Ron Weasley And The Dragons

Chapter Six

By Libertine


Once Harry's out of the way, Ron drags Draco into the bushes. He's determined to get all this hero business over and done with; he hates the idea of being forced to do something – just because destiny says so. He holds Draco by his arm, just above the elbow, and Draco swears at him amicably.

"I want that medallion," says Ron.

"I want one of those brand new wizard scooters with the flashy helmets, but we can't always get what we want, Weasley."

Draco's upper arm is so thin Ron can wrap his fingers all the way around it.

"I'm sure your father can buy you it," Ron snorts.

"Yes, but I have to wait until my birthday." Draco stamps his foot. "And I want it now."

Ron stares at him for a while – just staring. Draco relents; he looks faintly embarrassed by his little outburst, and hides the fact by staring at his nails. They're perfect, as always. He buffs them on the front of his robe.

"Look," says Ron. "I can't explain it all to you – because I don't know the half of it. But the medallion has to be destroyed."

"Says who?"

"Says the dragons."

"Oh, they –would- say that," says Draco, rolling his eyes. "Listen, I'm not giving that medallion up for anything. It's special, see. It has – sentimental value."

"In order words, you get a kick out of the fact you can summon an army of dragons just by picking up a shovel."

"Well, getting someone else to pick up a shovel," Draco agrees. "But yes. Something along those lines. You don't have to be so bloody picky. And I'm sure it will come in useful at some point. Like the next time I get attacked by a Weasley in the middle of my front garden, I can just, you know, click my fingers, and then – Ow! Ah! Stop that! Ow!"

"Cut the crap, Draco. I'm serious."

Ron's holding Draco's arm up behind his back, but he doesn't get any pleasure out of doing it. He's slightly afraid that Draco's tiny bones might snap if he pulls too hard. Bent almost double, Draco blinks back tears.

"Let – please, gods, Ron – don't – fucking – ow."

"I'm waiting, Draco."

"Dammit. It's over in the bloody corner, behind the bushes, near the shed. Now let me go!"

Ron releases him; Draco scampers away a few steps, and falls to rubbing his aching shoulder. He shoots Ron an unhappy, hurt look, his lower lip pouted outwards.

"You're as bad as Wormtail," says Ron, heading off in the direction of the shed. Draco follows behind him, still whimpering.

"You nearly broke my arm!"

"You've got two of them," says Ron, with a shrug. He's spotted the patch of bare earth, correctly assuming that the stone lies beneath. Getting onto his knees, he begins to dig away at the loose ground.

"Who's lost their bone now?" Draco can't help but snicker.

"Who's in danger of really breaking one now?" Ron snaps back.

Draco shuts up. Ron heaves up a clod of earth, and spies the green glitter of the medallion beneath the surface. He drives his fingers down, and pulls it away from the soil. He's never held it before – it feels comfortable there, in his hand, as if it were made to fit precisely in the centre of his palm. It's cold to the touch, naturally icey – the way Draco's body felt in that dream of his..

"Argh," says Ron. He gets to his feet and jogs off, toward the gates. Draco calls out, confused; and then lifts the hem of his robe up about his knees and darts after him.

Outside the gates the Bluetail is waiting, filing its talons against the wall. It perks a craggy brow at Ron as he runs out, and tilts its head slightly to one side.

Got it?

"You bloody weasel Weasley," Draco hollers, a close second through the gates. "That's trespassing and stealing, you know. My father will –"

"Got it," says Ron, waving the medallion infront of the Bluetail's nose.

Don't shake it around like that. Everyone will want one.  The dragon sighs, and opens its mouth. Guess I have to eat it now. It extends a long, sinuous tongue; and Ron places the medallion delicately on the tip.

"What the fuck are you doing with my medallion?" Draco gasps.

The dragon's tongue curls inward; it makes a satisfied gulping sound, and then shakes its head as if trying to rid itself of a particulary nasty taste. Its nostrils flare – a light smog streams from both. It stares at Ron and grins, all teeth and red gum. Draco takes an involuntary half-step backwards.

"Right. Where to now?" Ron asks.

"What do you mean, where to now? The bloody lunatic asylum, if I have anything to do with it," Draco sneers.

I guess we go to where the dragons live, says the Bluetail. Get on, laddie.

It dips a shoulder towards the ground, and Ron clambers up; only to discover half way there that his progress has been impeded. Draco's sharp and perfect nails are digging their way into his ankle.

"Put your hands over your head and step away from the dragon, Weasley."

Ron considers his options, and digs in his jacket pocket for his wand. Draco anticipates the motion, and manages to get ahold of his first.


"You little tosser –" Ron's barely managed to get his fingers about the shaft of the wand before it's torn from his grasp. It slams forcefully against the wall, and snaps in half. Ron hasn't time to kick out at Draco before the man has chanted a second spell, and now Ron's feet are immovable – as if they're made of lead. He can't feel anything below his waist.

"Take that spell off," Ron grunts; his fingers are clawed into the hide of the dragon to prevent himself from falling off.

"Or what, Ron?" Draco asks, smirking. "Or you'll hang on there and gibber at me in a menacing fashion? Oh, look. I'm shaking already at the mere thought of it. Now make that dragon of yours cough up my damn medallion."

"This is serious, you shit," Ron growls. "This is an apocalypse waiting to happen."

"My mother used to tell me that when I didn't tidy my room," says Draco. "You'll have to do a little better than that."

"You –"

Take him with us, the dragon suggests.

What? Ron yells, mentally.

Like I said. Let him come too.

No bloody way. I'm not having him hanging around, bitching about the sex he isn't getting and the scooter he wants for his birthday. If he's in, count me out.

If he's not, you're out anyway. Looks like he's got you in a bit of a bind there, sonny.

Blast him with your breath? Ron suggests.

Oh, wise idea. And what then? If I kill him, I'm as good as dead. Boy has connections, doesn't he? I don't think his family would be very pleased to find him in a small pile of ash on their front door step.

You could just burn him a little, Ron tries.

My breath isn't like a damn pressure cooker. It doesn't have a ‘medium rare’ function. It's either charr grilled or nothing.

"Damn," spits Ron.

"You're cute when you get all flustered," says Draco, unhelpfully. "Your face turns the same colour as your hair."

"Look," says Ron, gritting his teeth. "The dragon says you can come too."

"Oh, the dragon says, does it?" Draco smirks. "You take your orders from beasts, now?"

Maybe charr grilled isn't such a bad idea..

"It's not going to cough up the medallion. So you either come, or you –"

"I'm coming." Draco is already clawing his way up the Bluewing's shoulder, using Ron's body as a foot hold. Ron lets out an involuntary groan as Draco steps on his head. Once settled on the dragon's body, Draco utters another incantation, and Ron flies up beside him. Ron tests his legs – they're still dead to him.

"Release my legs," says Ron, shortly.

"You must be bloody joking." Draco knocks on the dragon's head. "Okay, draggie. Let's fly, shall we?"

Charr grilled, with a sprinkling of garnish. Mushrooms on the side. I've always been partial to mushrooms..

We might as well leave now, Ron tells the dragon. Maybe once we're off the ground he'll let me go.

The dragon grumbles, but spreads its wings. Within a few seconds they're off the ground, keening toward the star-speckled darkness of the sky.

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