Scorched

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.

---

Harry didn’t sleep.

Not because he was anxious—he wasn’t. He felt more settled than he had in months. But Charlie’s words kept echoing in his head.

You smell like something that doesn’t ask to be claimed.

There was something in the way he’d said it. Not angry. Not admiring, either. Just… hungry.

Harry lay on his side and stared at the fire, the soft crackle filling the silence. He wasn’t naïve. Charlie wanted him. That much was obvious. And Harry—

Well. Harry hadn’t ever really wanted before. Not like this.

He’d dated, sure. Kissed a few people. Fumbled through awkward teenage messes during Hogwarts when the world wasn’t burning around him. But desire? The kind that curled into his belly and made his skin feel too tight?

That was new.

And it had a name. And broad shoulders. And a growl like sin.

Harry turned over, shut his eyes, and told himself he’d deal with it in the morning.

---

He woke just before sunrise.

Outside, the world was silent but not asleep. The air was heavy with frost and dragon musk. Harry threw on a thick jumper, charmed his boots warm, and headed toward the ridge trails alone.

The camp was still asleep.

The dragons weren’t.

He found the Opaleye again—same one from the ridge. She saw him instantly and came down from her ledge without hesitation. This time, she brought company.

Two smaller dragons flanked her—juveniles, judging by their size and the wild twitch in their movements. They circled Harry once, sniffing, growling low. One snapped, not in threat but impatience.

The Opaleye roared. Both dragons dropped flat to the ground.

Harry blinked.

The big female walked straight up to him and lowered her head. Not demanding—offering.

Instinct moved before thought. Harry reached up and pressed his palm to her snout. A crackle of warmth surged through his skin.

The air around them shifted.

All three dragons gave low, chuffing sounds—and then, one by one, touched their snouts to Harry’s chest.

Not a greeting.

A ritual.

Claim.

The connection surged through his magic like a sunflare. Not painful—just deep. The kind of binding that wasn’t made with wands or blood, but resonance. Recognition.

“Bloody hell.”

The voice was rough. Close.

Harry turned.

Charlie stood at the edge of the trail, hair loose from its braid, eyes narrowed. He looked like he hadn’t even bothered with proper clothes—shirt half-buttoned, trousers tugged on in a hurry.

He was staring at the scene like he was watching someone flirt with his favorite knife.

The Opaleye turned to Charlie and growled once, low and warning.

Charlie stepped forward anyway. “Easy, girl. I’m not taking him.”

Harry raised a brow. “Taking me where?”

Charlie didn’t answer. His gaze didn’t leave the dragons until they slunk away, slowly, reluctantly, their tails swishing through the frost.

Harry folded his arms. “They like me.”

Charlie’s jaw was tight. “They claim you. That’s different.”

“Is that bad?”

Charlie stalked closer. “They don’t claim anyone. Not even their own handlers. And now three of them have decided you belong to them.”

Harry didn’t back away. “Are you mad at me or jealous of the dragons?”

Charlie stopped close. Closer than necessary.

“Both.”

He stared at Harry for a long beat. Then his voice dropped, low and deliberate.

“I’m not used to sharing, Potter. Not with dragons. Not with anyone.”

Harry’s breath caught.

“Then don’t,” he said.

Something flickered in Charlie’s expression. Something almost dangerous. Then he turned away.

“You’re on breakfast today. Let’s see if your cooking’s as good as your dragon whispering.”

---

The kitchen was a chaotic mix of stone ovens, floating pans, and enchanted spice racks. Harry had it under control in ten minutes.

He moved like he belonged there—graceful, focused, relaxed. Spells snapped from his fingers without a wand. Eggs flipped themselves. Bread browned perfectly on both sides. Sausages sizzled in heavy pans charmed to distribute heat evenly.

By the time the handlers started trickling in, the smell had taken over the entire mess hall.

And with the smell came the crowd.

Every single one of them stopped to talk to him. Some lingered. A few watched him move like they were trying to memorize the shape of his hands. One woman, older, with a jagged scar down her jaw, leaned in far too close.

“You sure you’re single, Potter?” she murmured, lips brushing his ear.

Harry blinked, startled. “Er—”

“She’s not your type,” Charlie said flatly, behind him.

Harry turned. Charlie was there, arms crossed, jaw set. That possessive tilt was back in his shoulders. His eyes pinned the woman in place.

She rolled hers and backed off.

Charlie didn’t stop.

He stepped up behind Harry, crowding his space with the kind of slow, practiced ease that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. One hand landed on his hip, fingers splayed against the denim. The other reached past him—ostensibly for a piece of toast—and stayed.

Everyone saw it.

No one said a word.

Charlie took a bite of the toast, eyes still on Harry.

“You feed people like this every morning?”

Harry swallowed. “Just the ones who don’t flirt with me while I’m working.”

Charlie’s voice was a rumble. “Good. Because I don’t like sharing.”

Harry laughed under his breath. “I got that, thanks.”

Charlie’s hand stayed on his hip for a long moment. Then he stepped back and leaned against the wall, eyes never leaving Harry’s back as he moved.

Every time someone came too close, Charlie tensed. When someone laughed too loud at Harry’s jokes, Charlie frowned.

It was ridiculous.

It was flattering.

It was hot.

Harry bit back a smile.

Let him smolder.

Let him brood.

Harry didn’t mind being wanted.

---

By the time breakfast wound down, Harry was exhausted—but buzzing.

Charlie waited until the last handler left, then walked over and caged him against the counter with one arm.

“You like showing off, huh?”

Harry looked up at him, defiant. “I wasn’t showing off. I was cooking.”

Charlie leaned in. “You made every man in this camp want to eat out of your hand. You think I’m just going to let that slide?”

Harry met his gaze, lips twitching. “You already staked your claim. What are you so worried about?”

Charlie smirked. “That you liked it.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Charlie stepped back—barely.

Then his eyes dropped to Harry’s mouth and stayed there.

“Dinner’s at seven,” he said.

“I’m not on duty tonight,” Harry said, heart pounding.

Charlie grinned, slow and knowing. “I know.”

And then he walked out, leaving Harry flushed, buzzing, and completely off his game.