Chapter Text
The bitter, iron stench stung his nose. Steam rose from the shifting, thick liquid, as from the bleeding carcass of some arctic beast. After taking this potion every month for over two years, Harry still had not grown used to it. He could pretend. He was a good actor.
He put the goblet to his lips, fighting the urge to gag as the potion flooded his mouth, his senses, viscous and vile. It made his empty stomach churn. He kept drinking, aware Madam Pomfrey was watching to ensure he had consumed the entire dosage. Harry grimly bore this scrutiny, having been in the place she stood. Wolfsbane was a fouler concoction, and had to be administered more frequently. Knowing that Lupin had it worse offered no relief in the moment. What was the use in comparing their pain?
“Armed with only their wands,” Madam Pomfrey said, shaking her head. “Ridiculous! Don’t you worry, Mr. Evans. I’ll be in the medical tent, with plenty of Calming Draughts on hand. Unbelievable. This school… No disrespect to the headmaster, but I suspect Severus is right. He’s gone senile. Now, he could do with a visit to the hospital wing…”
Harry kept drinking, his amusem*nt growing as she railed against the injustices done to her patients. Madam Pomfrey was trying to cheer him up, in her own way. It seemed all of the staff had learned of the dragons, once they had arrived. Hagrid couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Even Professor Trelawney had been roaming outside of the North Tower, rambling about portents of fire. No one had come outright and said it, of course. Mr. Crouch had been adamant that the champions not receive assistance from professors. Not even Monty was an exception, it seemed, save the indiscretions of groundskeepers.
Only Harry’s proximity to Percy, and Monty’s connection to the Weasley family as a whole, had tipped them off well in advance. He and Monty had overheard Charlie say he hadn’t told his own mother about his, and the dragons’, involvement. But him telling Hagrid, Hagrid telling Monty and Madame Maxime, their conspicuous date to the dragon pen that Karkaroff had easily seen from the Durmstrang ship, signified how easily a secret could get out. It made Harry reconsider everything he had thought to share with anyone. He had to assume that telling one person was as good as everyone knowing. He trusted his brother, he trusted his dad, he trusted Astrid, and obviously he trusted Percy, but not entirely. Never with the whole truth. Harry would not risk his brother’s life to assuage someone’s curiosity, or to lessen his own burdens.
Harry finished his potion, wishing he had something to wash away the sticky, salty taste of blood that filled his mouth.
“I’ve got to go to Herbology,” Harry said, handing the goblet back to Madam Pomfrey. He sighed and hung his head. “I don’t want to.”
Madam Pomfrey tutted. “Have a lie down, Mr. Evans. I’ll send a note to Pomona. Surely she will understand! Having lessons before such an event, the nerve. Whose brilliant idea was that? Well, I can tell who my guess is!”
“Do you think I could stay here until the First Task?” he asked, looking up at her.
“You may,” Madam Pomfrey said firmly. She looked into the empty goblet, glanced at Lady Madeleine crawling under the curtains, pursed her lips, and walked back to her office.
When she was out of sight, Harry reached for his robes. He pulled Benjy II out of a pocket, along with a scrap of parchment, and a quill. Lady Madeleine watched him, following the feathered quill as he wrote, tensing. When he was finished, Benjy II took the tightly rolled note into his mouth and flew away. Harry gave the quill to Lady Madeleine to play with.
He sighed, then laid down on the hospital bed. Lady Madeleine jumped onto the bed, curling up next to him and gnawing on the quill. In a few short hours, his little brother would be face-to-face with an enraged dragon. He looked up at the white expanse of ceiling, through the golden path of the peculiar fish that had followed him since he was twelve years old.
The plush pillow under his head, the soft bed, the steady purring of his cat, the dry, sterile scent of the infirmary, the taste of blood thick on his tongue, the potion surging in his stomach, its subtle magic simmering through his blood, his bones, the faint barking of Hagrid’s boarhound Fang drifting through the cracked window, the chill breeze that made his curtains ripple, carrying the organic smells of the Black Lake, dying grass crushed underfoot, the earthy, piney, enigmatic scent of the Forbidden Forest, the grounds thrumming with unseen life.
Harry breathed out, sinking into the crystalline pool of his mind, the pure, alkaline waters in which no thought, no sensation could survive. He felt nothing, had no awareness, not even of the sere emptiness of a fully occluded mind.
“It is time.”
Harry resurfaced, not surprised to see the shadows and light had transformed without his awareness. His father was standing over him, a look of mild reproof, of concern, drawn in the fine lines of his face.
Harry sat up, reality reasserting itself with dizzying ferocity. Lady Madeline brushed against him, giving his hand a comforting lick. Harry looked up at his father, who unwaveringly met his gaze.
“I’m ready.”
Monty yawned, covering his mouth as Professor Binns droned on about goblins and their many rebellions. There had been enough of them for a separate seven-year course, though Monty was uncertain if Binns had the awareness to conduct it. He seemed less substantial than the other ghosts, and Monty had only ever seen him in class. What was Binns when he wasn’t a professor? His identity had been so tied to teaching he had gone to sleep, passed away, his spirit rising in the morning to give the next lecture. It was disturbing, to be reduced so. Monty did not envy the dead, nor those who chose to linger.
