Dragon-Flesh: A Tale Of Misplaced Swords

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DRAGON-FLESH: A TALE OF MISPLACED SWORDS

PROLOGUE: "It's All Their Fault"

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My name is Hermione Granger, and my life is screwed.

No joke. Everything was just fine two days ago, when Hogwarts was attacked by a vampire colony, everyone felt it was the end of the world, and doom was imminent. Everything would have been perfectly sane if it ended like that. I was cool with the whole idea of "the end", because I had resigned myself long ago that I'd never live long enough to drink and have sex if Harry Potter was my best friend.

I was fine with that.

But then...that thing happened, and now I have this gender-challenged, culture/time-shocked swordsman on my hands that should have died, erm, about a hundred and fifty years ago.

Did I mention that he doesn't speak English?

The only reason I'm keeping him around is he's terribly cute, he doesn't mind wearing pink, he does laundry, and he saved my life.

What, you want an explanation?

Picky, picky.

Fine. It all started with the vampires.

I'm sure a lot of people blame a great number of varying things on vampires, but it really was their fault, this time. It was during the summer of my sixth year at Hogwarts that the vampires suddenly cropped up---a whole nest of them, writhing and hunting and fairly claiming the Forbidden Forest all for themselves.

Dumbledore was hardly pleased, especially when rashes of students were showing up with either that tell-tale puncture-hickey, or lying on the back steps, completely drained.

It all happened so quickly...the vampire attacks reached an epidemic level before anyone truly realized what was happening---four students dead and twelve in quite critical condition, almost completely sapped before preventative measures were set into place.

It was awful. Just awful. After the field was claimed and overrun, the whole Quidditch season was canceled, which put Ron and Harry into quite a pissy mood, but I was not quite worried---the walls of Hogwarts were very safe, and it was only stragglers at night that had been attacked---until they canceled Herbology altogether, for fear of attacks out-of-doors.

I had an absolute fit. How was I supposed to get full credits and graduate with valedictorian honors if they bloody canceled the class? How, I ask you?

I think I must have gotten a bit irritable, then, because I started spending long nights in the library researching vampires and the many gory ways of extermination them, all in hopes of winning back my Herbology class.

I'd spend all night burning the midnight oil, per se, because I felt I was the only one who had a firm mind left intact. The younger classmen were the first to loose it---you would, too, being away from your parents for the first time and then realizing you'd probably never see them again. Then went the more feeble of mind (*cough* Neville *cough*), and most the Slytherins. Seeing half the Slytherin class bawling is a particular memory I'd give Galleons to erase from my mind. In the end, everyone really had to buckle down and bind together to keep from going insane.

Another bad thing about that year: Dumbledore had been unable, for the sixth year in a row, to find a suitable DADA teacher. His name was Duke Apollo...until he tried taking on the vampire hoard single-handed, and failed rather miserably.

So that class, too, had been dropped. Yes, yes, I was still in a tizzy about that, but it was especially relevant because a decent DADA teacher would have been easily able to rid us of the vamp colony.

I, personally, tried owling the Ministry with a long list of disgruntled students who wanted their school back in a vain attempt to get the Minister to notice us.

I never saw my owl again.

We were completely cut off, you know---the vamps made short work of any owls, people, or wizards that tried to get to or from Hogwarts, and it made us all realize, suddenly, that we were quite isolated in every way.

Why didn't we floo? With all those magical creatures hanging outside, the leyline levels were at ridiculous highs, bound together like a bunch of threads into a cord, and any sort of magical transportation---or any greatly powerful spells, for that matter---were effectively nullified. Both escape and entry from Hogwarts were perfectly impossible. (Ask me to get into the true technicalities of the situation sometime, if you have four hours and a copious amount of chocolate chip cookies, my personal favorite)

It seemed that we were doomed.

Oh, and poor Harry. Of course, everyone turned to the Boy Who Lived for comfort, for strength, but who was kidding---if all the teachers combined could not hope to battle the vampiric monstrosities lurking in every shadow, how is it even remotely possible that Harry would have so much as a dent on them?

And besides: we still needed to keep the git around to defeat Voldemort, riiiight?

So I, Hermione Annette Granger, took matters into my own hands.

It was quite a stupid thing to do, actually.

