FIC: Of Dreams and Dragon Lords - Chapter 3
Now this is the way to camp.
Charlie can’t help but be impressed as he looks around the Aurors’ dining hall. It’s a tent, but if it didn’t have canvas walls it would look just like the tea room at the Ministry of Magic. Roaring fireplaces, comfortable chairs and hot food-what else could anyone want? Particularly in contrast to the frozen wilderness just outside the tent door.
Charlie shrugs out of his parka and drops it on a chair, pulling out another seat for McGetchin who’s still hobbling on his blown-out knee. McGetchin looks grizzled and tired, but nods in appreciation before he sits with a pained wince. Harry’s already offered to have a Healer look at his knee, which is a relief because neither Charlie nor McGetchin know any other magic to fix it completely.
With a wave of his wand Ron sends fresh steaming cups of tea through the air to warm them, and the four men sit, hunkered around a small square table. The other Aurors, curious, mingle about the room. They group in twos and threes having quiet conversations while trying to pretend that they don’t care-but they do. Charlie can tell. None can keep from glancing at their table every four seconds or so.
Harry leans in, looking expectant and Charlie speaks without preamble. “The dragons are moving, all of them, and they’re coming here-to the Labyrinth.”
McGetchin nods, then pulls a map out of his pocket and flattens it on the table. He traces his finger, gnarled from years of dragon wrangling, down the the center of the mountain range. “They’re collecting here-all along this valley. Huge numbers of ‘em. We thought that Norberta was the only one on the move, but now we’ve heard from other keepers. All of the dragons from our preserve, plus teams from two other preserves-they’ve all tracked their dragons here as well.”
Charlie lowers his voice and motions about the room. “I don’t know why the Ministry is here, but it isn’t safe. With this many dragons in one area, there are bound to be problems-they’re very territorial and your shields won’t protect you if they start fighting.”
“That’s cheery,” Ron mutters, pushing his tea away.
Charlie shrugs. “It’s the truth.”
“Why?” Harry looks up from studying the map. “Why are they all coming here?”
“Well, it isn’t unusual that they would.” Charlie sits back in his chair, still warming his hands on his cup. “Most dragons in Eastern Europe were born in this area-these caves-so like any other wild animal this is where they come back to mate, to nest and to raise their young.”
“But what's really unusual,” McGetchin adds, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table, “is that they’re all coming here now. It’s the dead of winter-below freezing. It isn’t the right time to mate and this sort of mass accumulation outside of mating season is totally unheard of.”
“We think something is calling them,” Charlie offers.
Harry’s brow furrows. “What would call them here?”
“Or who?” Ron asks.
Charlie tilts his head, studying them. It’s been a while since he’s seen them. Harry looks like he’s aged ten years in the span of three. And when exactly did Ron become a man? Charlie rubs his jaw, now he feels old. “Do you know anything about this mountain range?”
“Yes and no,” Harry replies, shrugging. “It’s a massive range of mountains-virtually uninhabited-known as the Dragon Labyrinth, right?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that,” Charlie cuts in, pointing again at the map. “Underneath these mountains are thousands-literally thousands-of expansive caves and caverns. A true labyrinth. Each cavern houses a well-spring, and it’s those sources of fresh water that make this area so appealing to dragons.”
“Water?” Ron raises an eyebrow. “Not treasure or something else more-I dunno-glittery?”
“Think about it Ron-what’s more important to humans or animals than water?” Charlie taps the map with his forefinger. “They like glittery treasure too, but dragons have just as strong instinctual desire to protect water-particularly the purest sources, those that originate deep underground in mountain caves. If they feel it's being threatened they will do everything they can to keep it safe.”
Harry frowns at this. “So you think the water is being threatened?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Charlie shrugs.
Ron looks at him skeptically. “Seriously, nothing else would call them here?”
“Well…dunno.” McGetchin glances warily at Charlie. “There is one other thing.”
Charlie knows immediately what McGetchin is thinking. Dragon legend-dragon myth. Dragon keepers are well-versed on it, and McGetchin is particularly fascinated by the idea of it. As for himself, Charlie has yet to be convinced that it’s anything other than fantastical lore.
“Unlikely,” Charlie says with a shake of his head.
“ Maybe, though,” McGetchin presses, working his jaw.
“What? What are you talking about?” Harry’s gaze goes back and forth between them both.
“A Dragon Lord,” McGetchin says.
“A what?” Harry asks.
“They’re extremely rare.” Charlie cuts in.
“A Dark creature-half-wizard, half-dragon,” McGetchin says.
Ron blanches. “Half-wizard and half-dragon?”
McGetchin chooses to ignore Ron and presses on, eyes bright. “The last known Dragon Lord lived nearly 300 years ago-and the writing on him is vague at best. However, according to legend, they’re capable of flying, shape-shifting, and controlling full-blooded dragons.”
“No one can completely control the dragons, though,” Charlie clears his throat. “No way. They’re wild animals.”
McGetchin shakes his head. “But Dragon Lords have special magic,see, that helps influence dragons in ways he likes-bending them to do his will.”
“How?” Ron asks.
“Well, he’s part dragon now, isn’t he?” McGetchin replies, leaning in. “Some believe he uses his superior intelligence to control their natural aggressive tendencies. Others mention some sorta smoke-like potion, but no one really knows. It's all legend.”
Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper that he smoothes out on to the table. “Do you recognize this symbol?”
Charlie squints at it. The photo is incredibly bad, but it doesn’t take long to see what it is. A dragon with three heads. Charlie pulls the paper from Harry to get a closer look. His pulse begins to thud loudly in his ears. “Where did you get this?”
“It isn’t important right now…do you know what it is?”
