Sometimes the Dragon Wins

SOMETIMES THE DRAGON WINS

by Krisis

CHAPTER TWO: Here Be Dragons (Title shamelessly shoplifted from Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels)

Oh god. What had she done?

She'd sat there in class and stared at the board, and had ruthlessly filed those facts into her head, and had realised that the only person in Hogwarts who fit the description on the board was Draco Malfoy.

And Blaise Zabini, in the recesses of a passionate make out session, had told her that Draco's family was a bunch of inbreeds. And Blaise knew the Malfoys quite well. His family tried to emulate theirs.

And Draco's father was a Death Eater, he honestly was.

And Malfoy was really pale - a bit like an albino, but not really.

But none of those very honest facts changed the fact that she had just been excruciatingly nasty. He might be devil-may-care Draco Malfoy, but he was still a human being. There had been such horror and then hatred in his eyes when she had rattled off the facts.

She stopped running for a moment and leaned against the wall, breathing unevenly. The rough stone cut into her shoulder blades. She took out the gum she'd been chewing and stuck it to the wall.

"Granger!" Malfoy was running towards her, like a bull.

If she'd been an animal her ears would have flattened in terror. He looked absolutely furious. His face was red - very unalbino-like - and his eyes were dark with murderous intent.

She whipped out her wand quickly.

He was quite close by now, and he hadn't stopped running at full speed. He looked enormous at that moment, his very presence seemed to fill Hermione's world.

"I'll hurt you if you come closer," she threatened. Her voice sounded strained even to herself.

She muttered the words of a protection shield quickly as he slowed down.

He glared at her as if she had personally castrated him without his consent.

"You fucking asshole Granger," he snarled.

Hermione hung her head. "I'm sorry," she said.

He stared at her. He was quivering.

"Do you know how bloody hard it is for me not to lunge and strangle you on the spot?" he snapped.

"Well, you shouldn't do that," Hermione ventured timidly.

"Why not?" he demanded, prowling around her as if he were a caged lion about to break loose. "Because you're a," he sneered, "girl?""

"No," she said. "Because I've put up a protective charm that would hurt you."

He shook his head. "Oh yes. Big surprise. You're all about self- preservation. But you're not about self-doubt, are you Granger? You probably don't think what you did in there was wrong, do you?"

She felt very uncomfortable. "I do," she squeaked.

"What?" he snapped.

"I do know I was wrong. And I'm sorry. I really am."

"You do not know the meaning of sorry Granger!" he raged.

"I do!" she yelled back, not being able to take it anymore. "But when I'm angry at people, I don't prowl around and make them feel like a dog turd and shout at them. I try to talk it out with them."

"Well your conflict resolution strategies have made you a very nice person Granger," he snarled. "You're the type of person who call people Albino's. And inbreeds."

"You're the type of person who call people Mudbloods!" she stamped her foot, feeling like a frustrated four year old. "Hypocrite! At least I'm sorry Malfoy. I didn't mean to hurt you. You deliberately insult me every second day. I've never tried to kill you because of it. I am sorry. But you're not perfect either."

He really seemed to calm down. The enraged lion in him seemed to vanish. He stopped pacing.

And looked up. "But you are a Mudblood Granger," he said sweetly.

She couldn't help herself. She started laughing hysterically. "And you, Malfoy, are an inbreed. And an Albino. And you're a moron who can't think past a stupid family tradition! All you Malfoys would call me a Mudblood! It's incredibly unoriginal, you know? There's a thing called compassion and care Malfoy. It means you don't have to hurt other people. It means we don't have to call each other rude names."

He stared at her curiously. "You're incredibly naive, Granger. What do you propose we call each other then? I'll just greet you as Sweet Little Assassin then, shall I?"

"Or you could just continue referring to my surname and try not to call me a Mudblood too often," she said, just as sarcastically. "Or you could try saying sorry too. I'll make a public apology in the class if you would do it too."

"Granger," he said impatiently, "I was born to think of people like you as Mudbloods. It is not going to change."

"Malfoy," she said, just as impatiently, "I was born to think of pale people as Albinos. Or people whose father's married their cousins as inbreeds. But I can refrain from saying it."

"No you can't!" he exclaimed.

"More than you can!"

"I bet you can't!"

Hermione felt herself grinning. This was an opportunity she couldn't miss.

"You're on!"

"What?" he looked confused. His lip was curling and he was eyeing her distastefully. Hermione tried to ignore it.

"You bet me that you can refrain from insulting me. And I agreed to it. What are we betting on?"

