Many thanks to Rainpuddle for betaing it, and to her and EmpressVesica and Where Is Truth for telling me it didn't suck.
This story was commissioned by Bitteliten for The_Fund, and was supposed to be 500 words. I got a bit overenthusiastic, as you can probably tell. Let me know what you think.
~~~~~~
No one knew what had caused it, but in the instant after Lord Voldemort died for the final time, all the dragons of the world had begun to sicken and die. Some said it was because they were dark creatures and mourned the loss of their master, and others said that Voldemort had cursed the dragons with his dying breath for his own evil purposes, a subtle and terrible vengeance whose ultimate goal couldn't be seen yet. Those were the greatest extremes, but there were a thousand theories more, a million, one for every member of the wizard world. Whatever the cause, the fact remained: the dragons were dying.
The number of dragons in the world had not been high in the modern era, but the immediate drop was so sharp that newspapers and governments across the globe had urged action on behalf of all wizards to save the species from permanent extinction. Committees were formed, and treaties, and money poured in so that everything, even muggle methods, could be tried. Nothing worked.
After a time, the rate at which the dragons died slowed, tapering off to the point where it was no longer a matter of months before extinction was predicted. Interest began to wane as other stories took up column inches in the newspapers, and so government support began to dwindle. As long as they weren't going to be excoriated for failing to pay attention to the makeshift conditions of the camps that had been set up for the care of the dragons, the politicians didn't give a damn.
The dragons were still dying, though. It was a slow process, and painful to watch. No dragons flew anymore. They were landbound and joyless and there was nothing anyone could do. No one sane and whole could stand watching; even his deep love for the animals, and later on a truly spectacular amount of drinking, so that he was never seen sober, could save Hagrid from the despair of helplessness. He'd disappeared into the Forbidden Forest, leaving the civilized world behind him and refusing any contact with humans.
Those that remained were the damaged, the wounded, the hollow shells who couldn't function in a world of normal humans, and so they hid away with the dragons. Some found a catharsis in caring for the dying creatures, and those eventually rejoined society, raising funds so that the work of the camps could continue, and so that ever more desperate treatments could be developed and tried in the hopes of turning the tide. Some found a different form of escape, and they were buried quietly in the graveyard behind the church that no one attended, the only permanent structures in a camp that had existed for seven years. The church had existed beforehand, and the graveyard was a necessity that no one spoke of.
Severus Snape was there, had been from almost the beginning. The wizard world in general did not know what to make of him; they knew he was a hero, that he had saved all of them, but they felt he was a villain, and so he found no permanent welcome anywhere, even as he was lauded. He'd been asked to consult for an early search for a cure and had accepted for reasons of his own, then stayed. He still made potions, some to sell, some for the needs of the camp, and some for the dragons. Everyone called him "Professor", because those who hadn't gone to Hogwarts picked up the habit from those that had, and no one spoke of Dumbledore in his presence, for any positive mention would make him retreat within himself, a white-faced silence that would last for days, but even a hint of criticism for the late Headmaster would induce an unforgiving fury of cataclysmic proportions.
The lucky ones who invoked that rage were passed off to Malfoy, but only when compared to their treatment at Snape's hands could Draco Malfoy be seen as a better option. No one knew why he was there, or what had been the fate of his parents or his fortune, but to ask would have broken the most sacred rule of the camp, to respect the privacy of others. The law was all the stronger for being unwritten; if anyone chose to share something, whether their history, their belongings, or even their name, they could, but to ask was the ultimate in bad manners. Any attempt to insist on answers from anyone was grounds for banishment, and no one had ever dared questioned Malfoy's right to enforce that rule or any other.
Everyone knew why Ginny Weasley was there, though. She'd been there from the very beginning, although not a lot of people realized that, or that it was the small redhead who actually gave the orders for their tent city. What they did know, either because they'd read it in the papers themselves or because someone had told them, was that the famous Weasley family had lost one of their own, a dragon-tamer, and had never been the same since. Some would react by sneering, and some with tears, but all of them understood why she would choose to work with dying dragons, in memory of her dead brother. Everyone had lost someone, and so grief was too well known a companion to hold many mysteries.
The other thing everyone knew about Ginny Weasley, but no one spoke of, was that she belonged to Draco Malfoy. The two might have nasty rows and say things to each other that might be considered unforgivable when said between mortal enemies, but if anyone dared to disparage her or disobey her commands, they would face unspeakable wrath from Malfoy, which was all the worse for being discreet. And every night he entered her tent, and in the morning he would come out with all the physical signs of having spent the night in the throes of passion, although he never seemed to be made any happier by these trysts.