McGetchin looks over his shoulder at the image, then lurches for his jacket. “Blimey, Charlie.” His voice is gruff and urgent. “We gotta go-tell the other keepers, mate. If this true-”
“Hold up, Gregor.” Charlie stops him mid-move, stilling him with a look. “We’re not going anywhere. Not yet. Not until your knee is fixed.”
After a long moment McGetchin sinks back into his chair. Thankfully, he seems to realize that he’ll be no good with the dragons without a healed knee. Charlie turns back to Harry and pushes the photo back to him, but just as he does he sees the dragon transform into words:
Bring Me Harry Potter or More Will Die
Charlie’s eyes narrow at the words that scroll across the photo. Anger sears through him, scalding hot. It’s starting all over again-Dark wizards with their dark threats.
“So this why you’re here-this warning, this symbol?”
Ron and Harry exchange a look between them before nodding.
Charlie runs a hand through his hair. Damn. He never would have believed this. Not in a million years. It’s hardly fair on Harry, but he needs to know that truth.
“It’s the symbol of the Dragon Lord,” Charlie says simply, pointing to each of its heads. “Three heads, three traits: strength, fire and greed. This is what the Dragon Lord looks like when he shapeshifts into his dragon form. If someone left this as his mark in the sky, he’s announcing himself to you, the world, everyone.”
Harry takes this revelation with very little emotion. Charlie pauses, uncertain how to proceed. It isn’t every day you find out that you’re up against a Dragon Lord. Of course, it isn’t every day you find out Voldemort is your mortal enemy either.
“What does he want?” Harry asks, his tone terse.
“Power,” Charlie replies simply. “Dragon Lords always want power.”
“Yeah, of course, power,” McGetchin cuts in, joining the conversation again. Lowering his voice, he leans towards Harry. “But first he’ll find a way to steal something of great value to demonstrate that he’s powerful. Then he’ll want more-he feeds off of it, you see. Power is what gives him his strength. He craves it-well, that and the ladies.”
Charlie gives McGetchin a sharp look.
“What? It's true.” McGetchin shrugs. “You know he’ll steal a lass, too-they always do.”
Charlie sighs leaning back in his chair, resigned. “Yeah, all right, he will.”
“What?” says Ron in disbelief. “He’ll kidnap a girl?”
“Yeah-someone local, from a close by village.” Charlie feels the beginning of a headache coming on and presses his temple, hard. “He’ll shape-shift into something alluring and entice her away so that he can procreate.”
“Lovely.” Harry sets his jaw.
McGetchin nods grimly, looking away again.
Charlie pushes his tea aside. “How can we help you, Harry?”
“Help me find him.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow. “You do realize you’re doing exactly what he wants by coming here-to his lair?”
“I have to keep him from killing more innocent people. If he wants me, then here I am-” Harry splays his arms in mock surrender. “Leave everybody else out if it.”
“If only it were that easy, mate.” McGetchin’s expression is grim. “He’s not going to do that. If he wants you, then he wants you first and the rest of the world second. There’s no stopping him.”
“There has to be.” Harry’s arms drop to his sides as he turns to Charlie. “Will you help me find him?”
“Of course.” Charlie nods, resolved. “But then what?”
Harry looks at Ron and then back to Charlie. “We’ll figure out how to take him down.”
Charlie sits back in his chair and nurses his tea. It sounds logical enough, but in application he knows they are all in for one hell of a ride.
*****
The smoke billows above Zmeu’s cauldron, creating a pool of opaque white hovering mid-air. In it he glimpses whatever he wants to see. For instance, at the moment he can see his beloved dragons gathering in the forest, rooting out their ancient caves and nesting in them once more. He can also see their former captors, their feeble camp fires and small tents peppered about the mountainside. He has watched their pathetic attempts to track Zmeu’s dragons-his magnificent dragons-and take them back to those miserable camps where they were entrapped before. They will not be successful.
He can also see that monstrosity, that white bubble of light, where within Harry Potter sleeps with all his little followers.
He stirs the cauldron, its essence of tuberose filling his nostrils. Coconut mixed with spice, a hint of gardenia, but even more notable to him the underlying more primal scent of animals, wild and on the hunt.
Another image rises above the cauldron, suspended and rotating, filling the cavernous dome above him. An image of a beautiful woman sleeping, her red hair splayed out across her pillow like silken thread. Moonlight touches her brow. She dreams.
This is his weakness.
It is no matter that Ormarr has yet to capture the seventh child of the seventh son; the most magical number, the most magical witch. No matter at all. She has come in contact with the smoke and that is enough for now. Now her dreams will be controlled by him and she will bend, as the smoke does, to do his bidding.
Even more comforting to him, he will take flight to find her soon.
Behind him is a rustle, a movement of scales against stone. The Norwegian Ridgeback sleeps. Zmeu watches as she slumbers, her nictitating eyelid narrowed to a small slit-but one that still allows her to see an enemy approach.
She has known the human for too long, it is time for her to remember who she is and rely on no one but Zmeu. He will clear her mind of her past and then-then she will be a force to be reckoned with, a force to behold, and she will belong to Zmeu.
But first, before he does this, he must take a human wife…
His gaze travels back to the sleeping woman. With a wave of his hand a small pocket of the smoke breaks off from the vision and shoots off into the night. It will find her, even if Ormarr cannot.
*****
In this dream Ginny is floating, skimming over a thick layer of snow, barefoot. The ice crystals sting, but barely so, and she glides unable to feel the biting cold. Her thin nightgown clings to her as she moves through the frigid night air, but the chill does not touch her. She feels warm. The snow-capped mountains are peaceful. The evergreens are quiet. She feels as if she can float through this winter forest forever.
