Dedicated to Rish for the Fic exchange of Epic Proportions

Written for lezonne's Duct Tape Competition: Purple - write about cross-gen or slash

Dancing With Dragons

You'd never taken any interest in anyone, to be honest. Not a single living human had captured your fancy. Not those beautiful, Romanian women you saw around, not a Romanian man either. Your sole focus had, and would always be, dragons.

And then you saw him.

Blonde hair, grey eyes, a long, pointed chin. Not to mention the sour expression he constantly wore as he searched the premises of your work. You recognised him instantly.

Malfoy, you thought bitterly.

What was a Malfoy doing here?

"You're a long way from home, Malfoy," you say, not at all kindly. "May I help you?" Of course, it just had to be your job to find out what he was doing here.

"I've been instructed to report back as to the whether or not this sanctuary is fit to maintain dragons," he says with a tone that resembles authority.

You scowl. "Of course it's fit," you tell him. "Anyway, isn't that a job for the Romanian Ministry?" Since when did British affairs affect your job? You'd seen the Romanian Minister countless times – he had quite the infatuation with the fire-breathing beasts – but unless it directly concerned them you did not hear at all from anyone back home regarding your job (unless, of course, your mother wrote to you about the happenings of the family).

He stands taller after that, sticking his chest out as if he is bigger than you. You are at least a foot taller, probably more. "I am here under direct request from the Minister himself," he informs you with that horrible tone of authority.

"Which Minister?" you prompt.

"The Romanian. He has specifically requested for me to come and observe this sanctuary. It is the largest in Europe, and of course, we have all heard so much about it."

"Then you would have also heard that there has been nothing of concern for the last two-hundred years."

This doesn't seem to deter him at all from his mission. By now your colleagues have gathered around, their curiosity overpowering their tact, and they are all watching the young Malfoy as he tries to taunt you. Thankfully, your seven years on him and your working with dragons does not let him intimidate you like you are sure he was hoping for.

"Last time I heard you were in the Magical Law department with my sister in-law," you say.

He bows his head, as if remembering, and part of you wonders if he no longer worked there (sacked, you hope). "A change of career never does anyone harm, does it now, Weasley?" he retorts, and for the first time that day you regret that treacherous blush your whole family possessed.

"Ah, yes, didn't think I'd recognise you, did you, Weasley?" he sneers, glancing up at your thinning, greying hair. "The freckles give it away." And he shoves some parchment into your hand – his identification and authority that he can search the premises – and moves on. Others clamour out of his way as he walks by, and you simply follow.

If he's going to search, then he's going to do it properly.

…

He finds nothing, as expected. You and your colleagues take good care in looking after the dragons. They're rare these days, and you love them so much. Who would want to mistreat such beautiful beings?

He scribbles notes into a notebook and you watch closely, making sure he's not doing anything he isn't supposed to. You're not the boss, but you're as good as. Where was Cosmina anyway? She never showed when important things happened.

"Find anything yet?" you ask with a hint of venom. "A chair out of place, is it?" He was sniffing around the lunch room, looking through drawers, searching through boxes.

"How often do you feed the dragons?" he asks, looking down at the notebook.

"Twice a day," you tell him. "Why?"

He doesn't answer; he simply scribbles some more answers into his book. "And what do you feed them?"

"Raw meat, mostly goat or cow."

He sniffs, and you resist the urge to throttle him. You've never met Malfoy before, but now you're beginning to understand why the rest of your family refuses to speak his name. Even at the age of thirty he has that childish, mischievous expression that better suits a ten-year-old.

He's just looking for trouble, you know it.

Cosmina then appears, arms folded over her chest, looking Malfoy up and down. "And who are you?" she asks first in Romanian.

Malfoy doesn't answer, so she tries again in English.

"Draco Malfoy!" he announces proudly. "Here to take notes back to the Romanian Minister on the sanctuary."

Her brows knot together, but she doesn't say anything.

You follow Malfoy around some more, watching him. It's the early hours of the evening when he finally decides there is nothing bad to report about the place. He asks Cosmina to sign a slip of parchment and then he is on his way.

You hope that that is the first and only time you see him.

You've never had much luck in your life.

