Disclaimer: Obviously, I am not J. K. Rowling. And obviously, I'm not earning any money with this story. I do not own the characters, I just borrow them and play with them.

Author's Note: I'm not quite sure where this story came from. It suddenly appeared in my mind and wanted to get written. It's a bit incomplete, maybe, just an attempt to paint a picture of Charlie, to come closer to him, just a oneshot, no long story, just a touching on a subject, no telling of everything. Am I making sense at all? -

Important: And yes: this is me trying to write in English. Again. I am still no native speaker, English hasn't magically become my mother tongue and I really apologize for all the mistakes I've made in the following text. Please do tell me if there are any severe, horrible mistakes, so that I can correct them. And, if anyone is interested at all: maybe I'll do it again, writing a story in English, I mean. And maybe there's someone out there, willing to proofread it for me?

But for now: Enough said. Have fun reading.

Someone to hold on to

You thought it would be more romantic: travelling all the time, meeting all those interesting new people, getting to know different cultures, listening to foreign languages which you can't understand but which sound nice and warm and inviting. You thought you would be able to see the world (or at least Europe), main point being that you could get away from England, away from Hogwarts, away from – yes, away from your parents so that you could grow up without being constantly watched.

When you left, you hardly had any money. Where from, anyway? Your father doesn't work day and night so that you can spend the earned Galleons on travelling. You would have liked to take the train, to sit on old leather seats, to look out of the window for hours without end, watching the landscape move by in constant change. But trains are expensive and what are you a wizard for anyway?

No, you took a port key to the European continent and then continued by apparition, flea powder and broomstick. You liked flying best. Sure, you had to be careful and to bewitch yourself with certain spells so that no one would notice you on the sky but you think that it has definitely paid off. You enjoyed it: the touch of a cold wind, caressing your hair, and all that life, passing by.

You would have liked to just go on travelling like that but you couldn't. Your journey had a destination and your time was limited. They were already expecting you in the Dragon Reserve, tanned, weather-beaten faces with beaming smiles and sparkling eyes, and suddenly it didn't feel too bad, having already arrived instead of travelling on.

During the first few weeks, you forgot everything around you – your family, your friends, your longing for travelling, everything – and there was only one thought left: dragons. It was the first time in your life that you saw that many dragons at one place, they were breathing fire and they went on the rampage and Merlin knows, they were beautiful and you didn't regret your plans, not for one second.

You settled in very quickly. They gave you work clothing and your own, small yet comfortable tent where you could make some tea and go to sleep. Your colleagues treated you like a friend who'd been away for some time but who'd come back now. You were one of them and it felt damn good. For once you were not Bill's little brother or Percy's older brother or Molly's and Arthur's second one, you know? but you were yourself and that was new and exciting and wonderful.

They patiently taught you everything there was to know. They shared their secrets, their little tricks and gimmicks with you and you were an observant pupil. Nevertheless, you got yourself burnt so many times that you lost track and stopped counting as you realised that that's simply the way it is. One cannot work with dragons and expect to come out of it totally safe and sound.

You were the youngest in the Reserve and you didn't mind. They mocked you in their own, good-natured way and you joined in their laughter because they were right, weren't they, they were older and more experienced and probably the best teachers you could have hoped for. They had pretty much seen it all, most of them had grown up with dragons and they knew stuff you'd never found in one of your books. You listened more carefully and learned more diligently than you had ever done at Hogwarts and, day by day, you became more certain that this is what you want to be doing. Dragons.

It was summer when you started work in the Reserve and the sun was glowing down from the sky and painted your upper arms with freckles, made your skin turn hot and coloured it, light brown, golden, bronze, until your arms looked like those of your colleagues. You became stronger and braver and you learned to trust in your own abilities.

There was a close companionship in the Reserve and you liked it a lot. It reminded you of Hogwarts, of your friends, and of your family. You knew how important it was to stick together. You thought about that when you were sitting around a dragon fire at nighttime and telling stories in a strange mixture of Romanian and English. Most of the time, you just sat there and listened. The few stories you could tell were about your school time or about the twins' pranks and although your colleagues liked them, you didn't like telling them because they reminded you that you were still a child in the eyes of the world.

One after the other, you were allowed to take a holiday and you watched your colleagues come back with sparkling eyes, enthusing about their wives and children and homes, and there was a hole, somewhere close to your stomach, and it grew with every story you heard. They looked at you curiously and asked whether you didn't have a girl, you just shook your head and said No and that there had always been only Quidditch while you went to school, never girls. They laughed and patted you on the back, they winked at you and told you that your time would come.

Maybe you were jealous, maybe a little bit, because they had someone to go back to, someone who was their home, someone who belonged to them. Sure, you had your family but you thought that didn't really count. They were only your parents and your siblings and you hadn't done anything in order to have them, they were just there, they existed and it wasn't your doing.

