THE DRAGON OF MALFOY
September 1
King's Cross Station, Diagon Alley
Sporting a gold-embroidered emerald cloak over complementary breeches, white silk stockings, a pleated silk tunic and a black Egyptian-cotton waistcoat, Harold presented the tastes of the Hogwarts-Founding era to a generation that had forgotten their noble history. He and his dog easily made their way through the crowd of witches, wizards and interlopers and boarded the waiting maroon Great Western Railway Hall class locomotive. The boy sorcerer then strode in search of either Malfoy or an empty compartment two thirds of the way down – whichever he happened upon first.
Padfoot, however, had other priorities. A third of the way down, he began clawing at a closed compartment and barking furiously at its inhabitants.
"What is it boy?" Harold asked in bemusement. He then realized three boys defiling the Hogwarts Express with muggle attire — of tawdry brands at that.
"Come, Padfoot. We will have to endure these pollutants for now," the boy sorcerer advised his dog. He turned to leave the mudbloods to their squalor, but the ginger one decided to open the compartment door and make a scene.
"Control that wolf of yours, would you!" it snapped. "I don't think you're even supposed to be bringing that thing to Hogwarts."
"The headmaster himself approves of my companion," Harold sneered. "So unless you know better than Albus Dumbledore…"
"All the same," the interloper argued. "You can't just let your pets run wild."
Padfoot loosed a storm of fury as he sniffed and frisked the ginger.
"I try," Harold shrugged. "But he's rather allergic to…aliens."
"What hell did Malfoy find you in?" the ginger complained as it attempted to swat Padfoot away.
"Did someone call my name?" the Malfoy in question asked as he strolled onto the scene. "Hold on—you from the alley! What are you doing here? You said you would never attend Hogwarts."
"Willingly," Harold grumbled. "But alas, my protests went unheard."
"Is that so?" Malfoy questioned. "Regardless, you seem of an alright sort. Perhaps we can endure this school together."
"Watch out everyone!" the ginger hollered. "Malfoy just found a bloke as awful as him."
"Weasel—" Malfoy started.
"You should mind your tongue when addressing the Toujours Pur," Harold warned. "Unless you would like Sirius Black to pay you a visit."
The "weasel" paled, and all in the vicinity fell silent.
"That is what I thought," Harold dismissed. "Come, cousin," he addressed Malfoy. "Let us remove ourselves from this…company."
Refusing the eavesdroppers and onlookers so much as a glance, the Heir of Mortis led his two companions to the backmost empty compartment. "After you," he offered Malfoy when they reached their destination.
Despite having abandoned his luggage, the blond did not protest his new seating arrangement.
"They'll hound you, those Gryffindors," Malfoy forewarned.
"I welcome them to try their wands against the Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," Harold proclaimed.
"What? I'm the heir!" Malfoy insisted.
"I am afraid cousin—second-cousin-once-removed to be accurate—you will find I am closer to Sirius Black on the family tree than you," Harold informed.
Padfoot woofed in support.
"Impossible. He is my mother's first cousin," Malfoy rejected.
"Through his mother," Harold reminded. "Walburga may have been a Black from birth, but she joined the senior line only through marriage."
"But you are not the son of Sirius Black. We would know of you," Malfoy assered.
"Not his son, no," Harold acknowledged. "But I am the next best thing."
"What, his godson?" Malfoy scoffed. "That's impossible, unless you're saying you are…"
The boy's silver-blue eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open when Harold parted his arced bangs to reveal his world-famous scar.
"You're Harry Potter?" a flabbergasted Malfoy asked. "But you're…you've—"
"Been out of society for twelve years?" Harold provided. "Never been sighted at so much as a Potters remembrance service? Never been anywhere near one of your politicians, who would give half their Gringotts vault just for one photo op with me?"
"Why would you hide away?" Malfoy demanded. "The world has all but deified you, with what you did that night…"
"You mean what Dumbledore said I did that night," Harold corrected. "There are only two wizards who know the truth, and I do not believe the Daily Prophet reached out to either of us for comment."
