2000

Chapter 21

2000

* * *

"There are ten breeds of dragon, though these have been known to interbreed on occasion, producing rare hybrids." – Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Dragon

* * *

"Newt Scamander is completely full of shit," Dr. Merlin Miller grumbled.

"How so?" Charlie asked. He still found the fellow's name so very odd. But the American half-blood had explained his astonishing given name by comparing it to the popularity of Jesuses amongst Hispanics all over the world. It had been bestowed upon him by his Muggle father and witch mother in tribute rather than with blasphemous intent.

"He's so typically, myopically Euro-centric," Merlin said. "More than half of the magical species he deigns to recognize are of European origin – or so he claims, anyway. The rest of the world accounts for only forty-six percent of his ridiculous book!"

"It is a British book intended for a British audience," Charlie reminded him. Merlin's criticism of Scamander's seminal work was a common one heard in international circles. And while he couldn't really quibble about the statistics, it was also well known how overly sensitive American wizardry tended to get whenever they felt slighted.

"Scamander never could stand any dissent or criticism – which is why he blew his first job mediating house-elf issues. Fantastic Beasts is just more of the same. He left a minimum of a dozen magical draconians out–"

"You and I both know there are massive arguments on what constitutes a draconian species," Charlie countered, leaving off arguing about the house-elf jab. Nobody who knew anything firsthand about Scamander's first Ministry position would say a word to contradict his assertion he simply didn't enjoy office work. And who could blame him? Charlie silently opined. But conspiracy theorists had plenty of other hypotheses, including the one Merlin was spouting.

But Merlin cut him off before he could complete his argument. "Wait a minute... I stand corrected... He refers to them as 'rare hybrids,' so I suppose that covers it, eh?" He rolled his eyes. "The idiot just chose to pretend they don't exist. Sticking your head in the sand when confronted with a problem seldom solves it."

Charlie struggled to quell a smile at the sight of the vociferous little man. Slight and pale – the very embodiment of a stereotypical effeminate intellectual – Merlin looked so very odd decked out in what he referred to as his "clean suit": gleaming white coveralls and a medieval-looking hood that covered him from head to shoulders with only a balaclava-like opening for his face. In addition, he wore a bizarre helmet with a clear faceplate that dropped down while he was working. Latex gloves and elastic-edged fabric coverings for his shoes completed the ensemble. He'd explained the get-up was necessary to protect his samples from being contaminated, but to Charlie, he looked for all the world like a skinny, scientific knight-errant armed with a micropipette instead of a lance.

Their discussion was taking place in a similarly odd building of temporary construction. About the size of a large shed, the exterior walls and roof had been hastily constructed of fireproof stone. Inside lay a second, slightly smaller room entirely constructed of a hard, clear plastic. Merlin stood before a stainless steel contraption he referred to as a 'laminar flow workbench,' laden with myriad little plastic tubes. A table nearby held an assemblage of Muggle electrical equipment, more racks of blood samples, and other Muggle scientific accoutrements (with not a cauldron in sight). Charlie sat on a stool on the opposite side of a divider curtain made of soft plastic, his hair, clothes, and skin covered with disposable paper versions of Merlin's outfit.

"How would you classify Flame-Lizards and Fire-Breathing Serpents, then?" Charlie asked, genuinely interested in the fellow's research. He'd been working closely with Merlin for nearly a month now, helping him to collect blood samples from every dragon on the reservation. Ridgebit boasted the world's most extensively documented population (nearly a century of records were housed in the visitor center) as well as the most varied collection of species: truly a gold mine of data for a dragonologist.

Merlin paused from his work for a moment to gesture toward his metal and plastic boxes with blinking lights. "This has the potential to tell us not only how all extant dragon individuals are related to each other, better enabling reservations like yours to prevent genetic bottlenecks, but also how each species is related. And it'll shed light on the even bigger questions, too. Are dragons actually living dinosaurs? If not, from which ones are they descended? And how are Flame-Lizards and Fire-Breathing Serpents related to them?" Excitement and enthusiasm bubbled in his voice, and he patted one of the machines proudly. "I don't know the answers yet... but I will." He turned to look at Charlie. "This is ground-breaking work we're doing, Weasley."