There is a nipping at her heels, a playful puppy gamboling at her feet. Only this isn’t a real puppy, it bounces and nips just as a puppy should-but it isn’t one in its true essence. It’s a small puff of white smoke. A cotton-ball of white running around her in circles, stopping short to make certain that she’s still following, and bounding up ahead to lead her on. She follows peacefully.
A grey speck-tiny, but discernable-lies up ahead on the horizon in this vast expanse of white. A tent. She knows she'll find Harry inside. Her heart soars.
Harry.
It has only been a few days, but it feels like years. The promise of seeing him is nearly too much to bear. Now she flies, leaving the puppy in her wake.
When she stops, she is at the mouth of Harry’s tent, breathless. The tent flap breathes, shifting slightly in and out like a living being and she pauses, her fingers clenching the coarse edge of the canvas door.
The puppy licks at her heels. How could she have forgotten it? She frowns slightly, a deep instinctual feeling consuming her. The puppy should not come inside. Turning, she commands it to sit and it obeys eagerly. Then she tells the puppy to stay, and though it yips impatiently at her it does not move. Sweeping the tent flap back she steps inside, leaving the whimpering puff of white waiting on the mat outside.
The warmth of the tent washes over her like a wave, as does the scent of scorched cinnamon-it fills her head, her lungs. It soothes. A dimly lit gas lamp flickers softly, creating subtle moving patterns on the canvas; as she steps forward, her feet sink into a soft fur carpet that leads her to Harry.
He is asleep with a thick pile of blankets thrown back to expose a bare chest, sleek and firm, with a faint trace of hair trailing down his stomach to disappear below the waistband of his trousers. His breathing is constant, slow, in a rhythm that matches the canvas of the tent and when he sighs, she sighs too, sinking quietly onto the edge of his bed.
Harry.
The curve of his lips and the line of his jaw pull her to him like a fly to honey, and she’s drawn in. His skin is smooth and firm under her fingertips, and oh so familiar. Her hands move on their own now, running across his chest, his jaw, and she begins to kiss those lips, pressing her body against his.
In that moment his eyes flutter open and he comes alive. Every muscle in his torso flexes as he pushes up, pulls her under, and slides on top. She settles into the soft blankets of the bed and accepts his weight willingly, smiling into his kisses.
Home again.
“Ginny,” he murmurs in her ear.
His lips brush across her cheekbone over her eyelids, then down her nose to find her lips, peppering her skin with kisses soft as rain. It feels so right, so real, that she forgets she is dreaming-that they are both asleep.
His fingers trail down slowly, light as air, caressing her breasts in soft circles. She sighs, kissing his jaw, his temple, her hands twining in the back of his hair to pull him closer. His thumb teases her, over and around and over again; as she arches up to meet him his hand trails down to cup her and she moans softly, wanting nothing else but him. His knee pushes her thighs apart and she shifts, entwining her limbs with his. Running her hands down his back, she breathes in, deeply. A different scent finds her, lurking there.
Gardenia faintly mixed with coconut.
Her body tenses. “Wait,” she murmurs.
But Harry doesn’t hear or won’t listen, and as he continues to kiss her jaw, her neck, Ginny pushes her hands against his chest, trying to see the door, trying to find anything in the room but him.
The white puff of smoke has entered the tent, but it’s no longer a puppy. It’s turning into something much bigger, grotesque. Ginny’s heart hammers.
No. No. No.
She brought it here.
She brought the smoke here.
“Harry, stop-we have to-” Aiming her command towards the smoke at the door, she bellows, “Stop!”
It halts in mid-transformation, considering her command. As Harry slips to her side on the bed, she sees he is not really awake or asleep, but something else instead. In that moment the floor gives way and they both fall. Through the thick blankets, through the mattress, gliding through the cool night air to find themselves landing on a hard cold stone floor.
The Chamber of Secrets.
Every molecule in her freezes in terror and she gasps, struggling to find her feet, her wand. Where is her wand?
Harry lies askew on the stone floor. He does not move, and his eyes are closed, deep in sleep. He’s unusually pale.
“Harry!”
Ginny drops to her knees, reaching out to shake him.
“Harry, please. Wake up, wake up!”
“He will not wake,” a soft voice says.
Ginny spins on her knees, hissing through her teeth. That voice! But as she spins in a full circle she sees no one, nothing.
Only the Chamber.
The constant drip of water is soon joined by something else, a hissing sound deep within the Chamber walls. She cannot understand it anymore, but the language courses through her veins and fills her heart with dread. It’s coming and she won’t be able to control it.
Not this time.
She can’t find her wand, so instead she grabs Harry under the arms and yanks, dragging him across the Chamber floor. Their pacing is slow, too slow for her taste, but as she strains to pull him to a crevice for safety a wand dislodges from his pocket. It rolls across the floor and stops at her feet.
She doesn’t recognize this wand.
Just as certain as she feels that this wand isn’t Harry’s, she somehow knows that it is. A different wand. One that he doesn’t normally use.
Grabbing it, she uses it to Levitate him to safety in the crevice. The wave of power that surges from her shoulder to her fingertips is startling. She has never felt such raw power. She looks at the wand in awe.
“Bring me the wand.”
Ginny gasps, hearing the voice again. Filling her head, it puts pressure on her ears. She frantically looks around her, but there is no one to be seen.
“Bring me the wand.”
Gripping the wand even tighter, she shakes her head and covers her ears.
“Bring me the wand.”
“No, it’s Harry’s!” she yells into the darkness, her voice echoing off the Chamber walls.
She puts herself between the vast cavern of the Chamber and the small space where Harry lies unconscious.
“Bring me the wand.”
