A historic twist on an old fairytale. A Dragon, a brave maiden and a love story that spans centuries and produces legends.
Dragon vs Maiden
1705, Scotland
Hermione Granger startled awake, the last few weeks in the small highland village of Glenmorgan had been strange to say the least. The high murmur of lilting Gaelic reached her ears, it would seem that the village was gathering for some reason. And it all had something to do with sounds and lights being spotted in the castle in their village.
She quickly glanced out of the window high up on her cottage's stone wall and noted that the moon was still high in the sky, it be far too late in the night for a village meeting.
What on earth was happening?
Here at the edge of the world where the people still believed stories of boogies, dragons and fae folk her decidedly bluestocking tendencies were mostly ignored and at most disparaged with a shake of an elderly head.
However, Glenmorgan had been without a Laird or clan for decades, so long in fact that Hermione was born in this village that had tried to eke out a living in the beautiful northern lands high up and far away from civilization and she had never seen the hauntingly beautiful Glenmorgan castle occupied.
The castle was in a sad state of disrepair now but once it had been the vibrant centre of all life in Glenmorgan and the villages surrounding it but now with ivy climbing its tall stone battlements, its crumbling walls it gave merely a hint of romantic decay... almost making her believe that faeries and will-'o-wisps did indeed make their home in the abandoned halls of Glenmorgan castle.
The elders of their village loved to recall when the MacFoy clan had ruled over Glenmorgan and its surrounding forests and glens, recalling with nostalgic delight the dancing, drinking and celebration when the Laird would bring home a fine stag after the hunt or when the first harvest of wheat would be turned into uisge beatha and a bottle of the precious stuff would be handed to each family in village celebration.
All of these memories were of a time long past, the village folk always believed that the Laird had cursed the village when he had fled with his family after the siege of another warlord. One who had bribed his steward and people to leave the castle undefended.
Of-course the MacFoy's hadn't survived, their last stand ending with the death of the lord and lady of the castle and the death of their only son and heir Draconis... named in honour of the MacFoy guardian and crest, the Dragon of Pearl.
Despite her scepticism and her firm belief that magic was naught, but natures trickery and curses held no divine sway, Hermione could not deny that for the poor folk of Glenmorgan life had not been easy since their laird and his family had perished in the siege, their harvest often stolen by roaming bands of marauding bandits, their cattle dying and their infants too.
However, in her opinion 'twas not because of the curse, more likely 'twas because the people of the village refused to believe in science and chose to place their faith in god and superstition instead. Not that anyone believed her, after all she was merely the oddball daughter of the local healers who were known to be strange as well.
The rumblings seemed to come from the village square... getting louder and louder however Hermione loathed to leave her warm bed where the brick wrapped in flannel at her feet still emanated heat.
She had had little to do with superstitious folk of Glenmorgan since her parents died whilst returning from their travels in the American colonies, undertaken since her father was greatly interested in the healing techniques of the native people of the land.
Born to them later in life her father and mother were radicle scholars, students of science, astronomy and philosophers who had believed in educating their only child in the ways of Modern Thought, Rational Thinking and Science. She still left great sorrow even now after two years had passed since their ship was lost during the journey back.
They had passed down their healing touch and thirst for knowledge to their tow-headed little daughter, choosing to ignore the disapproval and outright disdain of many of the villagers. She now spent her days pouring over medical pamphlets and books, loving collected on her parents travels.
In fact, her cottage had books on almost every surface, often times she would stumble over a stack in the night when she needed to use the privy. That was the only inconvenience in her search for knowledge and her love of reading.
Oh, how she wished she could travel and see the world! However, 'twas a known fact that women travelling alone were seen as those who could be taken advantage of and Hermione had no desire for a husband, so she had to contend herself with her books and pamphlets.
She was a rarity in a village where the girls were engaged to be married as they entered their teens and families still left out food so as to not anger the goblins that they believed haunted the yonder glen and forests. She was an aberration, nearing 25, unmarried and still a maiden. Firmly on the shelf, she had resigned herself to life as a spinster.
Of course, men tended to avoid her, she had always known she was no great beauty and her strange and fanciful notions of independence, hygiene and lack of belief in the legends that seems to be breed into the very soil of the highlands were another reason.
