When Tickling a Dragon. . .

IIIII

. . . It's important to remember that the bloody thing will kill you if it realizes you're there. It's absolutely amazing how many witches and wizards struggle with this concept. "No," I mutter dryly. "That sounds about right." Sirius sends Harry an old monster hunter's journal.

IIIII

Two things. First, I don't own Harry Potter. Second, I'm bored and have writer's block on everything else I'm trying to work on, so I'm just going to leave this here and make it your problem.

M rating because I'm a realist. . . and I swear a lot, not well, but I do it anyway. . . I'm not apologizing.

Will Harry get laid? Probably. Will I be writing it? Fuck no, cause I'm lazy, and it's perfectly acceptable to skip sex scenes. Get your fap material elsewhere.

This is not a Bash fic beyond the overall stupidity the wizarding world exhibits in mass. A factor often found in large groups of humans regardless of arcane ability, just less evident due to realities dull lack of plot.

IIIII

Waking up is not a pleasant feeling. Doubly so for anyone too stupid to go to bed at a reasonable hour. That fact is the first lucid thought in my head as I jerk the curtain around my bed open. The second is a stab of pain from the sunlight streaming through the window to lance through my retinas.

"Bloody hell." I half growl as I fumble for where I left my glasses, only to nearly knock them off the nightstand. Half-garbled vitriol follows me as I stagger towards the dorm's bathroom. Nothing else penetrates the cotton-ball like fog filling my head until I get into the shower and douse my head in scalding water.

"Fucking dragons." It comes out as a hiss, barely reaching my own ears over the water, let alone anyone else's. "Obviously, it has to be dragons. They use a bloody ancient magic device to select candidates that bind them in a magical contract, so why would they stop there."

The rant spews out with marginal coherency and thankfully well out of Hermione's ears. I love the girl to death, but she's about as empathetic as the whomping willow. I'd say a rock, but rock at least listens even if it doesn't care. I'd find her when I was ready to start dealing with the problem. At the moment, I'm more tempted to find Malfoy and start a fight.

That last thought has me turning the water's heat up. "I'll borrow trouble from somewhere else," I murmur, the unsavory promise marking the end of my rant as I reach for the soap.

Not that I've got many other options since I already sent Sirius's owl off with the news. Oddly, the bird had been much more agreeable than when he'd arrived, maybe because it was night. Even if I did lose an extra two hours of sleep dodging Filch and his blasted cat. That thought, plus the memory of the old bastard of a caretaker pointless stalking the castle's halls in the early morning hours, makes me smile. I'd have more sympathy if he didn't moan about not being able to whip or hang students by their thumbs all the fucking time. Old bastard can rot in one of his broom cupboards for all I care.

As for the letter, it'd be good to hear from my fugitive of a godfather. What does it say about my life when the one adult with any actual freedom to help me is the most wanted man in wizarding Britain? The question makes me snort derisively at the bitter humor that made up way too much of my life for my liking.

Not that I'm overly inclined to go looking for help either. I blame that on how my last honest attempt in my second year ended. Not that the daft moron turning himself into even more of a daft moron doesn't bring a smile to my face. It's actually impressive what kind of miracles magic can pull off when common sense is thrown out the window.

"Not like I can talk, not after some of the shit I've pulled off," I mutter as I tally off the list in my head. Kill a full-grown wizard at eleven with my bare hands, stick it to a thousand-year-old basilisk with a sword when I'm twelve, and run off a small army of dementors at thirteen.

"Hells, by then end of the year, I'll have a dragon, and gods know what else under my belt." Well, that or I'll be dead, and it won't be my problem anymore.

Now, why is that such a comforting thought? I muse sardonically with a soft smirk pulling at the corners of my mouth. Maybe because someone already went through a lot of trouble getting me into this tournament. My smirk dies as my thought train shifts direction wildly. There are easier ways to kill people without getting caught, meaning there's an end game. Not that Malfoy wouldn't be willing to put in a little leg work to see me flounder about trying to stay alive. But there's also Tom's shade and Wormtail to consider.

