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HRA# CHAPTER 103
🕑 Added 2025-04-19 16:17:37 +0000 UTC[As this writer delved deeper into the investigation, I uncovered something utterly shocking that no one could have anticipated—our Boy Who Lived, in less than half a year after starting his first year at Hogwarts, has founded his own club: the Shaman Priest Club!]
[Many may wonder what this Shaman Priest Club is. Allow me to explain in the simplest terms: our Savior is teaching others a new kind of magic, and this Shaman Priest Club can be understood as a new course of study.]
[Isn’t this utterly ridiculous? A child who had no contact with magic for eleven years is now, upon entering the wizarding world, teaching others magic—and shamanism, no less! Haha, forgive my bluntness, but the last time I heard that word was during a trip to Africa…]
[Any rational, independent-thinking person can see something is amiss here. I even suspect our Boy Who Lived may be under some invisible control, forced to do things against his will… Of course, this is merely my speculation. But even so, the events unfolding before our eyes are real, and I refuse to pretend they’re not happening…]
“She’s insinuating about Professor Dumbledore!” It was hard to believe that the one so furious was Neville, usually timid and meek. His face flushed red with anger. “She’s implying that Dumbledore is manipulating Harry!”
In Rita Skeeter’s depiction, Harry seemed like a pitiful, innocent, fragile… vase, pushed onto the stage by some unknown force to boost his fame. Between the lines, she heavily hinted that this unknown force was none other than Dumbledore.
It painted Dumbledore as a sinister figure lurking behind the scenes, orchestrating who-knows-what.
“That’s really too much,” Ron nodded in agreement, his expression grim. “But why would Dumbledore let her spout this nonsense? She’s clearly smearing both Harry and him… er, though, the stuff about Quidditch and the Shaman Club is true…”
Ron scratched his head in frustration. He hated to admit it, but he had to acknowledge that, aside from the claim about Dumbledore controlling Harry, everything Rita Skeeter wrote was factual—no lies whatsoever.
Those were indeed things Harry had done, and Harry truly possessed such astonishing talent.
It was hard to fathom that Rita Skeeter was merely stating the truth, yet to many, her words seemed like unbelievable falsehoods.
“It’s because they’ve never seen you, Harry,” Ron said, smacking his fist into his palm as realization dawned. “If they saw you in person, they’d know how incredible you are.”
“…Why does it sound like Harry’s going to do something to them?” Hermione shot Ron an exasperated look before turning to Harry. “Why aren’t you angry, Harry? Skeeter’s making you sound like some feeble-minded child.”
“No need to get upset, Hermione,” Harry replied calmly, his tone steady. “One match is all it’ll take. Those doubting me will see the truth. I’m just curious—when did this Rita Skeeter conduct her interview?”
As he spoke, Harry pointed to a line in the newspaper.
[…This writer learned from Hogwarts’ caretaker, Argus Filch…]
“Filch was interviewed?!” Ron’s eyes widened in shock.
“Exactly, and that’s what’s strange,” Harry said seriously. “This afternoon, Filch came to me specifically. He swore on his life that he never spoke to Skeeter, let alone said anything bad about me.”
“If I hadn’t stopped him, Filch would’ve gone after her himself,” Harry sighed. “He even wanted to give a proper interview to set the record straight about me. But he’s missing the point—Skeeter isn’t a legitimate journalist.”
If a comparison had to be made, Harry thought Rita Skeeter was more like the goblins from his memories. To sell or buy something, goblins cared little for the truth, peddling blatant lies with no regard for conscience.
Take, for example, the goblins’ greatest lie: that their technological creations were safe and would never explode.
In reality, nothing goblin-made was explosion-proof—be it their vehicles, weapons, or otherwise. To some bold orcs, if a goblin contraption didn’t explode, it lacked flavor, wasn’t authentic.
In Harry’s eyes, Rita Skeeter had that same goblin-like quality—unscrupulous in pursuit of her goals.
“…But if Filch didn’t give an interview, where did Skeeter get this information?” Hermione frowned, deep in thought.
“I think we need to be more careful about what we say,” Harry said quietly. “According to Filch, there haven’t been any outsiders in the castle lately.”
Harry’s words sent a chill down their spines, like a cold wind.
