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Harry stared at Prince Miquella, feeling a strange mixture of awe and unease wash over him. The young prince sat perched on the edge of his hospital bed, golden hair cascading around his eerily beautiful face, looking far more at ease among the bloodied corpses of the Black Knife Assassins than anyone had a right to be.
With a small, awkward bow that made Moody snort behind him, Harry greeted the royal visitor. This was his first time knowingly meeting someone of royal blood. Sure, Ranni was technically a princess too, but when he'd met her, he hadn't known who she was. Now he wasn't exactly sure how to act, especially in front of Miquella—a figure he knew precious little about. Melina had told him bits and pieces about Lord Rykard, quite a bit about Godwyn the Golden who was slain, a little about the fearsome Starscourge Radahn, but barely anything about Princess Malenia and her twin, Prince Miquella.
"Er... hello," Harry managed, painfully aware of how inadequate the greeting sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What brings you here, Your... Highness?"
The golden-haired prince tilted his head slightly, his expression that of amusment. "You need not stand on ceremony with me, Tarnished. I'm far from my throne, and titles matter little between worlds."
"Right," Harry said, acutely conscious of the seven golden daggers still hovering protectively around him. "So... why are you here? What can I do for you?"
Miquella's golden eyes, flicked toward the floating daggers. "I am not here to harm anyone," he said softly, gesturing toward Harry's magical weaponry. "Though your caution is understandable, given recent events."
Harry hesitated, then willed the daggers to dissolve. They vanished in a shower of golden motes, leaving the air between them clear.
"Thank you," Miquella said with impeccable politeness. His voice was disarmingly gentle, like silk sliding over stone. "I've come to help."
Behind Harry, Tonks made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "Another helper from the magical mystery realm? Brilliant. Maybe this one can explain why the last one turned into butterflies and buggered off through the wall."
"Tonks," Moody growled in warning.
Harry ignored them both. "Help how, exactly?"
Miquella smiled, and Harry felt that strange headache return briefly before fading away. "Your world and mine are connected now, Harry Potter. Not by accident, but because someone from my world made it happen."
Harry's eyes widened. "Do you know who did it?" he asked eagerly. "Was it the Frenzied Flame?"
Miquella's gentle laugh echoed through the room, somehow both childlike and ancient at once. "The Frenzied Flame might have the power to influence those with mania toward something—or someone—they desire, but it does not have the power to influence those in a whole other world if there's no connection, no bridge between those worlds."
"Then who do you think did it?" Harry pressed.
"Having proof and believing are two different things," Miquella said with a cryptic smile. "I cannot say for certain. There are many who could have done it—The Formless Mother, The Mother of Fingers, The Blood Star... or perhaps even the Greater Will. There is no clear answer to your question, at least not now."
Harry felt a little overwhelmed. He knew there were many gods from the Lands Between, but Prince Miquella was painting a very concerning picture. "Do you know if an outer god is influencing someone from this world?" he asked, his voice dropping to just above a whisper.
Instead of answering, Miquella's gaze drifted past Harry to where Dumbledore, Moody, Tonks, and Kingsley stood watching the exchange with varying expressions of wariness and fascination.
Harry understood the silent question. "They can stay," he said firmly. "They can hear whatever you have to say."
Miquella gave him a long, assessing look before nodding. Then, with those golden eyes fixed directly on Harry's, he said simply: "Yes. You."
Harry's heart seemed to freeze in his chest. "What?" he managed, his voice barely audible. "What do you mean, me?"
"You might not have noticed it," Miquella said, his voice gentle, "but The Dark Moon has a hold on you. Did you never wonder how you were able to use Carian Greatsword and Loretta's Greatbow incantations without reading the scrolls, without a single day of proper training?"
Harry wasn't sure how to feel. His mind raced through his memories of the Lands Between, searching for any sign he might have missed. He couldn't remember a single time when someone—or something—had whispered in his ear. Sure, he knew he could use Carian Magic without the usual prerequisites; Melina herself had pointed out how odd that was. But he'd been fighting for his life every moment of every day, and he'd never really had time to stop and consider why he was able to channel that particular type of magic.
