Scorched

Harry Potter stepped into the bitter wind at the base of the Carpathian Mountains and felt something in his chest ease.

Not unravel. Not break.

Just… loosen. As if the silence in the air had hands, and they were gently unwinding the tight knot he hadn’t even known he was carrying.

The Portkey dropped him at the forest’s edge, surrounded by nothing but pine and rock. No fanfare. No Ministry official waiting to catalog his movements. Just a note left with Hermione and a one-way ticket to anywhere but Britain.

It was already better.

He turned his face to the wind and inhaled. Smoke. Resin. Cold. The air was alive here. Thick with magic—but not the forced kind. Not human-made wards or institutional dampening fields. This was old magic, deep and wild. Dragon magic. It stirred the hairs on his arms and hummed in his teeth.

A soft thud of boots behind a rise caught his attention. He turned.

Charlie Weasley emerged from the treeline like a god summoned by flame.

Harry blinked.

Charlie didn’t.

He was massive. Broader than Harry remembered. Shoulders stretching the seams of a worn thermal shirt, sleeves shoved up to reveal thick forearms crisscrossed with old burns and claw marks. He looked like he belonged in the mountains. Wind-chapped cheeks. A thick braid of red hair slung over one shoulder, with smaller braids at the temples threaded with what looked like dragon teeth and charmed beads.

He walked like the earth moved for him.

Harry stared. "Hey."

Charlie stopped just in front of him. His eyes flicked over Harry’s face, down to the heavy winter coat that clung to his lean, muscled frame. Then to his boots, already flecked with frost.

"You're late."

Harry rolled his eyes. “Hello to you, too.”

“The Portkey dropped me off the trail. I had to walk the last kilometer.”

Charlie’s mouth curled. Not quite a smile—something hungrier. “So you showed up winded, red-faced, and looking like that.”

Harry blinked. “Like what?”

Charlie leaned in half a step, voice pitched lower. “Like something worth hunting.”

Harry blinked again. “What.”

Charlie just smirked. “C’mon. You’ll want to see the ridge before dark.”

---

The hike to the reserve was no joke.

The trail twisted up the side of the mountain, winding between boulders and steep slopes. Ice crackled underfoot, and the trees were so tall they seemed to slice the clouds. It wasn’t polished or prepared for guests. It was real. Raw. The kind of terrain that didn’t care who you were in a war, or what your wand was made of.

Harry didn’t mind. His lungs ached. His legs burned. He still smiled.

Charlie glanced back every so often, as if expecting Harry to lag. When he didn’t, Charlie made a noise of approval low in his throat. The sound curled heat low in Harry’s gut, unexpected and sharp.

They passed a ridge, and Harry stopped cold.

A dragon.

A young Opaleye, wings tucked, lay sunbathing on a rock ledge, her pale scales shimmering like starlight. She turned her massive head and looked directly at Harry.

Charlie reached back instinctively—likely to tug him behind—but didn’t touch him. The dragon gave a soft chirp. Then it stood up, lumbered closer, and lowered its head.

"She's never done that before," Charlie muttered. His voice was tight now. Controlled. "Don't move."

Harry didn't. He lifted his eyes to the beast. Their gazes locked. The Opaleye rumbled low in her chest—then nudged him gently with the blunt of her snout.

Harry reached up and touched her.

Her scales were warm. Silky-smooth. Power throbbed beneath them like thunder wrapped in velvet.

Charlie made a rough sound behind him. Possessive.

The Opaleye nosed him one last time and turned, vanishing into the mist as if she'd never been there.

Charlie stepped close—too close. His breath warmed the back of Harry’s neck. “You’re not wearing scent warding. You should be. Especially looking like that.”

Harry turned slowly. “Looking like what?”

Charlie’s jaw ticked. “Tame. But dragons know better. They smell power.”

Harry raised a brow. “That a problem?”

Charlie’s eyes flicked to Harry’s mouth, then back. “Only if you want to keep your innocence intact.”

Harry flushed. “I’m not—”

“I know,” Charlie interrupted, voice low and dark. “You smell like clean parchment and cinnamon and wild fucking magic. And now you smell like her too.”

Harry swallowed. “Is that… bad?”

Charlie stepped in again, now chest to chest. He was taller—by a lot. Harry had to tilt his chin just to hold his gaze.

“It’s a claim, Potter.”

“By the dragon?”

Charlie’s eyes burned. “Among other things.”

---

They arrived at camp as twilight bled orange across the sky.

The buildings were built into the terrain, low and stone-heavy, with old magic woven into their bones. Charms sparked softly along the outer wards, casting faint golden glows. There were people here—mostly silent, efficient handlers, some scarred and leather-clad, some young and loud. A few glanced up when they saw Charlie. Then looked again when they saw Harry.

And kept looking.

Charlie noticed.

His stance shifted—broader, squared shoulders, chin up. He moved closer to Harry as they walked, one massive hand landing on the small of Harry’s back. The touch was light but firm. Possessive.

Harry’s brain stalled.

Charlie said nothing about it. Just guided him toward a smaller cabin near the treeline.

“This one’s yours,” Charlie said. “Close enough to mine in case a dragon gets curious.”

Harry turned. “Is that common?”

Charlie’s mouth twisted. “Not until today.”

He stepped back. Let his gaze drag over Harry again—slow, heavy, unashamed. “You should lock your door at night. And not just because of dragons.”

Harry exhaled shakily. “Do you lock yours?”

Charlie smirked, all teeth. “No point. I don’t mind things that bite.”

---

Harry didn’t bother unpacking.

There wasn’t much to unpack anyway—just a rucksack charmed to hold more than it should. Inside, he kept essentials: clothes, books, ingredients, and a few magical spices he’d gotten from a hidden market in Cairo that he wasn’t supposed to know existed.

