Title: The Dragon Keeper

Disclaimer: Not mine, no matter how determined I am to give Draco a happily ever after. ;P

Pairings: Harry/Draco, Angelina/Lee, Angelina/George

Warnings: EWE, Sexual Content, Language

AN: This will be around ten chapters when it's finished. I have the first three written and will be updating every three days until those are posted, and then once a week after that. Hope you enjoy and please leave a review if you have time.

xxx

"I'd sooner have a pygmy puff for a partner than Malfoy."

So much for the post-war ceasefire, I think. We're sitting in Charlie Weasley's makeshift office, which is little more than a glorified tent, and have been for the past half an hour. It took Weasley about ten seconds to inform both of us that Potter's to mentor me in the field for the next month. The rest of the time has been spent with him passively listening to Potter's complaints while I sit idly by, freezing my pureblooded balls off. Romania seems to have few redeeming qualities. The weather is certainly not among them.

Oddly, I don't care all that much that I'm to trail after Potter for the next thirty-one days. When the alternative is rotting in Azkaban with one's father, you don't really complain all that much about what you're to do instead. I'm here because I opted for the program that all the underaged Death Eater kids were offered. It was this or a prison sentence.

Charlie holds up one large, freckled hand and effectively stops the dark-haired wizard sitting next to me mid-sentence. It must be some kind of rush to have that kind of power over Harry Potter these days. "Unfortunately, we don't have any pygmy puffs on staff, Harry. Malfoy will just have to do." Potter glowers at the redhead while I sit serenely at his side, quite at my ease.

"If this is about Gin-"

Charlie cuts him off again. "It isn't." Everyone who can read knows about The Chosen One's split with the Weaslette in The Prophet and those who can't has been told about it. I'm told the issue containing the story is one of the best selling issues to date, second only to the one detailing his victory against Voldemort. "Malfoy needs a mentor for his re-assimilation, and you're the one he's been assigned. Shacklebolt himself recommended it."

Potter studies him quietly for a moment, having apparently exhausted himself somewhere near the end of the fit he's just finished having. "Why would Kingsley do that?"

"Post-war unity, I would imagine."

Potter's expression turns hard. "I fought that war and I won that war, Weasley. I sacrificed the first seventeen years of my life for that war, the consequences of which I am certain I'll never truly comprehend." He sighs tiredly and I glance inscrutably at the man who's never known how to be anything other than a hero. He has more of a right to be tired than any of us, and yet, I don't feel sorry for him. I have trouble feeling much of anything for anyone these days. "I came here to forget the war."

Charlie gives him a measured look. "Then perhaps that's why this is a good idea. Christ, Harry… I hope you never forget the war. I hope none of us do. Think about Fred for godsake…"

This kind of raw emotion embarrasses me, and I keep my eyes fixed on a spot on his makeshift desk, which is made out of overturned wooden crates and bits of twine to bind them together. Potter seems equally as embarrassed, though not for the same reason as me. "Sorry, Charlie, I've just feeling a bit…" he rubs the back of his neck, his unruly hair curling over his fingers as he searches for the right, "frayed." He glances sideways at me as though just remembering that I was there.

Charlie's expression softens considerably, or as much as it can for such a rough outdoorsman with the famed Weasley temperament. "Malfoy, I assume you're agreeable to these conditions, given the alternative."

I snort wryly. "Your deductive reasoning is astounding Weasley." I can't help it. My first language is sarcasm with a close following of English and besides, stupid questions deserve stupid answers. Charlie, to his credit, doesn't rise to my barb and instead pays me a tired, disparaging look before dismissing the both of us.

We wander out into the sunlight and let an awkward silence fall between us, neither of us willing to speak first. It's not that I want to put off those first few words but that I want to put off whatever comes after that, because it's sure to put me off my afternoon tea. Potter's always had that effect on me. After a run-in with him, I always seem to lose my appetite, though I'd never grant him the pleasure of knowing it.

"Welcome to the dragon reservation, Malfoy," he says dryly. I realize that I've never felt less welcome anywhere in my whole entire life, but that's par for the course after my family's reputation crumbled after the Dark Lord's death. I have the man at my side to thank for that, obviously.

I look around for the first time since I'd arrived, having been dragged directly into Weasley's tent as soon as I'd Portkeyed here. On a hill nearby, a Norwegian Ridgeback is sunning itself and a little farther than that, I can spot a Welsh Green moving between the trees, causing their branches to shake overhead. It's nice enough, I suppose, if one discounts the fact that forest fires are inevitable and there is a high risk that you'll be roasted alive by the day's end. I suppose it says something for how desperate I am to stay out of Azkaban.

"You must have a death wish, Potter. Dark Lords and dragons. Christ…" The dark-haired man says nothing for a few moments, and I start to wonder how it'll look on my record if we attack each other on my first day on the reservation. No matter who throws the first punch, Potter will get off scot-free every time, while I would be condemned even if all I did was roll up in a ball on the ground like a cockroach and take the beating. Honestly, it feels like that's all I've been doing for the past few years anyway.

