8
The next morning, Draco left his cabin before dawn. The events of the previous day had kept him awake, his thoughts a murky whirl of memories and doubts. He had barely slept, the worry for others like Vulcan and the uncertainty of the future haunting him. As the first gray rays of light broke through the sky, he knew there was no point in staying in bed any longer. His body was exhausted, but it was this invisible burden that weighed him down the most. It was the kind of fatigue that no sleep could alleviate—an underlying feeling of exhaustion that wrapped around his heart like fog. He had hoped to leave behind the feelings that had plagued him during his school years, but it seemed that was not the case.
His steps were heavy as he walked through the dragon reserve. The cool morning air bit into his skin, but it was a welcome contrast to the dull, oppressive weight inside him. It was the cold that kept him awake, while his thoughts spiraled in circles. For reasons he couldn’t understand, he felt drawn to Charlie. Perhaps it was because the older man radiated a strange calmness, a groundedness that fascinated Draco and offered him a sense of stability that he desperately needed.
When he reached the small cabin, he saw Charlie already sitting on the porch. The steaming cup of coffee in his hands was like a silent ritual he performed every morning. The morning sun was barely visible, hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, and the weak rays that broke through cast muted shadows on Charlie’s face. Draco noticed how tired he looked—deep shadows lay under his eyes, and his lips were pressed tightly together, as if he were fighting against something invisible. It was as if he too carried a burden that was invisible to others but felt acutely by Draco. He knew Charlie was fighting his own demons, and then there was the matter of Vulcan. Draco sighed and continued on.
“Morning,” Charlie said quietly, handing Draco a steaming cup of coffee. His gaze was calm, but in his eyes lay something heavy, a sadness that Draco knew all too well. “Coffee?”
Draco nodded and took the cup, his hands trembling slightly as the warmth of the mug penetrated his cold fingers. They sat together in silence for a while, the only sound being the soft rustle of the trees and the distant call of a dragon breaking the stillness. It was a suffocating silence, yet comforting, as if neither man expected the other to articulate the weight of their inner demons.
Charlie eventually broke the silence, his voice rough and sounding somewhat exhausted. “Have you thought about what you want to do with your future?” It was a simple question, but it hit Draco like a punch to the gut. The future—a topic he had avoided for as long as possible because it felt empty and meaningless. Even now, here, having found something like a home, he knew how quickly it could all disappear again.
Draco felt his stomach tighten. “I… don’t know,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. His gaze was fixed on the deep black liquid in his cup, as if he could find answers within it. Since the war, he felt as if he were living in a vacuum, a state between times where neither past nor future truly existed. There was only the now, the survival from day to day, but without a goal, without hope.
Charlie nodded slowly, choosing not to comment further on Draco’s answer. “I think many of us didn’t know how to move on after the war.” His words sounded hollow, as if he were speaking not just about Draco but also about himself. Draco stole a glance at him and noticed that Charlie was gazing off into the distance, as if searching for something long lost.
Draco took a deep breath, but the air felt heavy in his chest. “And you?” he finally asked, more out of a desire to divert the conversation from himself. “What are your plans?”
Charlie took his time to answer, as if weighing each word carefully. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, and a painful smile flickered across his lips. “I love the dragons. This, this is my life. But…” He paused, and Draco saw his fingers tighten around the cup. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s enough. To have someone to share all this with… that would be nice. But I could never give up the dragons.”
In Charlie’s words lay a deeper meaning that did not escape Draco. There was more, much more, that Charlie didn’t say. It was in the way he hesitated to form his words, how his gaze kept drifting into the distance, as if he were seeing something that wasn’t there. Suddenly, Draco realized what he was thinking about. “Fred…” he said softly, the weight of the name heavy between them. Charlie’s brother. Dead since the war.
