Chapter Text
Percy cannot ask Charlie for help about this. If his older brother so much as gets a hint of his current conundrum, Percy actually might die of embarrassment. The meagre content of his wardrobe lies spread in chaos all around his room. Examining one of his only thicker robes, it becomes painfully clear how the amount of his clothing has been dwindling over the years. He never had a lot, but once he was accepted into the Ministry he’d exchanged some of the more practical pieces for additional work clothes, as well. And while those might not have been necessary as such, it wouldn’t do to show up to the Minister of Magic’s office in the same second hand/worn down attire every day. Which is why he now finds himself lacking in robes that fit the occasion. Especially ones made of thicker, more resilient materials would have been a non-essential spending back then. The rooms of the ministry are meticulously climate controlled, they always stay at the perfect, unnoticeable temperature. Or were, rather. Percy represses a shudder at the thought of cold shadows haunting the halls.
He throws the robe away from him, towards the bed, uncaring when he misses and it ends up crumpled on the floor. Maybe he doesn’t even need warm clothes at the sanctuary. It might be situated at the top of the Romanian mountains, but it houses wizards and witches as well, after all. There could be a decent chance that the sanctuary is climate controlled, too, despite the difficulties of doing so in such a large outdoor area. Who knows, maybe they don’t even need it; the dragons’ fiery breaths being enough to warm up the whole mountain. If only he had paid more attention to Charlie’s ramblings about his work back then. He must have mentioned the weather conditions or commonly worn clothing at least once. Then again, Charlie is Charlie, and so only ever really cared about the dragons, and Percy vividly remembers hanging on his every word back when his brother still visited on birthdays and holidays. He kept every letter Charlie had sent back then. Though their new additions had rapidly decreased once Percy had become older.
With a sigh, he admits defeat. The truth is, there aren’t many options, really:
First, he could ask his family, if they can lend him some clothes. Though given his height, Bill would likely be his only viable option. Maybe Ron too, he realises with a start. The last time he saw him, they were almost on eye level.
The second option is to outright ask his family for money, instead. He might manage to find second hand clothing by the time he has to leave tomorrow.
Thirdly, he could simply modify whatever he has to the best of his ability and hope for the best.
He bends down to pick up the crumpled robe from the floor. The third option it is.
---
As expected, Charlie arrives late. Though late in this circumstance means not being suitably early. Not even Charlie would risk missing their assigned portkey time window.
“You’re late,” Percy says. His only two resolutions for this trip are not to embarrass himself and to get along with Charlie. Adhering to them might end up being more difficult than expected.
“Had some trouble acquiring our brooms,” Charlie says, patting on the lumpy duffel bag looped over his shoulder. Like Percy, he could have fit all of his belongings into a small rucksack – growing up poor, all of the older Weasley children have become quite good at extension charms – but it would look strange once they presented themselves as Muggle travellers, to not carry any substantial luggage with them at all. Charlie had insisted on taking care of that, and their brooms. Though, of course when Charlie says he had trouble acquiring ‘our’ brooms, he means the one he had to get for Percy. Charlie owns and takes good care of his own broom. All of his brothers – and sister, now – do, once they have the opportunity to secure one.
“Alright,” Percy says, too busy fiddling with the abused cuffs of his robe to watch his brother’s expression. He already regrets having chosen this one and not the more practical, albeit thinner one. But there’s nothing to be done about that now. So without another word he starts toward the low hill, where their portkey is waiting for them, knowing Charlie will follow. It is only when they passed the wall of spell work surrounding it, standing – in Percy’s case – breathlessly at the top, that they are able to see their fellow wizards and witches. The sun is still rising, its rays dancing on the dew of the lush green grass, there aren’t that many people currently waiting. Apart from them, there are only a tired looking couple with a sleeping toddler, a middle aged man in a wild array of Muggle clothing, and an older man, who must be the Auror overseeing the process. Usually most of this is quite unnecessary of course, but the portkey network is under close watch as of now, in order for no convicted – or soon to be convicted – Death Eater or accomplices to have a chance to escape. Just why they have to choose a slippery hill miles outside of London to perform this, Percy doesn’t know. Before he can dwell on it, Charlie starts making his way to the Auror, this time expecting Percy to follow.
