Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

24th December

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Draco whistled when he entered the cavern. He squinted into the darkness, searching for the figure he knew was there as he walked further inside. He held a lantern in his hand, the flame charmed to be unnaturally bright and vigorous, emitting much more light than it should. Salazar knew it needed to; this tomb was pitch black.

While he walked, he concentrated his magic on levitating the corpse of a large cow behind him. The animal's blood dripped sporadically from an incision on its throat, leaving a trail of scarlet on the scratched concrete.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Draco whistled again and brought the body closer to his side, hoping to draft the scent of the kill into the tomb and entice the beast within.

A deep rumble cut through the eerie silence, the vibrations of it rattling against Draco's chest. The temperature spiked suddenly, and then she was there.

It wasn't big enough for his dragon down here. The ceilings might've been high to him, but her colossal size made it difficult for her to move through them. Her chest and tail scraped across the floor as she struggled to crawl towards him.

As soon as he saw her, it felt easier to breathe. The uncomfortable tightness he'd carried in his chest eased, and the sickening lurch he'd carried in his stomach since their separation softened.

He hated that the Dark Lord had insisted she be kept under their base of operation while she healed.

He said he wanted to keep an eye on her to ensure she received the best care. He wanted her to recover as quickly as possible, not because he cared for her like Draco did, but because he couldn't have his most lethal weapon out of commission for too long.

The Order was terrified of his dragon, as they fucking should be. For many, she was a nightmare come to life; a winged demon materialised on the battlefield and hungry for their screams. The mere sight of her often reduced even the bravest men to a puddle of desperation. Her roar alone brought the most valiant Order soldiers to their knees.

She was majestic and powerful. And she belonged to Draco.

Although his mother had given him her tiny egg before her passing, Draco had been convinced that his master was going to take the dragon for his own when he learned what species she was, that he'd snatch the egg right from Draco's pale fingers when he realised the destruction her flaming breath would one day cause. He had, in fact, countless times since she'd hatched, but it wasn't meant to be.

Scandinavian Firethorn Dragon's only chose one rider. They paired themselves with a single witch or wizard for life and never answered to anyone else. They wouldn't even allow another person the joy of flying on their backs unless their master had permitted it. Their decisions were final. No second chances. No exceptions.

But the Dark Lord had still tried to make her subservient to him. The crazy bastard had tried to bond with her from the moment she'd clawed her way out of her egg. He'd tried to feed her by hand, tried to soothe her, and he'd even tried to teach the tiny thing to breathe fire, but it all ended with little nips and the edges of robes set aflame. In the end, she wanted nothing to do with the dark wizard. She only ever wanted Draco and to this day, wherever he was, she followed.

His dragon was ruthlessly possessive, territorial of what she thought was hers. He belonged to her as much as she belonged to him.

Draco knew she needed to be here, and that she was being treated by Voldemort's best healers. But she wasn't at the Manor, she wasn't home, and the separation was stifling.

The dungeons beneath the cathedral were far too small for a beast as magnificent as her. This concrete cage was more of a prison than anything else. She needed to be outside, wings spread and head held high like the elegant being she was. She didn't belong here. She belonged at the manor, with him and what was left of his small - albeit highly dysfunctional - family.

"Hello beautiful," he whispered when she stopped in front of him.

Her nostrils flared and relaxed, inhaling the scent of her dinner. Her ruby-coloured eyes watched him as he ran a hand across her scaled snout, waiting for him to tell her she was allowed to eat the corpse that was within her reach.

"I've missed you."

She nestled her large head into Draco's palm and hummed in the back of her throat, a purr, her admission of happiness for their reunion.

With a snap of his fingers, the cow's body fell to the floor with an audible squelch. She moved away from his palm, inching towards her meal, and Malfoy used the distraction to walk along the side of her body. "Go on then," he said, jutting his chin towards the cow. "Don't mind me, dig in."

As soon as she started to eat, Draco began inspecting her injuries. As much as he trusted the healers, he needed proof that she was on the mend.

He ran his fingers across the jagged wound lining her ribs, the scar grew taunt and then relaxed as she inhaled and exhaled. They were healing nicely, much faster than he'd expected. The deep open wound under her shoulder - the one that Draco was sure had punctured something vital - was only a scar now. Fresh, black scales were quickly growing around the vulnerable skin to protect it, her armour reforming.

The injury had come from a raid. All they had to do was overturn a resistance base known to be associated with Potter. It was supposed to be a simple in and out mission with very little numbers and next to no interference.

How wrong their intelligence had been.

The base was heavily armed, infuriatingly well prepared, and all the civilians and possible hostages they'd been sent to capture were already under the base and out of reach. Large gunners were already set up, and countless soldiers - wizard and muggle alike - had already been in perfect formation with their weapons drawn and loaded when the attack had started.

The Dark Lord was sure someone had tipped the Order off about the raid, but all the preparation in the world couldn't have prepared them for the onslaught that ensued. The siege had already begun when Draco rode in on the dragons back. The majority of the Order soldiers were already deceased or close to it. The only remaining threat was the three metal tanks that were guarding the entrance, their last line of defence. Although their barrels were pointing high in the sky and waiting for Draco and his dragon to arrive, they were no threat. She disintegrated them instantly; the thick, muggle made metal melted easily under the heat of her flames.

His dragon had been ready to make another pass over the base, all she had to do was blow the front doors off to allow the Death Eaters to get inside and snatch the hostages. She'd opened her mouth when the door was in sight, the scales on her back growing hotter as she gathered fire, but just before she'd released that explosive breath, a fourth tank had appeared out of nowhere, just suddenly cracked into existence. Draco had realised - a second too late - that the large machine had been concealed with magic. A few pathetic, easily detectable layers of magic that he would have noticed if he'd been paying more attention.