Charlie nodded. It really was a fascinating project. In addition to the ten recognized breeds of dragon, ten more species of Flame-Lizard and three kinds of Fire-Breathing Serpent existed in various mountain ranges worldwide. Significantly smaller than true dragons – ranging in size from rhinoceros- to alligator-proportions – Scamander had simply (and very controversially) ignored them all. Theories abounded regarding what these species truly signified. Some claimed they were related to dragons based on their reptilian features and fire-breathing abilities. Others insisted all were distinct clades of magical reptile, theorizing flammable exhalation was an example of convergent evolution.

Flame-Lizards, for the most part, looked and behaved like small dragons, albeit with a huge range of unique adaptations. A birdlike mouth (Russian Beaked), a bifurcated, arrow-tipped tail (Persian Twin-Tail), pseudo-hair (Mongolian Maned), and chameleon-like camouflage ability (Pacific Crested) were just a few of the astounding variations. Charlie had long been particularly entranced by the Yucatánian Crowned, a venomous creature bearing a topknot of feathers that one wizarding ethnobiologist posited served as the basis for the Aztec's Quetzalcoatl myths.

But Fire-Breathing Serpents were an even trickier set of beasts: while the Anatolian Short-Leg and Indian Hooded varieties still bore vestigial, tiny legs along their serpentine bodies, the Australian Rainbow Serpent was completely legless. All three slithered along the ground on their bellies, but the Anatolian was fully winged and capable of flight while the Indian had a large cobra-like neck hood that enabled it to glide through air and water both. How were these three creatures related, if they were at all?

He shifted his focus back on the little scientist. "Tell me again what those contraptions do," Charlie prompted him, never tiring of hearing the barely-credible explanations.

Merlin placed his hand on a small appliance perched on the table beside him, an expression approaching paternal pride on his face. "This is the Eppendorf Mastercycler, a DNA amplifier. Using the polymerase chain reaction, or PCR, it makes vast numbers of copies of each sample organism's signature DNA." Then he pointed at a cabinet-sized machine next to the table. "And this is the Applied Biosystems 3700 capillary sequencing machine. It decodes the DNA base-pair sequences using gel electrophoresis."¹

The words sounded perfectly magical to Charlie. After all, Merlin mixed tiny droplets of dragon's blood – a well known potion ingredient – mixed it with some other reagents in tiny plastic tubes (not with mortars and pestles or cauldrons, though), stuffed them into these Muggle gadgets, pushed a few buttons, and voila! Some lights flashed while the machines hummed, then out popped the answers on another foldable, lighted screen Merlin called a laptop.

"And this was all your parents' idea?" Charlie asked.

"Not quite," Merlin replied patiently. "My mother always fostered my interest in magical creatures growing up, and my father strongly encouraged me to pursue a college education." He paused, smiling to himself. "They met at Harvard, actually. My mom and dad." Then he grew serious and focused again. "They're both supportive of my attempts to partner non-magical research techniques with magical subjects, but my research is entirely my own."

A quiet settled then. Over the hiss of the ventilation system, Charlie listened to the sound-suppressed racket of the generator outdoors, supplying this little room with the necessary electrical power to run the machines. He watched Merlin work with an economy of motion and an almost feminine grace, rapidly transferring tiny drops of stuff from one container to another.

His name, his research, and the Muggle electrical equipment weren't the only intriguing things about Merlin Miller. Charlie's mind had boggled when, after moving his personal gear into a guest room in keeper hut number nine, having known him and Sasha for less than half a day, Merlin had boldly announced over a bowl of stew that he was gay (not that it had been any great revelation – the man gave off a strong, clear vibe at all times). Moreover, his tone of voice had practically dared them to make an issue of the declaration.

