Chapter 24
Albus Dumbledore’s office had a cozy, magical vibe, the kind of place where you could have tea with a phoenix or discuss world-shattering events in the same breath. The glow of candles made everything look all soft and mystical, which, if we’re being honest, was probably Dumbledore’s way of making even the most uncomfortable conversations feel like a chat by the fire. Mundungus Fletcher, on the other hand, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, maybe hiding in a barrel of butterbeer, far away from this conversation.
Dumbledore, as always, had that twinkly-eyed, I-know-something-you-don’t-know expression. He leaned forward, his beard looking extra silver in the candlelight. "Mundungus, I'm glad you could make it. I imagine Diagon Alley’s been a bit… lively, with all the gossip about our new friend."
Mundungus shifted in his chair like it was cursed. “Aye, lively’s one word for it. Knockturn Alley’s in a right state. People are sayin’ it was some massive creature—black, with wings like a bat and claws that could rip through a cauldron. Some reckon it’s dark magic. Me? I reckon it’s a good time to stay inside.”
Dumbledore’s expression got that thoughtful look, like he was solving a Rubik’s cube in his mind while discussing the weather. "It’s true, such a creature could be dangerous. But I think it’s important we don’t rush to judgment. It might not be as malevolent as people think.”
Mundungus snorted. “It flattened Greyback and his pack like it was swatting flies. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘friendly,’ Albus.”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, but there was something deeper behind them. “Greyback was not exactly a cuddly creature himself. But I believe in second chances—even for those we don’t fully understand yet. Maybe this creature just needs… guidance.”
Mundungus looked like he was about to choke on his own disbelief. “You want to reason with it? Merlin’s beard, Albus, you’ve always been optimistic, but this is pushing it.”
Dumbledore chuckled, the kind of laugh that makes you think he knew the punchline to a joke you didn’t even know was being told. "Hope, Mundungus, is a powerful thing. It’s what keeps the light shining in dark times. If there’s even a chance this creature can be reasoned with, that it’s not just a force of destruction, we owe it to ourselves to try.”
There was a moment where Mundungus clearly debated whether running away was still an option. But Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the comfortable warmth of the room. "That’s why I need your help, Mundungus. You have connections in places most wouldn’t dare go, and the information you hear is invaluable. If you catch wind of anything—anything at all—about this creature, I’d be most appreciative if you shared it with me.”
Mundungus scratched his head, clearly weighing the pros and cons of getting involved. The cons were winning by a mile. “I’ll see what I can find, but no promises. This thing’s bad news, Albus. I’d prefer to keep all my limbs attached, thanks.”
Dumbledore nodded, understanding but still persistent. “Your safety is my priority. But remember, even the smallest bit of information can be crucial. Sometimes, the tiniest clue can unravel the greatest mysteries.”
Mundungus stood up, clearly ready to flee, but not before Dumbledore extended a hand. Mundungus shook it, and despite his usual distrust of authority figures, he could feel the sincerity in Dumbledore’s grip. “Thanks for your time, Mundungus. And remember, even the darkest paths can lead to redemption.”
As Mundungus left, probably planning to lie low for a while, Dumbledore returned to his seat, deep in thought. Sure, things were getting complicated—creatures rampaging through Diagon Alley wasn’t exactly on the list of usual wizarding problems—but Dumbledore had always been the guy with a plan. Or three.
The creature that took out Greyback’s pack? It was definitely a wild card. Dangerous, sure, but Dumbledore had dealt with worse. And the wheels were already turning in that brilliant mind of his. The world was shifting, and he knew the stakes were high. But if anyone could navigate the chaos and make it all work for the greater good, it was Albus Dumbledore.
The candles flickered, casting long shadows across the room, but Dumbledore remained calm, staring into the flames like they held the answers to every question. Whatever was coming, he’d be ready.
