted to ask what he meant by that but the team arrived just then and there was no time to be lost while they were securing the Horntail and arranging the sling. They flew back in formation, the dragon slung between three brooms on each side. Draco was in the middle on the left, behind Charlie. For three and a half hours he had an uninterrupted view of Charlie Weasley’s backside. In his fatigue, Draco’s mind began to wander. He’d seen Charlie naked, more than once, in their close quarters, and thought nothing of it. But now, the vision of those freckles that Draco knew covered the whole of Weasley’s skin, began to float across his mind. He wondered if he could count them all. Would that keep him awake? There were the two above his left eyebrow. Then four, no five, on the bridge of his nose.
####
‘Draco? Draco!’ Someone was shaking him. He was going to fall off his broom if they kept doing that. ‘Draco!’
He groaned. ‘G’way, Weasley.’
Weasley laughed. ‘There’s coffee by the bed when you’re ready. I just thought you’d like to know that little Scorpius is going to be fine. His mother was suitably pleased to see him again and he’s back in the pen.’
‘Scorpius?’
Charlie put a warm mug in Draco’s hands. ‘The Horntail.’
‘Ah. Well, good. I’d hate to think we were wasting our time.’
Charlie laughed again. Draco noticed that there were actually six freckles on the bridge of his nose.
‘The boss has given us the day off. I’m taking you out to the lake, okay?’
‘What if it’s not okay?’
Weasley grinned. ‘I guess I’d have to kidnap you.’
Draco rolled his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. He’d go. He seemed to have fallen into the habit of doing whatever Weasley said. He rather thought that might be why he’d stayed for so long. It was easier to let someone else take charge for a while.
####
‘You’re not going to sing for us this time?’
Charlie twisted his head round and grinned across at Draco. ‘I thought you’d enjoy that. It works though, even with a tone-deaf idiot like me. I guess dragons don’t have much musical sense.’
‘Clearly. Would you mind telling me where we’re going?’
‘Over there.’ He nodded towards the twin peaks ahead of them. ‘Through the pass, then round to the left. There’s a mountain lake. It’s incredible.’
Draco narrowed his eyes, checking that he had the path in view. Then, without a word, he leant down over his broom and accelerated past Charlie. He smiled at Charlie’s yelp of protest but pressed on faster and faster. It was a long time since Draco had raced and now, more than anything in the world, he wanted to show Charlie how good he was on a broom. He shifted slightly, feeling for the currents in the air that would carry him with them, tucking his feet under into the proper racing position. He wanted to scream or yell or something.
The pass was narrow and Draco needed all his concentration to hold his line as he swung between the rocks. It felt like he didn’t breathe until he could once again see clear air on either side and feel the heat of the sun on his neck. Round to the left, Weasley had said. Draco pulled his broom round and slowed, searching for the lake.
‘There.’ Charlie had caught up with him and was nodding down the slope. Draco saw a perfectly round pool, glittering in the summer sun among the dark granite rocks. The two of them were idling now, making lazy circles as they descended. Draco eyed Charlie measuringly then made a decision.
‘Last one in’s a sissy,’ he called out, then took his broomstick and went into a fierce dive. He hadn’t done this for years. He kept his gaze firmly focussed on the centre of the pool and edged his hands out into a point above his head. Then everything went black.
####
He was dying. Draco choked and vomited and lay back, knowing that he was dying.
‘Idiot.’
Draco opened an eye and glared at Weasley.
‘Drink this.’
Draco sipped at the cup being held to his lips. Then he turned away and vomited again.
‘Better now?’
Weasley was eating a sandwich. Damn him.
‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to jump into to water where you couldn’t see the bottom?’
Draco shrugged, ignoring the pain that shot through his head at the slight action.
‘You could have died.’ Weasley sounded remarkably cheerful at the thought.
‘Sorry I didn’t,’ muttered Draco.
‘Idiot,’ Charlie repeated and reached for another sandwich.
Charlie wasn’t wearing a shirt, Draco noticed. And his shorts were still slightly damp and clinging to his thighs. Draco swallowed, choked and blinked back tears.
‘Here.’ Charlie passed him another cup of water. ‘Try again.’
This time Draco managed to hold down a couple of sips. ‘What happened?’
‘You hit the water at about 60 miles an hour. Went straight to the bottom and hit your head. Your broom didn’t make it.’
Draco looked round in consternation.
Charlie shrugged. ‘I’ll fetch it if you like.’ He gestured towards the lake. ‘But it won’t be more than a souvenir.’
‘Oh.’ Draco had never much liked the broom, anyway. Then he remembered that it was actually Charlie’s. ‘Sorry. I’ll get you a new one.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Better the broom in a dozen pieces than you. Ready for a sandwich?’
Draco chewed on the cheese and pickle while his body got used to the idea of still being alive. With the warmth of the sun and the gentle sounds of the lake soothing him, he didn’t feel so bad.