After all who wanted a woman who spent more of her time reading scientific pamphlets brought back from Edinburg by the good Reverend than in the kitchen. No indeed... she had no reason to want to leave her warm bed and cottage, after all how many times had the old widows of the village scoffed at her high-minded beliefs and her intellectual pursuits. She was only thankful that her parents had made provisions for their only child in the event of their death well in advance.
Hermione had no reason to work, after all the cottage she lived in, her small herb garden, chicken coop and two goats provided her with enough milk, eggs and spices to trade with and a warm place to rest her head at night. And she didn't eat meat, having decided long ago she could eat nothing with a face, so 'twas unnecessary to purchase. Usually all she needed to trade for were tallow candles and wood to warm her hearth.
But she enjoyed her occasional work with the elderly Reverend, she was his secretary and the only other person besides him who could read in the village.
Doing everything from reading to him (his eyes were weakening with age) to copying down his sermons in her neat, small cursive so that they may be spread around to the villages in their district.
Pulling her pillow over her head she closed her eyes and began to count sheep, an exercise that helped her ignore the frightened whispers, her damnable curiosity and her own thoughts and go to sleep.
...
The next morning Hermione hurried across the village green with a basket of her fresh eggs hanging off her arm, her curly amber hair was confined to a dark brown snood and her soft homespun woollen gown curled around her rather overgenerous curves.
She was eager to know what had happened last night, however she would wait to ask the Reverend since he was a man who believed in logic and reasonable and rational thinking almost as much her dearly departed parents. He would not mislead her with false tales of fae and dragons.
"'Mione! 'Mione!" the annoying voice of her childhood friend and tormentor Ronald called to her, she noted the repressed excitement and fear in his voice even before she saw his face.
She stopped reluctantly and turned to give him a small smile, "Ron! Whatever was that whole commotion last night?"
"The Dragon has returned to Glenmorgan castle." he replied hurrying towards her, his pale blue eyes shining with excitement and terror.
"The Dragon?" she asked disbelievingly.
"The MacFoy Dragon." he exclaimed, nearly hopping in his place, "There was great roar heard last night and the upper towers... the ones facing the sea... Old Widow Kilkenny spotted a light within them and they say you can only hear the roar when the MacFoy Dragon is in residence."
Hermione resisted the urge to scoff and roll her eyes, 'twas probably only some mischief-makers or thieves trying to play a prank on the poor gullible villagers of Glenmorgan, but she knew better than to say that out loud.
"Indeed, a dragon. Are you sure widow Kilkenny wasn't on her fourth jug of ale when she saw those lights?" she said in a tone so dry a mere spark could have lit it on fire.
He narrowed his eyes at her tone and frowned, "'tisn't a mere legend Hermione Granger, the MacFoy family has had magic since the conquest, 'tis the only reason Glenmorgan survived the siege against the English bastards."
She lifted her hands in supplication, "I suppose this dragon also demands a virgin sacrifice?" she asked laughingly, "Finding a maiden in Glenmorgan might be rarer than an actual dragon. Mayhap we should have one of the babes ready to be given over as a sacrifice instead."
She waved at him and turned to hurry back towards the Reverend's house not seeing the look of speculation that crossed his square face.
He turned and walked towards the village tavern thoughtfully, though he hadn't told her there was to be a meeting of the village men held in the tavern to decide how to please/placate the lost Glenmorgan dragon.
Mayhap a sacrifice of a virgin wasn't the worst idea... perhaps 'twould break the curse that had haunted this land since the Laird and his family had disappeared, cursing the faithless villagers for accepting their enemy's coin.
The Granger girl may not believe in curses and legends but the rest of Glenmorgan did and while finding a maiden was indeed rare, Ron knew one... the snooty, overly educated Hermione Granger herself.
Aye... he would pose his inquiry to their little meeting and see if the men agreed. Of-course she would never go willingly but it wouldn't take much force to drag her to the crumbling gates of the Keep. He smiled a grim smile, 'twas after all for the greater good.
...
"Reverend Slughorn." Hermione intoned, knocking on the sturdy oak door of the cottage attached to the church, while a dear man the reverend was fiendishly lazy it was often the knocking of Hermione coming by to help him with his many tasks required of a village clergyman that would wake him to break his fast.
Even then he liked to linger over his tea, hot-cross buns and the devilishly expensive sugar preserved pineapples that his sister often sent him from her grand home in Edinburgh.