“Weasley,” Charlie announces them once they reach the Auror, not even uttering so much as a ‘how do you do’ prior “final destination is Romania.”
Thankfully, the Auror himself seems to be of a similar mentality, simply examining his parchment in response. What is left of the man’s hair has already long since turned white, his face is lined deeply with both frown and laugh lines, his posture in a permanent stoop. He is definitely above the retiring age for Aurors. Many former Aurors, though there aren’t many of them, had to come out of their retirement to fill the vacancies left by their injured and dead colleagues. And by their corrupt ones, though nobody likes to think of those. Percy tries his best to even out his expression, for when the man looks back up at them. As he does, the Auror performs a succession of silent spells, whose results must be satisfying enough, then asks, “Any outstanding trials?”
Percy’s stomach drops. Trials? Maybe not as a defendant, but there will doubtlessly be many occasions where he will have to stand as a witness. Charlie, too, most likely. Though their situations are clearly different.
“No,” Charlie says. Clearly not bothering with relativities.
“Portkey activates at six,” the Auror says in dismissal, handing Charlie a piece of parchment. Their name and hair colour must be guarantee enough. Charlie nods back and motions for Percy to follow him some steps away.
Percy tries to relax his shoulders, take some calming breaths and hopes by Merlin that Charlie doesn’t notice how rattled he is. How on earth is he going to manage this whole trip and not embarrass himself in front of Charlie’s coworkers, if he clams up at the first mention of the war by a stranger? The urge to excuse himself and flee back to his small, familiar flat hits him like a bludger. But that isn’t an option anymore. Against his expectations, Charlie agreed to take him along. Against everyone’s expectations, most likely. If Percy leaves now, he will not only regret it the second he steps a foot into their home, he will also disappoint his brother. No, he’ll just have to figure this out.
“There it is,” Charlie says suddenly, his voice ringing in Percy’s ears.
“What?”
But Charlie is already making his way to a spot a few feet across from them, oblivious to his brother’s apprehension. Taking a final calming breath, Percy follows him on wobbly legs. It doesn’t take long for him to realise what ‘it’ is. There on the ground lies a crumpled can. On its red front only the letters ‘Co’ and ‘la’ can be read. A Muggle soda brand, if he remembers correctly, having spent many days overseeing the enchantment of hundreds of these for the Quidditch World Cup.
“You’d think they’d make portkeys less likely to be picked up by Muggles,” Charlie says, rummaging around their luggage “I never understood why they can’t just be something bigger, like a motor car or a street sign. Can’t imagine Muggles walk around grabbing those very often.”
“You’d be surprised what people put their hands on,” Percy frowns “Either way, a car or a street sign would be too big. The International Portkey Standardisation Regulations dictated that a Portkey’s size and mass cannot exceed that of any one person or creature who is in contact with it at time of activation. This is to both ensure that all transported individuals can clearly see and be able to reach each other in the case of a failure in the Portkey’s sticking charm, but also to mitigate the risk of a potential magical transmutation of the smallest entity. Since the added enchantment can drastically change an object’s mass, the official recommendation for adult wizards or witches is to not use anything heavier than an average size ten dressing shoe and nothing bigger than a sofa cushion. There is actually an equation for this, though I’m not a magical theorist so I only know it in its simplified form, which is the object’s mass prior to enchantment times the-,” Percy stops himself. He hadn’t intended his explanation to delve quite so deep. Charlie’s question wasn’t meant seriously and he isn’t interested in this much detail. But when he looks up, his brother’s forehead is creased, his eyes focused on Percy.
“Okay, so it needs to be small and not too heavy, but why can’t it be something nicer? Like a Muggle quaffle? Or something common, like an umbrella?”
Percy let’s out a huff. Surely Charlie should know this.
