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It’s nearly two in the morning on Christmas Eve when a frantic knock drags Draco out of bed, cursing and stumbling to the door. Charlie stands on the other side, broad shoulders silhouetted by the porch light. It could be a scene straight from Draco’s dreams, except instead of looking like he wants to devour Draco, half-moon shadows darken his eyes.
“Sorry to wake you,” Charlie says, a thread of panic rising through the low timber of his voice. His eyes flit quickly over Draco’s shoulder to Draco’s rumpled bed, and if this were anything other than a clear emergency Draco would finally break and invite him in. “Agatha isn’t thermoregulating. I was managing fine until about an hour ago, but she’s getting worse. Healer Falk left this morning and I don’t want to call him back from being with his family.”
"I’m not a Healer,” Draco says just as a gust of icy wind pierces the edges of the cabin’s warming charms. Charlie shivers even through his thick coat. Draco, standing in his doorway in nothing but flannel pajamas, feels like he’s been plunged into one of the “restorative ice baths” he notices (intently watches) Charlie using after particularly rough bouts with the newer rescues.
“You know more about these dragons than probably anyone else here,” Charlie counters. Nevermind Draco is the only other person who remained at camp for Christmas. Charlie stayed last year, too. Draco’s never met anyone more committed to the wellbeing of not only his dragons, but his camp as a whole. He runs the refuge with shrewd efficiency and a near-constant, affable smile. Draco can’t recall a time he’s seen Charlie appear this anxious, no hint of good-humour on his face.
“Of course I’ll try. I just can’t promise I’ll be as helpful as you need.”
Charlie’s lips twitch, not enough to be a smile, and he hops a little from foot to foot to warm himself against the chill. “Meet me at paddock three.”
***
It’s been five years since Draco arrived at his first assignment in China. Since then, he’d studied Wyverns in northern France, Tatzelwurms in Sweden, and the Two-Headed Amphisbaena one glorious Summer in Greece. He’d been here at the Norwegian Dragon Refuge for a little over a year. Draco had always unironically loved Dragons. Of all the things he’d envied Potter for throughout his adolescence, getting up close and personal with a Norwegian Ridgeback ranked ludicrously near the top. Lucius often reminded Draco that dragons were fearsome and respected when Draco failed to live up to his namesake. But it was their ancient magic ― more powerful than any Sacred 28 bloodline ― that they shared freely with the land around them, that fascinated Draco most. Forests were lusher, animals healthier, and brooks babbled brighter when Dragons took up residence. Dragons made everything they touched better. Dragons didn’t need to throw their weight around to earn respect. Their way of being simply commanded it.
When Draco arrives at the paddock, Charlie is circling the perimeter, strengthening a canopy of wards suffused with warming charms that somehow don’t melt the sparkling blanket of snow. All of Charlie’s magic crackles with energy, as dynamic and vital as its host. Even a few meters away, Draco can feel it stirring the air of an otherwise still midwinter night.
Most people think dragon tamers are foolhardy adrenaline junkies with a death wish. And they’re not wrong, per se. Charlie, fatigue painted in shadows across his face and wild tendrils of dark orange hair escaping its bun, looks mad as any cautionary tale fretting mothers tell kids who want to be dragon tamers when they grow up. But what they miss is the discipline. The deliberate, practiced calm.
Once inside the wards, Draco can feel it emanating off of Charlie. Despite his anxiety minutes ago, his every move is measured for the benefit of the small dragon curled up in the center of the paddock. Only four years old, she’s double the size of a full-grown Erumpet and one of the few dragons Draco has yet to meet. Her light blue scales are washed grey under the glow of the wards and the reflection of the snow on the ground. The scales around her eyes appear to have the color leached out of them, and Draco knows that’s not a trick of the light. She sneezes and two great puffs of steam momentarily obscure her face. When it clears, she hangs her head, forlorn as he’s ever seen a dragon be.
Charlie starts fretting now. Runs his palms over the scales of her chest. Scratches the little white spot under her chin. Casts a stabilizing spell on the thin membrane of her wings.
