Chapter 2
In the year that Harry has been at the sanctuary, he has discovered three fundamental truths about himself. Who would have thought that the act of fleeing one’s home and moving across the continent to a foreign country would inspire a bit of self-reflection?
The first of these three truths is that Harry James Potter is traumatized.
Unequivocally, entirely, and quite truthfully traumatized.
The boy can hardly sleep, struggles to find any sort of appetite, and regularly has panic attacks at the slightest inconvenience to his person.
It’s a miracle in itself that he’s actually been able to come to terms with the realization that he is Not Okay.
In all honesty, Harry became aware of the fact that he was- is- Not Okay long before he moved to Romania. In the months following the War, he was hardly actually cognizant or mentally present for the circumstances which went on around him. He must have technically been there, during that time, he’s certain of that much. But it doesn’t feel like he was. Moreso, it feels like it was all a dream.
His memory of the summer of 1998 is severely lacking.
There are bits and pieces that Harry can recall. He had worked closely with the Ministry, testifying and weighing-in on several death eater trials as an honorary member of the Wizengamot. He played a role in sending dozens of death eaters to Azkaban with sentences that varied in severity.
His feedback determined the life sentences of Amycus and Alecto Carrow, Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, Walden Macnair, and Lucius Malfoy. His feedback also determined the more lenient house arrest dealt to Narcissa Malfoy.
The only trial which Harry truly remembers, and regrets, is that of Draco Malfoy. Despite his best efforts to convey Draco’s innocence- “innocence” in that he had been coerced as an underaged wizard and threatened with the torture and murder of his parents if he did not join the Dark Lord- the Wizengamot sentenced him to six months in Azkaban. Harry can vividly remember the boy’s face, gaunt and haggard from weeks held in Azkaban before his trial, crumpling as the sentence was delivered. The tears streaming down his face. The haunted look in his steel gray eyes when they made eye contact.
It was during this time that Harry determined he could not become an auror- that he no longer wanted to. Witnessing and participating in the trials was one thing. But he had shadowed the aurors in those months after the war, worked closely with them in gathering intel and reprimanding any suspected death eaters and death eater apologists. And he hated it.
Sure, he hated the paperwork. He hated searching for intel. He hated hunting down dark wizards. But most of all, he hated fearing for his life. Fearing for the lives of his friends and colleagues. Harry had fought and fought and fought for every damned moment of his life and he was tired.
He is tired.
Of fighting, of watching people he cares for get injured, lose their lives. Is it too much to ask for Harry Potter to live a calm, quiet life? To pursue a passion, rather than pursuing that which is expected of him?
By the end of the summer, Harry had withdrawn entirely from his work with the ministry and the auror unit. He simply ignored the letters and questions and inquiries until they inevitably gave up. The newspapers began to question his inactivity in the ministry and sudden lack of public appearances, but Harry didn’t make much of a point to read the newspapers anyway. He simply locked himself up at Grimmauld place, disabled his flu network, and disappeared from the world.
The world, unfortunately, included his friends as well.
Despite their unyielding efforts, Harry eventually came to ignore the frequent letters from Hermione, Ron, Andromeda, Molly, even Luna. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see them, that he didn’t miss them or care for them. He just couldn't find the energy to write them back. Or to even open the letters and read them. By the end of that summer after the war, Harry wasn’t doing much of anything other than lying in Sirius’ old bed, in Sirius’ old room. Which didn’t help the situation all that much, to be surrounded by his dead godfather’s belongings.
In his isolation, the nightmares worsened. He awoke frequently. Constantly. Screaming. Watching his friends die horrible, gruesome deaths, over and over again. He was at the graveyard. At the Malfoy manor. The ministry. Hogwarts. Surrounded by screaming and blood and green flashes of light and-
crucio imperio confringo abscido totalum diripo ignis liquefacio oblido viscera eiecto sectrumsempra avada kedavra avada kedavra avada kedavra avada kedavra-
So he left. He left Scotland. He left the British Isles. He fled across the continent to the only isolated place he could think of, the only place he had once heard described as a sanctuary for the most terrifying, powerful, magical of creatures.
Because that’s what Harry Potter is, isn’t it? A terrifying, powerful, magical creature? What better place for the slayer of dark lords, the defeater of death, the one creature more powerful than the darkest wizard in wizarding history.
He left. He collapsed at the borders of the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, dying of body, dying of soul, and it was Charlie Weasley who caught him. Charlie Weasley who took him in, fed him, gave him warm clothes, and offered him sanctuary. Charlie who offered to teach him, train him, guide him in the efforts of dragon keepers.