“That’s kind of creepy, Harry,” Ron said, shuddering. “You don’t think Skeeter’s a ghost, do you?”
“Oh, come on,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “How could a ghost be a journalist… well, probably not.”
That night, Neville had a nightmare. He dreamt of a ghost named Skeeter hovering above him, tormenting him by broadcasting his innermost thoughts to everyone she met. Neville woke up in a cold sweat, terrified.
Given Filch’s claims, the trio became cautious over the next few days. They avoided saying anything sensitive outside Harry’s suitcase, never discussing their secrets in the open.
Meanwhile, the Daily Prophet continued its daily reports. The focus had shifted from the Kenmare Kestrels to Harry himself. Rita Skeeter, like a shark smelling blood, seemed determined to milk the controversy surrounding him for all it was worth.
Dumbledore, surprisingly, remained good-natured. Even as Skeeter’s jabs at his legacy grew from subtle hints to outright accusations, he maintained his cheerful demeanor, brushing it off as if nothing had happened.
Harry even visited Dumbledore once, urging him to stop the defamation of his reputation. To this day, Harry held firm to his belief that heroes shouldn’t be slandered unchecked.
But, regrettably, Dumbledore refused to act. No matter how public opinion turned against him or how many Howlers and accusatory letters he received, he simply smiled and carried on as if it were nothing.
Harry despised this inaction.
Regardless of his feelings, Harry was just a student. Since Dumbledore wouldn’t budge, Harry decided to let it go. His focus now was on Ragehorn.
While Hagrid had finally snapped out of his dragon obsession and returned to his duties—to the relief of Hermione, Ron, and Neville—Harry, ironically, had taken his place, becoming utterly engrossed in the dragon. It was a near-perfect repeat of Hagrid’s behavior from two weeks prior.
No, perhaps three weeks later, Ragehorn could no longer be called a “little dragon.”
Its size had grown to rival Hagrid’s hut. Because Hagrid had kept it indoors, it couldn’t even fit through the door properly. Harry had to rush in with his suitcase to stow it inside.
“Oh, Norbert, my baby…” Though Hagrid knew he could visit the dragon in Harry’s suitcase anytime, he was still overcome with grief, tears and snot streaking his face. “Mummy will miss you… Merlin’s beard, you’re just a poor little fuzzball…”
“Hagrid! Ragehorn’s not small anymore!” Ron shouted from outside the hut.
Because Ragehorn had grown so much, Ron, Hermione, and Neville weren’t even allowed inside. Ron, especially, had sworn never to go near the dragon again until Harry had fully tamed it.
“Ragehorn? What’s that… Norbert, my Norbert, what’ll I do without you…” Hagrid, sobbing uncontrollably, didn’t even register Ron’s words. He tearfully packed all the toys and snacks he’d prepared for the dragon into the suitcase.
As Hagrid busied himself, Harry clearly saw Ragehorn bite into Hagrid’s thigh, effortlessly tearing the fabric. It wasn’t an illusion—Harry was certain Hagrid was bleeding.
Yet his tough-skinned friend seemed unfazed, chuckling as he patted Ragehorn’s head, completely ignoring the injury, and went right back to his tasks.
Witnessing this, Harry realized one thing: if Hagrid kept raising this dragon, he’d absolutely spoil it rotten.
Harry resolved that until he’d tamed Ragehorn, he wouldn’t let Hagrid near it again.
Ancient beast-taming techniques, passed down through generations of the Tauren tribes!
Though the Tauren had never tamed dragons—wyverns being mere beasts—Harry figured it wasn’t a big deal. As long as Ragehorn wasn’t a sentient dragon like a Guardian Dragon and was closer to a large, instinct-driven beast, the principles should hold.
The key was to make it submit.
The larger and fiercer the beast, the greater its pride—especially dragons, with their powerful bodies, sharp teeth and claws, and ability to breathe potent flames. Born at the top of the food chain, these legendary creatures were naturally dominant.
Though unable to speak, dragons in this world gained a degree of intelligence as they aged, and that was undeniable.
Three weeks after hatching, Harry judged that Ragehorn—both in size and mentality—had reached the point where it could be tamed. Any later, and certain behaviors would become too ingrained to change.
Harry didn’t rush to begin taming the moment Ragehorn entered the suitcase. In such matters, he had ample patience.