Groaning, I rest my head against the cool tiles of the shower. "Doesn't matter anyway; I'm already on the damn hook." The macabre statement killed the spiral I was working myself into.

Sirius will have some ideas, or he'll be able to cheer me up at least, even if it's just teasing me about all the girls I'm not getting. With that, my train of thought promptly skips its rails and dives straight for massive hormones flooding my brain. One obscure corner of my brain recalls all the threats my uncle made about what would happen if I ever touched a woman. The other remembers the magazines he thinks are cleverly hidden.

I shoot a glance towards the blurred shape of the soap, then another at the curtain. "Fuck it."

IIIII

Breakfast goes the same way it has ever since that damn goblet spat my name out. The food is fine, but the eyes are just plain annoying. Maybe I should transfigure myself into an ape and the table into a cage just to make things interesting. It might be worth a few laughs, but only if I could get Malferret into the cage with me.

A loud thud echoes across the table from me as Hermione sets her bag on the bench with enough force to shake several nearby goblets. I only give it a four on the Granger scale. I'd seen her nock one over once, after all.

With how many books she was lugging around last year, Malfoy got lucky to only get his nose broken.

"Gods, Harry, you look horrible. Did you get any sleep last night?"

And she's off, I think, with what can only be a fond annoyance, as Hermione goes through an impossibly long list of questions, facts, and recommendations without even seeming to breathe. It's actually rather fascinating to watch if one can disassociate from it; just how long can she go? I wonder vaguely, not paying any attention to what she's saying.

All through breakfast, apparently. I stare in incredulous wonder as she keeps up the tirade. By the end, I can only come to a single conclusion.

She is really bad at being a teenager. Not that I have any room to speak. Gryffindor's golden boy indeed. At least this year, I have an actual reason for my life being in danger, and I can blame Snape, Serious, and Dumbledore for last year. Second-year, I was basically driven right into the mess, plus it was Ron's sister.

But first-year.

I got nothing. Spent the whole year chasing rumors and asinine fears because eleven-year-old me somehow thought I could accomplish anything. I'd need help coming up with a more creative way to commit suicide. Hence the Triwizard tournament.

I can't help the sudden burst of laughter at that. One that earns me a few speculative looks on top of the usual glares. Unfortunately, I also managed to alert Hermione to my ruse if the flinty look in her brown eyes were anything to go off of.

I'm saved by a loud thump to my left, startling both of us. Jerking my head in the direction of the sound, I meet a pair of less than amused topaz eyes glaring at me as Sirius's black-feathered owl bores a hole of imperious disgust in me.

Under his claws is a thick book bound in worn dark leather, and a letter is clutched in his beak. "Back already, thanks for working so hard," I murmur, reaching for a strip of bacon to offer in trade. The dark feathered bird continues to glare stiffly for a moment before complying.

I move to open the letter before looking back at the owl. "Want me to take you to the owlery? You've got to be tired after lugging that heavy thing all the way from London." I gesture towards the book. The owl stares at me while it finishes the bacon before hopping onto my shoulder and tucking his head under a wing.

Tucking the letter between the book's pages and the book into my bag, I step away from the table, mindful of the needle-tipped talons currently gripping my shoulder.

Hermione looks at me aghast, her earlier ire already forgotten. "Harry, what about-"

"Champions are excused from classes to focus on the tournament Hermione." I cut her off quickly. "Now I just have to hope whatever Snuffles sent me is more helpful against a dragon than fourth-year potions," I state, keeping my voice low. It was a given that anything I was heard saying about the first task would be all over the school before lunch.

A variety of emotions played over Hermione's face before settling into numb horror. "Oh, that makes sense. Will you be here for lunch?"

"I'm not making any promises this year," I answer with a smile and take off for the owlery despite all but feeling Sirius's letter burning a hole in my pocket.

