Chapter 3

DRAGON

Harry hadn't been in Filch's office since his second year at Hogwarts. The glow from the single hanging lamp was as dim as he remembered. The low-ceilinged, windowless room still smelled of fried fish. As before, a medieval assortment of chains and manacles criss-crossed the back wall, but he knew the jowly caretaker wouldn't threaten him with them. During his previous visit he'd discovered the man was a squib—a child of magical parents who lacked the gift himself. After he'd learned what embarrassment that fact caused the old man, Harry hadn't had the heart to bandy it about—but Filch's fear he might gave Harry a leverage he didn't mind having.

Dipping his ratty quill into a bottle of ink, Filch murmured, "Potter, Harry. Vandalism."

As the caretaker breathlessly recorded the details of yet another schoolboy crime, Harry wondered if the man ever slept. At this hour, his own eyes were barely open. Convincing his owl Hedwig to wake him before retiring to the owlery for her daytime sleep had been hard. Convincing himself to get up, even after she'd pecked him repeatedly on the nose, had been harder. Yet Filch was full of the same quivering energy he showed on his nightly haunt for out-of-bed students.

Harry let his gaze wander around the drab room, looking for some detail to keep him awake. He noticed that before Ron's twin brothers, Fred and George, had left school, they'd managed to carry out enough pranks to fill two file drawers. He was pleased to see an M drawer labeled Malfoy-Mattison. He hoped both senior and junior Malfoys had fat folders. Then unexpected movement across the floor drew his eye. With growing disgust, Harry realized he was looking at a pack of cockroaches—a dozen at least. Yuck. And they were feeding on something—a chunk of pastry Filch had carelessly dropped.

Harry shivered as a creepy-crawly feeling spread along his back. Just like Filch to be self-righteously shocked by each smidgen of dirt that fell from a student's shoe yet allow that on his office floor. He was surprised Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved gray cat, wasn't playing with them. But the horrible bag of bones was evidently out prowling.

"Defacing the dragons. A prime offense," Filch muttered as he wrote. "Scrubbing the dragons. A just penance."

By the time the sun rose over the beech trees, Harry had barely finished scraping the rain stains and bird droppings of who knew how many years from the fringe of spikes framing the face of the dragon on which he was perched. He'd never have guessed the marble beneath would be white. Only ten more hours or so to go, he told himself. What reasonable person would consider that fair punishment for a couple of scuff marks? But whoever said Snape and Filch were reasonable?

At first, Harry had given the caretaker credit for working along with him, scrubbing the filth that coated the dragon's tail. Then Filch had mumbled to himself, "Dumbledore will be along—any moment now. Dumbledore will be along for his morning stroll. Won't he be surprised?" Then Harry had realized the old man was just trying to impress the headmaster.

As Harry rubbed an especially stubborn spot on the dragon's collar, he wondered about the cleaning potion Snape had provided. When Professor Daine had passed by earlier, she'd poked her wand in Filch's bucket and given it a sniff. She'd pronounced the solution unusual but had said nothing more.

Glowering at the stain, Harry decided unusual was an understatement. Knowing Snape's vindictiveness, he was positive he'd made it weak on purpose. Muggles made better cleaning products.

Maybe when Dumbledore walks by, he'll take mercy and let me go.

As that thought crossed his mind, Harry noticed far below him the silver-haired wizard himself. Sunshine glinted off his half-moon glasses as he tipped his long, white beard upward.

"Great job, men! The old girl is starting to shine."

Glancing at Filch, Harry saw gratification relax his pinched features.

"Yes, sir. Any minute, I'll see my reflection."

Dumbledore chuckled and ambled closer. "Mind if I try?"

Harry sighed and massaged an ache in his neck. Dumbledore was acting as if scrubbing statues were fun. The Headmaster of Hogwarts—the wizard identified on his Chocolate Frogs trading card as possibly the greatest of modern times—was lifting a dripping scouring pad from Filch's bucket and reaching towards the dragon's grimy foot.

When the pad touched the statue, a loud snap made Harry flinch. With growing alarm, he saw color spread from the point Dumbledore had touched up the dragon's leg. No longer white marble, the body was becoming red, scaly, and very much alive.

Filch shrieked, scrambled off the tail, and scurried to the castle door. The headmaster sprang back and slapped his robes all over, obviously searching for his wand. Before Harry could think to grab his own, he felt life rippling in the dragon's neck. The stone collar transformed into a thick leather band studded with iron spikes. As if awakening from sleep, the dragon sinuously twisted its head. Harry's bucket of cleaning solution cascaded to the patio. He grabbed the collar with both hands and clung to it.