‘One left,’ Charlie announced. ‘Ham and mustard. You want to share it?’
Draco shook his head. ‘You have it.’ He watched Weasley bite into the simple sandwich with gusto, and suddenly realised how strange it was that he knew Charlie Weasley preferred mustard with his ham but pickle with his cheese. Draco frowned.
‘You know,’ he said abruptly. ‘I think I’ll go next week.’
‘Go?’
‘Barcelona,’ Draco decided. ‘And then perhaps Morocco.’
Charlie laughed. ‘What will you do in Morocco?’
‘Hire a camel and ride out into the desert,’ Draco responded promptly. ‘Then I can set up my own harem.’
Charlie’s laughter redoubled and after a few minutes even Draco joined in.
‘I can’t stay,’ he pointed out, when they’d both regained their composure. ‘That couch you’ve been sleeping on is too short, even for you.’
Charlie looked at him seriously. ‘I don’t care about the couch.’
Draco spread out his hands. His nails were cracked and dirty. ‘Still.’
‘You can’t keep running away,’ Charlie told him.
Draco lay back, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Who says I’m running away?’
‘Please. You turn up here with the hangover from hell, looking like you’ve spent the previous six months at the bottom of a bucket of vodka. You never once mention your family, the war, your home – anything outside of the reserve, in fact. And now that you’re starting to feel comfortable here, you want to leave.’
The sun was growing warmer. Draco shifted so that the shadow of the rocks fell across his body. ‘You invited me,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Draco asked, suddenly curious.
‘Thought you might need a place to hide for a while. Lick your wounds. That kind of thing.’
‘But you didn’t even know me.’
‘I saw you that day. After the battle. Lost. I knew you needed to be doing something. Not just drinking and sleeping your way round Europe.’
‘I think I might be gay.’ Draco had no idea why his mouth had thought that was an appropriate thing to say.
Charlie gave him a look. ‘No, you aren’t.’
‘I slept with lots of men in Rome,’ he offered.
‘Italians don’t count. Who’d you sleep with in Paris?’
‘Women. But I didn’t know then.’
Charlie laughed. ‘If you didn’t know you were gay in Paris, then you’re not. Besides, you haven’t slept with anyone here.’
‘No. Well.’
‘Plenty of guys who’d let you into their beds if you asked.’
‘I sleep in your bed.’ God, he was pathetic.
‘And I sleep on the couch.’
‘Charlie…’
‘Go home, Draco.’ He was using that voice. The one that he normally reserved for baby dragons and breeding females. The one that had melted hearts all over Romania.
Draco pulled himself up to sit with his hands round his knees. He couldn’t go home. Charlie had no idea what that would mean.
‘Go home. You have to start living again, Draco. You’re strong now, you’ll find a way.’
‘I want to stay here.’ That sounded childish, even to his own ears. He wasn’t surprised that Charlie didn’t bother to answer him.
He couldn’t go back to the Manor. Even if Father had returned to something more like his usual self, Draco couldn’t bear the idea of his mother fussing over him again. He’d have to rent a flat. In London, of course. Not Diagon Alley, he rather thought. And a job. London wasn’t Paris or Rome. One couldn’t laze away the days in idle hedonism. Only, who would employ him? Everyone would know by now what a villain and coward he’d been. They’d point and whisper and ignore him. There weren’t many Slytherins left, he’d heard. Blaise had gone to Jamaica. Pansy had married that American millionaire she’d always wanted. Crabbe was dead. Goyle was still in St Mungo’s as far as Draco knew. He’d have no friends.
Draco turned to look at Charlie again.
‘Why did you invite me?’
‘Told you. Thought you needed a place to come.’
‘But you knew who I was?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did you know when you asked me to carry Fred’s coffin?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh.’
There was a pause, then Charlie spoke again. ‘What’s up?’
Draco sighed. He hated having to spell these things out. ‘Shouldn’t you hate me?’
Charlie laughed. ‘I hate the way you snore at night.’
He aimed a kick at Charlie’s shin. ‘Gryffindor.’
‘Slytherin. Draco, people won’t hate you. Not if you give them a chance to like you first.’
Draco frowned. ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way round?’
Charlie grinned and reached across to ruffle Draco’s hair. ‘Nope. Now, are you able to keep from drowning this time? Because I’m ready to melt if I don’t get in the water now.’
Draco nodded and watched as Charlie stripped off. ‘Can I stay another week?’ he asked, stricken with anxiety.
Charlie grinned wickedly. Draco gulped and wondered whether Charlie really was right that he wasn’t gay. ‘Take your shirt off,’ he encouraged Draco. ‘That’s it. Now slowly, this time. One toe at a time.’
‘Ha ha.’ Draco plunged in to the blissfully cool water. Charlie followed with a giant splash. ‘Idiot.’
Charlie smirked and splashed Draco again.
‘So can I stay?’