I barely make it out of the hall before a familiar voice calls my name. "Mr. Potter, may I ask whose owl that is?"

I turn to meet Professor McGonagall's pensive expression. "It's my Godfather's Professor; I wrote to him last night about the tournament. Seems he felt it was a big enough deal to write back immediately." It isn't quite worry that flash's in the transfiguration professor's eyes, but it's close.

She knows the truth but isn't entirely convinced. I think to myself, doing my best to keep my face neutral.

"I see; I won't keep you then." She turned to walk away before stopping. "While I know champions have been excused from classes, Mr. Potter, please keep in mind that rule was meant for seventh years currently prepping for their NEWTs." Her expression darkens considerably, and she flicks a glance back into the main hall than meets my gaze. "If you find yourself struggling with something, please ask for help before. . . experimenting to broadly."

While not a solution to all my problems, it was a genuine offer to help where she could. She is a teacher; she's supposed to answer academic questions. I snark to myself even as I give her a polite nod. "I'll keep that in mind, Professor," the words are barely out of my mouth before I think of probably the most obvious question. "You wouldn't happen to have any recommendations for mitigating or manipulating large amounts of fire, would you?"

A rare faint smile played across the elderly scots woman's lips. "One or two, but I believe Professor Flitwick will be a better source."

I hum thoughtfully at the suggestion. Manipulating the base elements wasn't something that came up a lot beyond conjuring varying amounts of it. "I'll have to remember to ask him; thank you, professor." I give her a polite smile start to head for the owlery, only to stop when she speaks again.

"Potter-" There's a strange hesitation in her voice as well as a faint look of surprise on her face before she schools it into her usual expression. "Good luck."

"Thank you, professor."

. . . . .

McGonagall

. . . . .

"Oh dear," I murmur as I watch the young man vanish around a corner.

"Something the matter, Minerva?" I turn to face Poppy as she exits the great hall, stopping beside me.

"Not at the moment, probably not until this nonsense with the tournament over either," I answer tiredly, as I recalled a number of unsolved incidents that had plagued Hogwarts during the mid and late seventies. "Just- did you know that despite looking almost exactly like his father, it seems Mr. Potter inherited that particular smile from Lilly?"

My old friend's eyes go distant before a rather complex expression spreads across her face. "I see, yes, oh dear." She wandered off muttering something about fish, sticking jinxes, and the color plaid.

Shaking my head, I make my way to my classroom, recalling how that smile always seemed to proceed those incidents.

. . . . .

Harry

. . . . .

"There you go," I murmur as I lift the owl, who'd hopped from my shoulder to my wrist, into the owlery's rafters. "Sleep well." The owl let out a soft hurr sound in response before tucking his head back under a wing.

Trying not to feel jealous at the relatively simple indulgence, I pull the book and pluck Sirius let from between its pages.

Setting the book on a nearby windowsill, I rip open the envelope and unfold the paper inside. Sirius hadn't written much, but it was enough.

I'd ask how it's going, pup, but I've got a general idea from your last letter. Can't say I'm too happy with Dumbledore over any of this. Anyway, I sent you the journal of an old war buddy of my grandfather's. Only gift he ever gave me I bothered keeping. Cantankerous old bastard was a fair hand at monster hunting, from what I remember. He also had grandfather's respect, which means more than I can explain in a letter.

Never got around to reading it myself, but your mother couldn't put it down. Don't mind the singe marks; fairly certain their from fire whisky. I'll dig through my family's old library, but the place is a mess, so don't go hitting me with any lists. As for the tournament, do what you have to and rub all their faces in it.

Good luck

Snuffles

Grinning at the last line, I pull the journal out and tuck the letter pages near the back before examining the dark leather of the front cover.

Unlike Tom's diary, this one, with its numerous stains and singes, had clearly seen more of the world than just Hogwarts.

The name Malloc Raven was burned into the upper right in tight even letters.

