Chapter 7 - November 1994

Chapter 7

November 1994

* * *

"Jus' thought she'd like ter see 'em," shrugged Hagrid, still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons.

"Really romantic date, Hagrid," said Charlie, shaking his head. – Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter 19

* * *

"Unil! Doua! Trei!"

"Ameti!" Charlie shouted in a chorus with five other men, the Romanian version of the Stunning Spell rolling as naturally off his tongue as the English had once done. In his three years living on the rez he'd become proficient, if not fluent – though some of the guys still gave him grief about his accent.

Like a volley of fireworks, their spells burst into sparks upon contact with dragon hide, and the black beauty of a Hungarian Horntail sank slowly to the ground.

Sasha, Charlie, Milos Kopecky, and Fisnik Hoxha rushed forward, each carrying a large graphorn-leather cuff, heavy as a saddle and just as sturdy, and dragging lengths of goblin-wrought chains behind them. Skender Cojocaru and Dobry Dudek lugged the significantly larger collar between the two of them. Working quickly, the men affixed the cuffs on her legs and collar round her neck.

"My mother runs faster than you do, lazy queer," Skender needled his work partner and hut-mate, Dobry.

"Who could blame her?" Sasha added. "Trying to get away from your ugly face..."

"That's rich coming from you, you blousy cocksucker," Dobry countered, aiming the barb squarely at Skender. "You've been gagging for it ever since I joined up," he added with a timely grab of his crotch.

Skender wrinkled his nose in distaste as the other men laughed. "Impossible. I couldn't find that toothpick you call a cock with a magnifying glass."

Everyone was laughing along with the teasing – even Charlie, albeit through gritted teeth. He never sensed any underlying motive in such insults, even when they were directed at him or Sasha. This was simply an integral, if lamentable, part of keeper culture, this thoroughly institutionalized misogyny and homophobia. He consciously refused to take such things personally, but the atmosphere of intolerance certainly had influenced his and Sasha's unspoken agreement to never discuss their relationship with anyone else, to never publicly express an iota of affection for each other in any way beyond the accepted parameters of teasing banter and the occasional bout of friendly, drunken wrestling. As a result, he was confident none of the other men knew their secret.

"None of you has the balls of an ant," Charlie jabbed, joining in the fray. He checked the dragon's leg cuff one final time until he was satisfied with its security and that it wouldn't chafe her.

"Ants don't have balls," Fisnik snorted derisively.

"That's the point, you stupid twat," Dobry laughed.

While the rest of them began charming the stakes anchoring the chains into the ground, Charlie and Sasha fetched Lady Horntail's clutch. The three eggs were awkward to carry even nestled as they were in the large basket specially fashioned for the purpose. Charlie thought one of them looked a little smaller, a little duller than the others – likely destined to be the runt. If the egg even hatched at all next spring, its stronger siblings would likely make a meal of it before long.

They laid the eggs between her forelegs as gently as possible, careful not to touch them with their bare hands and taint them with human scent, risking her rejection. Charlie paused then, close enough to look into her gorgeous amber-jewel eyes, which swirled and sparkled in an almost mesmerizing way as she focused her gaze upon him. He knew the phenomenon was common to all dragons – the effect of the faceted spherical lens within her eye – but he didn't often get an opportunity to see it up close like this.

Amazing! Beautiful! he marveled, longing to reach out and caress the smooth ebony hide. It baffled him how anyone could think these majestic beasts ugly, or evil, or – even worse – nothing but galleons on the wing. His blood boiled to think of the bands of loathsome poachers and black market dealers that prowled the rez, who saw these incredible creatures strictly as yards of hide, gallons of blood, and pounds of potions ingredients.

"All right, boys, let's wake our sleeping beauty," Skender announced, rattling Charlie out of his momentary reverie. As the ranking keeper present, Skender was in charge of their group here until they returned to Romania.

"Wanna give her a kiss first, Charlie?" Dobry called, puckering up and making noisy smooch-sounds.

"Slip her the tongue, mate," Milos added, crudely wagging his tongue.

Charlie offered them an equally crude gesture in response as he made his way swiftly toward relative safety. Once they were all beyond the magically demarked circular boundary– the borderline of her firepower – the Stunners were countered, and Lady Horntail groaned awake. Lovingly she sniffed her eggs, gently used her chin to nestle them closer to her chest, then warmed them with her body and breath.