Twice in the past Harry had had experience with a dragon. Dealing with Hagrid's baby Norwegian Ridgeback had been tricky. Handling the yellow-eyed Hungarian Horntail in the Triwizard Tournament had been challenging. But both of those times, he'd been prepared. Now, as the Chinese Fireball thrashed beneath him, all he could do was hang on.

"Petrify!" Dumbledore's command rang out above the snorts of the dragon. "Fossilize!"

Neither spell worked. As the dragon whipped its head, Harry's legs swung out in an arc. Far below, he sighted Dumbledore—solitary, composed, and armed only with his wand. The day Harry had watched wizard wranglers control four dragons, the word they'd used had been stupefy! But it had taken at least seven in unison to manage each beast. What could Dumbledore do alone?

Tightening one hand around the collar, Harry tried to jab his other into his robes for his own wand. If he could catch the headmaster's eye, a spell from two might work better than from one.

No such luck. Dumbledore was rushing towards the dragon. No, he was rushing towards Filch's dirty pail. Pointing his wand at the murky liquid, the wizard shouted, "Detransmogrify!" Then he tossed aside his wand, seized the bucket, and splashed the contents on the dragon.

Enraged, the Chinese Fireball bellowed, then spat out a crackling flame. She swooped her head down, mouth gaping, going for Dumbledore. For an instant, Harry thought the greatest wizard of modern times had made a horrible mistake.

Then he heard a crack, the same as he'd heard before. Veins of white snaked up the shimmering hide. The dragon roared, then stiffened. Just in time, Harry unhooked his fingers from the collar as once again it turned to stone. Without a grip, he found himself sliding down the bumpy marble back.

Hitting the patio inelegantly on his rear end, Harry felt the air whoosh out of him. With his next gasp, he started laughing. The fire-breathing monster that could have killed both Dumbledore and him was again safely made of stone. And every square inch of it was sparkling clean.

An hour later, Harry was perched on the dirty foot of the other dragon, sucking a licorice wand. When Professor Daine had recommended it, Madame Pomfrey had pursed her lips. Licorice wands were not a recognized restorative after endangerment by a dragon—unlike chocolate after contact with a Dementor. Smiling, Daine had replied, Couldn't hurt.

Taking a bite, Harry wondered if the professor had put a spell on the licorice. It made him feel cozy, like a wee boy listening to a fairy tale—not a gawky teen that had just survived one. Being sent to the corner with a piece of candy also made him sheepishly aware of how little he could offer to the debate going on among the four Hogwarts masters examining the amazing transforming statue. It was over before I even took out my wand.

Across the patio, Professor Flitwick, the Charms master, patted the marble toes. "Could be an enchanted dragon. Could be Albus's flattery broke some ancient spell."

"Nonsense." Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration master, glanced down at her diminutive colleague, then up at the towering statue. "If this were a real dragon, wouldn't the rock have silently faded as it emerged from enchantment? Albus and Potter both heard a snap. Definitely stone transfigured into a dragon."

When McGonagall shot him a sidelong look, Harry nodded. "Snap."

Daine smiled. "Wouldn't Hogwarts's history tell you whether enchanted dragons had ever been placed here? We could go ask Professor Binns."

Both McGonagall and Flitwick grimaced. Neither, Harry thought, wanted to get the deadly dull Professor Binns started on the topic of Hogwarts's history.

Dumbledore gestured toward the statue. "I rather like it this way."

Harry had to agree it showed a certain flair. Instead of mere vigilance, the dragon projected menace—neck arched, wings unfurled, fangs bared.

The headmaster stroked his silver beard. "Enchantment or transfiguration, our main concern is to make certain it stays this way. We can't have unsuspecting passers-by confronted by dragon fire, now can we? If we each cast a spell to keep it in place, that should do the trick."

The other three professors nodded.

Harry frowned. Shouldn't their main concern be what made the statue change—and why only the cleaning solution could carry the magic to change it back? But Snape, the master of magic most pertinent to that point, wasn't part of the discussion. He was away for the day. On business.

Harry tossed the end of his licorice wand into a ranunculus bed. Let the ants finish it. He stared at the empty pail lying beside the marble dragon. Whatever potion had been in it certainly hadn't been meant for cleaning.