—
The next day, Diagon Alley was cloaked in an unusual silence. Normally a hub of magical activity, today it seemed to be holding its breath. The site where Fenrir Greyback had met his end was now a solemn spot of reflection. The Ministry had cleared away the debris, but the air still carried a faint, lingering charge from the powerful magic that had been unleashed.
Visitors trickled in throughout the day, not as mere spectators but as those deeply affected by Greyback’s reign of terror. They came to pay their respects, seek closure, and express their gratitude, drawn by personal connections to the horrors inflicted by the infamous werewolf.
First to arrive was a young couple with a baby. The woman gently pulled back the baby’s sleeve to reveal a small bite mark—a cruel legacy from Greyback’s attack. Tears glistened in her eyes as she laid down a modest bouquet of wildflowers. Her husband, standing beside her with a hand on her shoulder, offered silent support. They lingered in quiet contemplation before stepping aside.
Next came an older man, his face a canvas of grief and determination, leaning on his daughter who bore the scars of a werewolf’s bite. He knelt with effort, placing a lit candle on the ground. His voice was thick with emotion as he spoke, "To whoever ended this terror," he said, looking down at the flame, "thank you for bringing us peace."
A group of young adults arrived next, each marked by their own encounters with Greyback’s pack. They formed a circle, holding hands in solidarity. One woman with striking red hair stepped forward, her voice charged with emotion. "Greyback took so much from us," she declared. "Today, we thank whoever brought justice for giving us a chance to reclaim our lives."
As the day wore on, more families arrived, each adding their own tributes: flowers, candles, and handwritten notes. Some knelt in prayer, while others spoke softly. A young mother, clutching a photograph of her son, stood by the growing pile of offerings. Her voice trembled as she spoke, "This was my son. He was only eight when Greyback attacked. Whoever ended his terror… they’ve given us a chance to heal."
The atmosphere was thick with a potent mix of sorrow and gratitude. Many spoke of the mysterious creature that had vanquished Greyback not as a monster, but as a hero—a necessary avenger who had ended a reign of terror that the authorities had failed to stop. There was an undercurrent of hope that perhaps this marked the beginning of a safer chapter.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over Diagon Alley, the final visitors arrived. An elderly woman, frail but resolute, was supported by her son. She knelt with great effort, placing a handmade cross among the tributes. Her son, with tears in his eyes, murmured, "Maybe now, we can find some peace." They stood there for a long time, the woman in silent prayer, her son offering quiet comfort.
Inside "Sirius' Sweets," Harry and Susan watched the scene from the window. Harry felt a swirl of emotions—satisfaction, relief, and a bit of nervousness, though he kept his thoughts to himself. Drakor, hidden beneath his clothes, was a lively presence in his mind.
Ah, look at all these heartfelt tributes! Makes me want to put on a show and take a bow. But alas, I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of dragon. Still, it’s nice to see the world is finally giving a nod to our hard work. Who knew a day of reflection could be so touching?
Sirius sighed quietly, his gaze thoughtful. "It’s a lot to take in," he said, his words almost to himself.
Sirius, always the contemplative type. But he’s right. This is a big deal. I mean, not every day you get to see the aftermath of a villain’s downfall—especially not one where we had such a significant hand in the drama. If only they knew the full story!
As the last visitors left and the candles began to flicker in the encroaching darkness, the site became a quiet sanctuary—a temporary memorial to the end of a dark chapter. For those who had suffered under Greyback’s tyranny, this was a symbol of hope and a step toward healing.
Harry turned away from the window, his mind racing with thoughts of the world outside, which was beginning to buzz with speculation about the mysterious creature who had taken down Greyback. He took solace in his anonymity and the knowledge that he had been part of something meaningful. As the candles’ glow cast dancing shadows and night began to fall, Harry felt a warm, hopeful flicker in his chest—a sign that, perhaps, things were finally starting to turn around.
