Ron Weasley And The Dragons
Plotting anything, for Ron, is a very simple process. He sets himself a goal, and works back through all the steps he has to take to get there. The first thing he does is to accidentally on purpose take the cage keys home with him for a few days, just to see if anyone notices. No one does. Most of the older breeders have their own keys, anyway.
The second is to set a time. Ron waits behind after work and discovers the place is empty around ten o'clock. He's getting more and more amazed at how lax the security at the breeder's farm is. Then again, if a theif wanted to grab themselves a dragon, they'll be caught pretty soon afterwards. It's hard to hide anything that's at least twenty feet long and breathes fire.
Walking through the pens one evening he hears the dragons talking amongst each other. Perhaps they've forgotten he can hear them now, no matter if they want him to or not. He leans his shoulder against the metal railing of an enclosure and smokes a cigarette, pretending to be very interested in his shoes.
That's him? asks a Leatherskinned Burrower. He doesn't look like he'd be up to much.
You can never tell with humans. But his breeding's right. A Yellow Firetongue lifts its head knowledgebly, the orange markings above its eyesockets gleaming a dull bronze. The sixth son of a sixth son.
I heard it was the seventh son of a seventh son.
The Firetongue snorts.
For human magic, yes. For dragon magic definately the sixth. The sixth is the number of the fire, remember? And just look at his hair.
So he's going to be the one who..
He might be. We don't know yet.
Sixth son, six-man he's from the song, isn't he? My mother used to sing it to me.. So who is the one-man?
We shouldn't talk about it. If it doesn't turn out to be him well, it doesn't do us any good to raise our hopes. Or his.
They both turn to stare at Ron, who stubs out his cigarette self-consciously. Bothered by their regard, he decides to go home. This is all beginning to sound rather like the a quest Ron's starting to understand Harry's occasional neurotiscism. Only you can save wizardkind that sort of conversation over the breakfast table would be enough to put anyone off their cereal.
He slumps home, bag over his shoulder, broom in hand, the end trailing along the road behind him. He's never really thought before about being a sixth son of a six son all it's really meant for him thus far is handmedowns and teasing. He digs his free hand into his pocket, and kicks a can along the dusty street.
A couple of people wave he waves back, or at least shrugs at them in a friendly way. He has a lot of friends here; he seems to fit in, despite his pale looks. Though these days, tanned copper by the sun, he could easily be mistaken for a native if it weren't for his hair.
His firey hair.
He tosses his things into his bedroom and proceeds to the kitchen. He's fairly sure he's got a bottle or two of vodka in the cupboard under the sink the stuff he keeps for the dry nights. The bars here all close at eight o'clock, precisely. At least, the legal ones do.
Draco and Harry are in the kitchen, on the counter, fucking.
Ron notices, in a dreamy, half-conscious way that Harry's on top something he didn't expect. He'd always figured that Draco would retain the balance of power, even in the bedroom. He would picture Draco with the upperhand; it'd be Draco forcing Harry down with his me-me-mes and
And then Ron realises exactly what he's speculating about, and swiftly shuts the door. A sudden sickness overcomes him, a woozy sensation not unlike that he often experiences upon waking, and he stumbles to the bathroom to vomit. The liquid, dark in colour, makes interesting patterns in the toilet bowl, near-fractal designs. Ron stares blankly at them, and then goes to wash his face.
"Bit of a shock, eh?" says the mirror. "The toaster told me what was going on in there. I'd have warned you, if only.."
"If only what?" Ron snaps.
"Tell me," Ron grates.
"Just we all figured you were into that sort of thing," says the mirror, airily.
"What sort of thing."
"Oh, all sorts of " The mirror notices the red rims around Ron's eyes, and decides against further dithering. "Well, your bed did say you were screaming out a man's name a few nights ago. First time it'd ever happened. It was quite the source of furniture-conversation. Figured you were on the verge of exploring new horizons."
"I do not have a thing for Draco," says Ron.
"Oh yes! That was his name." The mirror giggles a splintery sound. "Is he the blonde? The door says he's kind of cute. In a skinny, effeminate way."
Ron turns on his heel and stalks off. Behind him, the mirror calls, "- and you'll never guess what the closet had to say."
"Are you two finished yet?" Ron ignores the mirror, and knocks tentatively on the kitchen door, hoping the duo are done. Harry calls back his voice, Ron notices, is far more cheery than it has been for the past fortnight "What? Oh, yes."
Ron peers around the door. Perhaps due to his conversation with the mirror, he scans Draco thoroughly, or as throughly as he can in this breif peek. He doesn't see what the door has been talking about Draco looks just like the same old Draco: thin features, weak chest, pointed chin and a mass of white-blonde hair.
Then again, there's not much Ron can say about the tastes of doors. They obviously like their men wooden and drawling.
"Clothes, you gits. Clothes," Ron snaps, and shuts the door again.
"Well, I think he's cute," says the door, wriggling its hinges in what may pass for a shrug.
"Shut the hell up," Ron mutters. "And when the heck did all my furniture decide to start talking?"
"Guess I got board of just hanging around," the door puns, mischeviously. "It's an open and shut case."
Ron resists the urge to put his fist through it.
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