Charlie’s jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath, as if fighting against the memory. “Yes,” he finally said, his voice barely audible. “Since he died… everything feels different.” He leaned back in his chair and stared into the trees, as if he could find answers there. “He was my little brother. I should have protected him.” His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the cup tighter. “But I failed. And since then…” He trailed off and shook his head as if it were pointless to continue. “Since then, I wonder what the point of all this is.” Charlie looked at Draco, and his voice trembled. “What if I fail again next time, when I can’t protect those I care about?” “When Vulcan hit you, I felt like I had failed again,” Charlie whispered, his gaze drifting emptily into the distance.
Draco felt the weight of Charlie’s words settle in his own chest. He understood the pain, the gnawing feeling of failure that haunted one repeatedly. In Charlie’s eyes lay a deep weariness, not just physically but emotionally as well. It was the weariness of a man who had seen too much and lost too much, yet continued on because he had no other choice.
“It often feels like we’re both just continuing because there’s nothing else,” Draco said quietly. “We function. But that’s not really living, is it?” His own words surprised him. It was as if he had finally admitted what he truly felt for the first time.
Charlie looked at him, his eyes weary but with a spark of understanding. “No,” he finally said. “It’s not really living. But maybe it’s enough for the moment.” A faint smile played on his lips as he watched Draco.
The afternoon passed in a kind of silent agreement. They talked about the dragons, about the reserve, and about simple things that made life seem less complicated at times. Yet the conversation felt like a thin veil over the deeper weariness that lay within them both. It was as if they were both walking through a thick layer of fog, unable to find the way out, but still not alone.
In the evening, Charlie suggested stopping by Leaf’s place. Draco followed him as the sun slowly sank behind the trees, casting warm golden hues across the landscape. The path to Leaf’s cabin was lined with trees whose leaves rustled gently in the wind, and as they drew closer, they heard the sounds of the animals that Leaf tended to with infinite patience and dedication.
As expected, Leaf was deeply engrossed in his work when they arrived. He bent over an old tree, its branches inhabited by a group of Bowtruckles. He spoke softly to the little creatures, his movements calm and deliberate, as if he wanted to avoid startling any of them. Draco paused and watched the scene. There was something almost meditative in the way Leaf interacted with the magical animals—as if they were as vital to him as the air he breathed.
“Leaf has a special gift,” Charlie said quietly, almost admiringly. “He understands the animals in a way that I can’t quite grasp.”
Draco nodded as he watched Leaf carefully place food in the small hands of the Bowtruckles. Not far away, a Puffskein bounced through the grass, its pink fur glowing in the setting sun, and Draco felt a strange yearning rise within him. A yearning for carefree times, for a life without the heavy shadows that constantly followed him.
“He has them all under control,” Charlie said with a faint smile. “A little zoo that gets a bit bigger every day.”
Draco chuckled softly, but it sounded hollow. “Maybe he could spare us a bit of that,” he murmured, and Charlie shot him a sharp glance that carried the weight of their shared experiences.
Leaf noticed their arrival and came over, a gentle smile on his lips. “Hey! Everything alright with you two?” he asked, his voice warm and inviting.
“It’s okay,” Charlie replied with a slight grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Draco could sense the sadness behind his words. “We were just talking a bit.”
“Talking is important,” Leaf replied, turning to Draco. “How are you doing?”
Draco felt momentarily trapped, as the question pulled him out of his inner isolation. “It’s… complicated,” he finally said, his voice quiet. “Tired.”
Leaf nodded, and in his eyes was a deeper understanding. “There’s a lot we have to deal with. Sometimes it’s okay to feel that way. It’s part of the healing process.”
The evening twilight fell over the reserve, and the animals seemed to prepare for the night. Charlie turned back to Leaf. “Have you fed the dragons?” he asked, the concern for the animals reflected in his voice.
“Yes, I brought them the food they like,” Leaf replied, casting a glance over the familiar landscapes. “It’s comforting to be here, isn’t it?”
Draco nodded and felt the weariness return within him. Yes, it was comforting. But it was also a reminder of everything they had lost. In the silence that followed, it felt as if they were all locked in a moment that could stretch on forever—connected by their wounds, but still searching for ways to heal.