Inked Dragons

Dead Meat Standing

A/N Warning, some homophobic language

It took Harry more than a couple of hours to get home that night, mostly because Gregory Goyle was not going down without a fight.

It was unfortunate for Greg that he'd broken into the Malfoys' empty house in Bayeux and scouted about for information while remaining unaware that his presence was being monitored by both the British and French Aurors. When he left the property, he was none the wiser as to where the Malfoy blood traitors had disappeared, though he did find a photograph, obviously slipped under a bed and not yet missed. It was of Harry fucking Potter and Draco bloody Malfoy with their arms slung around each other casually as they sat in some café somewhere. He vaguely recognised the location but couldn't place it. As he looked at the image, Draco turned his head and kissed Potter on the cheek and was looking at Potter, for all the world, like he was in bloody love, the fucking queers. He nearly threw the photograph away in disgust, as if it might be diseased. However, he stopped, thinking that Arum would be interested to know that little snippet of information. Nice blackmail material 'cause Malfoy or Potter clearly weren't out.

Once outside the house, Goyle found himself disabling two French Aurors who were foolish enough to try and stop him without waiting for back up. The French were easily dealt with. It was a different case when it came to two of Potter's elite force who worked together far more coherently. He didn't like to admit he'd underestimated Potter's little gang. The fight was fierce but Greg didn't hold back on the Dark Arts; he had learnt a number of useful duelling spells during his two-year stint in Azkaban after the war.

Unfortunately for Greg, his shoulder was seriously injured and he couldn't lift his left arm properly but he left Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson quite possibly fighting for their lives in the streets as he took his portkey back to his home in Tanworth-in-Arden, England. He didn't care. He didn't want to stick around and wait for the French Auror Force to turn up in strength.

It was also unfortunate that Greg landed just outside his front door to find Harry fucking Potter between him and door. He raised his wand, ignoring the pain shooting down his other side. Still trying to catch his breath, he backed away warily, ready to Apparate out immediately... only he felt an Anti-Apparition Ward drop around him.

'You think you're so clever, Potter...' he snarled, 'but you're dead meat standing, you little faggot.'

'Hello, Goyle. You haven't changed much from school then. Still calling me names in the hope that I actually give two fucks. Boo hoo! You called me a nasty name, hoping it would upset me. Is that really the best you can do?'

They circled each other slowly, neither striking. Wariness exuded from every step Goyle took. Harry wasn't as tightly wound, training had taught him better. Stress and tension tended to equal poor duelling skills. He was minutely aware of keeping his heartbeat slow and even. The rest of him focused on the details of his opponent and the forthcoming duel. He noted that Goyle was leaning to his left, his shoulder listing at an awkward angle, suggesting it was dislocated. He grimaced to himself, one of Angelina's meaner spells. He hoped Angelina and Lee were okay. Meanwhile, he silently wove a number of protective spells around himself and Alex and Mara who were on alert but staying back for the moment. 'Nice tattoo,' Harry commented casually. 'I understand you got that after the war? I know you weren't initiated into Voldemort's inner circle, not considered important enough. Is it some pathetic idea that it'll show you to be a big scary man when everyone who matters actually knows the truth and is laughing at you behind your back?'

'Shut up, Potter!'

Harry laughed cruelly. 'It doesn't work, you know. Tattooing yourself because you want to appear part of the gang. Even your boss knows you weren't a proper Death-Eater, just a stupid lacky like your dad. Grand ideas above your station, Goyle. Says it all.'