12-Dec-02

Chapter 23

December 12, 2002

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"You have no romance in your soul, little bro," Charlie chided Ron...

"Leave Charlie alone. Even dragons need love, too," Bill scolded him jokingly. – George & Annie: An Unofficial Biography, Chapter 52

* * *

On the morning of December 12, 2002 – in the pitch-dark of precisely 5:07 a.m. – Charlie was awakened by an astonishingly fantastic blow job already in full swing. Barely conscious and certainly not in full control of his faculties enough to belay the (hopefully not embarrassingly quick) imminent orgasm, Charlie moaned and shuddered his completion mere moments later. Still gasping in recovery, before he'd even managed the chance to ask, Thanks, but what the hell was the Welsh breakfast for?, Sasha's head emerged from under the comforter and grinned.

"Happy thirtieth birthday, Charlie," he murmured quickly, then kissed him on his way out of bed.

Charlie managed a grunt in reply, his head still spinning a little.

A few moments later, Sasha bounded back into his room leading a small parade of packages. "I know you don't want me to sing to you," he chuckled as the gifts lightly settled onto the comforter above Charlie's lap.

"Thanks anyway," Charlie agreed, laughing. Among Sasha's many talents, carrying a tune was not one of them.

"Open the one from your mother first," Sasha suggested as he snuggled back down under the comforter.

Charlie obeyed, unwrapping yet another homemade balaclava (her traditional birthday present for him), this one knitted in a dark navy yarn, soft yet sturdy. He was pleased by such a practical gift and planned to wear it immediately – already the wind outside was howling as the latest Carpathian blizzard cooked up its worst.

The next package – this one from George – contained half a dozen Muggle paperback fantasy novels and several colorful pictures of dragons made by his twin boys. George and his Muggle wife usually sent Charlie a few books each year, and he'd amassed quite a collection now of the fantastical dragon-themed stories. Despite the fact he lived and worked with the real thing, he'd generally found the Muggle stories quite entertaining (Muggles could prove surprisingly imaginative, he'd discovered).

Ginny sent an overlarge box of Honeydukes sweets populated with Fizzing Whizbees, Jelly Slugs, and Pepper Imps: all his childhood favorites. He popped an Imp into his mouth, then pulled a startled Sasha in close for a literally fiery kiss. Both men parted laughing, the residual smoke exiting their ears and nostrils.

After several more moments spent playfully thus, and with a sticky residue left on a nipple or three resulting from a thoroughly inappropriate use of a Jelly Slug, Sasha reached out for the final package: a slim, brown-paper-wrapped article whose proportions very much resembled a wall calendar. "Are you avoiding this one for some reason?" he needled him.

Charlie smirked. In truth, he would've liked to ignore it, tossing it directly into the bin where other similar gifts from past years had gone. But Sasha, for some perverse reason, wouldn't let it drop, pestering him to open it. Reluctantly, he tore into the paper.

As expected, his brothers had once again renewed his subscription to the Witch of the Month Club. Charlie made to pitch the calendar toward the bin, but Sasha summoned it back. As he slowly flipped through the months, the almost completely disrobed ladies pictured therein began seductively removing the final vestiges of their scant clothing. Charlie looked away, knowing with dread that another dozen skin mags would follow during the ensuing months.

"Why do your brothers do this every year?" Sasha asked softly.

"Because they're fucking gits," Charlie growled. Then he elbowed his frowning lover. "I told you there were benefits to being an only child, and this is one of them. No stupid presents from idiotic brothers for you."

"But why this?" he pressed.

"They think it's terribly funny," Charlie offered, grumbling. All of them were married men now – even Percy, his last fellow holdout against the institution of matrimony, had finally caved and taken a bride September last, leaving Charlie the sole remaining Weasley bachelor.

"What is funny about looking at naked strangers?" Sasha asked. "It's sad, if you ask me. I feel sorry for the families of these women exposing themselves for money."

"You're preaching to the choir, love," Charlie said, extremely unwilling to debate the contentious relationship between pornography and feminism at the moment.

"Do you think it might mean something more?" Sasha asked carefully. "Something a little... malicious?"

Charlie understood the question he was really asking: Do you think they know our secret?

"My brothers dearly adore taking the mickey out of everyone, but I don't think they ever mean any real harm." Charlie sighed as he fell back onto his pillow. "They imagine that I'm terribly lonely here, and that this sort of thing is what I ought to pine for."

"They've been listening to your mother too much," Sasha said.