“Well, obviously the Ministry cannot risk a Muggle touching a Portkey accidentally. It needs to be plain enough to not be of interest and broken enough to not be of any value. There are actually multiple studies on this. Based on the Ministry’s own Magical Muggle Exposure Incident statistics the objects that draw most Muggle attention when accidentally stumbled upon are sports items such as balls and rackets followed by clothing and functional items like umbrellas, even when they appear to be somewhat broken or used. The least frequently touched items are those that imply a former contact with bodily fluids and little reuse value, such as crushed bottles and cans, small cigarette stubs and discarded tissues, which are of regrettably limited use for portkey creation. Though it somewhat depends on the specific region and its population density, as they usually dictate what sort of litter is most common.”
Charlie nods thoughtfully.
“So when we arrive in Paris for our next portkey, it will most likely be a half-eaten toad.” The corners of his lips quirking up a little.
“I- well, their consumption of amphibians is mostly a wizard’s stereotype I think,” Percy frowns, he doesn’t mention, that making a living or previously living being a Portkey would end in disaster, Charlie is obviously joking. “It will much rather be a used ticket for Muggle transport.” Though Percy is not overly familiar with France, much less its Muggle parts, so he doesn’t know if their portkey system is structured similarly. It will be interesting to see how it compares to their own and to Germany’s, as that will be their following stop.
“Well, either way, the sun’s already up, so let’s find out,” Charlie says.
---
“Thank Merlin I will have forgotten how bloody tedious this is when it’s time to do it again,” Charlie says, before throwing himself into the chair with a groan.
Tedious is an understatement. While the heightened security for magical travel is understandable, its execution is lacking. What should have been a two hour trip turned into an almost nine hour long ordeal. First, the French officials were behind on their portkey enchantments. Gifting them an over three hour long forced vacation in wizarding Paris. This wouldn’t have been too bad, if they hadn’t been limited to their Ministry building and its close vicinity only. An area that was predictably filled to the brim with other waiting travellers, a significant amount of those being returning British wizards and witches, that had fled the country during the war. Still, Percy had been determined to enjoy his first time being abroad since their family trip to Egypt all those years ago. For someone who worked at the Department of International Magical Co-operation, he hadn’t had much of a chance for travel.
However, once they were finally able to leave France – their portkey neither a ticket nor a toad, but a deflated balloon of all things – their bad luck persisted. Due to bureaucratic incompetency, their arrival hadn’t been documented properly and after a thorough round of questioning – which they were allowed to endure together, thank Merlin – the German Aurors insisted on sending an owl to the Bureau de Coordination des Affaires Magiques Internationales in Paris to verify their statements. And on it went…
In the end, when they finally arrived at their hotel in Bucharest, the sun was already setting. Charlie’s surprisingly sound decision to book a room in a hostel, just in case they take longer than expected and are unable to make the last leg of their journey, turned out to be a good choice. Since their following travel consists of catching a train, hiking up a considerable distance of the Romanian mountains and then traversing the rest of said mountains by broom, Percy is glad for the night’s rest.
All this to say, that they now find themselves hungry, tired and irritable in a run-down pub in Bucharest. While Charlie tries all his might to stay cheerful, Percy debated barricading himself in their hostel bathroom, cocooned in a blanket of silencing spells. But then, this would have been incredibly rude. Thankfully, Charlie’s choice of pub is nearly deserted at this time of the evening. Though this does little to soothe Percy’s mood.
“I can’t imagine the restrictions will be quite as bad by then,” he replies to Charlie’s earlier moaning. The trials will be extensive, but it’s hard to imagine the public putting up with the restrictions for more than half a year. If that.
“I don’t think so,” Charlie says “I doubt they’ll have tried every Death Eater before August.”
The range of food offered in the menu is quite limited, which he expected when Charlie said that they would go to a pub and not a restaurant. It’s only when he scans the beverage section, recognising only two or three names, that he remembers that this is a Muggle pub, as well.
