Viviane

The First Task

Harry picked up the next book, suppressing a sigh and not particularly expecting anything useful to come out of it. Dragons. He had to do... something to or with – or more likely, against – a dragon. The Hogwarts Library wasn't particularly well equipped on the topic, at least not without sneaking into the Restricted Section, something he wasn't quite yet ready to try. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn't been quite so hasty in escalating Ron's admittedly annoying accusation that Harry had snuck into the tournament. Maybe he could have gotten something useful from Ron's older brother about what exactly was going on, but Harry wasn't quite sure how to approach that after these past few weeks and asking Hermione to do it on his behalf after she had been trying to walk a tightrope between the two boys felt unfair.

A spell to produce water. Would that help? Dragon's breath was a lot hotter and obviously more magical than regular fire, and Harry suspected a stream of water out his wand, short of a fireman's hose worth, would be next to useless. Still, the quill in his other hand twitched. Aguamenti. Something to think about at least.

He flipped a page. His mind continued to drift. The other Gryffindors hadn't been trying to insult him by throwing him that party after the Goblet had thrown out his name, and while admittedly he'd just come out of that awful meeting with the French champion insulting him and Snape being his usual Snapeish self, but his mood hadn't got him swimming in people offering to help him. Angelina, Alicia, the Twins – if Aguamenti was of any use, he could have sounded them out about it ages ago. Instead he'd gone at it alone, and now he was reaping what he had sewn.

With deliberate effort, his eyes scanned the page. Nothing that stood out. Brilliant. He flipped the book's pages again.

Maybe Sirius would get his letter in time and have some good ideas. Or any ideas, really. Right now leaving Hogwarts and going on the run as well was starting to look pretty good.

Some books thumped from the shelf behind him. Harry took a deep steadying breath. That wasn't helping, either. He'd assumed either some students from the other schools were spying on him, or maybe someone from Hogwarts trying to help Cedric. Or just a Slytherin being a git. He hadn't bothered to investigate, because honestly it wasn't like they'd be gaining anything out of him anyway by watching him, and everyone would know he didn't have a clue what he was doing in a few days one way or the other.

Harry flipped another page, then turned back at the book he had been looking at previously. How to Maim Your Dragon. The bloke who'd written it seemed more like a Lockhart than anyone who actually knew what he was talking about, but maybe he'd missed something. The next spell in this one – his eyes darted down to the parchment once more – blemish removal – certainly wasn't going to help.

"Useless fucking thing," Harry muttered to himself.

That however drew a gasp from behind the bookshelf, followed by a very startled sounding giggle.

"Oh, come on out," he griped, having had quite enough of just about everything for the day.

The bookshelf 'eeped'.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know you've been there for quite some time, who is it then?" Harry mentally started cataloging some of the more likely culprits. One of the younger Slytherin girls maybe who had glommed onto Parkinson's group. Or one of the french girls? He couldn't imagine a sound like that coming from Crabbe or Goyle, or any of the blokes who were always around Krum.

A quick pitter-patter of feet and then around the end of the aisle came quite expedctedly, a girl. Wearing, quite unexpectedly, Gryffindor robes.

"Oh, hello." Harry said when it was clear the girl didn't plan on saying anything more. "Um... everything alright?"

She giggled again, one hand twirling a dark lock of shoulder length black hair aimlessly. Harry frowned; she was a year or two below him, he knew that. He'd have her name in a second.

"If you don't mind, I need to get back to my, well, you know," Harry gestured half-heartedly to his pile of books. "So, yeh."

Melinda, maybe?

"Wait!" She blurted out as he began to turn back around towards his table. He looked back, and she seemed quite surprised that she'd called out to him at all. Sticking her jaw out comically, she walked towards him. "I want to help!"

Harry bit his tongue. So, it had come to this. Well, it wasn't like he was drowning in support.

"Sure," he said at last, not precisely enthusiastic about the prospect of it. "C'mon then," he led the way back, and she sat down across from him, still staring at him a bit oddly, looking disconcertingly similar to the expression Colin wore around him when he thought Harry didn't notice.

"Don't suppose you know any spells to beat a dragon," he said as he sat back down, more to have something to say instead of having her silently stare at him.

She eeped again, looking up at him with dark, wide eyes.

"You have to kill a dragon," she whispered in awe.