And, while it didn’t stop the nightmares, it did give Harry something he hadn’t even known he was searching for.
A sense of peace.
Purpose.
One beyond that of being a weapon, of being a threat.
Peace and purpose in the form of a community of misunderstood outcasts.
Harry understood rather quickly why Charlie had left his home in favor of the sanctuary. Charlie isn’t much like the other Weasleys at all. He is brave, yes. He has the red hair, the fair skin, the freckles. But the man prefers silence over loud conversation. Peace and tidiness rather than a full house bustling with people. He appreciates the opportunity to isolate when overstimulated, to set boundaries with his personal space, to be alone with the quiet of his mind. The dragons, of course, are excused from these preferences. These preferences, Harry has learned, are mostly regarding other wizards and human beings.
The pair quickly bonded over these preferences.
So.
Those pesky fundamental truths that Harry has discovered about himself.
His trauma and anxiety and panic attacks, yes, those are all bundled up into one of the truths he has uncovered while in Romania.
The second? Well.
Charlie Weasley is bloody hot.
Like, really bloody hot.
Okay, no, that isn’t the second truth. At least, not in its entirety.
The second truth is that Charlie Weasley is bloody hot and Harry James Potter is not nearly as straight as he once believed.
For most of his strange and tumultuous life, Harry has been under the rather common impression that he fancies girls. Women. Individuals of the opposite gender. Sure, he didn’t really have time to explore his options and think otherwise, but he didn’t really need to. He knew Hermione was objectively attractive, he fancied Cho Chang, he dated Ginny Weasley, and he had been well and truly attracted to them.
But, sure, maybe with some self reflection, he has come to realize that his admiration of Oliver Wood wasn’t solely because of his quidditch skills. And Cedric- a graveyard, the spare, green light- had gained his attention long before the Triwizard Tournament. Harry could even admit that Draco Malfoy, the git, is objectively attractive with his pale skin and white blond hair and sharp gray eyes-
Right then. So, the actual second truth is that Harry Potter has realized he is bisexual.
It’s not a super useful truth for him to have come to terms with, he’s quite aware of that. But it’s a truth about himself that he’s been able to discover because he is alive, he survived the war, and he’s no longer fighting for his life every waking moment of each day. It’s a piece of himself that he might have discovered sooner, when he was younger, if he hadn’t been preoccupied fighting Voldemort each year.
And it’s something he has discovered by himself, without the help of Ron or Hermione or his friends, as much as he loves them all dearly.
No, it doesn’t count that Charlie technically helped him discover his sexuality, because Charlie did nothing but exist. Hotly.
It also happens to be one of the few things in Harry’s life that he is able to take control of. How he navigates his sexuality is his choice and nobody else’s. He gets to take the time to develop crushes. To form relationships. To experience romance, tender touches, and the heartbreak that may come with it. No more clumsy, haphazard kisses with the threat of death over their heads. No more rushed relationships built upon a looming war, lacking foundation beyond the bond of trauma. This time, in the life that Harry is beginning to build for himself, he gets to choose and experience things as he wants them.
Of course, there is only so much Harry can truly have control over. So, alongside his newfound ability to experience a queer relationship, he has also had the opportunity to experience queer rejection.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as when Cho declined his invitation to the Yule Ball.
But it was quite mortifying nonetheless.
Turns out Charlie Weasley, in all his rugged attractiveness, is very much asexual and not particularly interested in the extended company of anyone other than the dragons at the sanctuary.
It took one drunk night- a night in which Harry had clearly had far too much firewhisky- and a sloppy attempt at a kiss for Charlie to shut down Harry’s slow-building crush. It was awkward, and messy, and the next few days were a bit uncomfortable for both parties, but they got over it all fairly quickly.
Now, the crush is more of a joke between the two than anything else. Their personalities complement each other well, and although they aren’t nearly as close as he is with Ron, Harry is endlessly appreciative of Charlie’s friendship and mentorship. And sure, he’s still quite appreciative of Charlie’s face and build and the way he handles baby dragons, but the attraction amounts to nothing more than a slight flush of his cheeks and the occasional shy smile.
Let’s move on from that.
The third fundamental truth is that a dragon has never bonded with Harry Potter.
Furthermore, a dragon has never preferred his company over at least one other wizard or witch in the sanctuary.
Every dragon he has encountered over the past year has at the very least preferred the company of Charlie to Harry, even Lilje. Charlie has various hypotheses and reasonings behind this, from Harry’s inexperience with dragons to the bottomless anxiety that emanates from his core, but the fact remains that dragons do not prefer Harry’s company.