The room itself was simple but warm. Wood-paneled walls, a well-stoked fireplace, a sturdy bed. A narrow window overlooked the outer edge of the reserve, where the tree line gave way to jagged cliffs. The air shimmered faintly with residual magical heat—warding, probably.

Harry sank onto the bed and exhaled.

No howlers. No Prophet headlines. No calls to duty. Just the sound of distant wingbeats and the memory of a dragon pressing its massive snout to his chest like a curious cat.

And Charlie. Merlin.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face.

Charlie had always been handsome in the rough, outdoorsy way—but now? He was a force. That braid. Those shoulders. The way his voice wrapped around every word like he was daring Harry to react.

Harry had no idea if he was being flirted with, claimed, or hunted.

Maybe all three.

---

The mess hall was rowdy by the time Harry arrived.

Inside, the scent of roasted meat and melted cheese filled the space. Long wooden tables lined the stone floors, and at least thirty handlers sat around them—laughing, drinking, eating with the wild abandon of people who worked twelve-hour shifts with fire-breathing reptiles.

Charlie wasn’t there yet.

Harry made it three steps in before a hush fell over the closest table.

“Bloody hell,” someone muttered.

“Is that—?”

“Yeah. That’s him.”

Harry wasn’t in the mood to play celebrity. He offered a polite nod and moved toward the food line. As he passed a cluster of handlers, a young woman with close-shaved black hair grinned up at him.

“Didn’t expect you to look like that, Potter.”

Harry blinked. “Like what?”

“Like a fucking snack,” she said, deadpan.

Another handler, taller, maybe twenty-five, nudged her. “Don’t spook him on his first night.”

“I’m not spooked,” Harry said, a little dryly. “I’m just trying to find the potatoes.”

“You’ll find more than potatoes if you sit with us.”

Before Harry could respond, a shadow passed over him.

Charlie.

He moved like a boulder rolling into the room—slow and unstoppable. He cut a direct path to Harry’s side, eyes narrowed slightly, like he’d heard every word.

“Evening,” he said. Not to the others—to Harry.

The air shifted.

Charlie took the plate from Harry’s hand without asking and handed him another. “That one’s cold.”

He loaded it with food himself—thick cuts of roasted venison, charmed greens, fire-baked rolls.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, startled.

Charlie didn’t smile. His hand landed on the back of Harry’s neck, fingers splaying wide—warm, heavy, firm.

“Come sit,” he said. “You’re with me.”

The room watched.

Harry let himself be guided, dazed and more than a little flustered. Charlie steered him to the table near the hearth—clearly the spot of authority. A few handlers shifted uncomfortably. No one argued.

Charlie sat first, sprawling back in his seat, thighs spread, owning the space. He tugged Harry down next to him with a casual tug on the coat sleeve.

People tried not to stare.

Harry tried not to notice that Charlie’s thigh was pressed firmly against his own.

---

Dinner was loud.

Charlie didn’t say much—just ate with methodical ease, occasionally answering a handler’s question or nodding at a report shouted across the room. His focus, though, kept circling back to Harry.

Every time someone approached, Charlie’s posture shifted slightly—bigger, broader. When a handler came by to offer Harry more cider, Charlie answered for him. When someone made a joke that involved Harry’s arse, Charlie didn’t laugh.

He stared at the speaker.

And the man—broad-shouldered, older, with a jagged burn across one cheek—choked on his meat and turned away fast.

It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that someone dared to ask the obvious.

“Potter,” Mira—shaved head, fearless eyes—called across the table. “You always this friendly with dragons? Or do they just think you’re one of them?”

A few people snorted.

Harry swallowed his mouthful. “They seem to like me. Not sure why.”

“Because you smell like bloody power,” someone else muttered.

Charlie let out a low, warning sound. Almost a growl.

Mira raised a brow. “Relax, Weasley. We’re not going to jump him.”

Charlie’s smile was pure threat. “Don’t be so sure that’s your choice to make.”

Harry nearly dropped his fork.

Mira blinked. “That so?”

Charlie didn’t answer. He just turned to Harry, gaze burning. “You done eating?”

Harry nodded, slower this time.

Charlie stood and offered a hand.

Harry hesitated. Then took it.

When Charlie pulled him to his feet, the room went quiet again. Not awkward—just heavy. Like everyone knew something had shifted.

Charlie didn’t say goodnight. Just walked Harry out the door, hand still resting low on his back, fingertips brushing the waistband of his trousers like a brand.

---

Outside, the stars were brutal in their clarity.

Cold air kissed Harry’s cheeks. The camp was still, save for a distant roar and the whisper of wind through the pine.

Charlie didn’t let go.

They stood at the base of the trail near Harry’s cabin. His breath curled visibly in the dark.

“I don’t like the way they look at you,” Charlie said finally.

Harry turned, eyes wide. “You don’t even know me.”

Charlie stepped in. “Don’t need to. I saw the way that Opaleye looked at you. The way you touched her. The way you smell when you’re around them. You’re not like them. You’re not like me either.”

Harry swallowed. “Is that a bad thing?”

Charlie’s jaw flexed. “It’s a fucking dangerous thing.”

And then—he leaned down.

Harry’s breath caught.

But Charlie didn’t kiss him. Didn’t touch his face.

He inhaled—deep and slow, right at Harry’s throat. Close enough that Harry could feel the heat of his breath across his skin.

“You smell like her still,” he murmured. “And like lightning. Like something that doesn’t ask to be claimed.”

Then he stepped back.

Harry’s heart was racing so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts.

Charlie’s voice dropped again, sharp and low. “Lock your door tonight, Harry. Or don’t.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Harry stood there for a long time, shivering—and not from the cold.

---