There was a faint scratch at the window. Monty sat up slightly, and saw it was Benjy II. Curiously, no one else seemed to have heard, other than Neville. Monty stood and walked over to the window, a thing allowed in History of Magic as Binns was oblivious to what happened in his classroom. He was invested only in what he had to say, not whether it was actually heard by anyone.
Benjy II had landed on the sill, and lifted his head to present a small scroll to Monty. Monty took it, and the toy thestral took off again, flying over a crenellation and disappearing from view.
“What is it?” Neville asked when Monty returned to his seat. His actions had drawn the attention of the entire class, which had earlier been split between offering him support and spitting invectives. One of the Slytherin boys, Theodore Nott, was staring at Monty with wide eyes, whereas the others merely looked confused, or annoyed. It took Monty a moment to understand Nott must have seen the little thestral too, and what that meant.
“I don’t know,” Monty said to Neville, opening the scroll.
I’m staying in the infirmary until the First Task. I’m fine. I’ll see you there.
Monty rolled it up again and tucked it into a pocket.
“Who would send you a blank piece of parchment?” Neville asked, perplexed.
Monty shrugged, not knowing what to say. He was glad that whatever spell Harry had come up with had worked, so that only they could see what the other had written. It would have been hard to explain why he cared that Harry was in the hospital wing. Him being in the infirmary did not match with him being fine. Monty hadn’t seen Harry at breakfast, and had assumed the older boy was in the library. Apparently not.
“I should’ve skived off,” Monty said, propping his head on a hand again. Monty liked History of Magic well enough, the subject if not how Binns taught it via an unending stream of consciousness, but the class dragged interminably. It made him soporific. It felt like sabotage.
Monty was reminded of why he had gone to class when Binns asked them to turn in their essays.
“What are you going to do now?” Neville asked, glancing at the clock that seemed to tick slower than others.
“Drop my things off in our dormitory,” Monty said as he packed up. “Go to lunch. Confront my mortality. The usual.”
Neville choked on a laugh, then gave Monty a wounded look. “You’ve got to stop making jokes about dying. My nerves can’t take it.”
At this, Monty might have made himself elbow someone like Ron, or give them a light punch, but Neville didn’t appreciate those sorts of things. Nor did Monty, having been subjected to Dudley’s favorite pastime of Monty-mauling from an early age. Defending himself ended with him locked in the cupboard. Roughhousing always had a sinister edge to it, an underlying desire to cause real, permanent damage to the other person. Maybe that was why Monty couldn’t be friends with someone like Ron, who routinely got into playful fights with his brothers and sister, no harm done. The Dursleys had ruined him.
Monty left the History of Magic class in a hurry, only slowing once he noticed Neville puffing to keep up.
“Sorry,” he said, waiting at the top of a staircase as it swung around. “I’m a little on edge.”
“It’s fine,” Neville panted, clutching the railing for support. “There’s no way out of it, is there?”
“No,” Monty said, recalling something Harry had told him during one of their extreme training sessions. He really ought to have made the swooping evil bigger. “The only way out is through.”
Sitting through lunch only gave Monty’s anxiety more time to grow. He closed his eyes to shut out the stares, the laughter, the shouts of encouragement, the jibes from the Slytherins.
Harry was not at lunch.
Monty opened his eyes again, taking slow, deep breaths, surreptitiously looking through the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws to where Harry’s group of friends sat. They looked unruffled, eating their lunches with the refined indifference of the elite. Only Harry’s best mate, Urquhart, showed any signs of distress. She had shaved her head completely bald, and had dark shadows under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept. Urquhart wasn’t eating, she only stared at an empty space where Harry might have sat. It reminded Monty of when Harry had been petrified by the basilisk, how feral with sadness and rage the older girl had been.
Harry must have told her about the dragons.
“Everything will be okay, Fleamont,” Luna said quietly. Monty looked at her, the conviction in her moonlight eyes. She took his hand, and his heart nearly stopped. Her hand was dry and cool, and surprisingly comforting. “Harry is very smart.”
“You should eat,” Neville said. “It could be your last meal, right?” He tried laughing, but it sounded like he was being strangled.
Monty nodded, reluctantly letting go of Luna’s hand to pick up his fork. He was surprised to find the house-elves had sent up fish and chips. Monty swallowed, stuck with the memory of him and Harry touring the chippies of London the summer before. Monty smiled to himself, then began to eat.
Hermione crashed into the table, her hair a frizzy, wild halo around her head, breathing heavily. “I’ve done it! I’ve compiled every single task ever reported on during a Triwizard Tournament.”
Monty looked up at her in shock. “Hermione, that must have taken ages.”