“How long has she been like this?” Draco asks.
“Since around dinner.” He looks over his shoulder at Draco. “I managed for a while with warming charms, but they don’t seem to be enough anymore.”
A small camp is already set up in one corner, as if Charlie anticipated a long night watching over the sick dragon. Draco begins to empty his bag of supplies into the snow, his mind cycling through possible solutions as he pulls out a long-disused travel potions kit, a leather notebook, reference books, and ingredients he’d haphazardly tossed on top before he apparated from his small lab to the field. Charlie’s shadow eclipses his and a small table and bench materialize in front of them. Draco shakes his head at how obvious that should have been. He’s already missing steps, preoccupied as he is that he’ll be unable to help in the way Agatha needs right now. The way Charlie needs right now. But Charlie is looking at him in a way that seems almost fond.
“You’ll thank me when you’re old and broken like me.”
“You’re only thirty-seven.” They’d celebrated only two weeks prior. Alcohol and attention had Charlie pink from his hairline to the skin revealed by the two open buttons of his dark blue Henley. Draco had only barely torn his gaze away from that exact spot when Charlie had met his eyes.
“That’s fifty-seven in dragon tamer years.” As if to punctuate the point he rolls his shoulders back and his neck pops as he turns it sharply to each side. “Once you’re set up, I’ll show you what I’ve done so far.”
The scales on Agatha’s back are cold, but her chest is still warm to the touch. The temperature diagnostic flashes a yellow warning above them ― not yet critical, but the time for action is now. Draco scribbles in his note pad and returns to his books to confirm a theory. Charlie remains by Agatha, petting the space between her over-large green eyes as if she were a common Crup.
Two hours pass by the time they get Agatha’s temperature to rise and hold for long enough to satisfy their concern. Charlie is worse for wear, tension evident through his neck and shoulders. He’s yawning every few minutes as he monitors the diagnostic flickering a hopeful pale green against a swath of dark blue sky and pillowy clouds. Draco drapes a reflective blanket over Agatha’s back. He spelled it to match Charlie’s buffalo check coat, which earned him a weary laugh and a smile that finally reached his eyes.
“Thank you for your help,” Charlie says around another yawn. “I’ll come get you if anything changes, but otherwise you can go get some sleep.”
“If either of us needs sleep, it’s you. I’d already gotten a good few hours when you woke me.” Charlie makes Draco’s point as he scrubs his hands over his reddened eyes. “Seriously, go ahead. Take a kip. I’ll come get you if anything changes.”
It’s a testament to the depth of his exhaustion that Charlie doesn’t argue. He grunts a thank you, turns, and crawls into a sleeping bag spread out by the fire. By the time Draco has a cup of coffee in his hands, tendrils of steam reaching out to the night, Charlie’s softly snoring.
***
Draco reads by the light of the fire and the near-full moon until it’s time to refresh Agatha’s dragon-grade pepper up potion. She slow blinks and lets Draco run his hand down her snout, emitting a soft grumble in her chest. A dangerous and magnificent creature, purring like a sated cat.
“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Charlie says. He’s sleep-mussed and yawning as he approaches. Another fearsome creature, soft in its contentment.
“Where did you find her?”
“The Hebrides. Her mother was poached and she was found with a fractured wing. She’s been with us since she was only two.” Charlie steps up beside Draco, close enough for their shoulders to touch. The point of contact does more than any heating charm they’ve cast. It spreads down his arms, through his chest.
“Have any of the other dragons taken her in?”
“Phobos, mostly. Drusus, occasionally, but he’s not much of a nurturer.” Charlie takes a slow sip of coffee. Through the corner of his eye, Draco can see Charlie turn to look at him. At this proximity, it’s like having the full force of the mid-summer Sun turned on him all at once. “Thank you again. We don’t get a lot of young ones.”