"I just thought..." Harry began, then stopped, realizing he hadn't thought about it at all. He'd just been grateful for any advantage that kept him alive.
Dumbledore finally stepped forward, his blue eyes intently fixed on Miquella. "If I may," he said with exquisite politeness, "what exactly are the Dark Moon's goals?"
Miquella's expression remained serene. "All I know is that the Dark Moon wants to bring the Age of Stars to the world," he said. "But I am not certain myself what that means for your world or mine."
"Well," Tonks mumbled loudly enough for everyone to hear, "at least it doesn't sound as bad as burning everything to the ground."
Miquella chuckled, the sound was strangely calming, even for Harry himself. "You need not frighten yourself, Harry Potter," he said, his soft voice somehow cutting through the tension in the air. "The Dark Moon's intentions, while mysterious, are not malevolent in the way the Frenzied Flame's are."
"Why should I believe that?" Harry asked, aware that his voice betrayed how frightened he actually was. The idea that something had been influencing him all along—that his abilities might not truly be his own—was deeply unsettling.
In response, Miquella pulled a ring from his own finger. It looked like it was made of strange dark wood, fused with an unfamiliar metal.
"Hold this," he said, offering it to Harry. "It will help you."
Harry took it reluctantly, half-expecting it to burn or shock him. Instead, it felt pleasantly cool against his skin. "Why are you helping me?" he asked, studying the ring's unusual design.
A sad smile crossed Miquella's ethereal features. "I have seen what war brings to the world," he said softly. "Nothing but despair and pain." His voice dropped lower. "'If living things weren't always in a hurry to destroy each other, this world would have been a kinder one.'"
Harry nodded, thinking involuntarily of his parents, of Sirius, of everyone who had suffered in the first war against Voldemort. Of Captain Artan, who had died so Harry could defeat Godrick.
"If you want to break this connection between our worlds," Miquella continued, "you must return to the Lands Between once again."
"But what about the Frenzied Flame?" Harry asked urgently. "I have reason to believe it might be influencing someone from this world."
"I understand your concern," Miquella said, his voice soothing. "But remember this—if there is someone out there under its influence, they would need to find their way to the Lands Between, under the Leyndell Royal Capital, in order to reach their ultimate goal."
Harry sighed in relief. That at least bought them some time.
"If I may," Dumbledore interjected, his tone polite but firm, "if there is indeed someone under the influence of this Frenzied Flame, why can't you simply tell us who it is?"
Miquella turned his golden gaze to the elderly wizard. "I have been watching Harry Potter for a long time, ever since he arrived in the Lands Between," he explained. "When I heard of his ability to use Carian Magic without reading scrolls or training, I knew the Dark Moon was involved somehow."
He turned back to Harry. "But if there's someone who is under the influence of the Frenzied Flame in this world, it is impossible for me to know with certainty. I am not omniscient, especially not in a world not my own."
Moody made a skeptical noise. "Convenient," he muttered.
"Not at all," Miquella replied, somehow having heard the ex-Auror's comment despite the distance between them. "It's quite inconvenient, actually. For all of us."
Harry found himself almost smiling at the exchange. "So what do I do with this?" he asked, holding up the ring.
"Wear it," Miquella said. "It will help you distinguish between your own thoughts and any... external influences."
Harry slipped it onto the middle finger of his right hand, opposite the golden ring Melina had given him, and opposite to the ring Ranni gave him. For a moment, the three rings seemed to react to each other—a brief flash of gold from one, a pulse of darkness from the other—before settling into what felt like an uneasy truce on his hands.
"You and I have the same goal, Harry Potter," Miquella said, rising from the hospital bed with a grace that made his movements seem almost liquid. "We both want to make a better world—I for the Lands Between, and you for your own."
Miquella's form began to shimmer and dissolve, not into butterflies like Melina had, but into delicate red petals that drifted upward.
"When you return to the Lands Between," Miquella's voice came from everywhere and nowhere as his body continued to dissolve, "seek out Miriel, the Pastor of Vows. He resides in Liurnia, in the Church of Vows."
"Wait!" Harry called. "I still have questions!"
"As do we all," Miquella's disembodied voice replied, a hint of amusement in its soft tones. "But time grows short, and neither of us has the luxury of all the answers we seek."