Life continued in this vein until the Wilder came. The Wilder changed everything around him because even Malfoys - perhaps especially Malfoys, with their reverence for ancient wizarding traditions -believed it was necessary to be kind to Wilders, to take care of them, and terribly bad fortune would haunt the person who dared raise a hand in anger against one. No one knew where Wilders came from, or why, just that they existed, and were rare. Hermione had talked about a story called "Peter Pan" when she first read about them, but then mentioned the term "lost boys", and Ginny had always thought that fit better.
This Wilder was a little boy, perhaps nine years old, and probably wouldn't consider himself lost. Or perhaps he might; he never stayed long, always moving on, disapparating without warning at times which only made sense to him. He didn't have a wand, of course, but that's what made him a Wilder; his magic was untamed, uncontrolled, and he seemed as much like the mythic fey as human. Speech for him consisted of grunts and ululations, but nothing resembling any form of communication. He wandered and played where he wished, looking through the belongings of the camp members, curling up into whatever cot struck his fancy, regardless of whether it was occupied, and played among the dragons in a way that made onlookers hold their breath for fear he would come to harm, though he never did.
He was eating one day, carrying a piece of bread around as he wandered through the tents, when Ginny and Draco were having one of their periodic fights. At first he took no more notice of it than he ever did, as the doings of humans mostly were beneath his notice, but then Draco used a jinx that made Ginny balloon up to three times her normal size, and the Wilder cried out, "Mawwwwwwwwwwwwm!" and threw himself into Ginny's newly corpulent arms.
He almost knocked her over, burrowing his face in her bosom and repeating the cry of "Mawm, mawm, mawm!" while Ginny floundered, trying to adjust to her new size and deal with the wriggling little boy who was trying to draw her arms around him. She looked up at Draco, a certain helplessness in her eyes, and he quietly removed the jinx.
As soon as the extra flesh melted away from Ginny's body, the Wilder burst into tears, screaming and wailing and pounding his fists on her shoulders as he cried like his heart was broken. By now a crowd had gathered, and all of them just stared as she held him and rocked, whispering soothing nonsense in the hopes of calming him.
The whispers stopped abruptly as Snape burst through the crowd, snarling, "Don't stand around gawping like ninnies. If you don't have any duties, I'd be happy to assign some to you."
As the onlookers started to at least pretend to be busy and moving away, the Wilder's increasingly weak cries could be distinguished again, as could Ginny frantically saying, "What's wrong? Poor baby, please, calm down, it's all right, please, what's wrong?"
"He's calling for his mother, Miss Weasley, what do you think is wrong?" The onlookers really did start to disperse then, the sight of sorrow and pity on Snape's face somehow more terrible than his glare had ever been. "Your sudden weight gain must have triggered his memory of her, and then taken it away again when Mister Malfoy removed the hex." He stood over them for another moment, his eyes dark and fathomless as he looked down. It was over quickly, however, and his tones were almost normal as he said, "Judging by his pronunciation, he must be an American."
"Are you American?" Ginny crooned, smoothing his hair away from his forehead as he hiccupped and sighed with the remnants of his sobs. "The United States?"
He pulled back to look at her, a frown of intense concentration on his face. Very carefully, his diction almost clear, he said, "One dollar."
"Definitely American," Draco said with considerable amusement. "And he's got his priorities in order if he can talk about money."
The Wilder looked up at him and gave a half-smile before standing up and scrubbing at his face, smearing the tracks of his tears to closer match the dirt around them. Without looking at Draco he took his hand, moving it to pat the Wilder's filthy hair in a mimicry of a fond gesture. Dropping his hand afterwards, the Wilder strolled way, jabbering away in a singsong as he entered the nearest dragon pen.
"I wonder if anyone's looking for him," Ginny said, standing and dusting herself off.
Snape looked to where the Wilder was now crawling over a female dragon's tail, up towards her broad back. "There's been no report of a nascent Wilder in recent years, but perhaps I wouldn't have heard of an American one. I'll make inquiries," he said, turning briskly and walking away as if he intended to begin sending owls that very minute.
"And I'll see if I can find dollars somewhere," said Draco. "Maybe he can be bribed to take a bath."
"He's gone into the showers on occasion," Ginny said absently, shading her eyes against the sun that reflected off the dragon's scales. The light temporarily hid the Wilder from sight and she squinted to try to catch a glimpse of him. "He soaps his privates and arse, but won't allow his face or hair to touch soap, and he only goes in sometimes."
"We'll have to-- What's happening?" The dragon that the Wilder was sitting on seemed to get brighter, and she started to roar. Both of them moved in, but stopped as the dragon snapped her head up, the Wilder's laughter ringing in the air. Malfoy looked grim as he pulled his wand from his sleeve. "She's dying."