“That’s not important,” she said, shifting papers around frantically. “Now, for the First Task, it’s usually some sort of creature. I think it’s tradition. Of course, you already know about the co*ckatrice in 1792…”
Luna nudged him, and Monty went back to eating while Hermione frantically babbled. He was struck by how much effort and thought Hermione had put into it, despite him telling her repeatedly that he didn’t need help. It was a little annoying that he hadn’t been listened to, that she assumed he was totally unprepared, but it was such an incredibly thoughtful gesture that he forgave her.
“Ron’s helped me, you know,” she said in a rush. “He didn’t want me to tell you, but he has.”
Monty held his tongue, not wanting to ruin the moment by asking if Hermione had bullied him into it. He glanced down the table, where Ron was huddled amongst Fred and George. He was taller than both of them, and stood out despite hunching. Ron was the type who was better at actions than words, Monty knew that. He might not have understood why Monty needed him to actually say he was sorry, that he wouldn’t throw away three years of friendship over a tournament Monty hadn’t wanted to be in.
“There are only so many magical creatures in the world,” Hermione said, her thoughts moving faster than she could talk. “So they’ve reused some of them. Now, there’s no time to learn new spells, but based on what you do know, well, I think we can come up with something!”
“I don’t think there’s time for that,” Monty said, watching as Professor McGonagall descended from the head table. She hurried towards him, a look of consternation on her face. Monty noted Professor Snape was already gone. “You’ve really outdone yourself. Now I have a good idea of what I’m up against.”
Hermione’s lip trembled, and she roughly brushed tears away. “I believe in you, Monty.”
Monty smiled at her, feeling guilty that she had gone to so much trouble to research something he already knew and had been preparing for since his name came out of the Goblet of Fire. But, if he had told Hermione about the dragons, she would have fixated on that, and he doubted he would have got any studying done at all.
Monty was not going to let the Triwizard Tournament take over his life. He worked hard for the grades he got. He knew his mum had been a prefect, and that his parents had been Head Boy and Head Girl. He had the pictures someone had sent him in first year. If his grades dropped, he’d have no chance of being a prefect like Harry.
“Potter,” Professor McGonagall said as she drew alongside him. “I’ll be taking you onto the grounds. You need to get ready for the First Task.”
Monty set down his fork, surprised to see he had nearly cleared his plate, then stood to join her. Luna grabbed his hand again, and slipped something over his wrist.
“For luck,” she said, smiling brightly at him.
Monty swallowed nervously. “Thanks.”
“Good luck,” Neville said, giving him a tremulous smile.
“You'll do great, Monty,” Hermione said fiercely.
He nodded to them, smiled at the clapping and shouts of support from his housemates, then followed Professor McGonagall out of the Great Hall.
As they walked, Monty pushed up his sleeve to see what Luna had given him. It was a woven bracelet, made of silver, gold, and snowy white hairs that shimmered with iridescence.
Unicorn tail. Dozens of strands.
Luna had put a dragon’s hoard around his wrist as if it were nothing. It was worth more than the prize for winning the tournament, several times over.
Professor McGonagall glanced at the bracelet, pursing her lips. “Lovegood must be sneaking into the Forbidden Forest again.”
“Sometimes the unicorns come out,” Monty said, letting his sleeve fall again. “And Luna’s a sleepwalker.”
“Don’t worry, Potter, I have no interest in giving Miss Lovegood detention today,” she said magnanimously. “There are more pressing matters at hand.”
They left the castle, stepping into the cold November air. The sky was an opaque dome of grey, and the grounds were eerily silent. Even Fang had quieted down, and the Whomping Willow was as still as a predator lying in wait.
As the castle disappeared from view, McGonagall placed her hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to stay calm, Potter,” she said, not sounding very calm herself. “We have witches and wizards ready to step in if anything…if anything should happen. And I will be there, of course, the headmaster as well. The situation is under control.”
Monty nodded. He wished she would come out and tell him he was facing a dragon. He was tempted to tell her that Karkaroff and Maxime knew, and had probably told Krum and Delacour. Monty held back. It would get Hagrid in trouble, which would get Charlie in trouble, which would reflect poorly on Percy, and Harry wouldn’t appreciate that.
Professor McGonagall lapsed into silence as their walk stretched on. When they reached the tent hiding the dragon enclosure from view, she squeezed his shoulder, wished him luck, and walked away.
Monty took a breath. He was the master of his own mind. He knew what he was going to do. He was ready. He could not control the situation, but he could control his reaction to it. He was going to be fine.
Monty lifted the tent flap and stepped inside.
Harry looked up at the sound of the tent opening, glad to see his brother had arrived in one piece. Monty’s hair was a mess, but his jaw was set and his green eyes were bright. To anyone who didn’t know Harry’s brother, they might think he was angry. Harry, however, knew that this was what Monty looked like when he was extremely focused. He looked like that when he was going after the snitch, and when he was studying for exams. It was impressive how single-minded Monty could be, when he really wanted something.
Monty didn’t notice the sullen Hector Crumb where he lurked in one dark corner, nor Floor Della Core, who was perched on stool, looking more pasty than pretty as she waited. He walked towards Harry
“You’re wearing muggle clothes?” Monty asked, frowning slightly
“They’re just clothes,” Harry said, glancing down at himself. Dragonhide boots, black trousers with only a few holes, a plain black shirt. “We’re making a statement, right?”