A garbled, mournful shriek grabbed everyone's attention, including the Horntail's. On the far side of the clearing, the Chinese delegation still struggled to subdue the Fireball, who appeared to be inconsolable over the loss of her clutch, as well as frantically vulnerable with her impaired eyesight. Charlie hoped that idiot, Krum, hadn't done any permanent damage with his reckless Conjunctivitis Curse. What a shame if she had to be put down because of it! But if she didn't fully recover her keen sight, she'd be nothing but a blind target back in the wild – euthanasia would be a mercy in comparison. If they hadn't all been sitting eggs, the three other females would've been circling already, sensing her weakness.

No matter what, he predicted Percy and his beloved International Magical Cooperation office would have a bugger of a time getting anything but glares and swears out of China for a good while. At least, if these keepers had anything to say about it...

"Let's go see what we can do to help, boys," Skender said, sympathetic to the Chinese keepers' plight.

Sasha turned to Charlie, clapping him on the shoulder as several of the Romanian delegation headed toward the Fireball's enclosure. "Why don't you go see your friend, Charlie," he urged. "We've got this covered."

Charlie smiled weakly. If the worst came to pass, and they did need to put the Fireball out of her misery, there were more than enough keepers around to do the deed. Sasha knew how much he hated that part of the job, necessary as it sometimes was, and was trying to spare him the distress.

"Yeah, all right," he said. Spending an hour or so with Hagrid – even when it meant consuming his rock cakes – would be far preferable.

For as hard as it was to believe, Charlie was in England for a second time that year – and at Hogwarts, no less! And I'll be damned glad when this whole bloody Triwizard Tournament shite is over! he grumbled to himself as he walked. Deciding to take the long way around rather than cutting through the Forbidden Forest, wishing to be respectful of the centaurs, he set off on a brisk pace, skirting the Forest's edge.

"Hold up, Charlie!" he heard a familiar voice calling from behind.

Charlie spun around. "Bill! I didn't know you were here!" he cheered as his older brother jogged to catch up. After a brief, brotherly embrace, he asked, "Are you here for the Tournament?"

Bill smiled and nodded his head as they resumed walking. "I piggy-backed it onto delivering a deposit. Clever timing, eh?" he said loud enough for anyone to hear. Both young men surreptitiously glanced around them. Seeing no one within earshot, they decided it was safe to continue their conversation. "And filing my report to the old man," he murmured under his breath, nodding slightly toward the castle.

"Me, as well," Charlie offered in a similar tone. He'd dutifully delivered the memory vial to Dumbledore the morning after they'd arrived with the dragons. "What's he got you after?"

"The usual," Bill replied. "I've got a few mates working in the London headquarters. Whenever I bring in a hoard, they let me have a quick peek at some accounts. The old man wants to keep tabs on certain people's finances, see."

"And?" Charlie prompted.

"Records show Mrs. Malfoy made a visit last summer to her personal vault," Bill explained.

"So?" Charlie asked, eyes narrowing upon hearing the familiar, detested name. "That can't be that unusual." The bitch was as rich as Croesus, after all. What were a few hundred galleons to her?

"The ledger noted Mrs. Malfoy made a withdrawal, but the account balance remained unchanged," Bill informed him. "Something came out of that vault, and it wasn't money."

"Ah, now that's slightly more interesting," Charlie mused aloud.

"But not the most interesting part," he whispered. When Charlie's raised eyebrows expressed his interest, Bill continued, "When Mrs. Malfoy returned later that day to visit her vault a second time, the security goblin asked her why she didn't just complete all her business in one visit. It's a routine sort of security question, but Mrs. Malfoy lost it. My mate who witnessed the scene said that at first, she started making an unholy stink that the goblins were mistaken, and she hadn't been there that morning. But when the goblins started asking more questions about what was withdrawn, she clammed up – as if she realized the last thing she wanted was to arouse their interest."

"You think it wasn't her? The first visit?" Charlie asked.

"Unless somebody Obliviated her during lunch, which would be an interesting development in its own right, how could it've been?"

"What was it the thief took?"

Bill leaned close. "That's the most bizarre bit. According to the automatic account ledger – and keep in mind these things are magically bound to the vaults by a bit of very tricky spellwork that's next to impossible to sneak around – the either fake or forgetful Mrs. Malfoy withdrew... a wand."

