For Liza, without whom this never would've been started, and for Sam, without whom this never would've been finished. Both these lovely ladies have birthdays this week. Happy birthday, my girls.

Also, this is for GGE 2013 for Liza because I am terrible.

A big thank you to everyone on the group who listened to me whine about this and give constant updates throughout. A special thanks to drunk irish one (Paula) who read over the whole fic just to comment on the drunkenness (because I need someone to tell me, "Laura, drunk people are not that self-aware") and also to Maggie, who read this twice, once to unstick me and once to finish it off.

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Warning: Strong homophobia, including a few slurs and lots of stereotyping. Language.

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It happens slowly.

The first time you realise you might be in love with him, you throw a vase at the wall. The shatter is not as satisfying as you'd hoped.

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You grew up hearing, of course, that you would marry a pretty pureblood wife and have pretty pureblood heirs. That you would carry on the Malfoy name, because Lucius had been an only child and so were you.

You grew up hearing the whispers in the dark, because these things weren't talked about in the light of day. Whispers about people like Aunt Bellatrix's brother-in-law, who had abnormal relations with men, and that was why he'd never married, the queer. About people like your Great-Uncle-Whatsisname, who'd been blasted off the tree for being found with a man, even though he'd already had an heir.

You grew up hearing that behavior like that was disturbing and disgusting and perverted and wrong.

You grew up believing it.

.

The first time you kissed a girl, you'd wondered if this was what it was supposed to feel like. Daphne Greengrass was beautiful and pureblood and her lips were soft. But it was boring, and honestly, you didn't really want to kiss her. You were more curious about it than desirous. She rocked back on her heels and you found yourself left with no desire to do it again.

You knew better than to let it show.

.

You knew where the roots of it came from. The hatred of… unnatural relations. It was because purebloods were a dying breed, always sort of had been, because really there hadn't been many to begin with and half of them were always family. To keep them from becoming too small, it was always necessary to have an heir, to keep as many family lines as possible. It made logical sense that relations not for procreation became looked down upon.

But though it may have started in logic, it wasn't anymore. They had become viciously and unrelentingly hateful of it, to the point where even for an only child, it could be considered a case for disownment.

So really, you couldn't be… that. You were a Malfoy. You were better than that.

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So you aren't. That's that, really. You aren't, so it doesn't matter. You don't think about it. Besides, you don't really have time, for a few years, with the war. You have more important things than dates to think about.

And after the war, you're running. You're running from so many things, and you don't really stop to think. You don't really even stop to breathe, until, suddenly, you do.

You do, because you wind up on a Dragon Reserve in the middle of the Romanian wilderness and… they're beautiful, these creatures for which you were named. They're fierce and fearless and so, so beautiful. And you stop. And you stay.

.

You get a job, the first of your life, and it's strange because you'd never really thought about it, about getting a job and working for a living. Especially not like this, because it's so physical. It's labour and sweat. Your father had been a Ministry man, a businessman, and your grandfather before him.

So no, it isn't what you expected, but it's its own sort of rewarding.

The job isn't the only thing that isn't what you expect. Your training is done by an amalgamation of staff members depending on who's on shift and what they're doing at the time, so one day you meet a man. He's short and ginger. He's scarred, but on the Reserve that's not much of a distinguishing feature. He's covered in freckles because it's the middle of summer and the sun is out so often you've had to apply sunblock charms three times today. He sticks his hand out.

"I'm Charlie."

"Draco," you say as you shake it. He laughs.

"Appropriate." You roll your eyes. You've heard that enough already.

You get to tag along after Charlie because one of his Horntails is ill, and Charlie's going to be showing you how to administer potions.

Charlie, you soon find, cannot seem to shut up. He rambles on so much that you can place his accent within the first minute — it's a South England accent, but it's got a few of the Romanian vowel sounds layered on top in places, like he grew up in England but has lived in Romania long enough to have started picking up the accent. He speaks fluent Romanian, you learn when he stops to talk with another Keeper for a moment.