The last of the red petals spiraled upward and disappeared through the ceiling, leaving behind only the faintest scent of unfamiliar flowers.
"Well," Tonks said after a long moment of silence, "Do all your friends from the Lands Between have such theatrical exits?"
"Apparently," Harry said weakly, staring at the space where Miquella had been.
"Fascinating," Dumbledore murmured, studying Harry with renewed interest. "The Dark Moon... I wonder..."
Moody stomped forward, his magical eye fixed on Harry's new ring. "What's that thing supposed to do exactly? 'Help you distinguish your own thoughts'—sounds like mind magic to me, and mind magic is never something to take lightly."
"Oh, leave the boy alone, Alastor," Kingsley said. "After everything he's been through tonight, I think he's earned a bit of trust."
"Trust gets you killed," Moody growled. "Potter, you should let me examine that ring before you go wearing it around."
Harry closed his hand protectively. "I appreciate the concern, but I think I'll keep it on. Prince Miquella didn't seem like he was trying to harm me."
"'Didn't seem like' isn't good enough," Moody insisted. "You've got a bloody Dark Moon in your head, boy! How do you know this Miquella isn't working for it?"
"I don't," Harry admitted. "But I don't think he is."
"And why's that?" Moody demanded.
Harry thought for a moment. "Because he told me about it. If he was working with the Dark Moon, wouldn't it be better to keep me in the dark?"
Tonks snorted. "Dark Moon, in the dark—was that an intentional pun, Potter?"
Despite everything, Harry found himself laughing. "No, but I'll take credit for it."
"Your trust in Prince Miquella may not be misplaced," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "But I would advise caution nonetheless. This... Dark Moon entity, whatever it may be, has apparently been influencing you without your knowledge. That is concerning, regardless of its intentions."
Harry nodded, his hand absently touching the Cursemark on his chest through his hospital gown. "Believe me, Professor, I'm plenty concerned. But right now, I'm more worried about whoever might be under the influence of the Frenzied Flame."
"As you should be," Dumbledore agreed. "If what you've told us about its goals is accurate, it represents a threat unlike anything our world has faced before."
"Even worse than Voldemort?" Tonks asked, thought she felt foolish for asking.
"Voldemort wishes to rule the wizarding world," Dumbledore replied gravely. "The Frenzied Flame, if I understand correctly, wishes to unmake it entirely."
"Along with everything else," Harry added.
"Cheery thought," Tonks muttered. "Just what I needed before breakfast."
Harry gazed down at his hands, the golden ring from Melina on his left, Miquella's strange dark ring on his right, and Ranni's silver ring on his little finger. Symbols of two different powers, two different paths, neither fully understood.
"Well," he said with a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "at least my life is never boring."
❾¾
Four hours after Prince Miquella's departure, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. Harry sat on the edge of his hospital bed, flexing his fingers and testing the range of motion in his recently healed limbs. The room had been cleaned of the assassins' bodies—Kingsley had arranged their discreet removal while Harry was being interviewed by Dumbledore—but the faint smell of blood lingered despite the hospital's powerful cleaning charms.
The door swung open, and Healer Alderton strode in. Her lime-green robes were immaculate despite the night's chaos, but the dark circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.
"Mr. Potter," she greeted him, her wand already moving in diagnostic patterns. "Let's see how you're faring after your... eventful day."
Harry submitted to her examination with the resigned patience of someone well-accustomed to medical scrutiny. "I feel fine," he offered, knowing from experience that healers rarely took a patient's word for it.
"Yes, well, people who've been nearly disemboweled often say that right before they collapse," Alderton replied dryly. Her wand traced a complex pattern over Harry's chest, causing glowing symbols to appear in the air between them. "Hmm."
"Hmm good or hmm bad?" Harry asked.
"Just... hmm." She moved her wand to hover directly over the half-circle marking on his chest—the Cursemark of Death. "This mark appears... different from earlier. Slightly dimmer."
Harry glanced down at the dark pattern that had become so familiar during his time in the Lands Between. He hadn't examined it closely since his return, but he supposed Healer Alderton would know better than he did.
"Is that... good?" he asked cautiously.