When it was your turn to go on holiday, you smiled and said good bye and listened to your colleagues wishing you a nice time in England. You nodded and said, yes, of course you were missing the rainy weather, and then you mounted your broom and kicked yourself off the ground and none of your colleagues ever found out that you'd written to your family, telling them you would only get some holiday in your second year and that you couldn't come.

You flew to the Black Sea and spent every night in a different village. You drank and partied and waved smiles to girls whose names you couldn't remember at the next morning, and you felt young and alive and you tried to forget that there was a family who would love to see you. You tried to grow up and to distance yourself so that you could finally have your own life, with your own mistakes and experiences.

The day you came back, a dragon baby hatched only two hours after your arrival, everyone was excited and busy and you were lucky that no one had time to ask about your trip and how your family was. You're not very talented when it comes to lying and you try to avoid it as best as possible.

The little dragon became your personal project and it certainly kept you on the go. You'd never had so many burns and you'd never laughed so often. It was fun, despite the fact that you had to work day and night. Dragons don't show much interest in whether you want to sleep or not when they're trying to break out.

You earned yourself your colleagues' hard-won respect and you worked on changing yourself, on presenting a picture that was more grown up. Winter came and brought your friends along for a visit, together with the dragon Ron had sent over to you, and you had been looking forward to seeing your friends again and it turned out as a catastrophe. Your friends were exactly like they'd always been, it was only you who tried to be different (and who was a miserable failure).

They threw confused gazes at you, with big, wondering eyes, their laughter dying in their mouths when you showed them your workplace and when you got almost broiled by your dragon baby because you were so busy to play the hero that you actually forgot to concentrate on the animal. It didn't matter. You were used to the burns and by now it didn't hurt so much than it used to in the beginning but your friends were shocked nevertheless and they went back to their studies and apprenticeships and you realised that you were all leading different lives.

You were Charlie, the Dragon Tamer, and they didn't recognize you.

After their visit you worked even longer and even harder. No tea breaks, not for you. You would have even worked throughout the nights if your colleagues hadn't talked you into sitting with them around the fire, listening to stories. You were bathing in the warm flames and they managed to drive away all your dark thoughts, but you didn't manage to take the flames with you into your tent and honestly, what good is warm, light, healing fire when you're all alone underneath your blankets, wondering whether you miss them, your friends, whether you're developing into the right direction, and what was right and what was wrong anyway?

Then your second year started and this time, there was no excuse, no lie, and you travelled home, to your parents, at least for a few days. Afterwards, you wished you hadn't done it because you could hardly handle your mother's shock when she saw your burnt skin (Honestly, mum, it doesn't hurt!) and you would have liked to tell her that you're a big boy now and that you can look after yourself but your grown-up personality that you have while being in the Reserve got lost at home and you knew that it was wrong but still you blamed it on your parents and you were angry at them because they didn't understand that you take care of yourself now and that you don't need their help anymore.

You were glad when you could come back. More work. More stories. You were still the youngest but now you were one among equals and they didn't treat you like a child. You'd proved what you can do and, as time went by, you grew a little bit more and your arms became more muscular than before, more freckles appeared and you started to only feel alive when there was hot dragon breath on your skin.

At the beginning, you didn't notice that you got addicted. You just noticed that you felt good when you were working, that you enjoyed it, that you enjoyed getting a buz from it. You were willing to take more risks, became more daring, more determined, better – until you became careless and didn't listen to advice and warnings anymore, and then there was the day when one of the dragons nearly mangled you because you were too lightheaded and negligent when controlling the eggs.

You watched red blood bubbling over your skin, it didn't hurt and the adrenalin was powerful enough to make you that little bit stronger to throw out green sparks from your wand to call for help while you were laughing and trying to dodge the dragon.

Your colleagues brought you to the sickbed and one of the mediwitches, a woman with hair as grey as ice and wrinkled cheeks, swore at you in Romanian and you got the bottom line even though she was talking way too fast. Your colleagues' gazes contributed highly to your somewhat bad conscience and they explained to you, in their typical calm way, that you should rest for a few days and that you should, maybe, reconsider your way of working.

You were angry and you hated that time when you were just lying around in the tent, feeling all useless and restless. They barred you from working and after only a few, but horrible hours you already missed being out there and taming dragons, feeling their hot fire breath that singes the hair on your arms and that makes you feel alive.

You never told anyone. Your colleagues were wise, though, in their very own way and they took turns in visiting you. Each of them had a story to tell, with rough voices and good-natured, sympathising smiles. They told you that they know how you feel, that they know this feeling, that everyone who's working with dragons is going through this phase at some point, and they made you calm down very slowly and you no longer thought that you were crazy and tired of life.

They shook their heads and explained, no, you weren't, you had just been drawn into the maelstrom and that was good because it showed that you loved your work but still you would have to learn how to get out of it again, how to control the maelstrom because otherwise it would destroy you and kill you, and don't forget, the best dragon tamers are those who know the maelstrom and who rule it instead of being dominated by it.