"So what did happen?" Malfoy inquired eagerly.
"That is not my story to tell," Harold refused. "What I will say is that, in spite of Dumbledore's hopes, I see the truth of what poisons our world. And the fight is not over."
Malfoy bounced.
"You will bring honor and glory back to true wizards?" the boy asked excitedly.
"Or die trying," Harold promised.
"I always knew you would be one of us!" Malfoy claimed. "They all said you would be Dumbledore's stooge. But I thought, if he truly is a golden lion, then where is he?"
"Preparing," Harold answered. "I have heard that Slytherin is not exactly what it was during our fathers' generation."
Malfoy nodded.
"They take the Gryffindors' abuse on their bellies," he bemoaned. "I stand up to Weasel and his pride, but besides Crabbe, Goyle, Pike and Pansy, the rest just let Dumbledore's favorites roam free."
"Even Nott?" Harold asked.
"Especially Nott," Malfoy sneered. "I often forget he exists. Much less that his father served the Dark Lord."
"What a shame," Harold judged. "We will need to change this, won't we?"
Malfoy beamed at his inclusion in the plan.
"First, the lure," Harold drafted. "How aggressive is the magic you learn in Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
"Hardly!" Malfoy exclaimed. "The dwarf just teaches us housekeeping charms, as if respectable wizards don't have elves. And that vagrant Lupin is even worse. Always lecturing us about the 'dangers' of 'dark magic' with stories that belong in Aesop's Fables."
"Wasn't Lupin part of the Order of the Phoenix?" Harold questioned. The Slytherin across from him produced a vacant expression, but Padfoot barked confirmation.
"One day, I am going to find out how you know all these things," the boy sorcerer informed his dog.
"I thought you could read minds?" Malfoy queried.
"The less similar the mind, the greater the struggle," Harold sighed.
"Pity," Malfoy remarked in a rather unsympathetic tone.
Harold let the boy's disrespect slide at the moment. He made a mental note, however, to teach the Malfoy that they were not equals and never would be.
"Regardless," he continued with his plan. "We must provide suitable housemates the opportunity to learn magic befitting their heritage, assuming Severus is not doing this already?"
"Not that I know of," Malfoy disclosed. "But how will you convince anyone you can teach them the dark arts? You are Harry Potter, assumed champion of the light. And you are thirteen."
The boy sorcerer removed his phoenix amulet. Feeling a blessed chill course through his body, he exhaled contentedly as his skin gradually paled and dark magic swirled around him unabashedly.
"You did not question me in Knockturn, did you? Even though I wore modern muggle clothing?" Harold reminded.
"You looked like a vampire," Malfoy stated, eliciting a round of baleful laughter from the boy in question.
"No, Malfoy, I simply looked as a true sorcerer ought to," Harold corrected. "I assume your parents wear complexions similar to mine in the privacy of your home?"
"My mother most assuredly has more color than you!" Malfoy protested, as if defending Narcissa née Black's honor. "And my father looks positively sun-kissed compared to your Knockturn appearance."
Harold snorted.
"True power transforms," he educated. "The more powerful you become, the further you will stray from muggle perceptions of beauty."
"They are not muggle!" a flushing Malfoy refused.
"As you say," Harold smiled indulgently.
He would have fun transforming this pampered prince into a Death Eater deadlier than his father.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands
Malfoy regaled Harold with tales of his first two years in the castle for the rest of the train ride, the coach ride from Hogsmeade Train Station, and the walk from Hogwarts' doors to the great hall.
"That is an enchantment on the ceiling, by the way," Malfoy pointed to the evening sky that appeared at the top of the hall. "An admirable piece of magic, but not quite as good as the skylights over the great hall at Malfoy Manor."
"And here I thought it would be the Blacks that would obsess over the sky," Harold drawled. Padfoot guffawed.