Alas he was only the single one of his brethren this far up north, for even the most zealous of the Church of England feared the highlander and their reputation of savagery.
A reputation that the MacFoy clan was well known for before the betrayal that came from their own people and clan. He was a lowlander and often lamented the godless and pagan ways of the highlanders but even he dared not utter any hasty words in condemnation of the crumbling Glenmorgan keep and its bloody and sad history. Though Hermione was certain that like her, the good god-fearing priest too didn't believe in the silly tales of dragons and men who turned into dragons.
'Twas merely all twaddle and stuff of unsound and uneducated minds rotten with superstition she told herself firmly. Aye it was hardly the medieval times, now was it.
"Coming coming." came the muffled voice behind the sturdy door and then she heard the deadbolt slid open revealing a plump older gentleman, the soft sort in a long nightshirt and a soft woollen sleeping cap.
"Good morning Reverend!" she greeted brightly, sweeping past him into the small cottage where the fire was still blazing cheerfully.
"Morning' ma'dear. My you always rise rather early don't you Hermione lass?"
"Early to bed, early to rise and all that, Father. Shall I put the kettle on, I have some lovely fresh eggs we can have with cream and some fresh bread I baked last night that we can have with the preserves I made from the raspberry harvest last summer?"
If there was one thing Father Slughorn couldn't resist... 'twas the mention of food. He seated himself at his desk and perched his handsome golden framed spectacles on his rather short and stout nose, indeed the priest was well pleased. When the young Granger lass came to inscribe his latest sermons, he found he could much sooner return to his main source of passion and area of interest... the study of ancient druidic texts recovered from an ancient seminary in Wales for she worked quickly and efficiently.
He'd never admit it out loud, but the lass was even brighter and more learned than the sons of nobility that had been his squires in the seminary. It wouldn't do to give the woman a big head but aye she was an asset alright.
Hermione smiled fondly at the dear old man who has already forgotten she was in the cottage with him. He reminded her of her own dearly departed papa, a devoted scholar... there was nothing on this earthly realm that held the interest of John Granger the way his books and ancient treaties had. The Reverend was much the same.
While the good priest lost himself within another old tome, Hermione bustled around the room tiding the many books, scrolls and bits of parchment scattered about. Stopping only when the whistle of the large iron kettle sounded from the hearth. Quickly and efficiently she put the eggs to cook inside a thick bottomed cauldron and set the bread to warm on a metal rack above the fire.
"'tis rather chilly for March isn't it, Father?" she said, making light conversation while she laid down the white cloth on the few inches of wooden table she could see under the stacks of books. "Come now, breakfast is ready. We shall break our fast together." She gathered the raspberry preserves, the warmed bread, butter, the eggs cooked in fresh cream, the large kettle of tea and a can of the Father's favourite pineapple candies and set them down.
The absentminded priest wandered over and Hermione watched with hawkish eyes, getting ready to subtly grill him about what had gone on last night in the village.
She was even more curious now, from the few whispers she had gathered that for the first time in decades lights had been seen in the old Glenmorgan castle and the low howl of the MacFoy dragon had been heard. She was hoping the good Father would put a stop with logical and scientific thinking to these rubbishy stories.
After all it could be thieves or bandits merely trying to take advantage of the uneducated in the village to rob them by making them fear the MacFoy dragon legend and the curse of Glenmorgan castle of their few possessions.
"Father..." she began, pouring the fragrant herbal tea picked from her own garden and dried in the rare sunshine last month into thick pewter mugs, "Did ye participate in some sort of village meeting last eve?" she questioned casually.
"Oh aye." He muttered absently, "There were mysterious lights within the keep last eve and the eve before. 'Twould seem someone has taken up residence within its crumbling walls again?"
"A dragon?" she asked innocently, buttering him a hot cross bun and laying it on his plate beside the warm eggs.
"A dragon?" Slughorn looked at his young helper carefully, frowning at her strange question, "Now you know better than to believe such rot and nonsense young lass, why last month in Edinburg I purchased The Discovery of a World in the Moone for you young lady. A science minded lady has no need to believe in nonsense like dragons and men who turn into dragons."
"So 'tis true then, Father?" she asked, sounding more excited then was seemly, "the legend that they spew about the MacFoy?"
