Ron Weasley And The Dragons
It's almost too easy, the way Harry and Draco accept his orders. Too simple; he's expected at least some protest. But the wheels of his plan are now in motion, and because the entire house is now in avid converse about his sex life Ron decides it's about time to move on to greener pastures. There's only so many furniture related puns he can take.
The Bluewing is waiting for him.
Ready to go, are we?
"Yeah. The boys are in town, if you know what I mean."
Hiegh-ho Silver, and all that nonsense.
"Who are you calling a ho?" Ron unlocks the cage; the dragon unfurls its wings.
Oh. I guess you're not a fan of the Lone Ranger.
"I figure it's best to leave now, while I'm still motivated. And I have some questions to ask you, too. What's all this about six-man and one-man?"
Uhoh. Can we discuss this later?
"I told you. I don't do quests."
Ha ha. The reluctant hero.
The dragon rises; it is gigantic. Ron's never seen the Bluewing stand before though he's seen it in the distance, when Charlie takes it out for a ride. A glittering blue bird which shimmers in the sun. Or, a glittering blue blimp, dependant on your vantage. It is at least four times as tall as Ron and Ron is no small man.
Yet it moves delicately through the shed, watching where it places its feet, ever conscious of its size. Its tail slithers along behind it, and as it passes Ron, he reaches for the ridges of its scales and hauls himself aboard.
My. Rather fast for a first date, sir.
They are outside now, and the dragon has room to raise its tail, so Ron can simply walk along it onto its back. He settles himself on the broad span of its shoulders, leaning forwards he has the perfect balance of a dragon rider, a natural understanding of the creature's anatomy, the way the muscles move beneath the scales.
"You want me to give you directions?" Ron asks.
It's okay. I've already read your mind.
"I told you not to do that," says Ron. However, he can't think of any way to suitably punish the Bluewing for its intrusion, so he simply slaps the flat of his hand against its neck.
It saves time, in the long run. Nice mental picture you're repressing there, too, by the way. What an eye-full. He is attractive, though. Don't know about the one with glasses. I guess if you like the intellectual type.. Still, you're far more attractive than he is. Shouldn't be hard for you to get in on
"Quit it," says Ron, harshly.
As you wish.
The dragon rears back, and Ron's thighs clench about its back. They fly up into the nightsky.
The Bluewing has plenty to say on the subject of Draco Malfoy. Even before Draco's finished scrambling aboard, the dragon is chatting merrily away on the possibility of a Ron-Draco liason. Ron wishes he knew how to shut out its babble, but he hasn't yet learnt to erect a blockade against dragon conversation. Wizard methods of telepathy are as easy to cut off as a Muggle hanging up a phone, but no matter how hard Ron squeezes his head, the Bluewing's nattering continues.
He is rather girly. Gosh. Such sharp little nails. They're clawing up my spine right now aaah. It tickles. Mm very nice
If you're going to orgasm, do it the hell out of my head, Ron warns.
You're so touchy. I can feel him reaching for you
"Don't even think about it, Malfoy," says Ron abruptly, without turning around.
"Think what?" Draco replies, sounding innocent.
"Just remember you're two hundred feet in the air on the back of a dragon, fan boy," is all Ron can think of to reply.
Ron waits until the duo behind him have settled into a comfortable position, and draws his jacket around his shoulders. He's all out of snappy rejoiners today, he thinks. And it doesn't help that the dragon, playing devil's advocate, is pushing a series of images into Ron's brain, none of them particulary pretty, and quite a few of them geometricly impossible.
That one is my favourite.
That one, thinks Ron, should never be seen outside of a barnyard. And not even there. Where are you pulling these from? The draconic version of the Karma Sutra?
I just have a very vivid imagination.
Take your vivid imagination elsewhere. I think my eyes are bleeding. And you have things to explain to me. Like this six-man rubbish. What's with that?
Look I don't want to scare you..
I don't scare easily.
You nearly wet yourself at the sight of the image of you and Draco on the flag
That's different, you big beastie-git, says Ron. I'm not doing anything for you, or any of the other dragons, until I find out exactly what is going on. Do you understand me?
Fine. If you're going to be so damn picky. The dragon snorts. If you heard dragons talking about six-man and one-man, the words are from an old rhyme a nursery song, really. Let me see:
"That's really lame," Ron whispers, after considering the poem for a few minutes.
It loses something in the translation. The dragon sounds slightly offended, but perseveres. The story has it that the breeders didn't actually create the medallion. They found it in a coarser form and shaped it into the likeness you've seen. In order to destroy it and it must be destroyed two humans must, well. Destroy it.
"I thought you told me you'd know how to fix thing. Destroy it sounds a bit bloody vague for my liking. Sort of getting faced with a giant monster and being told to Kill it. Or like meeting a beautiful woman, and your friends telling you, go "
Look. Okay. I'm kind of playing it by ear. We don't even know if you're the one.
"Bugger this for a lark." Ron massages his temples with his fingertips. He's definately on route to a migrane.
Hey, come on. Look on the bright side.
"What bright side?" Ron hisses. "From what you've told me, I'm going to end up as some bloody hero. Or something similar. And I saw what that did to Harry turned him into a fidgety, nerve-wracked git. I'm not letting it happen to me. And I have a date on Wednesday. Sister of the girl who dumped me last week. I'm sure as hell not messing that up."
No more than it already is messed up, you mysoginist pervert.
"Excuse me? And who's been filling who's mind with smut?"
The dragon scoffs. I'm just working with what's already in there, sweetheart.
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