He stared at her and brushed a stray lock of icy blonde hair out of his matching icy grey eyes.

"Whoever loses the bet publicly apologises to the other in the Great Hall," he said after some thought. "Is it a bet?"

Hermione took Malfoy's hand, which he had stretched out, and gripped it so that the inbred blood must have stalled in his veins. "It is a bet," she agreed.

"All right Granger," Malfoy said, shaking her hand off as if her touch repulsed him. "I look forward to your apology."

And with that he was walking away.

Hermione grinned gleefully. She was sweet. Malfoy was a bastard. It was a given. She couldn't lose.

*************************************************************

Some wretched altruistic fourth year girl had come up with the bright idea that house elves should have time off.

And unlike Hermione's same effort two years ago this house elf liberation freedom fighter had enforced results.

Ron said it was because she was really pretty.

Anyway, her effort had paid off beautifully, and every Monday and Thursday's luncheon in the Great Hall consisted of food she and her friends and her admirers had cooked up.

Hermione normally just skipped lunch on Mondays and Thursdays but she was starving today. She would eat anything.

She plonked down at the Gryffindor table at her usual spot between Harry and Ron.

"I'm sensing a negative flow of energy here," Harry put his hands to his temples and began to hum.

Suddenly he opened his eyes.

"Aha! It's coming from right, there!"

He pointed an accusing finger at his plate.

"Negative!" Ron exclaimed. "Try disgusting flow of energy! Try stinking, colourless, tasteless, runny flow of energy!"

He paused, and Hermione and Harry waited patiently.

"This one should be good," Hermione said to Harry.

"Try," Ron said importantly, "Health challenged flow of energy."

Hermione nodded her head in approval. "That was pretty good."

It had become something of a ritual to sit down and insult the painstakingly prepared food on Mondays and Thursdays.

"What is this anyway?" Harry asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Whatever it is, I'm not going to find out. I'm just going to eat it," Ron announced.

"It's fish," Harry observed finally, prodding the lifeless substance with his fork.

"Harry, it's pink," Hermione pointed out.

"Well," Harry frowned, looking at the gooey pink lump, "Fish always comes with beetroot, which normally bleeds into the fish and makes it pink."

"That is beetroot. But that is not fish," Hermione said darkly. "Fish are supposed to have vertebrae, aren't they?"

"I'm not going to eat it," Harry decided. "I'll eat some toast."

"I'll eat some fruit," Hermione agreed.

Harry looked downcast as he grinded his teeth into the toast, all previous mirth seemingly apparated from his mind.

Ron, who was gulping down food with closed eyes, seemed oblivious.

She'd have to be the good friend today, it seemed.

"What's wrong Harry?"

He sighed. "Nothing."

Crunch, crunch, went the toast.

"No tell me," she insisted.

Ron gulped down his last bite. "Yeah, you've been acting strangely. Own up."

Harry looked hurt that they weren't trying to extricate it out of him carefully.

"I'm not the Dragon, all right," he said. "My parents were not incestuous, my dad wasn't a Death Eater, I don't think I'm an..."

Hermione cringed. Had she really said all those things to Malfoy? It had seemed less real when it had been just him shouting at her. But everyone had heard.

And was Harry disappointed that he was not a product of incest?

"I should be bloody glad if I were you," Hermione said briskly.

"Yeah, now you don't have to save the world," Ron agreed encouragingly. "You don't have to be a hero, and you don't have to endure pain. You don't have to bath in blood, hell, you don't even have to get up in the mornings!"

Harry slumped into his seat and looked, if possible, even more depressed.

"Harry, do you want to be the Dragon?" Hermione asked, not wanting to believe that he could be so insane.

"No," he mumbled. "Yes. I don't know."

Ron seemed horrified. "Harry, I know something about the Dragon prophecies. My mum's a nutter for prophecies. She reads them like romance novels. The Dragon does not have a happy future. You do not want to be the Dragon, believe me."

There was no reply from Harry. After sulking for about two minutes as Hermione and Ron exchanged disbelieving looks, he got up. "I'm going to sit with Cho," he said.

"Taking your mind off the problem for a few minutes won't make it go away. Snogging won't make it better!" Hermione called after him.

Her hypocritical remark was thankfully ignored.

"Blimey," Ron groaned as soon as Harry was safely out of earshot. "He's quite mad."

"Bugger," Hermione agreed. "What are we going to do?"