"Careful cousin, you speak as if you are not one," Malfoy noted. "But I'll have you know that Malfoys have been kin to the heavens' light since time immemorial."
"Is that why your name translates to 'ill faith'?" Harold prodded, at which Padfoot barked laughingly.
Malfoy sniffed. "At least my name doesn't sound like a commoner's."
"Which is why when we are alone, you shall refer to me as Mortis," Harold dictated as he approached the front of the hall, beating the incoming first years to the stage upon which the sorting was officiated.
"As you say," Malfoy replied evenly. "I'll save you a seat, so long as you do not take too long under Gryffindor's ole hat."
Harold snorted as he smoothed the Hogwarts robes he now wore in place of his earlier cloak. "I wager I'll be faster than you were."
Unfortunately, the hat had other ideas.
You should have known to send me to Slytherin the instant you touched my head, Harold telepathically reprimanded the millennium-old hat.
I did that for Tom Riddle, as you know, the hat returned. I fear it is the worst mistake I made in my career.
Immediately sorting the Heir of Slytherin into Slytherin, a mistake? Harold scoffed. What, you don't think you could have talked him into going to your creator's legacy house, do you?
Godric and Salazar were the best of friends for decades, the hat answered. It's a shame such vitriol exists between their legacy houses.
You just say that because the best witches and wizards go to Slytherin, Harold retorted.
The road to greatness takes a combination of the values each founder emphasized, the hat responded. I daresay the most ambitious boy I sorted in recent times was Albus Dumbledore himself. Conversely, the most daring was the one you call the Destroyer of Death.
And how do I rank? Harold inquired.
The most loyal, the Sorting Hat stated. You would have made the finest of Hufflepuffs in another life.
Maybe it's time for you to retire, Harold taunted.
I have been at this for 1054 years, and I suspect I'll be at it long after you're gone, young man, the hat proclaimed. But know this. The serpent insignia that I will imprint onto your Hogwarts robes does not define you. Nor do lion, raven or badger insignias define your schoolmates. I failed to tell Tom this in my haste to give him as secure a footing in Slytherin as I could provide. The consequences that followed shall haunt me for the rest of my days. So hear this, Harold Mortis. You are not your master. Do not confine yourself to his limitations.
"SLYTHERIN!" the Sorting Hat announced to the great hall.
Silence descended over the student body, quieting even the eleven year olds arrayed before the front stage. Regally, the Slytherin-blessed sorcerer rose regally from the sorting stool and strode to the table on his far-right.
"I was told to expect deafening silence," Harold commented as he sat across from Malfoy. "Still, you would think someone could spare a few claps for the Boy Who Lived."
"Maybe we fell asleep with how long you took," Malfoy quipped. "I was starting to fear you would be dumped to the 'Puffs'."
Harold silently thanked his master for schooling him in the art of mastering his expressions.
"I think your sorting left just about everyone gobsmacked," the olive-eyed brunette at Malfoy's right remarked. "Pansy Parkinson."
"Your mother was a fine warrior back in the day," Harold stated.
Parkinson showed visible confusion at the compliment, to which Harold simply smiled.
"My cousin is one of us," Malfoy whispered conspiratorially to his quartet of friends.
"One of us? Do you mean—" the sea-green-eyed boy at Harold's right started.
"Your parents fought in the war, and so did mine," Harold interjected. "They all fought for what they believed to be best for our world. But unlike the Potters before me, I had the displeasure of meeting a wretched muggle. I know them to be the cancer of this world."
Parkinson and the three unfamiliar boys gaped.
"But we must leave this aside for now," Harold instructed. "For I have been told such views are unpopular even in the legacy house of Salazar Slytherin."
"It's true," Parkinson bemoaned. "One of the girls in our year is proud of being half-muggle. Even wears the muggle's surname, Davis."
Harold scrunched his nose in disgust. The Davis witch could not be faulted for her mother's sins, but to accept a muggle ruling over her without a hint of shame?