"Whose? Hers?" Charlie pressed. Why was she storing a spare wand in a Gringotts' vault?"

Bill shrugged. "Nobody knows. And that's the thousand-galleon question, innit?"

Charlie pondered the implications for a moment, but couldn't sort them straight. "What did Dumbledore make of it?"

Bill shrugged again. "You know how he is, playing everything close. He just thanked me for the information and told me to keep up the good work."

Charlie snorted. "Yeah, I got the same generic pat on the head," he said.

"I told you mine – what's your story?" Bill asked, nudging him with an elbow.

"Nothing nearly as thrilling," Charlie replied. "Though I don't really remember the details, to be honest."

Bill shot him a baffled look.

"We found what we were looking for... sort of," Charlie explained. "Bertha Jorkins met an unpleasant end in Albania. Sasha said... said I begged him to help harvest the memory. I couldn't do it myself."

Bill tried to hide his shocked look by gazing out ahead of them. After mulling the information for a few moments, he asked in a low, slightly disapproving voice, "You involved someone else in this?"

Charlie bristled. "I trust Sasha with my life," he insisted. "And this isn't the Weasley chapter of the Dumbledore Fan Club. It's going to take more than just us to fight... You-Know-Who... if that's what this is turning into."

Bill gave him the facial equivalent of a shrug. "I suppose so."

They walked several more meters in silence.

"That was an impressive show. The champions, I mean," Bill offered, steering the conversation to more neutral, less secretive ground.

"Harry was brilliant," Charlie agreed. Based on what little time he'd spent with him, Ron's young friend seemed like a nice enough kid, considering. What the hell he was doing participating in the competition was a mystery, though. "But Krum's lucky he didn't get hexed into next month," he added. "The Chinese blokes are rightly pissed about what happened."

Bill chuckled, and Charlie recognized the hint of wickedness he'd noted in Egypt. "Did you see that sweet little bit of French pastry?" he asked with a wink. Then he stiffened dramatically, straightening his posture, and sang, "Bonjour!"

"She's only seventeen!" Charlie scolded him, appalled. Pretty as the Beauxbatons champion might or might not be, Bill had no business sniffing around a schoolgirl, for Merlin's sake.

Bill cocked an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his argument. "Might be eighteen. Either way, she's of age."

"But you're almost twenty-five!" Charlie cried. "She's Fred and George's age!"

"All right, Mum, no reason to get your knickers in a knot," Bill groused. "Forget I said anything."

Charlie doubted his protestations had swayed his brother's interest in the Delacour girl, though. "I'm on my way to Hagrid's for a quick visit – I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you joined us," he offered half-heartedly.

"I've got to get back to work," Bill sighed a little theatrically. "I'll Apparate to London from Hogsmeade, then take a Portkey to Memphis. All that bloody treasure won't find itself, bro."

"Well, it's good to see you again, anyway," Charlie said, offering a brotherly embrace.

"Yeah," Bill agreed, smiling and hugging him back. "You, too."

A moment after they parted, a thought occurred to Charlie: Speaking of Mum's knickers in a knot... "Hey, Bill, do me a favor, will you?" When his brother spun around but kept walking backward, Charlie called out, "While you're in town, send an owl to Mum and let her know Harry's all right. I promised her I would."

Bill cast an irritated smirk his way. "Do it yourself, git. I'm not a bloody house-elf."

"Have you forgotten what really happened to Auntie Muriel's crystal vase?" Charlie hummed smugly. "Perhaps at the post office, I might be overcome with the need to unburden my soul and send her an owl as well. Anonymously, of course."

Bill grimaced. "That's a low blow, brother," he growled. "Fine. I'll send your damned owl."

Charlie chuckled in his victory, minor though it was. But there was something about the sight of his brother walking away that struck him hard. "Bill!" he shouted.

Bill spun around once more, and impatient look on his face.

"Take care!" Charlie charged him.

Bill's expression softened. "I will. You, too," he called back before turning around and jogging off toward the village.

Charlie watched him leave for only a moment, then turned away, determined not to become maudlin about the situation. He wasn't the sort to idolize an older brother – Bill definitely had his faults – but he was a clever, competent wizard. Like Charlie himself, he'd demonstrated he could handle what the dangerous, adult world could throw at him – after all, Curse-Breaking wasn't an occupation just anyone could make a go of.