"I reckon he should sort it out for himself," Ron said wisely. "He has to let himself cope with the fact that he's not a martyred hero any longer. He's not what everyone thought he was. He's not Gryffindor's heir..." Ron trailed off. "Bloody hell. Is Malfoy Godric Gryffindor's heir then?" he asked in disbelief.

Hermione swallowed. "Not possible."

They both looked over at the Slytherin table.

Blaise Zabini winked at Hermione.

Malfoy's icy face was quite absent.

"Do you think he knows?"

"I don't think so. I think he'll die of shame. I think that's the worst insult you could have given him, Hermione. Gryffindor's heir. Malfoy. Those two don't gel."

"Maybe its not Malfoy," she mused. "Is he marked since birth?"

"Oh, he doesn't have to be marked since birth," Ron said. "That's a mistranslation in the Prophecy book, mum says. She says it translates as: marked for rebirth, not marked since birth."

"How come Binns didn't take that into account in class?"

"I don't know. I'm not Binns' brain."

"So," Hermione said slowly, "He has to have a mark on his being, but it also has to have come with a change of character? I wonder where the mark is and whether Malfoy has been marked."

"Malfoy has been marked," Ron scowled. "For hell. Anyway I don't have intimate knowledge of Malfoy's anatomy, don't look at me like that."

"Has he embraced both good and bad sides?" she asked doubtfully.

"I doubt it."

"Well then its probably not him," she said decisively. "It's probably not anyone at Hogwarts. It could be someone in Africa or South America or something. Why Hogwarts?"

"Why Hogwarts indeed," Ron agreed. But he didn't look sure.

**********************************

"Okay guys, I've sorted it out," Harry announced five minutes later. He'd returned from his seat on Cho's lap and was smiling happily.

"You've sorted it out already?" Ron asked. "Damn, that's fast Harry. You've always been good at coping with stressors. When life's little hinkypunks get you down you just get right up."

"Yeah," said Harry.

Hermione noticed that his eyes were slightly glassy.

"Well, how did you do it?" Ron pressed eagerly.

"I've got a plan," Harry said. "And I need you to help me."

There was a bad feeling in the region of Hermione's abdomen.

"Sure, anything," said gullible Ron.

"We're going to talk to Malfoy and convince him not to be the Dragon," Harry said.

He beamed at them.

Hermione groaned. "Harry, we've decided that Malfoy's not the Dragon anyway," she said, thinking quickly.

"Really?" he said. "I thought you said he was."

"No, he's not," Hermione said, trying to sound convinced. Hell, even his name was prophetic.

"How do you know?" Harry asked.

"I just know," she said. "In fact, we've figured out that the Dragon isn't even at Hogwarts."

Harry stared at her. "Yes he is."

"No he's not," she denied in a brittle tone.

"Yes he is."

"Goddammit Harry, you're not the Dragon. Get over it!" she snapped.

"The Dragon is at Hogwarts, Hermione," Harry insisted.

"How do you know this?" she challenged.

"Because that's what professor Binns said in Friday's class," he said rationally.

Oh. Her shoulders slumped.

Ron scowled. "But professor Binns was wrong about you," he pointed out.

"Well, you can't go wrong with a prophecy like: "the Dragon shall be reared at Hogwarts, the greatest British School of Magic in the twenty first century, can you?" Harry demanded.

Hermione frantically tried to think of another great British wizarding school called Hogwarts and failed miserably.

"All right, so he's at Hogwarts," she said. Harry was really getting on her nerves. "So what. It's not me. It's not you. It's not Ron. It has nothing to do with us."

"It has everything to do with us," Harry said.

"No it doesn't," she said vehemently. "What does it have to do with us?"

"The Dragon," said Harry, "Will need trainers and helpers."

In the depth of his eyes, madness glimmered.

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Draco.

Draconius.

Dragon.

Had his parents known?

"No," Draco told himself sternly.

It was absolutely absurd.

He knew very well what the Dragon was supposed to be.

A wizarding romance novelist his mother had worshipped had written a series of fictional books about the real prophetic Dragon, a rugged character who was supposed to save the world by destroying it. It was a bizarre contradiction, and one he'd never taken seriously.

His mum had read all nine in the series about twenty times. Draco knew the covers by heart.

"...Alone in a world of chaos, the dashing Dragon has to set out to battle the lord of darkness. Abandoned by his friends, and loathed by his enemies, he must change the course of the world forever or die in the attempt. Can he learn to love along the way?..."

Draco had always snorted at the covers, normally depicting a virile male with a stony face brandishing a sword, and thought "Poor bastard."

