Disclaimer: I OWN IT!!! I REALLY DO!!! I OWN– no. I don't. Dammit. The mighty Rowling owns Harry and Draco; all I have is a computer, an obsession, and a cucumber in my mini-fridge. Except it isn't really my mini-fridge. C'es la vie.

Warning: This story contains slash, which, roughly translated, means good ol' same-sex, sweet, passionate boy-luvvvvvvv. Deal with it. Or just read something else.

A/N: AU H/D nonsense, in which we see a reluctant dragon, an accidental soon-to-be savior, and, most importantly, Draco in drag. Throw confetti, children, and rejoice.

The Makings of a Damsel

Prologue

There was once a village, and, like most villages that once were, this village was charming and moderately prosperous, but harbored a dark secret. In the tradition of fairy tale villages everywhere, this village was situated near a gloomy and foreboding woods about which parents whispered quick, insistent warnings to their children.

Naturally, this woods contained a dragon, and, like most dragons that lived in woods, this dragon demanded a sacrifice every ten years. In the tradition of fairy tale dragons everywhere, this dragon would force the village to offer up the most beautiful maiden its walls sheltered, and after the villagers deposited her in the darkness of the woods, the dragon would appear from nowhere and devour her shrieking form. Such was the way of things.

However, the dragon grew old, and one night, in the shadows and the silence, he gave in to death; his magnificent jaws were parted peacefully, his eyes blissfully shut with the last happy thought of terror and chewy flesh. When the village had not heard ravenous growls for many moons, they sent the bravest son out to unveil the dragon's whereabouts. The young son triumphantly returned with the news that the dragon, at last, the terrible dragon was dead!

But sometimes villagers are rather stupid, because even a dragon has offspring. This particular dragon's get had been traveling in the Mediterranean, but upon hearing of his father's death, he rushed home to take up the family mantle. Now the son-dragon was a simple creature. He was not actually inclined to violence or gore, and had no real taste for beautiful maidens, but he felt bound to uphold the family honor (for dragons are, in fact, quite honorable). So with reluctance he made his first tyrannous decree: a child must be sent to the woods, never to be seen again.

Now the village had been celebrating the death of the dragon for about a week, making an abundance of wine, cake, and noise. However, when they heard the decree, they sighed and set down their lutes and jugs of mead, and began to discuss which child should be sent. They were, after all, used to disappointments. Now of course, none of the children whose parents attended the meeting could be chosen, but one particular woman by the name of Narcissa Malfoy had not deemed to join them. The Mrs. Malfoy was a bit of a snob, as were, the villagers agreed, all the members of her family. In her absence, discussion rose of the Malfoy child, a disagreeable boy of eight or nine, who often hit the other children when they didn't do exactly as he told them. Now the father of the Malfoy family was a formidable figure, one which nary a villager dared to cross, but he was out of town for a time, and so it was decided that the Malfoy child should go. The Mrs. Malfoy weakly protested, but in the end nothing could save her son. He was taken to the potions master of the village and made to drink a substance that would ensure that he did not run away, angering the dragon in doing so. As the maroon liquid slid down his throat, a curious marking appeared just a bit to the left on his forehead, shaped like a flattened-out crescent moon. And so, mumbling tidbits about "idiot simpletons" and "my father," the small child was taken to the woods and flung to the ground, his deliverers scampering off.

"Effing sods," he muttered sourly as he got up, for despite his pretentiousness, he was really not a well-mannered child. Then, with a display of courage beyond his years, he bravely attempted to flee the woods. Unfortunately, he discovered that he could not get beyond the thickest part of the woods without falling down. Growling in exasperation, he tried again and again to go farther, but all he got for his efforts was a bit of dirt and grass in his mouth, and a thoroughly wounded pride. He mentally cursed the village potions master for being so adept and heaved himself forward one last time, landing miserably on his back after a spectacular arc through the air. Choosing to die with dignity rather than live out his days falling all over the place like an idiot, he abandoned his attempts and rested until morning in a slightly less forbidding patch of darkness. With the rising of the sun, he sighed and walked back to the shadowy depths of the woods, hoping at least to get this business of being eaten over with as quickly as possible. But before long he came upon a tiny clearing, and in this clearing was a quaint little hut with white stone walls and a thatched roof. Then, out of nowhere appeared the much-feared dragon, and the Malfoy child squealed a bit and searched for a place to hide. The dragon seemed to raise its eyebrows in amusement, although he had none, and began to speak.

