Winning over the Weasleys by Emeralds in the Dark, Chapter 10
Putting in a good word. Do you mind if we stop at my
flat before dinner? I should change out of these cut
offs? Hermione asked as they walked
down the steps of the Harpy Stadium.
Ron checked his watch. Their dinner reservation was in
30 minutes. Yeah, all right.
You look great as is, though. Did you say we were going to
fawn? I don't think they'll let me in
dress like this. Hermione rebuked.
We'll just apparates your flat first.
Ron was nervous. Really bloody nervous.
Truthfully, he'd kept repeating Draco's advice from earlier.
Go down on her, pulse your cheeks, focus on the clit.
He wasn't sure how he'd managed to get through dinner when all
he wanted was to make sure she had the best time possible
throughout the meal and whatever came after.
They did a side along apparition.
Ron still hated those after his splenching.
He was always jittery about it until they landed with the late
afternoon sun spilling through the curtains.
I'll just be a minute. Hermione walked toward her
bedroom. You know he called after her.
I've always really liked that summer dress you used to wear.
Was it the summer before 6 year? The white one with the little
cherries on it, That was nice. The weeks before Harry arrived,
Hermione had stayed with him. It had been unbearably hot.
They had just walked back from the village and she had
stretched out on a blanket by the pond, her toes dipping in
and out of the water. He had brought her some iced
tea, and as she'd reached for it, one of the thin white straps
slipped from her shoulder. He had fallen asleep to that
vision countless times until their fight.
Truthfully, even after, he could still hear Lavender nagging in
his ear while he zoned out, picturing Hermione in that
dress, toes in the water, some freckles on her face.
It's a bit snug now. She called back.
Ron could imagine Hermione's breasts had filled out.
He noticed that after she got back from Australia last year,
he'd always fought the lusty urge to follow the aperture of
her waist that shaped her into an hourglass.
Right, I guess that was almost four years ago.
Ron chuckled just as he heard the click of her bedroom door
unlocking. Hermione stepped out in
ballerina flats and a Moss green halter dress that stopped mid
calf. Her hair loose from its
ponytail, framed the heart shape of her face in wild girls.
Wow, you, you look amazing. Ron gaped, highly blushed and
looked toward the window. If you like, I can try to go
squeeze into that cherry dress. She teased.
No, no, that's, that is. Wow, that is perfect.
Ron murmured, his thoughts scattering.
Whatever nerves had plagued him before had completely vanished.
Hermione stepped toward him while he stood, leaden feet
stuck to the carpet. She was at chest level, her head
tilted up, her smile soft as her eyes.
We should get going. The reservation is in 15
minutes. Hermione trailed her fingers
down the crook of his elbow, her palm settling there before she
looked back into his stare. Yeah, Ron excelled.
We should definitely get going. You know, I may have filled up
on popcorn. She breathed, her nails drawing
small circles in the creases of his arms, gliding toward his
biceps. Their chests were pressed
together. Ron let his knuckles dot along
her ribs. It's odd.
He burst, his lips hovering just a breath from hers.
I'm not hungry. That is odd.
She whispered. MMM.
He hummed, taking her bottom lip between his.
The moment their lips met, an inferno scorched between them.
His hands cradled the small of her back, then down to the Crest
of her bum, pulling her into him as compactly as he could.
Hermione's hands were everywhere, gliding up his arms,
slipping through his collar and threading into his hair, kissing
her, falling back into the rotation they'd found the other
night. Ron felt the insistent rut of
her hips against his thighs. He knew he needed to make the
next move. He wanted to.
He could feel the build, the wanting.
He wanted to give her that release.
His fingers traced the straps of her dress.
He eased them down as she rolled her shoulders, letting the
fabric slip away. Ron was still kissing her, but
he felt the silk of her bare skin pressing against his chest.
He could sense her nipples peaked, brushing the buttons of
his linen. His palms instinctively moulded
to the shape of her breasts, gently kneading.
He couldn't help it, he couldn't resist, he needed to see her
pulling back just enough to take in the perky shape.