“Right,” Monty said.
Ludo Bagman, who had gone the whole hog and worn his old Wimbourne Wasps robes, spun around. “Monty! There you are!”
“Here I am,” Monty said snarkily.
“And here I remain,” Harry said, smirking at his brother.
“I haven’t finished reading Dune,” Monty said. “Don’t spoil it.”
“I’m not,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.
Bagman cleared his throat, looking bemused. “Now that we’re all here, it’s time to fill you in!”
Harry crossed his arms, listening as Bagman inelegantly danced around the fact there were four dragons waiting to roast them all alive. The task was to get a golden egg.
“So, essentially, I’m Veruca Salt,” Harry said. “I reckon we’re fighting geese? How much for a golden goose?”
Monty made a choked noise, while Bagman looked more confused than ever.
“Are they not for sale?” Harry asked.
“Ah,” Bagman said, pulling on his collar. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Evans.”
“What is this veruca salt?” Viktor asked, looking concerned.
“A treatment for verucas,” Harry said, while Monty shook with silent laughter. “They’re endemic around here. Hogwarts, you know?”
Fleur looked more unnerved by this than the dragons. “Is it contagious?”
“Only if you’re a bad egg,” Monty said, pulling himself together.
“Right, well,” Bagman said, realizing he was losing control of the situation. The purple silk bag he held was moving, bulging oddly at places. Harry was more curious about that bag than the entire Triwizard Tournament.
A few awkward minutes passed, and Harry had time to regret displaying any familiarity with Monty. He just wanted to make his brother feel better. He was lucky Bagman wasn’t the brightest, Viktor had little interest in other people, and that Fleur was only interested in herself. At any rate, none would see the brief interaction he and his brother had as out of the ordinary. So Harry hoped.
He had to be more careful.
Soon, he heard people approaching. Hogwarts had emptied, and all the students walked past the tents in high spirits, looking forward to the show. Harry felt like one of the poor sods they made a gladiator. It didn’t matter if he got hurt, what he killed, if he died, so long as he did it well.
“Sounds like they’ve all settled in,” Bagman said brightly, his good mood recovered. He held out the silk bag, shaking it encouragingly at Fleur. “Ladies first!”
Fleur’s hand trembled as she reached into the bag. Harry watched avidly as she pulled out a tiny, perfect model of a Common Welsh Green dragon. Viktor went next, taking out a Chinese Fireball. Neither seemed to appreciate how complicated, intricate, utterly genius the magic that had gone into those models was.
“You next, Mr. Evans,” Bagman said, holding the bag out to him. Harry knew exactly what was inside of it, and he suppressed a smile. Things were already going better than planned.
Harry stuck his hand in, made a show of feeling around, then pulled out the remaining two models. A Swedish Short-Snout, and the Hungarian Horntail.
Bagman’s smile faltered.
“Oops,” Harry said, passing the Short-Snout to Monty, keeping the Horntail for himself. The Short-Snout was not half the size of the Horntail, who was baring her tiny fangs at Harry. It took Monty a moment to accept the model dragon. Monty looked at it, then up at Harry, his eyes going wide.
Harry smirked at him. “Looks like you’re going first, Potter.”
“Monty, mind if we have a quick word?”
Monty looked away from the Swedish Short-Snout he held, to where Bagman was gesturing at the entrance to the tent.
“Yeah,” he said absently, slipping the model dragon into his pocket. He would have to thank Harry later. He looked back at the older boy, who was frowning. Monty shrugged, then followed Bagman outside, into a group of trees.
Something felt off, and Monty knew it was strange that Bagman had singled him out for a heart-to-heart. Harry hadn’t looked pleased by it. He slowly reached into his robes, grasping his wand.
“So,” Bagman said, licking his lips nervously. “Dragons, eh? Exciting stuff.”
“I suppose,” Monty said.
“Rotten luck, going first,” Bagman said. “Wouldn’t have expected a fellow champion to pull a stunt like that! That’s muggleborns for you.”
Monty stared at him, not knowing what to say.
“And he’s a Slytherin to boot,” Bagman said, shaking his head ruefully. “Tricky sort, them. Best watch yourself around that one, Monty.”
“Right,” Monty said, not letting go of his wand.
“You know,” Bagman said, lowering his voice. He leaned closer to Monty. “When facing a larger opponent, they always say go for the eyes.”
“Yeah, make sense,” Monty said, wondering what the hell was happening.
“You get my meaning, Monty?” Bagman said, patting his shoulder. “Go for the eyes. There’s a little spell I like to use, called—”
A loud whistle blew, its piercing cry drowning Bagman’s words out.
“Oh, bother, I’ve got to run,” Bagman said, releasing Monty and hurrying out of the trees. “You’re up, Monty!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Just walk to the enclosure!”