"Yes, well, she does have a habit of constantly bangin' on about things and can be rather difficult to tune out," Charlie granted.

Sasha gave the facial equivalent of a shrug, conceding Charlie's point. Then he smiled smugly. "Ready for your present from me?"

Charlie smiled back. "Thought I already got it," he chuckled.

Sasha shook his head. By some sleight of hand and a well-placed Disillusionment Charm, he then produced a sizeable package from under the covers that Charlie hadn't noticed before. When Charlie accepted the foot-and-a-half-long thing from him, he recognized its solid weight heralded something significant.

"What the hell is it?" Charlie wondered aloud, poring over the leather-clad box, looking for clues but finding none.

"Open it and see, fool," Sasha pushed impatiently.

Charlie gave him a stern, searching look. Something told him Sasha had gone overboard this time.

Sasha rolled his eyes. He pointed at the little brass hinges, then mimed the lid opening with his hands. "It works like this, little one," he encouraged patronizingly, as if to a very young child.

Charlie shot a weak glare his way but did as he was told. Then he gasped at the sight of a gleaming dagger resting upon black velvet within. Made entirely of what he strongly suspected was Goblin steel, the blade was a modified hourglass shape that came to an unquestionably lethal point. The pommel resembled a fancy, winged W, and the hilt was split open, the negative space reducing its weight without compromising its strength. A decorated black leather sheath lay alongside it like a lover.¹

"Oh my God, Sash," Charlie breathed, running his fingertips along its length. He'd only ever dreamt of owning an actual Goblin blade, and this specimen... Well, it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

"Do you forgive me now for your rude awakening so early this morning?" Sasha teased him.

"I don't know what to say," Charlie choked, stammering slightly, feeling the sting of tears welling up in his eyes. As overwhelmed as he felt, he couldn't escape the conclusion that, since Sasha earned an only slightly larger salary than he did (based solely on seniority), he must've tapped into his recent inheritance from his mother to purchase such an expensive gift.

Sasha's arm wrapped around Charlie's shoulders. "Promise me you'll use it in good health."

Charlie nodded, still unable to speak, then allowed Sasha to pull him closer in a sideways hug.

"I'll just go start the coffee, shall I?" Sasha announced a few moments later. He exited the room then, and Charlie knew, regardless of the pretense, that he'd been left alone to discreetly compose himself.

Breathing deeply, Charlie summoned self-control. There was no question he'd never be in a financial position to reciprocate Sasha's gift, so the best he could do was prove himself worthy of it. He dressed quickly, layering shirts and jumpers, long johns and lined trousers, doubling up his socks within his dragon hide boots in preparation to face the cold outside. Then he carefully threaded his belt through the slits cut into his new knife's sheath, marveling at the weapon's balance and lightness as he holstered it at his waist.

Sasha wore a pleased smile to see him wearing the dagger when Charlie joined him in the kitchen. Coffee, toast, and some warmed-up mutton stew awaited him on the table. "It looks good on you," Sasha said over the rim of his mug before taking a drink.

"Thanks," Charlie managed to say without becoming overemotional again. He meant to say more, but Sasha waved him off.

"It was my pleasure," Sasha replied.

Charlie knew that would be the end of it, so he tucked into breakfast.

"And now, it is my regrettable duty to inform you that your presence is required at Afumaţi tonight at eight p.m., whereupon you will be subjected to a surprise party in your honor," Sasha said with sympathy ringing clear in his voice. "Please don't take your fury out upon the messenger."

"Ah, fucking hell," Charlie groaned, letting his spoon fall into his stew, splattering the table.

"Sadly, I was unable to spare you from being subjected to this torture," Sasha said with a wince. "Which is largely the reason for your happy wake-up head – I wanted you to enjoy at least some part of your birthday."

"Why does it have to be there, of all places?" he grumbled.

"Who do you think instigated the stupid idea?" Sasha retorted. "It sure as shit wasn't any of us."

Charlie pushed the bowl of food away, his appetite sapped. The prospect of attending any sort of party, much less as the guest of honor, was so far down on his list of favorite things to do as to be invisible. Top that off with the knowledge that Ileana Bălan would be the hostess for the evening, and Charlie's stomach twisted in nervous dread. She'd been pouring on the meaningful glances and come-hither body language for the last four years, convinced there was some metaphysical destiny meant for them because he'd "saved" her during the Battle of Hogwarts. Yes, she'd gotten herself backed into a proverbial tight spot, and he happened to be the closest available wizard to come to her aid, but that was all there was to it. They'd dispatched the Death Eater together as equals, but she'd insisted on telling anyone who'd listen how she owed her life to him ever since.