"Does she have friends outside this house?" Harold wondered. "Gryffindors perhaps?"
"Goodness no!" Parkinson exclaimed. "Not that the poor fool hasn't tried. But the other houses act like we are the bottom of the barrel — nevermind that we have won the House Cup for the past eleven years. I swear, the way those Weasleys act…"
"Oh, he's already made an enemy of our year's Weasel," Malfoy boasted.
"Didn't the rat brag that he'd become Potter's best friend the second they met?" snickered the black-haired boy on Malfoy's left.
"That's the best part, Crabbe. Weasel didn't even recognize him until Dumbledore announced his name!" Malfoy chortled. "We're going to have so much fun with him—"
"A muggle-dressing fool who wilts at the mere mention of my godfather is of no concern to me," Harold interrupted. "Who are the other social leaders?"
"Well, there is McLaggen in the year above us, Gryffindor's seeker," Parkinson answered. "But the twin terrors—the fifth-year Weasleys—are who you should watch out for. They make it their mission to humiliate Slytherins for everyone else's amusement. And Diggory, though he pretends to be fair, runs cover for them often enough."
"This Diggory is their prefect?" Harold asked.
"Hufflepuff's, and probably the only half-capable of their lot," Malfoy sneered. "But that's won him command of his entire house and the favor of the other two."
"You could say that Diggory is the most popular boy in the school," Parkinson added, at which Malfoy scowled.
"Come, come, you'll beat him to the snitch this year. Him and McLaggen. We believe in you," Parkinson placated while caressing the blond's arm.
Malfoy perked up like a peacock.
"And the sixth and seventh years?" Harold inquired.
"No stand out personalities in the 1049th class. In fact, both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw have a mudblood prefect in that year," Malfoy derided.
"The seventh years have yet another Weasley—head boy, that one," Parkinson griped. "Worse, Dumbledore gave the other gold badge to a Ravenclaw mudblood instead of our own Gemma Farley, who is easily the best witch of her year!"
"I see," Harold replied as elation soared within him. If the Slytherins felt one of their own had been cheated of the head girl position, especially in an era where they consistently outperformed the other houses, it could prove a starting point for rallying them against Dumbledore's rule.
"And who are the leaders within this house?" Harold asked.
"Marcus was the main leader for our first two years, but he graduated at the end of last year," Malfoy answered. "Montague thinks that because he got the Quidditch captaincy, he'll take Marcus' place in the house. Rowle's going to make his own bid, and since he's the Class 1048 prefect, he has natural seniority over Montague's fifth-year group."
"And how close do you sit to the fireplace?" Harold questioned.
"You really were raised by Black," Malfoy murmured in astonishment. "Well, I've sat on the fireplace couches since my first year."
"But that was while Flint sat in the armchair," Parkinson qualified. "And you've said yourself Montague doesn't respect you nearly as much."
"No Montagues were involved in the war," Harold recalled. "But Thorfinn Rowle is one of the Death Eaters in Azkaban. I suspect his son does not care much for your group?"
"My father died in the war," the second-year boy to Harold's left chimed in.
"But Aloysius Rowle does not care for the rest of us, this is true," Parkinson admitted. "Hypocritical that, given his best friend is Roy MacNair."
"I'm sure he can make exceptions—he received his silver badge from Severus, after all," Harold remarked. "Even so, I don't particularly care to wait till sixth year for the chair. Especially since it is ripe for the taking."
"Well, actually, I am going to be the one to sit in that chair…" Malfoy claimed, to which Harold simply raised an eyebrow.
"If you try to take it now, Rowle and Montague will make your life hell," Parkinson warned.
Harold released a torrent of icy laughter.
"They are welcome to try," the boy sorcerer declared, phoenix necklace glowing. "They are welcome to try," he repeated as he looked into the eyes of each onlooker, each of whom flinched under his gaze.