“You know, in time for Ginny’s birthday,” Charlie says.
Which drink sounds like it has the lowest alcohol content? Maybe he should finally try the ‘Coca Cola’, have a taste of what Muggles seem to love leaving on the sides of their streets. Though, some cultures see it as unusual for adult men to consume soft drinks in this setting. Percy can’t remember, if it is a particularly grievous offense.
“And yours, of course. I’ll survive Mum’s care for eleven days,” Charlie adds.
“That’s great,” Percy says finally.
If Charlie has anything else to add, the waiter saves Percy from having to deal with it. They are greeted in what he assumes to be Romanian, but the middle-aged man seems to recognise Charlie, as he – thankfully – switches to English to take their orders. Charlie orders a brand of Muggle beer, and Percy risks the offense and picks the ‘Coca Cola’. He also sees the merit of having a small selection of food, since it makes randomly choosing one easier.
After exchanging some more words with their waiter, Charlie falls silent. Percy, now deprived of his menu, takes in the rustic wooden décor, the worn furniture, the few other guests, who are enjoying their alcoholic beverages, cigarettes and light meals. It smells surprisingly clean, for a pub, though the air is slowly starting to warm, and will no doubt soon turn into the stuffy fog Percy had expected. Whatever fight could be started because of their prior conversation must not be worth it for Charlie, because in the end, he changes the topic.
“Have I told you about my colleagues, yet?” he asks. He hasn’t told him anything about his job or life for years by now, but Percy decides to hold up his end of their bargain for peace and simply shakes his head.
There will only be two others at the sanctuary upon their arrival. Still, Charlie does his best to fill up the time with stories of them and others, who might join them at a later date, until their meals arrive. When it does, they enjoy it in silence. Percy’s random order turns out to be some sort of meat rolls with vegetables and fried potato stripes, and while a bit too heavy on the spices for him, they are fine. The sticky sweet ‘Coca Cola’ is more of an acquired taste. Still, he finds himself struggling to get through his plate, the pit in his stomach slowly making a return now that the realization is setting in that yes, they are really doing this. A worry Charlie doesn’t seem to have, devouring his burger with a single minded focus, only slowing down to take a long sip from his beer.
“Listen, I think you will actually really like it at the sanctuary,” he says finally, eyeing Percy’s uneaten meat.
“Right,” Percy says, resisting the urge to pull his plate closer to himself.
“We should go to bed early today,” Charlie says, eyes back on his burger “we’ll have a lot to do tomorrow. I have shuttle duty this time, which means we’ll have to bring a ton of food and some supplies for the stables, I’m actually a bit worried about having to modify the spell work on our luggage in a way that won’t mess with its weight too much.”
Burdening the current extension charm with the added weight of their new supplies could become a slight problem for their brooms’ handling, that’s true. But there are some easy counter spells that can be used to correct that.
Percy takes a quick bite of a meat roll and says, “There are a few modifications we could make to balance out the changes, actually…”
---
While the train journey and the hike up the base of the mountain teeter between being tedious and gruelling, Percy is even more apprehensive of being made to fly. Thank Merlin Charlie went through the trouble of getting him his own broom. He’d rather march up the whole mountain on foot than share a broom with someone. Though that’s not quite true. There were two times he remembers. The first time when he was six years old, begging his older brother’s to teach him how to fly until Bill finally gave in. The second time was with Oliver. Gryffindor just had their first victorious Quidditch match against Slytherin, so they must’ve been fifteen at the time. Their team hadn’t had a win since Charlie had been Seeker almost ten years earlier. Percy feels his lips tug into a smile at the memory. Oliver was so ecstatic, Percy didn’t even mind that he’d lost their bet, letting himself being bullied into a victory lap, clinging onto his whooping friend. He hasn’t touched a broom since.
Predictably, then, it takes him multiple tries to get the bloody thing to jump up into his palm and stay there. His cheeks flush as he feels like an eleven year old again, botching his first flying lesson at Hogwarts. At his fifth try Charlie glances his way, though wisely, he doesn’t say anything. Charlie has always kept more to himself than his other siblings. It used to grate on him, then, when he thought it was a sign of disinterest in others. But he can appreciate it now when his broom finally behaves and they kick off in silence.