He notices your eyes on him as the man departs, and he shrugs. "You live here long enough, you'll pick it up, too. For most of the people on this Reserve, it's their first language. And, honestly, I've found… People really appreciate it. When you make the effort to talk to them on their terms, you know?" He shrugs again.

Giving potions to ill dragons is not as easy as it sounds — not that it sounds particularly easy to begin with. Sick dragons sneeze flaming phlegm.

Charlie, you soon find, doesn't seem to have a normal person's fear response. He darts out of the way of flaming balls of phlegm as though he's playing tag with a child, not dodging potentially fatal balls of dragon snot. The potion has to be administered via injection, because magic administration methods mess with the potion's delicate composition, and dragons refuse to drink it because of the taste — it tastes like a toxin.

Charlie distracts her while you administer the injection between two scales in her leg.

You've just finished depressing the plunger when you're being thrown bodily out of the way. Charlie grins at you somewhat sheepishly as he gets up, dusting himself off.

"Sorry about that. She noticed you and I didn't have my wand out."

You look at the spot where you just were and find a smoking glob.

So it is that on the first day you meet him, Charlie sort of saves your life.

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The first time you hear someone call him "Weasley," you stop and stare.

In retrospect, you really should have figured that one out, but the fact is you just weren't looking for it here, even though you knew he was from England. Because, really, what are the odds that you'd find a Weasley in Romania?

But apparently you have done, and more than that, you actually kind of like him. Like him best, even. Because Charlie loves dragons even more than you do, always has a smile ready, is endlessly patient, and, oh yes, kind of saved your life right after meeting you. He has a wickedly sharp sense of humour and an even sharper tongue. He's brutally honest and totally Gryffindor, but he keeps up with you even when you've left everyone else behind, and he forgives your mistakes in a way that makes you not want to make them again. You feel like you shouldn't like him, but you do, maybe because you are so used to being judged for everything that it's nice not to be, for once.

So you wind up ignoring his last name because… because if he can ignore yours, then you can ignore his. Or because you don't feel like going to all the trouble of making a new friend.

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You're sitting at a table in the Reserve's dining hall when it happens. One of Charlie's friends comes over, laughing at the way Charlie's got his head bent toward yours, speaking intently.

"You two are thick as thieves," he says. "I'm starting to think you two are dating, with how often I see you together."

Something deep inside of you roars, enraged. You stand, shoving your chair back as you do. "I'm not some fucking queer!" you yell. Charlie's mate's eyes flick to Charlie and then back to you. He opens his mouth, as though to say something, but you're already leaving.

You wind up collapsing against the side of the building, tucking your head into your knees. You don't even have to look up to know the approaching footsteps are Charlie's.

He sits down next to you, a careful distance away. At first, he doesn't say anything. Then, finally, "Why does it matter so much?"

"You know why. You might be a blood-traitor, but you're still a pureblood. You know."

"I know that there are bigots everywhere."

You shake your head. "People in my family have been killed for less. It matters."

You finally look up at him to find him staring at you, his blue eyes sad. "I'm not, okay? I'm not. I'm not… that."

Charlie pinches his lips together for a moment.

"I am," he says after a pause. You recoil.

"You're a shirt lifter?"

Something in Charlie's eyes flashes and you remember abruptly that Charlie has about twice your strength.

"I am gay, Draco. I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from any alternative vocabulary." He scowls. "God, I'm used to this from other people, but I'm still not used to it from people I consider friends."

You are still staring at him, stunned. Charlie shrugs. "Besides, I kind of thought you knew already. I thought you figured out that Mike and I were dating, a few months ago. Not anymore, but we were."

You are still staring. Charlie reaches out a hand, but you twitch away and then you get up and disappear. You need time to think, dammit.

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Charlie is… gay.

You've never actually known anyone who was openly… gay before. Not personally.

It's weird. Somehow you'd thought you should know. Like it should be obvious.

But he's just… Charlie. Strong and short and freckly and too damn nice for his own good. He's not… feminine or fashionable or even remotely concerned with his appearance or… or any of the things you'd expected from someone… gay.

You avoid him for a few weeks until you realise you're being stupid and doing exactly what you'd promised yourself you wouldn't do anymore. You're accepting your family's views despite what you see in front of you. The fact is, he's still Charlie, and you kind of miss his stupid Gryffindorishness. Not that you'd ever admit that.

