Chapter Text
"Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus
(never tickle a sleeping dragon)"
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
Sometimes, life can be kind. Sometimes, when everything seems to have reached its end, a hand reaches out and beckons for you to join it. Sometimes, an opportunity appears and makes itself so appealing that you have no choice but to take it. Life, occasionally, seemed to offer you lemonade first.
This was not one of those moments.
Draco had been sitting in this shack he was forced to call home for what felt like years. No. For what had been years. Five years since the war. Time had not flown at all; Draco had felt every minute. Flopping back and forth between his paper pushing office job with the magical creatures registry office, and his apothecary work assisting the increasingly more ancient and befuddled Mr. Romberta, attempting to either make ends meet or save some money, depending on the month.
The last thing he wanted to do was go to Romania, hunting down rare dragon scales for potions. Why, he questioned, wasn't a student sent instead. It was tedious work, and he really didn't want to do it. Still, he had no real choice in the matter. And frankly, that was the more frustrating part of his life.
There had been parts of being cut out of the Malfoy fortune that had been pretty wonderful, even now, even with everything. Like the distance he was able to take from the Malfoy family trial after the war. Having never actually joined the Death Eaters through committing murder, his 'failure' in helping Voldemort had secured him immunity from trial in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death. Then there was the fact that he no longer had any allegiance to his father, who would have found ways to torture or coerce Draco into doing his will even from Azkaban. He had nothing, but he didn't owe anyone anything either.
Other parts of the situation had been harder to swallow. He had nearly choked on the other parts. His inability to rely on his last name to command respect. Or to secure work through reputation or blood status alone. His reliance on a weekly paycheck. These things changed his reality; even as a very young child, he had always been able to wheedle free things out of people simply by saying, "I'm a Malfoy" and flashing ever-present dimples. Working for what you had did not come naturally to a Malfoy. Fighting through stigma and hatred to gain some positive spin on your image had been a trial for Draco, but he had done it. He lived reasonably, he had a small circle of acquaintances who knew him as a man who worked hard and kept to himself, none of whom really knew him well enough to question the rumours and whispers that surrounded his name.
He had remade himself. Like fucking Jean Valjean.
It had its advantages; he didn't live under the shadow of his past. He had even managed to win over some of the people he had known in school, had managed to separate himself from his past acts, even if he was quite often wracked with guilt, even now, even years later.
He liked to argue that he hadn't really changed. He maintained his highbrow attitude, his opinions, and when in the right mood, his sneer. But it is much more difficult to sneer when you can only afford the things you used to sneer at, and no one really believed he was the same as he always had been. He probably didn't believe it himself, truth be told.
So, despite his desire to stay right where he was, he found himself, on this perfectly acceptable Birmingham Sunday morning in April, packing a bag full of his field work clothes, vials and containers, preparing to start trekking for the first time since he was an intern at the Apothecary.
Upon arrival, he had to admit that perhaps there were worse things than a free-ish trip abroad. Even if it was to the remote hills of Borşa. Even if he was being forced to join a 'magical tour of like-minded wizards' in order to get to the dragon fields safely. Even if this meant spending time with strangers for the first time in over five years. He could do it. Though it no longer meant what it once had, he was still A Malfoy.
So, he unpacks his magically expanded bag and hangs up his very utilitarian wardrobe, not quite managing to suppress his sigh of distaste at the washed out colours and 'sensible' fabrics he sees before him. It's an odd choice of pastime, since he was just going to have to repack tomorrow, but even after all this time, his mother's voice saying 'it will wrinkle' lingers in the back of his mind, and he blindly finishes the task. Then sits on his small bed in the closet-like room of the hostel for half an hour. Thinking. But, unable to come up with a better plan, he decides to face his discomfort head-on, and forces himself down to the hostel bar to meet some of the people he is going to have to spend the next five days with; if there are any people who are going to take issue with his presence, he would rather know now than at their 4 AM departure the next morning.
Bracing himself ends up being entirely unnecessary. He encounters people his own age, witches and wizards with a desire for adventurous travel, and more importantly, people who have always lived abroad, or who couldn't care less about Hogwarts days now that they were finished. He even greets two vaguely familiar Durmstrang students who clap him too hard on the back and begin to regale him with tales of their adventures capturing and selling illegal magical creatures. He decides to resist the urge to inform them of his magical creature registrar status. He strikes up a conversation with a bubbly French witch called Eloise, who delightedly humours his staggering, halting French, claiming, "Vous parlez parfaitement" when he apologizes. Though she is lying, he appreciates her delight.