‘One week,’ Charlie agreed, ducking out of the way of Draco’s own attempts to splash him. ‘But you’ll be sleeping on the couch.’
Mine was: Draco would love to learn more about dragons, please. Charlie and Draco didn't end up shagging each other.
That's not a bad summary of the story, although Draco's perhaps not as eager to learn about dragons as that implies.
If you're interested,
unusuallygen still has some fun prompts to claim for HP or original fic (and some other fandoms too). You don't even have to be a member of the community. I'm quite tempted by "An evening of clever and witty conversation with Snape at a social event doesn't lead Hermione to question her marriage with Ron. Snape gets invited by the couple for dinners, becomes a 'friend of the family', and even learns to enjoy playing chess with Ron" or perhaps "A nerdy girl receives/gets a makeover. Said makeover does *not* win her the attraction of her object of affection, and she realizes she is better off being herself." Padma Patil, perhaps? ######
No one ever told you what was supposed to happen when it was all over. Draco watched Potter defeat the Dark Lord and was only a little surprised to find that his overwhelming response was relief. He really hoped that Potter had done it right this time. The last thing Draco needed was for Voldemort to resurface in ten years time demanding allegiance from his supporters. Because Draco wasn’t. A supporter of the Dark Lord. Not really. Not after he’d seen…well, anyway, not now that Potter had won. And saved his life. Twice. Draco turned and kicked at a handy pillar. Hard.
So now what? It didn’t look like anyone would be worrying about N.E.W.T.’s in the near future. Not that that was going to matter for him. Draco had no illusions. Even if he didn’t actually have a Dark Mark inked onto his forearm, no one was going to want a Malfoy around. He could travel, he supposed. Europe, perhaps. The Grand Tour. There was still money in the family vault. His parents would understand, he thought.
Draco pursed his lips and forced himself to look out across what remained of the Great Hall. There was chaos, of course. His eyes swept over the piles of bodies and the lines of those waiting to be bandaged and dosed. Some were sitting at the tables, staring out with bemused expressions, unable, perhaps to believe it was over. Others were busily organising the world as if their lives depended on it. As if it mattered, now. His gaze moved on, out through the wide-flung gates where pockets of the battle lingered on. Death Eaters who hadn’t managed to escape quickly enough were still being chased down. Giants rampaged largely unchecked. Draco shuddered. He hoped his parents had been wise enough to flee the grounds. After the Granger incident… Draco’s hands curled into fists inside his pockets as he fought to keep back the memories… it was clear they’d all be on the list for Azkaban. Unless, he continued with a deliberate sneer, Potter and his cronies didn’t believe in prison. He could just imagine Granger spouting left-wing liberal nonsense for the others to lap up. They shouldn’t be punished, Harry, she’d say with that irritating look that claimed to know it all, they need our help. Draco was damned if he’d let them help him. Again.
He’d never thought much about the future. Not since his third or fourth year, anyway. Surviving had always seemed so much more important. Now he’d apparently survived, it looked as if there wouldn’t be much of a future for him. He could stay at home and breed peacocks. Or travel. Yes, that was the thing. Paris, first, then Rome, Milan, Athens. He rather fancied Prague for a while.
‘Hey, you there!’ Draco stiffened automatically as a hand clasped over his shoulder. ‘Give us a hand, won’t you?’
He turned slowly, wondering what response he’d get when the person saw who he was talking to. God, it was a Weasley. Draco glared.
‘Well, come on.’ The man indicated that Draco should take the other end of the large chest he was carrying. It seemed easier to do it than to argue.
‘That’s better, thanks.’ The Weasley grinned. ‘Bit too much for just me.’
Draco said nothing.
‘You all right, there?’ He was peering at Draco now. ‘Hey, you’re not injured are you? Should’ve said something, mate. Look, why don’t you go and see old Pomfrey. She’ll sort you out.’
‘I’m fine,’ Draco replied curtly.
‘Well, if you’re sure. Only Mum’s determined that Fred should be taken home in state. She sent me all the way back home for this.’
Draco swallowed hard. He was carrying Fred Weasley. Dead Fred Weasley. He shouldn’t be doing this. ‘Couldn’t someone have gone with you?’ Surely there were enough of them still left?
Weasley shook his head. ‘They wanted to stay. I told them I’d manage it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It seemed like a good thing to say.
‘Yes. Well. It happens.’ The Weasley was manoeuvring the… the coffin, Draco realised, round a pillar. His voice cracked slightly but Draco couldn’t see his face.
He was smiling again by the time they’d got into the corridor. ‘He died laughing, you know. Mum says he was laughing when he was born, too.’
Draco didn’t know what to say to that. Did it make it better if you were laughing when you died? You were still dead, weren’t you?
‘Nearly there.’ They were halfway up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.
‘I thought they’d put all the… um, the…’
‘Dead people.’ The Weasley gave Draco a curious look. ‘You can say it.’
Draco didn’t think he could, actually. ‘I thought they’d put them in the Great Hall.’