Your family isn't here, and you'd decided after the war that they didn't get to make your decisions anymore.

So Charlie is gay. It's not like being around him could make you gay.

.

Charlie is mad. Kind of beyond mad. Definitely madder than you've ever seen him before.

"You think you can just throw around slurs, storm off without any explanation, and then ignore me for weeks, and I'm just supposed to be okay with all of this?"

"I'm sorry—"

"Damn right you're sorry! I'm not… I don't know how to explain how not alright all of this is!"
You look fixedly at the floor. Charlie steps toward him. "Look at me." And you do.

"This is a part of me," he says very carefully. "It is who I am, and it is not something I am ashamed of. But I counted you as my friend, Draco, and so for you to insult a part of who I am… I'm not okay with that. And I'm especially not okay with you avoiding me for weeks afterwards." He turns away, his back to you. "Draco, if you can't accept this, really, truly accept it, then I need you to leave. Now. Before I care any more than I already do."

You don't move.

After a pause, he turns back around. He looks somewhat surprised to see you still standing there.

You open your mouth, convinced his is finally going to let you speak. "I do. Accept it. Accept you." You shake your head. "I'm not going to say this is going to be simple. Some things are too deeply ingrained to get rid of in a couple weeks. But… I'll work on it."

Charlie's lips twist up into that half smile that you love. "That was, oddly, more convincing than if you'd tried to tell me you were perfectly okay with this."

You shrug.
And, really, that's that. You're right — it isn't easy for you. And that means it isn't easy for Charlie, either. But Charlie is Charlie. He forgives you over and over and over again.

.

And it happens slowly.

The first time you realise you might be in love with him, you throw a vase at the wall. The shatter is not as satisfying as you'd hoped.

.

He leaves for three weeks for Christmas hols a year and a half after your arrival. He tells you it's the first time he's been home since the end of the war but some part of you still doesn't want him to go.

It's that same part of you that incessantly pokes at the absence of him in your mind, making you think of him. You try to ignore it.

And then he's back, stumbling through the floo in your small apartment and slumping gracelessly on your couch.

"My God," he says. "They're all mad."

"What did you expect?" you ask, flicking your wand to start a pot of coffee before he even asks. "They're Gryffindors."

Charlie can't seem to muster up the energy to pretend to be offended. Instead, he just smiles at you gratefully. "I love them. But I can't deny it's good to be home." His grateful smile morphs into something you can't name, soft and contented. It's warm.

He falls asleep on your couch, which is not entirely unusual anymore. You smile as you place a warming charm on the coffee and place it on the table beside him.

Your eyes trace his face. He looks older like this, asleep, without his trademark grin. Without his typical outpour of words.

He finally looks his age, and you realise rather abruptly that Charlie is seven years older than you, even though he acts so much younger.

You make yourself walk away.

.

Charlie finds another boyfriend. His name is Adam. You hate him. He's tall and dark and has an accent and isn't you.

You hadn't realised how deeply you cared until you meet Adam for the first time and Charlie introduces him as his boyfriend. You put on your polite face and pretend to enjoy the company because Charlie will appreciate it.

When he leaves, you hurl another vase at the wall. The shatter is still not as satisfying as you'd hoped.

You throw yourself at the couch and drop your head in your hands, breathing roughly.

You can't fall for him. You can't. He's a Weasley and a man and you're not gay.

.

Charlie winds up on your couch after Adam dumps him.

You only hate Adam more.

Charlie doesn't really do the whole weepy breakup thing you're kind of expecting. Then again, the whole relationship only lasted barely three months. Not that you'd know if that was a decent length, considering you've never actually dated someone you actually liked.

Charlie just sits there. He stares. Morosely.

It's quite pathetic, really.

He sulks for two days straight, only animating to go in to work and returning promptly to moping on your couch when his shift is over. Two days, you decide, is plenty.

"No more. Up. Up!" you demand. Charlie looks at you questioningly.