"Nay lass, the dragons on their crest be mere creatures of legend. Like an Arthurian fairy tale."
"Aye, Father." she subsides with a triumphant smirk, 'twas just as well she hadn't left her cottage for the good priest had confirmed what she Hermione Jean Granger already knew.
'Twas no such thing as a dragon.
...
"They grow suspicious, my laird." said Draconis's faithful house-elf. Looking more than a little worried, which was strange since it took a great deal more than some villagers to ruffle Dobby's feathers.
"Suspicious of what?"
"That the Dragon has returned to Glenmorgan castle."
"The Dragon has returned, Dobby." He replied dryly.
"Yes, I understand master but 'twouldn't be wise for them to know you have returned. Since you do not plan to stay and play laird of their land."
...
Hermione hummed to herself as she shut the door to the rectory's cottage behind her. She had had a productive day after putting the last of the Glenmorgan dragon nonsense from her mind. The good Father had plenty of sermons that needed to written and he had even a new text in Latin wating for her with very specific instructions for her to translate it. On her way home her mind was occupied with her new project. If she had only paid a little bit more attention, she would have noticed the village folk all turning to look at her with a keen and speculative eye.
That afternoon Ronald Weasley had put forth his theory about the Glenmorgan curse, the Dragon, their stolen crops and animals and how they could win back the favour of the Dragon with a virgin offering to all the men sat in the tavern.
"Finding a virgin around these parts 'twould be like trying to find a unicorn." spat Harold the blacksmith, "You'd best give up lad, we have to find some other way to get rid of this damnable curse."
Ron had tutted his friend, "The idea was given to me by a virgin herself." He said with malicious glee.
"Who?" questioned Fudge the village weapons-master.
"Why that lass Hermione Granger."
Mummers of speculation had broken out among the many men gathered there.
"She hasn't married yet."
"She be rather peculiar, indeed."
"If he were to feed on her those plump arms and legs will keep him going for a while, they would."
"No doubt, lad." said one of the elders, "'tis no foolish point you raise. However, the lass's head is addled by all her reading. How do you propose to convince her to become an offering for the mighty Dragon."
"Why elder... I hadn't thought to ask at all." Ron replied innocently, "After all what can one wee lass do against a whole village."
...
Had Hermione Granger been a more observant person she would have noticed the eerie hush around the village but she was absorbed in the latest book she was to translate from Latin and when she was this absorbed in her books she rarely noticed anything except when her candles would gutter out towards the early dawn hours.
On her small rosewood desk, she sat with the end of the fine white feather quill tapping against her teeth as she struggled to translate a particularly hard word.
The quill had been a gift from her parent's on her birthday two years ago. They had sent it via a friend who was travelling back to Scotland, an old healer who had run into them at the colonies. The stories Hiram had told Hermione were the last few memories she had of her parents.
Across the green, The Leaky Cauldron was buzzing with activity with the exception of children and young women most of the village was seated in the tavern's warm sunroom. The cherry fire crackled at the hearth and plenty of ale was being passed around. As oblivious as Hermione was to the village... the affliction was most assuredly one-sided.
"Friends, members of the council, ladies and gents." said Harold, clearing his throat and calling everyone's attention to Ron who looked eager to take centre stage at this gathering. "Could I have you attention please?"
The gathering turned to look at the lad they had known for most of their lives, some having grown up with him and his siblings and some having known his parents and grandparents all their lives.
"As you all well know..." Ron began, clearing his throat and deepening his voice dramatically to make sure everyone in the small room understood the significance of what he was about to say. "The lights have returned to the Glenmorgan castle... the first in the many signs that signal the return of the Dragon."
"Aye and me Bess heard his roar." said Hanna Longbottom emphatically, "Her and the lads were down, playing by the creek... when they heard it... loud and fearsome."
"Aye my Janie as well..."
"And my Gemma too..."
The chorus of voices claiming to have heard the Dragon were making the rest of the gathering squirm in worry... all of them exchanging looks of dread and worry.
"'Tis just as well, isn't it." Widow Kilkenny said bitterly, "We haven't had a decent harvest in the last three years, first 'twas the locusts, then 'twas the redcoats and then just plain bad luck. Aye that old laird is cursing us from his grave."
