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HRA# CHAPTER 96
🕑 Added 2025-04-12 14:10:58 +0000 UTC“Could be because it’s so hard to find a professor for this subject,” Harry said with a shrug. “If they have to replace the teacher every year, there aren’t enough wizards in all of Britain to keep up—especially ones willing to take the risk.”
“That’s true,” Hagrid said, letting out a heavy sigh. “I still remember last year’s poor soul. Had to carry him out of the Forbidden Forest meself… Never mind, best not dwell on it.”
“Last year’s professor died too?” Neville’s voice trembled as he swallowed hard.
“I heard it was gruesome, right there in the Forbidden Forest,” Ron added, unable to resist.
“Aye,” Hagrid said, shaking his head mournfully. “That fool thought he’d track down some dangerous magical creatures to ‘broaden the students’ horizons.’ Ran into a unicorn, of all things. When I found him, he was dangling from a tree like a broken puppet. Let’s… let’s not talk about it. Makes me heart ache just thinkin’ on it.”
Hermione puffed out her cheeks, eager to change the subject. “Fine, let’s talk about your dragon egg, Hagrid. You can’t raise it in this hut! Have you forgotten this place is made of wood?”
“In two or three weeks, that dragon’ll be as big as your house,” Harry pointed out. “And you can’t keep it cooped up forever, Hagrid. It’s a dragon—it needs space, territory, somewhere to stretch its wings and soar. That’s its nature. If you really care about it, you’ve got to let it be free.”
“Yeah,” Ron chimed in. “Even if raising a dragon right next to Hogwarts somehow doesn’t attract every Muggle in a ten-mile radius, they’re not exactly tameable. You should see the burns on my brother Charlie—he works at a dragon sanctuary in Romania.”
Though Ron had been just as thrilled as the others when he first saw the dragon egg, his excitement was tempered by a healthy dose of caution. Charlie’s stories had taught him to respect the dangers of dragons.
“One Christmas when Charlie came home, half his hair was singed off,” Ron said, shuddering at the memory. “His shoulders and arms were covered in burns. Mum cried so hard she nearly forbade him from going back to Romania.”
Hagrid’s face lit up with a rare, mischievous grin. “Don’t you worry, I’ve got it all figured out. When the dragon gets too big for the hut, I’ll move it to Harry’s trunk. There’s plenty of space in there—at least enough for it to flap about a bit. Er… that’s alright with you, isn’t it, Harry?”
He turned to Harry, his eyes pleading.
“Course it is,” Harry said without hesitation. “Don’t worry, Hagrid. I’ll take good care of it.”
And he meant it. From the moment he laid eyes on the dragon egg, Harry had felt an overwhelming urge to raise it himself. Dragon equals rare. Rare equals impressive. Impressive equals powerful. Powerful equals… the ultimate mount.
Back in Azeroth, Harry had forged a bond with a green dragon. When battle called, he’d ride her into combat—but that was different. You couldn’t call a green dragon a mount. She was a sentient being with a name, a personality, and magic to rival any skilled mage. She was a partner, an ally, not some tamed beast.
A Kodo, on the other hand? That was a proper mount—loyal, obedient, and nothing more. The dragons of this world, though, were another story. Unlike their Azeroth counterparts, these dragons didn’t speak or wield magic. They relied on brute strength—fangs, claws, fire, and sheer physical power.
Weak by dragon standards, perhaps, but that made them perfect. A mount like that wouldn’t come with the complications of a sentient ally. It’d be straightforward, manageable, and—best of all—his.
“…Harry,” Hagrid said, squinting at him. “Your eyes are practically glowin’.”
“No way,” Harry replied, deadpan. “I’m not a cat. So, what kind of dragon is it?”
“Aha! I’ve got that covered!” Hagrid said, his excitement bubbling over as he grabbed a weathered book from a nearby shelf. “Accordin’ to this, it’s a Norwegian Ridgeback egg! Rare as they come!”
“Rare indeed,” Ron said, eyebrows raised. “Those are the pride of the Norwegian Ministry of Magic. Unless there’s some special exception, any Ridgeback in England is probably smuggled. Which, er… doesn’t exactly make things simpler.”
“Don’t worry, Ron,” Harry said with a reassuring grin. “I’ve read up on British magical law. Buying smuggled goods isn’t a crime—only smuggling them is. Worst case, the Ministry confiscates what you bought.”
“And they usually don’t bother,” Hermione added, her voice tinged with surprise, “unless it’s something really dangerous. Apparently, even professors sometimes buy… less-than-legal items for research. Not exactly from Diagon Alley, if you catch my drift.”