Their tour leader is a young but tough looking Romanian witch, Sorina, whose red locks are trussed in messy dreads, and whose pretty form barely conceals underlying strength. She holds that spark of nervous energy, tanned skin, and watchful eye that is synonymous with those who rarely come inside if it can be helped.
All in all, when he calls it a night a short time later in anticipation of the early departure, he is feeling far more relaxed. In fact, as he repacks and lays down, he allows a tiny spark of excitement to creep into his thoughts.
Harry was going to hex Ron to oblivion the next time he saw him. Really. Possibly even with an Incurable if he could remember how.
It was, he supposed, partly because he was late, had missed his portkey, and was now doing small Apparation jumps through the wilderness to get to his final destination. Or perhaps because it was cold. And raining. It was April, and although he had left warm, rare sunshine in London, that apparently meant windy, rainy, five degree weather in Romania.
Finally seeing the hostel sign he had been looking for in the distance, he tries to reason with himself. It wasn't really Ron and Hermione's fault. Well, not entirely. He had been the one to profess an interest in studying dragons last summer. But that had mostly been to get them off his back about trying to find a hobby. Their worry had become grating, annoying, unbearable.
He tried to view the situation objectively. As far as he could tell, he had simply become more…apathetic to life in the past few years. He had actually tried after leaving school, reasoning that if he wasn't actually going to finish and graduate with his class, he was going to have to make it justifiable, at least to himself. Still, he had bounced around. He couldn't be a true Auror without his NEWT levels. He tried private consulting for a while, but got tired of not actually being able to do anything once he solved a case. He worked odd jobs here and there, never staying in one place longer than was necessary. It had been fun at first, using his hands and learning new things.
But he just kept getting bored. So he would quit. And then eventually, he just stopped getting another job. He didn't need to be working anyways, and he felt quite strongly that he was allowed to just do…nothing. At least for a little while. He had spent his childhood fighting constantly to stay safe, stay alive, and stay out of the way. As much as he had loved Hogwarts, he had fought his way through that too. He just didn't want to anymore. So he chose to do absolutely none of the things that he didn't want to do.
At first, he had spent months of his unemployment doing all the things he hadn't had the chance to do when he was growing up with the Dursleys. He went to Brighton, and rode every ride. He wandered around London, rode the Eye, explored museum after museum. He went to the theatre every night for a week. Ron took him through all the things he had missed from the magical world too. They went to the Creature Emporium, played Quidditch on a regulation pitch, travelled to the hidden water park on Holy Island, where the slides were enchanted to be different every time you rode them.
Initially, everyone had been on board with this new direction he was taking. The Weasley's helped as much as they could. His friend's loved his sudden interest in doing all things exciting. He, Hermione, Ron, Luna, Neville, Seamus and Ginny had even gone to Spain for a week, renting a villa and partying in a very uncharacteristic way. It had been wonderful.
But they all had to go back to work. And responsibilities abound. And slowly but surely, they had all lost patience. Based on the three years before, where Harry had changed goals every week, they had all assumed that his new "Party/fun/sleep/repeat" mantra was just another phase. With no one supporting his ventures, he'd slowly stopped doing things. Until he was truly doing nothing. Sometimes, he'd read for hours on end. Most days, he managed to get out of bed. Some weeks, he would realize he hadn't left the house in four days.
When the concern had started, he kept brushing his friends off saying he was 'working on a new project'. When that had stopped working, he had thrown the dragon lie into the mix.
And now he was definitely paying for it. A dragon trek in April was not his idea of an 'excellent birthday present', but he had done his best to be excited. Which had been easier in August, when he had still been deluding himself that he probably would have a new life by the spring, and he could cancel.
Taking a key from a disgruntled witch at the counter, who was clearly unimpressed about being woken up, he settled down for a few hours rest before having to leave at the ungodly hour displayed on his info package. He means to set an alarm, but falls asleep first.
Which is how he ends up sprinting down the stairs and the drive, to be greeted by a very scary looking, angry witch.
"We waited for you once, Mr. Potter. Do not expect this to happen again. Your fame will not save you from these hills, from the cold. Believe me, the dragons are the least of your concern."