"My guess is you'll be getting quite a present from your girlfriend tonight," Sasha needled him.

"Don't you start," Charlie snapped. It was bad enough that the rest of the keepers teased him about Ileana's soft spot for him. This party promised to make the situation ten times worse, at minimum. "That settles it – I'm not going."

"She's already strong-armed the rest of them with threats of calling in their bar tabs if they don't show," Sasha warned him. "None of them has the balls to piss off Ileana. And if we have to be there, you can bet your sweet ginger arse we're dragging you along with us. "

"Fucking hell," Charlie groaned again, sounding utterly defeated this time.

Charlie went about his morning work in something of a distracted haze. He flew on his broom from lair to lair, making his usual rounds. He checked on several mating pairs, confirming the number of eggs being sat. He checked the ground beneath the openings for fresh scat, verifying that each female's mate had managed to bring her a successful hunt recently (if not, a few sheep from the reservation's herds would be delivered that afternoon). All the while, he ruminated on the events of the morning.

Sasha's gift was almost too much to absorb. As much as he loved the dagger, as moved as he was by his lover's generosity, he had to admit it irked him that he could never hope to match it. The balance between them hadn't been this one-sided in a very long time – not since Charlie had been an inexperienced neophyte in the ways of love, in fact, had he felt so beholden. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that such had never been Sasha's intent, though: he'd only meant to express his affection with the artful weapon, not impress his superiority.

Next on his rounds, Charlie happened upon an empty lair of a virgin adolescent dragon out for a hunt. Touching down just inside the mouth of the lair, he began quickly scouting the interior for any useful shed items: bits of claws, horns, scales, the occasional tooth – these and more could be collected and sold as potions ingredients, funding the reservation's efforts. While he searched, his thoughts turned down another troubling avenue.

Ileana's party loomed like a gallows before him. And the most infuriating thing about the situation was that he quite liked her – as a friend. She was witty and genuine and, underneath the sharp exterior, nursed a kind and generous heart. He'd truly enjoyed their conversations – only, they apparently meant something completely different to her than they did to him. He'd been very careful never to flirt, assiduously keeping to topics completely devoid of innuendo, but still she pressed ever closer, smiled a little too brightly, her looks lingered painful seconds too long. No matter what he did to gently discourage Ileana, she saw and heard only what she wanted to.

Unwilling to inadvertently lead her on any longer and seemingly unable to correct her misimpression without fully coming out to her, he'd spent the past year avoiding her entirely. Whenever the others invited him to join them at her pub, he found an excuse to stay away. Much to his chagrin, they frequently reported back the next day how she'd asked after him. He'd subsequently endured several rounds of teasing from them about his jilting her or stringing her along, frustrating him further.

What the hell am I gonna do tonight? he lamented. There'd be no avoiding her at the party, that was for certain. And it didn't take a divination orb to predict there'd be hell to pay, either from her or from his coworkers. Or both.

And then there was the inanity of his brothers' thoughtless gift. It was a double-edged sword, he supposed, that they knew him so poorly: the distance between him and his family (both literal and emotional) made it that much easier to shield them from the sordid details of his secret life. Then again, this was his family that he'd grown so distant from, so much so that they didn't even realize this most fundamental thing about him.

But that's exactly how you wanted it, idiot, he chastised himself. Can't have it both ways, can you? You have to be open and honest with people if you expect them to understand anything about you.

But what if that understanding drives them further away? he fretted. Crushes them with disappointment? Hurts them? This was the muzzle that forever held his tongue in check. What if declaring his sexual preference – the most private thing about a person, in his mind – destroyed his already strained relationships with his family, ruined his crucial relationships with his colleagues?

So where does that leave you, then? A thirty-year-old, gay-but-closeted dragon keeper whose family keeps trying to fix him up with women, hounded by a troublesome barmaid suffering a misguided crush–

The skitter of small rocks tumbling down the slope behind him caught his attention, and he spun around just in time to get hit with a disarming spell. His wand clattered against the floor of the lair. Charlie's eyes searched the empty space before him, unable to see a figure or detect any ripple of Disillusionment. His hand reached for his dagger.

A voice rang out, unrecognizable and unintelligible, and the world went black.

1. A picture of Charlie's dagger (called "The Neptune Blade") can be found here.