Ginny’s head spins, and then she knows what she needs to do. Wake up.
“You will not wake up.”
Her fists clench. Wake up.
“I will find you again.”
Wake up.
Ginny gasps awake. Sitting upright in her bed, she fights to get her bearings. Her heart hammers so hard she feels it might escape her chest and flee into the night. Breathing in aching gasps, she grapples in the dark to find her wand and in her panic a vase crashes to the floor.
Hermione’s. She’s at Hermione’s. In her guest room. Ginny calms her racing heart.
Hermione bursts into the room, letting the door hit the wall with a reverberating bang. Her wand is aloft, shaking in front of her, wild beams of light circling the ceiling, the walls, like mad.
Ginny shields her eyes.
“Ginny?” Hermione’s wand lowers. “I thought I heard-are you all right?”
Ginny nods. Her throat is dry as she reaches for her wand on the bedside table and turns on the lamp. Finding the broken vase on the floor, she apologizes and quickly repairs it.
Once done she glances back at Hermione. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I was already awake.” Hermione’s smile is thin, tired. She moves to sit on the corner of the bed. “What happened?”
“Bad dream.” Ginny Summons a glass of water and drinks it in one. Putting the glass aside she considers Hermione in close detail. She’s pale. “Why are you awake?”
“Reading.” Hermione presses the fabric of her dressing gown flat on her lap. “I don’t sleep well when Ron’s not here, so I read.”
Ginny smiles despite herself. “What a sorry pair we make. I have horrid dreams and you can’t sleep.”
Hermione laughs quietly. “It is rather pathetic, isn’t it?”
“To think how many witches would queue up to take our place if we ever chose to ditch Harry and Ron.”
“The poor innocent creatures-they’d have no idea what they were in for.”
Ginny laughs at this. “Yes, innocent. It would serve them right.”
Hermione laughs too, but only for a moment, and then the sound of silence pervades the room again. She bites her lip. “Do you always have bad dreams when Harry’s away?”
“No.” Ginny pulls her knees up to her chin. “I-only sometimes, when things seem off. You know, or particularly dangerous.”
“Do you want to tell me about them?”
Ginny shudders. She hates her dreams. “Not really-they’re just figments of my overactive imagination, I think.”
She swallows, turning her attention to a loose thread on the blanket. A tingling washes over the back of her neck across her damp skin and down her arms, causing her to shudder again. She wants desperately to ignore this feeling, to pretend it didn’t happen, but this time her dream was different. She feels different. This time there was a voice-a voice that wasn’t hers-telling her to do something. She should say something…
“Hermione, I-”
“I have bad dreams sometimes.” Hermione cuts her off, not seeming to have noticed that Ginny was about to speak. Instead she appears to be lost in her own thoughts, studying the carpet beneath her feet. “Not often, but sometimes I see things from the past-only they don’t play out the same way, someone dies or gets hurt, and it’s horrible.”
“Yes, exactly.” Ginny nods slightly relieved to know that she isn’t the only one. “That’s what happens to me. Tonight I dreamt of the Chamber.”
“Oh, Ginny.” Hermione blanches, reaching for her hand. “That’s horrible!”
Ginny squeezes her hand. Then biting her lip she hesitates, knowing-hating-that she knows the answer to her question before she even asks. “Hermione, this mission, this mission that Harry’s on-is it dangerous? Is he in danger?”
Hermione turns her gaze to meet hers and after what feels like an eternity she nods.
Ginny closes her eyes, her heart rending inside her chest. This explains why her dreams have been so bad. “What can I do to help-to help him?”
“Tell Madge about the man who attacked you in Diagon Alley--and anything else that you can remember. That information will help Harry.”
“Okay.”
“And if anything else happens-anything else odd-tell her,” Hermione presses. “I get the feeling that they are really operating without much to go on, so any information is better than nothing.”
Ginny nods, removing her hand from Hermione’s. For some reason, she no longer feels like telling her about the voice in her dream. It seems too far gone now-like a memory just out of reach. Almost as if it didn’t happen.
“I’m sorry about earlier, Hermione. I know MLE has rules-the Rules of Secrecy and everything-it’s just, they really bother me. I hate not knowing what's going on.”
“I’m working to change that.” Hermione straightens, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “It’s a silly, antiquated rule. I spent all day working on it, and I think I have a strong case to present to the Wizengamot. With any luck they'll see reason and change it. Just because you aren’t yet Harry’s wife doesn't mean you don’t care about him and deserve to know some things just like the other spouses.”
Ginny grins at this.
“Yes, well.” Hermione blushes, looking away. “It’s the least I can do.”
Ginny giggles behind her hand, and Hermione rolls her eyes.
“Speaking of which-you have a big game tomorrow.” Hermione stands. “I’m fairly certain I have a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion somewhere-would you like a sip? It will help you sleep and be well rested for your game.”
Though this was far from Hermione’s intention, Ginny sobers instantly. She rubs her temples and nods. A dreamless sleep sounds like the perfect solution. She’ll worry about her dream tomorrow after her game…when she has a clear moment to think.
*****
In the darkness of his tent, Harry sits upright in his bed, stirred from a deep sleep. His heart races and his head pounds as a dream that once consumed him flees, escaping his grasp like water through his fingers. He can’t hold on to it.
His tent smells faintly of coconut and gardenia, but he can’t mentally process that right now. Instead, he frowns. Something…something's there, though, from his dream…a clue, but the fragments of his memory are such an odd mix of pleasure, panic and fury that he can’t put any of it together. Nothing makes sense.
The only thing that holds, the only thing that he knows for certain-deep within his being-is that Ginny was in it somehow. In his dream. Even more distressing than that, he knows…
She is in danger.