Charlie walked around a final bend of the Forest, and an enormous blue carriage came into view. Just a little bit further, and Hagrid's hut became visible. Charlie quickened his pace, eager to see his old friend again.

The hut's door flew open before he'd even had a chance to knock. "Ah, Charlie, it's good ter see yeh!" Hagrid exclaimed.

Charlie had a chance to brace himself so only gave a small grunt when Hagrid thumped him on the back in greeting, rather than stumbling and falling like he used to as a kid.

"Yer lookin' well!" Hagrid cheered as Charlie was hustled inside.

"I am well, thanks," Charlie replied. "And you, Hagrid! You look... well, you look positively spiffy, mate. Have you done something with your hair?"

Hagrid smoothed his beard a little nervously. "Ah, well, figured it was high time I started makin' meself more presen'able." His glance briefly fluttered toward his window, confirming Charlie's hunch from two nights ago that his friend was on the make. "Shall I put the kettle on?" he asked, doing exactly that without waiting for an answer.

"So, you're a proper Hogwarts professor now," Charlie said as he was handed a plate with a very heavy rock cake upon it.

"Can you believe it?" Hagrid chuckled. "Dunno wha' Dumbledore was thinkin'."

"Makes perfect sense to me," Charlie argued supportively. "I've never met anyone who knows more about magical creatures than you. And it's not just a load of book-rubbish, either. It's experience. I'm betting you're a fantastic teacher."

Hagrid snorted, but Charlie saw a pleased smile underneath the mad mass of beard. Then, struck by inspiration, he said, "Oh, tha' reminds me – I've got summat ter show yeh before yeh leave, Charlie." His eyes sparkled with glee. "I'll wager yeh've never seen these beau'ies before."

"What are they?" Charlie asked, his curiosity tempered with a healthy amount of wariness.

"I call 'em Blast-ended Skrewts!" Hagrid declared proudly.

Charlie picked up on the note of possessiveness in his tone. Familiar with Hagrid's abiding love for all creatures (the more dangerous, the better) and his fascination with hybrids, he put two and two together. "A new creation of yours?"

Hagrid beamed. "Crossed a Manticore with a Fire Crab, I did. And it was a trick ter get 'em together, lemme tell yeh."

Charlie couldn't believe the Ministry had given Hagrid permission to do such an ill-advised thing. "Who else knows about this?" he asked worriedly. He'd been happy to help his old friend out by taking an illegally-gotten dragonlet off his hands, but had no idea how or where to smuggle these dodgy-sounding Blasty-screws to safety, or whatever it was he'd christened them.

But Hagrid waved a dismissive hand. "They're just out the back. Usin' 'em as a special project for the fourth years."

Charlie decided to take this news as proof that the offspring of such an unholy union must be significantly less dangerous than either of their parents. He rationalized that if it was a student project – part of the curriculum, even – then Dumbledore must be aware of them, at least.

Hagrid attended to the whistling kettle. While the tea was steeping, a nostalgic look came over him. "How's my little Norbert farin'?"

"Little Norbert's a full-grown, three-tonne brute," Charlie chuckled. Norbert had flown the coop, so to speak, to find a proper lair of his own just after Charlie had returned to Romania after the World Cup. The daily sight of the empty stone enclosure made Charlie a bit nostalgic, too. In their spare time this winter, he and Sasha planned to write up their experience fostering him for submission to one of the several dragon journals. If accepted, it would be Charlie's first foray into academic research. That was part of what made the Ridgebit Reserve so prestigious, after all: many of the keepers had research projects of their own.

Hagrid smiled, his black eyes a little misty. "Ah, 'e mus' be a sight. Wish I could see 'im."

"I'll try to get a snap for you," Charlie promised.

Hagrid gave him a grateful look. He blinked rapidly a few times, then rather self-consciously attempted to change the subject. "Quite a show this afternoon, eh?"

"Quite," Charlie agreed, unable to keep the hard edge out of his voice.

Hagrid nodded, understanding Charlie's meaning immediately and humming in sympathy. "Tragic accident, tha' was. Will she be all right, d'yeh think?"

Charlie shrugged. "Hope so."

After a respectful moment of silence, Hagrid continued. "Still, our Harry did a job of it, din' 'e? Tied for first now, 'e is."

"Both Hogwarts' champions did quite well today," Charlie said pointedly.

"Erm, right. You're absolutely right. Diggory did well, too," Hagrid added guiltily.