A single freckle dusted above her left nipple, Peony coloured
peaks stiff and inviting, aching for his tongue.
Oh fuck. He groaned, his hands still
cradling her, thumbs sweeping over the hardened tips.
Hermione's head tilted back, offering herself to him.
Bloody gorgeous. He muttered.
His mouth mapped a path over her jaw, down her throat, pressing
insistent open mouth kisses along her clavicle, then into
the rift of skin between her breasts.
One hand still massaged as he licked A deliberate ah over her
left nipple before taking it into his mouth.
His brain struggled to catch up with his body, to fully process
that this was Hermione. This goddess, this woman he was
finally touching was Hermione. He dragged over her right
nipple, his touch replaced by the heat of his mouth.
Both hands settled on her bum, doeing the flesh.
His knees started to shake from crouching, so he sank fully to
kneel in front of her. His face was level with her
apex, fingers spraying over her curves before skimming the backs
of her thighs. Enraptured, he drank in the
sight of her. Hermione's lashes fluttered as
she met his stare, her chest rising and falling in quick,
shallow breaths, the erratic pulse visible at the base of her
throat. Ron's fingers were at the hem of
her dress, rolling it up in a torturous reveal that only made
his blood # harder. Can you sit back for me?
He rasped as he motioned toward the arm of the lounger.
Hermione nodded, scuttling back until her spine pressed against
the cushioned armrest. The new angle exposed more of
her, the golden hour lighting casting shadowed contours
through her thighs. The dress bunched high at her
hips, the fine fabric damp and toying with him at what lay
beneath. Ron's nose brushed the edge of
the lace, his fingers following suit.
Fogging. Christ.
He exhaled, his head bowing forward as if in surrender.
He was a man completely ruined. That is Muggle blasphemy.
Hermione stammered. Bron let out a breathless
chuckle. You don't think you've taught me
a thing or two? I wasn't sure.
The last syllables melted into a gasp as he dragged his
forefinger and middle finger down the seam of her knickers,
pressing just enough to send a shot of pleasure up her spine.
Hermione's reaction was immediate.
Her thighs tensed and her fingers curled against the base
of the sofa. Is this OK?
I can go further. Ron restrained, tracing feather
like touches over her knickers, resisting the urge to pull them
aside without her permission, no matter how desperately he wanted
to. Yes.
She steadied. Ron delicately peeled back the
arousal soaked cotton and his mind blanked at the sight of how
wet she was. He leaned in, his tongue dipping
between her folds, savouring the flavour before the thought of
Malfoy intruded. Shaking it off, he tongued her
slit before licking upward, brushing against something
firmer. Her legs jolted, thighs
twitching as another gasp left her lips.
That was it, he sucked, hollowing his cheeks.
Hermione tossed her leg over the side of the sofa, giving him all
the access he could ever want. She was enjoying this.
He could feel it in the way her fingers knotted into his hair,
pushing his face to a suffocating level.
Ronald, she booked, nails scraping against his scalp.
He plunged in, two fingers curling upward just as she was
losing herself. She was so easy for him to slip
into, slick with his spit and her own wet Hermione clenched
around him, tight, impossibly tight, soft.
Hermione Granger tasted like sweet tea, and her body was heat
and suction, like dipping his fingers into a warm pot of
honey. Oh God, I like that, Ron, I
really like that, she pleaded. Ron's face burned.
He was so aroused it was almost undignified.
His cock throbbed against his trousers, leaking, aching.
Was she close? She had to be.
He thrust his fingers to curl deeper, beating strokes against
her, clipped with his lips. Her cries were melodic, her body
shaking further into the couch in surrender.
And he knew her too well, even if this was the first time he
worshipped her like this. His body understood, recognised
the signs. Everything in him responded in
kind, as if they were speaking a language only they could
understand, instinctively taking cues from one another.
Oh my God, yes, yes, yes, I'm coming, don't stop, please,
please don't stop. She gasped, her pleading turning
to desperate begging. Ron wouldn't stop.
He worked her steady until her whole body writhed, her face
scrunched, a bead of sweat tracing from her hair lined down
to her chest, tear dropping over her nipples.