"Wouldn't you?" He laughs hollowly and shrugs, glancing my way. "I'm not afraid of death, Malfoy. Not like you." The jab does sting a little. I'm certain I'll never forgive myself for my cowardice in those last couple of years before the Dark Lord's death. I'm not sure that I want to even try, given that I've taken the cowardly way out yet again and am here rather than rotting in the cell next to my father's. "Come on."

I follow him along the muddy path between two rows of tents, his eyes swinging back and forth between them trying to find what will be my home for the next month. When his gaze finally lands on the right one, he takes a sharp turn and I nearly stumble when my own momentum is suddenly halted in my attempt to stay a few feet behind him. He pulls back the flap and gestures me in. As I pass, I'm pathetically aware of how slight my frame is in comparison, in spite of the fact that I'm a few inches taller than he is.

"We're to be bunkmates," he says, a little unnecessarily in case I hadn't noticed that one side of the tent is obviously occupied with his things while the other contains only a bare cot and an empty pitcher and basin on an overturned wooden crate, along with a trunk of what belongings I was permitted to bring with me. He runs a hand over his jaw with the sandpapery sound of stubble against skin, and I realize that he's grown up in appearance when I wasn't paying attention. Gone is the scrawny bespectacled boy I'd bullied as a first year. Even our roles have been reversed, it seems.

He catches me staring and his expression hardens again. "I would suggest you get out and take a look around while there's still light." He turns away from me dismissively, though one last comment floats over his shoulder toward me. "And go to sleep early. We'll be up before the sun."

I don't much like the idea of Harry Potter telling me what to do, but it seems that's what I've signed up for. Of course, I've had plenty of practice with being obedient to wizards more powerful than I, so I turn on my heels and head back outdoors.

Uncertain of where to go, I head away from the campsite toward the forest and wonder if it's wise to wander around the reservation alone. I wouldn't be surprised if this is Potter's attempt to do me in on my first day here.

At first everything seems too quiet but then I hear a rustling in the bushes a short distance away, on the very edge of the trees. I still. It's obviously small, whatever it is, but that doesn't mean it's any less dangerous than an Ukrainian Ironbelly. It strikes me suddenly that it'd be far more humiliating to be killed by a baby dragon than a fully grown one. Most people would undoubtedly think it a fitting end for a Malfoy.

A baby Antipodean Opaleye topples out of the bushes on unsteady legs. It's tiny… no bigger than my mum's Persian cat, though hopefully it's a bit less temperamental. I still bear scratch marks on my legs from that monster. The Opaleye studies me with glittering eyes and moves unsteadily closer. She's beautiful, I suppose... in the same way poisonous snakes can be. Her scales are iridescent and pearly, and seem to sparkle in the late afternoon sun.

Against my better judgment, I kneel down in front of the little creature as it hobbles toward me and when it's near enough, I brush the back of my fingers over its smooth scales. " 'Lo beautiful." She hiccups, sending her head over arse sprawled across the ground. I scoop her up gingerly, certain that this goes against some kind of reservation protocol and that her mother is soon to burst through the trees to tell me off for my impudence.

Her paper thin wings flap uselessly, brushing against my arm. It's a strange feeling to hold something alive in my hands, to feel as though my very existence isn't destruction.

And for the first time, I think I might be okay here.

A few minutes later, I let her go and she wanders back to the trees, glancing over at me with her bright eyes before disappearing into the foliage.

When I stand and turn back to camp, Potter's standing on the hill with his arms folded. Watching me. As our eyes meet, he doesn't bother turning away or pretending as though his attention hadn't been fixed on me for who knows how long. This is what we've been doing for the past seven years anyway. Watching each other. Two sides of the same coin.

He doesn't acknowledge me at all. Instead, he merely turns around to head back to our tent without so much as a nod or a wave.

xxx

The next morning comes far more quickly than I am accustomed, having grown used to sleeping until the sun was high in the sky since I left Hogwarts. Without anything to do, waking up early seems a bit pointless. Having been roused when the sun's still nothing more than a pink tinge in the sky makes me cranky and irritable, though that might be more to do with the fact that I've been denied my morning wank than anything else. Potter had woken me up ten minutes before breakfast, the bastard, and I'd sat through the meal, groggily shoving bits of toast into my dry mouth.

Not really the kind of breakfast I'm used to.

"… and then we make sure they're being kept at the proper temperature." Potter's just finished an extremely boring monologue which I suspect he's kept as dry as possible for my benefit. We're currently underground in a room that is kept at an insanely high temperature with a large fireplace at one end containing three Hungarian Horntail eggs. The walk down was fairly cool, but stepping into the room was like being hit head on with a wall of heat. It had been staggering to say the least.