"I haven't the faintest idea," she admitted, her professional composure slipping for a moment. "Mr. Potter, I've been a healer for thirty-seven years. I've seen curse scars, magical tattoos, binding marks, protection sigils—but nothing like this. The fact that it's changing at all is significant, but whether for better or worse, I couldn't say."
"It's nothing to worry about," Harry said quickly, pulling his hospital gown back into place to cover the mark. The last thing he needed was more questions about something he barely understood himself.
Healer Alderton gave him a look that suggested she found his assessment highly questionable but chose not to pursue it. Instead, she continued her examination, wand moving methodically from his head to his toes, occasionally pausing to note something on a floating parchment.
"Your physical recovery is proceeding remarkably well," she said after completing her assessment. "Particularly given the severity of your injuries upon arrival. However—" she held up a hand to forestall Harry's hopeful expression "—I would recommend at least twenty-four hours of further observation before discharge."
Harry's face fell. "But I feel fine. Better than fine, actually."
"That's precisely what concerns me," Alderton replied. "The human body doesn't typically bounce back from near-fatal injuries without some period of recovery, magical healing or not. Your accelerated healing bears monitoring."
The door opened again, and Dumbledore entered. He had evidently used the four hours since Miquella's departure to change his robes, as he now wore midnight blue embroidered with silver stars rather than the plum-colored set from earlier.
"Ah, Healer Alderton," he greeted her. "How is our young patient progressing?"
"Remarkably well," she repeated. "Though I've recommended twenty-four hours of observation."
"I understand your concern," Dumbledore said, his tone gentle but firm. "However, given the events of the past several hours, I believe it would be prudent to transfer Mr. Potter to a more secure location."
Alderton's eyebrows rose. "More secure than St. Mungo's? Headmaster, I assure you—"
"I do not doubt the hospital's security measures under normal circumstances," Dumbledore interrupted smoothly. "But as evidenced by tonight's... intrusion, we are dealing with forces that do not respect conventional magical barriers."
The healer's lips thinned, but she couldn't argue with the evidence of six assassin corpses that had managed to infiltrate one of the most heavily warded buildings in magical Britain.
"I see," she said tersely. "And where would this 'more secure location' be?"
"I'm afraid I cannot disclose that information," Dumbledore replied. "For security reasons, you understand."
Healer Alderton looked from Dumbledore to Harry, then back to Dumbledore, her expression making it clear she found the whole situation highly irregular. Finally, she sighed.
"Very well. But I will require Mr. Potter to take these potions at the specified times." She conjured a small wooden case containing several vials of different colored liquids. "Blood Replenisher every six hours for the next day, Tissue Regeneration Solution before bed tonight, and Monitoring Elixir immediately if he experiences any dizziness, nausea, or disorientation."
She handed the case to Harry, fixing him with a stern look. "And I expect you to actually take them, Mr. Potter, not simply stash them away and forget about them."
"Yes, ma'am," Harry agreed, taking the case and trying to look appropriately serious about following medical instructions.
"I will personally ensure Harry follows your excellent care regimen," Dumbledore assured her.
Healer Alderton looked far from convinced but nodded curtly. "I'll prepare the discharge parchments, then. But let the record show I'm doing this under protest."
As she left the room, Harry caught Dumbledore's eye. "Thank you, Professor."
"You're welcome, Harry," Dumbledore replied with a small smile. "Though I suspect Healer Alderton is quite right to be concerned about your welfare."
Harry shrugged. After everything he'd been through in the Lands Between, a few magical injuries seemed almost trivial by comparison.
❾¾
Harry dozed fitfully in his hospital bed while the adults gathered near the window, their voices kept low enough not to disturb him but with enough privacy charms to ensure their conversation remained private. Dawn had broken fully now, painting the London skyline in shades of pink and gold.
"The bodies have been handled," Kingsley reported, his deep voice even quieter than usual. "I've sent them to the Department of Mysteries under classified protocol seven. Officially, they don't exist."
"And unofficially?" Moody growled.
"Unofficially, Croaker nearly wet himself with excitement," Kingsley replied with a hint of dark humor. "Said something about 'biological anomalies' and locked himself in his research chamber with the first specimen before I'd even finished explaining."