“She means a lot to you.” It’s obvious to Draco. He’s worked with Charlie in the field enough times to see this goes beyond professional concern. “We won’t let anything happen to her. She’s looking good for now.” Feeling emboldened, whether by their proximity or sleep-deprivation, Draco knocks his shoulder into Charlie’s. Casual enough to simply be friendly.
The snow crunches under foot as they return to the small campsite. Charlie fishes a bottle of cinnamon firewhiskey and a pair of mugs out of his knapsack and pours two fingers for both of them, then places three-quarters of a pie on the table between them.
“It’s cherry. Mum sends me one every Christmas.” Charlie twirls a fork between deft fingers, brandishing the handle to Draco. It’s a simple motion that elicits the same tug of latent arousal as watching Charlie’s skilled hands tie off the ropes of the dragon tack.
The pie tastes as if it’d just come out of the oven, buttery pastry and ripe cherry bursting on his tongue. Draco can’t help the moan that it elicits. Forgets to be embarrassed when Charlie’s gaze sharpens over the rim of his mug and his eyes flit to Draco’s mouth.
“Why aren’t you with your family for the holiday? I’d imagine with a family as large as yours it’s a big to-do.”
“It is.” Charlie peers past Draco’s shoulder and stretches one leg out beneath the table until his foot comes to rest near Draco’s own. He chews on his lip, brow furrowed, like he’s working out a complicated equation in his mind. Agatha’s soft snorts fill the silence until Charlie goes on.
"I don’t want to sound ungrateful, I am fortunate to have them,” he starts, slowly. “It was always overwhelming for me. And this time of year is just a lot, especially since…” He trails off, mercifully, but Draco can fill in the blanks.
Since the war.
Since Fred died.
No matter how much time passes, no matter how much he’s grown or atoned, or earned the friendship and respect of the very people he’d wronged, the razored-edge slash of guilt never dulls. But Charlie isn’t looking at him with accusation, and Draco knows it’s not even implied. He swallows down the sour tang of shame.
“It’s easier with dragons.” Charlie picks at a piece of pie with his fork, but doesn’t take a bite. “They don’t expect anything of me but regular meals and the occasional attention.”
That admission surprises Draco into honesty of his own. “I can’t imagine anything your parents could not possibly be proud of you for.”
He’s rewarded for his candidness. “They're proud of me, but none of this is what they'd have chosen for me. We’ve all come to peace with it. But…I enjoy time spent in solitude with dragons.”
“I can go at any time,” Draco fakes standing up and a jolt of pleasure courses through him when Charlie shoots his hand out and wraps it around Draco’s wrist.
“Technically,” Charlie tips his mug at him. “Dragon.” He winks.
A laugh bursts out of Draco, so loud in the quiet night it seems to fill the entire sky. “Oh fuck off,” he says and drops back into his chair. He knows his cheeks are pink with pleasure, but it’s easy to blame the cold.
They’re both grinning madly now. Draco tops up their mugs just for something to distract him from the riot inside him.
“What about you?”
“Hm? Oh,” Draco’s lips twist with disdain. “I am the sole bearer of my parents expectations and consequently an abject disappointment to the Malfoy name.” Charlie opens his mouth, but Draco barrels on before he can respond. “It’s for the best. I have no interest in living up to my father’s expectations. And my mother is spending this Christmas with her new boyfriend, Gustavo.” He snorts.
“Gustavooo? Really?”
“It’s as absurd as you think. She just turned sixty. Guess how old he is. Go on.”
“Fifty?”
“Pfft. Too socially acceptable.”
“Forty-five?”
“Forty-one.”
“So you’re saying I have a chance?” Charlie’s grinning again, eyes crinkled in the good humor Draco’s accustomed to.
Draco kicks at the leg of Charlie’s chair. “You’re funnier when I’ve had more sleep.” Like Pavlov's bell, at the mention of sleep they both yawn.
“Really, you should take another nap. You only slept an hour,” Draco says, trying not to think about how many hours it’s been since he was last cozy in his own bed.
“I’m fine. I’m enjoying this.”
