Year 9

Late Winter, 1993

The old Scottish farmhouse paled, bloodless and gaunt against the bright rippling waves of golden wheat. There was a biting chill in the air as Barnaby adjusted his collar, trapping what little warmth he had within the fabric.

The ground crunched with frost as he approached the old home, the white porous stone dimpled with aging moss. Barnaby's whistle pierced through the stillness as Pearl tore through the field and trotted beside him, panting happily. He gave her a pet, her tongue lolling to the side as she peered up at him with pure adoration.

It was a routine check—reports of a mysterious blight affecting a small farm on the outskirts of Wales. As always, it was passed down the chain of command, nobody wanting to bother with such a mundane task. So in typical MoM fashion, it ended up on Barnaby's plate as most cases always did.

Weeds and patches of clovers burst through the cracks and crevices of the run-down path like festering wounds. A fresh dusting of snow coated the front porch, no sign of footprints to be seen. The property looked like it had been untouched for days, maybe even weeks. It was as if it were completely abandoned.

Barnaby gave a hesitant knock, the front door creaking open with a long-winded groan. He peered inside, nudging it open a bit further. It was dim, curtains pulled tightly over windows, casting the home in a sinister light. A half-cup of tea sat deserted on the table.

"Hullo? Mr. McConnor?" he called into the shadows, "This is Barnaby Lee with the Department of Magical Creature Regulation. I'm here regarding suspicions of a Nogtail infestation?"

Silence. Loud and deafening. A prickle of dread crawled up Barnaby's spine like Acromantula legs.

"Mr. McConnor?" Barnaby frowned. Pearl looked at him inquisitively, head cocked as if equally perplexed by the state of the property.

"Dunno, girl." he shrugged, "Maybe he's out back working the farm?"

Barnaby closed the door with a muted click, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence. As he trudged around back, his breath curled in pale wisps, freezing as quickly as his fingers. He shoved them deep into his pockets, doing very little to thaw them. A shiver ran deep, despite his layers, unsure if it was entirely from the cold.

The stillness wasn't peaceful. It was thick, unnatural, and hung in the air like a weight pressing down on his chest. He cut the stillness, whistling a light tune in a feeble attempt to calm the way his heart lurched in his chest. The cheery notes trailing off into nothing.

The farm looked normal at first glance—rows of crops swaying slightly in the breeze, rusted tools leaning haphazardly against the barn— yet there was no pig snorting, no rooster crowing, no sheep bleating, or donkey braying. The usual chaos of farm life had been replaced by a void, a silence so profound it felt alive.

A shadow of darkness wavered in the corner of Barnaby's vision. His gaze landed on a patch of crops, their stalks gnarled and withered, the familiar blight Nogtails were known for spreading. Rows upon rows of corn, blackened and brittle. Barnaby knelt, pinching at the plant's growth. The husk turned to soot on his fingers. He frowned, rubbing the ash between his thumb and forefinger. These crops weren't diseased, no- it was black with charr. Burnt.

The bitter tang of ash hung heavy in the air, a stale, acrid taste that dried his tongue and made his throat itch.

This wasn't right.

He straightened slowly, his breath quickening as he scanned the fields. The crops were burnt in sporadic patches, as though something had passed through, leaving only destruction in its wake.

Pearl let out a soft, uneasy whine, pawing at the blackened earth, her white fur stained with ash. Barnaby crouched beside her, his fingers brushing through the fur behind her ear in that one spot she loved.

"It's okay, girl," he murmured, though his voice wavered. "We'll figure it out. We always do." He comforted, her tail wagging with a jolly sway.

Barnaby wiped his hands on his pants, smearing dark streaks down his thighs, stubborn and oily. A metallic creak cut through the silence, sharp and grating, pulling at his attention.

The gate of a chicken coop hung crookedly, swaying with each faint gust of wind. It groaned on its hinges, teetering precariously.

Clicking his tongue, Barnaby rose to his feet, Pearl pressed close against his side. She let out another low whimper as they approached.

