Ron Weasley And The Dragons

Chapter Two

By Libertine

       

Shit may happen on a regular basis, but in the end there's only so much shit you can take. Especially if it comes out of the ass end of a fourty foot dragon. Ron wipes his face with a towel, and wrinkles his nose against the stench. The dragon – it's an African Bluewing – stares at him beligerently, as if daring Ron to make a complaint.

Ron grunts. He looks for a pail of water to wash his hands clean. His red hair – too long now for his liking – is stuck to his face, but he can't push it away with his grimey fingers. Working the dirt out from beneath his nails, Ron hooks a bucket from the rack with his elbow, and fills it from the Bluewing's drinking trough. A little rebellion conducted in silence. Now it's his turn to glare at the dragon, as he bathes his sore fingers in the cool water.

That was rather unnecessary.

Ron blinks. He turns his head to check over his shoulder – he expects to find Charlie in the doorway, or one of the other wizard members of the breeding farm. But he's alone, or alone with the dragon, at least. And he suddenly realises that the voice wasn't audible – not in the way voices are supposed to be audible. It's entered his head in the manner of telepathy, without all the bother of converting words to sound.

"Excuse me?" says Ron, slowly. He continues to wash his hands, but now he has a horrible feeling of being watched. Already his shoulders are slipping into a more formidable stance, his muscles flexed and ready for the fight he's sure will come. Ron doesn't like people entering his brain without asking first.

I said, that was rather unnecessary. You didn't have to use my water. Sheer nastiness on your part. As if I can help needing to take a shit.

Ron stares at the dragon. And the dragon, in a wholly humanoid fashion, raises its shoulders in what might be construed as a shrug.

Of course I can talk. How do you think dragons communicate? Then again, it's very rare we can find a human who can hear us. One of a kind, Ron – Weasley, wasn't it?

Ron looks over his shoulder again. "Who ever you are, quit fucking with me," he says loudly. "I'm not in the mood."

I assure you, I'm not fucking with you in the slightest. To use your rather coarse phrasing.

Ron returns his attention to the dragon. It certainly looks as if it is trying to communicate with him – it's eyes are fixed on him, and its ears fan out from its angular head, intent on the words he speaks.

So dragons can talk, Ron thinks. Why didn't Charlie ever mention this to me?

He didn't know. And we couldn't tell him. As I said, there are very few people who can.

"Hey. I thought that," says Ron, angrily.

Of course you did. I'm reading your mind right now. I don't speak human languages. You are very good. Very receptive.

Ron takes his hands out of the pail and bunches them into fists at his sides. It's a shock to find out that a dragon can read his mind, but – shit happens. With his life experience, he's well aware that just about anything can and will occur, usually in a strange and disturbing way. Ron takes things like this in his stride.

What he doesn't take nicely to, however, is not the fact that this particular dragon is trying to talk to him, but that it has the audacity to probe into the depths of his brain.

Ron's brain is Ron's special place. He doesn't want to know half of what he keeps inside his skull, and he'll be damned if anyone else will get to know it, either.

"Get the hell out of my head," says Ron, sharply.

My goodness. That was a rather interesting dream you had the other night. Who is that blonde boy? Anyone I'd know?

"I said, get the hell out of my head."

Fine. If you're going to be so stroppy.

They remain still for a while, Ron staring at the dragon, and the dragon staring back with its golden eyes, their centres slitted like a cat's. Very slowly, Ron relaxes his fists, and wipes them dry on his vest.

You still there? he thinks.

There's no reply from the dragon. It looks away now, and begins to play its claws against the edge of its enclosure. Ron is surprised that the bars can manage to cage the creature – the Bluewing is so massive that it shouldn't have great difficulty blundering through the puny metal. Then again, Ron guesses the creature must be having a good life here – it gets fed, watered, flown, and has its very own personal shit cleaner. If I had that, Ron thinks, I don't think I'd want to leave.

He walks over to the enclosure and rests his hands on the railing. The dragon opens its mouth in a yawn, and pads its forefeet down into the woodshavings that cover the floor.

Okay, fine, Ron thinks, as loudly as he can. You can come back.

The dragon stretches.

"I said, you can come back," Ron says, knocking at the bars. The dragon looks at him, but doesn't reply. Ron points a finger at his head, instructively, and the dragon's eyes widen in sudden understanding.

Hello again. Calmed down any?

"I was never not-calm," says Ron. "I was just confused."

That's nothing new for you.

"Stay out of my personal memories," says Ron, through clenched teeth.