"Well no... I mean, I don't know, but hopefully not." Harry tried to clarify, trying to reassure both himself and the girl whose name was on the tip of his tongue. "I think I only have to get past it, probably. They can't expect me – us – to kill a dragon, right?"

The girl had apparently heard none of that.

"You'll kill your dragon much better than the other Champions, Harry, I just know it." She actually clenched a fist at that and held it in the air. "Oh my god, I'm going to help Harry Potter kill a dragon," she said in a voice that while technically whispered, Harry was sure could nonetheless be heard in the Great Hall.

"No, I-"

"You have to get it right in the throat, so that it can't use its beastly flames against you. If you had a sword, maybe you could just stab it straight in the heart – oh Morgana – do you think you'll have to rescue a princess, too!"

"A princess?"

"Yes, obviously! Harry, you need a sword."

OK, maybe they were onto something now!

"A sword," he repeated before she could move on to another train of thought. "So conjuration, then? If we're outside, I can probably get some sort of stick, maybe I can summon one, we're learning the summoning charm right now, actually. And wood to steel isn't... well, I could probably manage for long enough."

The girl... not Melinda; Rosa, maybe, tsked. "You can't conjure a magic sword that can kill a dragon. Everyone knows that!"

"Well, I don't think I can just buy a sword," Harry tried to reason. "I mean, I doubt they are just for sale in Hogsmeade, and even if they were I'm just fou-"

The girl had the audacity to roll her eyes and giggle again. "Not a boring sword, for normal boring people, oh my goodness. You need a magic sword, for a hero. Smelt from the purest goblin silver, wielded by an ancient hero of Avalon and blessed by the fairest faerie queen that can slay even the most vicious beasts who would dare sully a maiden's virtue, taking their evil demonic powers dark as midnight to serve the light..."

Oh right, one of those, how silly of him.

"Erm, well... it's a good idea, thanks, but I don't-" Harry paused.

Because, as insane an idea as this was from, well, from whoever she was, Harry actually did have an idea where he could get a sword that pretty much fit that description perfectly.

"I might be able to do that," Harry finished, sounding quite surprised. The girl beamed.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. I hope all is going well – I am sure you have a good reason for coming to my office without any prior word."

Harry looked a little abashed. "Sorry, Headmaster. I just... well I need to have a quick word."

Dumbledore smiled, pushing forward a small bowl of lemon drops.

"Quite alright. Now, what can I do for you?"

Harry, if anything, felt even more embarrassed. "Not you, sir. The ah... the Sorting Hat."

One of Dumbledore's bushy grey eyebrows rose at that. "That is not a common request, I must admit. Still not questioning your placement among the Lions, I hope."

Harry shook his head vigorously – the current situation in the house notwithstanding, Harry wasn't facing any sort of internal conflict in that regard – he had enough external ones to worry about.

"No, sir. It's, well, I have a question about the ah, upcoming task, that I'm hoping the Hat might be able to help me with."

"About time someone around here had such a sensible thought," a deep voice halfway up the far bookshelf croaked.

"By all means," Dumbledore replied jovially, eyes twinkling. "As you know of course, as a judge in the tournament I am not supposed to assist any of the Champions in any way, so I think I will just go for a stroll down to the greenhouses and see what new delights Professor Sprout is growing these days. And perhaps, after you have had a talk with the Sorting Hat, and before 'borrowing' it for a few days, you might have a word with one of my predecessors – he's been nagging me to arrange a meeting, and now is as good a time as ever, I should think."

Harry had no idea what Dumbledore was getting at, but he nodded. A painting scoffed. "You haven't the foggiest idea who I am, do you, boy?" A man with a dark mustache and neatly trimmed goatee grumbled from a library of some sort. "Phineas Nigellus Black, former Headmaster and head of the house of Black when the name still meant something."

Harry's expression hardened. "I'm not going to listen to you badmouth Sir-"

"I think, perhaps, it's time for me to go, along with all the other portraits," Dumbledore interrupted. A line of grumbling figures disappeared from their paintings, save one. The Headmaster turned to Harry. "Despite his manner, you should perhaps listen to what he has to say before drawing too many conclusions, and you," Dumbledore turned to the portrait, "will speak respectfully to any student within these halls, both for your own sake and mine." The portrait of Phineas Black scowled, but nodded. Not to be outdone, Harry gave a short jerk of his head as well.