Percy braces for the wind, the upended balance, the fear of falling. But it’s the swooping feeling in his stomach that catches him off guard, the way the freezing air actually becomes warmer once they leave the valley and join the birds. But his eyes stay on Charlie’s back, his weight carefully distributed, the angle of his broom tightly controlled. It’s been so long, after all, one distraction could make him topple over. He can almost see it happening, Charlie only realising that he is missing his brother when he arrives at the sanctuary on his own. This, he remembers, is why he doesn’t fly.
Remaining in this tension, it feels like an eternity before Charlie starts descending. And even then, Percy thinks it is a mistake. They are still a considerable ways from the peak, the vegetation smaller and sparser, but not yet yielding to the inhospitable climate above. He scans the nearing ground for any hint of human activity; houses, people, a dragon, maybe. His glasses are blurry with condensation despite the excessive amount of spells he had bestowed upon them before their trip. The dread sets in that maybe they are taking a break after all, when they hit the nauseating cold of a wall of spells and he spots it.
There, nestled into the harsh stone and waning flora is what looks to be a small village, its buildings organised in a rough circle, their sizes differing wildly, some made of wood, some made of stone. This is one of the sanctuary’s smaller locations, its rest spread somewhere along the Carpathian mountains, and still it is breath-takingly big.
It is only when he feels the solid, dependable earth beneath his shaky legs that Percy realises how tense he had been. And now that they are out of the wind, he can smell the rapidly cooling sweat on his robe, as well. Without much ado, Charlie leads the way through the scattered buildings, only slowing down once, to point out the communal and dining house sitting in the middle of the circle, where they will eat later. At one of the smaller, wooden buildings, a good ways away from both the main area and the stone buildings at the edge of the sanctuary, Charlie stops.
“This one’s yours,” he says, swinging open the door.
“The whole thing?” Percy asks.
The inside, while rather modest, is cozier than what Percy expected from a mountain hut inside a dragon sanctuary. A big window, a bed, a dresser, a small table with a chair and even a fireplace fit into the space.
“There’s hardly anyone here, so no need to share. You’ve got a bathroom in there as well, tidy up, get settled and then meet me in the mess.” Charlie turns to leave, impatient to wash the grime off himself, too, no doubt, but then he immediately turns around again. “The middle one over there is me,” he points to a small cluster of huts closer to the edge of the sanctuary “Just knock if you need anything, alright?”
Only after Percy promises him to do so and is able to point out both Charlie’s and the mess building, does his brother leave.
---
The bathroom, too, is both modest and more than Percy expected. Its hot water works wonders in warming up his sore limbs, making him feel like a person again once he’s clean and dry. That having been done, though, he cannot bring himself to unpack, yet. Instead, he reorganises his toiletries in the bathroom, sits down on his soft bed to wait, only to spring up a few minutes later, unable to stand the idleness for much longer.
Despite the darkening sky, the way to the mess hall isn’t hard to traverse, its windows’ soft yellow glow a guiding light, Percy makes it there in less than ten minutes. Upon opening its door, the hearty smell of stew greets him. The building seems to be only slightly larger on the inside at first glance, a decently sized dining area taking up most of it. One of the three, long tables is already half set, four glasses and soup bowls waiting at the far end of it. There is no sign of Charlie or any of the others, though there are muffled voices coming from behind the door on the opposite side. Percy doesn’t hear his brother’s among them. Regardless, he strides over to the door, takes a breath and knocks. The voices fall silent. After a moment there is a muffled, “Yes?” and Percy takes it as an invitation to come in.
The kitchen is small for its purpose, being able to comfortably fit about five people at the same time, though Percy knows of kitchens that expand when needed to. There are two people, a young man and woman, cooking utensils in hand, regarding him curiously. There is no question if they work here, both sporting burns in various stages on their exposed skin, though not quite as many as Percy has seen on Charlie before.