It's your day off and you decide to take a trip through the small Romanian town you live in. There isn't much to see, but you're used to the place now, and the locals accept your pale, freckly complexion. They smile at you and you smile back. You then all go about your own business.

What you don't expect to see as you round the corner is another pale complexion. White hair, long chin, bored expression.

"Malfoy!" you hiss.

He sneers. "What an unpleasant surprise," he says in a fake pleasant tone.

"What are you doing here?" you want to know.

"Oh, did I forget to mention yesterday? I'll be here for a month." He notes your distaste. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Delightful," you answer.

You keep walking, hoping to never see him again. Though you highly doubt that now.

…

He returns the next day and the sight of him just infuriates you. He's sniffing around again, looking for something – anything – that might send you packing.

"Like two days ago, there is nothing out of the ordinary." You approach him from behind, and you grin with satisfaction at the small jolt of surprise he gives to hear you speak.

"I've been given a month here," he explains without looking at you. "I am able to give a thorough check."

Your teeth grind against your lower lip. What is it about Weasleys and Malfoys? Why is it in your blood to hate the other so? Just the sight of a Malfoy could set your teeth on edge. "I bet your son misses you."

The words seemed to have hit a nerve, for he stiffens at the very thought. "He's barely five," he tells you. "He doesn't know the difference." But you know in that moment that the all-tough Draco Malfoy does have a soft spot. They're not known for being able to feel much emotions, Malfoys, but he doesn't need words to tell you that even if he cared about nothing else, he cared about his son.

This is a thought that stays with you all night. You don't have children, but you've seen your brothers and your sister around theirs. They had almost similar reactions to Malfoy's. It suddenly makes you lonely, sad, that you'll probably never understand what that feeling of having someone so small running up to you, jumping into your arms, and telling you they love you.

Truly, you'd never had anyone tell you that apart from your mother. And that was completely different.

…

The next day you see him and your opinion might have slightly changed. He barely looks at you this time; he only stays for a few hours, scribbling notes into that blasted notebook of his.

You're not sure what compels you to do it but you follow him to the exit.

"My brothers think the same of their children," you say before you realise what you're saying. "When they're away from them, I mean. I've seen them."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "You seem surprised, Weasley," he muses.

"Not surprised that you love your son," you assure him. "Just surprised that –" No, that is what you're surprised about.

Your cheeks turn scarlet and he nods.

"My son is perfectly fine with his mother," he assures him. "I write to him every day. One has to work, right?"

It's your turn to nod this time, and you part without another word. That night the last thing you think of before falling asleep is him.

…

From then on there is no hate when he shows up at your work every day (between either of you). You no longer feel the need to follow him everywhere he goes, to check his notes, or to bother him at what he's doing. It's not that you trust him, it's just that you… know he'll do the right thing.

On the seventh day he joins you in the lunch room. You're sipping a coffee and eating a salad sandwich when he takes the chair opposite you. It's normally where John Freeman – your American colleague – sits but he isn't there today.

You watch him without saying a word as he unwraps his own lunch. There's no one else there to disturb you, and it's a peaceful break. You're just about ready to get back to work when he reaches for your wrist, grabbing it more tightly than was necessary. Something that day compels you to not wrench it away, but look at him.

Grey eyes stare back at you and you wonder… you wonder what is hidden in that head of his. What pain lies beneath those silver-grey eyes? You've already seen at hint of it at the mention of his son, but there has to be more, you're almost positive.

"Is there somewhere to eat out at night here?" he wants to know.

"Plenty," you tell him, "Though you need to speak the language."

"Help me." His voice his almost pleading.

Your first instinct is to decline (you wouldn't be seen dead having dinner with a Malfoy) but for once in your life you think before you speak. With a curt, reluctant nod you agree to eat out with him that night.

Oddly, the idea is more enticing than you would ever think. You find yourself taking extra care of your appearance as you get ready. You open the bottle of cologne that's been sitting in a cupboard for a good four years. You comb your hair, you put on a tie.

Not once do you question why you are going to so much trouble. It's too much to think about.