But Diggory held little interest for Charlie, either. "What the hell is going on here, Hagrid? How did Harry wind up in the tournament at all? I thought there was supposed to be an age limit?" I thought the whole point was to protect the kid!

"Dumbledore conjured that Age Line 'imself! An' Harry swears 'e din' put his name in, an' tha's the end of it!" Hagrid growled, vociferous as always in his defense of cherished friends and creatures (for they were more often than not one and the same, Charlie reflected).

"But if Harry didn't cheat his way in, then how... or why... did his name get chosen?" Charlie pressed.

Hagrid's expression conceded Charlie's point was an excellent one. Yet he proffered neither an answer nor suggestions.

"Mum's beside herself, convinced it's a mad conspiracy of some kind..." Charlie said leadingly.

"She ain't the on'y one, then," Hagrid murmured. "Thought Minerva was gonna have kittens when the Goblet spat out Harry's name..."

They both laughed at the unintended pun.

"Rest assured, Dumbledore's keepin' his eye on it. And Moody's takin' Harry under his wing, as well." Hagrid coughed a little nervously, then leaned closer to Charlie and whispered in a conspiratorial voice, "He and I are doin' what we can to help Harry along through the trials, if yeh get my drift." He punctuated this confession with a knowing wink and tapping his finger to the side of his nose.

Charlie reckoned that, considering all the watchful eyes and protecting wands surrounding him, Harry was probably as safe as possible. Still, the situation bore careful monitoring. How many enemies might the poor kid have?

Hagrid handed Charlie a soup bowl-sized mug of tea, then drifted toward the hut's front window. Charlie suspected such dewy-eyed gazing had become something of a habit of his lately. Contemplating the view of a powder-blue behemoth of an Abraxan-drawn carriage, Hagrid spoke as softly, gently as the half-giant's voice could manage.

"I'll never forget tha' night I wen' ter fetch 'im. Ah, Charlie, it was madness – the wreck of tha' house all around 'im. Poor little feller was beside 'imself, sobbin' for 'is mum an' dad."

Charlie had forgotten that bit of the tale: that Hagrid had rescued Harry from the Potters' demolished house in Godric's Hollow. Merlin, that must've been a horrific sight. "I can't even imagine," Charlie mused softly.

Still staring out his window, Hagrid continued. "Yeh know, Charlie... as horrible as tha' night was... I remember feelin' somethin'... special... between me an' the lit'le feller. It was... well, it was nice ter hold a wee babe in me arms. I never 'ad before, yeh know... an' no one's ever trusted me enough wi' one since."

Charlie regarded his friend, marveling at the irony. Here was the biggest, strongest man he knew baring the softest of hearts, yearning for what most men did at some point in their lives: a family. "Hagrid..."

He gave a mighty sniff. "Lis'en ter me, goin' all soft," he chastised himself.

"Wanting something like that out of life isn't a weakness, Hagrid," Charlie countered, hoping to ease his friend's distress. "Just ask my dad if you don't believe me. Fatherhood is an act of strength, of courage, of optimism."

"Ha!" Hagrid blasted out a laugh. "Optimism! Yeh got tha' right, mate."

"That's not what I meant," Charlie protested.

"Ah, Charlie – she's such a fine lady," Hagrid sighed, utterly lovesick. "Clever and refined and cultured. And then there's me, daft as a fwooper's..."

"There's you, clever and loyal, brave and honorable. And every bit as good as she is," Charlie insisted, even though his mind was reeling a bit at the prospect of Hagrid and the enormous woman he'd brought with him to see the dragons the other night. Though he supposed Hagrid might not have many other options, all things considered. It was certainly plausible she might feel the same. "You've got as good a chance as anyone else, I reckon."

Hagrid turned sparkling black eyes at him. "Yeh think?" He bustled over to the seat next to Charlie, sat down (disregarding an ominous creak from the furnishing), and leaned close. "Wha' should I do, then?"

"Do about what?" Charlie asked, fearful he knew exactly what Hagrid meant.

"To woo 'er, mate," Hagrid cried softly. "A handsome feller like you – dragon keeper an' all – must have loads of experience wi' the ladies."

Damn that stereotype! Charlie railed silently. He shook his head, quailing at being backed into such an awkward corner, but Hagrid was not to be deterred. "Gimme some advice, Charlie! I'm beggin' yeh!"