Slytherin House
After Gryffindor's hat sorted the 48 members of Hogwarts' 1054th class, the student body indulged in a welcoming feast unlike any Harold had ever beheld. The boy sorcerer made sure not to overindulge, but he did find several new foods to both his recipe list and a treat list for Padfoot. He also concluded his meal in time to beat the horde to the dormitory, although Malfoy and Parkinson insisted on coming with.
"Hmmm," Harold approved of their common room's dark decor and emerald furniture.
"We are honored you find our abode to your liking, my prince," Parkinson said in a saccharine tone, followed by a snort from Malfoy.
Harold took special note of the portrait of Salazar Slytherin hanging over the central fireplace, particularly the talisman hanging about the sorcerer's neck.
"The Blacks forged a near-perfect replica of that locket, did you know?" Harold informed his companions.
"My mother mentioned that," Malfoy answered. "But she hasn't seen it for over a decade. Hold on—don't tell me you have it?"
Harold smirked.
"Maybe I'll even give it to one of you one day," Harold suggested, relishing the naked hunger in the eyes of Malfoy and Parkinson. "Or maybe you'll have to fight Padfoot for it," he included his now-grumbling dog in the running.
"I wish you left that mongrel in Knockturn," Malfoy muttered, before yelping and hiding behind Harold as Padfoot growled.
"You make this too easy for him," Harold rolled his eyes as his dog panted in amusement.
"It looks like it wants to tear me to pieces!" Malfoy whined.
"I think he's just teasing you," Parkinson giggled.
"What she said," Harold agreed with the sensible witch.
"Anyhow, since you are new here, we should take our rooms before the others arrive," Malfoy asserted before grabbing the boy sorcerer's arm and hauling him toward a staircase.
Harold considered hexing the blond for the affront, but decided to reward the boy's demonstration of aggression by letting it slide. That, and it would be more convenient for Malfoy to lead him to the third-year dormitory than to ask a serpent portrait for its location.
"This leads to our rooms," Malfoy announced when they reached a door on the second floor of the house. "First, we have to key our wands to the door's enchantment. Snape gave the rest of us the spell over the summer, so just watch as I perform it."
Observing Malfoy's spellwork, Harold appreciated the effort put into ensuring student privacy and safety. Only Severus, the male prefects, and the males of the third year could access this unit of thirteen rooms — nevermind the individual quarters.
"As you can see, we each get our own without anyone having to be next to the form door. I always take the backmost room, naturally," Malfoy announced as he made his way toward the seventh door on the left.
Harold shrugged. "I've always preferred threes to sevens," he stated as he chose the sixth door on the right.
"Once you claim your room, the elves will bring your luggage," Malfoy informed before entering his room.
"What do you think, boy?" Harold asked Padfoot as they entered their hardwood room.
Padfoot woofed approvingly.
"That's not even the best part," Harold divulged after closing the door. "Want to know a secret? Something not even the all-wise headmaster knows?"
Padfoot sat at attention.
"I am in total command of this house. Observe," Harold revealed before hissing "open only at my serpent command" in the sacred tongue at his room door.
"Six words, and I have warded my door so securely that not even Severus can enter without my permission," the boy sorcerer declared. "But that is a mere morsel of the power I wield here. You were wondering why I have no fear of challenging Rowle and Montague simultaneously, weren't you? Well, little do they know that every portrait in this house answers to me. Every magical serpent decoration? Mine as well! Best of all? None of the others can pass through this door, but not a single door in this house will refuse me."
"This is the inheritance Salazar Slytherin left for his heirs in this castle," Harold boasted. "The Gaunts' gold may have run out, but this shall last so long as one of his legacy draws breath."
Padfoot simply stared.
"Ah, but listen to me ramble," Harold sighed. "I believe it is time for a shower and sleep. I have Ancient Runes first thing after breakfast."
Padfoot woofed in anticipation.
"No, you will not come with me to classes," the boy sorcerer rained on the dog's parade. "You shall defend my property when I am away."