He's gone to an effort, too. His finest wizarding robes, smelling of the pine one would smell in a forest, and for the first time ever you see him smile. A warm, gentle, genuine smile. He looks awkward wearing it, but you suppose it's because he's not used to it. In the week you have known him you have guessed there hasn't been much in his life to make him smile, save for his son.

You wish to prompt him about it, to find out more, but you know that it's intruding. After all, you're still enemies. But no words need to escape your lips, as he's willing to talk anyway.

To your surprise he's been unhappily married for some time now. He realised it long before his son was born, but it was what was expected of him. His wife was lovely, he said, but they just weren't happy. It was why he took this offer to come here, to get away. He needed a break.

You hang onto every word he says, noting similarities between you and him. Two lonely men stuck in a foreign country, little contact with their families, and not feeling as if they belong anywhere. You tell him as such, and for the second time that night he smiles. Another warm, genuine smile.

Your heart almost leaps into your throat.

…

Three nights in a row you dine together, the third you invite him to your small flat. You tidy the place up, you make your bed for the first time in a year, and you even comb your thinning red hair.

When he arrives he looks as nervous as you feel that the bottle of champagne he is carrying almost falls from his sweaty hands. You catch it just in time, and before you know it the two of you have gotten through the whole bottle in a matter of hours.

The pair of you laugh like giggling school girls at jokes that aren't funny. Midnight comes and he's still there. He stumbles to his feet, almost tripping over something that isn't there; but you're there to catch him. You're so close to him you can almost taste the wine on his breath.

He laughs again, then stops as your lips capture his. You're not sure what possessed you to do such a thing (Malfoy, of all people!) but he doesn't reject you. In fact, he responds with such enthusiasm it takes you by surprise for a moment.

It is you who breaks the kiss. You want to push him away, you want to forget it ever happened. But those cold, grey eyes, the look he is giving you, the memory… oh the memory. How right that kiss had felt.

He ends up in your bed that night, sweat pouring from your bodies. His lips like the taste of your neck, you like the feel of his body so close to yours. It felt right – everything. You had never believed love was for you, but as you watch him sleep (more peaceful than you see him in the waking hours) you think that maybe this is what love is.

It disgusts you.

…

The rest of the month flies by.

When he comes to your work you go back to being the enemies that you always were. Your conversations at the sanctuary are courtly, but not friendly.

By night, you spend your time by his side, happier than either of you have ever been. He presses kisses to your lips, to your cheek, to your neck. You play with his hand, run your own through his hair, whisper to him.

It's his final night with you when he says something you will forever remember. Those three words – not in the most romantic fashion – but still meaningful all the more.

"I don't want to have to go back tomorrow," he begins, sitting beside you, close enough to almost be in your lap.

"You must," you tell him. "Your son." For you know he loves his son more than anything else in the world.

"I love you," he blurts out and your hand freezes mid-stroke of his hair.

"No, you don't," you answer.

"I do. More than I've ever loved her." He kisses you right on your jaw and you shiver. "Come back with me."

"I can't."

"Take a holiday."

"I can't."

"For me."

You don't say anything after that, and it is enough for him. You don't need words. He knows you love him, too.

…

His son reminds you of your nieces and nephews. Innocent, playful, and just a little bit shy. You're introduced to little Scorpius as his father's friend. You also meet his wife, sceptical at first, but welcoming all the more.

His mood has sunk since being back – it's hard to miss – but he forces a smile as his son wraps his arms around his legs, and he kisses his wife back as if it is the normal thing to do.

It's too painful for you to watch, so you leave. He insists on walking you out, and when you are both away from any windows where curious faces could peek out from he kisses you. You know what it means – goodbye – but you refuse to believe it.

He refuses to believe it.

"Don't forget me," you whisper, longing for just one more kiss. One more everything.

"Never," he replies. "I'll see you soon." He walks away after that, but your heart is filled with hope. I'll see you soon. He'll come to you, you realise. He'll come to you soon.

You watch as the last strand of his hair disappears around the corner, and then you smile. "Don't be too long," you answer him, and suddenly, you understand what was so special about love.

It made you feel good.

I'm actually really happy with how this turned out. I really do like writing these two together. There's just something about them that makes the words flow. Thank you to Liza for beta-ing, and Rishy, I hope you like it :)