"The Unspeakables will keep this quiet?" Dumbledore asked.
Kingsley nodded. "They value their research opportunities far too much to risk Ministry interference. As far as the official record is concerned, there was a minor incident at St. Mungo's involving an escaped patient with hallucinations who has since been contained."
"Good," Moody said. "Last thing we need is the Minister sticking his nose into this mess. Now, what about Potter? Where do we put him?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That is indeed the pressing question. Hogwarts would normally be my first choice, but with the summer holiday in progress, the castle is operating with minimal staff. The protective wards remain strong, of course, but the reduced personnel creates vulnerabilities."
"What about the Burrow?" Tonks suggested, her hair shifting to a thoughtful shade of blue. "The Weasleys would welcome him with open arms from what I saw, and we could set up additional protections."
"Too many civilians," Moody countered immediately. "If those assassins come back—or worse, that yellow creature Tonks described—the entire Weasley family would be at risk."
"Agreed," Dumbledore said. "I will not place Arthur and Molly's family in that position."
"He could stay with me," Moody said unexpectedly. "Temporarily, mind you. My house has more protective enchantments than most Ministry departments. No one gets in or out without my knowing about it."
The others looked at him with varying degrees of surprise.
"What?" Moody snapped defensively. "The boy fought off six assassins that had the three of us on the ropes. I can respect that kind of skill, whatever world it came from."
"That's... surprisingly generous of you, Alastor," Dumbledore said with a hint of amusement.
"It's practical," Moody corrected gruffly. "Potter's a target, and if these things keep coming for him, I'd rather face them from a position of strength. My house is the most defensible location available on short notice."
"I think it's an excellent solution," Dumbledore agreed. "At least until we can develop a more permanent arrangement."
Tonks was watching Harry, who was moving his head in his sleep. "Is he having a nightmare?" she whispered.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said. "Recent events have given him much to process."
"Speaking of which," Kingsley interjected, "Severus's Dark Mark. You mentioned the eyes were glowing red?"
Dumbledore's expression grew grave. "Yes. A most concerning development, especially in light of what Harry has told us about the signs of Frenzied Flame influence. The timing of the change—coinciding precisely with Harry's return—cannot be coincidental."
"You think You-Know-Who might be under the influence of this Frenzied Flame thing?" Tonks asked, her hair shifting to an alarmed white.
"It is a possibility we must consider," Dumbledore replied carefully. "Though we must gather more information before drawing conclusions."
"Well, we can't just sit on our hands waiting for the next attack," Moody said impatiently. "We need a plan."
Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed we do. Kingsley, I would ask you to research any historical accounts of 'world-bridging' or similar phenomena. The Department of Mysteries may have records that could prove valuable."
"I'll start immediately," Kingsley agreed.
"Nymphadora," Dumbledore continued, ignoring her wince at her full name, "I would like you to remain with Harry as his primary guard. Your metamorphmagus abilities provide a level of flexibility that may prove invaluable if more assassins appear."
"Got it," Tonks said with a nod. "Stick to Harry like spellotape."
"And Alastor," Dumbledore finished, "if you are indeed offering your home as a safe house, I would ask you to prepare whatever additional wards you deem necessary. If these beings can bypass standard magical protections, we may need to be... creative."
"Already have some ideas," Moody said with a grim smile that suggested his "creativity" might be rather unpleasant for any intruders.
Moody caught Dumbledore's eye and jerked his head toward the door. "A word, Albus?"
The two wizards stepped outside the room, leaving Tonks and Kingsley with Harry. Once the door closed behind them, Moody fixed Dumbledore with both his normal and magical eyes.
"When are you going to ask the boy about that mark on his chest?" he demanded without preamble.
Dumbledore sighed. "I believe Harry will tell us when he feels ready."
"And if he doesn't?" Moody pressed. "That thing looks like dark magic, Albus. Powerful dark magic. If it's affecting the boy—"
"I share your concern, Alastor," Dumbledore said. "But Harry has been through an extraordinary ordeal. Forcing him to explain every detail before he's ready may do more harm than good."
Moody looked unsatisfied but grudgingly nodded. "Your call. But if that mark starts doing anything stranger than it already is, all bets are off."
