Chapter Text
Braeden walks the length of the room, inspecting the animals as she goes. Sheila, a red three-headed Slavic dragon has a chest infection and has an appointment with Deaton in ten minutes.
She checks the calendar at the back of her book and sighs. Viewing day. A bunch of people coming in and poking at her dragons, little kids screaming how they want that one only to give it back two weeks later after realising that their dragon isn’t going to do tricks on demand or let them ride on their backs.
Braeden has lost count at the amount of adults who come in scowling, saying that this isn’t what they wanted when they adopted a dragon. Really, like it’s her fault they didn’t do proper research on the species beforehand.
“Good girl,” Braeden coos as she opens the cage and Sheila flies right onto her shoulder, rubbing their heads together softly. She’s especially fond of Sheila, having found her freezing to death in the street with broken wings and taken it upon herself to care for the old girl, nurse her back to full health.
Sheila still has a bit of trouble flying for a long period of time, but other than that she’s perfectly healthy. No one has adopted her though, but Braeden knew it was a long shot. With her age and slight disability, it gives her a 70% less chance of being adopted.
Honestly, she’s been thinking of adopting her, herself. Braeden doesn’t know if she’d trust anyone with Sheila.
Deaton checks Sheils thoroughly and gives her a shot of antibiotics. Despite Braeden’s protests, he won’t keep her in his office, away from the viewers coming in today.
It’s not long before viewers start to slip in, pausing at the cages and whispering to each other. A girl - about 20, Braeden would guess - stops at Sheila’s cage and tilts her head, leaning close to the wire. .
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Braeden says, stepping between the woman and the cage. “You probably shouldn’t get that close.”
The woman smiles and shakes her head. “She won’t hurt me. She’s a Slavic, right?”
Braeden forces a smile. “Yes. Are you interested in adopting her?”
“Maybe,” the woman says with a secretive smile, reaching a hand out. “My name’s Malia.”