~*~

DRAGON-FLESH: A TALE OF MISPLACED SWORDS

CHAPTER ONE: "A Savior Would Be Nice"

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Hermione Granger was a very clever, very smart girl.

But that did not mean she was very bright.

In fact, she could sometimes be a bit of an idiot, especially when it came to those Gryffindor-y things called Random Acts of Bravery. Harry was renown for his especial brand of bravery, and since Hermione was always the Brains Behind the Bravery, she had never had to be the Lone Brave.

And right now, she was feeling more Lone than Brave.

The night sky glimmered blearily down at her, all dark recesses and speckled, frothy stars, blocked in good part by the thick upper canopy of the Forbidden Forest. Hermione wished almost sadly that the stars were brighter, their glow more defined: it would have helped her confidence, if nothing else.

Yes, confidence indeed.

I've got a bloody bomb in my hands, Hermione thought ruefully, referring to the particularly lethal Hole of Nothing she was going to throw at the vampires' nest. And yet, I'm not confident. Maybe I should have asked Harry to---

Hermione cut off the thought where it hung, frowning at herself.

Getting Harry's Help=Pulling him away from his darling, precious, beautiful Cho.

And no, I am not bitter. No, not at all. Okay, so maybe a little......but I'll wait to gripe after I blow the vampires back to hell. Yes. Yes, indeed.

Hermione was not quite sure why she wanted to take this responsibility. True, she did want her classes back, and the general sanity and safety of the school, but was that really her reasoning? Or was it because she wanted to see the look on Harry and Ron's faces when their book-mouse of a friend jumped in to save the day? Was it because she didn't want to be the invisible third member---not quite Harry, and not quite Harry's best friend?

Or was it because she just felt the need to make a very dark magical item and chuck it at a writhing mass of shrieking, bloodsucking, immortals?

Well, it was one of those reasons, surely.

Hermione paused, tapped her lumos-enchanted wand on her watch, so that she would best see the time.

4:42 a.m..

Ron would be in his bed, snoring, dreaming happily of his latest crush and a day when Quidditch would be reinstated. Harry would be awake, meeting with Cho in the empty DADA classroom so that they could have a serious talk---'talk' being a loose byword for snog---before classes began.

And the vampires would all be retuning to their main nest before the sun rose at five.

Hermione smirked to herself---she was already imagining the look on Ron and Harry's faces, and the screams of the vampires as they were erased utterly---and carefully set down the Hole of Nothing.

It looked very much like a burnt-out sparkplug---which, actually, it was. The sparkplug had been snitched out of the Muggle Studies classroom, and enchanted to become the focal point for a wave of mass destruction.

There. Now, all she had to do was say the magic words (literally), set it off, and run like hell. Simple enough instructions, really.

Hermione took a deep breath, clearing her mind of all the crowding, anxious thoughts---it wouldn't do to have them screwing with her concentration. She closed her eyes, sighing, exhaled, and---

Gripped the cold, wet hand that had suddenly lashed out, fingers splaying around her throat. She shrieked as something---presumably, a clawed hand---struck her calf, slashing flesh and seeping blood. The vampire laughed, and it was a raspy, broken sound.

"A bit late for curfew, aren't you?" Hermione croaked at the vamp, who slithered with malign laughter. With the hand that was not holding her throat captive, the vampire stroked the gentle curvature of her neck, hissing in delight.

Hermione had a general idea of what he was going to do to her.

It didn't take a genius to figure that much out.

"HELP!" Hermione screamed, writhing in the vampire's steely grasp.

About a hop, skip, and a jump away, a young man looked up in surprise, violet eyes wide.

~*~

He had been traveling for a while. That's all he knew, really: that he had been walking through the bamboo grove that was a shortcut back home, only to have it shift slowly into a forest he had not known existed in Tokyo.

Which concluded in him getting abysmally lost.

Which, in itself, was how he had spent most of his life---wandering around, not quite sure where he was going, but enjoying the trip without complaint.

So he wasn't so worried, really.

He wasn't one to say that the bamboo grove wasn't a dark, murky forest, and he had been looking the other way and never noticed it.

Yes, yes, that was it.

Still, this forest he hadn't known was in the bamboo grove was quite long. He had hoped to get home by nightfall, but now it was most certainly night, and he was getting tired and hungry and just irritable in general.

But then he heard it---a piercing shriek that cut through the murk and night air, desperate and terrified.

