Ron Weasley And The Dragons

Chapter Three

By Libertine

       

Ron understands the delicate balance of Harry and Draco's relationship. It's an intuitive knowledge. He knows what Harry is like and he knows what Draco is like – he's seen them both at their worst and their best. He's also well aware that the duo – grasping, selfconscious, needy as they are – won't ever be able to free themselves entirely of their co-dependant stasis.

They're in it for life, and good luck to them. Shame they never got a chance to play the proverbial field – Ron's fairly sure that their experience is limited to the sordid encounters they've had with each other. It's amusing to Ron, in a way. They both enjoy acting as if they're superior to him: Harry in his stilted friendship, Draco in his egomania, but in truth Ron knows he's lived – really lived – a far more worthwhile life so far than either of them, in their domestic dystopia.

Ron has seen the world from the back of a dragon. He's danced the slow drag with devils in Calcutta, he's contemplated the expanse of desert from the crest of Australia's Ayers Rock, and he's been to America too – the skyrises, the ghettos. Ron the Rogue is a man of the world, a man to whom the sky is no limit, just a dragon-sped bypass for his cross-continental travels.

When you've seen the earth from above, seen people look like ants, seen houses look like toys, seen cities like blots in the middle of a sea of green or grey or yellow or blue, everything else seems pretty bloody insignificant.

"You look kinda thoughtful," says Charlie. They're standing together on the edge of a pen, watching a pair of Black Feathertails having their evil way with each other. Both Charlie and Ron are wearing sunglasses to ward of the glare of the dragons' anticipated mercury-blast. Ron looks good in sunglasses. Suave. He's decided that if Charlie lets him, he's going to keep them for himself. He's sure that they'll help him pick up girls – not that he doesn't have more women fawning for him than he already needs, but he certainly has no objection to extending his harem.

"Yeah." Ron frowns. "The medallion – I was wondering if we shouldn't pick it up. Bring it somewhere safe."

"Why's that? Lucius Malfoy seems the sensible type. He's well aware of the power it has – I'm pretty sure he ain't gonna try fucking with it."

"Really?" Ron fingers the metal of the gate, dragging the crest of his thumb over the rust. Now that he knows he can talk to dragons, he can't seem to get them out of his head. He can hear the thoughts of any dragon within his immediate proximity, just as clearly as they must be able to hear his. He glares at the two beasts copulating in front of him.

Oh baby!

Give it to me! Oh yeah! Show me your love!

You're so fucking scaley, woman! Gods I love that!

Ergh! So fine! Spank me with your tail! That's right! Like that!

You twisted bitch! Girl, I never done a ho like you since they made me bone your sister last month!

Ron touches his hands to his temples, and stifles a curse. Charlie watches him, with some concern. "Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yeah. Think I'm getting a migraine, or something." Ron smirks. "And you're wrong about Lucius. Remember when I went to get Harry a week or two ago?"

Charlie nods, slightly.

"He used it then, to scare away a group of Muggles which were camped out in his grounds. There were at least twelve dragons up there with me. He'd put up anti-dragon shields around his house, but still – I don't reckon you can trust the guy."

"What? He did? Why didn't you tell me before?"

Come on, fuck me harder, big boy. Yeah, make me scream!

Oh gods I think I'm gonna come!

Wait baby, come on, wait for me!

I can't fucking wait, bitch. Oh crap..

Ron and Charlie adjust their glasses.

Oh geeze. Thanks a fucking lot.

Hey, it's okay. I got a tongue like you wouldn't believe.

You better hope you can use it, otherwise I'll tear off your neck.

"We'll talk about it later, Ron," says Charlie. "We got to get the male away from the female before she rips his throat apart. The female Feathertails always kill the males after breeding – rather like spiders. In the wild, they usually feed on the male's corpse – we think it's to regain their energy after copulating."

"Oh, so –that's- why you think they do it," says Ron, sarcastically, following Charlie into the pen.

They're wearing their protective dragon armour – magically enchanted overcoats that repell the blast of any dragon fire, and can at least mute the blow of a talon. Charlie raises his wand, but turns before he speaks the first word of his intended incantation. He gives Ron an odd look.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Ron shrugs. He adjusts his sunglasses, and withdraws his wand from his pocket.

"Remorius dragona!" the brothers say, simultaneously. From the tip of their wands, bright sparks touch the earth, and then ripple underneath the ground like mole-tunnels, bursting from the surface to form massive chains. Four of them speed to shackle the male, dragging him away to safety, whilst the others snake up to bind the female into place, a network of metal that cocoons her before she can make any attempt to murder her inadequate lover.

Aw shit, girl. They got me.

You're lucky they did. You sure as hell weren't doing any good back there.

Chicks are so bitchy after sex. What the hell is with you, anyway? PMS much?

The female roars – Charlie winces. Ron, who's been expecting the sound, doesn't so much as flinch. He stands, scuffing his feet in the dirt of the dragon-pen, as Charlie orders the other handlers to move the two dragons to different enclosures. When the dragons are safely put away – still snarling curses at each other, painfully audible to Ron's hieghtened consciousness – Charlie returns to his brother's side.

"Malfoy has been using the medallion to his own ends?" he asks.

"That's what I said. He reburied it, though – otherwise I wouldn't have been able to leave."

"Man, that's not good," says Charlie, his preternaturally cheerful expression drooping a little at the sides.

"You're telling me?" says Ron. He digs his hands deeper in his pockets. Right at the bottom he has four galleons – which is all the money he owns in the whole world right now. Those four coins should last him for tonight's drinkings at the local wizard bar, though.

Ron is something of a regular at the Wizard's Shanty. Most of his ex-girlfriends have broken up with him because of his drinking. Or rather, Ron's response to their claim he has an alcohol problem.