Especially freshly rescued dragons.
More especially, freshly rescued dragons who had been captured and injured by poachers.
So, when Harry wakes up early the next day, the last thing he expects is for a dragon to choose him .
“Merlin’s beard, can someone please just HOLD HIM DOWN-”
Harry arrives at the entrance of the sanctuary just before dawn to hear the chaotic clash of roaring and voices yelling over one another. He stumbles down the stone stairs, shedding his thick cloak as he runs towards the source of the chaos.
The recovery wing is a rather large space, meant to accommodate several dragons in a multitude of smaller caves that branch off from the primary medical cave. The primary cave, while large and fully equipped with objects to heal and handle dragons, is not meant to accommodate five wizards and a thrashing Hebridean Black, no matter how small the dragon might be compared to other varieties. This is made explicitly clear to Harry as he watches potions and salves crash against the stone floor and walls of the cave, thrown across the room by a large and thrashing white tail.
Harry just barely manages to jump out of the way as a large wing whips towards him, instead hitting a box of dragonhide and smashing it against a wall.
“Charlie!” He calls, trying to get the attention of the frantic dragon keeper.
Along with Aleksandra, Clément, and two other keepers, Charlie is desperately shouting restraining spells in an attempt to bind the dragon enough for them to administer a calming drought. The spells do little to actually restrain the creature, instead angering it further.
Harry ducks under the dragon’s tail as it whips across the cave, desperately attempting to get to Charlie’s side so he can attempt to help.
“Charlie! What can I do?” He shouts as the other wizard comes back into view.
The minute Charlie’s eyes land on him, they widen in obvious panic.
“Harry, you have to get out of here! It’s not safe-” Charlie is interrupted by a large, scaly paw that hits him square in the chest and sends him sprawling across the cave.
“Charlie!” He cries.
He hears Aleksandra curse loudly and watches as she pulls away from the dragon, running in Charlie’s direction.
“Harry, mon cher, you must go! Find the other keepers and tell them we need help,” Clément yells.
Harry almost scoffs.
He probably would have, if the situation weren’t so dire.
He’s Harry Potter after all.
Self-hatred be damned, everyone should know by now that the bloody savior of the wizarding world won’t ‘go find help.’
So, of course, he does quite the opposite.
He runs to the side of the cave, away from the group of keepers and healers, and throws a sharp stinging hex at one side of the dragon’s snout.
Harry swears the recovery wing goes silent. Things seem to move in slow motion. The dragon turns towards him, snarling, jaws snapping open as Aleksandra’s muzzle charm breaks. Harry feels the heat of its breath against him, dragon saliva dripping against his robes, and he swears he’s finally going to die. This is it, it has to be, because he’s pissed off a vicious, injured, wild dragon and now it’s going to eat him.
And then his eyes meet a slitted black pupil surrounded by stormy gray.
The dragon’s mouth shuts so fast that Harry feels the hot dragon breath rustle his hair.
Its tail immediately stops swishing, wings tucking against its body as it slowly lowers itself into a crouching position in front of Harry.
Harry remembers to breathe, eventually, and takes a step back as he gasps for air. He clenches his hands until the leather of his gloves pinches the skin, then unclenches, and repeats the motion until his breathing evens out. He hardly dares to blink as the dragon continues to stare into his eyes.
The storm of emotion he sees in the dragon’s eyes almost knocks him off his feet. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before, anything he’s ever experienced with any other dragon. In an instant, Harry knows that this dragon sees. It understands . It knows . It’s a level of consciousness and awareness that surpasses anything Harry thought dragons capable of.
He can’t shake the feeling that this dragon somehow knows him . There’s recognition there, in the swirls of gray. And… trust.
The dragon trusts him.
Harry’s not sure how he knows.
He moves his hand forward slowly, despite Clément and Aleksandra’s frantic shouts.
Because somehow, he does.
He knows the dragon won’t hurt him.
He trusts the dragon.
Because he knows the dragon.
He hears Aleksandra’s gasp before he fully registers that his hand is resting on the snout of the dragon before him. When he looks up towards the others, they’re all staring in confusion. Charlie is sitting up, one hand against the side of his head, eyebrows knit together.
“Do I have a concussion?” Charlie asks shakily.
“Yes.” Aleksandra and Clément say in unison.
“But you are also seeing a dragon that likes Harry Potter.” Aleksandra adds, crossing her arms as a smile forms on her lips.