"That is what we gathered you here to speak about. As we all well know the curse that was placed upon our village... rotting our harvests, killing our lambs and children. We have been slave to it for far too many years and now the Dragon has returned... to enact a perhaps even greater revenge for this village's betrayal in his war with the MacNott clan."
"So, we have a plan..." Harold, Ron and Ron's older brother Percy said at the same time, "For there is only one way to appease a dragon's thirst for revenge."
By now all the people in the room had stopped speaking... looking intently at the trio stood in front of them. They were desperate to believe... they needed their harvests to ripen and their babes to grow and so they were willing to do anything to appease the beast they believed had returned. Perhaps this times they would have a chance at redemption.
"Well lad." Demanded the plump Mrs. Sprout, "Spit it out... what is the only way to appease a dragon."
"According to every bard tale I have heard and every legend the most effective way is the sacrifice of a virgin." He replied solemnly.
A cacophony of noises broke out in the small room.
"A virgin!? Impossible."
"There are no virgins here lad, they've already tossed their skirts, or they are merely girls... too young."
"Ha! A virgin he says...might be better of trying to find a unicorn... especially in Glenmorgan village."
"Enough!" Ron said, raising his voice, "You lot need not worry about procuring the virgin... for we already have one in mind. The only thing you lot need to worry about is getting her ready to be sacrificed."
"And pray who is this virgin lad?" came a dry voice
"Why our very own bluestocking... Miss Hermione Granger."
His announcement had just the right amount of drama in his opinion and gained the gasps, jests and agreement of all those gathered in the small tavern.
"I think we should take her to the castle tomorrow, it is after all a full moon." Ron said, as if he was an authority of what the supernatural accepted as sacrifices and when.
Seeing the look of unease on a number of faces he made sure to point out in a jovial manner, "Have no fear, once the creature in Glenmorgan has his hands on a virgin sacrifice I'm sure he wouldn't bother us anymore."
...
The new morning dawned grey and the thick storm clouds in the distance threatened rain at any minute. The village had an eerie hush about it, Hermione still completely oblivious to the malicious nature of the talks last night and her own starring role at the very centre of their hairbrained scheme to sacrifice a virgin to the dragon of Glenmorgan castle wouldn't be home munching on a current bun had she known that tonight the good, god-fearing people of the village planned to make HER their virgin sacrifice.
She had stayed home, gathering eggs from her chicken coop, tending her herbal garden and readying some fresh bread and a hearty stew made with the precious few spices her parent's had sent along with their friend as a gift for her birthday.
She was truly lucky, the small cottage she lived on sat on a particularly fertile plot of land, heads of lettuce and cabbage that grew were the size of her head and her potato crops always yielded large uniform potato's that were sweet and hearty in equal measure.
Of-course she wasn't to know that after tomorrow she would never see her little cottage again. And had she been at that village meeting she could have explained to the good people of Glenmorgan that Ronald Weasley wasn't in want of sacrificing her due to just her virginity but also her refusal to wed him and his lust for her small parcel of land.
Anyone who knew the Weasley's knew that whilst blessed with many children and their father's steady blacksmith work... the family did not have a great deal of land. Certainly not enough to divide equally among their six sons whilst still having a dowry for their youngest, a daughter to marry well.
Ron who was the same age as Hermione was keen to have his own land, be the master of his own home and so it hadn't taken him long after her parents were gone to approach her with an offer of marriage.
Except for Hermione marrying Ronald Weasley was impossible, oh he was a fine enough friend, a decent lad but Hermione wasn't a simply bread village girl, with the education her parents had given her she knew she couldn't live under the thumb of a husband like Ronald, one who heartily disapproved of her intellectual pursuits, her pamphlets and all forms of her studies.
So, she had rejected him gently, letting him know that it certainly had nothing to do with him, but she would never marry due to her own shortcomings.
What she hadn't realised was that rejecting him was not a part of his plans and his resentment had simply grown... he resented the land she owned, her independence, her freedom and lack of worry about food or grain... he resented her so much that when an opportunity had presented itself in the form of the Glenmorgan 'Dragon' returning to his keep he had sprung upon it and now was delighted that most of the people who lived in the village were willing to go along with it.
...
The storm that had threatened all day began to rage as soon as the weak sun was gone, the misty village was eerily silent and dark. Each crack of lightning made the village people gathered in the tavern uneasy.
