"The Expert"

by Eurydice

Disclaimer: Of course the wonderful Harry Potter books and characters belong to J.K. Rowling.  Modwin and Ingrid, however, are my brainchildren.  Enjoy!

{Author's Note: This is my first story; thanks so much to B. Bennett, my beta-reader, for all of her help- I couldn't have done it without her.}

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Charlie watched Hagrid and his enormous companion depart, feeling the onset of trepidation.

He was extremely fond of Hagrid, but wasn’t entirely sure he could be trusted with the secret… then again, what did it matter? Everyone he knew, with the exception of the Malfoy family, wanted Harry to win the tournament, so a little prod in the right direction couldn’t hurt-

A thunderous roar ripped through the air, and Charlie whirled just in time to see a great gout of flame erupt from the mouth of the Fireball, startling and orange against the blackened sky. Shouts of extinguishing spells echoed from the pen, and Charlie raced across the field to help. By the time he got there, however, the Fireball was calm again, though glowering occasionally at the wizards as though she would make sure to roast them the next time.

"That was a close one," gasped Modwin Banks, collapsing against a nearby rock. "These dragons are going to be the end of me. You try to tell them not to have four different species in one area, tell them it’s dangerous business, but do they listen? Noooo, all they want is the excitement, the variety… and now one of them is sick, torching everything in sight whenever she sneezes-"

"Oh, come off it, Modwin," grinned Charlie. "You’re loving this, every minute of it. You’re not fooling anyone."

Modwin glared at him, and then a sunny smile broke over his handsome face. He was older than Charlie by about four years, but with that grin he looked all of fifteen. "Guilty as charged," he said, running a hand through his thick mop of curly brown hair. "But you have to admit it’s more tiring than Romania’s ever been. There, you’ve got some order, but this… hell, I'll even take the blame for it, but it's just barely organized chaos. No one will be more glad than I when this task is over and we can send this lot home."

"You’re wrong there," said Charlie. "The champions, I expect, may have more cause for celebration."

"One of them, anyway," Modwin pointed out. His green eyes suddenly glinted, and his smile became mischievous. "You met the expert yet?"

"Expert? You mean he’s here?" Charlie sighed. "About time. I didn’t fancy having to find another Short-Snout on such short notice."

"Flew in a few hours ago from Norway. You were busy with the Horntail. Expert on the Scandinavian varieties – smart as a whip, that one. Go on," he said, pointing toward a small shed at the edge of the woods. "Introduce yourself."

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the dragons. They seemed to be behaving themselves; the Short-Snout and the Welsh Green were sleeping peacefully, smoke billowing from their nostrils; the Fireball and the Horntail were eating. With a shrug, he walked toward the shed, wondering why Modwin was grinning at him that way. When he reached the shed, he knocked at the door, and a voice – a distinctly female voice – called from within, "It’s open."

Charlie stopped in his tracks. He looked over at Modwin, but Modwin, for his part, was very obviously making a great effort to ignore him.

The door behind Charlie opened, and he turned to face the occupant of the shed. She was slightly taller than Charlie, with thick black curls of hair falling to her waist. Her eyes were dark brown and very large, and grew even larger when she saw who she was greeting. "You’re Charlie Weasley, aren’t you?" Her voice was low, with only a trace of an accent that was utterly charming.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"Modwin described you to me."  She was smiling, but what kind of smile Charlie couldn't tell.  "My name is Ingrid Nils. It’s very nice to meet you." She gave his hand a firm shake, turned, and went back into the shed. "I’m just doing some reading about the Fireball; I’m afraid I don’t know much about the far eastern varieties. Come in, please; I’m sorry about the mess."

The shed was indeed in disarray; books lay open on every available surface, papers were strewn over the walls. By the light of the flickering fire, he could see a pen scribbling furiously over a roll of parchment as a book rapidly flipped its pages. Ingrid took a sip from an enormous earthenware mug and, donning a pair of spectacles, leaned over a dusty leatherbound tome. Charlie hunted around in his mind for something to say; he was hopeless at small talk. Especially with women. He could tell you with no hesitation the average weight of a Peruvian Vipertooth, or that the rarest form of dragon known to wizardkind was the Alaskan Sniffer. He could rattle off wingspans like the names of his brothers, but once the topic switched to more mundane things, such as the nice weather we’re having, or maybe the time of day, he went red in the face.

He realized that Ingrid was still speaking. "…surprised when they asked me to help. I thought for certain that the Short-Snout would be the least of your problems."

Relieved to find himself on stable ground, Charlie moved a thick book from a nearby stool and sat down. "She’s sick. It’s nothing too serious, but rather a danger whenever she sneezes. We’ve managed to keep her sedated so that she doesn’t cause too much damage, but we’re hoping that she recovers by the tournament so that the spectators don’t turn into pot roast."

Ingrid laughed. "Oh my. Poor dear. Is she eating?"