Then came the throaty, sultry moan.
Ron felt everything, the rhythmic squeeze of her walls
around his fingers, the throb of her clit against his tongue.
He knew she was at her peak, riding it out, and he had to
ease her down gently, Slowly, he pulled back, letting his tongue
flick up one last time, tasting her shuddering aftermath on the
couch, Hermione whined. What?
Ron wiped his face with the back of his hand, grinning up at her.
She looked wild, cheeks flushed a strawberry pink, eyes dark and
blown out. Ron, sit on the couch.
She repeated, that bossy little tone slipping into her cadence.
He really liked that tone. He scrambled up, manoeuvring
onto the sofa, falling into the cushions as Hermione moved in
front of him, settling onto her knees at the edge of his thighs.
Oh fauk, Hermione. He whimpered, realisation
hitting him like a freight train.
He knew exactly what she was about to do, and he wasn't sure
if he'd be able to handle it. He wanted to keep up, to hold
on, to be a speed 5A God damn race car.
But the second her lips touched his cock, he knew he'd lose it.
I've also had very, very unfriendly thoughts, Ronald.
She worked her fingers at his belt.
Inch by inch she pulled his trousers down until they
shackled at his ankles. Ron's hands moved to the buttons
of his shirt, exposing the tort lines of his abdomen.
His cock was straining so hard in the prison of his briefs it
looked almost angry. Hermione pressed her palm
against the outline, testing the weight of him with agonising
patience. She towed his briefs off, and
Ron forced himself to slow his breathing, counting niflers in
his head as his cock sprang free, standing as hard and heavy
as he'd ever seen it. Hermione bit her lip, her
breasts pressing against his knees, and the sight alone made
his stomach tighten. It was erotic, so fucking
erotic. She wrapped her fingers around
the base and stroked upward. 1's head thudded against the back of
the couch. Fuck.
He cursed, eyes squeezing shut, staring blindly at the ceiling
as she experimented with squeezes, as if she knew exactly
what she was doing to him. He felt the ghost of her lips
and couldn't hold out. He needed to watch.
She puckered her lips, giving him one agonizing lick from the
base to the head before finally wrapping her mouth around him.
One hand stayed at the root, guiding her as she sucked on the
length of him. Ron grunted, his hands at her
hair, trying to keep it out of her face but mostly just needing
to touch her. You're, you're good at that.
Of course you're bloody good at that.
He gritted out. Hermione hummed in response.
She sucked at his bollocks before repacing.
The string of his stomach drew nearer, the stir of release
creeping up on him too fast. I don't want to, not yet.
He forced out between clenched teeth.
Hermione looked up at him through half lidded eyes, mouth
still stretched around his cock. And fuck, he'd wanked to this
fantasy a million times, alone in bed or under the spray of the
shower, but nothing, Nothing compared to seeing it in real
life. Feeling it, having her right
here. You want me?
Hermione popped off him with a squelch and let the remaining
bunch of her dress fall to the rug.
She draped one leg over his thigh, then another, until she
was straddling. Ron didn't remember how to
breathe. He didn't know where to look.
Her face, her body. His hands found her sides
instinctively as she tugged at his shirt, impatiently pulling
it off him. Here they were on this sofa, the
same sofa they'd eaten take away and fallen asleep to terrible
movies. She'd adjusted the head of his
cock to nudge against the first point of pressure.
Wait, just one. He barely got the words out,
panting, and she held herself just above him.
She was holding back, still smiling, giving him a choice.
I should have told you the second you kissed me how much I
wanted to keep doing it every day.
His delivery was hoarse, his heart hammering.
Is now the best time? She squeaked, shifting again,
making him clench his eyes shut. Because fuck, she was so hot, so
wet, so ready for him, and it would be so easy just to thrust
up. Yes.
He gasped. Because I've been in love with
you ever since I met you. 12 year old Ron couldn't handle it.
Moronic 13 year old Ron couldn't admit it.
I don't even want to talk about 14 or 15 year old Ron, but you?
