Seeking

Harry came to them looking for a beginning.

He'd not seen a lot of Harry lately, quite truthfully--contrary to most people, he'd always seen Harry as Ron's Best Friend, not the other way around--and what little he saw of him only told him that Harry was a nice, quiet boy who flew really well. During the war he'd seen even less of him; his work at the Order sent him to all different places to recruit Order members and look for help where help could be found. Harry, meanwhile, had been at the heart of everything, planning and fighting and inspiring.

Harry was the heart of everything.

They'd won, eventually, and Charlie liked to think it had been an inevitable win all along, because things were supposed to work out that way, weren't they? Still, they'd lost too many--Dumbledore and Hagrid and Bill and George and he didn't want to run through the names anymore, so he didn't--and in the aftermath of everything no one had known what to do, except to turn to Harry.

Harry hadn't known what to do either.

The older Order members had taken it upon themselves to rebuild the wizarding world, with Harry's public approval and acknowledgement so everyone else would let them, and they'd worked themselves raw. They let Amelia Bones take over the Ministry temporarily. They set up Departments and appointed new heads and implemented new policies and slowly, the world pulled itself together.

Three years later, it was strong enough to let Harry go.

*

He was taller and tanner but his hair was just as unruly as always and his eyes were just as green, when Charlie saw Harry again. The boy came to him one day, walking into his tiny tent in Romania wearing simple black robes and a slightly lost look on his face.

I want to be a dragon tamer, he'd said clearly. What do I have to do?

Charlie had wanted to know why he didn't just owl, and Harry said he could spare the time to travel. He'd not been doing anything else lately, after all, and Charlie only nodded, knowing Harry likely didn't want to talk about the offers he'd been getting all the Ministry departments, or the other, more absurd offers from the Wireless Wizarding Network or Witch Weekly.

We've requirements for NEWTs results--at least Es in Care of Magical Creatures, Charms, Transfiguration and Defense, though Os would be preferable, Charlie had said. Then we'll train you.

Harry had nodded wordlessly, placing his NEWTs results on Charlie's desk. He started training a week after.

*

The one time Charlie had seen Harry outside the Burrow before the war began was also the first time he'd met Harry personally. It was during The First Task in that Triwizard Tournament, when fourteen-year-old Harry had had to go against a Hungarian Horntail in order to retrieve a golden egg. Charlie had watched Harry look at the dragons in awe, had watched Harry on his Firebolt, lithe and quick and determined as he darted in and out.

Harry's a damn good flyer, he'd thought.

And he'd heard of Harry's talents in Quidditch, tales of great swooping dives from fifty feet up in the air and intense clashes against that Malfoy boy, and Ginny had always been so excited in her narratives that her arms flew about and she bounced on the balls of her feet sometimes, but it didn't surprise him to know that Harry wouldn't be playing professional Quidditch after the war.

War did things to people, his father had often said, and he'd listened to story after story of war veterans like Mad-Eye Moody who still believed in shadows lurking after them--although Moody had been partially correct, fourteen years later--and he'd wondered what war would do to him, if it let him live. Now he wondered what the war had done to Harry, who never laughed with the other trainees or drank Firewhiskey in the pubs after work, who only nodded with dull green eyes and did things because he was told to.

You've got to be more focused, he told Harry one day in training. These are dragons you're working with--one mistake and that's it. You've too much on your mind, but if you're only taming dragons because there's nothing left for you to do then dragon taming's not the sort of mindless work you're looking for.

Harry had looked at him, eyes quickly flashing up with a tiny spark of shock before they turned to the ground, and he didn't say anything.

*

Charlie had expected Harry to leave, but when the young man visited him in his makeshift tent of an office for the second time, it had been to apologise.

I didn't--what I meant to say was, I, erm, he'd stuttered, in the way that he always did, and then he took a deep breath and looked Charlie straight in the eye, with an earnest face and sincerity in his voice as he finally found the words he'd wanted to say. I really do want to tame dragons.

Charlie simply nodded back. Then we start tomorrow, he'd replied.

He had watched Harry again the day after, even began to personally supervise Harry's progress, and it was a small change, but it had been there, in the hard set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the strength in his grip. Harry had always been able to fly relatively well with the rest of the trainees, despite his lack of concentration, but that day he flew even better.

He's a damn good flyer, the other trainees and some of the dragon tamers had murmured amongst themselves.

Charlie knew, of course.

*

Come with us to the pub, Charlie said one day after work, stopping by Harry's tent just as he was putting on fresher clothes. Harry had stared back for a good full minute, because he'd always been invited to the pub but never by Charlie, and he hadn't really wanted to go but perhaps he should. Charlie had waited by the flap of his tent, cheery grin on tanned face and already in casual clothing, and Harry had shrugged why not.

Wicked, Charlie had said, like it truly was the most wicked thing to have happened.

Really, it was just a pub, Harry had thought, but the one thing he'd learned over his years of exposure to Weasleys was that their moods were contagious, and he'd smiled faintly back.

A couple of glasses of Firewhiskey later, Harry was laughing along with the rest of the trainees and dragon tamers. He chuckled at a particularly randy joke that Tom Dippendot cracked, cheeks burning from the alcohol he'd consumed. Charlie had been watching him with that easy grin he always wore, and Harry had raised his glass to a silent toast.

That had been the beginning.

*

He'd been flying better and he'd been working harder, and the trainers had often complimented him on his improvement. They stopped working on theories and simulations and moved from dragon handling to dragon riding, which was more difficult than Harry had thought it would be. John, who was fresh out of Hogwarts, had almost been burned by the Common Welsh Green, and they'd needed to send him away for shock therapy. The rest of the trainees hadn't been too pleased with that, and some had backed out for a while.

Harry hadn't, but not because people expected him not to. He'd always dreamt of riding dragons, even back in his cupboard in Privet Drive, and if it meant he'd have to pet a Hungarian Horntail on the snout then he would.

He'd stepped up to his dragon, a Chinese Fireball, and did as he was instructed to, but Shang's nostrils only flared ever so slightly and he saw a puff of smoke so he backed away. It took him longer than a few minutes and after an hour all he had to show for it was a sooty face and the ability to stand less than ten feet away. At least Shang wasn't a nesting mother, he'd thought.

It's good progress, Charlie had said, but Harry knew that Charlie had ridden his first dragon after less than an hour of trying. He grinned anyway.

*

Come to the pub with me, Charlie said again one day after work, and Harry agreed quickly, as he'd been doing in the past couple of weeks. He put on clean clothes after a quick shower, where he washed away all the soot and dirt of the day, and looked forward to the Firewhiskey and light conversation.

Shang adores you now, Charlie said.

I think Norbert's a little jealous, Harry chuckled, downing his drink. And I can't believe we're talking about dragons like this.

Charlie laughed heartily. We're right pissed, mate, he said, looking at Harry, who was sure his cheeks were burning from nothing else but the alcohol again.

That had been their beginning.