Chapter 303. Magical Outburst
Boom——
Deafening explosions shook the air, and the dragon let out a piercing wail.
A massive shock wave rolled over them; Adrian Wesson threw an arm across his face on instinct. Cedric Diggory was blasted off his feet, a spiderweb of cracks crazing the surface of his Protego.
When the dust finally settled, Wesson and Cedric saw what lay before them—the dragon had practically lost half its body. A gory hole yawned in the centre of its torso, a sight as ghastly as it was surreal.
Even a real dragon would have had no hope of surviving such damage, let alone a false dragon conjured by Transfiguration.
What remained of the beast twisted and writhed, then collapsed into a heap of shattered rock.
Neither Wesson nor Cedric spared the rubble a thought.
Both of them were staring hard at Harry—Harry still wore a feral expression, his wand fixed on the spot where the dragon had vanished.
His chest heaved. The lightning-bolt scar on his forehead throbbed with a red glow that pulsed in and out, like a bed of burning coals.
"Eldra," Wesson said with a frown to the Tree of Wisdom, "what's happening to Harry?"
[Name: Harry Potter]
[Status: Magical Outburst]
Magical outburst?
Wesson blinked. The term was hardly unfamiliar.
Magical outbursts occurred mostly in young witches and wizards: an unconscious release of magic under emotional stress or danger. It was an indispensable step on the road to becoming a wizard.
Still, while Harry was a child in Wesson's eyes, he had clearly outgrown the usual age for such outbursts.
Wesson looked to Harry's forehead—the scar had gone quiet.
But he could swear it had flared with an eerie red light a moment ago.
The answer was obvious: whatever strange thing was happening to Harry now could not be separated from Lord Voldemort.
Wesson's first working theory was that a fragment of Voldemort's soul had disturbed Harry's mind and triggered the accident.
Roughly ten seconds later, Harry surfaced from his dazed stupor; the ferocity drained from his face, replaced by confusion.
He blinked. A wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him, as if jolted awake from a nightmare. His knees went weak; he almost crumpled.
Wesson and Cedric hurried to him at once.
"I… what happened?" Harry's voice was hoarse. He looked around, bewildered—at the broken stones everywhere, the charred ground, and the wary look in Cedric's eyes.
Memory surged back in a rush. His face turned ashen.
"Do you remember what just happened?" Wesson asked gently.
Harry hesitated, then nodded, disbelief written all over his face—he remembered everything.
And there was a faint aftertaste of pleasure lodged somewhere in the back of his mind.
But…
Were these truly his memories?
Was that really him?
"Harry, you were a completely different person just now. Very… very…" Cedric chose his words with care. After a beat, he said softly, "Frightening."
"I thought so too," Harry said with difficulty. "It's unbelievable. I don't know what happened or why I did any of that. I only wanted to beat the dragon, and then I used those spells and…"
At that moment, the backlash from overusing magic hit. A spike of pain drove through Harry's skull. His fingers trembled as he pressed a hand to his temple; the veins there still throbbed, each pulse drawing his brows tight.
"Drink this, Harry. You'll feel much better," Wesson said, passing him a headache-relief phial. In a calming tone, he added, "Don't worry about what happened. You've just undergone a magical outburst."
"Magical outburst?"
Cedric looked startled. "Isn't that something only little kids—"
"Ah, most of the time, yes," Wesson nodded. "In fact, grown witches and wizards occasionally have them as well… though Harry isn't of age yet. It isn't unheard of in history—some adult wizards, when mentally unstable, suffered a second magical outburst."
Harry took a sip of the potion; a hint of colour returned to his cheeks.
"Is that… bad?" he asked weakly. "I felt a bit… not myself."
"You'll be fine," Wesson said, steadying Harry by his shaking shoulder. "What you need is rest. A night's sleep and you'll be right as rain."
Harry let out a breath.
In truth, Wesson had no clear idea what effects this particular outburst might leave on Harry.
One detail did stand out, though—those witches and wizards who experienced magical outbursts beyond childhood in the historical record were all great names, enormously powerful.
Clearly, that was no coincidence.
After nearly five minutes of recovery, the "Magical Outburst" status finally faded from Harry.
Yet he didn't feel any different.
He tried a simple Wand-Lighting Charm, but the moment he raised his wand, white-hot pain lanced through his head.
Obviously, he had cast too many spells in one go and had temporarily lost the ability to perform magic.
"So… does this mean we've passed the training?" Harry turned to Wesson all of a sudden.
"Er… yes. Of course."
Wesson looked over the devastation and, for a moment, had no words.
It might have been the outburst, but Harry's brutal display had still exceeded his expectations.
Wesson stepped into the rubble and fished out a dull, ashy egg. He pressed it into Harry's hands.
"It's yours—your reward for completing the training," Wesson said with a small smile. "It's not a dragon egg, but it's worth a good number of Galleons. You can split it."
"Give it to Harry," Cedric said, his expression conflicted. "I didn't do anything. He beat the dragon alone."
Harry hefted the heavy egg, examining it with interest.
"What is it?" he asked.
Wesson tapped the egg with a fingertip.
In an instant, the egg began to change. The sooty grey faded away, revealing a splendid silver-blue sheen with a delicate metallic lustre. Its shape smoothed, resolving into a perfect sphere.
"An Occamy egg," Wesson explained. "Very rare. The shell is pure silver. Unfortunately, the creature inside is dead. It can't be hatched."
Harry nodded lightly, then realised he had nowhere to stash an egg larger than his own head.
Just then, the Occamy egg abruptly shrank until it was only the size of a fist.
"Occamy eggs change size to suit their surroundings," Wesson added. "Even a dead one."
Harry slipped the cool, weighty silver sphere into his pocket. It felt as heavy as a small pouch of Galleons.
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