"Probably not as much as she should be."

"Hmm." She squinted at him in the dim light. "You’re quite young. I imagined you older." With a shrug, she removed her glasses and started to pull her formidable mass of hair into a ponytail. "With your reputation, I imagined you must be at least my father’s age."

"You’re young yourself," Charlie said. And female, he added mentally.

Ingrid gave him an appraising glance, and Charlie had the uncomfortable feeling that she could sense his misgivings. "I’ve been interested in dragons since I was five years old. I read every book I could get my hands on, and apprenticed my Care of Magical Creatures professor to learn about them. Dr. Bjornson was quite knowledgeable on the subject."

Charlie stared. "Dr. Bjornson? That’s incredible. I always wanted to meet him; I was very sorry to hear of his death."

"It’s one of the perils of the trade," said Ingrid, straightening some of the mess. Her voice was offhand, but Charlie could hear sadness creeping in at the edges. "He told me once that he wanted to go ‘in the line of duty.’ He treated it like it was an honor." She paused, and smiled. "I imagine it was, too. Come, let’s have a look at this Short-Snout."

She picked up her wand, opened the door and strode out; Charlie followed. Modwin grinned at him from across the pen, and this time it was Charlie’s turn to ignore him.

Once at the Short-Snout, Ingrid didn’t hesitate – holding her wand at the ready, she carefully looked over the dragon’s face. "Lumos," she muttered, and shone the light into the dragon’s nostrils, first the right, then the left. She did the same with the sleeping dragon’s eyes – right, then left. Charlie was afraid it would wake up, but they’d sedated it quite heavily. It snuffled loudly and sighed, and the resulting smoke was so thick that Ingrid and Charlie were sent into spasms of coughing.

"Ugh," said Ingrid, waving it away as best she could.

"No kidding," replied Charlie.

"No, I mean, it shouldn’t smell like that. What have you been feeding her?" Ingrid’s voice was mildly accusatory, and she climbed nimbly onto the dragon’s head to examine the horns. "This is an allergic reaction. See, the horns have lost all of their luster. They should be shinier than this. And her belly’s all distended. Has there been spinach in her food, by any chance?"

"I’m not sure," said Charlie. "I’ve been mainly keeping watch on the Horntail; she’s been giving us more trouble than the rest of them combined."

"I can imagine," replied Ingrid. "Talk to whoever’s been preparing the Short-Snout’s food. It should consist mainly of fish, other meats, and greens other than spinach. They like mountain goat, if that’s a possibility." She leaned against one of the horns, and patted the dragon between the eyes. Both dragon and human seemed thoroughly relaxed, and Charlie found himself envying her. As much as he loved dragons, establishing a rapport with one was one he’d never quite been able to achieve. Then again, he mused, it was probably easy to establish a rapport with a dragon if it was asleep.

"You should get down from there," he said with a smile. "If she wakes up, she’ll be none too pleased to have you on her head."

"I’ll be fine," said Ingrid, nonchalant. "Poor thing, don’t worry, you’ll be back as good as new just in time for the tournament." She smiled at the top of the dragon’s head, and it sighed again, sending out another choking plume of smoke.

An awkward silence dropped; at least, it seemed awkward to Charlie, who was once again trying to think of something to say and failing miserably. Ingrid seemed oblivious to this, and at least that was a relief. Finally, he thought of something.

"Are you… are you planning to stick around to watch the tournament?"

"The first task, yes," said Ingrid, her eyes gleaming. "I’ll be at the ready in case anything happens. I can’t tell you how excited I am to be a part of this. I’m thrilled that the tournament’s been brought back… it’s in my family, you know."

"In your family?"

Ingrid nodded. "My great-great-great-great grandfather won one of them."

Charlie’s jaw dropped. "You’re kidding."

"I tell the truth," said Ingrid, hand to heart. "It’s been a great source of pride to my family. I only wish I could have entered this one, but at least I can participate in some way. I’m looking forward to seeing it."

She closed her eyes and sighed deeply; she may as well have been sitting in a comfortable armchair, rather than on the head of one of the most dangerous beasts known to man. Charlie felt the envy run through him again - until he found himself looking straight into a yellow eye the size of a dinner plate. "She’s awake," he said, trying to sound casual. "You might want to get down now."

"Pardon?" asked Ingrid, eyes still closed.

The dragon blinked once, twice, and then the great eyes rolled upward. A deep grumble issued from its throat. "Get down," said Charlie urgently. "Right now. She’s awake."

Ingrid’s eyes popped open and she stood up, hanging onto the Short-Snout’s horn for balance. She started to make her way to the side of the head to jump down, but before she could, the dragon raised her head to its full, heart-stopping height. Charlie, suddenly feeling very small, ran to the edge of the pen and squinted up. In the darkness, he could vaguely see Ingrid still clinging to the horn and the dragon’s eyes straining to see her. His mind raced. She would be relatively safe as long as the Short-Snout didn’t figure out how to torch the top of her own head-

He mentally shook himself. That was ridiculous. She could fall. Or one of the other dragons could attack her. Maybe she was afraid of heights. Or-

"Modwin!" he screamed before he could think further. He needn’t have bothered – his friend was already running over to him.