He swallowed thickly, brushing A stray curl from her damp
forehead. You terrified 16 year old Ron
made him mental with jealousy. I have no excuse for 1718 or 19,
and fuck, even 20. But 21 year old Ron, he's going
to tell you because you need to know how in love with you I am.
How I've always been in love with you, her, my.
And his eyes shimmered, her lips parting.
But she didn't speak, She didn't have to.
She let her body answer, sinking onto him in one encompassing
motion. Ron's hands flew to her ribs,
gripping her as she took all of him, fitting him inside her.
As if accepting his admission. A mutual groan made both their
bodies shake. She was breathtaking, her mouth
falling open, her head thrown back as she moved, adjusting,
bringing him to depths that his hand could never replicate.
She leaned in, warm against his ear.
You were moronic, weren't you? Ron managed, not before his lips
found hers. They were kissing, panting,
biting. She swallowed his curses as she
rode his lap, every pin of his cock against the spot inside
her, the one that made her shudder and squeal each time he
hit it. They were all hands, all
tongues, ensnared in heat and need, grasping at each other as
if they'd never get enough. Every piece of Ron that had ever
loved her, every unspoken feeling poured from his body
into hers. She was perfection, she was
everything she always had been. To share this, to finally be the
one bringing her to the brink, making her fall apart on top of
him. He'd sell his soul for more.
Hermione Granger was the love of his life, there was no denying
it, and he was a fool if he ever had.
Draco flewed into Weasley's flat, half expecting the bloke
to be living in a cardboard box outside Diagon Alley, all
stuffed into a closet at Potter's.
Instead, he found himself in a surprisingly charming space,
messy but charming. Its walls were drowning in
Quidditch paraphernalia, transforming it into the kind of
bachelor pad straight out of one of those Muggle romantic
comedies Jinny had forced him to endure.
Draco and Ron were off to Romania for the night, heading
to Charlie Weasley's dragon sanctuary.
He'd already warned Ginny that if he ended up burned alive or
devoured, it would not be an accident.
Perfect timing, mate. Are you ready to head off now?
I've got a Ministry Porky set to go in 5 minutes.
We're going to have a great time.
Charlie's place is spectacular. Proper log cabin in the middle
of the Hoyer forest. He's looking after three full
grown Hungarian horn tails, 2 Romanian Longhorns, and a few
babies. Ron's grin stretched from ear to
ear, his enthusiasm almost manic.
He clapped Draco on the back with the kind of familiarity
that made Draco wonder if they'd somehow been lifelong mates
instead of enemies turned reluctant acquaintances.
It's going to be Wizards just being Wizards.
Ron added, shoving a few more jumpers into his pack.
Draco squinted at him. Are you on drugs?
Ron whirled around. What?
Why'd you ask that? You're acting more mental than
usual. Nah, just in a bloody fantastic
mood. Ron beamed.
Draco had almost forgotten the date.
The fucking date with Grainger. It had gone well, two well,
judging by the stupidest, most insufferable expression he had
ever seen plastered across Weasley's face.
You shagged, Granger. Draco said flatly.
Ron smirked, waggling his eyebrows.
I thought you didn't want to know.
I don't. I'm not asking, I'm making a
statement. Draco drawled.
Ron let out a dreamy sigh. She's perfect, she's my best
friend and he's also this sexy minx.
I just, I couldn't get enough. We didn't even make it to
dinner. First the couch, then the bed,
then the shower, then the counter and before I knew it, it
was nearly midnight and we realised we hadn't eaten
anything so we ought to take out and then shagged on the couch
again. It was the best night of my
life. Ma told her I loved her already.
Grimacing, Draco felt something between nausea and full body
betrayal. You told her you loved her the
first time you shagged. Draco stared at him in
disbelief. What is wrong with you?
Ron scoffed. You don't get it.
Sure, it was the first time we were like, intimate like that,
but it's not like she's some random which I met in the pub.
We've been through everything. Petty, shy when we were kids,
arguments over the stupidest things, Crumb and Lavender, the
war, fearing for our lives, her life.