"No more moping," you explain. "No more sitting on my couch looking pathetic. We're going to… I don't know. Take you out to a bar and get you laid, or something?" You don't really mean for the last sentence to come out as a question, but it does. Charlie raises an eyebrow at you but it's the first real expression you've seen from him in days, so you just grin back.

He rolls his eyes slightly, but then he looks at you very soberly and says, "I'm glad you're over the whole gay thing, Draco."

You startle, because at first it seems like a non-sequiteur, but then you realise you made a comment about getting Charlie laid without even thinking about it, and maybe he's right. It's the first time you've ever casually made a reference without overthinking it.

You shrug. "Does that mean you're in?"

Charlie shakes his head. "I don't really go in for the whole one-night-stand deal," he says. "But I guess I wouldn't mind a drink."

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The bartender asks Charlie if you're his new boyfriend and you think that's the moment you're supposed to be offended but instead you just feel a shot of warmth. Maybe that's a hint. Maybe you've had enough hints. Maybe you need a few more, though.

Charlie's shots go down hard and you match him, mostly to prove that you can (even though you can't, really, because Charlie's got at least a stone on you, probably more, and his metabolism is kind of unbelievable).

By the end of it all, you're both pretty indescribably plastered, although you more so than him.

You manage to stumble blearily back toward his apartment, because it's closer and there's no way in hell you'll be apparating tonight, either of you. Charlie is rambling on the whole time, but you're not really understanding a word he's saying.

"Keyssssss?" you mumble as you reach his door.

"I jus' wanna be loved," he says.

You pat his hand vaguely. "You are. Now keysss."

After scrabbling around in his pocket, Charlie finally finds the keys.

"D'ya love me?"

You reach for the keys, but Charlie pulls them back and you almost fall over.

"D'ya love me, dragon?"

"Course I do. Gimme the keys."

Charlie holds out the keys, but when you reach for them Charlie grabs your hand and tugs. You stumble. Charlie sort of catches you, pulling you loosely into his arms.

"Good," Charlie says and you are too out of it to understand what this is in reference to.

Then Charlie curls a hand around the back of your head and you notice how close you are and neither of you is really sure who moves first but then you're kissing. You absently have the thought that you should maybe be protesting but you can't remember why. Eventually one of you remembers to breathe and Charlie takes the keys, managing to get them into the lock on the third try.

You stumble your way to the couch, Charlie pulling you down and the kisses and the not breathing continue until your hands are fumbling at Charlie's shirt hem trying to lift and Charlie exhales something that sounds like pain.

Then his hands are at your shoulders, pushing you away and you know his face looks lost.

"I can't," Charlie says. "Not like this. You're drunk. I'm drunk."

"What?" you manage.

"I want this, but… not like this. Not like this."

And then Charlie is gone and you are left confused.

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You wake up on the couch. Your mouth is full of cotton and there is a dragon rampage occurring in your head. You groan as you peel your eyelids open. The dragons in your head don't like the light. You feel a cup of coffee pressed against one palm and a hangover potion against your other. You manage to sit up, down the potion in one go then swallow a gulp of coffee.

This time, when you open your eyes, you can keep them open.

"Thank you," you mumble.

Charlie looks sad. You blink, trying to remember why. Last night is a bit foggy.

You remember Charlie sulking on your couch, forcing him up and out to the bar. You remember taking shots, trying to keep up with Charlie. You remember parts of the trip home, stumbling and using Charlie's shoulder to keep you upright. Then…

"D'ya love me, dragon?"

"Course I do."

"Good."

Then there is the warmth of his lips on yours and his arm around your shoulder, fingers buried in your hair. There is the way he feels beneath you, the warmth of him pressed against you.

Oh, God.

"Fuck."

"Not quite, although you seemed quite game."

You groan. "Shut up, you prat. I'm having an existential crisis here."

"Who else wakes up with a hangover and decides to have an existential crisis first thing? You are one of a kind."

"Shhh. Crisis requires quiet."

Charlie rolls his eyes at you but his smile is fond.

"Fuck," you finally say. Charlie raises his eyebrows. "I'm gay," you say.

"Finally caught on to that, have you?" Charlie asks.