"I vow, 'tis a fierce storm." murmured one of the elders, he shifted uneasily, "This plan lads...? 'tis the best recourse?"
"His rage grows." said Ron thoughtfully, "If we delay the sacrifice any longer it will be hell to pay. The wheat cannot survive these gales."
The loud crack of thunder sounded perilously close to the roar of a mighty beast, startling the people all over again and the strong winds blew through the wooden shutters... making candles gutter and spit off in their brass holder.
"Aye it must be tonight." said Harold grimly, "I have a hundred bales to sell to that English bastard when he gets here for the Spring trading season and storms like these get them with mould. It's best we gain his favour immediately."
Silently the mob dressed in oilskins and gathered their mismatched weaponry and began to march towards the small cottage where Hermione Granger lived.
"'Tis a pity." sighed one from the crowd, "Had she only been married she would have avoided this fate."
Hermione didn't notice the commotion outside her house until she heard the banging on her front door. She hurried to the door, wondering who was about so late and in such horrid weather only to receive a rude shock when she opened her door.
"Ron?" she asked, confused as to why each and every single man in the village was gathered at her door.
"A decision has been made Hermione." said the red head with a grim smile.
"A decision about what?"
"Had you not declined to attend the meetings in the The Leaky you would have known."
"Why are you here so late." She was growing quite desperate especially when she noticed the dark smile on some of the men's faces.
"We have taken a decision regarding the return of the Glenmorgan Dragon. His appearance is a second chance for our people by making a sacrifice to him our lands will return to their previous state, the curse will be lifted."
"Are you mad!" she shrieked, "A virgin sacrifice! Have you all positively lost your minds! There is nothing within the walls of that castle save rats and ivy and perhaps a few thieves looking to take advantage of your silly superstition."
She began to slam the door on their faces, but Ron wedged his boot under her door, the other two men flanking him reached out with brawny arms to grab her and haul her out of the house and into the soaking rain. Hermione wore nothing save her soft muslin sleeping gown and was drenched through in minutes.
Her scream of rage was drowned out by the loud ominous roar from the direction of the fortress. Despite her anger at what was happening and her conviction that while they may tie her outside the castle, she would be there come morning she couldn't help but feel a shiver of trepidation race down her back.
The heavy storm didn't allow for much conversation, not that she intended to speak to these people of the foolishness of what they thought. But also, she was too busy trying to maintain whatever dignity she could salvage as the men peered at her breasts and thatch made visible to all due to the transparency of her gown.
As they reached the gates of Glenmorgan keep lightening began to flash more and more frequently making the men fearful and hasty. They shoved her inside the gates of Glenmorgan castle... walking her all the way to the large well in the centre of the courtyard.
"You're going to regret this, Ronald Weasley." Hermione hissed out, shivering as sheets of rain kept her cold.
"If you survive the cold, you won't survive the Dragon." He smirked, "Maybe you see now... that marrying me wasn't the worst idea in the world but alas." he faux sighed, "Women who like to think of themselves above their station often end up falling ever so low."
These people who she had grown up around, who's many wounds she had tended and who's many babes she had brought into this life ignored her flailing. Watching only for a minute before leaving her... tied to the well... in the middle of a storm... in the Dragon's lair.
Hermione tried calling out but there was no one from the village left on the keep grounds.
God... she was so cold... the rain seemed to be stopping though... maybe she'd finally be able to wriggle out of these ropes. She tried to give them an experimental tug... they held fast.
And then suddenly she felt a prickle at the back of her neck... like she wasn't alone anymore.
She had almost stopped breathing... she was terrified... what if it was highwayman... or a murderer...
From the corner of her eye she watched the large shadow descend upon her and suddenly it was all too much... the rain... the strange shadow... the betrayal of her own village.
She fainted dead away.
...
What the hell was he supposed to do with the girl Draconis wondered, already regretting his decision to carry her inside.
She had fainted quite spectacularly when she had first seen his face, not that he blamed her he thought wryly... anyone would seeing the large gash across his face.
They had tied her to the wooden spokes of the large well in the castle courtyard. What was she supposed to be? Dressed in a transcalent muslin gown she looked like she was meant for a pagan sacrifice.
A virgin for their dragon overlord... he thought with amusement. Not knowing how close to the truth he really was.
