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HRA# CHAPTER 127
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 04:34:14 +0000 UTC“Anyone want to give it a try?” Harry asked, turning his head after explaining a series of precautions. “Don’t worry, I can assure you it’s completely safe—no danger or accidents.”
“Er… maybe I’ll go?” Hermione said, her face a mix of hesitation and resolve.
Despite her words, the young witch still looked somewhat nervous.
And who could blame her? Harry looked like he’d just walked out of a slaughterhouse, covered in blood from Ragehorn’s tongue. The metallic stench was so strong it carried across the distance.
“Trust me,” Harry said, meeting Hermione’s gaze and waving a hand. “Trust me.”
His words seemed to bolster her courage. She took one step forward, then two—only to be stopped by a hand.
“Let me do it, Hermione,” Mr. Granger said, taking a deep breath. He looked like a warrior steeling himself for a doomed mission, his face etched with determination. Harry couldn’t help but find the expression both amusing and endearing.
Truth be told, based on Mr. Granger’s earlier reactions, Harry had assumed his curiosity about dragons was just talk. But seeing him step forward now proved his genuine passion.
“W-What do I do?” Mr. Granger stammered, standing ramrod straight—then straighter—then bending backward, further and further.
Because as he approached Harry, Ragehorn lowered her massive neck, shoving her enormous dragon head right in front of Mr. Granger’s face, forcing him to lean back. He couldn’t flee—Harry had already warned them that running in fear would only provoke Ragehorn’s predatory instincts.
So Mr. Granger’s legs stayed rooted to the spot, trembling like they’d been planted in the ground.
“Help—help—” he squeaked through clenched teeth, casting a desperate glance at Harry. “My back—”
He was on the verge of throwing out his middle-aged spine.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Harry said, patting the spiky, massive head beside him. “Ragehorn’s just getting used to your scent.”
At his words, Ragehorn snorted a puff of air and pulled her head back, finally allowing Mr. Granger to exhale in relief.
“Here, just shove it in her mouth,” Harry said, grabbing a large chunk of meat from a bucket and handing it to Mr. Granger. He patted Ragehorn’s head again. “Good girl. These are the people feeding you, so make sure to wait until their hands are out before you chew, got it?”
Mr. Granger: “…”
Did she actually understand?
He was terrified.
But there was no turning back now. Mr. Granger knew this might be his only chance in life to feed a real, living fire dragon.
Harry had made it clear: Ragehorn despised anyone who lacked courage. If he ran now, he’d never get near her again.
With an arm trembling so visibly that even Ron and Neville could see it from the far end of the group, Mr. Granger placed the bloodied meat into Ragehorn’s open maw. Perhaps because of his profession, he didn’t flinch at the blood, though his brow furrowed slightly as he picked up the meat.
His movements were quick, but as he pulled his hand back, he accidentally brushed against Ragehorn’s slick tongue. He jolted, yanking his arm out with a start.
Safe!
Throughout the feeding, Ragehorn kept her mouth wide open, not biting down until Mr. Granger’s arm was clear. Then she began to chew, almost like she was performing in a silent play. Mr. Granger turned to his wife and daughter, his face a silent explosion of ecstasy—mouth wide, back molars visible in a grin of pure joy.
He raised both fists, shaking them triumphantly, and beamed as his wife and daughter clapped for him. Still buzzing with excitement, he turned back—only to catch Ragehorn chewing her meat and giving him a fleeting glance before looking away.
“…Uh, that look—did she just glare at me with disdain?” Mr. Granger asked, half-wondering if he’d imagined it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said, stifling a laugh. “Ragehorn looks down on anyone she doesn’t think is strong enough… but she won’t hurt the people who feed her.”
Mr. Granger: “…”
So it was disdain?
Mulling this over, he grabbed another piece of meat from the bucket and fed it to Ragehorn. This time, he was noticeably steadier, more practiced.
With Mr. Granger setting the example, Hermione was much calmer when her turn came. After all, she was a young witch—Potions class at Hogwarts had exposed her to plenty of foul-smelling, grotesque ingredients, so she was no stranger to grit.