Padfoot questioned the logic of such an order.
"Perhaps another wields the Heir of Slytherin's power," Harold suggested. "In which case I would need you here as a second line of defense. Or perhaps I do not want your visage to become commonplace in this castle, so that you may strike fear into my enemies when required. Or perhaps I do not want anyone who challenges me to make a target of you. In any case, you shall stay here except for our morning and nighttime walks."
Padfoot paced around the room in annoyance.
"We'll start our walks tomorrow," Harold promised. "Might as well familiarize myself with the castle, so nothing catches me by surprise."
September 2
Hogwarts Grounds
"Is this a joke? Care of Magical Creatures, taught by a creature?" Harold ranted.
"What did you think the oaf would teach? Transfiguration?" Malfoy challenged as the two walked toward their late-morning elective with Rubeus Hagrid.
"At least I am not subjecting myself to the delusions of a false prophet," Harold retorted.
"Apologies, oh mighty Mortis. Some of us mere mortals would prefer a soft start to our Monday mornings," Malfoy huffed.
"You would be better served playing hooky than listening to that Trelawney squib," Harold sneered.
"Hogwarts has its fair share of those. What's one more?" Malfoy shrugged.
Harold withheld a shudder. Surely, Malfoy spoke in jest. Surely this castle hadn't fallen so far!
"Potter!" a voice rang out when Mortis and Malfoy joined the throng of third years standing in a clearing.
"Weasley," Harold returned calmly as Malfoy snarled.
"We got off on the wrong foot on the train," the ginger determined. "I would like to correct that. Hi, I'm Ron Weasley."
As the Gryffindor extended his hand for a shake, Harold realized he had underestimated the boy. In full view of most of their year, the social king of Class 1052 was offering friendship to a serpent — the new kid at that. Rejecting Weasley would be objectively stupid, and no one outside Slytherin would say otherwise. However, accepting Weasley's offer would humiliate Malfoy before the school and, more importantly, the Slytherin House.
Harold prayed to his master for inspiration. A moment later, a flash of brilliance struck.
"I too would like to begin anew," Harold declared. "We are family, scions of the Toujours Pur."
"What?" Weasley asked in confusion.
"My father's mother was a Black, as was yours," Harold restated as he clasped the ginger's forearm.
Weasley wavered as now he found himself in the awkward position before a judging audience. Apparently, he had scorned his pure blood enough that his classmates could not believe the blood of House of Black coursed through his veins.
Harold was about to press him for an active response, but his plans were interrupted by the abrupt landing of a powerful winged steed, from which Hagrid the half-giant disembarked.
"Ta-dah!" the half-breed announced itself, as if the entire class was not already looking at it. "Say hello to Buckbeak."
"Hagrid…what is that?" Weasley breathlessly asked.
"A hippogryph," Harold answered in its stead. "A cross between the better known gryphon and a horse. It keeps the eagle-esque head, wings and taloned forelegs of the former, but has a horse's body and hind legs instead of a lion's."
"Right yeh are!" the half-breed applauded — literally. "Now, firs' thing yeh wanna know about hippogriffs is that they're very proud creatures. Very easily offended. You do not wanna insult the hippogriff. It may just be the las' thing yeh ever do. Now, who'd like to come and say hello?"
Harold snorted at the class's cowardice as all save himself and Weasley retreated.
"Well done, Ron, well done," the half-breed chose its test subject.
Weasley looked like a muggle trapped in a draugr's tomb.
"Either way, you make a legend of yourself today, Weasley," Harold encouraged. "Either as the boy who tamed a hippogryph, or the first wizard to be killed on Hogwarts grounds."
"K–killed?" Weasley stammered.
"Do not fret, the beast is not quite as fierce as its gryphon parent," Harold assured. "You will have time to cast a lethal curse if things go awry. But likely only one, so I'd make it count."