"Now, you wanted to speak to the Sorting Hat," Dumbledore's wand appeared in his hand out of nowhere and with one lazy circular twirl, the Hat floated down onto the Headmaster's desk. With another twitch, an overstuffed chair appeared next to it, and the Headmaster indicated that Harry ought to sit down. Then, without waiting for him to do so, Dumbledore turned around and descended the stairs and walked out of the office.

With some trepidation, Harry put the Hat on. For a long time, it said nothing.

If there were a House for reckless stupidity, I would sort you there in a heartbeat.

But, you do still have the sword?

A long pause.

I do, yes.

And would you give it to me again, now?

I wouldn't do any such thing. But I don't choose who gets the sword, I just hold it until the sword is needed.

So would the sword allow me to use it?

A longer pause.

Unfortunately, I do believe it would. Truly, Potter, do you have no better idea?

I didn't even have this one down in the Chamber.

A point.

The Hat sighed.

Fawkes won't bring me to you though, not this time. Dumbledore won't allow it.

Do you think when the Headmaster said I might borrow you for a few days, he meant-

Yes, Mr. Potter, I think that's exactly what he meant. That you would come up with something equal parts stupidly brave and bravely stupid, and would need my assistance for a few days. I imagine he even suspects the sword.

Harry took slight offense about halfway through the Hat's theory.

In my defense, I didn't come up with the sword idea myself.

The hat scoffed.

No, but Ms. Vane is a Gryffindor, too. Cut from the exact same cloth, it would seem.

Vane! Yes, he'd heard that name before, Ginny wasn't exceptionally friendly with the girl and the name came up every now and then, usually in a tone of exasperation. Vane, Vane...

Romilda, Harry.

That was it. It would have come to him eventually.

Harry stood up, taking the hat off his head and after gingerly folding down its point, Harry pocketed it.

It wouldn't hurt to keep looking for more sensible alternatives, but at least now he had a Plan A, and that was before whatever Sirius might suggest.

"Potter," came the voice of Phineas Black, interrupting Harry from his thoughts. He sounded slightly strained and oddly formal. Harry turned to look back at the portrait, reminding himself for Dumbledore's sake to try and listen to the painting of Sirius's ancestor.

"Has, has Sirius" - his throat clenched with visible effort even though technically the portrait had no need for such dramatics- "are you aware of your position in our House?"

Harry was puzzled. "I know that Sirius was going to let me live with him, but well... that, it fell through," Harry finished, which covered a lot of ground in very few words, and brought about not a few murderous thoughts towards both his Potions professor and the Minister of Magic. And guiltily, a few quite unkind ones toward Professor Lupin as well."

Phineas did not appear sympathetic. "Yes, yes. But that is not what I meant. As the last surviving Black, Sirius is currently head of the house, and he named you. You are, as of last summer, the last Black, should anything befall my wayward descendant."

He paused, then looked down his nose at Harry, whose eyes were admittedly glazing over. "Ignorant? Well, I'm not surprised."

Harry scowled. He had better things to do right now than be insulted by a painting for not knowing whatever pureblood responsibilities it was trying to foist on him.

"What do you want," he asked instead through gritted teeth.

"You are in contact with Sirius, are you not?"

Harry didn't say anything. Then at last, he gave a tiny nod. The painting looked, for a split second, relieved, a tension leaving the portrait.

"Tell him... tell him that the house opens for him. And that if he will not stop traipsing around the countryside like gypsies on the run just to spite his name, that he could at least do so for you."

"Oi! Sirius... if they catch him in Britain, they'll-"

"He is a wizard!" The portrait thundered. "And a Black at that. If he hasn't managed to procure himself a wand after evading the aurors for a year, then that says more about him than even I would have suggested. He has access to one of the most secure locales in Britain; he is, to my amazement, an animagus, a secret that most of magical Britain is not privy to and so is not on the lookout for, and he's bright enough to either make any number of potions or come up with the coin to obtain them. Tell him to stop making excuses, and if he will not be a Black, at least start being a godfather."

The portrait took a breath, visibly taking back control of itself. "I do not want the House of Black to end in complete ruin. You, presumably, do not want to live with those muggles, or see Sirius waste away into nothing. If nothing else, we have some common ground here."