"Agreed," Dumbledore said. "Now, shall we return? I believe our young friend will be waking soon, and we have much to prepare."
Charlie Weasley
Charlie Weasley wiped sweat from his brow, the Romanian summer heat felt like it was trying it's hardest to cook him alive, that is if a dragon did not take glory of doing that first. Even in the predawn hours, the temperature hovered uncomfortably around twenty-five degrees Celsius. He crouched behind a massive boulder, his wand at the ready, eyes fixed on the narrow entrance to a cave nestled in the craggy mountainside.
"Any movement?" whispered Eliza Thornwood, sliding into position beside him. The Australian witch's blonde hair was pulled back in a practical braid, her tanned face smudged with dirt from their three-day tracking expedition.
"Nothing yet," Charlie replied, not taking his eyes off the cave. "But the heat signatures Dmitri picked up were definitive. She's in there."
Eliza nodded, adjusting the dragon-hide gloves that protected her forearms. "Swedish Short-Snout. Females are particularly aggressive during midsummer."
"Tell me about it," Charlie grinned, gesturing to a half-healed burn that peeked out from beneath his sleeve. "Got this beauty last year from a Short-Snout. Nearly took my arm off."
"And yet here you are, back for more," Eliza said, shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and respect. "Your mother must worry herself sick."
Charlie's smile widened. "Mum's given up trying to convince me to take a 'normal' job at the Ministry. After Bill became a curse-breaker, I think she realized Weasleys aren't meant for desk work."
He thought briefly of his family back in England, wondering what they might be doing at this moment. Dad was probably tinkering with some Muggle contraption in his shed, Mum would be cooking enough food to feed a small army, and the twins... well, the twins were likely causing some sort of magnificent chaos. Ron would be looking forward to his fourth year at Hogwarts, probably exchanging owls with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger all summer.
Normal, peaceful stuff. Nothing like chasing dragons through the Carpathian Mountains.
His nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by a subtle vibration from the enchanted compass hanging at his belt. Charlie unhooked it quickly, examining the needle that now pointed decisively at the cave entrance.
"She's moving," he said, tucking the compass away and raising his wand. He touched his throat with its tip and whispered, "Sonorus minima."
When he spoke again, his voice carried just far enough to reach the other five members of his team positioned strategically around the cave entrance, without being loud enough to alert their quarry.
"Positions, everyone. She's stirring. Remember, we need her subdued but minimally injured. Hogwarts wants them healthy for the tournament."
Across the clearing, Dmitri Petrov, a burly Russian wizard with a magnificent beard, gave a thumbs-up. Beside him, the García twins—Elena and Isabella from the Spanish dragon preserve—readied their specialized restraining nets. On the ridge above the cave, Tomas Novak and Marta Kovač from the Czech Republic maintained the high ground, their wands trained on the entrance.
Charlie took a deep breath, excitement coursing through him. This would be the second dragon they'd captured for the Triwizard Tournament. Just one more after this, and their mission would be complete. The Swedish Short-Snout would join the Chinese Fireball already secured at their base camp.
"Dragons for a school tournament," Eliza muttered beside him. "Seems a bit extreme, doesn't it?"
"It's tradition," Charlie replied with a shrug. "Besides, they're not expecting the champions to slay them or anything barbaric like that. Just get past them somehow."
"Still," Eliza persisted, "seventeen-year-olds against fully grown dragons? I've been doing this professionally for six years, and I still get nervous every time."
Charlie was about to respond when a low rumble emanated from the cave, silencing their conversation instantly. Everyone froze, wands raised, as the rumbling grew louder.
The Swedish Short-Snout emerged in a blur of silvery-blue scales and furious energy. She was smaller than some dragon species but made up for it with ferocity—nearly twelve meters from snout to tail-tip, with powerful wings that cast the entire clearing into shadow as she unfurled them.
"Now!" Charlie shouted, abandoning the voice-enhancing charm as stealth became irrelevant.
Six synchronized spells shot toward the dragon from different directions—stunning spells modified specifically for draconic physiology. They struck the Short-Snout's hide in quick succession, causing her to roar in fury rather than collapse. Dragon-stunning required multiple direct hits; their thick hides and natural magic resistance made them almost impervious to single spells.
