The Dragon on Harry's bedside table yawned as if it where going to sleep, but once Harry drifted off, he remained wide-awake.
His scales rustled slightly as he flexed his muscles. He imagined that he looked very majestic, sleek and handsome, with his horned tail, swooshing in the night air.
If only he wasn't the size of a pigmy puff.
He had been born only a few days ago, out of a tiny egg, and raised with matches and small slices of rat meat. Then he was only the size of a thimble.
A thimble. A thimble! No respectable dragon had ever been that size. Perhaps the build of a dog, or even a horse, when birthed, never a mere inch long.
The dragon sighed, as much as dragons can, and curled into a laying position next to a bottle of scarlet ink left on the table. He wanted to be great. He wanted to be a terror to all of wizard-kind. But alas, his life, as short as it would probably be, would be full of swatting down flies with his penny-sized tale, and if being a terror at all, only the smallest of mice would feel his wrath.
Of course, his fate was decided. His life would perhaps be meaningless. His only glory ever, being chosen out of a bag by the boy who lived.