"I'll talk to him," Harry said at last. It was a lot to think about.

Harry sat in the corner of the common room, his fingers fiddling with a scrap of parchment. Sirius would be coming somehow tonight. He had to be alone in the common room tonight, and Sirius apparently had some way of talking to him. It seemed awfully reckless though, bringing back unwelcome thoughts of Phineas Black and his words. Maybe Sirius wasn't in as good a place as Harry had thought – hoped – he was. The tiny ball of parchment was pressed tight in his hand, one more thing he needed to get a handle on.

Hermione came into the common room, trailed by Ron. Hermione saw him and gestured, and Ron looked his way, then shrugged and went off in the direction of the dormitories. Hermione visibly deflated, then gave him a weak wave and walked over towards him.

"Hasn't this gone on long enough?" She asked in lieu of a greeting. Harry shrugged awkwardly. In truth, he really thought it had. But he had other things that just felt a little more pressing.

"Hermione," he began, treading carefully around which subject he really wanted to get to first. "What do you think about killing dragons?"

She froze, looking at him with something akin to confusion.

"Well, I'm not enthusiastic about it," she said slowly, clearly organizing her thoughts. "Did you know in Spain to this day they have fights between specially trained wizards and dragons? It's horrific, the dragons are practically infants and don't really even have a chance, but..." she shook her head, trying for a different track. "Dragons are really important though in the wizarding world; we use them from everything from our wands to the auror cloaks. And while I think we should certainly be respectful to the dragons, they aren't sentient, I suppose I think of them like cows or sheep, perhaps?"

Her eyes went wide. "Don't tell Hagrid I said that though." She looked up at Harry, her lips pursing. "Why do you ask? Are you considering something like S.P.E.W, but for dragons? I'd support you of course, after Buckbeak I've got quite a handle on the Hogwarts archive of legal paperwork, I bet we can find precedents supporting greater rights for them. You won't be able to stop wizards from harvesting them, they're too integrated into our economy, but better treatment perhaps, living standards?"

"No, nothing like that, precisely," Harry interrupted, deciding now was not the best time to let her in on the fact he was planning on slaughtering a dragon with a basilisk infused sword for the purpose of entertaining a not insignificant portion of European wizardry/saving his own skin. Especially after her position on whatever they got up to in Spain.

"Well, maybe we should worry about it later, I think you've got enough on your plate right now to be honest, with the tourna-" her eyes widened. "You have to kill a dragon in the first task?" She hissed, going very pale.

"Well, I hope not," Harry replied as quietly as he could.

"But... a dragon." Hermione gulped.

Harry nodded.

"Oh, I wish you had told me sooner," she said, putting down her bag. She looked at the common room door, then out the north window, where the sun had very clearly set. "I'll go to the library first thing tomorrow, see what sort of spells I can find. And I'll talk to Ron – oh, it would be so much better if you two were talking right now, maybe his brother could have given us some hints! Have you found anything so far?"

"Not really," Harry replied, ignoring "Plan A" for the moment. "There's a spell for producing water that I practiced this morning but I'm not sure what good it would do. I've been working on the Summoning Charm, maybe summoning my broom, but that's only useful if I have to lure the dragon away from something.

"Oh goodness, you're going to try and out-fly a dragon." Hermione sounded faint. "Ok... ok. We'll get through this. A dragon. Wasn't one enough?"

The same thought had crossed his mind more than once.

"I sent word to – to Snuffles – maybe he has some ideas." Harry didn't mention that said on-the-run convict may or may not be showing up in Gryffindor Common Room tonight; Hermione did not look like she could handle any more big announcements right now.

"I do wish you had more help," she said instead. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry. I've meant to help you more, I really have. It's just..."

"No, it's fine." Harry said, breaking her off. "Ron's your friend, too. And well... once this is over, I'll talk to him, I promise. We've... well, we've both been right gits, and this is ridiculous. I just need to get over this first."

Hermione gave him a hug. "I'll help all day tomorrow, I promise," she repeated, picking up her bag. "Has anyone helped?"

Harry shrugged. "Actually, Romilda Vane did yesterday. I need to find her and say thank you, now that I think about it."

Hermione gave him an odd look, as if about to say something, then decided against it. "Well, I'm glad. I'll see you tomorrow, Harry. Meet me here in the morning?"