Apologizing as contritely as he can, she simply nods, and gets on the coach, leaving him to settle into the last remaining fully free seat, falling back asleep as soon as he sits down. He manages to miss seeing Draco Malfoy, who is curled inconspicuously into a seat at the very back of the coach, staring open mouthed as he realizes his bad luck. The whispers have already begun as people see Harry and put the pieces together. This, he thinks, is why I should just become a full hermit as soon as I get back. He is grateful for his exhaustion as he tunes out the hushed voices.
Draco, for his part, cannot believe what is happening right now. Can't life just be simple for once? Uncomplicated by Gryffindors or fame or the past. He knew the excitement from last night had been a poor decision. He knew that no one on the tour being pre-prejudiced against him at been too much to ask for. Now, here was Potter. The last person he ever needed to see again. On the freaking coach.
Three hours and a spectacular sunrise later, Harry woke up with a start to Sorina shouting, "This is the edge of the park. The coach can't go any further. We set off in five minutes. Everyone be ready."
Shaking off the sleep, he waits as the aisle clears slightly.
Draco takes advantage of how much time he has had to prepare for Potter seeing him, and manages to pull off a perfect, third-year-esque sneer as he spits out "Potter" and he passes Harry in his seat.
Harry, having no time to prepare whatsoever, literally sputters.
"Oh I am so going to hex Ron," he muttered to himself as he dragged his pack off the coach.
He is immediately confused.
Draco Malfoy is chatting to everyone, perfectly jovial, laughing and smiling as though he already knows everyone. Harry curses himself again for being late. Clearly, he missed introductions the night before, and somehow the small group of twenty are already fast friends. Even with Draco Malfoy.
As the group begins to follow behind Sorina through the dense forest, an order naturally falls into place, each with small groups or pairs. Harry continues to hang back, walking alone. It doesn't phase him, especially since silence takes over because of the rough terrain and early quiet of the wilderness around them.
By the time they stop for a quick lunch, Harry is determined that the best course of action is avoidance. He will have to just avoid Malfoy. Never mind the fact that he was currently one of exactly 21 people, and that they had to share meals and proximity for the better part of a week. He can't think of any other way. He can't even figure out where to begin with a conversation as two normal individuals. They haven't spoken since leaving school. And he isn't keen to change that.
Which of course means that the first thing Draco Malfoy does when they stop is sit on a log across from his own spot.
"Potter."
"Malfoy."
"Slumming with the normals for a week, I guess?"
"What? How is that not you describing yourself?"
"I'm sorry? Don't you read the papers, Potter?"
"They say a lot. I believe little of it. Force of habit."
"Oh, I don't know. I'm pretty sure they were right when they reported your very horrendous break up with the Weaslette, your inability to keep a job, your listless wandering, and general recluse behaviour."
"Shut it, Malfoy. I've heard crap about you too. You know very well not everything in the Prophet is true. Look, I don't know how we mysteriously ended up on this tour together, but can we just agree to ignore each other? I've got no interest in sleeping with one eye open in case you decide to attack me while I sleep."
"Oh, Potter. You are just as dense as always, it would seem. I had thought age and wisdom would cure you of that. My expectations were clearly too high. For the record, how many times did I actually attack you at school. Just because you and your friends believed I was constantly plotting your demise does not mean it was true. I had things to do as well, you realize. I did not, as you seem to believe, sit in a dark room plotting ways to make you miserable. I had class. And friends. And Quidditch. I'm sure my time at school looked very much like yours, except with all the suspicion. Somehow, you manage to forget that in all your hatred."
"Please. Lose the self-righteous woe-is-me attitude, Malfoy. You hated me just as much."
"Yes, I suppose. But, I haven't seen you in six years. I again find myself saying, I've had things to do. Hatred takes a lot of energy, especially when you don't actually see the thing you hate for nearly a decade. You must be exhausted, if you've been holding onto it all this time."
With that, Malfoy stood and made his way back to the little cluster of Durmstrang students and the lovely Eloise, who Malfoy seemed to have managed to charm already.
And Harry is angry. He is angrier than he has been since…well, since the last time he saw Malfoy, truthfully. He was just a little bit confused by this emotion, and quickly, he realizes that it's because it's the first emotion he's actually felt in close to a year. The startling reality of how unhappy, how apathetic, how truly depressed he had been for the past months makes him even angrier. The realization that perhaps Hermione and Ron have had a point makes him fume. But most of all, he is pissed off that this realization is because of Fucking Malfoy. He had saved the entire wizarding world, twice. Wasn't he entitled to just sitting back and drowning in his own misery for the rest of his life?