Charlie couldn't imagine what had inspired the man to be so open, so forward, so reckless! Every single keeper on the rez had a minimum of five stone and half a foot on Merlin: bigger brutes than he had been pounded to a pulp for making a veiled accusation, much less a confession. Nor did he come off as terribly magically adept – his mind was brilliant, to be sure, but his wandwork left a bit to be desired. Why on earth would a pansy like Merlin advertise the fact he was a pouf – inviting contempt at best, physical harm at worst – when he had no real means of defending himself?

Ever since Freya's assertion a year and a half ago that "everyone knew" his and Sasha's secret, neither man had detected any difference whatsoever in any of their colleagues' behavior toward them. Neither Charlie nor Sasha discussed the issue with anyone else before or since, and no one had broached the subject of their relationship openly. In short, since no part of her claim had been substantiated over the ensuing time, they'd assumed she'd simply been mistaken (deciding that, considering the situation, she had no real reason to lie).

Even so, he'd immediately wondered if the decision to house the poncy researcher with them had been something of a comment on the situation. I'll not have the likes of him sleepin' in my hut! Shove all the fags in there together... Though upon further consideration, Charlie decided it was equally if not more likely because Merlin spoke nothing but English.

Merlin's voice penetrated Charlie's distracted thoughts. "Can I ask you a question?"

Charlie looked up to see Merlin passing through the soft plastic curtain divider. Once they were on the same side, he began removing his protective gear – which only made him appear even smaller. "Of course," Charlie replied, beginning to divest himself of the disposable garments he'd donned earlier.

Merlin shrugged out of the hood and hung it up. "Why do you tolerate all the homophobia here?"

Despite Merlin's casual tone, Charlie went on full alert. Had any of the other keepers harassed him about being gay? "It doesn't mean anything, really," Charlie assured him, mentally making a note to keep a closer eye on the little fellow just in case any of the Ridgebit blokes got a little tetchy. He didn't seriously think any real harm would come to the man, but he was terribly small and weak-looking...

"Which doesn't mean anything: their disparaging remarks... or your self-respect?" Merlin countered, slipping out of his coveralls.

Charlie froze, stunned. "My self-respect?"

Merlin turned around to face him. "I'm not blind. I've seen the looks between you and Vasiliev."

Looks!? What looks!?

When Charlie did nothing but stare silently back at him, Merlin continued, "There's no reason to feel so ashamed of yourselves. It's a natural, biological difference, no matter what you were told growing up."

"I'm not ashamed of anything," Charlie growled, bristling. He had long since gotten over any personal qualms with being gay. He was who he was, and the happiness he'd found with Sasha far outweighed any reservations he might have otherwise had. He'd accepted his sexual orientation ages ago.

"Then why do you put up with it?" Merlin demanded. "'Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.'"²

"Injustice?" Charlie snorted, feeling somewhat awkward to be put in a position to defend his colleagues for this, of all things. "Everyone here insults everyone else – no one's singled out. It's nothing but harmless words. If you can't take it, then you sure as hell don't belong on the rez."

"Harmless words, huh?" Merlin parried. "That's the typical defense of closet bigots and racists the world over."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Charlie snapped. The men of Ridgebit weren't bigots and racists. He'd known them for years, knew what sacrifices and accomplishments made them who they were. Courageous and honorable men, all.

"Then why don't you and your lover come out to your open-minded and accepting coworkers?" Merlin dared him. Hands on his hips, he looked comically brave, stepping up to Charlie and going nose to chin with him. "You hide your true self because you're afraid of them, Weasley. Just another fag scared into the closet."