Charlie gritted his teeth, reminding himself that Hagrid had ever been a true friend to him. Surely there was something Charlie could say to boost his confidence in the matter. Praying that love was indeed universal, he offered the only reasonable advice that came to mind – something he'd heard his father say more than once, in fact.

"Just be yourself, Hagrid," Charlie said. "If that's what she wants, then you'll both be happy. If it's not, then there's no point in wasting everyone's time, is there?"

Hagrid's expression softened, and he wore an almost rueful smile. "Ah, Charlie, yeh're right. I'm makin' meself mad over this, and for no good reason."

Charlie didn't want his friend to misinterpret his suggestion, though. He wasn't attempting to cushion Hagrid's landing, but rather to build him up. "She seemed quite keen on you the other night, mate," he offered.

Hagrid...blushed! He fussed with the hem of his tunic and cleared his throat. "Yeh really think so, Charlie?" he asked, a heartbreakingly plaintive note in his deep basso voice.

"Definitely," Charlie declared. "Quite keen, I'd say."

Hagrid chuckled like a schoolboy.

Before Charlie had time to marvel at the strange irony of a half-giant Hogwarts professor asking him advice about how to woo half-giant women – a subject he could not possibly know less about – there was a loud battering on the hut's door, startling them both. Hagrid hurried to the door, and Charlie was further surprised to see Fisnik there. He barged inside without any sort of acknowledgement to Hagrid – and Charlie would have upbraided him for his rudeness if he hadn't blurted out in Romanian, "Come quick. Sasha's hurt."

Charlie leaped to his feet, shot through the heart. "How bad?"

"Wha's the matter, Charlie?" Hagrid asked, confused by the foreign tongue being hastily barked in his presence.

"It's my partner – he's been hurt," Charlie translated, working to keep a note of panic out of his voice. "I've got to go, Hagrid."

"O' course, o' course," Hagrid said, concerned and understanding. "Hope 'e's all right."

But Charlie didn't wait for any further goodbyes and bolted out of the hut. "Where is he?" he demanded, slipping back into Romanian.

"They took him up to the castle infirmary," Fisnik explained.

Charlie took off toward the castle in a run.

"Just Apparate us, stupid!" Fisnik called out, running close at Charlie's heels. "You know where you're going, don't you?"

"You can't Apparate on the grounds here!" Charlie snapped without missing a step, cursing that very fact, for despite his piss-poor Apparating skills, he'd prefer to be splinched but with Sasha in an instant rather than minutes. When they reached the stairs to the entry hall, he slowed down just enough to ask breathlessly, "What happened?"

Fisnik was gasping for breath himself, yet managing to keep up and talk at the same time. "The Fireball... caught him with... her tail," he heaved. "Sent him... flyin'."

This information only fueled Charlie's panic. A direct hit from a dragon's tail? Even without spikes, the blow alone could snap a man's spine like a dry twig. Please let him be alive, he prayed.

Bounding up the stairs, they skidded into an almost deserted infirmary. "Sasha!?" Charlie called out, frantically searching the rows of beds as he jogged through the room, finding nothing but a couple of sleeping children and empty beds.

"May I help you?" a deep voice sneered from behind.

Charlie spun around to see his former Potions Professor. "Sasha Vasiliev. The injured keeper. Where is he?" he demanded in English.

A look of cold condescension met him. "Not here. Obviously." The words were drawn out slowly, cruelly.

Charlie shot Fisnik a questioning look.

Fisnik shrugged. In Romanian, he said, "Skender told Dobry and Milos to take Sasha to the castle and sent me after you. I took off..."

Snape glared at them as if offended by their rudeness. "I am here only as long as Madam Pomfrey remains at the champions' first aid tent, no doubt patching up Potter." Charlie noted he practically spat out Harry's surname. "No one else has interrupted the peace of this room since she left. Now do be so kind as to take your disruptive presence elsewhere, Mr. Weasley. The invalids present could do without it."

With a growled and insincere, "Sorry, sir," Charlie stormed out of the infirmary. Fucking prick!

"Now where?" Fisnik asked.

"The bloody first aid tent," Charlie snarled, barely reining in the urge to punch Fisnik, for lack of a more suitable target, and shoving him out of the way instead. By the time they reached the castle's exit, Charlie'd regained enough of his composure to apologize.