He quickened his pace, slick in his movements as fire is, and came upon a scene that had become familiar in the many times he had seen it: a girl, screaming and struggling against her male captor.

He sighed, wondering how his bamboo-grove shortcut had evolved like this, and drew his sword.

~*~

He was gorgeous.

Not in the "oh my God, what a beefy studmuffin!" way---he was as far away from being a studmuffin as Ron was from a sumo wrestler.

He was small. He was thin. He had long hair that just brushed the middle of his spine---and it was outrageously red, so as to be discernable even in the ambient, foggy gloom of the Forbidden. He actually looked a bit like a woman, if Hermione had taken two moments to think about it, and his face only emphasized this, being terribly youthful. He looked about fourteen.

But the feminine characteristics ended at his eyes: the were rather large and long-lashed, but now were narrowed angrily, and were as sharp as the metal he held in one hand---a sword that reflected the pale moonlight, turning it an alarming shade of bright, electric blue.

The vampire shaded its eyes from the metallic glare with a shriek; the red-haired man spared Hermione a quick glance, shouting: "Ike!" which Hermione did not understand in the least, but his tone was urgent.

Maybe he wanted her to run. At her hesitation, the swordsman turned, clearly exasperated, and gestured that she should move immeadiately in an interesting, though very effective, pantomime.

Ah, yes, that was it!

Hermione scrabbled at where she had dropped her wand---unfortunately not finding anything---wrenched herself to her feet, and started running like mad. Adrenaline was pounding through her veins in all its addictive, thrilling glory; if not for that, Hermione was quite sure she wouldn't have been able to stand at all on her injured leg, much less flee.

Although she heard the clangs and hisses of metal on claw, Hermione did not dare look back at this savior of hers. He most certainly was sacrificing himself for her, and she would not have this said sacrifice be in vain.

"Ryu Tsui Sen!"

Hermione thought, for a moment, that the swordsman was trying to get her attention once more; she turned, only to catch a glimpse of his wicked blade drive itself into the vamp's shoulder. The decayed body of the living dead proved to pose little resistance: his sword cracked through the pale flesh, through the age-soft, brittle bones, and carved an arc from the vampire's shoulder to its heart.

It screamed as the blade slit its path, only stopping as its heart was pierced and its body caved in as so much dust and grave earth.

The swordsman paused, confusion open on his face, clouding it.

"Nani? Hokori?" he wondered at what was left of his foe, kneeling down and running his fingers through the dust. He turned to Hermione, as if requesting an explanation for the abrupt ending to his duel.

"It was a vampire," Hermione tried to explain, flopping down as the adrenaline started to drain. The immediate threat was gone; now she had to ponder how she was going to get back to Hogwarts... "They tend to do that when you kill them."

The redhead looked as if he understood absolutely nothing she had said.

"Oro." The swordsman said firmly, seeming aggrieved. "...daijoubu desu ka, de gozaru yo?" He asked, re-sheathing his blade and brushing his long bangs from his eyes. Hermione just sort of goggled at him, unable to understand anything but his inflection, which was kindly inquisitive.

"I'm fine," Hermione said, attempting to staunch the flow of blood from her gouged leg, lest it attract more vampish friends. She was quite obviously not making a great deal of progress with it, so the redhead sighed and knelt beside her, pulling some old-fashioned bandages from the bag he had slung over his shoulder. He efficiently bandaged the wound with deft hands, as if he was quite practiced in bandaging.

Again, he attempted to strike up a conversation, though failed miserably thanks to their language barrier.

"Onamae wa? Nippongo ga dekimásu, de gozaru ka?"

"I can't understand---I can't do any translating spells without my wand; I'm sorry Mr---uh, I don't even know your name, but thank you for saving me, nonetheless."

He blinked, sitting back on his heels. Hermione noticed that he wore sandals with two-toed socks, giving him an eclectic look.

"This is a bit awkward, isn't it?" Hermione asked, fumbling about for her wand. Her searching fingers grasped what she first thought was nothing more than a snapped twig---oh, but no, it was her wand. It was broken quite soundly, in three definite pieces, and the young witch suddenly felt like crying.

In fact, she did.