You love liquor more than you love me, they'll challenge him.

Ron, with the rim of a bottle to his lip, will raise an eyebrow and reply, So?

Sometimes he wonders why they bother to try and get into a relationship with him. He's only ever been in it for the sex, anyway – if they have a decent personality, he'll befriend them, just like he would a guy. He's got plenty of female friends, chicks he can crash with, hang out with, shoot the proverbial shit. Ron's too confident in himself to need anyone in that hopelessly desperate way Harry and Draco do. Ron is what you'd call a perpetual bachelor, always in the thick of the crowd, never losing himself to the call of stability.

A couple of years ago, that might have bothered him. Now it doesn't – not at all. He knows – hell, he's seen what it's like when two people get so caught up in each other that they turn into mindless drones. So he tells his ladyfriends, Look, I'm only in it for the sex. No flowers, no chocolates. Can you be cool with that?

And they say, Yes, sure – and then fall in love with him. It drives Ron nuts, but there's nothing he can do about it. And he has to admit guiltily that he doesn't mind having them hanging around to do odd jobs about his house. Most of them are better than Remus at fixing his laundry and installing light globes.

"You'll have to do something," says Charlie.

Ron blinks out of his introspective stupor. "Eh?"

"About the medallion. I mean, I'd go myself – but I got shit to take care of here, you know?"

"Geeze, Charlie."

"Don't geeze me, geeze the cheese."

Ron stares at him blankly for a few minutes, not saying anything. "What the fuck was that?" he asks, finally.

Charlie shrugs. "Dunno. Just came out, like." Ron's still looking unimpressed, and Charlie grins broadly to reassure his brother that he isn't going completely mad. "C'mon, kid," he says. "I figure you're gonna have to bring Harry back to his little blonde boy some time. Might as well pick up the medallion while you're there."

"And do what with it?"

"Dunno. How about we figure that out when you get back?"

"Yeah, right. Trailing seven hundred dragons behind me."

"Hey, man. You'll work something out." Charlie slaps Ron on the back, and Ron oofs. Charlie's never been good at knowing his own strength, and Ron feels his stomach rebound off his liver. Rubbing his belly with a pained expression, he nods to Charlie – but Charlie is already heading off, whistling to himself, in that impossibly cheerful way of his.

Ron mumbles something cross under his breath and decides to visit the stables. He has some cleaning up to do in there, which is the excuse he tells himself – but what he really wants to do is chat to the Bluewing. For all its sarcasm, Ron rather likes the dragon. They've had a few conversations since the dragon brought up the medallion, but only about mundane things like Nintendo and the best sort of sheep to eat.

The dragon is careful not to push the point about the medallion, ever since Ron's adverse reaction to the ‘quest’ issue. Ron likes that – the dragon respects Ron's limits, knows when it's not wanted. If only more people could be like that the world would be a much more enjoyable place.

He walks into the stable. The Bluewing looks up, and smiles at him – or what passes for a smile, Ron supposes. It's scaley nostrils flare, and it bares its teeth. If Ron wasn't canny to dragon body language, he'd probably think it was sizing him up for a meal. No wonder there was such a hullabaloo about dragons in the Muggle world, he thinks. Every time a dragon tried to give them a friendly grin of hello, they thought they were going to get eaten.

"Hi, dragon," he says, perching himself on an overturned crate.

Did another turd for you. Thank the rotten sheep for that one. Got the bloody runs.

"Sorry, man. Didn't realise."

Needless to say, neither did I. Until I started – well, you know.

"Shit happens," says Ron.

Ha ha.

"Look," says Ron. He doesn't believe in making small talk – especially when it concerns the digestive functions of dragons. "I talked to Charlie about the medallion. He figures I should go and get it. So – I'll probably travel to England and dig it up in the next coupla days."

And then what?

"Well – we didn't get that far," Ron admits. "Guess I just gotta go bury it somewhere else, where no one can find it."

And the next earthquake, or the next storm, or flood, and it'll be on the surface again. That's no solution, Ron. You're going to have to destroy it.

"Okay. How do I figure that one?"

I'm not going to explain it all to you. First thing, though, is you're going to have to find a dragon to eat it. The power will be nulled then - the walls of a dragon's stomach are lead.

"Which is why they can't handle a bad sheep," says Ron, snidely.

It was a very bad sheep.

"I'm sure."

Don't be a shit, okay? I still feel horrible.

"Sorry. Moving along. Where do I find a dragon to eat it?"

Easy. You take me for the ride. I know what to do. And I was there the last time.

Ron frowns. The Bluewing is the pride of the breeder's farm – the most expensive, largest dragon they have. He doesn't think they'll let him take it, not even if he tries to get Charlie onside.

Steal me.

The dragon has been reading his unvocalised thoughts.

"What?"

Steal me. It's not as if the locks here are particulary sound. I guess they figure that anyone stupid enough to unlock a dragon's cage is well – lunch. And you do have the keys to my pen, don't you?

"Well – yeah. But that's kinda wrong."

Hello. Apocalypse on the horizon. Who gives a shit about wrong and right?

"It might never happen," says Ron.

That's what they said about England winning the final against Bulgaria last year.

"You like Quidditch?" says Ron, raising his eyebrows.

Yeah. So sue me. I can't help finding some of your human activities interesting. Ballet, too. That's always good for a night out. They had a wonderful swan-lake in the open air at Hyde park a decade ago. Marvellous production. Though I thought the leading man was rather stiff. And they do wear such tight tights..

"You're digressing," says Ron. "Fine, I'll steal you, take Harry to Draco, and dig up the medallion. I guess I can always get another job."

Right. Shit happens, as they say. Speaking of which.. aaugh.

Ron wrinkles his nose and looks away.

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