Fifteen Years

Part Eleven

His protective shield charm was destroyed in less than a second. George heard the roar of a beast and his tent was blown over. He cried out as his shoulder struck the bedpost and he landed on the ground. His wand rolled away and he scrambled, falling over himself in his panic, to pick it up. The sound of scissors ripping through fabric surrounded him as three enormous talons made their way through the material.

Another tremulous growl shook the earth. The tent was caving in around him - he had to get out! His fingers fumbled for the zip, yanked it up, he ran outside -legs unsteady, wobbling as the ground trembled beneath him. He sprinted for the cover of the trees, tried to turn around to get a better look at his attacker, stumbled and fell -arms flailing. This time, he just managed to hold on to the tip of his wand as it went to slip from his grasp. George landed on the grass, the dirt hard beneath him.
He looked up and saw it.

A dragon.

Not just any dragon. Fully-grown and emerald-green. Spikes all the way down its scaly back, tail ending in a vicious point. George couldn't help but notice that the point was covered in blood.
But the dragon was still focussed on shredding his tent, so he began to edge his way backwards. Then the inevitable happened. His hand landed on a twig.
Crunch. His heart imploded as the dragon turned it's steely gaze towards him.

Slow motion. That's how it felt. The dragon came towards him, it's eyes glinting, merciless in the half-light. He lifted his wand, and somehow struggled to his feet. Looking directly into its eyes, George realised he had no idea what to do. His mind was whirring through ideas. Should he try to stun it? Would the killing curse work on something so large? He came up blank. The dragon was on its hind legs now, raising its claws into the air. Preparing to swipe. Preparing to kill.

And then something beyond reason happened. The dragon stopped, and became as still as if it were carved of stone. And then it fell to the ground.

The impact threatened to spin the world out of control. The spindly limbs of every tree shook, and a scattering of leaves burst into the air. George fell backwards and landed in a shrub. The spiky leaves tore at his skin, and he ended up lodged in-between a fork in the branches.

Then he heard a laugh. Not unpleasant, but definitely out of place. Familiar.

A scarred hand reached down. Grabbing hold of it, George allowed himself to be pulled back to his feet.

He stared into the freckled face of his brother.

"Charlie?" George was bewildered.

"What are you doing here?" they said in unison, then laughed, awkwardly.

"I'm with the boys from Romania," Charlie grinned, pulling tendrils of ginger hair from his eyes. "We're trying to get some info on this particular type of dragon," he walked away from George, heading towards the sleeping dragon. "It's a Scottish Sharptail," he said.

"What did you just do to it?" George asked, hovering a few feet away from the mass of scales and spikes.

"Stunning spells. Several of them, of course," Charlie ran a hand down the dragons side, appearing to relish the feel of its reptilian body. George was reminded of the Hogwarts school motto; Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus; 'never tickle a sleeping dragon'. A chill in his spine made him shiver.