Harry nodded.

Sirius, unfortunately, had nothing to add beyond that a dragon's weakest point was its eyes, something Harry had found out immediately after deciding to give 'stabbing a dragon in the face' a go, and the suggestion of perhaps a conjunctivitis curse to take away it's ability to easily see Harry. He hadn't been particularly thrilled to discover Harry had been talking to the portrait of 'Old Phinny", nor Harry's concern that the floo was a rather dangerous way to contact him.

He had however, grudgingly accepted the idea of scoping out Grimmauld Place – the ancestral Black home, apparently – if it meant giving him a permanent place near to Harry that he could stay, and decidedly perked up at the concept of Harry moving into him if it really was secure enough.

But over the last few days before the dragon, that was about where Harry's luck had run dry. He had mastered the Aguimenti spell, which Hermione was quick to tell him was very impressive, being a sixth year spell, and his Summoning and Banishing charmes were coming along at a thunderous pace as well, but it all felt rather underwhelming. The Conjunctivitis curse was relatively simple as well as it went, but Harry suspected 'aim for the eyes' of an angry real-life dragon may prove a little harder than advertised. All in all he felt rather like a lamb being sent off to the slaughter, and 'Plan A', still unknown to everyone beyond himself, a second-year girl, and perhaps the Headmaster, still seemed like the best course of action, which said more for the overall situation than the plan itself.

Speaking of which.

"Hey, ah, Romilda, isn't it?" Harry tapped the dark haired girl on the shoulder, her back visibly tensing as she heard him call her name and she twirled around quickly, the two other girls she was with going wide-eyed as their little gossip session in Gryffindor tower was interrupted by none other than Harry Potter. Harry hid a grimace – now was not the time.

"Harry, wow hi yes!" She flicked her hair back over her shoulder. "Do you want to hang out with us?" She turned to her friends. "Harry and I hung out the other day in the library." The blonde one squealed at that, before clapping her hands over her mouth.

"Actually, I was wondering if we could go for a walk right now. Down to the Quidditch Pitch, maybe? I want to talk to you about that thing we talked about."

The other two girls could not look more shocked if the incoming dragon had crashed into the common room right at that moment.

"I would love to! Let me just go get my evening cloak," Romilda stood up. Harry stood there in her absence awkwardly, the two younger girls just looking at him and then to each other and back again with the occasional giggle. Belatedly, he noticed more than a few eyes in the common room were looking at him, including a very gobsmacked Ginny Weasley.

Thankfully, Romilda did not take very long, bouncing down the stairs two at a time from the girls' dormitory and then all but dragging him out of the portrait hole, earning a loud squawk from the Fat Lady as she swung open.

Harry half-listened as she prattled about her day as they traversed the castle, walked through the Great Hall and then continued on out toward the Quidditch Pitch, which was much larger and grander than usual, prepared as it was for whatever event – tomorrows? - that necessitated canceling the whole Quidditch season.

"I'm – probably – going to kill the dragon tomorrow," Harry interrupted whatever Romilda had been going on about. Her face went bright red and erupted into an enormous grin. "And, well... I need your help."

She gasped. She had a habit of doing that. Harry didn't look at her eyes as he pulled a rather scruffy Sorting Hat out of his robes. "Tomorrow – well, each of the Champions have a special section right at the front for family and friends. I'll talk to McGonagall tomorrow but ah, I need you to sit there."

"Me?" She choked out, sounding very distant. "Wow, Harry, I had no idea!"

Harry nodded. "Right well, so you'll be really close, and you need – need –to have this with you." He shoved the Sorting Hat into her hands, and her expression turned to one of mild disgust at the sight of the disheveled Hat. "Okay," she said, somewhat less enthusiastically, and clearly confused.

Well, here he went. "The Sword of Gryffindor is inside," he explained. "I'll summon the Hat right away and pull out the sword and then... you know," left unsaid was that he would try to kill the dragon, and perhaps most disconcertingly the fact that the sword had not allowed itself to be pulled out the Hat at any point in the last week.

Romilda wasn't exactly listening to him though, either in the spoken or unspoken way.

"I am the Viviane to your Merlin," she whispered. "Romilda Vi Viane." She scrunched her nose at that, pouting slightly. "It doesn't quite work, does it?"