"You knew?"

"I'd guessed."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You are offended. Charlie looks quite cavalier.

"How would you have reacted?"

You contemplate this for a moment, and decide he has a fair point.

"Mother is going to kill me. If Father ever gets out of prison, he's going to resurrect me just so he can kill me too. I am so dead."

"Well, at least you're not dead and in denial." At your glare, Charlie forces his face to sober slightly. "Besides, I can't really see Narcissa Malfoy setting foot on a Dragon Reserve, even to kill her only son."

You stutter out a choked laugh. "I suppose." You exhale. "God, they can't know."

.

Charlie terms it your "big gay freakout". He seems to think it's spectacularly hilarious. He also claims the right to tease you endlessly about it because of your reaction when you found out he was gay.

This, you find, is a hard point to argue.

You find yourself in a weird sort of stasis, not entirely sure you've accepted it yet. Charlie, because he's Charlie and he's eerily perceptive like that (or he's just being spectacularly awkward; this is also a viable option), doesn't mention what happened that night.

You are torn between wanting desperately to see if kissing him feels the same sober and wanting to shove this all in a metaphorical closet (pun entirely intended) and never think about it again.

Charlie shows up at your apartment in the mornings and drags you to work and feeds you coffee and falls asleep on your couch every other day, just as he has been for the past year. Except now you notice the curve of his lip and the flex of his arm and the exact shade of blue of his eyes and… And you aren't sure you want to notice these things.

Maybe that makes you a coward, but then, you never claimed to be brave. Things were easier, before all of this.

You aren't a Gryffindor. You don't take blind leaps of faith. You don't know how to redefine the paradigm of your relationship. Especially when you aren't convinced you want to.

Oh, some part of you wants to. You can't deny that anymore. But a more logical part of you says this one man is not worth losing everything you ever knew to live for.

A third part of you says you've already lost everything worth holding onto and what are you so afraid of?

Everything. And maybe nothing at all.

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The truth is, if Charlie had continued leaving it up to you, it's probable that nothing would've happened. You may never have decided, but your lack of decision was a decision in and of itself.

But Charlie corners you after a month, pressing your back against the door to his apartment and kissing you. He tastes of smoke and dark chocolate, burnt and bitter and beautiful. And you, you find yourself curling into it, tipping your head for better access.

You have the stray thought that this is nothing like kissing Daphne Greengrass before your mind is cleared of anything but Charlie. His hands are in your hair and on your hip and his lips are fierce and demanding and it feels weird, because he's shorter than you but so much stronger. You're not used to this, you don't know how to do this, you don't know where to put your hands, and you feel like you're having your first kiss all over again; you're ten years old and trying to figure out how this is supposed to work.

When Charlie breaks away he takes advantage of the curve of your spine and rests his forehead against yours and he's laughing. You spare half a moment to be offended before he tells you he isn't laughing at you. "Just relax," he says and you flush bright pink. But you're a Malfoy so you can't just admit that you don't know how to do this. Instead you push back, shoving your lips against his.

You can feel your own inexperience, wonder if he can too and you hate this. You hate being out of your depth, hate being a novice.

But Charlie doesn't judge you because he is Charlie and he never has.

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In truth, it's not as simple as all that. This is a shift in your entire worldview, and you, you are not so easily changed. There are days when you sit alone at the bar and drink in an attempt to forget both past and present. There are days when you hate yourself for this, days when you hate Charlie, when you can't stand his touch.

Charlie… doesn't understand, exactly, but he tries to. And even when he doesn't manage to understand, he forgives you over and over and you know you don't deserve him.

So there are bad days, but there are good days, too. Days when you curl yourself into the warmth of Charlie's chest and he wraps his arms around you and the rest of the world melts away. Days when you go out for dinner with him and you don't notice the stares. Days when he kisses you and it feels like home.

.

You're sitting at a table in the Reserve's dining hall when it happens. One of Charlie's friends comes over, laughing at the way Charlie's got his head bent toward yours, speaking intently.

"You two are thick as thieves," he says. "I'm starting to think you two are dating, with how often I see you together."

And you smile at him as you say, "We are."