His voice grew quieter that day. When she was dragged in front of
Bellatrix, I would have given anything to take her place.
My life for hers. She's a part of me, my best
friend, my everything. I can't imagine a day when she's
not on my mind or in my life. Draco stiffened at the mention
of the day at the Manor. He had spent years trying to
forget Granger's screams, just like he'd tried to forget
everything else from the war. Draco reflected on his love for
Ginny. What Granger and Weasley had was
embers, glowing for years, building and simmering.
Ginny. Though Ginny had drenched his
entire heart in kerosene. It had been sudden and
consuming. He had known early on that he
loved her, felt it in his blood, but it had taken months to admit
it out loud. Fear had kept him silent.
Fear of rejection. Fear that one day she'd wake up
and see him clearly and realise she could do better.
Because Jinny Weasley was beautiful.
She was funny, sharp and kind. Generous to a fault.
People flocked to her, drawn in by her energy as if she carried
her own gravitational pull. Draco bathed in it, in her, in
the impossible fact that she had chosen him.
Every single day she woke up and decided to love him, and every
single day he woke up wondering why he spent the rest of his
life making sure she never regretted it.
I understand. He murmured.
He cleared his throat, forcing the words past the lump there.
I, uh, I very much feel that way about your sister.
Ron, who had been nodding sagely, suddenly blinked, as if
remembering exactly who he was talking to.
Don't get soft on me now, Malfoy.
It's weird, right? Should we get off them?
Is that the Porky? Draco motioned to the rattling
coat hanger on the counter. On three.
Ron stepped closer. Draco raised a brow. 2 Fine,
1-2. Both men grabbed hold of the
metal wire and time lurched. The familiar gut wrenching spin
of Port Key travel whipped Draco through space, leaving his
stomach somewhere in London. He hated Portquis, hated them
more than flew, but getting to a remote dragon sanctuary in the
middle of Romania apparently left no other choice.
His feet slammed into the ground, sinking knee deep into
thick, sucking mud. Fucking Merlin.
Draco sputtered, struggling forward as the sludge soaked
through his trousers. Ron splashed down beside him.
Draco trudged toward drier ground, wiping his hands off on
his ruined Prada when he caught sight of a mountain of red at
the edge of the clearing. Charlie Weasley stood, reaching
out both hands to haul them out of the mess.
Beyond him. The sanctuary stretched into
misty forest, a quaint cabin nestled between skinny twig like
trees, a curl of smoke rising from its chimney.
Surrounding it were three other buildings, a charmed barrier
shimmering whenever a bird flew too close.
Likely an enchantment meant to keep Dragons in, you know?
Charlie bellowed, hauling them both out of the mud.
For some reason, everyone lands here.
Draco muttered a curse under his breath.
And cast a scourge if I watching the muck vanish.
Charlie gave Ron a side hug. Great to see you brother, He
said. I'm already leading the way
toward the cabin. I've only got 1 room, He said
gruffly. So one of you takes the couch,
the other gets the floor. The two of you can sort that
out. Mal, for you will take the
floor. Ron announced.
My back's a bit sore. Draco narrowed his eyes.
If Weasley thought he was getting away with that, he had
another thing coming. Ron shagged Grainger.
Draco blurted. Ron whirled on him.
Honestly. Charlie barked finally.
Bloody hell, that was torture to watch.
Torture. Ron scoffed.
The constant bickering. All because you 2 refuse to stop
making eyes at each other? Yeah, torture.
Hermione this, Hermione that. Hermione's good at that.
Oh, I'll ask Hermione. He rolled his eyes.
You were like Jinny when she had that massive crush on Potter
back when she was 11. Dark times in her history, Her
taste in men has refined. Draco added.
Anything to erase the mental picture of his girlfriend
fawning over his old arch nemesis.
Draco could only assume that the inside of Charlie's cabin was
what Hagrid's Hut must have looked like.
He'd never actually been inside, only stolen the occasional
glance through the window in his youth, but the aesthetic felt
similar. A lot of furs, wooden furniture,
an Olympic couch that looked like it had seen better days.