Oh, you’re feeling all warm and fuzzy now, aren’t you? It’s like we’re the heroes of our own epic saga! And we are. Look at us—making a difference and keeping the world on its toes. But let’s not get too comfy. There’s always another adventure on the horizon. And I’m totally ready for it.
—
In the cozy backroom of a wizarding café in Paris, the air was buzzing with speculation and excitement. The café’s magical lights flickered like fireflies, casting a warm glow on a group of witches and wizards huddled around a small table. The topic of the hour? The mysterious creature that had taken down Fenrir Greyback.
“I can hardly believe Greyback’s gone,” said a young witch, her eyes wide as she sipped her coffee. “He’s been such a terror across Europe. It’s like a bad dream finally ending.”
A middle-aged wizard with graying hair nodded solemnly. “It’s true. He made a lot of people’s lives miserable. But this creature—what’s the deal with it? We barely know anything.”
“Nothing solid,” said a bespectacled witch, adjusting her glasses with a dramatic flourish. She slid a copy of Le Magicien across the table. The headline blared: Mysterious Creature Slays Fenrir Greyback! “The eyewitnesses are all over the place. Some say it was a dragon, others claim it was a giant black beast with wings. The only consistent detail is that it was incredibly powerful.”
Meanwhile, in Berlin, a lively debate was heating up in a bustling wizarding tavern. A group of young wizards leaned in close, their drinks momentarily forgotten.
“So, what’s your guess?” asked one, his eyes sparkling with awe. “A dragon? Some dark creature? Maybe it’s ancient magic we’ve never seen?”
A witch with spiky hair shrugged with dramatic flair. “Could be anything. But taking down Greyback and his pack without a trace? Impressive and a bit scary. What if this creature isn’t exactly friendly?”
“Or what if it is?” interjected another wizard, his tone hopeful. “Maybe it’s like one of those magical guardians, coming out to protect us from dark forces.”
“Or it’s something darker,” muttered an older wizard, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Rumor has it that vigilantes use dark magic to handle what the Ministry can’t. What if this creature is one of them?”
In a quaint wizarding village in Romania, close to dragon reserves, the locals were abuzz with theories. At the local inn, patrons crowded around a magical radio, hanging on every word.
A grizzled old dragon-handler puffed on his pipe, clouds of smoke drifting lazily. “Could be one of our own,” he mused, a twinkle in his eye. “A dragon who’s picked up some human magic. Or maybe it’s a creature born from dark rituals—something even dragons fear.”
A young witch shuddered, her voice trembling. “I hope it doesn’t come after us next. Greyback was bad enough.”
The innkeeper, a stout man with a kind face, shook his head. “No, no. I think this creature did us a favor. Greyback was a monster. Whoever—or whatever—ended his reign of terror saved a lot of lives.”
Back in Italy, the piazza was alive with animated discussion. Witches and wizards argued passionately, their voices rising over the hum of evening activity.
“Look,” a tall wizard declared, “we can’t just accept this creature as a hero. We don’t know its motives. It could be dangerous. We need to track it down and figure out what’s what.”
“But what if it was just defending itself?” countered a young witch with dark curls. “Greyback and his pack were attacking people. Maybe the creature stepped in because no one else could.”
An older, wise-looking wizard stroked his beard thoughtfully. “This is a turning point. The wizarding world must rethink its view on magical creatures. They’re not all evil, but they’re not all good either. We need to approach this with caution and wisdom.”
As conversations like these rippled across Europe, it was clear that the mysterious creature’s actions had sparked a continent-wide debate. From Paris to Berlin, from Romania to Italy, witches and wizards grappled with their newfound sense of safety, the complexities of justice, and the moral ambiguities of power.
Rumors and theories spread like wildfire, transforming the creature into a figure of legend. In every corner of the wizarding world, the discussions continued, with one burning question at the heart of it all: Who—or what—was this creature, and what would it mean for the future of the wizarding world?