“Percy Weasley,” he says, extending his hand to the man, who is standing closer to him. His stature is similar to Charlie’s, though he is a bit taller, and his hair a dark brown, cut to only a few inches above his head. The man’s lips quirk up a little and Percy tries not to flinch. Clearly introducing himself this way is too formal. Thankfully, Charlie isn’t here to witness this blunder.
“Florian Funke,” the man says, accepting the handshake. Percy has to strain to pick up the slight German accent he knows should be there from Charlie’s introductions the day before.
“Pleased to meet you,” Funke adds, his face utterly serious again.
If this is his way of teasing Percy, or if he is simply matching his formality to not embarrass him isn’t clear, yet. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He is only staying to help out for a few weeks. There is no need to make friends. So he shakes Funke’s hand and immediately turns to the woman. Her hair, too, is on the shorter side, though long enough to curl visibly. It is dyed bright blonde, contrasting starkly with her tan.
“Nice to finally meet you, Percy,” she says, not bothering to hide her smile “I’m Adina.” Her accent is a lot heavier, her hand surprisingly soft compared to her colleague’s, though their firm grip is the same.
“I take care of the sanctuary’s finances, grounds, food, the communication with the other reserves and assisting governments, and everything that isn’t dragon shaped, essentially,” she says.
“That sounds like a lot of work,” Percy replies. The communication aspect alone took him a long time to master at his previous post in the ministry. Before it all turned into a thinly veiled show, put up for an audience that didn’t even care, of course.
“It is! Usually this sort of work is split between a few of us, so everyone can work with the dragons still, but out of the three of us, I’m the most experienced, so.” She shrugs.
Percy tries to imagine Charlie penning a letter to a government official and suppresses a shudder.
“But since you are here now and I hear you’ve done similar work before, I’m looking forward to your help,” Adina says.
“I’m happy to assist wherever I can,” Percy says, finding that he actually means it.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that! The food’s ready, grab the bread and follow me,” she says, grabbing the big pot still bubbling on the stove with her bare hands, nodding to the tray filled with bread beside it. Funke must have snuck out during his short conversation with Adina, as he is already sitting at the table, deep in conversation with a clean and rested looking Charlie.
An this is how their quiet dinner continues on. While Charlie and Funke mostly talk amongst themselves, Adina happily fields Percy’s questions about the sanctuary. Some of her explanations he already knows, filling in what he remembers from Charlie’s stories with the little information he was able to scrounge up before their trip. Others are new to him, answering quite a few questions that have formed since his arrival. As it turns out, this location’s purpose is only to tend to injured or young dragons, which is why the wooden buildings aren’t significantly magically enhanced. Most of the spell work is focussed on the stables for the dragons, made of stone and situated at the rim. This type of stable is only found in two other locations, elsewhere the dragons can come and go on their whim. However, since most of the them were sent away to other sanctuaries all together, located further away from the war, there are currently only three in their care: two Romanian Longhorns and one Ukrainian Ironbelly. Though more are expect to come soon.
“The Death Eaters had plans to use them in the war. They weren’t the first to try that, and this never works out. It always leads to inexperienced people trying to breed dragon armies. You can’t just breed dragons however you please. Their breeds are highly incompatible, it takes centuries to assimilate them enough to each other that their offspring can survive outside of the egg. So they just abandon them and we end up with a horde of young and abused dragons,” Adina explains.
Though the outcome for the animals is horrible, Percy thanks Merlin for that failure.
“Anyway,” Adina says, stacking their used dishes “You’ll get a full tour of the grounds tomorrow.”
Percy takes those words as his cue to leave, though the others linger.
“We’ll stay here a little longer, drink, play some games, you can stay as well, if you like” Charlie says.
But Percy knows that they would rather keep to themselves, to catch up with each other without restraint, if nothing else. And there is no need to overstay his welcome, to risk the enjoyable experience of dinner turning sour, so he politely declines and goes to bed.