"Their mother-"

"Is dead," Potter finishes for me without flinching, though his gaze softens a little as he studies the smooth, metallic-looking dragon eggs. His face is covered in a thin sheen of perspiration as is mine, I suspect. How horrifying.

A silence hangs between us again, waiting to be broken. "We expect them to hatch in a week or two. They're progressing nicely. When they're born, we'll have to see how they take to our food." His voice is clinical and flat. Thus far, I've not seen a sign of the old sentimental Potter from school, who refused to listen to anyone. Who was such a bleeding heart that I'm surprised he hadn't taken to carrying a mop with him everywhere just to clean up the scarlet mess he left behind.

He seems to be well and truly gone.

I don't mind. He was always intolerable when he was being righteous about something. If the stories are true, that's how he got the scar on the back of his hand from that bitch, Umbridge.

And that's how I got the scars on my chest as well.

"We've been testing some exploratory magic to ease the process and we think they'll take to it well."

"You've experience with exploratory magic," I say, unable to stop myself. He freezes and a muscle jumps in his jaw as he clenches his mouth closed. I think for a moment that he really is going to hit me, but he doesn't. "Sectumsempra, wasn't it," I add, in case it hadn't been clear enough what I'd been referring to. I think for a moment that perhaps it's me who has the death wish as I watch his fists clench closed.

"I was young," he says finally.

"It was two years ago."

He gives me an even look that sends a cold chill down my spine in spite of the heat of the room. "We've both had to grow up since then." And he's right, of course. Both of us have been made to do terrible, unspeakable thing since then on behalf of those who supposedly loved us. Yet, here we both stand, and he's the Savior of the wizarding world, and I'm the boy who made all the wrong choices.

Life is very strange, but I've learned to stop looking too far into it. Better men than I have wasted away trying to understand it.

He glances at me again. "You cold or what?" He's eyeing my long sleeved cotton shirt with a inquisitively raised eyebrow, and to be honest, I don't blame him. Not that it means he deserves a proper answer, but I can't think of one that'll get me off the hook. Besides, this is the first time he's asked me anything, and it's caught me off guard. My ancestors are probably rolling over in their velvet-lined caskets.

My hand runs instinctively over the Dark Mark on my forearm and he laughs. "No one gives a damn about tattoos here, Malfoy."

"And you?" He gives me an even look.

"No one gives a damn," he repeats, biting off each syllable as though I'm hard of hearing. I scowl at his retreating form as he makes his way back above ground, though I've no choice but to follow. It's either that or sit quietly in this underground furnace and literally let my blood boil.

When we hit cooler air, he strides off across the reservation without so much as a glance in my direction. I don't even think that he's trying to be rude. It seems as though it doesn't even occur to him to be rude, which almost makes it worse. At least while we were in school, I was worth shooting a good insult at when we passed in the corridors. Granted, I usually deserved it.

But I don't deserve it any less now, given that it's my fault his mentor's dead. Hell, it's my fault that Snape's dead and probably a lot of other people too. The thought makes me feel a bit ill, though not for the reasons one might think. Death just makes me a little queasy. And right now, so does Potter.

I trail after him, feeling impossibly small in his shadow.

xxx

"He's a waste of space, Ron. That's all."

Potter's inside our tent firecalling Weasley while I sit perched on an overturned wooden crate, of which the reservation seems to have in abundance. I bet my first guess as to who he's referring to is the right one.

I take a drag off of my cigarette. I had to roll it myself, so it's a bit lopsided and crooked. Frankly, I don't need a mirror to know that it looks ridiculous dangling out of my mouth, but it's better than nothing. My mother sent some tobacco from her own stash with me, which means it's at least the best money can by, even if I can't smoke it properly. A few minutes later, and a few more derisive comments made about yours truly, Potter throws the flap to our tent open and blinks at me.

"Yes," I say dryly. "I'm still here."

He throws the flap closed a little harder than necessary and sits on the crate next to me. I'm shocked into stillness, and he takes that opportunity to take my wretched cigarette from my fingers. "Didn't know you smoked."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Potter."

His lips twitch at that and he takes a drag off of my own cigarette, blowing the grey smoke high above our heads. He closes his eyes for a second and when they open, they're fixed on me. "I didn't mean for you to hear that."

I pause for a moment. There are a million and one things I could think of to say to him, each more sarcastic than the last. Instead I settle for something simple… though god knows the truth is rarely that. "You weren't wrong." He looks down for a moment, his thumb and forefinger worrying my cigarette between them before he hands it back to me.

"Having you here is not easy. You remind me of… a great many things that I'd rather forget."

"I hadn't realized," I say dryly. I've stopped expecting him to react and predictably enough, he doesn't. "It's not like you to apologize to me."

"I didn't." He glances at me sharply. He stands without further comment and heads toward Charlie's tent at the far end of the camp. I've the desire to make a face at him while his back is turned, which makes me wonder just how much I've really grown up. At the same time, it strikes me that this is the first actual conversation that we've had since I arrived.

I can't understand why I care.