Hermione sniffled loudly, taking a handkerchief as the swordsman offered it to her with a sigh, and felt bad for herself in general. Harry's misadventures never ended like this; sure, he had broken some bones before, but it had never been anything unduly serious, that he could not fix right out. And no matter what, he had never broken his wand. No matter how he got beaten up mauled by the various nasties of the wizarding world, he never, ever let go of or mistreated his wand. Unfortunately for Hermione, the first time she tripped, she broke hers.

"Way?" said the swordsman. After a moment, Hermione realized he had spoken in English, no matter how softly accented or broken!

"You can speak English?" she demanded, feeling a bubble of hope rise in her chest. "My name is Hermione Granger, and I go to Hogwarts, and I'm lost---I was trying to fight those vampires, you know, but you saw how pathetically I lost, and---"

The redhead raised his hand, stopping her flow of speech.

"Little," he amended with a nod. "Little English. Sessha wa Nipponjín....." He paused, looking as if he was searching his memory desperately for a word. "Rurouni." He pointed to himself, repeating "Sessha wa Rurouni,".

"Rurouni?" Hermione queried, pointing to him to confirm it. He nodded enthusiastically, his vivid hair flopping around his pallid face. The witch pointed to herself, clearly enunciating the words: "I'm Hermione. Hermione."

"Her---" Rurouni pursed his lips, looking as if he was having trouble pronouncing the word, as if it grated against the consonants and vowels of his native language. "Herine."

Hermione decided that was good enough.

"Way?" Rurouni repeated, standing up and gesturing around himself.

"What?"

"Way," he repeated, sounding as if he was talking to a small child. "Way......home?"

"Oh!" Hermione clapped her hands, delighted with their sudden progress. "Which way is my home?" Rurouni nodded again, smiling disarmingly. "Well, I actually live in London, and since Hogwarts is Unplottable---which is described in Hogwarts, A History, by the way---I've no idea where my home is from here, but that's not what you want to know, is it? Basically, I live at Hogwarts, and......."

Rurouni was blinking his pale eyes at her, looking terribly confused, but being terribly polite about it in general.

"That way," Hermione finished, pointing to where she had come from.

To her shock, Rurouni scooped Hermione up, situated her into a piggyback position, and started briskly walking in the direction she had indicated. He really was stronger than he looked, to heft her around with ease, and, above that, to so easily defeat those vamps.......

Silence pressed in around them; Rurouni seemed disinclined to talk unless especially referred to. Though, Hermione had had quite enough of the Forest's silence on her walk there, and so decided to start up as much of a conversation as she could with this culture-challenged savior of hers.

"Rurouni?" she said softly, her cheek positioned near his ear because of his carrying method.

"Aa?" Rurouni replied, his inflection leaning towards an inquisitive yes?

"How did you find me? Did Dumbledore send you?"

"Oro..." he replied with a sigh. "Wakarí nikui..."

"I think we'll wait to talk until we get back to Hogwarts," Hermione decided sagely, burrowingher cold nose into Rurouni's long hair.

He sighed again and kept on walking.

This really was becoming quite the shortcut through the bamboo grove.

~*~

"Harry, sit down. Harry, stop pacing. Harry---you're a mess. Harry!" Ron gave his friend a very disapproving look, scowling right past the Boy Who Lived's own frown.

Harry gave a grouchy sort of sigh, rubbing at his tired eyes in a childish manner, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was a sort of nervous habit---a habit that was earning him a coiffure wilder than his usual sort. Harry's hair---and his worried, pained expression---was reminding Ron strongly of the time his father had tried "fixing" a Muggle light socket by sticking a fork in it.

In fewer words, Harry looked awful, and Ron was sure he looked no better.

The two were really terrible fretters because, honestly, fretting was usually Hermione's job, but she was missing.

They had been fretting anxiously in the Gryffindor common room, pondering over the succinct note Hermione had left before disappearing: Be back by dawn.

It hadn't taken long before the boys realized that their best friend had decided to take her chances with the vampires, and with this realization had come the keenest of fears.

Hermione was not a risk taker. She was meticulous, calculating, and brilliant; she did not run headlong into danger unless she had a hell of a good reason, or unless Certain Evil was threatening Harry, and/or Ron. That was Hermione---the little lioness, as sparkling an example of a Gryffindorian heroine if there ever was one.

But she always had backup. In fact, it was always she who urged the more impulsive members of the Boy Who Lived's posse (i.e., Ron and Harry) to have some kind of backup plan, always.

And yet, Hermione was quite obviously winging it alone this time.