Monty watched Bagman bumble away, relaxing. He let go of his wand, instead pulling a badge from his pocket and affixing it to his robes. He walked through the trees, following Bagman's path. He wished he could see Harry before he went to meet his dragon, but Bagman had used up all his time. Feeling annoyed, and more than a little vindictive, Monty stepped through the gap in the enclosure.
“And here is our first and youngest champion!” Bagman’s voice boomed. Monty looked up at the judges’ seats, wondering how Bagman had got there so quickly. “Monty Potter!”
Monty stayed where he was, at the entrance to the enclosure. He could see the Swedish Short-Snout at the opposite end, curled around her eggs. She was the prettiest of the dragons, her scales pale as ice, with only the faintest hint of blue. Her eyes were two slits of silver, glaring at the noisy crowd as she turned her head, her tail lashing. More than the threat the dragons presented to the champions, Monty was upset they’d been uprooted while still nesting. She looked absolutely miserable, and he could see the desire in the flex of her wings to return to her mountain home. The mountains that ringed Hogwarts must have looked so tempting, yet instinct told her not to abandon her eggs.
The Swedish Short-Snout’s eggs were the loveliest Monty had ever seen. They were fine like porcelain, rosy with a teal tinge where the scales overlapped. Among them nestled a golden egg that looked so out of place Monty was surprised the dragon hadn’t ejected it from her clutch. The dragon’s bone-yellow claws rested close by, poised to defend her eggs.
“Looks like he’s got a bit of stage fright,” Bagman said good naturedly, his voice filling the enclosure and echoing off the stands. “Hold on, what’s that he’s got on?”
Monty shook his head, realizing he’d been admiring the dragon for too long. He had a task to complete. Since Bagman had asked, Monty obligingly held out the badge. He looked at the stands, trying to pick out his friends. Sirius was likely with Remus, who he had promised to tell the plan so he wouldn’t have to worry. Remus had enough going on, with the recent full moon and all.
Not finding anyone right away, Monty gave it up as a lost cause. He pointed his wand at his throat. “Sonorus!”
“Monty, lad, I’m the commentator here!” Bagman said.
“I’ve just got one thing to say,” Monty said, glad his voice was steady. He held out his S.P.E.W. badge again, hoping they got a good photograph. “House-elf rights!”
With his wand still pointed at his throat, Monty whispered, “Quietus.”
“House-elf rights?” Bagman repeated. “What’s he on about?”
“Kreacher,” Monty said, putting his wand away.
Kreacher instantly appeared at his side, hunched and scowling. His white ear hairs were brushed, his pillow case was a pristine black, the family crow-skull-wand crest worn proudly at the shoulder.
The people in the stands, who had been shouting since Monty stepped foot into the enclosure, made noises of confusion. He could hear one person with a harsh, barking sort of laugh, and smiled to himself.
“He’s…I….” Bagman spluttered. “Well, this is a surprising turn of events!”
“Young Master called?” Kreacher said sourly, not acknowledging the house-sized dragon a hundred feet from them.
“Could you fetch that golden egg for me?” Monty asked.
Kreacher sighed wearily then snapped his fingers. The golden egg rose from the others and raced towards them. Kreacher caught it in his gnarled hands, then bowed as he presented it to Monty.
“Cheers,” Monty said, accepting the golden egg. “You can go.”
Kreacher bowed again, even lower and more mocking than before, then vanished.
The stadium was dead silent, save Sirius’ laughter.
“And he’s done it!” Bagman finally exclaimed. “Monty Potter’s got the egg!”
The crowd reluctantly began to applaud. There was, however, a considerable group of Slytherins who began loudly booing and swearing. Monty didn’t care. They told him to get the egg, he got the bloody egg.
Not knowing what else to do, Monty turned around to leave the enclosure. He nearly collided with Professor McGonagall, who had a pinched look about her.
“I suppose you won’t be needing the first-aid tent,” she said drily, shaking her head. “I should have expected you had a trick up your sleeve, knowing your father. Always up to something. Well, let’s have Madam Pomfrey check you over while the judges deliberate.”
Monty had forgotten he was being scored, and looked over his shoulder. A group of dragon-keepers were slowly approaching the Swedish Short-Snout. Relieved he hadn’t been forced to hurt her, Monty followed Professor McGonagall to a second tent. Once inside, Madam Pomfrey looked him up and down, handed him a mug of cocoa, and told him to sit quietly.
A few moments later, Luna skipped in, trailed by a shaking Neville.
“Hello, Fleamont,” she said.
“Hello, Luna,” he replied. He took a sip of cocoa, surprised at how much warmer it made him feel.
“I didn’t know you had a house-elf,” Neville said.
“He’s not mine,” Monty said. “I asked him if he wanted to help.”
It had been a rather awkward conversation, asking Sirius to speak to Kreacher, asking Kreacher to decide if he wanted to take orders from Monty. Monty wasn’t entirely comfortable with the whole thing, but it was Harry’s idea. He could call Kreacher right into his dormitory, and the house-elf’s magic found a way to comply. Kreacher was a critical element of Plan: Steal an Egg, or whatever Harry had called it.
Luna smiled admiringly at the egg. “I wonder what’s inside?”