All Draco wanted in life was a mansion equipped with a swimming pool containing a lot of well-endowed women in bikinis. It wasn't too much to ask.

He didn't need fame; he didn't want friends; he didn't particularly desire true love and the trappings that went with it and he sure as hell didn't want to be doomed to an existence of "changing the course of the world forever." And "learning to love along the way."

How lame was that?

All he wanted out of life was to make a pleasure palace out of it. Hell, he didn't even want to work, never mind travel the deserts or wade through rivers of molten lava to locate the bloody dark lord.

On the upside, if he was the Dragon, all he needed to do to locate the dark lord was to go home. Old Volders had taken up temporary residence at Malfoy Manor and would not be waiting for Draco at the other end of a lava pool or beneath the Vulcan Sea.

He'd most likely be at the other end of the house, in the East Wing.

Draco tried not to laugh at the thought of himself, the supposed Dragon, going home for the holidays and incidentally stunning Voldemort along the way.

That would make the ancient prophecies seem rather stupid.

And wouldn't it piss his father off?

He grimaced at the thought.

He didn't think he was going home for the holidays anyway. Voldemort gave him the creeps.

It was one thing to see him lording it over the Death Eaters in dark places, eyes flashing, spidery fingers clutching at the air menacingly - but it was another thing to see Voldemort lounging on his father's favourite arm chair, eating a scone.

The man was still scary, but Draco simply didn't have that respectful, stupefied fear in him anymore. It wasn't a fear he wanted to bow down to. Voldemort's scare-factor now had an ethereal quality to Draco. It reminded him of the boogieman or the monster in the closet. Only a four-year old would respect that. He was definitely scary, yes. But was he something that Draco would willingly give his life for? No.

So he'd decided, approximately at the end of last year, that being a Death Eater was taboo. He wasn't going to do it.

Besides, anyone with common sense could see that it was dangerous being one of Voldemort's friends. Poor Crabbe's father didn't have hands left. And MacNair had also lost a hand to Voldemort's wand.

Draco imagined Voldemort having a hand fetish and proudly surveying his collection of severed hands every morning.

Nope. An intelligent individual would not join the ranks of the Death Eaters. And Draco prided himself on being an intelligent individual.

He just wished he wouldn't be murdered on the spot if he mentioned his feelings to his father or to dear old Volders.

Mind you, dad had been implying that he didn't really have to if he didn't want to. The price to be paid, no credit cards accepted, thank you, was his own life. Dad had also hinted that Draco could flee and live an impoverished life amongst Mudbloods, in a tone that suggested that this option was certainly worse than death. Draco was inclined to agree.

"Draco darling," a simpering voice shattered hours of quiet contemplation, "You have been ignoring me all day."

Pansy sounded like an angle grinder.

Skreeeee.....skreeeeee....skreeeee....

"I've been ignoring you for a reason," he said truthfully.

She mistook the cruelty in his eyes for self-pity.

"Oh baby, no one believes that you're the Dragon. Don't worry about what that Mudblood said."

Skreeeee...Skreeee....Skreeeee...

She was giving him a headache.

She spontaneously gave him a hug and he let her hold him for the moment.

Pansy was not, contrary to popular opinion a bad person.

She was annoying as hell, alarmingly dim and could be downright spiteful when the spirit moved her, but she was all right if you were on her side. She was loyal, caring and sweet to Draco, except if he dared to even look at another species of the female persuasion, be it cat, insect or Millicent Bullstrode.

He was obviously the bad person because he couldn't bring himself to be nice to her.

He extricated himself from her grip. "I'm going to take a walk," he said.

"I'll come with," she said sweetly.

Skreeee...

"No," he said curtly, gathering up his cloak. He strode out of the dungeons, ignoring her longing eyes.

He was going to the library.

Madame Pince, the librarian, was an old, undesirable woman who always had cat hairs attached to her pink jumpers.

No doubt she'd have a copy of "the Dragon's Journey" hidden away somewhere.

Draco knew women. (****or thought he did.*****)

Even Hermione Granger probably had a dog-eared copy of one of the "Dragon's Journey"-anthology hidden under her bed somewhere.

Even the most practical woman could be depended on to read ridiculous books, and that told Draco a lot about women.

All of them were suckers. All of them had romantic notions hidden deep down somewhere. They were amazing. Every woman had the capacity to love unconditionally.

And almost every woman appreciated a cute smile and puppy-dog eyes.