The whole place smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and a
distinct Musk. Almost as soon as Draco dropped
his bag on the floor, Charlie uncorked a bottle that had exes
burned into the front. He passed glasses to both Ron
and Draco. Draco took a sip.
It tasted like petrol. He immediately started hacking
his throat on the fire. Charlie grinned.
Yeah, that one will ruin your stomach, so take it easy.
Ron eyed his glass sceptically for all of two seconds before
shrugging and knocking back a gulp.
Charlie stretched, rolling his shoulders.
Feeding time down at the pit, he said.
Figured we'd let the professionals handle that part.
I'll take you both down after dinner.
One wrong move and either of you could end up being dessert.
We're actually going to see them?
Draco asked. He'd assumed he'd get a glimpse
from a safe distance, not an up close and personal introduction
to fire breathing death traps. Didn't you want to?
Charlie glanced between him and Ron.
Yeah, of course. Draco said quickly,
straightening. Didn't think we'd be permitted.
Charlie smirked. Ah, well, we're allowed to bring
over family and family adjacent. He winked.
Just make sure your mother knows how I brought you, and I'll make
sure you go back to her in one piece.
Draco suddenly felt a need to drown himself in whatever poison
Charlie had handed to him. I won't be telling my mother
that. You won't even put a good word
in for me. I don't mean to be out of place
here, but your mother, what a woman when she said she'd tamed
a few wild things. He let out a low whistle.
Ron nearly fell off his chair, howling.
Draco, on the other hand, was not amused.
His entire body tensed, like he'd just been petrified.
How would you like it if I started putting the moose on
your mother? He snapped.
This is out of the question. In no universe am I putting in a
good word for you. She's still married to my
father. The divorce isn't even
finalised. That's hypothetical.
You'd never put moves on her mum.
Ron said between cackles. Charlie shrugged.
Your father's been in Azkaban for what, 2 years now?
I'll bet she's lonely. Probably needs a young man to
make her feel alive again. Draco stared at him.
What the actual fuck was going on?
He was seconds away from shoving a red hot poker into his ears to
never hear this conversation again.
No, no, absolutely not. I am not entertaining this
subject any longer. Draco stood up abruptly,
glaring. Stay away from my mother.
You don't fancy calling me step dad?
Charlie bellowed. Draco's eye twitched.
I'd rather go toe to toe with the fucking horn tail.
Ron still jeering. Oh, and it'd be step farther.
He said in an overly posh, exaggerated drawl.
All right then, let's put you toe to toe with a dragon.
Charlie stood abruptly, tipping back the last of his drink
before setting the glass down with a solid thunk.
Drago whipped. Wait, what?
Charlie was already reaching for his jacket, his wand, and some
sort of long, slender instrument from behind the coat rack.
You said you'd rather face a horn tail, but I reckon you're
more of a Longhorn kind of bloke, Charlie remarked
offhandedly as he strode toward the door.
Ron swore under his breath but scrambled to his feet to follow,
and Draco remained seated for precisely one more second before
his body, of its own volition decided it was best to move.
The low grade panic settled into his bones, mixing unpleasantly
with the remnants of the moonshine sloshing in his
stomach. It was a terrible idea.
An objectively horrible idea. Perhaps he could find time to
draft a dignified farewell letter to Jinny.
But his legs carried him forward none the less, trailing behind
the two Weaseleys as Charlie marched across the yard.
Ron followed at his heels, grumbling the entire way while
Draco lagged, the frigid night air doing little to cool the
flush creeping up his neck. He was already regretting this.
Draco had never been particularly gifted with magical
creatures. He could feel the ghost of the
sprain from the bloody hippogriff back in 3rd year.
The further they walked, the stronger the acrid scent of
charred earth became. A snorting rumbled through the
night, growing louder as they passed through a sparse patch of
trees in the middle of a scorched, barren field.
A dragon, easily the length of a Quidditch pitch.
It's viridian scales shimmered like damp seaweed under the
moonlight, muscular and broad. Thick horns curled back from its
skull like those of a bull. It's snout was wide, and it's
nostrils flared. Draco stopped a few feet ahead,
eyes gleaming with reverence. This, he said with no small
amount of pride, is Apostol, our largest male Romanian Longhorn.