‘They did. But George wanted to bring Fred up here one last time.’
Oh. ‘I, um, I’m not… I wasn’t… in Gryffindor. I can’t come into the Common Room.’
‘No problem.’ The Weasley had stopped and indicated that Draco should put the chest down. ‘I can get it from here. Thanks.’
He held out his hand. Draco stared at it for moment, taking in the thick, rough fingers and the freckled skin. He couldn’t just shake it. He had to say something. If only he could get his mouth to work.
‘You’re not okay, are you?’ The Weasley had his hand on Draco’s shoulder again. ‘Look, go and get someone to take a look at you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you do this.’
Draco shook his head, opening his mouth once more.
‘Charlie, is that you?’ The loud, unmistakeable tones of Ginny Weasley rang out from the hole in the wall. The Weasley looked over his shoulder and nodded at his sister.
‘Be in there in a minute,’ he told her, and turned back to Draco.
But Draco was still watching Ginny’s face waiting for the moment when she noticed him. He wrenched himself free of Charlie’s grasp before she could cry out. Draco took the steps two and three at a time, blindly rushing to get away from them, to be out of this place, to breathe again.
####
He didn’t know what to do with the letter. Draco hadn’t expected it and he had no idea what it meant. The Weasley – Charlie – was thanking him. Thanking Draco for his help. Draco hadn’t wanted to help, it had just been easier than not helping. He certainly hadn’t done it for Fred Weasley’s sake. He shuddered at the thought. If that had been all, though, Draco would have shrugged it off and thrown the parchment into the fire. But Charlie had added another brief sentence, inviting Draco to visit him, ‘if ever you’re passing through Romania.’ No matter how long Draco stared at the short note he couldn’t fathom it out. What sort of person invited a stranger to visit them? On a dragon reserve in Romania? And not just any stranger, Draco thought bitterly, an enemy. Former enemy. Whatever.
Romania was not on the list for the Grand Tour. The Wizengamot had oh-so-graciously refrained from locking him up and Mother had agreed that a year or so travelling around Europe would be an ideal way for Draco to finish his education. Neither of them had mentioned the alternative. Father hadn’t said anything much, though that was pretty normal for Father these days. So Draco made his plans, secured his letters of introduction, ordered new robes and devised his itinerary. And didn’t reply to Charlie Weasley.
####
Paris was fun. Draco worked hard at forgetting everything that had happened in a fog of absinthe and sex. For a couple of months it was an effective strategy in a city where the alcohol ran freely and the girls adored his high cheekbones and clipped accent. He’d have stayed there quite happily if it hadn’t been for Francine. Or, more accurately, Francine’s husband.
Draco moved on to Rome. There he discovered Bellinis and Linguine alle Vongole and men. Italian men with dark hair and tanned skin and talents that Draco had never dreamed of. He bought designer robes and fine leather shoes and slicked his hair back to show off his pale complexion and bright blue eyes. Draco could have been happy in Rome if only it weren’t for the drama. Endless tantrums and wizarding duels all reminded him too forcibly of the world he was running away from. After six weeks it was too much. Draco departed in search of more congenial company.
Prague was as beautiful as everyone had told him it would be. It wasn’t much fun, though. Draco mooched moodily about the old streets, turning his nose up at the cheap restaurants and cheaper women. He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered, wishing he'd ordered a thicker cloak. He bought larger and larger bottles of the clear, odourless alcohol that he couldn’t give a name to. He stayed up late and slept in most of the day, drinking and sleeping, sleeping and drinking until he’d forgotten what daylight looked like. He was miserable, so he drank until he forgot why. Then he’d wake and reach for the bottle that helped him survive.
He’d always survived. Hadn’t done much else, as it turned out, but he’d survived. Not like Snape. Or Aunt Bellatrix. Or Fred Weasley. Draco took another swig from his bottle and lay back down.
####
‘Out!’ The large woman with the frightening facial hair glared at Draco. His eyes darted towards his bottle but she was too quick for him. ‘No more! Not at the Alchymist. Now get your things and get out.’
Draco thought about this for a moment. ‘How far is it to Romania?’
####
‘You said… if I was passing through…’ God, this had been a terrible idea. Draco’s head was still pounding and he was sure he was shivering. The Weasley was staring at him like he had two heads and everyone else in the room was watching in amusement.
‘Yes. So, you were in the neighbourhood…’ Charlie made a gesture that had the rest of the room laughing.
Draco pressed his lips together. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go.’
‘No.’ Charlie grasped his elbow firmly. ‘You’re not in any fit state to go anywhere. Stay. At least for tonight.’
Draco found that it was easier to agree.
Charlie took him to his own quarters.
‘You’ll have the bed,’ he told Draco in a tone that brooked no debate. ‘I’ll take the couch. Sheets are clean,’ he added. ‘I’ll run you a bath, shall I?’