"I will have no such talk in this class!" the half-giant thundered. "This here is Care of Magical Creatures, not the killing of 'em!"
"I apologize," Harold said smoothly, not remorseful in the slightest. "Best of luck, cousin."
Weasley bristled at the familial term and the Black connotations behind it. However, this gave him the courage to walk toward the hippogryph.
"Now, yeh have to let 'im make the firs' move. It's only polite," the half-breed claimed. "Step up, give a nice bow. Then yeh wait and see if he bows back. If he does, yeh can go and touch him. If not—we'll get to that later."
"Ha!" Harold barked at the sheer absurdity of the instructions Weasley received. Exchange bows with a hippogryph? What would he be told to do next? Sip tea with a werewolf?
Weasley, however, did as he was told, and thus displayed weakness to a beast that respected only strength. Harold shook his head and waited for the gryphon-spawn to pounce upon his prey. He wondered how loudly the ginger would scream — and the rest of the class, for that matter.
"Keep still, keep still," the half-giant ordered Weasley as the hippogryph began making threatening noises.
Just when Harold thought Weasley would indeed become the first wizard to die a violent death on Hogwarts grounds, the hippogryph actually bowed in return.
"Well done, well done!" the half-breed complimented Weasley. "I think yeh can go and pat 'im now. Go on. Don't be shy."
Harold watched Weasley tempt fate yet again as he approached a dangerous beast without his wand at the ready. After quite a few stops and starts, the ginger finally reached the temperamental steed and petted its head. Actually petted it!
"Well done. Well done, Ron!" the half-breed applauded with pride and relief. The class, with the exception of a few sensible Slytherins, mirrored the so-called professor.
"I think he may let you ride 'im," the oaf declared before hoisting a protesting Weasley up and setting him on the hippogryph's back. "Don't pull out any of his feathers. He won't thank yeh fer that!"
Harold snorted as the Gryffindor desperately held onto the neck of a beast he had never met before, nevermind rode. He wondered if he would still need to kill the Weasley girl to punish the traitor father.
"The boy is brave though," Harold murmured. "Very foolish, but brave."
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the killing of the second-year Weaslette returned to the boy sorcerer's to-do list as the hippogryph and its charge returned to the clearing. The class erupted into thunderous applause, and Harold found himself adding a few quiet claps.
"Oh please," a familiar voice gripped as a blond boy made his way from the back of the pack to the front.
"Malfoy," Harold warned.
"You're not dangerous at all, are you?" Malfoy taunted the hippogryph while striding toward it empty handed. "You great ugly brute."
"Stop right there," Harold commanded. "Stop, you fool!"
In ignorant defiance, the boy encroached upon the hippogryph's personal space without a hint of self preservation. A folly the beast prepared to reward with the death penalty.
"Imperio!" Harold roared just before the hippogryph charged.
"Harry, no!" the half-breed "professor" brayed while the class collectively gasped in horror.
But the boy sorcerer had other concerns. His curse, strong enough to dominate a Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, nearly dissipated upon impact. Not due to the hippogryph, though it possessed a surprisingly formidable will, but because of the damned Dumbledore necklace.
Harold gritted his teeth as the phoenix pendant glowed with white magic. Magic that not only suffocated his own, but inhibited his wand's power conduction.
"Imperio," the boy sorcerer repeated, this time focusing his mind-domination curse through an unblinking stare into the beast's eyes.
Fighting through the sweltering heat emanating from his gold necklace, Harold approached the struggling beast. The half-breed "professor" attempted to interrupt Harold's line of sight, but a simple raise of the boy sorcerer's hand summoned a whirlwind that deposited the half-breed onto its behind.
"Down," Harold commanded the hippogryph as he walked within ten feet of it. "Kneel to your master."
The sharp spike of indignation from the beast nearly broke Harold's frail hold. But the boy sorcerer received a boost of his own as Malfoy seized his shoulder and poured some additional power into him.
"Kneel," a sweating Harold repeated. "Kneel," he whispered.