Chapter 4
Charlie can’t help but be impressed as he looks around the Aurors’ dining hall. It’s a tent, but if it didn’t have canvas walls it would look just like the tea room at the Ministry of Magic. Roaring fireplaces, comfortable chairs and hot food-what else could anyone want? Particularly in contrast to the frozen wilderness just outside the tent door.
Charlie shrugs out of his parka and drops it on a chair, pulling out another seat for McGetchin who’s still hobbling on his blown-out knee. McGetchin looks grizzled and tired, but nods in appreciation before he sits with a pained wince. Harry’s already offered to have a Healer look at his knee, which is a relief because neither Charlie nor McGetchin know any other magic to fix it completely.
With a wave of his wand Ron sends fresh steaming cups of tea through the air to warm them, and the four men sit, hunkered around a small square table. The other Aurors, curious, mingle about the room. They group in twos and threes having quiet conversations while trying to pretend that they don’t care-but they do. Charlie can tell. None can keep from glancing at their table every four seconds or so.
Harry leans in, looking expectant and Charlie speaks without preamble. “The dragons are moving, all of them, and they’re coming here-to the Labyrinth.”
McGetchin nods, then pulls a map out of his pocket and flattens it on the table. He traces his finger, gnarled from years of dragon wrangling, down the the center of the mountain range. “They’re collecting here-all along this valley. Huge numbers of ‘em. We thought that Norberta was the only one on the move, but now we’ve heard from other keepers. All of the dragons from our preserve, plus teams from two other preserves-they’ve all tracked their dragons here as well.”
Charlie lowers his voice and motions about the room. “I don’t know why the Ministry is here, but it isn’t safe. With this many dragons in one area, there are bound to be problems-they’re very territorial and your shields won’t protect you if they start fighting.”
“That’s cheery,” Ron mutters, pushing his tea away.
Charlie shrugs. “It’s the truth.”
“Why?” Harry looks up from studying the map. “Why are they all coming here?”
“Well, it isn’t unusual that they would.” Charlie sits back in his chair, still warming his hands on his cup. “Most dragons in Eastern Europe were born in this area-these caves-so like any other wild animal this is where they come back to mate, to nest and to raise their young.”
“But what's really unusual,” McGetchin adds, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table, “is that they’re all coming here now. It’s the dead of winter-below freezing. It isn’t the right time to mate and this sort of mass accumulation outside of mating season is totally unheard of.”
“We think something is calling them,” Charlie offers.
Harry’s brow furrows. “What would call them here?”
“Or who?” Ron asks.
Charlie tilts his head, studying them. It’s been a while since he’s seen them. Harry looks like he’s aged ten years in the span of three. And when exactly did Ron become a man? Charlie rubs his jaw, now he feels old. “Do you know anything about this mountain range?”
“Yes and no,” Harry replies, shrugging. “It’s a massive range of mountains-virtually uninhabited-known as the Dragon Labyrinth, right?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that,” Charlie cuts in, pointing again at the map. “Underneath these mountains are thousands-literally thousands-of expansive caves and caverns. A true labyrinth. Each cavern houses a well-spring, and it’s those sources of fresh water that make this area so appealing to dragons.”
“Water?” Ron raises an eyebrow. “Not treasure or something else more-I dunno-glittery?”
“Think about it Ron-what’s more important to humans or animals than water?” Charlie taps the map with his forefinger. “They like glittery treasure too, but dragons have just as strong instinctual desire to protect water-particularly the purest sources, those that originate deep underground in mountain caves. If they feel it's being threatened they will do everything they can to keep it safe.”
Harry frowns at this. “So you think the water is being threatened?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Charlie shrugs.
Ron looks at him skeptically. “Seriously, nothing else would call them here?”
“Well…dunno.” McGetchin glances warily at Charlie. “There is one other thing.”
Charlie knows immediately what McGetchin is thinking. Dragon legend-dragon myth. Dragon keepers are well-versed on it, and McGetchin is particularly fascinated by the idea of it. As for himself, Charlie has yet to be convinced that it’s anything other than fantastical lore.
“Unlikely,” Charlie says with a shake of his head.
“ Maybe, though,” McGetchin presses, working his jaw.
“What? What are you talking about?” Harry’s gaze goes back and forth between them both.
“A Dragon Lord,” McGetchin says.
“A what?” Harry asks.
“They’re extremely rare.” Charlie cuts in.
“A Dark creature-half-wizard, half-dragon,” McGetchin says.
Ron blanches. “Half-wizard and half-dragon?”
McGetchin chooses to ignore Ron and presses on, eyes bright. “The last known Dragon Lord lived nearly 300 years ago-and the writing on him is vague at best. However, according to legend, they’re capable of flying, shape-shifting, and controlling full-blooded dragons.”
“No one can completely control the dragons, though,” Charlie clears his throat. “No way. They’re wild animals.”
McGetchin shakes his head. “But Dragon Lords have special magic,see, that helps influence dragons in ways he likes-bending them to do his will.”
“How?” Ron asks.
“Well, he’s part dragon now, isn’t he?” McGetchin replies, leaning in. “Some believe he uses his superior intelligence to control their natural aggressive tendencies. Others mention some sorta smoke-like potion, but no one really knows. It's all legend.”
Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper that he smoothes out on to the table. “Do you recognize this symbol?”
Charlie squints at it. The photo is incredibly bad, but it doesn’t take long to see what it is. A dragon with three heads. Charlie pulls the paper from Harry to get a closer look. His pulse begins to thud loudly in his ears. “Where did you get this?”
“It isn’t important right now…do you know what it is?”