—
In the shadowy recesses of Nurmengard, Gellert Grindelwald sat in his cold, stone cell, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t exactly the Ritz. His fierce eyes, once the stuff of nightmares, had mellowed into the kind of gaze you get when you’re left alone with your thoughts and nothing to do but reflect on the messes you’ve made. Today, he was holding a newspaper—yes, a real paper with ink and everything—its pages crackling with news of Fenrir Greyback’s recent, well, permanent vacation.
Grindelwald scanned the headlines with a mixture of curiosity and what could only be described as grim satisfaction. Apparently, Greyback had met his match in a mysterious creature. The article read like a fantasy novel, filled with eyewitness accounts that were as varied as they were vague. Some said the creature was a dragon, others swore it was a giant, winged black beast. One thing they all agreed on: it was incredibly powerful.
“Really?” Grindelwald muttered, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Greyback, gone? And not by the usual suspects, either. It’s almost like a new chapter in the world’s ‘What the Heck is Going On?’ series.”
He let out a soft, ironic laugh, a sound that seemed to bounce off the cold stone walls of his cell. “Ah, Albus. You must be rubbing your hands together at this one.”
Grindelwald could practically hear Dumbledore’s internal monologue from across the continent. The man was all about categories—good, bad, and everything in between. Dumbledore would probably see this new creature as a potential pawn for his vision of the world, or a new dark force to be neutralized. Either way, the creature’s fate would be decided by how well it fit into Dumbledore’s neat little boxes.
“You’ve always had a thing for neat labels, haven’t you, Albus?” Grindelwald chuckled, shaking his head. “The world’s a bit messier than your binary choices, my old friend.”
He knew better than most that things weren’t so black and white. The creature’s actions, though violent, had done the world a favor by removing a genuine evil. But in Dumbledore’s view, the creature would either be an ally or an enemy—no room for the messy shades of grey in between.
Setting the newspaper aside with a sigh, Grindelwald leaned back against the cold stone wall. His days of grand ambitions were behind him, but the world outside was still spinning, and Dumbledore was likely spinning it in his usual direction. The thought of the creature getting caught up in Dumbledore’s schemes stirred a sense of resigned sorrow in him.
“Here we go again,” Grindelwald said to the shadows, his voice barely more than a whisper. “The world’s stage is set, and Dumbledore’s got his script. But the dance—well, the dance never really changes.”
—
In his dingy little hideout, Peter Pettigrew—aka Wormtail, aka the guy who really should have been a rat in a different way—was curled up in a corner like a mouse with a bad case of the jitters. The place was a perfect example of “what happens when you don’t clean your house for a decade,” with dusty corners and a permanent, musty smell that screamed “foreclosure.”
He was clutching a ratty old blanket as if it were the last thing standing between him and certain doom. The only source of light was a flickering candle that seemed to be as scared of the dark as Peter was. The radio crackled to life, its announcer’s voice cutting through the gloom with shocking clarity.
“We interrupt your regularly scheduled paranoia to bring you this breaking news: Fenrir Greyback, the infamous werewolf, has been taken out by an unidentified creature of extraordinary power. Eyewitnesses are all over the place with their descriptions, but it seems clear that Greyback is no longer a threat.”
Peter’s eyes bulged, and his grip on the blanket tightened so much it was almost a strangulation. Fenrir Greyback—dead? The sheer thought was enough to send Peter’s heart racing faster than a Firebolt on a caffeine high. He had always imagined Greyback as a monster straight out of a nightmare, and now that nightmare was... over? What was the world coming to?
“What in the name of Merlin’s pants is happening?” Peter squeaked, staring at the radio like it had just announced the end of the world. Or, at least, the end of his personal safe zone. His brain was spinning faster than a Quidditch player in a tornado.
His next move? A panic-stricken scramble. He grabbed a piece of parchment and began scribbling frantically. “Step one: Don’t die. Step two: Hide. Step three: Find out who or what killed Greyback because that sounds like a potential new big bad in town.” His handwriting was a mess of desperate scrawls, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.