---
When he wakes, there is only darkness. After a dizzying moment, his heart hammering in his chest, Percy remembers. Dark mornings aren’t unusual back in the Burrow, where the next Muggle street is almost a mile away in the quaint Ottery St. Catchpole. But it’s been a long while since he slept there. In contrast, his flat, close to the Ministry in the centre of Muggle London, is constantly illuminated by the bright streetlights, shop fronts and passing traffic. By now the dark has become unsettling. Forcing his burning lungs to slow down, the first hints of the rising sun peeking over the mountain cliffs are becoming visible. At this height he guesses it to be around five am. For a moment he sits, slowly calming down, indecisive. He doesn’t want to wander around the sanctuary, potentially stumbling into places where he is not allowed, but trying to find sleep again, shaking in a sweat soaked bed is impossible. With a quick flick of his wand he lights the fireplace. He doesn’t really need it; despite the mountainous snow around them, the warming spells are holding up well. But he needs the light. His bag lies on the ground, still untouched. They hadn’t talked about how long he is supposed to stay here. He expects to leave once the sanctuary has enough helping hands, probably around the time Bill arrives in a week or two. Truthfully, he’d been too afraid to ask. As if reminding him of his presence would cause Charlie to suddenly come to his senses and change his mind. Percy is here now, though, in a wooden hut well over a thousand metres above civilisation. There is no changing anyone’s mind now. Still, when he reaches into his bag, he only takes out a book. The rest stays.
It’s the only one he’d grabbed from his flat: ‘Dracones Occidentum: Anatomy and Character of Europe’s Finest Dragons’ its title boasts, and Percy shouldn’t even have it. It was confiscated from an illegal dealer in Knockturn Alley, who was selling anything from mysterious eggs to wondrous – and probably utterly useless – elixirs. Fudge had assigned Percy to oversee the inspection and correct handling of such items, though when You-Know-Who returned, projects like these fell to the wayside. And the book was left lying around in his office. Percy remembers staring at the giant beast on the cover, its black scales glistening as it rears up onto its hindlegs, spitting an inferno of flames in the air above. ‘Fine’ wouldn’t have been the first word to come into his mind. But it had its allure, Fudge certainly didn’t care where it ended up, and Percy couldn’t help but think ‘Charlie would like this’. But to make sure he has to read it first, see that its contents are safe and – as far as he knows – accurate, and as it is a questionably legal breeder’s manual, it does have its quirks. Which is why he spends his too early morning to coax a particularly stubborn page into showing itself.
And he almost has it, its corner loosening itself, when a knock at the door jerks him out of his focus.
“Ready for breakfast, Perce?” Charlie’s voice comes through the door. The sun has nearly fully risen by now.
Percy shouts back a quick ‘yes’ and throws on a robe for breakfast. When he steps out of his hut, Charlie is already gone. His anger doesn’t last long, however, dissipating when he finds his brother in the kitchen, making a tea for Percy.
“I didn’t know you drank coffee,” Percy says, eyeing the mug in his brother’s hand.
“They don’t really drink tea up here. I packed this one for you,” Charlie says, handing Percy his tea “Don’t tell Mum about it,” he adds with a wink.
“Good morning! What do you Brits say? The early Hippogriff catches the bird?” Adina says, waltzing into the kitchen and cutting of any words of thanks Percy could have thought of.
“Something along those lines,” Charlie laughs, handing her an empty mug and nodding to the still steaming pot of coffee before leaving to the dining area, their conversation apparently over.
“Anyway,” Adina turns to Percy “I hope you’re ready for a full day of excitingly boring work.”
He is.