Harry wasn't sure what she was getting at. "Romilda," he got her attention. His voice softened slightly. "Will you do it? Please?"

"Of course! Yes!" Her hands fluttered and she dropped the hat, then scrambled to pick it up and gingerly put it into her pocket. "I won't let you down!"

Harry let out a sigh of relief. Then he felt a bit guilty, because Romilda had done – was doing – quite a bit to help him through all this, and it did feel a bit like he was using her solely because he was uncomfortable going to Hermione with this.

"If I get through this, maybe we could hang out a bit," he offered as she continued to go on about whatever fantasy she had concocted for herself about this Viviane lady. "You know, be friends and stuff." Then, in for a knut, in for a galleon, "Hermione is helping me too, but I could still use all the help I can get, if you want to join us. And maybe Ron, too."

Romilda stopped and stared at him, another smile spreading across her face, but warmer this time than when she discussed killing dragons, if still a little more intense than was strictly comfortable.

"That would be the absolute best! We are going to be the best team ever!"

Yep, everything was going to be just fine.

Harry stood in the center of a giant clearing in the Forbidden Forrest, surrounded on all sides by as many wizards and witches as he'd ever seen in one place, including the Quidditch World Cup, all staring at him in stunned silence (Harry tried very hard not to look at Hagrid). What wasn't silent was the horrible, gut-wrenching whines of a brooding Hungarian Horntail in the agonizing death throes of the relatively quick but absolutely painful death by basilisk venom.

A single unending cheer rang out like a bell from the family gallery.

"Yes, well... I don't think that was expected," the voice of Ludo Bagman eventually boomed through the makeshift arena. "Hungarian Horntails are not typically known to die from a scratch to a wing rib, but apparently Mr. Potter has a very special sword there ah well I have been informed there's no rule against it, Mr. Potter did summon the sword from out of the arena, and so did enter the ring with only his wand. It will be up to the judges to decide the specific merits of Mr. Potter's ah, unique performance. Oh right, me too-" the Soronus charm ended abruptly.

A smoky "1" appeared over Madame Maxine, and the same followed from Karkaroff. Harry bit back a scowl. But even Crouch only gave him a "3" and Dumbledore, looking very tired, a "4". Ludo Bagman was the odd man out, giving Harry an "8". At Seventeen Points, that put him in dead last, with nothing more to show for it than a golden egg and now, a very dead dragon.

It wasn't all bad. Not long after, Hermione and a very shaken Ron came over to him as soon as Madame Pomfrey was done fussing over him. "Mate, I think they're trying to kill you," Ron started. Harry let out a startled laugh. They shook hands.

"You don't mind that I... well you know."

"That you snuffed it?" Ron asked. "I would have done the same thing to be honest, if I hadn't cacked myself first. A dragon. Bloody hell. I swear Harry, if I had known, if Charlie would have told me, I would have told you. Blimey. A Dragon." Ron looked about ready to drop.

Hermione looked a little more tight lipped. "I guess this is where killing dragons came from, then?"

Harry nodded. Hermione sighed.

"I do wish you would have told me, but... well, it's barbaric, but it's not your fault. They shouldn't have put you in a space with a dragon, and if it was supposed to be a nonlethal task, they could have told you a lot more ahead of time. If we had known we just had to get the egg, there's all sorts of things we could have tried. Just, just..." She stopped talking, throwing herself at him into a giant, bushy-haired hug.

Harry felt an enormous pressure leave him. He was alive. He had his friends back. And if they were any indication, despite his poor score he suspected most of his classmates would take him killing a dragon in stride – some of them might even think twice before wearing one of Malfoy's idiotic badges – which wasn't the worst outcome either. All was as it should be, such as these things went.

"Oh. Merlin. You. Were. Brilliant." Out of nowhere, a dark-haired, doe-eyed, strong-chinned missile in red-and-gold jumped up and flung itself into Harry's arms, forcing him to spin her around. Merlin and Viviane! My Hero."

Well dammit, he did feel a bit like a hero. Harry laughed, spinning her around once more on a lark. He put her down. "Ron, Hermione – meet Romilda Vane. Romilda, my friends."

Romilda grinned and thrust out her hand, and Harry definitely didn't give a second thought to the fact her smile once more resembled the one she wore when talking about the dragon.