Hermione’s jaw had practically dropped when she’d learned this. She’d always assumed the wizarding world’s laws were strict and precise, but they were riddled with ambiguities—loopholes waiting to be exploited. And when the Ministry wanted to enforce something, there was always a vague statute they could twist to fit their needs.
“Wait a second,” Hermione said, her eyes narrowing as a thought struck her. “If the Norwegian Ridgeback is so rare—and so tightly controlled by the Norwegian Ministry—smuggling one into England would be a huge risk. Hagrid, you said you won this egg in a card game?”
“’Course I did!” Hagrid said, puffing out his chest. “Told ya, I was on fire that night. Nobody could touch me.”
“And the person who lost it to you… they didn’t make a fuss?” Hermione pressed, her voice rising. “They just handed it over? No arguments, no threats when you headed back to the castle?”
“Nope,” Hagrid said cheerfully. “He was a good sport—willing to honor the bet. Seemed right pleased when he gave it to me. We were at a pub in Hogsmeade, mind you. Hogwarts territory. Safe as houses.”
Hermione shook her head, unconvinced. “It’s not that simple. Think about it, Hagrid. A dragon egg like that is worth a fortune. Someone who’d risk smuggling it across borders—dodging two Ministries of Magic—wouldn’t just give it up over a card game. Not without a fight, or at least some reluctance.”
“Er… reluctance?” Hagrid scratched his head, frowning. “Can’t say I remember much. We were all a bit deep in our cups that night. Maybe he wasn’t thrilled? But like I said, he’d had a fair bit to drink. People do funny things when they’re sloshed.”
“What did you two talk about, then?” Neville asked, leaning forward. “Did he ask you anything specific?”
“Hmm…” Hagrid’s brow furrowed as he tried to piece it together. “He asked what I did, I think. Told him I’m the gamekeeper here. He wanted to know what creatures I look after, so I told him a bit. Then I might’ve mentioned I’ve always wanted a dragon…”
Hagrid trailed off, his frown deepening. “Can’t recall much after that—it was over a week ago. He kept buyin’ me drinks, y’see. Oh, wait! He said he had a dragon egg, and if I wanted it, we could play for it. But he needed to know I could handle it—didn’t want it causin’ trouble. So I told him I manage Fluffy just fine, and a dragon’d be no problem.”
His memories were patchy, like a quilt stitched together with gaps.
“Hold on,” Ron said, glancing around the hut. “Who’s Fluffy? You didn’t rename Fang, did you?”
Hagrid chuckled. “Nah, Fang’s still Fang. Fluffy’s me three-headed dog. Looks ferocious, but he’s a softie, really. Play him a bit o’ music, and he’s out like a light—hang on! I wasn’t supposed to say that! Forget I mentioned it!”
Too late. Hermione, Ron, and Neville exchanged glances, barely containing their grins. They hadn’t expected to stumble across secrets about the mysterious three-headed dog—its name and its weakness, all in one go.
“No need to panic, Hagrid,” Harry said, stifling a laugh. “If I’ve got this right, the person who lost that egg to you on purpose was probably Quirrell.”
The room went quiet for a moment as the implications sank in. Bad news: Quirrell had likely orchestrated the whole thing to get information about Fluffy, the key to accessing the forbidden fourth-floor room. Voldemort was closer than ever to his goal.
Good news: Quirrell was dead. Voldemort, too—or at least in a state worse than death. For now, neither was a threat.
The tension broke, and laughter erupted. Hagrid’s booming guffaws shook dust from the rafters. He’d dodged disaster without even realizing it and scored a dragon egg in the process. For him, it was a win for the ages.
The mood in the hut turned downright festive. Hagrid rummaged around and produced a jug of mead for himself and Harry, along with butterbeer for the others. “To celebrate!” he declared with a grin.
It was a ridiculous, almost perfect ending.
Once Hagrid promised to move the dragon to Harry’s trunk when it outgrew the hut, even Hermione ran out of objections. Her main worry had been the Ministry of Magic cracking down on Hagrid, but with the egg safely hidden, that seemed unlikely. And, if she was honest, how could a Muggle-born girl not be a little enchanted by the idea of a real dragon?
It was a shame the egg hadn’t hatched yet. For now, they could only admire its charred, black-green shell, which gleamed faintly in the firelight. The Norwegian Ridgeback egg looked almost like an oversized pine cone, its scale-like surface tightly layered, each segment overlapping like armor.
