SFA // Ron Weasley And The Dragons

Ron Weasley And The Dragons

Chapter Nine

"Voldemort shouldn't be in any position to make his comeback, so to speak," Lucius is telling Harry. "After you decimated him during the Tri-wizard competition, most of his faithful Death Eaters have been hunted down and destroyed –"

"I didn't hear about that," says Harry.

"Of course you didn't. Very few people did. It was what you'd call a covert operation."

"In other words, you decided to take matters into your own hands, and went on a mass murdering spree through the wizard community," says Harry, wearily.

"Broomstick accidents, unlikely occurences with dragons, cocktails with an added ‘bang’," says Lucius. "Just my little bit toward keeping the world a better place. Consider it social renewal. I was one of the few people with complete access to the lists of the Death Eaters – their names, their homes – really, it wasn't particulary difficult to arrange the right series of co-incidences. Why do you think you haven't heard or seen Voldemort ever since the Tri-wizard competition? I assure you it wasn't because he was sulking in his bedroom over being righteously – how would you say it? – kicked in the posterior by a boy who still hadn't finished school."

"Oh," says Harry, who'd thought until this point that this seemed a fairly likely explaination. "Why, though? Why do you want to hurt Voldemort? I thought you were one of his – no offence – greatest supporters."

"I was," says Lucius. "He was quite the charismatic dictator. Sadly, however, I soon came to the realisation that Voldemort wasn't actually as infalliable as I'd hoped."

"He was a psychopath," supplies Harry.

"He did twitch rather a lot," Lucius admits. "I certainly wasn't about to turn the universe over to a man like him. He smelt funny, too." Lucius pinches the bridge of his nose. "Rather like fish. Not very pleasant at all. I gave him three chances to prove himself. He failed each time – no small thanks to you."

"So what are you going to gain by killing Voldemort?" Harry asks.

"I didn't say I'd kill him. I tend not to kill evil overlords willynilly, as a general rule. The paper work is enough to put me off." Lucius leans back in his chair. "I simply want Voldemort in a position whereby I can observe him. Under my thumb, for preference."

Harry has begun to rub his forehead at this point, and Lucius frowns. "You don't seem to understand the way I work, Potter," he says. "I don't want to take over the world, because that would involve dealing with a lot of people I'd rather keep as far away from me as is possible. What I do want is to be assured that the harmony of my existence will not be unhinged by the feverish requests of ex-compatriots for my support in a battle which I'm well aware is unwinnable."

He sighs. "It's rather like being harrassed by a particulary persistent Avon witch. Or having a friend selling Am-wizard products. For the past two months I've received countless requests from the Death Eaters to join their company for the last valiant stand against all that is good. It does become tiresome. And I think they're not particulary pleased with my excuses. ‘I have a headache’ only seems to work once or twice."

"Draco used to tell me that alot," Harry reflects. "It used to drive me up the wall. I'd be in the mood, and then he'd say –"

"Potter," Lucius interupts, narrowing his flinty grey eyes. "One more word and I'll be forced to tell you all about the time I did your friend Remus so hard he couldn't –"

"Eek. Sorry." Harry flinches. "I didn't realise the Death Eaters were still around," he says. "I thought they'd all just – sort of died out, or taken up a new occupation."

"Once you become the hench-wizard of a Dark Lord," says Lucius, "every thing else begins to look pretty mundane. I should know." He flexes his thin fingers. "Instead of plotting the overthrow of the wizard government, you end up plotting the new rose beds you're going to plant. Unfortunately, most of the old crowd seem to be still caught up in their dreams of glory under Voldemort's direction. The surviving old crowd, I should say."

"What are you planning to do?"

"First of all, I want Voldemort out in the open. Then I plan to kill all his supporters, and place him in some sort of solitary confinement until I can work out exactly what it is I wish to do with him."

"All the wizards in the world couldn't do that," Harry snaps. "What makes you so sure you can?"

"Because," says Lucius sweetly, "unlike all the other wizards in the world, I don't fight clean."

"You're going to knee him in the balls?" Harry asks, coarsely.