Ginny nodded, her own wand coming out of her pocket as she assessed the situation. "There's something else… Look!"
Despite the dragon's thrashing putting him in danger, the Wilder was calm as he walked out of the pen, clutching a small white sphere that gleamed dully, like a pearl. He giggled and held it up, and now that Ginny knew he could say things, she could tell that the "baw!" he crowed out meant, "ball." Ginny's heart caught in her throat as the dragon groaned, its hot breath rolling past the Wilder in a visible cloud, almost seeming to shimmer with the last of the dragon's life force.
"Ball," the Wilder said gravely. "Star."
And it did seem to have stars in it. Witches glowed during pregnancy because of the magic of life beginning and so did fertilized eggs, although normally the glow was muted. This shell was too frail, though, and so the light of the new life within shone through with little to conceal it. Ginny moved closer, cautiously, holding her hands out. "Can I have the ball?" she asked in her most coaxing tone. "Please, can you give me the ball?"
The Wilder looked at her in puzzlement, his brow furrowed as he held up the dragon egg. "Ball. My ball. Star."
She reached out for it and he snatched it away, jabbering indignantly. Before she could chase him and grab it anyway, Draco put a hand on her shoulder, holding her back. "Leave him alone. It's not like that egg would ever hatch anyway."
He had a point; very few dragon eggs managed to hatch, and only the very strongest of the babies born survived more than a few days. Still she slapped his hand away and scowled. "You can't know that! Every chance is precious, and--"
"And yet that only applies to dragon eggs," he said with a sneer. "You certainly won't give anything else a chance."
Icily, she said, "I give chances to everything worthwhile," then walked away without a backwards glance.
Draco stared after her, his face taut with suppressed emotion, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. "You have a talent for making yourself unhappy, Mister Malfoy."
"I'm not the only one," Draco snarled, ignoring the amused nod Snape gave in acknowledgment. "I thought you'd left, so why are you here?"
"Because the relationship you and Miss Weasley share is fascinating and priceless entertainment, something between the soap operas on the wireless and a broom crash," Snape said dryly. "Not to mention that I'm in charge of the various betting pools and thus need to remain informed."
Draco made a rude gesture and stomped away, leaving Snape to quirk his lips in the smile that was his equivalent of a deep belly laugh.
This story was commissioned by Bitteliten for The_Fund, and was supposed to be 500 words. I got a bit overenthusiastic, as you can probably tell. Let me know what you think.
~~~~~~
No one knew what had caused it, but in the instant after Lord Voldemort died for the final time, all the dragons of the world had begun to sicken and die. Some said it was because they were dark creatures and mourned the loss of their master, and others said that Voldemort had cursed the dragons with his dying breath for his own evil purposes, a subtle and terrible vengeance whose ultimate goal couldn't be seen yet. Those were the greatest extremes, but there were a thousand theories more, a million, one for every member of the wizard world. Whatever the cause, the fact remained: the dragons were dying.
The number of dragons in the world had not been high in the modern era, but the immediate drop was so sharp that newspapers and governments across the globe had urged action on behalf of all wizards to save the species from permanent extinction. Committees were formed, and treaties, and money poured in so that everything, even muggle methods, could be tried. Nothing worked.
After a time, the rate at which the dragons died slowed, tapering off to the point where it was no longer a matter of months before extinction was predicted. Interest began to wane as other stories took up column inches in the newspapers, and so government support began to dwindle. As long as they weren't going to be excoriated for failing to pay attention to the makeshift conditions of the camps that had been set up for the care of the dragons, the politicians didn't give a damn.
The dragons were still dying, though. It was a slow process, and painful to watch. No dragons flew anymore. They were landbound and joyless and there was nothing anyone could do. No one sane and whole could stand watching; even his deep love for the animals, and later on a truly spectacular amount of drinking, so that he was never seen sober, could save Hagrid from the despair of helplessness. He'd disappeared into the Forbidden Forest, leaving the civilized world behind him and refusing any contact with humans.
Those that remained were the damaged, the wounded, the hollow shells who couldn't function in a world of normal humans, and so they hid away with the dragons. Some found a catharsis in caring for the dying creatures, and those eventually rejoined society, raising funds so that the work of the camps could continue, and so that ever more desperate treatments could be developed and tried in the hopes of turning the tide. Some found a different form of escape, and they were buried quietly in the graveyard behind the church that no one attended, the only permanent structures in a camp that had existed for seven years. The church had existed beforehand, and the graveyard was a necessity that no one spoke of.