Draco arranged his features into the desired expression and strolled into Madame Pince's abode.

*

Three hours later he was still sitting in the library, absorbed in Madame Pince's personal copy of - "A Hero is Born, book one in the Dragon's Journey series."

It was mind blowing.

The Dragon was an ultra-cool guy.

He killed monsters by glaring at them with his double vision. He left women quivering in his wake. He plundered castles because the people in them lived immorally (Draco had laughed until he'd cried when he'd read about this naïve justice.)

But there were also a few things that worried him. In the back of the book, the writer acknowledged that much of the Dragon's characteristics came from the prophecies.

Draco had some of these characteristics.

Even his family sounded a bit like Draco's.

Although the Dragon in book's father sounded a lot better than Draco's. He was less inclined to lecturing people. In fact, when the hero had received the news that he was the Dragon, the father had responded with something like a "Good for you, sonnyboy!" Doubtlessly Lucius Malfoy would not utter the word "Sonnyboy," never mind the sentence "Good for you."

The family in the book, of course, had not housed the Dark Lord as their personal guest of honour either.

He forced himself to put the book down at last. Nothing there suggested that he wasn't the Dragon, but he had to administer one final test on himself.

The hero in the book had coincidentally discovered that he had double vision by blinking his eyes twice.

Draco blinked twice and attempted to see under the desk.

Nothing. He could only see a piece of mahogany wood.

All right, that was it then. He wasn't the Dragon. He grinned, feeling very relieved, and left the library clicking his fingers.

*

From the other side of the library, Hermione watched him go.

"All right," she whispered to herself, getting up.

Harry had implored her to find out about Draco's feelings on being the Dragon.

"Please Hermsie," he had wheedled, lifting an eyebrow and sticking out his tongue slightly. She had felt herself melting at his stupid expression. "You have the best excuse for being in the library. And wear a short skirt, will you?"

Somehow she found herself in short skit, waiting in the library where Harry had been certain Draco Malfoy would be researching his destiny.

She tugged her skirt down.

How dumb was she? Trying to stalk the enemy in an uncomfortable outfit for her mad ex-boyfriend.

She was pathetic.

Draco had been there before her anyway, leafing through a paperback novel with a lurid cover of a man who couldn't keep the buttons on his shirt fastened.

She scooted to where Draco had been sitting and examined the book quickly.

"Dragon's Journey."

Aha. So he had been wondering. That was enough to go through with the stupid plan.

She fished Harry's Marauder's Map of Hogwarts out of her pocket and noticed that the dot labelled Draco Malfoy was moving towards the Hogwarts grounds.

Now what would he be doing there?

She grabbed her coat and ran, taking the faster route. It felt deceitful, like the Big Bad Wolf taking a short cut to meet up with his prey.

Poor Little Red Riding Draco.

She ran into the grass clearing which opened onto the Hogwarts grounds in enough time to recover her breath.

Draco strolled into view and stared at her in astonishment. "Mud...Granger."

"Albi...Draco,' she said deliberately.

He grinned. "Returning from another rendezvous with headboy? Or have you been stood up? Poor Granger."

She clenched her thumbs tightly. "Are you here to fraternise with the squid Malfoy? Seems to be your only friend."

He acknowledged her biting with a friendly nod of his head. "Now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, I'll be on my way."

"Wait Malfoy," she said, as he turned away.

He looked her up and down as he turned back.

"Why are you wearing a skirt Granger? It's freezing."

"I didn't have other clean clothes," she lied.

He shrugged. "Pity. You look better in jeans. Makes your legs look longer."

Bastard.

"My outfits are none of your concern Malfoy. I need to talk to you."

He rolled his eyes but made no attempt to move away.

She was very conscious of his scornful, icy eyes on her, and the condescending smile threatening to curve his lips. The wind ruffled his hair, making him look strangely sexy.

She suddenly felt quite nervous.

"I want to know if you're the Dragon," she blurted out.

He laughed. "Is precious Potter afraid that he's going to be knocked of his hero throne?"

"No!" she said, too quickly and too loudly.

"Well, tell him not to worry. I'm not the Dragon. Now, if you don't mind Granger, I have better things to do than talk to Potter's messengers."

And with that, he left her all alone in her short skirt, shivering with frustration and cold.

She glumly realised that she hadn't been able to keep herself from saying rude things to Malfoy for less than a day. And neither had he.

They had both, it seemed, lost the bet.

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Sorry, this is not really a great chapter. I need a beta-reader, because I'm not English. Anybody want to help?