He gave Draco an old, fraying towel and a clean pair of pyjama bottoms to put on afterwards. ‘You need a sleeping potion?’
Draco shook his head.
‘Okay, then. Sleep as long as you like. I’m on an early shift tomorrow, so you can do as you please. Help yourself to whatever you want for breakfast.’
He seemed to wait for a moment, as if expecting Draco to say something. Then he reached over to ruffle Draco’s hair and smiled. ‘I’m glad you came.’
####
Draco opened one eye experimentally. Light, but not unbearable. The Weasley had closed the curtains for Draco’s benefit. On further inspection, Draco rather thought that the swirling purple and green would be better opened. He sat up, but was brought up short by a fierce thump inside his head. Draco grimaced and closed his eyes, falling back down on the pillows. A few minutes later he tried again, this time noticing the small bottle on the bedside table and a scrawled note in familiar handwriting.
‘In case you’re still sore.’
Draco sniffed cautiously at the contents of the small bottle than threw caution to the winds and swallowed, only noticing the telltale ‘WWW’ label when it was too late. Damn that tasted revolting. He pushed the covers off the bed and went to the bathroom.
He assembled a breakfast of strong coffee and a single slice of toast, turning up his nose at the mess of crumbs and milk Weasley had left behind him. Draco sat at the table and contemplated his life. He’d had the world at his feet in Paris and Rome. Money, looks, a name that still meant something. Women and men had wanted him. Why, then, was he here in a tiny tent that smelt of dragon shit, sharing with a Weasley? A Weasley he barely knew, but yet like all the rest, self-righteous and – Draco shuddered – altruistic.
After breakfast, he’d pack. Maybe he’d try Madrid, or Barcelona next. Or somewhere in the Med, perhaps. Yes, that could work. A Greek island where Draco could hire a yacht and swim in secluded coves with selected guests. He’d wear loose linen shirts and dark glasses and he’d hang out in the coolest bars. There wouldn’t be any jealous husbands or temperamental Italians to make life difficult.
‘How are you feeling?’
Draco swallowed his coffee and eyed his host disdainfully. ‘Fine.’
Charlie grinned. ‘The potion worked, then?’
Draco shrugged and continued eating his toast. Charlie found a clean mug among the debris and poured himself a cup of coffee adding, Draco noticed with some distaste, milk and two spoonfuls of sugar.
‘So what are your plans for the day?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be leaving just as soon as I’ve finished my coffee.’
Weasley laughed. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. Do you want to come for a ride this afternoon?’
‘Ride?’ Draco frowned. He didn’t know much about dragons but he was sure he didn’t want to ride them.
‘Sure. I’ll lend you a broom. Ron said you played Seeker.’
A slight tilt of the head was sufficient to acknowledge the truth of this.
‘Well, then. You’ll enjoy it.’
He didn’t have to leave today, Draco supposed. It wasn’t as if he was expected anywhere. And it had been too long since he’d played Quidditch. Draco found himself urgently needing to feel the thrill of flying again, the feel of wind rushing through his hair, the freedom of being in the air, the concentration that excluded the world from his mind.
‘Fine.’
####
One afternoon drifted into another. A week became three. Charlie was an easy host and Draco found the routine of the reserve oddly comforting. Charlie had never asked him whether he wanted to help out, he’d just assumed that Draco would. Soon he knew not only the names of Charlie’s Horntails but their breeding for three generations back. He could recognise an Ironbelly or a Fireball in the air at three miles. He’d taken his turn at cleaning out the pens in the hospital wing and he’d flown through the night with Charlie to rescue a baby dragon abandoned by its mother.
They’d found the Horntail cowering in a thicket of thorn bushes. Just a few weeks old, the dragon was already more than half Charlie’s height and had a ferocious spurt of flame that he was demonstrating. Draco watched as Charlie first sent up a flare for help, then began to approach the baby slowly and carefully, wand out before him.
‘Take the other side.’ Charlie had spoken without turning.
Draco backed around to the other side of the thicket, keeping his eye on the dragon and his wand at the ready, though really, he had no idea what spell he could use on the thing. He moved forward, trying to step through the dry brambles as quietly as he could manage. He had no desire to become baby Horntail barbecue. Draco stopped for a moment, assessing his way through, when a most extraordinary sounded hit his ears.
Charlie Weasley was singing.
Well, Charlie was producing a noise which Draco thought was supposed to be singing. The words were recognisably those of a lullaby Draco’s own mother had once sung to him, but the tune was like nothing he’d heard before. In the dark, Draco rolled his eyes and planned how he would tease Weasley about this forever. The Horntail seemed to be enjoying it, however. It was swaying and its shoulders seemed to have dropped a little. Draco took another tentative step and, carried along by some bizarre impulse, joined in the song.
He could see Charlie now, just yards away, his eyes fixed on the Horntail. Weasley’s wand was
still pointed but his other hand was held out to the dragon. He’d brought a dead chicken with him and was now distracting the Horntail with it.
