The Dragon's Heart

Harry Potter had been in love with Charlie Weasley for as long as he could remember. It wasn't the love of a fleeting crush, but a deep, aching adoration that had taken root during the summer before his second year, when he had first visited the Burrow and seen Charlie's broad, sun-kissed shoulders and the wild, windswept hair that matched the flames of the dragons he tamed. Ever since, Harry had been a mess of stuttering words and flushed cheeks whenever the second eldest Weasley was within ten feet.

At first, Harry tried to hide it. He would busy himself with chores or bury his nose in a book whenever Charlie came home from Romania. But his eyes always betrayed him, stealing glances at the way Charlie's muscles flexed when he lifted heavy crates of dragon supplies, or how his laugh rumbled deep in his chest like distant thunder. Harry's tongue would tie itself in knots, and all he could manage was a breathless 'Hi, Charlie' before fleeing the room.

Desperate to be noticed, Harry began to change his appearance. He wanted to look mature, desirable—anything to catch Charlie's eye. He started arching his back when he walked, accentuating the curve of his spine and the roundness of his backside, which he had been told was one of his best features. He wore trousers that hugged his legs a little too tightly, and when summer came, he took to wearing the shortest shorts he could find, showing off those legs he had once hated. Then came the crop tops—Muggle fashion that scandalized Mrs. Weasley but made Harry feel bold. He paired them with high-waisted skirts that swished around his thighs, and he took to applying a touch of lip gloss, the shimmer catching the light. He even wore delicate headbands to keep his perpetually messy hair out of his face, hoping it made him look softer, prettier.

Ron, Fred, and George noticed immediately. They cornered him one evening in Ron's room, eyes gleaming with mischief. 'Going somewhere special, Harry?' Fred had asked, nodding at the sheer fabric of his top. 'Or is there someone special you're hoping will notice?' George added, waggling his eyebrows. Ron just groaned and buried his face in his pillow. 'It's pathetic, mate. You're practically a peacock.' Harry had blushed crimson and denied everything, but the twins only laughed. From then on, they never missed an opportunity to tease. If Charlie entered a room, Fred would loudly whisper, 'Careful, Harry, your heart eyes are showing.' George would make kissing noises behind Charlie's back. Ron, ever the loyal friend, tried to shield him from the worst of it, but even he couldn't help a snort when Harry spilled his pumpkin juice all over himself after Charlie said good morning.

But Charlie, for all his dragon-taming prowess, was utterly oblivious. He treated Harry with the same easy affection he gave all his siblings, ruffling his hair and calling him 'kid,' completely missing the way Harry's skin would flush at the contact. Harry lived for those moments, and died a little inside each time Charlie walked away without a backward glance.

The turning point came during a late-summer gathering at the Burrow. The whole family was home, including Bill and Fleur, and the garden was alive with laughter and the smell of Molly's cooking. Harry was sitting on the grass, trying to read but mostly watching Charlie help Arthur with some contraption. Bill flopped down beside him, a knowing smirk on his scarred face. 'You know, Harry, if I were you, I'd do something about that.' He nodded towards Charlie. 'Make your crush jealous. Works every time.' Harry had spluttered, insisting he had no crush, but Bill just laughed. 'Sure, mate. Whatever you say.'

That night, Harry lay awake in Ron's room, the idea festering. Make Charlie jealous. It was terrifying, but what did he have to lose? Charlie saw him as a kid. Maybe if he showed that someone else found him desirable, Charlie would finally see him as more. The plan formed slowly: he would pretend to have a suitor. He'd come home with love bites and swollen lips, looking thoroughly snogged, and maybe—just maybe—Charlie would react.

The next day, Harry left early for Diagon Alley, claiming he needed new robes. In truth, he had an appointment with a glamour charm specialist. He spent a week practicing the charm that would create the illusion of a fresh hickey, and another to make his lips look bee-stung and well-kissed. When he felt confident, he returned to the Burrow one afternoon, his neck adorned with a purple mark and his lips plump and red.

The reaction was immediate. Ron choked on his tea. Fred and George hooted. 'Who's the lucky bloke?' they demanded. Harry just smiled mysteriously and said he'd been out with a friend. Molly looked ready to ask questions, but Arthur steered her away. Charlie, who had been repairing a saddle at the table, went very still. His eyes flickered to Harry's neck, and something dark passed through them before he returned to his work, a little too forcefully.

Emboldened, Harry continued the charade. Every day that week, he'd come back with fresh marks, his lips swollen and red. He'd hum happily, as if thoroughly satisfied. The twins kept up a running commentary, speculating about the mysterious lover. Charlie became increasingly quiet, his usual cheer replaced by a brooding silence. He started watching Harry with an intensity that made Harry's heart race. But Harry kept his distance, afraid his voice would crack and give him away.

The breaking point came when Harry announced he was going out again. He had dressed carefully in a tiny denim skirt and a white crop top that rode up when he moved, showing a sliver of his flat stomach. He'd applied extra gloss, his lips shining like ripe cherries. As he headed for the door, a hand caught his arm. Charlie's grip was gentle but unyielding.

'Who is he?' Charlie's voice was low, rough.

Harry's brain short-circuited. This close, he could smell Charlie—smoke and something earthy, like the forest after rain. He stared at the freckles scattered across Charlie's nose. 'I—I don't—'

'You come home every day looking like someone's been at you, and I want to know who.' Charlie's eyes were blazing, a possessive fire that Harry had never seen. 'Tell me, Harry.'

'I... there's no one,' Harry whispered, his carefully constructed plan crumbling. 'I just... I wanted you to notice me.'

Charlie's expression shifted from anger to confusion. 'What?'

'I've been in love with you for years,' Harry confessed, his voice trembling. 'I couldn't speak around you, so I tried to look... older. Prettier. I wore these clothes, I put on gloss, I... I pretended to have a boyfriend because Bill said making you jealous would work. I'm sorry, I'll just—'

But Charlie didn't let him finish. He cupped Harry's face in his calloused hands, tilting it up. 'You stupid, beautiful creature,' he murmured, and then his mouth was on Harry's, hot and insistent. The kiss was everything Harry had dreamed of and more—Charlie tasted like firewhiskey and desire, his lips moving with a confidence that left Harry breathless. Harry's hands fisted in Charlie's shirt, pulling him closer, and when they finally broke apart, both were panting.

'I've wanted you for so long,' Charlie said against Harry's lips. 'But you were so young, and I thought you could never... You dressed like that, arching your back, showing off those legs—do you know what that did to me? I thought I was going mad.'

Harry laughed shakily. 'Then why didn't you say anything?'

'I'm not good with words. I'm better with dragons.' Charlie grinned, a lopsided thing that made Harry's knees weak. 'But I think I can learn.'

From that day on, Harry's love bites were real, given by Charlie's eager mouth. He no longer needed crop tops to feel confident, though Charlie certainly didn't mind them. And the teasing from the Weasley boys only grew worse, but Harry didn't care—because every night, he fell asleep in Charlie's arms, knowing that the dragon's heart was his.