Harry cursed darkly and at length, kicking the overstuffed sofa as he plopped down, exhausted. He rubbed his raccoon-circled, sleep-depraved eyes with a sigh.

"Ron," he groaned between his fingers. "Tell me she isn't dead."

"She isn't dead," Ron obliged, nodding.

"Thanks," said Harry. "Makes me feel better."

"Anytime, mate. And even if she is dead, you still have me."

"That just negated any relief you previously gave me. Curse you, Ron."

"Sorry."

The boys brooded irritably, played with the idea of going to Dumbledore---which was immediately nixed, seeing as Dumbledore couldn't do anything if he wanted---and both stood up in abject wonder as a sudden BOOM rattled the Fat Lady portrait, and caused the first years to shriek.

Harry ran to the window, tossing back the gold-and-red curtains, and gasped as pure white light flooded the common room. It was so bright as to be painful; Harry quickly shut his eyes, but could still feel the heat of the light, and the imprints of vivid color seeping through his eyelids.

His only thought: My God, Hermione blew up the Forbidden Forest. Brilliant, Herm. It's all your fault if Hagrid cries over this.

As the light faded and they opened their eyes, Ron gave a small, surprised sound.

"Harry---Harry, look."

Harry reopened his eyes, rubbing them to make the intense afterimages dissipate, and found himself staring at a pair of lavender eyes, separated from him by the thin glass of the windowpane.

But it was not those eyes he found himself fascinated with---rather, it was the brown ones, belonging to a very familiar face.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted through the window. "Let us in!"

'Us' being Hermione, and the red-haired, lavender-eyed person who was carrying her.

"Alohomora," Harry muttered at the tightly-locked window-latch; it swung open, and the redhead leapt lightly in.

"Hermione!" Ron and Harry shouted over each other, frantically plastering her with questions like: "where were you?" "did you just do that?" "How'd you get up here?" "this is the last time we let you make bombs!" and "no, we weren't worried, dash it, we were hysterical!"

She---at least, Harry thought that the redhead was a she---deposited Hermione on the plush couch, then turned to Ron and Harry and smiled.

"Konban wá, de gozaru yo," said Hermione's savior, bowing shortly. "Sessha wa Rurouni."

"Who," Ron ground out, his pale blue eyes wide and incredulous. "the hell is this, Hermione?" Harry nodded his emphatic agreement with the question, slowly inclining his hand to Rurouni for a handshake---so slowly, it seemed that Harry laughably was treating the redhead like a snake that might bite him. Rurouni just sort of stared at his hand, once again confused.

"Um," said Hermione, and then "um...." again. "That's Rurouni. I'm not sure where he came from, actually. He doesn't speak much English."

"HIM?" Ron repeated, his incredulity deepening. "Looks like a bloody fruit to me!"

Rurouni frowned. Even if the words were lost on him, he did not like Ron's tone.

Hermione straightened---and gave a small shriek as the movement tightened her hurt leg. En masse, Harry, Ron, and Rurouni were on her, solicitously asking if she was all right (at least, she assumed that was what Rurouni was saying...it was bloody hard to tell).

"Harry," Hermione said, waving the boys off. "Could you do me a favor? I'd like to be able to understand Rurouni, and---"

"The Universal Language spell?" Harry cut in, drawing his wand from his robes. "Sure...ah...what was it again?"

"Patois," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "And for God's sake, remember the swish-and-flick."

"Patois," Harry repeated, gesturing. A thin burst of energy burst from his wand, hitting Rurouni squarely in the throat. His eyes wide in shock, Rurouni gasped, massaging his neck.

"What? What was that, de gozaru yo?" Rurouni asked, his English still quite broken.

"You should have asked me to do it, Hermione," Ron said with a smirk. "You know Harry's dirt at Charms."

"I was hoping to give him a redeeming moment," Hermione sighed. "Now then, Rurouni---"

But Rurouni was far too busy staring.

"You are now speaking in Japanese, though just a moment ago it was clearly not your native tongue," he said, his voice---now easier to understand, since he was being magically translated---soft and low, accented gently. "How is this, de gozaru yo? What brand of magic do you wield, to make this so?"

Rurouni sat down on the couch next to Hermione, looking shaken.

"This is not the bamboo grove. This is not Tokyo. Where have your magics taken this unworthy one?"

~*~