Nevertheless, they barred you from working for seven days. It felt like cold detoxification and you needed something to hold on to, and because you didn't have a wife and children or a life apart from your dragons (because this was the secret, they told you, to find a life that doesn't include your work, to have something to live for, something that hasn't got anything to do with dragons), you turned towards the easiest solution.

Firewhisky.

You weren't proud that you did it and still, alcohol helped you to burn away your sorrows when you were lying awake at night, trembling since your arms were shaking as they had not got burnt during the day. (Yes, you were addicted, yes, you were a junkie but you wanted to feel alive and you were ready to pay the price.)

After one week, you went back to work and you were more careful than ever before, not because you were scared yourself – it was because of your colleagues. You could feel their sorrowful gazes in your back, they were alert and watched you all the time and you learned to deal with your little problem. A mouthful in the evening, a mouthful in the morning, a burning hole in your stomach and everything was fine.

Of course they noticed, eventually. You didn't stay around the fire for as long as you used to do, you became a loner and someone you had never wanted to turn into. When they caught you unprepared, with the bottle at your lips, you were almost relieved and you let them take away the whisky and give you chicken stock instead. They didn't accuse you and you were grateful for that. They didn't tell your parents and you were even more grateful. You wouldn't have been able to bear their reproachful, disappointed comparison anyway (Bill would never have ... - Percy wouldn't ...).

They gave you a task instead and you were happy that there was the Trimagical Tournament with its four dragons of which you were in charge, and you only. You got up with the sunrise and watched your breath flying white into a Romanian winter morning. The cold air felt good and blew the last remaining bits of alcohol out of your head. You put on hats and for the first time in many years you were wearing the woollen jumpers your mum had knitted for you.

With your feet in boots made out of dragon skin, you were walking through the snow, rubbing your frozen fingers against each other and went to work. Slowly, the smile on your face came back to you. You were 21 by now, your passion for dragons had almost killed you and for the time of one summer you'd been drinking more firewhisky than was good for anyone but you were over it and you felt younger and more alive than ever before.

Then there was Hogwarts and together with Hogwarts, there were the memories of a different life. You saw the pupils in their house clothing and their uniforms, you watched Harry fly and your longing tore a hole in your heart and your smile was hanging in the corners of your mouth, all aslope and melancholic, when Harry confided to you that Ron had told him you could have played for England if you hadn't decided to go to the dragons.

(What kind of life would you have had? Would you have turned 20 and would you have hit rock bottom?)

(But would you have turned 21 and would have know how to get up again?)

You weren't back for long but long enough to notice that Ron, your little baby brother, the youngest boy of all, was actually growing up. Ginny told you, eyes all twinkling, that he was still behaving like an idiot often enough, towards Harry and towards Hermione, especially towards Hermione, and for a single instant you were jealous because you could picture a future for Ron, with a wife and children, a future which seemed out of reach for you.

You were glad and relieved when you could go back, back to where your life was happening now. You were happy and free and then Voldemort returned and everything fell apart.

You became a member of the Order of the Phoenix because you felt like you should do it, because you thought everyone expected it from you and you gave in and told your colleagues stories about fighting and resistance and they gently shook their heads and said, Charlie, listen, don't try to throw your life away again, and you promised you wouldn't.

The next years were full and loud and exhausting. There were the dragons and there was the work you did for the Order and your nights were cold and empty and you worked harder than ever before but it didn't make you happy and somewhere on the road to victory you lost yourself because you forgot what you wanted, because you forgot to consider your own needs.

Voldemort was gone and Fred was dead and so was George and you were standing next to them, all helpless and just watching, not doing anything. For Ginny, there was Harry and for Ron, there was Hermione and for Bill (Bill, your hero), there was Fleur and your parents had each other and that was somehow enough and Percy was back and for George, there was everyone even if he didn't want anyone (except -), and for you, there was no one because you'd forgotten that there was a life in England at all.

You felt like a coward but still you just stayed for one year and helped glueing the broken pieces back together before you told them that you needed a holiday, and as you didn't have to be afraid anymore that George would panick and go ballistic if someone from the family was suddenly missing, you did a moonlight flit, took your broom and packed your bundle, took your Galleons and flew away.

Europe would be nice, you thought, and longing grabbed you like a gust of wind and carried you away into foreign countries before you came back to your dragons, with the hole in your heart stuffed a little bit and with the conclusion that you can always depend on yourself.

Your colleagues laughed as you dismounted your broom with tousled hair, they hugged you in their rough but cordial way and your tent was still where you had left it and the dragons had grown and new babies had hatched but you hadn't forgotten anything and you wore your first, fresh burn like a medal and hot dragon breath was creeping over your skin and whispered Welcome home and maybe you weren't safe and sound (no dragon tamer on Earth could possibly be) but you had learned to nurse your wounds.

Fin.