Severus Snape was there, had been from almost the beginning. The wizard world in general did not know what to make of him; they knew he was a hero, that he had saved all of them, but they felt he was a villain, and so he found no permanent welcome anywhere, even as he was lauded. He'd been asked to consult for an early search for a cure and had accepted for reasons of his own, then stayed. He still made potions, some to sell, some for the needs of the camp, and some for the dragons. Everyone called him "Professor", because those who hadn't gone to Hogwarts picked up the habit from those that had, and no one spoke of Dumbledore in his presence, for any positive mention would make him retreat within himself, a white-faced silence that would last for days, but even a hint of criticism for the late Headmaster would induce an unforgiving fury of cataclysmic proportions.
The lucky ones who invoked that rage were passed off to Malfoy, but only when compared to their treatment at Snape's hands could Draco Malfoy be seen as a better option. No one knew why he was there, or what had been the fate of his parents or his fortune, but to ask would have broken the most sacred rule of the camp, to respect the privacy of others. The law was all the stronger for being unwritten; if anyone chose to share something, whether their history, their belongings, or even their name, they could, but to ask was the ultimate in bad manners. Any attempt to insist on answers from anyone was grounds for banishment, and no one had ever dared questioned Malfoy's right to enforce that rule or any other.
Everyone knew why Ginny Weasley was there, though. She'd been there from the very beginning, although not a lot of people realized that, or that it was the small redhead who actually gave the orders for their tent city. What they did know, either because they'd read it in the papers themselves or because someone had told them, was that the famous Weasley family had lost one of their own, a dragon-tamer, and had never been the same since. Some would react by sneering, and some with tears, but all of them understood why she would choose to work with dying dragons, in memory of her dead brother. Everyone had lost someone, and so grief was too well known a companion to hold many mysteries.
The other thing everyone knew about Ginny Weasley, but no one spoke of, was that she belonged to Draco Malfoy. The two might have nasty rows and say things to each other that might be considered unforgivable when said between mortal enemies, but if anyone dared to disparage her or disobey her commands, they would face unspeakable wrath from Malfoy, which was all the worse for being discreet. And every night he entered her tent, and in the morning he would come out with all the physical signs of having spent the night in the throes of passion, although he never seemed to be made any happier by these trysts.
Life continued in this vein until the Wilder came. The Wilder changed everything around him because even Malfoys - perhaps especially Malfoys, with their reverence for ancient wizarding traditions -believed it was necessary to be kind to Wilders, to take care of them, and terribly bad fortune would haunt the person who dared raise a hand in anger against one. No one knew where Wilders came from, or why, just that they existed, and were rare. Hermione had talked about a story called "Peter Pan" when she first read about them, but then mentioned the term "lost boys", and Ginny had always thought that fit better.
This Wilder was a little boy, perhaps nine years old, and probably wouldn't consider himself lost. Or perhaps he might; he never stayed long, always moving on, disapparating without warning at times which only made sense to him. He didn't have a wand, of course, but that's what made him a Wilder; his magic was untamed, uncontrolled, and he seemed as much like the mythic fey as human. Speech for him consisted of grunts and ululations, but nothing resembling any form of communication. He wandered and played where he wished, looking through the belongings of the camp members, curling up into whatever cot struck his fancy, regardless of whether it was occupied, and played among the dragons in a way that made onlookers hold their breath for fear he would come to harm, though he never did.
He was eating one day, carrying a piece of bread around as he wandered through the tents, when Ginny and Draco were having one of their periodic fights. At first he took no more notice of it than he ever did, as the doings of humans mostly were beneath his notice, but then Draco used a jinx that made Ginny balloon up to three times her normal size, and the Wilder cried out, "Mawwwwwwwwwwwwm!" and threw himself into Ginny's newly corpulent arms.
He almost knocked her over, burrowing his face in her bosom and repeating the cry of "Mawm, mawm, mawm!" while Ginny floundered, trying to adjust to her new size and deal with the wriggling little boy who was trying to draw her arms around him. She looked up at Draco, a certain helplessness in her eyes, and he quietly removed the jinx.
As soon as the extra flesh melted away from Ginny's body, the Wilder burst into tears, screaming and wailing and pounding his fists on her shoulders as he cried like his heart was broken. By now a crowd had gathered, and all of them just stared as she held him and rocked, whispering soothing nonsense in the hopes of calming him.
The whispers stopped abruptly as Snape burst through the crowd, snarling, "Don't stand around gawping like ninnies. If you don't have any duties, I'd be happy to assign some to you."
As the onlookers started to at least pretend to be busy and moving away, the Wilder's increasingly weak cries could be distinguished again, as could Ginny frantically saying, "What's wrong? Poor baby, please, calm down, it's all right, please, what's wrong?"