July 12, 1921

Merlin knows why I'm writing this, but here it goes. "When tickling a dragon, it's important to remember that the bloody thing will kill you if it realizes your there." It's the basics of the basics when it comes to magical creatures. Despite all that, it's still absolutely amazing how many witches and wizards manage to struggle with this concept.

"No," I mutter dryly. "That sounds just about right."

Anyway, we lost three more in my class today, all hotshots trying to say they touched a dragon or something. Instructors called it a terrible loss. Guess what, I just don't care anymore. Should be a law about removing stupidity from the bloodlines. Great way to clear up those blasted pure-bloods.

Inbred fucks.

Best part is that one of those brainless pricks has a rich daddy, so now we have to kill that dragon tomorrow. Almost wish the overly emotional bastard was a Slytherin. One of those Snakes would at least be cold enough to make this work in their favor. Damn emotional Gryffindor wants her dead now when the poor girl's only twenty, with her first clutch and only a little above half her total growth.

Will they show up personally, though? Hells no. House of the bold, my ass, should be the house of arrogant swaggering pricks. They could just insist on collecting her full value when she's past her prime, as well as a percentage of each of her clutches. Collect a nice little windfall in fifty or so years. Sure it might be cold, but at least the dragon gets to live a full life, and their family gets richer. Probably the most good a waste of sperm like that would ever manage in the first place.

None of that includes the fact that we have to go and fight a first-time nesting mother dragon. Less fire and bulk, but four times as fast, and no less resistant to magic. More people will die tomorrow, and all the bosses can do is demand totally inadequate compensation for the families in return.

At least we will if I can't get this damn sedative to work like it's supposed to. I swear pure bloods have something against using their brains. So what if most of Ann Nuff's works need to pass through the lungs in heavy enough dosses to 'make them impractical in open-world environments.' We have magic; just adapt a fricking fourth-year wind charm for the love of Hecate. Had enough farts blown in my face to know at least that much.

"Harry," A familiar voice called out, pulling Harry free from the twistedly fascinating rant. Colin Creevey stood in the doorway of the owlery with a nervous expression. "The tournament officials need you for the official weighing of the wands."

"The what?"

"The Weighing of the Wands, it's a rather common tradition for most magical competitions other than quidditch."

I roll my eyes. I guess even the wizarding world isn't immune to blatant pregame posturing. Actually, it would be just like the magical world to come up with their own way puff up their chests and strut about while still being able to say their more civilized than muggles.

"Whatever, lead the way." My voice is as dry as dead leaves as I tuck Malloc's journal in my bag.

It wasn't a particularly long walk, but somehow Colin managed to keep his mouth shut the whole way there. A feat I would never have guessed the excitable third year was capable of. Not that it isn't appreciated. I do not need several hundred questions being fired at me right now.

When he stopped outside one of the many typically unused rooms in the castle, he looked back with a weak smile. "Good luck."

I chuckle and even pat his should softly as I pass by him. "It's not like I'm in this damn tournament to win, Colin," I say with a wide grin. I don't notice how most of the blood in his face drains as I open the door.

. . . . .

Colin

. . . . .

When I first came to Hogwarts, I'd been so excited. How could I not be? Not only was I a wizard, but I'd be going to school with Harry Potter. The boy who lived. His name is literally everywhere you go in the wizarding world of Britain. Books, newspaper, idle gossip.

But that was then. After knowing Harry for two years, I can safely say that Harry Potter would be much happier as a normal fourteen-year-old wizard.

At least that's what I thought until I walked in on him in the owlery. I can't even begin to imagine what could make him smile like that. I'd also feel safer if a wild dog showed me quite that many teeth.

IIIII

So there is chapter one. Can't same I'm happy with it so do what you want with it.

BTW: Things like the cannon order of minor events can jump off a cliff as far as I'm concerned.

Edited by Grammarly so go bug them if you spot any mistakes.

Questions? Comments? Concerns? Bitches? Gripes? Complaints?