Peter’s hideout, which was already as cozy as a troll’s lair, suddenly felt like a ticking time bomb. With Greyback gone, Peter had this horrible feeling that the universe was about to throw another disaster his way, and he was right in the crosshairs. He imagined dark creatures with bad intentions prowling outside, just waiting for him to make a mistake.
“Brilliant, Peter,” he muttered to himself, a mix of sarcasm and dread dripping from his voice. “Just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, the universe decides to add a new monster to the mix. What could possibly go wrong?”
As he sat there, trying to make sense of the news and not have a complete meltdown, Peter knew one thing for certain: The world outside had gotten a whole lot scarier, and he was right in the middle of it, clinging to his blanket like it was a life raft.
His hideout might be safe for now, but with the way things were going, Peter Pettigrew was pretty sure his life was about to turn into a real-life horror show. And he was playing the lead role.
—
Months had passed since Harry and Drakor—the sarcastic, shape-shifting Klyntar symbiote dragon who now shared headspace with him—got used to their new and supercharged existence. You know, the kind of existence where casually tearing through werewolf packs becomes a normal Tuesday. Of course, it helped when said werewolves had brains that tasted weirdly like fried chicken, according to Drakor. Harry had no desire to debate that one.
“Feeling the power yet?” Harry asked, flexing his arms as he felt the enhanced strength surging through his muscles. It was as if he'd downed ten Pepper-Up potions, minus the steam coming out of his ears.
"Feeling it? Dude, I could punch a mountain and then sculpt it into a monument of me. With wings. Majestic. We’re talking Mount Drakor here. Tourists would line up." Drakor’s voice buzzed in Harry’s mind, a mix of gleeful pride and utter absurdity. “Oh, and let’s not forget—no one else can say they’ve had gourmet werewolf brains. We’re trendsetters, Harry. We’ve started a thing.”
Harry rolled his eyes. Typical Drakor. “Please don’t start a brain-eating trend. I don’t want that on my resume.”
“Oh, c’mon! You gotta admit, we’re stronger, faster, more... dragon-y.” Drakor puffed out metaphorical smoke. “And you, my friend, are welcome. You think Dumbledore ever woke up feeling like he could bench press a hippogriff? No. No, he did not.”
Harry couldn’t argue with that. The werewolf brains had worked wonders, but they also came with the lingering question: how far would they have to go to keep leveling up like this? Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
They stood in the middle of a quiet forest clearing, the air still except for the occasional rustle of leaves. It was peaceful. Too peaceful, actually. The kind of peace that usually signaled something big and chaotic was coming.
“So, how’s your fire breath doing?” Harry asked, mostly to keep his mind off the creeping sense of impending doom. “Improving with all this muscle power?”
“Pfft. As if my fire wasn’t already legendary. You want a demonstration? I could fry that deer watching us from the trees. Instant venison.”
Harry glanced over, spotting the deer standing in the shadows, its expression bored, like it had seen enough symbiote-wizard tag teams for one lifetime. “Yeah, let’s not make deer flambé tonight.”
“Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you’re hungry later. I’m just saying, hunting would be a lot easier if I turned into a giant fire-breathing monster more often.”
“And I’m just saying, we’ve been trying to keep a low profile,” Harry replied, tossing a pebble that immediately shattered upon impact with a tree. “Besides, don’t get cocky just because we took down Greyback’s pack. That was lucky.”
“Lucky?!” Drakor gasped in mock outrage. “Harry, my precious wizard pal, you wound me. Luck had nothing to do with it. We were unstoppable. Greyback didn’t know what hit him, and his werewolves were so confused by our awesomeness they practically ran into our fists. Or... claws. Whatever. The point is, we were magnificent.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh. Drakor’s exaggerated self-praise was becoming a regular part of his life now, but in truth, their success in that fight had been more than a little surprising. Sure, they were powerful now, but they’d never fought like that before, and something about the synergy between them—Harry’s magic and Drakor’s raw, symbiote strength—was terrifyingly effective.