McGetchin looks over his shoulder at the image, then lurches for his jacket. “Blimey, Charlie.” His voice is gruff and urgent. “We gotta go-tell the other keepers, mate. If this true-”
“Hold up, Gregor.” Charlie stops him mid-move, stilling him with a look. “We’re not going anywhere. Not yet. Not until your knee is fixed.”
After a long moment McGetchin sinks back into his chair. Thankfully, he seems to realize that he’ll be no good with the dragons without a healed knee. Charlie turns back to Harry and pushes the photo back to him, but just as he does he sees the dragon transform into words:
Bring Me Harry Potter or More Will Die
Charlie’s eyes narrow at the words that scroll across the photo. Anger sears through him, scalding hot. It’s starting all over again-Dark wizards with their dark threats.
“So this why you’re here-this warning, this symbol?”
Ron and Harry exchange a look between them before nodding.
Charlie runs a hand through his hair. Damn. He never would have believed this. Not in a million years. It’s hardly fair on Harry, but he needs to know that truth.
“It’s the symbol of the Dragon Lord,” Charlie says simply, pointing to each of its heads. “Three heads, three traits: strength, fire and greed. This is what the Dragon Lord looks like when he shapeshifts into his dragon form. If someone left this as his mark in the sky, he’s announcing himself to you, the world, everyone.”
Harry takes this revelation with very little emotion. Charlie pauses, uncertain how to proceed. It isn’t every day you find out that you’re up against a Dragon Lord. Of course, it isn’t every day you find out Voldemort is your mortal enemy either.
“What does he want?” Harry asks, his tone terse.
“Power,” Charlie replies simply. “Dragon Lords always want power.”
“Yeah, of course, power,” McGetchin cuts in, joining the conversation again. Lowering his voice, he leans towards Harry. “But first he’ll find a way to steal something of great value to demonstrate that he’s powerful. Then he’ll want more-he feeds off of it, you see. Power is what gives him his strength. He craves it-well, that and the ladies.”
Charlie gives McGetchin a sharp look.
“What? It's true.” McGetchin shrugs. “You know he’ll steal a lass, too-they always do.”
Charlie sighs leaning back in his chair, resigned. “Yeah, all right, he will.”
“What?” says Ron in disbelief. “He’ll kidnap a girl?”
“Yeah-someone local, from a close by village.” Charlie feels the beginning of a headache coming on and presses his temple, hard. “He’ll shape-shift into something alluring and entice her away so that he can procreate.”
“Lovely.” Harry sets his jaw.
McGetchin nods grimly, looking away again.
Charlie pushes his tea aside. “How can we help you, Harry?”
“Help me find him.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow. “You do realize you’re doing exactly what he wants by coming here-to his lair?”
“I have to keep him from killing more innocent people. If he wants me, then here I am-” Harry splays his arms in mock surrender. “Leave everybody else out if it.”
“If only it were that easy, mate.” McGetchin’s expression is grim. “He’s not going to do that. If he wants you, then he wants you first and the rest of the world second. There’s no stopping him.”
“There has to be.” Harry’s arms drop to his sides as he turns to Charlie. “Will you help me find him?”
“Of course.” Charlie nods, resolved. “But then what?”
Harry looks at Ron and then back to Charlie. “We’ll figure out how to take him down.”
Charlie sits back in his chair and nurses his tea. It sounds logical enough, but in application he knows they are all in for one hell of a ride.
*****
The smoke billows above Zmeu’s cauldron, creating a pool of opaque white hovering mid-air. In it he glimpses whatever he wants to see. For instance, at the moment he can see his beloved dragons gathering in the forest, rooting out their ancient caves and nesting in them once more. He can also see their former captors, their feeble camp fires and small tents peppered about the mountainside. He has watched their pathetic attempts to track Zmeu’s dragons-his magnificent dragons-and take them back to those miserable camps where they were entrapped before. They will not be successful.
He can also see that monstrosity, that white bubble of light, where within Harry Potter sleeps with all his little followers.
He stirs the cauldron, its essence of tuberose filling his nostrils. Coconut mixed with spice, a hint of gardenia, but even more notable to him the underlying more primal scent of animals, wild and on the hunt.
Another image rises above the cauldron, suspended and rotating, filling the cavernous dome above him. An image of a beautiful woman sleeping, her red hair splayed out across her pillow like silken thread. Moonlight touches her brow. She dreams.
This is his weakness.
It is no matter that Ormarr has yet to capture the seventh child of the seventh son; the most magical number, the most magical witch. No matter at all. She has come in contact with the smoke and that is enough for now. Now her dreams will be controlled by him and she will bend, as the smoke does, to do his bidding.
Even more comforting to him, he will take flight to find her soon.
Behind him is a rustle, a movement of scales against stone. The Norwegian Ridgeback sleeps. Zmeu watches as she slumbers, her nictitating eyelid narrowed to a small slit-but one that still allows her to see an enemy approach.
She has known the human for too long, it is time for her to remember who she is and rely on no one but Zmeu. He will clear her mind of her past and then-then she will be a force to be reckoned with, a force to behold, and she will belong to Zmeu.
But first, before he does this, he must take a human wife…
His gaze travels back to the sleeping woman. With a wave of his hand a small pocket of the smoke breaks off from the vision and shoots off into the night. It will find her, even if Ormarr cannot.
*****
In this dream Ginny is floating, skimming over a thick layer of snow, barefoot. The ice crystals sting, but barely so, and she glides unable to feel the biting cold. Her thin nightgown clings to her as she moves through the frigid night air, but the chill does not touch her. She feels warm. The snow-capped mountains are peaceful. The evergreens are quiet. She feels as if she can float through this winter forest forever.