"What the hell’s she doing up there?!"

"Holding on for dear life, I expect," Charlie snapped. "How are we going to get her down?"

The Short-Snout, realizing that her efforts to see her rider were fruitless, started shaking her head back and forth as if trying to dislodge water from her ear. Ingrid wrapped her legs around the horn as well, burying her head against the smooth surface.

"Stunning Spell," said Modwin.

Charlie shook his head. "Not with Ingrid up there. When the dragon falls, she’ll jar her head pretty hard."

"Shrink it!" exclaimed one particularly excitable wizard.

"Immobilize it," suggested Modwin.

"And then Ingrid’ll climb down, shall she? Not many handholds on a dragon," said the excitable wizard waspishly, miffed at being ignored.

"Has anyone got a broomstick?" asked Charlie, somewhat desperately.

"That’s how Ingrid got here," said Modwin. "It’ll be in the shed." He took off for it, while the crowd watched helplessly. He returned moments later, carrying the broomstick- an antediluvian Shooting Star, but better than nothing.

"Okay," said Charlie, "everyone hit her – the dragon, not Ingrid – to immobilize her. If we all do it together it could work."

"It won’t last long," said Modwin, "so you’ll have to hurry."

Everyone backed up, wands at the ready. "Now!" shouted Charlie.

"Imoblius!" bellowed the scores of wizards.

The Short-Snout froze in mid-headshake. Her eyes were screwed up, her tail in a graceful arc. Charlie mounted the broom and kicked off from the ground. He hadn’t flown in what felt like ages, but it came back to him as naturally as walking. Even in this focused state, he couldn’t help missing his Quidditch days.

When he reached the dragon’s head, Ingrid was in the process of trying to climb down the thick, scaly neck. "Quick, get on," said Charlie.

Ingrid shook her head. "I’ll be fine."

"What?"

"Don’t you worry about me, I’ll get down in no time." 

"No time is too much time," Charlie persisted.  He maneuvered closer.  "The dragon’s going to unfreeze any minute, so –"

"I appreciate the rescue effort," said Ingrid lightly, negotiating a tricky bit, "but I'm fine.  You can spare me the chivalry."    

"Chivalry?" exclaimed Charlie incredulously. "You think I’m doing this because you’re a woman? Believe me, if this were anyone else up here – well, almost everyone, maybe not the Malfoys or You-Know-Who – I’d be doing the exact same thing, now get on this broom before I drag you!"

Ingrid looked at him and laughed. Later, the absurdity of the situation would strike Charlie so that he laughed too – coercing a near-stranger off a dragon’s neck before she plunged to her death – but for now, all he was was frustrated. And frightened. "You’re a one, Charlie Weasley," she said, "you really are." She climbed onto the back of the broom, and Charlie flew to the ground. As they landed, the Short-Snout resumed her headshaking, only to stop, puzzled. She could almost be seen to shrug, and settled suspiciously back onto her haunches.

Ingrid climbed off the broom, and Charlie followed. Some of her self-assurance was gone now, and he could see that she had indeed been more frightened than she’d let on. Her hair was askew, in wild ebony corkscrews that stuck out crazily from her ponytail. "Sorry about that," she said. "I have an independent streak in me. It always drove my Da crazy."

Charlie shook his head. "No need to apologize. I’d’ve probably done the same thing."

Modwin hurried up to them. In the background, Charlie could hear the remaining wizards enacting a Stunning spell. "All right, Ingrid?"

"Fine," she replied. She blushed a deep pink that Charlie could see even in the darkness, and added, "Thanks."

Charlie shrugged and hooked a thumb at Modwin. "His idea."

"Yours," said Modwin. He clapped Charlie on the back and walked back toward the pen, whistling cheerfully.

Charlie felt his face go red.  "Modest fellow, that one."

Ingrid laughed. She really did have a lovely laugh. "Well, thank you once more," she said, taking back her broomstick. "I never thought I’d be rescued from a dragon by a handsome Seeker."

"I’m not a Seeker anymore."  Handsome?  She thinks I'm-

"Ex-Seeker, then." Ingrid grinned. "I’m going to get some sleep, I think. Oh, my, I’ve had a bit of a day, haven’t I? Good night, Charlie Weasley." Impulsively, she leaned forward and briefly kissed his cheek. "I’ll see you tomorrow?"

"Um. Yes. Definitely," said Charlie, and now he was the one blushing.

Laughing, Ingrid turned and went back to the shed. Charlie watched her go, and tried to ignore Modwin’s curious eyes as he went back to work.