Charlie's first instinct was to throttle the man standing before him, so brazenly accusing him of cowardice. To grab him by the throat and slam him against the plastic wall and tell him precisely where he could cram his presumption. Any other keeper would've done far worse. But Charlie swallowed the urge just as quickly. Instead, he took Merlin by the shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him a step backward, reinstating his personal space once more.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Charlie repeated. He couldn't defend his colleagues' use of the words, their seeming intolerance, nor would he try. But the men themselves were decent, loyal blokes, clever and honest and dependable. He refused to stand by while Merlin Miller, this pencil-necked, coddled, come-lately intellectual, derided them.

"Then explain it to me," Merlin said, folding his arms across his chest. "Explain to me how 'fag' and 'queer' are really just terms of endearment. How those homophobes are really supportive and understanding once you get to know them."

Charlie set his jaw. The truth was that he struggled to identify the boundary between keeping private things private and hiding his essential self. If anyone had asked him point blank, he wouldn't have denied the truth – but he probably wouldn't have answered with anything but, "Mind your own fucking business," either. Not that he was afraid of potential reprisals: he was more than capable of defending himself.

It didn't help that he'd become convinced that telling his family or colleagues would simply lead to unnecessary stress on them. His mother didn't need yet another heartbreak, another reason to worry, another disappointment. And the network of trust and tradition amongst the keepers was already so taxed by the presence of Freya and Flaviu's infant daughter. It was such a big change to adapt to already, this temporary juggling of partnerships and scheduling (as well as the physical existence of a baby in a keeper's hut!) he couldn't imagine his fellow keepers being flexible enough to accommodate an openly homosexual relationship between two male colleagues on top of it. Mutual trust and reliability meant everything to the men who laid their lives on the line every day for each other – Charlie couldn't justify such selfishness on his part when the distraction could prove fatal to others.

Especially when he knew the 'fag' and 'queer' comments signified nothing truly malicious, even when directed at him or Sasha! That the men who bandied those words about had been raped as children, and their disparagement of homosexuality had nothing to do with him or Sasha as individuals and everything to do with their own trauma. He was confident his colleagues respected them personally and professionally, and counted several of them as dear friends in turn.

In short, what sense did it make to rock the boat? He had nothing to prove to this stranger and everything professionally and personally to lose.

"I'll explain this much to you," Charlie said softly, calmly. "My personal life is my own affair, and my relationship with you is strictly professional." He stepped around Merlin and walked toward the door.

"You can't hide yourself forever!" Merlin called after him. "You owe it to the rest of us to come out."

Charlie paused in the doorway. Over his shoulder, he said, "You don't know me, Miller. And I sure as hell don't owe you a goddamn thing." Then he walked out into a cold rain.

"Wait! Weasley!" Merlin jogged outside to catch up.

Without altering his stride, Charlie said, "Tomorrow morning, seven a.m, we'll take you to get the next Horntail sample you wanted."

"But–"

Charlie halted and spun around on his pursuer. "Not another word about it," he murmured warningly. "Not to me, not to anyone. This discussion is over. Are we clear?"

Merlin's shoulders sagged and he nodded, disappointed. "It's your decision. I'm not a blabbermouth. But I wish you'd reconsider–"

But Charlie spun on his heels and strode off, fuming.

Author's Note: Ten species of dragon throughout the entire world – all but two of them Eurasian – seemed to me to be a rather paltry show considering all the magnificently remote mountainous regions of the world, many of which have spawned remarkably similar legends of dragon-like monsters amongst indigenous people. I just couldn't resist adding a few more. Giants, Monsters & Dragons by Carol Rose very much sparked my imagination here.

1. Admittedly, Merlin is very well-supplied, but all these Muggle gadgets and protocols did exist in 2000 and still do today, though they are much smaller, faster, and more efficient now. PCR and DNA sequencing details can be found by clicking on the hyperlinked words if you're interested. And I now want a clean room of my very own (for absolutely no good reason).

2. Quote from Martin Luther King, Jr., Letter from Birmingham Jail, April 16, 1963