At the third command, the hippogryph capitulated completely and bowed on all fours. And not a second too soon, as Harold's throbbing head left his vision blurry and faculties impaired.
"That," he raggedly gasped. "Is another way to tame a hippogryph. A more secure method than Weasley's brave but foolish shenanigans."
Harold's body then betrayed him, and he nearly collapsed to the floor like a half-squib. Malfoy, however, saved him from humiliation by supporting him with an arm around the shoulders.
"I don't need your help," Harold protested as he attempted to shove the other boy off.
Malfoy again did not listen, and led the both of them away from the tamed hippogryph, the bumbling half-breed and their gossiping classmates.
"Did you have to use an Unforgivable?" Malfoy questioned when they were a safe distance away.
"There is nothing unforgivable about using it on an animal," Harold rasped. "It's a defense as old as that stupid decree itself. How can you steal the free will of a creature that does not possess it in the first place?"
"I—I've never cast an Unforgivable before," Malfoy admitted.
"It's much easier than I made it look," Harold promised. "That haphazard performance was only due to—"
"The necklace, I figured," Malfoy interrupted.
"Powerful white magic," Harold muttered. "Almost shattered my concentration, and I've been casting this curse since I was ten."
"Ten!" Malfoy exclaimed. "Before you got a wand?"
"My ma—mentor trained me to channel magic without a wand first," Harold answered. "He was very adept at that as a child. And now—he's the world's most dangerous wizard whether or not he's holding his wand."
"Black?" Malfoy asked to confirm his assumptions, to which Harold simply hummed.
"He must be truly something," Malfoy murmured in awe. "No one ever escaped Azkaban before him. Even the Gaunts died in that hellhole."
"Travesty, that," Harold stated.
Malfoy hummed in agreement.
Though Harold had now recovered from the worst of his feverish symptoms, Malfoy still insisted on leading them to the lake.
"I trust the waters are kept free of sewage?" Harold asked as he removed his robes and made to remove his waistcoat, tie, tunic, breeches, stockings and shoes.
"What do you take this place for, Paris?" Malfoy snorted as he removed his own robes, tie and shoes. "Are you not going to take your necklace off? It is just us two."
"The necklace does more than make my aura palatable to the others," Harold admitted. "Shameful as it is…there are personal benefits to keeping it on."
"It just attacked you!" Malfoy protested as Harold removed his undergarments.
"Nothing is ever free," Harold shrugged as he strode into the water. "I've had worse."
"It seems so," Malfoy half-whispered.
"Oh, you're looking at those old things," Harold laughed at his scars. "Those came from simple muggles. Almost all of whom begged for death long before I gave it to them."
"You—you've killed," Malfoy gasped as he sat on a wooden plank at the water's edge.
"Who do you think rid the world of that squib desecrating the Potters' memorial last Halloween?" Harold inquired. "Glory to Slytherin."
Malfoy gaped.
"D—does Dumbledore know?" he wondered.
"I suspect he does. The old crackpot has stupid ideals, but he unfortunately is rather brilliant," Harold credited. "He's also the last person who would send me to Azkaban. How would that reflect on him? For all everyone knows, he's raised me these past twelve years. If the world knew just where he left me…let's just say the mainstream public might conclude Grindelwald and Lord Voldemort were right about muggles and muggle-lovers."
The two co-existed in silence for some time.
"Draco," Malfoy broke the quiet with his own name.
"Pardon?" Harold asked with a raised eyebrow.
"We're friends, and more importantly, family," Malfoy asserted. "It is strange for us to refer to each other by last names."
Harold was about to say it was far too soon for such familiarity. After all, his master referred to Death Eaters he attended Hogwarts with by last names, even though Nott was still alive! But for some reason, the silent plea in Malfoy's eyes made him acquiesce.
"Very well, Draco," Harold accepted. "But only if you call me Harold."
The Dragon of Malfoy beamed.