"Not necessary, mate," Fisnik assured him. "It's part of the life, isn't it? When Milos got gored by that Longhorn a few years back..." He visibly gulped. "Let's just say I know what you're going through."

A rational part of Charlie appreciated the fellow's sentiment. Dragon keepers were assigned a partner the moment they arrived at a reservation, and the keeper-partner relationship was one of the strongest bonds he'd ever encountered. Living and working together under such dangerous circumstances necessitated a life-or-death level of trust, an almost innate understanding of a fellow human being that few others could truly appreciate. There was a reason keepers jokingly referred to their partners as a "work-wife" – and the relationship lasted until death.

But another, more thoracically located organ within him wanted to scream, You have no fucking idea what I'm going through! Sasha meant so much more to him that any professional partnership could define. Why hadn't he ever found the courage to tell him so?

By the time they reached the first aid tent, it, too, was deserted. The entire tournament pavilion had been emptied of people, the silence ominously deafening. Unable to quell his furious terror any longer, Charlie roared as he manually tore the cots apart, the sheets ripping with a mildly satisfactory sound, the pillows exploding in a feather-storm of fearful rage.

When he lunged for the main tent pole, Fisnik tackled him, wrapping powerful arms around him from behind before he could take the entire tent down around them. "That's enough," Fisnik warned quietly. "Don't make me use my wand."

Charlie struggled for a moment, then – almost gratefully – quieted down.

"This isn't helping anything," Fisnik added, slowly releasing him.

Charlie hung his head, panting from the exertion, nodding slightly in defeat. Sasha, where are you? he wanted to howl. A voice dark and cold whispered that if he wasn't in the infirmary or the first aid tent, it could only mean he'd been beyond medical help.

Don't leave me! he silently begged. I can't survive without you!

"Let's go back to the dragon enclosure," Fisnik suggested after he righted the first aid tent with a few flicks of his wand.

The enclosure was a far quieter place than when he'd left it. Almost somber. Like... No! Not somber! Not like death! Charlie fiercely corrected himself. "The Fireball's finally quiet. Everyone's tired. That's all.

Within the small crowd still gathered around the crimson she-dragon's area, Charlie spotted Skender's broad, grizzled frame. Running straight for him, he ignored every other sight and sound in the clearing. He barged into the group, rudely shouldering a few others out of the way, and interrupted him speaking with someone else.

"Where's Sasha?" he yelled.

Skender smirked sourly. "In your fucking tent, the stupid bastard. Probably bleeding to death from internal injuries."

"WHAT!? Charlie nearly shrieked.

"Mr. Tough Guy refused medical help, insisting he could take care of himself," Skender growled, glaring in the general direction of the tent Charlie and Sasha shared. "Concussed motherfucker's probably passed out on his cot."

A few in the crowd chuckled knowingly. Yet another stereotype of dragon keepers – this one with more than a grain of truth to it – was their notorious "shake it off" attitude toward any injury short of decapitation. But this fact did absolutely nothing to relieve Charlie's worry. With a growl, he marched off toward their tent, ready to spit fire himself.

"You fucking idiot!" he shouted as soon as he burst through the tent flaps.

Sasha lay on his back in his cot, several empty vials scattered on the ground beside him. His arm was draped over his eyes. He did not move.

"D'you hear me, you son of a bitch?" Charlie bellowed, kicking his own cot. It crashed against the magically reinforced canvas wall rather than tearing through it.

"The entire fucking forest heard you," Sasha answered quietly.

Charlie quickly cast a Silencing Charm, then added a ward to prevent anyone from entering the tent and interrupting their row. "Why aren't you in the infirmary?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

"It's just a scratch," Sasha replied tersely.

"Don't peddle that shite with me. Fisnik said she caught you with her tail," he argued.

"It was a glancing blow, and Fisnik frets like an old spinster," Sasha countered. "Don't you start."

"You could have internal damage!" Charlie cried, involuntarily sinking to his knees beside Sasha's cot. The fact that he'd moved nothing but his mouth to answer belied the severity of his injuries. He wasn't thinking clearly – probably a concussion, just like Skender said.

"Diagnostic spells were clear," Sasha maintained. "I don't need some dotty old school nurse fussing over me like a pampered kneazle."

A tiny part of Charlie wanted to laugh at Sasha's characterization of Madam Pomfrey. A larger part wanted to throttle him for being so damn stubborn. But the biggest part heard only the bit about diagnostic spells being clear, and he gave in to the urge to throw his arms around him.