"He's calling for his mother, Miss Weasley, what do you think is wrong?" The onlookers really did start to disperse then, the sight of sorrow and pity on Snape's face somehow more terrible than his glare had ever been. "Your sudden weight gain must have triggered his memory of her, and then taken it away again when Mister Malfoy removed the hex." He stood over them for another moment, his eyes dark and fathomless as he looked down. It was over quickly, however, and his tones were almost normal as he said, "Judging by his pronunciation, he must be an American."
"Are you American?" Ginny crooned, smoothing his hair away from his forehead as he hiccupped and sighed with the remnants of his sobs. "The United States?"
He pulled back to look at her, a frown of intense concentration on his face. Very carefully, his diction almost clear, he said, "One dollar."
"Definitely American," Draco said with considerable amusement. "And he's got his priorities in order if he can talk about money."
The Wilder looked up at him and gave a half-smile before standing up and scrubbing at his face, smearing the tracks of his tears to closer match the dirt around them. Without looking at Draco he took his hand, moving it to pat the Wilder's filthy hair in a mimicry of a fond gesture. Dropping his hand afterwards, the Wilder strolled way, jabbering away in a singsong as he entered the nearest dragon pen.
"I wonder if anyone's looking for him," Ginny said, standing and dusting herself off.
Snape looked to where the Wilder was now crawling over a female dragon's tail, up towards her broad back. "There's been no report of a nascent Wilder in recent years, but perhaps I wouldn't have heard of an American one. I'll make inquiries," he said, turning briskly and walking away as if he intended to begin sending owls that very minute.
"And I'll see if I can find dollars somewhere," said Draco. "Maybe he can be bribed to take a bath."
"He's gone into the showers on occasion," Ginny said absently, shading her eyes against the sun that reflected off the dragon's scales. The light temporarily hid the Wilder from sight and she squinted to try to catch a glimpse of him. "He soaps his privates and arse, but won't allow his face or hair to touch soap, and he only goes in sometimes."
"We'll have to-- What's happening?" The dragon that the Wilder was sitting on seemed to get brighter, and she started to roar. Both of them moved in, but stopped as the dragon snapped her head up, the Wilder's laughter ringing in the air. Malfoy looked grim as he pulled his wand from his sleeve. "She's dying."
Ginny nodded, her own wand coming out of her pocket as she assessed the situation. "There's something else… Look!"
Despite the dragon's thrashing putting him in danger, the Wilder was calm as he walked out of the pen, clutching a small white sphere that gleamed dully, like a pearl. He giggled and held it up, and now that Ginny knew he could say things, she could tell that the "baw!" he crowed out meant, "ball." Ginny's heart caught in her throat as the dragon groaned, its hot breath rolling past the Wilder in a visible cloud, almost seeming to shimmer with the last of the dragon's life force.
"Ball," the Wilder said gravely. "Star."
And it did seem to have stars in it. Witches glowed during pregnancy because of the magic of life beginning and so did fertilized eggs, although normally the glow was muted. This shell was too frail, though, and so the light of the new life within shone through with little to conceal it. Ginny moved closer, cautiously, holding her hands out. "Can I have the ball?" she asked in her most coaxing tone. "Please, can you give me the ball?"
The Wilder looked at her in puzzlement, his brow furrowed as he held up the dragon egg. "Ball. My ball. Star."
She reached out for it and he snatched it away, jabbering indignantly. Before she could chase him and grab it anyway, Draco put a hand on her shoulder, holding her back. "Leave him alone. It's not like that egg would ever hatch anyway."
He had a point; very few dragon eggs managed to hatch, and only the very strongest of the babies born survived more than a few days. Still she slapped his hand away and scowled. "You can't know that! Every chance is precious, and--"
"And yet that only applies to dragon eggs," he said with a sneer. "You certainly won't give anything else a chance."
Icily, she said, "I give chances to everything worthwhile," then walked away without a backwards glance.
Draco stared after her, his face taut with suppressed emotion, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. "You have a talent for making yourself unhappy, Mister Malfoy."
"I'm not the only one," Draco snarled, ignoring the amused nod Snape gave in acknowledgment. "I thought you'd left, so why are you here?"
"Because the relationship you and Miss Weasley share is fascinating and priceless entertainment, something between the soap operas on the wireless and a broom crash," Snape said dryly. "Not to mention that I'm in charge of the various betting pools and thus need to remain informed."
Draco made a rude gesture and stomped away, leaving Snape to quirk his lips in the smile that was his equivalent of a deep belly laugh.
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