Monty half-expected Hermione to show up as well, but no one else entered the tent.
Neville saw him looking and grimaced. “She’s not happy.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think she would be,” Monty said. He took another sip of cocoa, closing his eyes as its warmth banished the chill that had settled over him.
It was over.
“Potter!” Professor McGonagall called from outside the tent.
Monty passed his unfinished cocoa to Luna, who cradled the mug between her hands and took a sip, then walked out to receive his scores.
“Monty Potter’s got the egg!”
Harry looked up from Wand Woods of Wales, biting back his amusem*nt at his brother having completed the First Task in just over a minute. Fleur looked stricken, while Viktor’s scowl deepened. Harry lifted his book again, hiding his smile at the crowd’s mixed reaction. As if he would let his little brother be used for their bloodsport. They already got enough of that when Monty played quidditch.
“And now the marks from the judges!”
Harry went back to his book. It had an entire chapter dedicated to blackthorn. Such wands were drawn to warriors, those who truly felt alive in the heat of battle.
“What did he mean by house-elf rights?” Viktor asked him, having slouched a full lap around the tend.
“Exactly that, I imagine,” Harry said, turning a page. “One of his mates, Hermione Granger, has an organization dedicated to the promotion of house-elf welfare.”
“She does?” Viktor asked, just as the whistle blew again.
“Miss Delacour, if you please?” Bagman's amplified voice said.
Though she was shaking, and white as a sheet, Fleur stood and walked out of the tent without a backwards glance.
Viktor began another circuit around the tent. Harry had noticed him doing the same around the library, and was glad for the excuse to stay in the Restricted Section. Trying to read with so many of Viktor’s fans talking, giggling, and following Viktor around, was tiresome. Silencing charms didn't stop them from constantly circling, bumping into shelves, knocking off books. Madam Pince had her hands full.
Bagman’s voice was also tiresome. He was not giving a proper play-by-play commentary, not wanting to give the other champions hints, but only vocalizing his reactions to whatever Fleur was doing.
“Why did you give Potter the Short-Snout?” Viktor asked, having returned.
“Why didn’t you tell him we were up against dragons?” Harry asked, turning another page. “You’re in the library every day, surely you’ve had the opportunity.”
Viktor scowled and stalked away to lurk in a corner. Harry rolled his eyes. Anyone who had not helped Monty was on his sh*tlist, and that included almost all of the professors. That Hagrid and Trelawney had been the only ones to give his brother any sort of warning was appalling. Harry knew his dad trusted him to see to his brother, so Harry excused his lack of intervention. The others could die in a fire for all he cared.
Karkaroff and Maxime had no such scruples; both Fleur and Viktor had been entirely unsurprised to see the model dragons. McGonagall had led her student, the Boy Who Lived, to a slaughterhouse with four nesting dragons and hadn’t said a single thing. Respecting the sanctity of the tournament was more important than Monty’s life, or some other bullsh*t.
Harry closed his book, no longer interested in reading. His brother was safe, until the second task. He had to focus on battling his own monster.
“We’ll need to add a new rule, Weasley,” Mr. Crouch said, watching as Fleur Delacour walked away with her egg, dousing her burning robe with an aguamenti. He made a note on her rubric. Mr. Crouch had one for each champion, both extensive and thorough. Percy was impressed by how nuanced it was. Elocution, posture, accuracy, strength of spell, duration of spell, on and on. Monty Potter had only cast two spells, and had gotten full marks on both.
“Yes, sir,” Percy said, writing down his own note. No house-elves. He was in the esteemed position of standing behind Mr. Crouch in the judge’s stand, with an excellent view of the entire enclosure. When Delacour returned to receive her score, Percy dutifully wrote the numbers down under Monty’s. Monty had unsurprisingly got a full ten points from Mr. Crouch, ten points from Mr. Bagman, eight points from Professor Dumbledore, three from Professor Karkaroff, and six from Madame Maxime. Monty had not been very interested in the scores, preoccupied with speaking to his friends Neville and Luna. Ron and Hermione were conspicuously absent.
Monty was not a willing participant, which people seemed to keep forgetting.
Delacour received six, eight, seven, five, and ten respectively. The bias from certain parties was astounding, but Percy understood both Krum and Delacour were at a disadvantage so far from home. Percy was proud to see Hogwarts students still cheering for them.
Percy raised his quill as Viktor Krum walked into the enclosure. He frowned in dismay as Krum immediately shot a Conjunctivitis Curse into the Chinese Fireball’s eyes. The dragon roared in agony, her eyes swelling shut and oozing a rancid yellow mucus.
Mr. Crouch frowned slightly as the dragon thrashed around, roaring and spewing flames, her wings splayed out, panicking in her blindness, desperate to defend her eggs. Her movements were too wild, and with a heartbreaking crack one of the eggs was crushed.
In the crowd, Percy heard Hagrid shout, “No!”
Mr. Crouch’s lips thinned, and he made a sharp mark on Krum’s rubric.