Draco and Ron remained grounded at the tree line, reluctant to
take another step closer. The dragon lifted its head, it's
neck stretching impossibly long as it's eyes latched onto them.
It studied them, shifting from Charlie to Ron and then to
Draco. For one foolish moment, Draco
thought perhaps it would lose interest.
It did not. Instead, Apostol let out a bone
rattling roar, one that seemed to vibrate through the very air
around them, before snapping its head to the side and unleashing
A devastating column of fire toward the trees to their left.
The tree line ignited Bark and leaves withered into ash in mere
seconds, smoke billowing into the night sky.
Draco gulped. Ron let out a string of
expletives. Charlie, the madman grinned.
They're docile after dinner. He said cheerfully, motioning
toward the beast as if this little demonstration had been
nothing more than an affectionate greeting.
Draco was going to die here. All right, give him a pet on the
snout. Charlie gestured.
Draco turned his head so quickly he might have given himself
whiplash. He stared at Charlie, as if
waiting for the moment he'd revealed this was all part of an
elaborate prank, some cruel dragon tamer hazing ritual
designed to see how quickly Malfoy would piss himself.
Is that a joke? Charlie shook his head.
He likes snout pets. Well, only from some people.
He won't let me. But there was this blonde bloke
from Sweden, Hugo, who he'd let do it without a fuss.
I have a theory. Draco arched a brow.
And perhaps we don't test the theory on me.
You did say toe to toe. Ron cackold, still looking
vaguely I'll from the near incineration.
Toe to toe, Malfoy, Charlie repeated.
Or you can convince the lovely Narcissa to accompany me on a
date. That did it.
Hideousness crawled up his neck at the very thought of Charlie
Weasley, shirtless, making himself at home in Malfoy Manor,
strolling through the kitchen 1 morning in his briefs.
The mental image was more sickening than the Dragon's
pungent breath. He would rather die, and looking
at Apostol, that seemed like a distinct possibility.
But Draco was a Malfoy. More importantly, he was a
bloody dragon by namesake. He would not cower.
He would not run. He would not allow Charlie
Weasley to parade around his home like some victorious
suitor. Swallowing the bile that had
risen to his tongue, he forced his legs to move.
The Dragon's golden eyes tracked him as he took a turtle step
forward. Ron and Charlie fell back,
giving him space, though Draco suspected it was more to avoid
the potential fallout should he be roasted alive.
Apostol lifted his head, nostrils flaring, his thick
corded neck curving as he regarded Draco with the eerie
intelligence that only Dragons possessed.
He twisted, shifting his enormous bulk, his tail dragging
through the scorched earth as he lowered himself.
Draco kept his steps even, measured.
That's it, he cautioned. I'm not here to harm you.
It felt absurd, speaking to a creature so large, so powerful,
as if words could tame it. But something in him needed to
say it. Apostol let out a gravelly
exhale, his breath barmy in the crisp night.
His body twisted again, shifting until his snout was nearly level
with Draco's chest. His massive teeth gleamed in the
moonlight. That's it.
Steady, steady. Draco whispered, extending his
hand. His legs had stopped trembling.
His fingers hovered just above the Dragon's snout, so close he
could feel the heat radiating from its scales, until his palms
made contact. Apostol stilled.
His nostrils flared once more, his breath stirring Draco's
robes. He was petting a dragon.
Draco Malvoy was petting a fucking dragon, and he hadn't
died. Exhilaration filled his heart,
something fierce and ancient and right.
I'm Draco, he introduced himself, as if the beast could
understand, as if this moment meant more than just a reckless
stare. He heard the blundering of both
gingers behind him. Fucking I'll.
Ron Draker's hand rested on Apostol.
He felt the rush of satisfaction beneath the overwhelming
adrenaline. That's right, Weasley, marvel at
my dragon taming prowess. The finality of Charlie's voice
carried over the purring of Apostol.
If the dragon trusts him, I trust him.