Couldn't leave her to die out there in a storm now could I, he thought grimly. He already had problems aplenty. He didn't need this in his life... but by Merlin's hairy beard she was bonny.
The lass had curly amber hair, now damp they were straggling over her pale pink neck and bosom. Whoever had decided to dress her in the pale, translucent shift had made the wrong decision. For it showed all her many treasures plainly.
Wet because of the harsh rains Draconis could see every delectable inch of her, the soft muslin clinging to the high arches of her soft, round breasts... the pale cloth so see-through he could make out the dusky pink of her nipples and the thatch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. Her face was delicate, fae like... plump lips pursed in a childish manner and wide soft brown eyes that widened and then shut in a dead faint when they had first gotten a glimpse of him.
Aye he hadn't felt desire such as this in ages, it had been several months since his wife had committed suicide and left him alone with his son and in all these many months he hadn't felt a stirring of any desire no matter how many times he had been propositioned by the bored, beautiful widows in London but this little country mouse got his cock hard as a pike.
She moaned a little... shifting in his arms, wrapping herself more firmly around him, seeking his warmth. She was a wee thing, standing she would reach merely his chest but lord she had such sweet curves. His large hands flexed on the soft skin of her bottom, desiring to rip the flimsy robe she wore open and feast himself on her lily-white skin.
She had probably taken one look at the harsh scar that marred the side of his face, cutting across one eye that was now covered in a black velvet patch and fainted. Once upon a time Draconis had resembled a young archangel, his golden beauty unmarred by even the slightest imperfection but having been forced into the Royal Navy when he had manged to flee Glenmorgan alive and fallen into the hands of some English bastards had turned him into a hard man.
With a hard face, his big, muscular body couldn't be mistaken for that of a poet's or a gentleman's... no he was unfashionably muscular from hauling munitions and cannons onto their fighting ships; his thick arms and legs heavily muscled, tanned a dark golden so unfashionable in London by the harsh sun that beat down on him and his men on the boat, his hands were rough and his body marred with many more scars than just the one on his face.
He had received that scar when a cannon ball had exploded near his face in the Nine-Year war against the French, by then he had already made it to lieutenant in the Royal Navy by hiding his Scottish roots.
He had fought for the very country he hated... after all him and his family had been betrayed by their clan, the people who were supposed to defend them so fighting for the enemy hadn't seemed like that terrible of an idea.
He had made a fortune in the navy and afterwards married Astoria Greengrass, the pampered daughter of an Earl... the Greengrass holdings had been a tempting and rich addition to his own vast estate but he had been attracted to the beautiful and vivacious Astoria not realising until much later that vivaciousness hide a streak of suicidal melancholia. One day his beautiful wife would be laughing and playing and then next she would take to her bed for weeks.
It was only after the birth of their son Scorpius that Draco had begun to notice that Astoria's melancholia wouldn't abate and by the time the little boy had turned five months old his mother was actively finding ways to try and kill him.
It had broken Draco to have to confine his wife away from his son and one day she had simply slipped from her quarters and climbed to the turrets of their home in Yorkshire and jumped to her death.
Her father had blamed Draco and all Draco could do was flee... it had been too much, the loss of his beautiful wife... the death of his son's mother and so he had returned here... to his childhood home in hopes of gaining some peace and perspective.
At a mere ten months Scorpius couldn't afford to lose both his mother and then his father as well, so he had brought his little son along. Glenmorgan was also the only place Draco felt at complete peace with the other half of himself... the Dragon half... the legacy that every MacFoy son had carried from the dawn of time... the existence of their Dragons.
The MacFoy clan had been Dragon shifters since the 10th century... at least that's how far back their clan's recorded history went. One of Draco's ancestors had been one of the legendary knights of the Round Table, gifted his magic and his abilities to shapeshift by Merlin himself.
His family had occupied a place in all the kings courts since the time of William The Conqueror himself.
However the stunning betrayal that his father experienced at the hands of his own people and his parent's subsequent death and Draco's capture by the Redcoats and the torture he faced in the English dungeons before being thrown onto a Royal Navy boat half-starved and very nearly an animal, had brought the fortunes of his old family plummeting.