There is a nipping at her heels, a playful puppy gamboling at her feet. Only this isn’t a real puppy, it bounces and nips just as a puppy should-but it isn’t one in its true essence. It’s a small puff of white smoke. A cotton-ball of white running around her in circles, stopping short to make certain that she’s still following, and bounding up ahead to lead her on. She follows peacefully.
A grey speck-tiny, but discernable-lies up ahead on the horizon in this vast expanse of white. A tent. She knows she'll find Harry inside. Her heart soars.
Harry.
It has only been a few days, but it feels like years. The promise of seeing him is nearly too much to bear. Now she flies, leaving the puppy in her wake.
When she stops, she is at the mouth of Harry’s tent, breathless. The tent flap breathes, shifting slightly in and out like a living being and she pauses, her fingers clenching the coarse edge of the canvas door.
The puppy licks at her heels. How could she have forgotten it? She frowns slightly, a deep instinctual feeling consuming her. The puppy should not come inside. Turning, she commands it to sit and it obeys eagerly. Then she tells the puppy to stay, and though it yips impatiently at her it does not move. Sweeping the tent flap back she steps inside, leaving the whimpering puff of white waiting on the mat outside.
The warmth of the tent washes over her like a wave, as does the scent of scorched cinnamon-it fills her head, her lungs. It soothes. A dimly lit gas lamp flickers softly, creating subtle moving patterns on the canvas; as she steps forward, her feet sink into a soft fur carpet that leads her to Harry.
He is asleep with a thick pile of blankets thrown back to expose a bare chest, sleek and firm, with a faint trace of hair trailing down his stomach to disappear below the waistband of his trousers. His breathing is constant, slow, in a rhythm that matches the canvas of the tent and when he sighs, she sighs too, sinking quietly onto the edge of his bed.
Harry.
The curve of his lips and the line of his jaw pull her to him like a fly to honey, and she’s drawn in. His skin is smooth and firm under her fingertips, and oh so familiar. Her hands move on their own now, running across his chest, his jaw, and she begins to kiss those lips, pressing her body against his.
In that moment his eyes flutter open and he comes alive. Every muscle in his torso flexes as he pushes up, pulls her under, and slides on top. She settles into the soft blankets of the bed and accepts his weight willingly, smiling into his kisses.
Home again.
“Ginny,” he murmurs in her ear.
His lips brush across her cheekbone over her eyelids, then down her nose to find her lips, peppering her skin with kisses soft as rain. It feels so right, so real, that she forgets she is dreaming-that they are both asleep.
His fingers trail down slowly, light as air, caressing her breasts in soft circles. She sighs, kissing his jaw, his temple, her hands twining in the back of his hair to pull him closer. His thumb teases her, over and around and over again; as she arches up to meet him his hand trails down to cup her and she moans softly, wanting nothing else but him. His knee pushes her thighs apart and she shifts, entwining her limbs with his. Running her hands down his back, she breathes in, deeply. A different scent finds her, lurking there.
Gardenia faintly mixed with coconut.
Her body tenses. “Wait,” she murmurs.
But Harry doesn’t hear or won’t listen, and as he continues to kiss her jaw, her neck, Ginny pushes her hands against his chest, trying to see the door, trying to find anything in the room but him.
The white puff of smoke has entered the tent, but it’s no longer a puppy. It’s turning into something much bigger, grotesque. Ginny’s heart hammers.
No. No. No.
She brought it here.
She brought the smoke here.
“Harry, stop-we have to-” Aiming her command towards the smoke at the door, she bellows, “Stop!”
It halts in mid-transformation, considering her command. As Harry slips to her side on the bed, she sees he is not really awake or asleep, but something else instead. In that moment the floor gives way and they both fall. Through the thick blankets, through the mattress, gliding through the cool night air to find themselves landing on a hard cold stone floor.
The Chamber of Secrets.
Every molecule in her freezes in terror and she gasps, struggling to find her feet, her wand. Where is her wand?
Harry lies askew on the stone floor. He does not move, and his eyes are closed, deep in sleep. He’s unusually pale.
“Harry!”
Ginny drops to her knees, reaching out to shake him.
“Harry, please. Wake up, wake up!”
“He will not wake,” a soft voice says.
Ginny spins on her knees, hissing through her teeth. That voice! But as she spins in a full circle she sees no one, nothing.
Only the Chamber.
The constant drip of water is soon joined by something else, a hissing sound deep within the Chamber walls. She cannot understand it anymore, but the language courses through her veins and fills her heart with dread. It’s coming and she won’t be able to control it.
Not this time.
She can’t find her wand, so instead she grabs Harry under the arms and yanks, dragging him across the Chamber floor. Their pacing is slow, too slow for her taste, but as she strains to pull him to a crevice for safety a wand dislodges from his pocket. It rolls across the floor and stops at her feet.
She doesn’t recognize this wand.
Just as certain as she feels that this wand isn’t Harry’s, she somehow knows that it is. A different wand. One that he doesn’t normally use.
Grabbing it, she uses it to Levitate him to safety in the crevice. The wave of power that surges from her shoulder to her fingertips is startling. She has never felt such raw power. She looks at the wand in awe.
“Bring me the wand.”
Ginny gasps, hearing the voice again. Filling her head, it puts pressure on her ears. She frantically looks around her, but there is no one to be seen.
“Bring me the wand.”
Gripping the wand even tighter, she shakes her head and covers her ears.
“Bring me the wand.”
“No, it’s Harry’s!” she yells into the darkness, her voice echoing off the Chamber walls.
She puts herself between the vast cavern of the Chamber and the small space where Harry lies unconscious.
“Bring me the wand.”
Ginny’s head spins, and then she knows what she needs to do. Wake up.
