Dragon's and Devotion
Harriet had faced a Basilisk at twelve.
Had held the Resurrection Stone at thirteen. Faced Dementors. Possession. Betrayal.
But nothing made her stomach twist quite like the realization that Viktor Krum had left her a gift.
Not in some grand, flashy display. Not wrapped in a bow with a card.
No. It was left the way someone like him would leave something meant to matter: silently, precisely, and entirely without announcement.
She found it the day after the delegations arrived.
Tucked neatly beneath her pillow.
She’d almost missed it—would have missed it, if not for the strange warmth pulsing through her pillowcase when she’d come in from dinner. At first, she thought it was residual magic—some leftover charm misfired by a second-year prank.
But then she touched it.
And the hum settled into her bones like recognition.
She lifted the pillow carefully. There, resting alone on her creaky bed in Gryffindor Tower, was a dragon scale—midnight black with veins of silver streaking through the surface, smooth but faintly warm, like it had been cut from a living creature not long ago.
Attached was a single folded note, unmarked but enchanted with Durmstrang cipher. She only understood it because he’d taught her how to read it in one of his letters.
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When you face fire, carry something that cannot burn.
V.
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That was all.
No dramatic signature. No unnecessary fuss.
Just... protection. Given freely. Without expectation.
She sat on the edge of her bed for a long time, fingers wrapped around the scale. It didn’t feel like a gift.
It felt like a promise.
---
The First Task had yet to be announced, but rumor had it that the Champions were about to be tested with something spectacular. No one knew what, of course. But with the Triwizard Tournament returned after centuries of being banned for being too dangerous, the stakes were already blood-soaked before it began.
Harriet hadn’t meant to be entered.
She hadn’t.
She hadn’t put her name in the Goblet. Hadn’t even approached it. She had no idea who had done it or why.
And yet, when the parchment was spat out, and Dumbledore’s lips curled around the words “Harriet Potter,” she knew exactly what was happening.
This wasn’t about the Tournament.
It was about control.
Someone—likely several someones—wanted to remind her she wasn’t free. That she was still a piece on someone else's board.
But she wasn’t the same girl anymore.
She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t confused.
She was cold.
Focused.
And furious.
---
Ron turned on her immediately.
He didn’t even pretend to ask for the truth. Just raged about attention and fame and stealing moments from Cedric. As if she’d begged to be put in danger.
Hermione wasn’t much better. She didn’t shout, didn’t accuse—but her disappointment was like a blade to the ribs. That quiet look of you should have known better made Harriet want to scream.
So she stopped talking to them both.
Stopped justifying her existence.
They hadn’t seen her.
But Viktor had.
---
Three days before the Task, she woke to find another note under her bed.
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They will not tell you the truth.
But dragons do not care for lies.
The Ridgeback is the smallest. Fastest. Watch the tail.
Use the terrain. Do not fight head-on.
And wear the scale.
V.
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Her fingers closed around the black dragon scale she’d started keeping in her jacket pocket.
She smiled.
Just a little.
---
On the morning of the First Task, the air hung heavy with excitement and tension. Students filled the stands hours before the Task was due to begin, their faces painted, scarves fluttering, bets being whispered.
Harriet sat in the tent, separated from the other champions by canvas partitions and Dumbledore's unnatural calm.
Cedric had tried to speak to her earlier—something polite, about good luck—but she had nodded distantly and returned to her seat.
She was too focused to pretend anymore.
Too tired to soothe anyone else’s feelings.
She rubbed her thumb across the edge of the scale in her pocket.
Then Bagman entered.
"Right then! You’ll be going in one at a time, and you'll be retrieving a golden egg from one of our lovely dragons. No real danger, of course!" He laughed, far too brightly for a man about to send teenagers into a dragon pit.
Harriet didn’t blink.
---
When her name was called, she stood slowly, moving like smoke. Her wand was already in her hand. The dragon scale was sewn into the inside of her shirt—close to her heart.
The moment she stepped into the arena, the world fell silent.
Not literally.
The crowd was screaming—but to her, it was a distant hum.
All she saw was the dragon.
A Ridgeback.
Smaller than the others—but faster, more agile.
Its tail lashed. Its eyes burned.
And in that moment, Harriet understood exactly why Viktor had said not to fight it head-on.
She ran.
Not away—but around.
She used the uneven rocks, the loose dirt, the shadows under the platform to outmaneuver its flame, darting and weaving like liquid lightning.
Her magic wasn’t flashy.
It was precise.
She summoned a blast of dirt into its eyes. Rolled under a tail swipe. Used a sharp charm to slice through the chain holding the egg.
The dragon lunged.
Harriet leapt.
And landed, panting, bruised, bloodied—but victorious—golden egg clutched in her arms.
The crowd roared.
She didn’t hear them.
Her eyes scanned the stands, searching.
And found him.
Viktor stood, arms crossed, face unreadable.
But when their eyes met, he nodded once.
Not in approval.
In acknowledgment.
She nodded back.
---
She was pulled into the Champion tent moments later, wrapped in spells and cloth and congratulations.
Dumbledore appeared beside her.
“Very clever,” he said softly. “Very... instinctual.”
She met his gaze.
“It wasn’t instinct.”
He blinked.
She smiled.
“It was training.”
And walked away before he could respond.
---
Later that night, in her dormitory, Harriet found a single line of parchment under her pillow.
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I do not approve of you being Champion.
But I will make sure you survive.
V.
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