Few other than the decedents of the other noble knights of the Round Table now knew of the existence of the MacFoy clan. The only thing he had been assured to see was that the Dragon's horde remained buried in the heart of Glenmorgan castle untouched by greedy villagers and unfound by any bandits or marauders. Draco had many conflicting emotions returning to the castle of his birth... the place where he had played as a child... the place which held the last memories he had of his parents.
In England he had tried to bury his Scottish heritage, married an English lady... had a child with her and yet mere months after Astoria's death the only place Draco could think to flee, to be able to think without the clamour of outside voices and return to himself for his son was the home of his childhood.
And now fearing the curse of the Dragon, the villagers had done of the only thing they could think of... tried to appease the Dragon with a virgin sacrifice. Well that was his working theory anyway.
He couldn't let her return to the village and take his secret with her... all he had wanted when he had returned to this castle was to rest and regain his perspective.
But he couldn't have just left her out there in the storm... to catch her death of cold dressed as she was and so he took her to his chambers in the north tower overlooking the sea. It was the only room beside the kitchen and a small drawing room that Draco was using as Scorpius's nursery that was furnished in the crumbling castle. He had wanted to make it as difficult and discouraging as he could to prevent strangers and thieves from venturing into Glenmorgan and to do that he had simply left it has it had been after the MacNott invasion.
The once magnificent castle now only boasted broken cheval windows, delicate French china crushed under the boots of soldiers, velvet curtains lined in soot and dust that hung... burned by the MacNott men who had set the castle on fire after killing its lord and lady.
He carried her easily, like she weighed nothing. Indeed, it had been far too long since he had felt the sweet pervading warmth of a sinuous woman... she smelt of jasmine and a hint of feminine sweat... a clean, earthy and floral aroma that made his body jerk with awareness. They had truly picked a fine virgin to send him he thought with a wry smile.
He opened the hidden panel that led him into the tower room... his room... before climbing the stairs to the large bed the dominated the centre of the room and laid her down. Debating internally on if he should strip her of her wet clothes.
It'll be fine he told himself... after all he was merely helping, and it wasn't like he hadn't seen women naked before. 'Twas merely like being a nurse.
Briskly before he could change his mind, he knelt beside her on the bed and held her upper body like a babe, carefully pulling first one arm and then the other from the sodden sleeves of her muslin gown. He made his way down her down in an efficient manner, making sure not to look or linger over any one part for overly long.
It felt wrong to strip an unconscious woman, so he rapidly removed her gown, chemise and undergarments before wrapping her in one of the warm silken duvets that decorated his large oak bed.
He then retreated to the silkwood chair in the corner of the room, pouring himself a large measure of Fire-Whiskey on the way. In the darkness his eyesight was perfect and from this corner he could study the woman at ease. He took a moody swallow of the warm liquor, noting bitterly how the woman slept like a child. One small palm tucked under her cheek and her soft pink lips slightly open.
The sleep of the innocent he thought sardonically, laughing at how that phrase actually had multiple meanings in this scenario.
...
Hermione woke up feeling like she was on a bed of clouds, the rare March sunshine was streaming in through her cottage window... warming her bedclothes and her skin...
Her skin?
Her soft... plush bed...?
The village...?
The Dragon...?
Someone picking her up and carrying her...?
A large, warm hand on her face... checking to make sure she was breathing?
She sat bolt upright, pulling the silk sheet up to her chest... her bare chest. Where in the world was, she?
Cautiously she looked upwards, gasping at the fresco on the ceiling of the chamber, like in a Botticelli painting it depicted the frolicking of dryads and the chase of satyrs across lush green hills, gilded in gold and crown moulding the fresco had lost very little of its beauty in the fire that had burned the rest of Glenmorgan castle.
In fact, this entire room was like something out of a gothic novel, Hermione could hear the sea crashing up against the rocks below and the shrill cry of seagulls. She lifted her head to look around her, she lay on a luxuriously appointed bed covered in sea blue silk sheets with white netting around it. Every space in the room held fat wax candles. Wax... not the nasty yellow tallow ones that left a distinct smell of goose fat once burned in a room.
A desk of polished oak sat next to one of the windows, parchment and vellum stacked neatly under an inkwell that housed an ink so dark green that she would've guessed black had a shard of sunlight not shone through it.
The only thing this room didn't seem to have...
Was a door.
Was she a prisoner?
In the Dragon's lair?
...
Leave a review if you enjoyed it!