‘Stupefy,’ Charlie sang. ‘Aim for the eyes.’
Draco nodded, then realised Charlie still hadn’t taken his gaze from the dragon. ‘Right.’
‘On three.’ Charlie was still singing. ‘One… two… three.’
Draco sprang forward, casting the spell swiftly and precisely. The dragon stared at them both for an instant then slowly toppled over, landing with its forehead on the bedraggled chicken.
‘Good job,’ Charlie told him. ‘He’ll only be out for about ten minutes, though. Can you help me lift him?’
‘What will we do?’ They were hours from the reserve and Draco didn’t fancy being around when the dragon awoke in ten minutes time.
‘Get him onto the clearing. The others should be here any minute with the gear. We’ll wrap him up and put him in a sling.’
They levitated the animal and carefully picked their way back out to the grassy area where they’d left their broomsticks.
‘Can I touch him?’
Charlie gave Draco a strange look but nodded. ‘While he’s under, there’s no danger.’
‘I thought it would feel like dragonhide,’ Draco explained. ‘But it’s much rougher. Like scales.’
Weasley laughed. ‘It is dragonhide. But I know what you mean. You wouldn’t believe you could make clothes out of this stuff.’
‘I used to have a dragonhide belt,’ Draco told him. ‘When I was younger. I pretended I was an explorer.’
‘And now you are.’
Draco wanted to ask what he meant by that but the team arrived just then and there was no time to be lost while they were securing the Horntail and arranging the sling. They flew back in formation, the dragon slung between three brooms on each side. Draco was in the middle on the left, behind Charlie. For three and a half hours he had an uninterrupted view of Charlie Weasley’s backside. In his fatigue, Draco’s mind began to wander. He’d seen Charlie naked, more than once, in their close quarters, and thought nothing of it. But now, the vision of those freckles that Draco knew covered the whole of Weasley’s skin, began to float across his mind. He wondered if he could count them all. Would that keep him awake? There were the two above his left eyebrow. Then four, no five, on the bridge of his nose.
####
‘Draco? Draco!’ Someone was shaking him. He was going to fall off his broom if they kept doing that. ‘Draco!’
He groaned. ‘G’way, Weasley.’
Weasley laughed. ‘There’s coffee by the bed when you’re ready. I just thought you’d like to know that little Scorpius is going to be fine. His mother was suitably pleased to see him again and he’s back in the pen.’
‘Scorpius?’
Charlie put a warm mug in Draco’s hands. ‘The Horntail.’
‘Ah. Well, good. I’d hate to think we were wasting our time.’
Charlie laughed again. Draco noticed that there were actually six freckles on the bridge of his nose.
‘The boss has given us the day off. I’m taking you out to the lake, okay?’
‘What if it’s not okay?’
Weasley grinned. ‘I guess I’d have to kidnap you.’
Draco rolled his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. He’d go. He seemed to have fallen into the habit of doing whatever Weasley said. He rather thought that might be why he’d stayed for so long. It was easier to let someone else take charge for a while.
####
‘You’re not going to sing for us this time?’
Charlie twisted his head round and grinned across at Draco. ‘I thought you’d enjoy that. It works though, even with a tone-deaf idiot like me. I guess dragons don’t have much musical sense.’
‘Clearly. Would you mind telling me where we’re going?’
‘Over there.’ He nodded towards the twin peaks ahead of them. ‘Through the pass, then round to the left. There’s a mountain lake. It’s incredible.’
Draco narrowed his eyes, checking that he had the path in view. Then, without a word, he leant down over his broom and accelerated past Charlie. He smiled at Charlie’s yelp of protest but pressed on faster and faster. It was a long time since Draco had raced and now, more than anything in the world, he wanted to show Charlie how good he was on a broom. He shifted slightly, feeling for the currents in the air that would carry him with them, tucking his feet under into the proper racing position. He wanted to scream or yell or something.
The pass was narrow and Draco needed all his concentration to hold his line as he swung between the rocks. It felt like he didn’t breathe until he could once again see clear air on either side and feel the heat of the sun on his neck. Round to the left, Weasley had said. Draco pulled his broom round and slowed, searching for the lake.
‘There.’ Charlie had caught up with him and was nodding down the slope. Draco saw a perfectly round pool, glittering in the summer sun among the dark granite rocks. The two of them were idling now, making lazy circles as they descended. Draco eyed Charlie measuringly then made a decision.
‘Last one in’s a sissy,’ he called out, then took his broomstick and went into a fierce dive. He hadn’t done this for years. He kept his gaze firmly focussed on the centre of the pool and edged his hands out into a point above his head. Then everything went black.
####
He was dying. Draco choked and vomited and lay back, knowing that he was dying.
‘Idiot.’
Draco opened an eye and glared at Weasley.
‘Drink this.’
Draco sipped at the cup being held to his lips. Then he turned away and vomited again.
‘Better now?’
Weasley was eating a sandwich. Damn him.
‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to jump into to water where you couldn’t see the bottom?’
Draco shrugged, ignoring the pain that shot through his head at the slight action.
‘You could have died.’ Weasley sounded remarkably cheerful at the thought.
‘Sorry I didn’t,’ muttered Draco.
‘Idiot,’ Charlie repeated and reached for another sandwich.
Charlie wasn’t wearing a shirt, Draco noticed. And his shorts were still slightly damp and clinging to his thighs. Draco swallowed, choked and blinked back tears.
‘Here.’ Charlie passed him another cup of water. ‘Try again.’
This time Draco managed to hold down a couple of sips. ‘What happened?’
‘You hit the water at about 60 miles an hour. Went straight to the bottom and hit your head. Your broom didn’t make it.’
Draco looked round in consternation.
Charlie shrugged. ‘I’ll fetch it if you like.’ He gestured towards the lake. ‘But it won’t be more than a souvenir.’
‘Oh.’ Draco had never much liked the broom, anyway. Then he remembered that it was actually Charlie’s. ‘Sorry. I’ll get you a new one.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Better the broom in a dozen pieces than you. Ready for a sandwich?’
Draco chewed on the cheese and pickle while his body got used to the idea of still being alive. With the warmth of the sun and the gentle sounds of the lake soothing him, he didn’t feel so bad.
‘One left,’ Charlie announced. ‘Ham and mustard. You want to share it?’
Draco shook his head. ‘You have it.’ He watched Weasley bite into the simple sandwich with gusto, and suddenly realised how strange it was that he knew Charlie Weasley preferred mustard with his ham but pickle with his cheese. Draco frowned.
‘You know,’ he said abruptly. ‘I think I’ll go next week.’
‘Go?’
‘Barcelona,’ Draco decided. ‘And then perhaps Morocco.’
Charlie laughed. ‘What will you do in Morocco?’
‘Hire a camel and ride out into the desert,’ Draco responded promptly. ‘Then I can set up my own harem.’
Charlie’s laughter redoubled and after a few minutes even Draco joined in.
‘I can’t stay,’ he pointed out, when they’d both regained their composure. ‘That couch you’ve been sleeping on is too short, even for you.’
Charlie looked at him seriously. ‘I don’t care about the couch.’
Draco spread out his hands. His nails were cracked and dirty. ‘Still.’
‘You can’t keep running away,’ Charlie told him.
Draco lay back, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Who says I’m running away?’
‘Please. You turn up here with the hangover from hell, looking like you’ve spent the previous six months at the bottom of a bucket of vodka. You never once mention your family, the war, your home – anything outside of the reserve, in fact. And now that you’re starting to feel comfortable here, you want to leave.’
The sun was growing warmer. Draco shifted so that the shadow of the rocks fell across his body. ‘You invited me,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Draco asked, suddenly curious.
‘Thought you might need a place to hide for a while. Lick your wounds. That kind of thing.’
‘But you didn’t even know me.’
‘I saw you that day. After the battle. Lost. I knew you needed to be doing something. Not just drinking and sleeping your way round Europe.’
‘I think I might be gay.’ Draco had no idea why his mouth had thought that was an appropriate thing to say.
Charlie gave him a look. ‘No, you aren’t.’
‘I slept with lots of men in Rome,’ he offered.
‘Italians don’t count. Who’d you sleep with in Paris?’
‘Women. But I didn’t know then.’
Charlie laughed. ‘If you didn’t know you were gay in Paris, then you’re not. Besides, you haven’t slept with anyone here.’
‘No. Well.’
‘Plenty of guys who’d let you into their beds if you asked.’
‘I sleep in your bed.’ God, he was pathetic.
‘And I sleep on the couch.’
‘Charlie…’
‘Go home, Draco.’ He was using that voice. The one that he normally reserved for baby dragons and breeding females. The one that had melted hearts all over Romania.
Draco pulled himself up to sit with his hands round his knees. He couldn’t go home. Charlie had no idea what that would mean.
‘Go home. You have to start living again, Draco. You’re strong now, you’ll find a way.’
‘I want to stay here.’ That sounded childish, even to his own ears. He wasn’t surprised that Charlie didn’t bother to answer him.
He couldn’t go back to the Manor. Even if Father had returned to something more like his usual self, Draco couldn’t bear the idea of his mother fussing over him again. He’d have to rent a flat. In London, of course. Not Diagon Alley, he rather thought. And a job. London wasn’t Paris or Rome. One couldn’t laze away the days in idle hedonism. Only, who would employ him? Everyone would know by now what a villain and coward he’d been. They’d point and whisper and ignore him. There weren’t many Slytherins left, he’d heard. Blaise had gone to Jamaica. Pansy had married that American millionaire she’d always wanted. Crabbe was dead. Goyle was still in St Mungo’s as far as Draco knew. He’d have no friends.
Draco turned to look at Charlie again.
