Dungbombs, Drinking & Dragons

2. We Were Just Kids

Sigurd walked Charlie, Conall and Tyson to a large and intricately decorated fence, past panoramic views of the Romanian countryside. There was a massive lake surrounded by lush green grass, it was an oasis of colours and scents. Charlie could almost feel the life in the area. The Carpathian mountains a few miles ahead loomed over them, a few clouds hovering near the peaks.

The fence that Sigurd led them to was more than your average garden fence. It was huge. Thirty foot high at least, with carved knots in the wood, spreading to the left and right as far as Charlie could see. Sigurd stopped them at the gate. There was a dragon’s head carved into the centre of the gate.

‘This gate is magically sealed,’ he told them. ‘To open it you must tap here,’ he tapped the dragon’s snout with his wand. ‘And say “cheia”, meaning key. Practice.’

‘Cheia,’ Charlie repeated. It was pronounced kay-ya. Tyson and Conall did likewise.

‘Good.’ Sigurd nodded. The gate swung open. ‘If you do that wrong Naga here will give you a pretty nasty burn.’

Charlie threw an apprehensive look back at the closing gate. The dragon’s head snorted derisively, smoke billowing from wooden nostrils.

‘On your left here is the emergency shelter. If there is an emergency and help is needed here at the Sanctuary there is where you go to change into your protective clothing. More likely than not, your emergency will be an escaped dragon, and escaping dragons are angry and fond of burning people.’ Sigurd lifted up the left side of his shirt to reveal a shiny burn on his hip. ‘I got this when I was about twenty-five when one of the Catalonian Fireball’s tried to get loose.’

Charlie’s hip tingled and Tyson looked a bit green. Conall was looking up at the sky.

‘What happens if a dragon does get loose? If it gets out of the Sanctuary.’ he asked.

Sigurd chuckled. ‘A dragon has never gotten out of the Sanctuary, only it's enclosure. The charms around the area are hundreds of years old and reinforced every three months. Even the sky above us is not unprotected.’ They stopped before a sprawling wooden building with multiple gabled roofs and a statue of a tall wizard proudly surveying the Sanctuary. ‘Imagine a bubble over this area, that is what the charms are like. If the dragons get loose from their enclosures they can fly for a bit, but cannot break through those charms. Even dragons aren’t all powerful, especially the young, injured or sick ones that are kept here. It's the ones on the Reserve that you need to watch out for.' Sigurd smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

‘This, my friends,’ Sigurd announced, waving his hand with a flourish towards the statue of the wizard, ‘is Harvey Ridgebit, founder of this Sanctuary. Unfortunately he died almost twenty years ago in 1973. Were you three born then?’

They all nodded. Charlie hadn’t even been a year old when Harvey Ridgebit had died from, of all things, a bee sting.

Sigurd nodded happily. ‘In we go!’

He swung the door of the building open to reveal a cool reception room where two other anxious looking people, both about Charlie’s age, were sat.

‘You three will wait here. Belinda will see to you shortly.’ Sigurd smiled and waved, heading through a door on the left of the room. ‘See you soon!’

---

1st September, 1984

‘When she, uh, when she says “The Sorting Ceremony” she, uh, what does she mean?’ Don’s voice trembled as he sought an answer from either Charlie or Tonks. He was referring to Professor McGonagall, the stern-faced Scottish deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.