With the aid of growth potions and charms, the suitcase’s ecosystem had been restored to a lush, verdant state. The patchy, barren spots on the ground were gone, and the distant peaks were lightly dusted with snow. The scenery alone surpassed many tourist destinations.
The animals Harry had introduced had adapted to life in the suitcase. Whether due to the growth potions or not, Harry was shocked to discover, during a recent check on the animal populations, that many of the Yorkshire pigs he’d brought in just weeks ago had begun to regrow tusks.
They were short, only half a palm’s length, but tusked versus tuskless was a significant difference. Their cheeks had hollowed slightly, and their fur had darkened.
Faster regression than Harry had expected.
When Ragehorn entered the suitcase, these semi-wild boars became its prey, just as Harry had planned.
Though confined to Hagrid’s hut since birth and never flown despite growing to the size of the hut, some instincts were etched into Ragehorn’s blood, impossible to erase.
With just a few steps and flaps of its wings, Ragehorn clumsily glided across the ground. Within half a day, it had mastered using its seemingly frail wings to dive from cliffs and soar into the sky.
Not yet a fully grown dragon, Ragehorn already carried itself as if it owned the entire suitcase world.
Its wild nature was fully unleashed in this small realm. At first, it was knocked about by the boar herds when attacking, tumbling across the ground. But by the next day, it had learned to swoop from the sky, roaring to briefly stun the herd with the innate dominance of its bloodline before targeting the much smaller boar piglets.
A cunning and clever little creature—Harry’s assessment.
He waited, letting Ragehorn acclimate to this small world, claim it as its territory, and reach the peak of its pride.
During this time, Ragehorn lived carefree and unrestrained, with no natural predators.
It carved a cave at the highest peak for its nest, haphazardly “decorating” it… if half-eaten boar and fish bones counted as decor.
Ragehorn relished scattering boar herds, soaring over unicorn herds, or diving into the central lake to hunt fish—whatever struck its fancy.
It saw itself as the king of this world.
Plentiful food and ample exercise caused Ragehorn’s body to grow at a remarkable pace. Its frame became larger than when it left Hagrid’s hut, its wings thicker, its legs sturdier. The spines on its lizard-like head grew sharper, and its long tail whipped through the air.
Under the sunlight, Ragehorn’s scales gleamed with a metallic, obsidian sheen, and the veins in its wing membranes were clearly visible.
When it fully spread its wings now, they spanned the length of two or three Hagrids lying end to end. Harry decided it was time.
On a new day, when Ragehorn awoke in its nest, everything seemed perfect. It flapped its wings, scanning from the sky for the boar herds, eager for a hearty feast.
It didn’t take long to spot the little creatures hiding in the forest.
Tucking its wings and diving, Ragehorn could almost hear the shrill squeals of its prey, which only thrilled it more.
It locked onto its target, snapping obstructing branches as it descended. Ragehorn extended the claws at the tips of its wings, ready to pin the fleeing creature—CLANG!
Not water, but the crisp, fluid sound of metal striking metal. A chain as thick as an adult’s wrist appeared from nowhere, wrapping tightly around the base of one of Ragehorn’s wings. It yanked the dragon off balance, pulling it from the air just above the ground.
“ROAR!!!”
Fury erupted. This sudden attack enraged Ragehorn, who saw itself as the master of this land. With a mighty heave, it dragged the chain and scrambled to its feet, searching for the chain’s owner. There, to its side, stood a bare-chested figure clad only in shorts—Harry, unmistakable.
Harry gripped one end of the chain, which clinked as Ragehorn moved. Sparks of lightning flickered along the metal.
Unafraid of Ragehorn’s snarling and clawing, Harry stood barefoot on the earth. His long-trained muscles were neither bulky nor off-putting but carried a unique beauty.
His bare torso and face were adorned with patterns drawn in beast blood mixed with pigment, symbols of the Tauren tribes representing courage, wisdom, and victory. His exposed skin, coated with pine oil, gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight.
Harry was no hunter, nor did he possess the “heart of the wild” spoken of among old hunters. But he had learned the beast-taming techniques from the elders of the Tauren tribes, and that was enough.
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
Comments
Vick
Harry wrestling with a dragon. Even Skeeter would be able to cook something like this.