“You think Dumbledore’s gonna notice what we’ve been up to?” Harry asked, half-joking, half-worried. If anyone could sniff out their trail, it’d be him.
“Pffft. Dumbledore’s too busy knitting socks or whatever ancient wizards do for fun.” Drakor’s mental voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Besides, if he tries anything, I’ll just wrap him up in symbiote goo. I’ve always wanted to know what the 'Greater Good' sounds like when it’s muffled.”
Harry wasn’t entirely sure if Drakor was serious, but he made a mental note to keep him away from Dumbledore—just in case. As much as he appreciated Drakor’s enthusiasm for world domination (in theory), Harry wasn’t about to let his symbiote friend start wrapping up headmasters like oversized Christmas presents.
They spent the next few hours in companionable silence—well, silence except for Drakor occasionally humming the theme from Jurassic Park in Harry’s mind, which was more distracting than you’d think. The power they’d gained from the werewolves still hummed under Harry’s skin, like he could run a marathon, fight a dragon, and finish his Charms homework all at once. But the thought of what they’d had to do to get it still lingered.
“You’re overthinking again,” Drakor interrupted, his mental tone softening a bit. “Look, I know you’ve got this whole ‘moral compass’ thing going on, but the world’s a mess. And we’re just trying to clean it up. One werewolf brain at a time.”
Harry sighed. “I just don’t want to end up like them.”
“Trust me, you’re too much of a goody-goody to go full dark side. That’s what I’m here for! I keep things balanced. Yin and yang. You know, the usual hero-symbiote dynamic. Plus, if you ever go rogue, I’ll just hijack your body and make you knit scarves for house-elves until you snap out of it.”
Harry chuckled. Leave it to Drakor to come up with the weirdest, most bizarre plans imaginable. But that’s why they worked. Despite his constant antics and running commentary, Drakor’s main goal was to protect Harry. And as wild as things were about to get, Harry knew one thing for sure: as long as Drakor was around, he’d never face it alone.
Now, if only he could figure out how to get through the next few days without setting something (or someone) on fire.
“I heard that.” Drakor’s voice chimed in, mock-insulted. “I’m insulted. I’ve only set three things on fire. This week.”
Harry just shook his head. Yeah, things were about to get interesting.
—
As April rolled in, Harry’s life had morphed into an exhilarating whirlwind of high-flying antics and adrenaline-soaked Quidditch drills. Ever since Drakor had joined the party, the stakes had shot up faster than a Bludger out of Sirius's Beater's bat. Harry, a Potter through and through, had inherited his family’s natural talent for flying. But this time, he was doing it in a way that even the most daring Potters would find... well, a little unorthodox.
“Faster, Potter! You’re not even trying!” Susan Bones, the world’s most overzealous coach, shouted from the sidelines, hands on her hips and an expression that could only be described as ‘intense encouragement mixed with unyielding expectation.’
“I’m definitely trying!” Harry yelled back, flapping Drakor’s wings—yes, his wings—while dodging two Bludgers that Sirius and Remus were sending his way with alarming enthusiasm. The pair had spent the last six months telling Harry stories about his father’s Quidditch prowess, which only added to the pressure. If James Potter had been a Quidditch star, surely Harry could at least keep up with a couple of enchanted balls.
"Don’t listen to her! We’ve got this!" Drakor chimed in, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm as they rocketed through the air. "I mean, come on, Harry! We’re practically invincible together!"
“Invincible? Right. Until we crash into a tree!” Harry shot back, twisting mid-air to narrowly avoid a low-hanging branch, his heart racing as he felt Drakor's excitement coursing through their bond.