The dragon whipped around, identifying Dmitri as the nearest threat. She inhaled sharply, her chest expanding as she prepared to unleash her signature blue flame—hot enough to reduce bone to ash in seconds.
"Protego Maxima!" Charlie bellowed, leaping from his hiding place and casting the most powerful shield charm he could muster between Dmitri and certain death.
The blue flame collided with the shield, which held for two critical seconds—just long enough for Dmitri to dive behind a rock formation. The shield collapsed with a sound like shattering glass, but it had done its job.
"Conjunctivus!" Eliza shouted from beside Charlie, aiming for the dragon's eyes. The spell hit its mark, causing the Short-Snout to rear back in temporary blindness, thrashing its head in pain and rage.
Charlie used the distraction to race toward a better position, signaling to the García twins as he moved. They understood immediately, unfurling their enchanted nets and beginning the complex wand movements that would propel them toward their target.
"Draconifors Somnium!" called Tomas from the ridge, casting the specialized sleeping charm that worked—albeit slowly—on dragons. It struck the Short-Snout's left flank, the magic seeping into her scales like water into sand.
The dragon, however, was far from subdued. Her tail lashed out, catching Charlie off-guard and sending him tumbling across the rocky ground. He felt the searing pain of fresh cuts on his arms and face but pushed himself back to his feet immediately. This wasn't his first dragon, and it certainly wasn't the first time he'd been knocked around by one.
"Charlie!" Marta called in warning as the Short-Snout, now recovering some of its vision, fixed its gaze on him.
"I see her," Charlie replied grimly, already calculating his next move. The dragon's movements were becoming slightly sluggish—Tomas's sleeping charm was beginning to take effect, but too slowly.
"We need to hit her with another Somnium!" he shouted to his team. "On my mark!"
Charlie began circling to his right, drawing the dragon's attention while the others repositioned themselves. This was the most dangerous part of any capture—the brief window between the first successful spell and complete subdual, when the dragon was hurt and angry enough to be unpredictable, but not yet weakened enough to be safely approached.
"Ready!" called Eliza.
"Ready!" echoed the García twins in unison.
"In position!" confirmed Dmitri.
"Now!" Charlie commanded.
Five Draconifors Somnium spells struck the Swedish Short-Snout simultaneously, each hitting a different part of her massive body. The combined magical force was finally enough to overcome her resistance. The dragon swayed, her movements becoming progressively more lethargic, her fearsome roar diminishing to a rumbling growl.
"Nets!" Charlie ordered, and the García twins launched their specially enchanted restraints.
The nets unfurled in midair, growing to envelop the dragon as they fell. Enhanced with unbreakable charms and soaked in a potion that further suppressed draconic magic, they settled over the Short-Snout like a glittering web.
For a tense moment, the dragon struggled against the restraints, managing one last defiant jet of blue flame before the combined effect of the sleeping spells and the potion-soaked nets finally overcame her. She collapsed with a ground-shaking thud, her breathing deep and even in magical slumber.
"Bloody brilliant!" Charlie exclaimed, allowing himself to relax slightly as he approached the subdued creature. "Everyone alright?"
His team gathered around their prize, all sporting various minor injuries but wearing identical expressions of triumph.
"That's two down, one to go," Dmitri said, clapping Charlie on the shoulder with enough force to make him wince. "Hungarian Horntail next, yes?"
"That's the plan," Charlie confirmed, already dreading the prospect. Horntails were notoriously the most dangerous of all dragon species. "But let's get this beauty back to camp first."
They worked efficiently to secure the sleeping dragon for transport, casting additional restraining spells and preparing the massive enchanted harness that would allow them to airlift her back to their base camp in the valley below.
"I still can't believe they're using dragons for a school tournament," Isabella García commented as she checked the tightness of a restraint. "What do you think the other tasks will be? Chimeras? Nundu wrestling?"
"Knowing Dumbledore, probably something equally challenging but in completely different ways," Charlie replied, remembering his old headmaster's flair for the unexpected. "Maybe a riddle contest with a sphinx, or navigating an enchanted labyrinth."