Percy knew that damage to the eggs was a risk. The dragon-keepers knew as well. Nevertheless, it was sad to see. The dragon reared back, clearly aware she was destroying her own eggs and afraid of crushing them all. Krum raced forward to seize the undamaged golden egg.
Percy frowned at Krum’s total score, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The Chinese Fireball had to be stunned and dragged back to her cage, one dragon-keeper staying behind to gather the few intact eggs. Several minutes later, the Hungarian Horntail’s eggs were carried in, a half dozen eggs the size and color of small boulders. The dragon-keepers cleared out once her cage was in position. It was flush with an opening in the wall, and at a signal the front bars of the gate vanished. The Horntail charged out, running straight to her eggs with frightening speed at odds with her size. Percy almost wished he had stayed to meet the dragons as Charlie had offered. It would have prepared from how mind bogglingly massive the Horntail was.
Harry was the last champion. He was facing the Horntail.
Percy’s heart stuttered, then began to beat wildly as the wall was restored. The whistle blew again, summoning Harry to the enclosure.
“How did you get up here?” Sirius asked.
Monty grinned at him, glad no one had the bollocks to sit next to Sirius Black in the front row.
“Monty, aren’t you supposed to be resting?” Remus asked from Sirius’ other side.
“I wanted to see the other champions,” Monty said. “I was watching with Neville and Luna from the ground, but I wanted a better look.”
“Where’s your egg?” Sirius asked.
Monty patted his robes. “Pocket. Look, they’re bringing in the Horntail.”
“The what?” Remus asked, alarmed.
Sirius leaned back in his seat as the Hungarian Horntail charged out of her cage, her movements shaking the stands. “Bad luck for Evans, but I’m glad it wasn’t you up against her.”
“No, he picked it,” Monty said, craning forward to look at the narrow entrance to the enclosure. “Look, there he is!”
Severus watched as his only child stepped into a flimsy wooden enclosure containing the largest extant breed of dragon. He fingered his wand, his eyes returning to the beast. If the creature so much as looked at his son the wrong way—
There was a loud crinkling sound, and he turned to see Charity Burbage opening a bag of pickle flavored crisps. The smell of dill was overpowering.
“What’s he doing?” she said, munching on several. “Why’re you looking at me like that? Want some?” She held the bag out to him, shaking it a little. A few crumbs landed on his robes.
Severus shook his head, released his wand, then looked back to see what his son had been planning all month.
Harry looked at the dragon in his hand, smiling as her little spiked tail swung around. He touched her head, whispering, “Dormio.” The model sagged, the dragon curling up reflexively. Harry put the model in his pocket, not wanting it to get damaged during the fight.
When the final whistle blew, Harry stood and left the tent. It wasn’t a long walk, just through a group of trees, but it gave him time to quiet his thoughts again. He knew not many people were looking forward to seeing him in action, other than his fellow Slytherins. He wasn’t the Boy Who Lived, or an internationally renowned quidditch player, or a beautiful girl. He was just a poor, no name kid from co*keworth.
Harry made himself uncross his arms before walking into the enclosure. He paused at the entrance, taking in the makeshift stadium. The stands encircled the enclosure, rising high in the air, packed with hundreds of people. The crowd was oddly silent, and the cause of this was evident. On the other side of the enclosure, lowered menacingly over her eggs, was a Hungarian Horntail.
Harry began walking forward, across the hard packed dirt, dust and pebbles kicked up under foot. It was a barren wasteland of an enclosure, though parts of it had been carved out by the previous dragons and their champions.
The Hungarian Horntail watched his approach, her cruel yellow eyes never leaving him. Her hide was completely black, the color so profound the details of her scales were nearly indiscernible. She was over fifty feet tall, the size of two houses stacked together. Harry had no other means of comparison, other than a whale. He had never seen a whale. They were too large to exist on land.
Even crouched, the Horntail dwarfed him. Her tail was nearly as long as her body, and fully extending she could reach him from halfway across the enclosure. As it was, her tail was busy lashing back and forth, huge, viciously sharp spikes in gleaming bronze cutting deep gouges into the hard earth. Each spike was as tall as Harry. If any hit him the wrong way, he would be dead in an instant.
As he slowly approached her, his sense of her sheer enormity grew. Nature simply did not produce animals that large, but she was no mundane animal. She was a dragon, a creature created from magics so ancient even their oldest written records held not an iota of their origin.
The Horntail bared her fangs, yellowed with age, honed to fatal points through time, her hot, fetid breath rushing out. Smoke trickled from her nostrils as they flared, picking up his scent. The musky stench of snake rolled off of her. She was a nesting mother. She had no time to groom herself, and had likely not eaten for months. She was hungry, scared for her eggs, agitated by the noise of the crowd, from being drugged and taken hundreds of miles from home. She had been potioned, stunned, chained, dragged, and now a strange, small creature was approaching her eggs. Despite her colossal size, she viewed Harry as a threat.
When Harry reached the halfway point, the Horntail slammed a massive clawed foot onto the ground, growling in warning. Harry could feel the rumble of it through the earth. It made his teeth rattle.