Hermione dumped an entire bucket of meat into Ragehorn’s mouth. It wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy the dragon, but it was far better than feeding her piece by piece.
Seeing Ragehorn’s contented expression, Hermione let out a relieved sigh. At least she hadn’t been outdone by her dad.
As Harry had expected, once he, Hermione, and Mr. Granger fed Ragehorn without any terrifying incidents, the others grew restless. Who didn’t love dragons, really? Any hesitation was just bravado.
“So, Ragehorn’s scales—did Alfred polish them for her?” Ron asked, tapping a scale. It was not only incredibly tough but so polished it could double as a mirror. He couldn’t help but marvel. “If they’re this smooth, Harry, how do you even stay on her back?”
Good question.
At that, even Harry’s grin faltered.
“No way around it,” he said, shaking his head helplessly. “Remember what I wrote in my letter? I used to fly with Ragehorn every week to bond with her. But ever since Alfred polished her scales, I haven’t been able to fly with her at all.”
“Er, what happened?” Neville asked, blinking blankly.
“I couldn’t stay on,” Harry said simply. “Good thing Dotty, Hermione’s earth elemental, caught me, or I’d have hit the ground hard.”
Alfred… he’d truly gone all out, polishing every single scale to perfection, from shape to sheen.
“Why not just stop polishing them?” Ron scratched his head. “Honestly, Ragehorn’s so shiny now, I can barely look at her.”
“Can’t,” Harry said with a shrug. “This big girl loves her shiny scales. She’d rather not fly with me than lose them—oi, alright, alright, I’m not blaming you, stop licking me!”
As if understanding his words, Ragehorn bent her neck and nuzzled him, her tongue lapping at him.
“Goodness, she’s so clever,” Mrs. Granger said, astonished. “She can understand everything we’re saying, can’t she?”
“Yep, Ragehorn just can’t talk,” Harry said with a smile. “I’ll figure out a way to fix that for her someday.”
Though he couldn’t ride her into the sky, the chance to be so close to a mythical creature like a dragon enthralled everyone. Even by noon, no one wanted to leave. In Harry’s cabin, Alfred had prepared a feast of food, drinks, and desserts—wizarding treats that thoroughly satisfied the Grangers’ curiosity.
The couple didn’t touch the ordinary-looking food, instead diving into the moving, squeaking, oddly colored dishes. Under the horrified gazes of the kids, they even tried a pile of cockroach clusters, giving their verdict: sweet, with a strong creamy center.
Hermione’s response was to beg her parents not to kiss her for the next few days. But Mrs. Granger promptly grabbed her, planting kisses on her face and lips despite her protests, until Hermione’s eyes glazed over in defeat.
That’s just how moms are.
Led by Harry, the group took a magical boat down a waterfall, splashing in the lake before visiting the magical creatures Harry had introduced to his suitcase world. It wasn’t just Ragehorn and her food supply anymore.
Harry had invited all sorts of creatures to relocate: harmless ones like Puffskeins and Mooncalves, dangerous ones like Bicorns and Erumpents, and even magical plants he’d cultivated. Mooncalf dung and dragon manure made excellent fertilizer, and Harry wasn’t one to waste it. He’d even gone to great lengths to train Ragehorn to use a designated spot for her business—a process better left undescribed, but a battle in its own right.
They ended the tour at the unicorns’ habitat. The two foals from before had grown, their golden coats now shimmering silver. Ron sighed wistfully; he’d been fond of their golden phase.
Dinner was held outside the suitcase world, at the Grangers’ villa, at their insistence. They argued that since today was about hosting Hermione’s friends, it would be rude for them, as hosts, to let Harry entertain them all day.
Harry didn’t mind, but the Grangers were adamant—and they wanted to thank him properly for saving Hermione’s life.
They were incredibly warm hosts. Mrs. Granger’s cooking was surprisingly excellent, and the kids had a blast. Neville and Ron, in particular, were fascinated by Muggle toys, even if Hermione’s collection was, well, a bit girly. It didn’t matter.
When it was time to leave, Ron and Neville each clutched a toy—gifts from Hermione. Ron left the same way he’d come, and Neville was picked up by his grandmother. In the end, only Harry stood at the Grangers’ front door, holding his suitcase.