"You know, if I had really planned on eating you, I would have done so quite some time ago." There was something in the touch of gentle exasperation in his voice that suggested twinkling blue eyes peering over half-moon spectacles. "Now then, what is your name, my boy?"

The blond boy stared suspiciously for a stretch of seconds, and then begrudgingly answered, "Draco Malfoy."

"Indeed? Well then Mister Malfoy, allow me to inform you that you are not going to be eaten, that you are instead to remain here in this woods and keep me company until your Imprisoning Potion wears off."

Touching his fingers to his newly-acquired marking, Draco turned sullen. "It doesn't wear off. The potions master told me. There's no antidote."

"Perhaps so," said the dragon in a considering tone, "Perhaps so. Now then, you can see that I've provided you with lodgings, and food and water can be scavenged easily enough in these woods, but I'm afraid the only clothes I have for you are remnants from my father's days of chewing up beautiful maidens." After a pause: "That is to say, they are women's clothing." Now Draco thought he could definitely see a twinkle in the dragon's eyes, though they were green and not blue.

"There are many articles, as it seems my father hoarded them quite obsessively, so you won't lack for fitting sizes as you grow older. You can see them there in the trunk inside the hut, if you care to go in."

With a wary step, Draco pushed open the rotting oak door, locating the trunk in the back left-hand corner. It was handsomely carved, if a bit dented around the edges, and it creaked pleasantly as he opened it. Inside was a wide array of both plain and fancy dresses, some fit for girls of his age and some that would swallow him whole if he tried them on. Still, he reckoned, better to be swallowed whole by a dress than a dragon. After that fleeting moment of optimism, his typical bitter expression returned and he exited the hut.

"I'll wear my own things. I'm not touching those silly dresses for as long as I can manage it."

"Of course," the dragon nodded, "Then I shall be on my way. There's a stream to the north if you need running water." With that, the jovial dragon turned to leave.

"Er-wait!" Draco shot out, a bit afraid of being left on his own, "What am I to call you?"

The dragon looked thoughtful, which was an odd look on a dragon, and replied, "I never really had a name. Dragons don't usually mess with trivial things like that. But I daresay it would be fun to be called something. How about...Buttercup!" The dragon brightened visibly.

Draco stared.

"I thought not," sighed the dragon, his head drooping, "Well then, just Dragon will have to do. Farewell to you, young Draco Malfoy." With a polite bow, just Dragon shuffled off, his tail swaying from side to side.

Draco glanced around nervously, and decided upon inspecting the hut more closely. It was rather compact, as most huts are, but it had that charm that fairy tale huts are required to have, and if Draco had not been intent on resenting it he would have found it quite appealing. To the left there was a small bed with a number of faded blankets piled on top of it, and just past the bed was the wooden trunk. Across from the trunk was a lopsided bookshelf, housing dusty, dilapidated tomes, an assortment of glass vials, and, for some reason, a large, obscenely purple boot. Next to the bookshelf, a scant few feet away from the bed, was a spindly-looking desk with a stack of parchment and a quill and inkwell resting on top of it. Draco figured this could also do for a table, as there was a heavy-looking earthen pot squatting next to it on the dirt floor. Just above the desk was a half-heartedly rectangular window, really just an absence of stones, from which could be seen the western side of the clearing and a bit of the middle. A tattered bit of cloth was strung up above the opening, clearly meaning to be a curtain of sorts, and was currently tied up out of the way to let in light. With a somewhat woeful sigh, Draco Malfoy sat on his new bed and stared out the window. As night returned and stars appeared, he willed one of the larger ones to loose itself from its position in the sky and crash down to the sleeping village below, wreaking chaos and painful, flaming death upon those that had forced this detestable situation upon him.

A/N: Poor Draco. This was mostly expository, so it was a little bit boring...I suppose that's the typical prologue for you. I'd be pleased to hear thoughtful criticism, lavish praise, outraged protests, and random limericks from you all.