Harry stood there for a moment, waiting to see if she would leave her eggs to attack him. The Horntail lowered her giant head. He was just outside of her fire breathing range, but nascent flames hissed through her fangs, her mouth glowing the deep red of some sinister forge.
He raised his empty hand, his eyes never leaving the Horntail.
“Is…is he forfeiting?” Bagman asked, his voice further irritating the Horntail. Her eyes narrowed. She must have associated Bagman's voice with the other dragons roaring. She was fearsomely intelligent, which only made matters worse.
Harry didn’t respond, simply waited. The crowd began muttering, though he clearly heard Astrid shout, “Beat the dragon sh*t out of her, Haz!”
“Shut up, Astrid,” Harry muttered, smiling faintly at the whoosh of what he had summoned finally arriving.
The vial smacked into his hand, and Harry’s fingers closed reflexively around it.
“I spoke too soon!” Bagman said. “Let’s see where he goes with this!”
Harry uncorked the vial, the familiar scents of lavender and mint stinging his nose. Harry downed the Calming Draught in one swallow. He licked his lips, grinning as Astrid loudly demanded to know what he had just taken. Then he started to run.
“What is that boy doing?” Bagman shouted. “Son, you don’t even have your wand out!”
Harry sprinted flat out the Hungarian Horntail, his eyes darting around to catch every twitch of her muscles. Her head pulled back just as her tail lifted. Harry flung the vial towards her tail, wordlessly summoning his wand from his pocket to his hand. He aimed at the vial as it spun through the air, almost invisible save for the light glinting of it. With a thought, the vial grew to a massive size, unfolding like a crystal flower. It was spelled unbreakable, all of his dad’s vials were. Her tail crashed into it in a deafening ring, the spikes glancing off the impenetrable glass. Harry bit the cork between his teeth, drawing up just as the Horntail opened her mouth. Flames fountained out in a blinding, scorching deluge, the ground blackening and cracking with the intense heat.
“Pestilentia glaciatum,” Harry mumbled, bracing himself against the brutal, glacial cyclone that surged out of his wand, icy white tendrils piercing through the dragon fire. The flames never reached him, even as more poured out of the Horntail’s mouth. They froze solid, Harry's spell reaching up to frost the dragon’s muzzle in a fine tracery of ice. She reared back, snapping her neck to try to free herself. Her tail swung around again, and Harry dropped to the ground. It nearly grazed him, before crashing into the column of ice. The ice shattered, breaking into infinitely many shards that hung in the air. Harry spat the cork out, then summoned the disk of unbreakable glass to himself. The tail swung back, ricocheting off of it.
He aimed at the cork, forcing it to enlarge to the size of a small giant.
“Nishtani golem,” he said, pushing himself up. The giant cork rippled and bulged, forming arms, legs, even a simple head though it didn’t need one. The Horntail’s paw swung out of the haze. “Piertotum locomotor!”
The cork giant leapt to life, flinging itself at Horntail’s claws. It was incredibly light, and the Horntail could easily knock it aside. But her terrible claws sunk into the cork golem, piercing it through.
“Deadlic gewhit!” he shouted. The cork golem crashed into the ground, nearly throwing Harry from his feet, making a deep crater with its now tremendous weight. The tail came around again. Frustrated, Harry ran towards the eggs. The air was heating up, the Horntail preparing to wash the entire enclosure in her infernal flames.
The ice was still hovering in the air, a coruscating, freezing mist. It was dark magic, and would not melt until Harry willed it to.
“Faciatus compedes!” Harry shouted. The particles of ice rushed past him, compacting into thick, frigid chains that fell heavily to the ground. “f*ck. Fulgari!”
The flames seething from the dragon’s mouth writhed, condensing into burning ropes that wrapped themselves around her snout, trapping her flames. She violently convulsed, and Harry was momentarily struck with horror at the size of this raging behemoth rising above him. He had no time to dwell on it, snapping his wand towards the icy chains, directing them to wrap around the dragon. The bloody tail was coming back again, and Harry was tempted to cut the damn thing off. The dragon was struggling against her foot trapped in the ground, the ropes around her muzzle, straining against chains so cold they froze her inviolable scales. The chains kept contracting around her, and it was sending the dragon into a panic.
Grimacing, Harry darted forward to retrieve the golden egg, glad to see none of the Horntail's had been harmed. He ran back to the other side of the enclosure, whispering counter charms, dispelling the hellish ice, vanishing the cracked shield the vial had become. That gave him pause. The Horntail was strong enough to have cracked glass charmed unbreakable by his own father.
Harry let out a shaky breath. Percy had wanted him to show off. Unless Harry opened his veins and started writing runes in his own blood, he wasn’t sure how much more he could have shown off.
When the dragon was free of her bonds, ripping her trapped foreleg from the earth, she gave an ear-splitting cry that drowned out the noise from the crowd, and Bagman’s shouting.
Harry blinked, not realizing he had been ignoring them all. Shaking the remaining ice from his hair, he left the enclosure, the cheering crowd, and his dragon behind.