---
After a quick tour of the grounds and a short run-down of his responsibilities, Adina leaves him to his own devices. So he does what he does best: get to work. Handling the Triwizard Tournament as an eighteen year old makes acclimatising himself to a new workplace incredibly easy. And so he starts by tidying up the empty stables, then he recasts their old environmental, cleaning and anti-smell spells – to both his shock and relief the only intact working spell is the fire resistance –, reorganises the sanctuary’s food supply by expiration date and subsequently sets up a magical reminder for when any sort of item is low in stock. After taking a quick lunch break he continues by restrengthening the reservoir’s anti-muggle and defensive spells and spends the rest of the remaining daylight going through past correspondence and formulating their next report to the Romanian Ministry, an update for the friendly reservoirs in other countries and a letter of thanks to Durmstrang for their generous donation before the war, adding that it was a great help and don’t they want to continue their good deeds accordingly?
All this to say: he is having a great time. From sunrise to sunset he stays busy and useful. While he only sees Charlie regularly at dinner and sometimes at breakfast, his interactions with Adina grow warmer, as she continues to be positively surprised by his work. His interactions with Funke remain limited, though Percy has a feeling neither of them mind too much. And for a few days this feeling lasts. That is, until the work runs out. And he finds himself idling away most of his time sitting in his room, making his way through Dracones Occidentum. He is chewing on his breakfast, in company of both Charlie and Adina this time, when the inevitable happens.
“Tatiana and Elena are arriving later today,” Adina announces, hot coffee nearly spilling out of her mug as she plops down on her seat. Percy racks his brain for any mention Charlie may have made of those names back in Bucharest, but he comes up blank.
“They are?” Charlie says, excitement clear in his voice “I haven’t seen them since the Tournament! What about Andrei?”
Adina’s smile turns into a grimace.
“He won’t be able to join them. I heard he was badly injured in their escape, hasn’t really been the same since,” she hesitates “they don’t like to talk about it too much.”
Percy snaps his eyes back onto his breakfast, the porridge turning in his stomach.
“They’re not the only ones who are arriving today, though,” Adina says, forcing the cheer back into her voice “we’ll get four new dragons, as well.”
This explains Funke’s absence, he must be getting the stables ready. But even with two extra pairs of hands to help, a doubling of their dragons will undoubtably be a challenge. This doesn’t damper the others’ anticipation for their new arrivals, though. Adina starts gushing about the three new Romanian Longhorns and one Hebridean Black, the latter being a particular cause for excitement.
Percy knows a bit about both breeds by now, the last few pages on the Longhorns still refuse to unblur, however. A circumstance he plans to spend most of his day trying to remedy, which conveniently keeps him out of the others’ way when both people and dragons arrive, only the occasional shout and clanging of metal marking their progress. It takes until the sun has set for the noises to die down completely and for Percy to decide to head to the mess for dinner, when there is a knock on his door.
“I have a surprise for you,” Adina says once he opens the door. Her face is flushed red and one of her eyebrows is nearly completely singed off. A huge grin betrays her poor attempt at keeping the near manic excitement bubbling out of her voice. There is no other choice than to follow her.
“I’ve noticed you’ve got a lot of time on your hands recently,” she says, leading him past the wooden huts, closer to the stone structures at the edge of their clearing. “And you’ve been doing so well with all of my tasks, so I’ve thought up a new one.”
She stops in front of a stable, its size is underwhelming in contrast to the other ones Percy has seen, and while relatively close to his hut, it’s a noticeable distance from the rest of the stone buildings on the other side of the sanctuary. Still, Percy’s stomach clenches in anticipation.
“It used to be living quarters, back when we used stone for everything here, but it’s the most secluded building here, so we repurposed it for special cases,” she says, giving him a nervous smile. Then slowly, carefully, she slides open the heavy metal door.
A gust of warmth hits their faces. Percy now understands why no other house is extended; the stable’s inside is huge, its interior copying the environment around them, as if the door stands free with no building behind it. And in its darkness two yellow eyes blink back at them. Adina casts a quick lumos maxima and the small form rushes back into its cavernous hiding place. Percy had only gotten a quick glimpse of it, with its dull green scales and two stubby golden horns the creature is no doubt a dragon, but it can’t be much taller than himself.
“Her name is Dotty,” Adina says “I want you to take care of her.”