Oh. Sorry.

"So I can talk to dragons. What does that mean?"

It means you're special. It's a gift, you see. You should be very proud.

"I don't have to go on some stupid quest, or end up being the world's last hope or anything, do I?" Ron asks.

Not that I know of. Want me to get back to you on that one?

"No. No thanks. I'd rather not know." Ron blinks. "So did you decide to talk to me for any reason, or –"

You used my water. I thought I'd have to come up with a better comment than my usual ‘beligerent stare’. I've been reading your mind for a while now, though. Very interesting.

"You bastard."

Well, you didn't know at the time. And I didn't really plan on telling you. No one else seems to have. It's not often we like to talk to those who can understand us – human-dragon relations aren't exactly encouraged. Much better they believe we're wild beasts. And you know what happened to us the last time we decided to talk to people. Years ago, that was.

"Oh?"

Dragon Rock. I've seen it in your memories, so I'm sure you know the story. Only you only know the human version of events. You don't know that one of those breeders in the volcano was a woman – a person just like you, who could speak to us. When we found we couldn't stop following the medallion they created, we decided to open up, and begged her to destroy the thing. We are dragons – we cannot bear to be chained for long. Even the breeders here take us for flights, but in Dragon Rock we could not even move from the earth, so desperate were we to press ourselves against the medallion.

But the woman we spoke to – once she realised her gift – was not convinced that she should let us go at all. In fact, she found that now she could order us about. She wanted control of the magical community – and the rest of the world too. We could not let her do it; we would not be used in such a fashion.

We staged a revolt. We could not break from the medallion, so instead we organised ourselves to break down the volcano. We cornered the woman and the other breeders, and forced them to give up the medallion. One of our number ate it, and the spell was broken. In order that they would not do such a thing again, we were forced to destroy them, too.

But the breeders had enchanted the volcano. It would erupt if anyone attempted to take over – a kamikaze breed, they were, drunk on the power they had over us. As the ground shuddered under our feet, we were forced to take flight. Very few of us escaped – including the dragon who had swallowed the medallion. Dragon rock was a labrynth, you see, thousands of passages spanning under the crust of the earth, most concluding in dead ends. There are ashes of hundreds of dragons scattered in that place. Unlucky for her, lucky for us, the dragon who swallowed the medallion must have been one of them.

The dragon yawns. I hope you can understand now why we don't like talking to you.

"That sounds remarkably like a prelude to a quest to me," says Ron, shortly.

It could be. I saw the medallion in your head. Has it been found again?

"Yeah," says Ron. "But it's safe. A guy I know buried it in his backyard."

The dragon's eyes widen a second time. Excuse me. I don't think I quite understood. You said – that a guy you knew –

"Buried it in his backyard. Yeah."

An extremely powerful magical item, which could very easily be the source of a dragon-human armaggedon, and he –

"Backyard. Mhm."

I – I really don't know what to say.

"It's cool, man. Draco isn't the type to take over the world. Guy's too busy fucking his boyfriend and playing with his daddy's Masterwizard cards to bother with that kind of rot."

Draco – the dragon's scaley brow furrows. That wouldn't be the boy from your dream, would it?

"Might be."

I can read your mind, remember.

"Fine. It is. I don't know how the hell he got into my head, and I don't want to know either. I'm putting it down to eating a lot of chilli for dinner."

Oo-kay then.

"Don't give me attitude, mate. I've been shovelling your shit all day. I can just as easy shovel it back."

I can roast you alive with one breath.

"Yeah. And then you'll be knee deep in burnt Ron –and- dragonshit. Big chucks to you." Ron glances at his watch. "Shit. It's eight thirty. I got a girl to meet in half an hour."

The world might very well be on the edge of disaster, and Ron Weasley has to take out his girlfriend for drinks. Big chucks to you, too.

"She's not my girlfriend. Just some chick I screw. And I told you not to give me that quest shit. I ain't interested." Ron sticks his hands in his pockets, and grins. "Later, dragon."

Tomorrow, I'm going to do a particulary large turd, with your name all over it.

"Nice bowel control if you can manage it," says Ron. "Must be hard squirting out those letters, though."

Like you wouldn't believe.

"Right. Later."

Ron walks off with his hands in his pockets. The dragon gazes balefully at the man's form until Ron disappears from sight around the corner of the stable door.

That boy is our last hope? the Green Narrowtail in the next enclosure asks in disbelief.

Looks like it, says the Bluewing.

Crap.

Big chucks to us, indeed, the Bluewing agrees.

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