“I talked a lot with Alfred,” Hermione said seriously. “About house-elves, their existence, their lives, and everything they endure.”
“You’re not thinking—?” Harry raised an eyebrow.
Given what he knew about house-elf living conditions and Hermione’s personality, the answer was obvious.
“Yes, I want to improve house-elves’ status, just like raising the status of Squibs!” Hermione added, “If I ever become Minister for Magic.”
“It’s blatant slavery! Exploitation!” she said, growing angrier. “It’s hard to believe that in this day and age, such ugly practices still exist! Even Muggle America abolished black slavery over a hundred years ago! Are we British wizards worse than Muggle Americans?”
“Hm…” Harry didn’t answer right away. He thought carefully before responding. “Do you know the origin of house-elves? I mean, how they became servants to wizarding families?”
“No,” Hermione said, her earlier passion faltering. “Do you, Harry?”
“I don’t either,” Harry admitted. “But I do know that long ago, there must have been an earth-shattering war, and ancient wizards were far more powerful than we are now.”
“When I hired Alfred, I started thinking about this,” he continued. “House-elves might have been enemies of ancient wizards—or rather, of humans. Enemies with a blood feud so deep that after defeating them, the wizards stripped away their independent minds, turning them into servants.”
“If that’s the case, it means house-elves got what they deserved,” Harry said calmly. “You’re human, Hermione. The reason humans rule the world, allowing kids like you to grow up in peace, is because countless human ancestors fought and died for that right.”
“Can you imagine a world ruled by goblins?” he asked. “Humans bowing to them, managing Gringotts for them, forbidden from using wands? You’re human, Hermione. Everything you have, including your compassion, is built on that foundation.”
Harry never brushed off kids with “you’ll understand when you’re older.” He spoke plainly, so plainly it left Hermione reeling, struggling to process his words.
But he knew she’d figure it out. She was that brilliant.
“Of course, that’s just one possibility,” he said, softening as he ruffled her hair. “What if house-elves were created by ancient wizards as servants? Designed to handle mundane chores so wizards could focus on magical research? Like brooms enchanted to sweep on their own, except these brooms can talk and have flesh.”
Hermione’s heavy expression froze.
“…That’s completely different,” she muttered, swatting his hand away from her head.
“Don’t stress about it, Hermione. These are just my guesses,” Harry said with a smile. “If you’re serious about house-elves, you shouldn’t just listen to Alfred. There are plenty of them working at Hogwarts.”
“The kitchens?” Hermione recalled.
Whenever Harry caused a stir, older students would buy drinks and raid the kitchens for food to throw parties. She knew house-elves worked there but had never visited.
“Exactly,” Harry said. “House-elves and Squibs are very different. As your mentor, here’s some advice: when you face an issue, don’t rush to judge or act. Ask questions, investigate, and if possible, seek the wisdom of elders. That way, you won’t let passion lead to unintended harm.”
“…I understand,” Hermione said, taking a deep breath, her eyes red.
She still wasn’t happy, but Harry couldn’t say more. He trusted she’d work through it herself.
“And what about Dumbledore?” he added suddenly. “Why hasn’t he said or done anything about house-elves?”
“…Right!” Hermione’s face lit up with realization. “Dumbledore’s a Gryffindor. If someone as just and kind as him hasn’t acted…”
Her mood visibly lifted. That was the power of Dumbledore’s name and reputation.
Harry smiled, said goodbye, and took a few steps before glancing back. Hermione ran back into her house, the warm orange glow spilling out from the windows. Only then did he continue down the empty street.
Dumbledore’s justice and kindness…
Harry shook his head slightly.
To Hermione, and most wizards, that’s what Dumbledore was. But Harry suspected the real Dumbledore wasn’t quite what people imagined.
Something held him back.
Ariana… Harry thought of that name again, and the words on her tombstone.
One thing he was certain of: Dumbledore’s concern was for wizards—or rather, humans.
As for goblins, centaurs, merpeople, or house-elves…
Dumbledore didn’t care.
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T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