"I'd take the labyrinth over another Horntail any day," Eliza said fervently, using her wand to clean a nasty cut on her forearm.
"Underwater challenge would be interesting," suggested Tomas, helping Marta with the harness adjustments. "Giant squid race or something with the merpeople in that lake you're always talking about."
"The Black Lake?" Charlie considered it. "Could be. Grindylows, merpeople, the giant squid—plenty of challenges down there."
With the Short-Snout secured, the team paused to rest before beginning the complicated process of transporting her. They passed around a canteen of water and a bag of dried fruit.
"To another successful capture," Dmitri proposed, raising the canteen in a toast before taking a swig.
"And to whoever these poor Triwizard champions are," added Eliza with a laugh. "They'll need all the luck they can get."
Charlie grinned, feeling the familiar satisfaction of a job well done. This was why he loved his work—the danger, the camaraderie, the magnificent creatures. Sure, his mother would prefer him safely pushing papers at the Ministry, but he couldn't imagine any life more fulfilling than this.
Their celebratory moment was shattered by a sound like nothing Charlie had ever heard before—a roar so powerful it seemed to vibrate the very air around them, making the subdued Short-Snout twitch in her magical sleep.
"What the bloody hell was that?" Dmitri whispered, his hand tightening around his wand.
"BOOM!"
The sound hit them like the Hogwarts train, a thunderclap so intense Charlie felt it in his chest. As one, the team looked skyward.
What Charlie saw made his breath catch in his throat. Hovering perhaps three hundred meters above them was a dragon—if one could even call it that. It was unlike any species he'd ever encountered or read about. Massive beyond comprehension, its body gleamed a pristine white that seemed to glow from within. Most shocking of all were its wings—not two, but four enormous appendages that beat the air with enough force to create visible disturbances in the clouds above.
"Merlin's beard," Charlie whispered, awestruck and terrified in equal measure. "That's... that's impossible."
The creature was at least ten times the size of the Swedish Short-Snout they'd just subdued. Its head alone was larger than a house, with crystalline horns that glittered like crystals under the sunlight.
"What is it?" Elena García asked, her voice barely audible.
"I don't know," Charlie admitted, ten years of draconic study suddenly rendered useless. "It's not in any textbook I've ever read."
"Do we... do we try to capture it?" Tomas asked uncertainly.
Charlie shook his head slowly, still unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent monstrosity above them. "No. No, we absolutely do not try to capture that."
"Then what's the plan?" Marta pressed, clearly fighting to keep panic from her voice.
Charlie's mind raced through their options, none of them good. "Broomsticks," he said decisively. "We fly low through the forest canopy so he can't see us and get out of here. That thing hasn't attacked yet, but I'm not waiting around to see what it can do."
"What about the Short-Snout?" Elena asked, gesturing toward their hard-won captive.
Charlie glanced at the slumbering dragon they'd spent days tracking. "We can capture her another day. Right now, we need to retreat. We can't fight a dragon we know nothing about."
"But the tournament—" Dmitri began.
"Isn't worth dying for," Charlie cut him off firmly. "Dumbledore will understand when we tell him what we saw. Everyone, summon your brooms and prepare to—"
His words died in his throat as the impossible dragon suddenly noticed them. Its massive head swiveled downward, eyes the size of cartwheels fixing on the tiny humans below with intelligence, then the dragon looked at the captured much smaller dragon near the humans.
What happened next defied explanation. The sky—clear blue moments before—crackled with energy. A bolt of crimson lightning, so vivid it left an afterimage on Charlie's retinas, split the air and struck the white dragon's front claw.
Instead of harming the beast, the lightning seemed to coalesce around its enormous talons. Charlie watched in stupefied amazement as the red energy took shape, forming what could only be described as a blade of pure crimson lightning that extended from the dragon's claw like an extension of its own body.
"What in Merlin's name—" Eliza began.
With a motion too swift for something of its size, the white dragon swung its lightning-blade arm toward them. The crimson energy detached, hurtling down from the sky directly at the petrified dragon handlers.
"SCATTER!" Charlie bellowed, already using his broomstick to fly away, knowing in his heart it would be too little, too late.
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