‘Why did you invite me?’
‘Told you. Thought you needed a place to come.’
‘But you knew who I was?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did you know when you asked me to carry Fred’s coffin?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh.’
There was a pause, then Charlie spoke again. ‘What’s up?’
Draco sighed. He hated having to spell these things out. ‘Shouldn’t you hate me?’
Charlie laughed. ‘I hate the way you snore at night.’
He aimed a kick at Charlie’s shin. ‘Gryffindor.’
‘Slytherin. Draco, people won’t hate you. Not if you give them a chance to like you first.’
Draco frowned. ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way round?’
Charlie grinned and reached across to ruffle Draco’s hair. ‘Nope. Now, are you able to keep from drowning this time? Because I’m ready to melt if I don’t get in the water now.’
Draco nodded and watched as Charlie stripped off. ‘Can I stay another week?’ he asked, stricken with anxiety.
Charlie grinned wickedly. Draco gulped and wondered whether Charlie really was right that he wasn’t gay. ‘Take your shirt off,’ he encouraged Draco. ‘That’s it. Now slowly, this time. One toe at a time.’
‘Ha ha.’ Draco plunged in to the blissfully cool water. Charlie followed with a giant splash. ‘Idiot.’
Charlie smirked and splashed Draco again.
‘So can I stay?’
‘One week,’ Charlie agreed, ducking out of the way of Draco’s own attempts to splash him. ‘But you’ll be sleeping on the couch.’
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 04:27 am (UTC)Anyway, I loved this. It ansers some questions about Draco.
I loved this title. The Rowlings magical world is very much like Victoian Englnad. Your education is not complete without the grand tour.
A Greek island where Draco could hire a yacht and swim in secluded coves with selected guests. LOL..loved lines like that.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 05:27 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked the story. I don't think I've ever written Draco before so it was an interesting exercise.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 08:54 pm (UTC)apparently (according to this site)nobody shags anyone of the same sexual persuasian. How refreshing.
I'm not quite sure what you mean by that. I run the challenge, and the whole idea is to take normal pairing themes (whether het, slash or femslash) and use them for gen. A lot of the people writing for the challenge are normally slash writers, though not all. We're just having some fun.
Anyway,
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 09:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 09:18 pm (UTC)You're welcome :) Thanks for taking part!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 04:50 am (UTC)I liked how you gave Draco the same form of escapism as Harry always had - flying and playing Quidditch.
And this last is a general musing not a picky comment: would Draco (and the magical world in general) think in terms of "left-wing" politics? That's a direct result of the seating arrangements in the House of Commons so would it mean anything outside the muggle world? Liberal has a meaning outside of parliament so that is a different matter. The sentiment (how Draco thinks of Hermione's political views) is right, I'm just wondering about the terminology. Don't feel you have to justify yourself, I'm just wondering!
I enjoyed the story. I was wondering who exactly has been thinking about counting Charlie's freckles!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 05:29 am (UTC)I had the same thought about 'left-wing' but then I thought about the Wizengamot and decided they might have a similar seating arrangement.
Counting freckles is one of those delightful tasks that is never done. *g* Glad you liked it.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 07:42 am (UTC)Well, I suppose you can be a left-wing liberal, approaching the middle from the right, so to speak...but you would still be considered being to the right of the average labour/social democrats.
As TDU says, "liberal" gas a meaning outside the parliament too, but House Elf rigths are political, so it's not a good choice of word in a European context.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 01:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 05:12 am (UTC)And I really loved this fic. What a great take on Charlie, who knew it was Draco but still asked him to help. And you've given us a very believeable Draco, so young, hurt and vulnerable. But still with all that pride.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 05:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 07:45 am (UTC)Not only changing into Padfoot, but probably make syure he was a)wet and b) had rolled in Buckbeaks droppings as well, I'm afraid.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 06:14 am (UTC)Thanks for sharing this, and for linking to the other prompts.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 06:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 07:59 am (UTC)So, you can calm a dragon by singing? I didn't know that. But I'm afraid the MacFusty clan would kill an orphan dragon and cut it up for potion ingredients. The difference between farmers and zoo keepers, so to speak!
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Date: 2008-02-24 06:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 06:53 pm (UTC)Draco's sex and drinking tour through Europe until he gets to Romania rings true. You can't help but feel bad for him - but not too bad since he manages to spend a lot of money and cut a quite a wide path.
And on to Charlie who is sexy enough to turn a straight man gay. I love how Draco responds to his nurturing ways and how Charlie treats him like a lost little brother.
You had some nice touches - like Scorpius the dragon. And I always like to see Charlie singing in a fic. It suits him!
Lovely job and a great transitions, btw. This story just flowed along.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-24 08:03 pm (UTC)Good transitions, huh? Well, I'd like to say I worked hard on that...
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Date: 2008-02-25 02:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-25 05:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-25 09:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-25 02:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-25 08:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-02-25 11:15 pm (UTC)