"Metaphorically speaking," Lucius agrees. "Now, how are your thoughts on becoming my son?"

"If it's to destroy Voldemort –" Harry begins, nervously.

"Quite. Now do sign here on the dotted line.."

Dreamscape.

Ron is standing on the brink of a void, his arms raised as if he's intent to approximate the universe between his spread palms. He's feverslick, his body glistening with perspiration, and when he breathes out, slowly – his exhalation is a gust of flame –

He sees the medallion spiralling somewhere off to his left, recognising the green glitter of the disk, but when he turns to stare at it directly, it shimmers off. Then suddenly his vision is filled with it, the image repeated indefinately where ever he turns, and the void is gone, and all that remains is the medallion, and he hears a voice in his ears whispering –

peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste peste

– and now that same word is curling across his body, an indelible tattoo, and it reads –

– he can't breathe, he's struggling for breath, because each time he inhales he only intakes smog and the horrible stench of something dead, decaying, and he can't bloody breathe and even a bloody wet dream with Draco would be better than this and –

"Ron?"

Ron struggles.

"Weasley! For godsake! Wake up!"

peste peste peste peste peste..

"Argh!" Ron starts up, and Draco, who has been trying to shake him awake, falls back onto his ass in the dirt. Ron rubs his eyes, trying to force the image of that word, the sound of it, out of his head.

"You were screaming," says Draco. And adds, unhappily, "It wasn't even my name. Who is this Peste guy?"

"No one." Ron spits out a wad of volcanic ash onto the ground.

Draco sounds unimpressed. "Oh, yeah. I'm sure."

"I mean it, dammit. Not every dream I have is about you."

"Oh, so you're admitting some of them are?" Draco grins, suddenly, and Ron curses himself – he's walked straight into that one.

"Shut up. Forget it, okay? And where's the Bluetail?" Ron realises that the dragon's vanished – they're quite alone, in the middle of this red, unformed desert. He scans the horizon, raising a hand to his face, and spots some vague, flying shapes in the distance, spots on the glowing face of the sun.

"She went off to talk to her dragon friends," says Draco. "She says she'll be back when they've sorted something or other out. You know how it is with dragons."

"Oh," says Ron, unthinkingly, then does a double-take. He stares at Draco, blankly. "Excuse me?"

Draco smiles, feebly; he looks a little embarrassed. "Um," he says. "Maybe it's something in the air –"

"What? Don't tell me you can talk to them, too."

"Well, kind of. Not very well. It took her a long time to make contact with me. Was rather a surprise. But we had a long discussion."

"About what?" Ron can barely contain his surprise. He's hurt, in a way – the only thing that made him special obviously makes Draco special, too. His half-hearted dreams of heroism are fast vanishing into the obscure and sun-bleached horizon.

"Well, she likes Buffy, too.." Draco dithers.

"What the hell is – no, don't tell me." Ron gets to his feet, unsteadily, and feels the world swerve breifly beneath his feet. Vertigo. He grunts, and Draco offers him a helpful hand to steady himself. Draco's fingers are warm, now, quite normal. Ron's fingers breifly interlock with Draco's – then he jerks his hand swiftly away.

"Gee. Someone has issues," says Draco, smugly. He clambers upright, too. "Don't worry. It isn't catching."

"What isn't catching?"

"Being gay."

"Oh, like duh," says Ron, waving Draco away. Draco raises an eyebrow, but wisely chooses not to comment. Instead he peers toward the dragons swooping in the distance, and says, "I think they're coming back."

"About bloody time. I'm hungry enough to eat a dragon, never mind a horse," Ron grumbles. "Aren't you? When was the last time you ate?"

"Last week," says Draco, promptly.

Ron gives him a look. "Anorexic much?" he asks.

"How do you think I keep my perfect, svelte physique?" Draco challenges.

"By spending most of your time with your fingers stuck down your throat," Ron replies. He cricks his neck; Draco winces. "I've been having the weirdest dreams, you know," he says, but Draco isn't listening any longer. He's walked off a short distance, and is staring at the sky, where the dragons are looming closer.

Draco lifts his arms and waves.

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