Hagrid had already stocked up on food for the hatchling, eagerly awaiting the day it would break free. The group lingered in the hut until dusk, reluctant to leave. Even unhatched, the egg held a strange allure, a promise of something extraordinary.
“Hagrid’s set on naming it Norbert,” Ron grumbled as they finally stepped outside, the evening chill biting at their noses. “Can you believe it? He doesn’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl! Norbert sounds like a bloke’s name, doesn’t it?”
“Keep your voice down!” Hermione hissed, shooting him a glare. “What if someone hears you?”
“There’s no one around,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine. Harry, you’re awfully quiet. Don’t tell me you’re sold on Norbert too?”
“Ragehorn,” Harry said abruptly.
“What?” Ron blinked.
“The dragon’s name,” Harry clarified. “It’s Ragehorn.”
Ron squinted at him. “…Don’t tell me you’ve been silent this whole time just to come up with a name.”
“Naming’s serious business,” Harry said, feigning offense. “What’s wrong with that?”
Neville snorted. “Harry, you look like you’re already claiming that dragon as your own.”
“It’ll be my partner,” Harry said with a shrug. “Hagrid can’t raise it forever, so I’ll step up. I’ll tame it properly.”
“That’s no small feat, Harry,” Ron said, his tone a mix of awe and skepticism. “Charlie says even at the sanctuary, no one really tames dragons. They’re wild, unpredictable. Best you can do is get them used to you—feed them, care for them, so they don’t roast you on sight. But even then, you don’t mess with a mother dragon when she’s nesting. Charlie’s got scars to prove it.”
“Don’t worry,” Harry said, brimming with confidence. “I’m a professional. Once Ragehorn’s tamed, I’ll take you all for a ride.”
Harry was certain wizards didn’t know the first thing about bonding with great beasts. Subduing a dragon with a dozen people waving wands? That was domination, not taming. A proud creature like a dragon needed respect, patience, and trust.
“You’re already calling it Ragehorn?” Hermione sighed, but a smile crept onto her face. “It hasn’t even hatched, Harry. Still… I can’t wait to see it.”
Her eyes sparkled in the fading light.
It was fully dark now, and they’d likely missed dinner in the Great Hall, but none of them cared. Hagrid’s hospitality had left them stuffed with snacks and butterbeer. All they wanted was to flop into the common room, play a round of chess or cards, and maybe tackle some overdue homework.
Quirrell’s scheme was almost comical in hindsight, and even Hermione, ever the compassionate one, felt no pity for a Death Eater who’d plotted against Harry. They chatted lightly as they made their way back to the castle, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors. But as they rounded a corner, a flickering light caught their eye.
Spells.
Someone was dueling—fiercely, by the sound of it. Shouts rang out, and bursts of yellow and red light streaked across the courtyard.
“Flipendo!”
“Tarantallegra!”
“Densaugeo!”
“Stinging Jinx!”
Harry and the others froze, watching the chaotic scene unfold. It was a full-on brawl, spells flying in every direction.
A stray yellow hex hurtled toward Harry, but he raised a hand and snapped his fingers. With a sharp crack, the spell dissolved into nothing.
“Wicked,” Ron breathed, impressed. “Can I learn that?”
“It’s just a variation of Protego,” Harry said casually. “Master that first, then work on silent, wandless casting.”
“Forget I asked,” Ron muttered, deflated. He peered around the corner, eyes widening. “Filch must be thrilled. A whole mob of students fighting in the castle! They’ll be scrubbing toilets till next term—Merlin’s beard, is that Malfoy?”
Ron’s voice shot up an octave. He rubbed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating.
Draco Malfoy was at the center of the fray, surrounded by a group of students. But the strangest part? His attackers were Slytherins.
“Malfoy’s scrapping with his own house again?” Ron said, baffled. “Am I dreaming?”
Hermione frowned, studying the scene. “Why’s he always fighting Slytherins? He’s starting to seem more like a Gryffindor than a Slytherin.”
“And they’re older students,” Neville noted nervously. “Third or fourth years, by the looks of it. Why gang up on Malfoy?”
Malfoy was clearly losing. His face was swollen, one eye puffed shut, and scorch marks streaked his pale skin. Minor jinxes had left him sluggish, his movements clumsy as he tried to fend off the barrage. He had no choice but to endure the spells raining down on him.
Still, the attackers held back. They were students, after all—bound by fear of Azkaban, the professors, or perhaps the Malfoy family’s influence. Their spells were mostly harmless pranks, designed to humiliate rather than truly harm.
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T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
Comments
Samuel S.
"Powerful equals… the ultimate mount." Alyxstraza AS a mount? 🤔