“You will not wake up.”
Her fists clench. Wake up.
“I will find you again.”
Wake up.
Ginny gasps awake. Sitting upright in her bed, she fights to get her bearings. Her heart hammers so hard she feels it might escape her chest and flee into the night. Breathing in aching gasps, she grapples in the dark to find her wand and in her panic a vase crashes to the floor.
Hermione’s. She’s at Hermione’s. In her guest room. Ginny calms her racing heart.
Hermione bursts into the room, letting the door hit the wall with a reverberating bang. Her wand is aloft, shaking in front of her, wild beams of light circling the ceiling, the walls, like mad.
Ginny shields her eyes.
“Ginny?” Hermione’s wand lowers. “I thought I heard-are you all right?”
Ginny nods. Her throat is dry as she reaches for her wand on the bedside table and turns on the lamp. Finding the broken vase on the floor, she apologizes and quickly repairs it.
Once done she glances back at Hermione. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I was already awake.” Hermione’s smile is thin, tired. She moves to sit on the corner of the bed. “What happened?”
“Bad dream.” Ginny Summons a glass of water and drinks it in one. Putting the glass aside she considers Hermione in close detail. She’s pale. “Why are you awake?”
“Reading.” Hermione presses the fabric of her dressing gown flat on her lap. “I don’t sleep well when Ron’s not here, so I read.”
Ginny smiles despite herself. “What a sorry pair we make. I have horrid dreams and you can’t sleep.”
Hermione laughs quietly. “It is rather pathetic, isn’t it?”
“To think how many witches would queue up to take our place if we ever chose to ditch Harry and Ron.”
“The poor innocent creatures-they’d have no idea what they were in for.”
Ginny laughs at this. “Yes, innocent. It would serve them right.”
Hermione laughs too, but only for a moment, and then the sound of silence pervades the room again. She bites her lip. “Do you always have bad dreams when Harry’s away?”
“No.” Ginny pulls her knees up to her chin. “I-only sometimes, when things seem off. You know, or particularly dangerous.”
“Do you want to tell me about them?”
Ginny shudders. She hates her dreams. “Not really-they’re just figments of my overactive imagination, I think.”
She swallows, turning her attention to a loose thread on the blanket. A tingling washes over the back of her neck across her damp skin and down her arms, causing her to shudder again. She wants desperately to ignore this feeling, to pretend it didn’t happen, but this time her dream was different. She feels different. This time there was a voice-a voice that wasn’t hers-telling her to do something. She should say something…
“Hermione, I-”
“I have bad dreams sometimes.” Hermione cuts her off, not seeming to have noticed that Ginny was about to speak. Instead she appears to be lost in her own thoughts, studying the carpet beneath her feet. “Not often, but sometimes I see things from the past-only they don’t play out the same way, someone dies or gets hurt, and it’s horrible.”
“Yes, exactly.” Ginny nods slightly relieved to know that she isn’t the only one. “That’s what happens to me. Tonight I dreamt of the Chamber.”
“Oh, Ginny.” Hermione blanches, reaching for her hand. “That’s horrible!”
Ginny squeezes her hand. Then biting her lip she hesitates, knowing-hating-that she knows the answer to her question before she even asks. “Hermione, this mission, this mission that Harry’s on-is it dangerous? Is he in danger?”
Hermione turns her gaze to meet hers and after what feels like an eternity she nods.
Ginny closes her eyes, her heart rending inside her chest. This explains why her dreams have been so bad. “What can I do to help-to help him?”
“Tell Madge about the man who attacked you in Diagon Alley--and anything else that you can remember. That information will help Harry.”
“Okay.”
“And if anything else happens-anything else odd-tell her,” Hermione presses. “I get the feeling that they are really operating without much to go on, so any information is better than nothing.”
Ginny nods, removing her hand from Hermione’s. For some reason, she no longer feels like telling her about the voice in her dream. It seems too far gone now-like a memory just out of reach. Almost as if it didn’t happen.
“I’m sorry about earlier, Hermione. I know MLE has rules-the Rules of Secrecy and everything-it’s just, they really bother me. I hate not knowing what's going on.”
“I’m working to change that.” Hermione straightens, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “It’s a silly, antiquated rule. I spent all day working on it, and I think I have a strong case to present to the Wizengamot. With any luck they'll see reason and change it. Just because you aren’t yet Harry’s wife doesn't mean you don’t care about him and deserve to know some things just like the other spouses.”
Ginny grins at this.
“Yes, well.” Hermione blushes, looking away. “It’s the least I can do.”
Ginny giggles behind her hand, and Hermione rolls her eyes.
“Speaking of which-you have a big game tomorrow.” Hermione stands. “I’m fairly certain I have a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion somewhere-would you like a sip? It will help you sleep and be well rested for your game.”
Though this was far from Hermione’s intention, Ginny sobers instantly. She rubs her temples and nods. A dreamless sleep sounds like the perfect solution. She’ll worry about her dream tomorrow after her game…when she has a clear moment to think.
*****
In the darkness of his tent, Harry sits upright in his bed, stirred from a deep sleep. His heart races and his head pounds as a dream that once consumed him flees, escaping his grasp like water through his fingers. He can’t hold on to it.
His tent smells faintly of coconut and gardenia, but he can’t mentally process that right now. Instead, he frowns. Something…something's there, though, from his dream…a clue, but the fragments of his memory are such an odd mix of pleasure, panic and fury that he can’t put any of it together. Nothing makes sense.
The only thing that holds, the only thing that he knows for certain-deep within his being-is that Ginny was in it somehow. In his dream. Even more distressing than that, he knows…
She is in danger.
Chapter 4