Sasha grunted in pain, and Charlie gasped, recoiling. But Sasha grabbed his arms, halting his retreat.

"It's all right," Sasha said, his hand raking through Charlie's hair soothingly. "Just a little sore. I'll be right as rain tomorrow morning."

To Charlie's horror, he felt tears begin to well up in his eyes. He tried blinking them away. "Never do that again," he snapped, angry with himself for such a display of weakness, angry with Sasha for not being invincible.

"I don't plan on provoking a nesting female dragon again any time soon," Sasha snorted sarcastically.

Charlie grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him fiercely. "Never scare me like that again," he whispered hoarsely.

Sasha's hands squeezed his shoulders, a spark of fire glinting in his eyes. "Now you know how I felt in that fucking cave," he grumbled.

Charlie sniffed mightily, commanding himself not to cry, refusing to be further unmanned before him.

"What's gotten into you?" Sasha asked gently. "Why are you so upset?"

"I was so afraid you were..." Charlie choked, unable to complete the sentence out loud. Hurt. Paralyzed. Dead.

"I'm fine," Sasha insisted once again.

"But what if you weren't? What if I never got the chance to tell you...?" Charlie faltered.

Sasha's thumb brushed a tear off Charlie's cheek. "Tell me what?"

"That I love you," he whispered.

Charlie's favorite smile broke over his lover's face. "You think I don't know this, Charlie?" he murmured. "You think you don't tell me every day in everything you do? Don't be ridiculous. I'm not blind. Or stupid."

Charlie gave a little shake of his head. "I've never said it. And I should have. I want to say it. Sash, I... I love you so much."

Sasha stared back into his eyes for several moments. "If the words make you feel better, then say them all you like. But I know you, Charlie. You can't hide anything from me." Sasha gave his forehead a gentle kiss, then held Charlie to his chest. "You are mine. And I am yours. Nothing you or I could do will change this. I love you, too."

A partially stifled sob escaped Charlie, and the sound of Sasha's strong heartbeat filled his ears.

---

Author's note: In "Goblet of Fire" Chapter 33, the newly embodied Voldemort reaches into the robes Peter Pettigrew dresses him with and draws out his wand – a thing he lost more than a decade before on the night he tried to curse Harry as an infant. How the heck did that happen? Well, according to JKR Rumors/Wiki, Pettigrew retrieved Voldemort's wand from the wreckage of Potter's house and kept it hidden in an "undisclosed" location for twelve years. As he began living incognito as a rat within days after the fateful night, how did Scabbers/Pettigrew manage this?

Here's how I envision it: on the night of the Potters' murders, Peter gave Voldemort's wand to Narcissa Malfoy for safekeeping, trusting one of Voldemort's inner circle (and a fellow Death Eater?) to keep it hidden. After all, Voldemort himself entrusted her husband, Lucius, with the diary Horcrux (not that anyone else understood its true importance at the time) and her sister, Bellatrix, with Hufflepuff's cup, (though we don't know for certain when she came into possession of this). Living with the Weasleys as Scabbers over the ensuing years, Peter might well have put something together that led him to think Voldemort might not be as dead as previously thought.

After Peter's escape from Sirius, et. al., in the Shrieking Shack, he dashed into the Forbidden Forest where he heard more rumors (from centaurs, unicorns, other rats) that Voldemort had made a recent attempt to resurrect himself (nearly three years ago, but still reasonably recent). Deciding his former master was likely his best bet for survival, as a rat, he snuck into Malfoy Manor and stole a hair from Narcissa. As a wizard, he brewed Polyjuice Potion with said hair, then went to Gringotts to retrieve Voldemort's wand from Narcissa's vault (hence Bill's report to Dumbledore about the strange coincidence of two Narcissas in this chapter of my story). Now in possession of Voldemort's wand, Peter made his way to Albania to find him, with it hoping to buy his protection.

Peter was quite a busy little rat during the summer hols between "Prisoner of Azkaban" and "Goblet of Fire"! We know from canon (Chapter 1, "Goblet of Fire") that during this short period, Peter was successful in finding Voldemort and magically creating some horrifically creepy body in which to house his soul and in possession of Voldemort's wand which was used to murder Frank Bryce and had gotten his hands on Bertha Jorkins and her information regarding the Triwizard Tournament. (Whew!)