Draco only smiles in response, at a loss as his heart does a neat little somersault. After months of Charlie filling his periphery, he doesn’t know how to process being the focus of Charlie’s full attention in return. He’d hoped for it, at moments thought he’d captured it. But it was nothing like this, where they’re both delirious and a little too honest as they keep watch over a sleeping dragon. In need of a distraction, Draco flicks his wand toward Agatha, repositioning the blanket from where her tail had pulled it off one wing. She’s curled up like a cat, impervious to the flurry of snow now falling in earnest. A backdrop of towering pines and the silhouette of mountains beyond makes it look like the center of a snowglobe.
The diagnostic floating above her shows a steady improvement over the last couple hours, and Draco feels the relief in his bones. Charlie must as well. He sighs heavily, then crosses the paddock to the dragon’s side. Draco gives them a moment, then follows. Up close the scales around her eyes are once again a shimmering blue and Draco can feel the warmth emanating off of her, and then a different warmth as Charlie comes to stand by his side once again. This time, his proximity feels on purpose.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Charlie stops, clears his throat. “Beyond your mother, is there anyone else you’d be spending the holiday with if you weren’t here?”
“I was seeing someone earlier this Fall. They broke it off before Halloween.”
“Oh, I’m ― I’m sorry to hear it.”
Charlie’s voice sounds oddly tight, like the question got snagged on something along the way. Draco can feel the bite of winter air that now passes between them.
Draco closes the gap. “He was a wanker. I should have done it first, but was too preoccupied with work to bother.”
He doesn’t think he imagines the way Charlie relaxes again beside him.
“It’s hard to keep a relationship going when your job requires you to live in the middle of nowhere and be available at a moment’s notice.”
“I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”
Draco can feel Charlie’s silent chuckle. “It’s been, ooh, eight years since I’ve had anything that lasted more than a few months.”
“Some would call that a red flag.”
“Some would.”
This time, when he sees Charlie turn to him, Draco turns back. Charlie, this close, is as overwhelming as Draco had feared. His glacier blue eyes are intent on Draco, no less piercing under the heavy lids of Charlie’s exhaustion. Draco’s never ridden a dragon, but he imagines the swoop in his stomach is what it would feel like to soar through the air at 60 kilometers per hour.
He wouldn’t have made a good dragon tamer. Too prone to dramatics and an intolerance to pain. Still, he has learned over the years how to, occasionally, do bold and reckless things.
“I’d say it’s their loss,” Draco says, and closes the distance between them.
He doesn’t have a chance to worry if the kiss was unwelcome. Charlie is already pressing into Draco, his hands coming up to cup Draco’s face, deepening the kiss. Charlie’s lips are soft yet demanding against Draco’s own. The dichotomy of Charlie distilled into a single point of contact. The kiss transforms from slow and a little sleepy, into something more fervent, as Draco runs his hands down Charlie’s muscled back. He spreads his palm wide on the dip of Charlie’s spine and is pulling him closer to feel the hard length of his body on every inch of his own ― when Agatha lets out a great, trembling snort and shakes a pile of snow off her head in one vigorous shake.
They jump apart, chests heaving and cheeks red, as the snow cascades down onto them. Charlie laughs first, head thrown back so Draco can appreciate the full length of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple, and the smattering of freckles there. Draco can’t wait to get his mouth on them.
Beside them, Agatha is bright-eyed once again. She shakes off the blanket and walks off to drink from a trough in the far corner, her tail dragging a winding path through the snow behind her. Draco casts a final diagnostic and they both breathe a sigh of relief at the results, all her vitals strongly back to normal. It’s nearly sunrise now, the first blush of pink staining the horizon. At once the stress and lack of sleep and adrenaline of the night slam into Draco. He sways on the spot. Charlie’s steadying arm winds around his waist and his nose brushes against Draco’s ear.
Charlie’s voice is gravelly with exhaustion, and steeped in promise, when he asks, “What do you say we get some sleep?”
"Yeah," Draco says. "Sleep sounds perfect.”