Seriously. He could not catch a break.
He stays angry the rest of the day. He has completely forgotten why the fuck he is here, in the cold, rainy hills of Northern Romania. He should be locked away in his house, drowning in novels about people with happier lives. Not here, remembering distinctly how out of shape he has become, and having unpleasant flashbacks about camping in English hills and moors, under constant threat.
So, when Sorina suddenly stops, turning wildly and making exaggerated shushing noises, he is mostly just pissed off even further. It was almost dark. Surely they should be stopping to make camp soon? Why was she pausing here?
And then he saw them.
Over the ridge, by a large, rocky ridge, stood a group of more dragons than Harry had ever seen in one place. He immediately forgot the anger that had punctuated his every thought all day long, and pushed himself into the midst of the group that now clamoured to the edge of ledge.
"Well, they have more hatchlings than the last time I was up here," Sorina said with obvious love and admiration. "Those dragons there are the largest known family group of Longhorns on the reservation. We have been leaving them entirely alone for almost a decade, and they keep breeding. It is pretty wonderful, considering they were almost extinct."
The creatures before him were huge, although Malfoy knew that Longhorns were actually small in terms of dragons. He hadn't seen a live dragon since school, and seeing them in a large group- on their own, lazing about in the evening, watching hatchlings run and skim the surface before falling down, seemingly unaware of anything around them- was utterly breathtaking.
"I thought dragons were solitary," whispered Eloise from his side.
"Most are. Romanian Longhorns and Common Welshes are the only species who are known to stay in family groups even after the hatchlings can survive alone. They are kind of like elephants. Matriarchal. Very loyal. They morn losses and don't do well without a family pack."
"Mr. Malfoy is correct," Sorina smiled. "Except that treating these creatures like elephants would be quite a mistake. They are calm right now, so they must have recently fed. Still, those horns are not something you want to mess around with and their size is due largely to powerful, muscled haunches. I would not make any loud noises. I will be over here. You may stay and observe for twenty minutes, but then we must continue."
The group, largely full of students or experts, people here with a purpose, pull out notepads and sketching pencils, or cameras and measuring tools. Harry does nothing but stare, open-mouthed. Settling over the edge of the ridge to give his aching legs a break, he cannot get over the sheer size of the creatures before him, and without thinking, mutters aloud, "How do Muggles not see them?"
"Refraction Theory," says a slightly accented voice beside him. Harry looks up to find Hector, one of the two large Durmstrang men, standing over his shoulder with an expensive looking camera slung around his neck.
"Sorry, what?" Harry was baffled by the term, another feeling he hadn't felt in ages.
"You are wasting your time, Hector. Potter grew up with Muggles, and paid next to no attention in school."
"The Refraction Theory," Hector explained kindly, as though Malfoy had not spoken. "Argues that Muggles can't see the things they don't believe in; their lack of belief allows them to avoid seeing, like some sort of magical light refraction. Dragons are myths to most muggles. Even those that love stories of them, or believe they may have once existed, still think they are a story from the past. So they can't see them. Just like Goblins. And Elves. It's lucky, too, because Magical people have been enough threat to the dragon population as it is."
"What if a Muggle really does believe in dragons?"
"I'm not sure. I've never seen it happen. It's really just a theory. Muggles never really see what they don't look for though, do they?"
He continues to stare, until the dragons move suddenly, causing the whole group of people to jump. Instead of taking off, though, the family just starts shuffling towards a cave he hadn't seen before. Presumably to get out of the annoying drizzle that had begun, though he couldn't imagine how animals so large and well armoured could possibly be bothered by rain.
"Alright, gang. We should copy the dragons. It will be dark soon, and we need to make camp. Follow please," she said staunchly.
Sorina was no nonsense about everything, clearly unperturbed by the dragons, and began moving right away. Her group took a few minutes to shake themselves off before they followed.
Harry lingers as long as possible. He had the distinct feeling that he would never be the same again. It was a feeling he had long forgotten, seeing something new and majestic and gloriously magical. It had happened all the time when he was young, just discovering the parallel universe he now called home. But then, he supposed, he was more than a bit jaded now. He smiled to himself as he felt his eyes well just slightly at the sight of the last hatchlings disappearing into the impossibly sized undercroft.
Perhaps he wouldn't hex Ron after all.