"Pfft! Trees are for amateurs! Just think of your father!” Drakor encouraged, his exuberance palpable. "He was probably flying circles around everyone at Hogwarts while simultaneously charming all the girls! You have Potter blood, my friend. We were born for this!"
“Except he was on a broom, and I’m part dragon,” Harry replied, trying to keep his voice steady as they soared upward, twisting out of the path of another Bludger. “I’m pretty sure that changes things a bit.”
“Details, details! You’ll see! Just trust me!” Drakor insisted. "We’re about to pull off something legendary!"
With that, Drakor shot forward, launching into a dive that felt like they were plummeting from the sky. The rush of wind whipped past them as they maneuvered around the Bludgers like a dancer in an action movie, and Harry could feel the thrill of it all.
“Faster! You call that a dive?” Susan shouted, her coaching voice cutting through the wind. “If you’re going to be a proper Potter flyer, you need to do better than that!”
"Did she just say we need to do better? I mean, I’ve seen pigeons with more style!” Drakor scoffed, his playful tone only heightening the tension. "Let’s show her what true Potters can do!”
“Let’s not get too carried away,” Harry replied, but a grin tugged at his lips. His heart raced, not just from the rush of flying but also from the thrill of being part of something bigger. This was his chance to embrace the legacy of the Potters, even if it meant risking a few broken bones along the way.
With a wild twist of his body, Harry and Drakor ascended rapidly, gaining altitude with each flap of their wings. They were practically on fire, feeling the exhilaration of soaring above the trees like his father had once done on a broomstick.
“Watch this!” Drakor called out, and before Harry could even respond, they executed a dazzling loop-de-loop, soaring through the air with all the grace of a dragon.
“Okay, that was actually pretty cool!” Harry admitted, a mixture of awe and pride swelling inside him.
"Of course it was! We’re awesome!" Drakor crowed, pumping Harry full of energy and confidence. "Now let’s finish strong! How about a dramatic flip? Or perhaps a dazzling spin?"
“No flips! Remember last time?” Harry groaned, recalling their near-miss with that particularly aggressive Bludger.
Susan, who had been watching the entire spectacle, shook her head in disbelief but couldn’t help the smile that crept across her face. “You’ve got the potential, Potter! But if you’re going to fly like a true Gryffindor, you have to risk it all!”
Feeling inspired—and a little reckless—Harry nodded. “Okay, maybe just one flip. But if we crash, I’m blaming you.”
"Deal!" Drakor replied, practically vibrating with excitement. "Let’s give them a show to remember!”
With renewed determination, they launched into the air, executing a sharp turn that had them heading directly toward a group of towering trees. Harry felt a thrill of panic but also a rush of exhilaration. This was the Potter way: take the risk, own the sky, and make it spectacular.
As they flipped and twirled through the air, the adrenaline pumping through Harry’s veins felt like a tribute to his father’s legacy. Maybe he didn’t need a broom after all. He had Drakor, and they were unstoppable together.
After a particularly spectacular maneuver that sent both Sirius and Remus scrambling to adjust their aim, Harry finally landed back in the clearing, breathless and laughing.
“Okay, I might have enjoyed that,” Harry admitted, leaning against a tree as he tried to catch his breath.
"I told you! We’re going to be legends!" Drakor proclaimed, puffing out his chest. "And to think, all it took was a little Potter flair and a sprinkle of dragon magic!"
“Legends, right,” Harry chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. “As long as Susan doesn’t decide to up the ante and add more Bludgers next time.”
Susan crossed her arms, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “That sounds like a fantastic idea! More Bludgers it is! We need you both to be ready for anything at Hogwarts.”
“Great. Just what I wanted,” Harry said dryly. But deep down, he knew he wouldn’t have it any other way. With Drakor by his side, and the legacy of the Potters behind him, they were just getting started.
"Hogwarts, here we come!" Drakor shouted in Harry’s mind, and for once, Harry couldn’t help but agree. They were ready to embrace whatever chaos awaited them—together.