The door had nearly been torn off- violently by the looks of it. The wood splintered and bent as if something had ripped into it with unthinkable force. Barnaby crouched, running his fingers over the deep grooves carved into the wood. The gouges were jagged, uneven- like the work of claws, massive and unrelenting.

He swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat returning. "What the hell happened here?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hundreds of feathers lay scattered amongst the dirt, their pristine white edges scorched with ash and streaks of crimson. It was a massacre.

Nogtails weren't known for their violence. They were merely a blight, suckling off the sow of a pig, blending in with a litter of babes. They were a leech, scourging the land, sucking away its nutrients- leaving havoc and disease in its wake. But they weren't violent, merely a nuisance- sometimes an expensive one at that.

But this... this was something else entirely.

Barnaby swallowed hard, willing himself to steady the frantic racing of his heart. His eyes swept over the rolling hills of Wales, their serene beauty a jarring contrast to the unease that plagued his mind.

"Come on girl, stay close." He cautioned, his voice low and firm. Pearl sunk forward hesitantly, her head dipped low, ears pinned flat against her head. She sensed it too- that wrongness that settled over this farm like a thick fog.

Their routine check felt anything but. The pig sty sat empty. The pastures stretched barren, devoid of any sheep grazing. The goat pen was silent, it's gate ajar, it's usual earthy scent replaced by the faint tang of copper.

Barnaby stepped warily, each step measured with careful caution, his eyes darting for any sign of movement. Then his foot slipped, skidding on something slick. He froze, a shiver racing up his spine at the saturated ground under his feet, a puddle of darkened tar gleamed faintly in the dim light.

He stooped low, his stomach twisting with dread as he dipped a finger in the viscous iquor. It was red. Blood red.

Barnaby's breath caught in his throat, his veins turning to ice. The metallic tang of it hung in the air now, unmistakable and nauseating. His eyes followed the gruesome trail—a smeared path of red cutting through the grass and dirt, dragging toward the darkened mouth of the barn.

Pearl let out a low growl, her hackles raised, teeth bared in a way Barnaby had never seen before.

Barnaby's heart quickened, the veins on his neck pounding with the frantic rhythm of fear. For a fleeting moment, he thought about running- seriously considered it. Then a gruesome thought arose; what of the old farmer, Mr. McConnor? What if he were in there? What if he needed help?

The weight of that possibility crushed Barnaby's fleeting instinct to escape. He would never forgive himself if he abandoned someone left in such peril.

"Stay." He ordered Pearl, his words harsh and demanding. "Don't. Move."

Pearl whimpered in response, tail tucked between her legs, but she didn't pursue. Good girl.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Barnaby drew his wand. His hands shook, and he clenched his fingers tighter around the wood, forcing them steady.

The sun fell behind the structure as he stepped closer, the shadow consuming him as he stood below the barn's gaping maw, darkened and sinister. He held his breath, creeping forward, flinching at the slightest sounds of his footfall.

The light faded from the world behind him as he stepped forward, consumed by the barn's ominous shadow.

He entered the darkened abyss, a wall of metallic rot that filled his nose and coated his tongue. He could taste the death in the air, his eyes stinging with the rank foulness of it. Barnaby smothered his face with the crook of his arm, gagging as he stuck out his wand.

"Lumos." He choked. The tip of his wand flared to life- pale light chasing away darkness only to reveal untold horror.

Animal carcasses littered the den, their bodies torn apart. Limbs and shreds of flesh hung from the rafters like a morbid butchery. Pools of blood painted the barn floor, congealed in places, fresh in others. The buzz of flies swelled with warning.

But it wasn't the carnage alone that froze him in place.

He could feel it.

Something there, lurking just beyond the edges of the light, where the shadows pooled deepest.

A low feral growl shook the room, rattling Barnaby's chest with terror. He swept his wand across the shadows, the light reflecting two large orbs in the darkness- like twin moons suspended in a starless sky. They blinked- the pupils slitted and reptilian.

Raw terror pumped through Barnaby's veins like acid.

The creature moved, its large form creeping forward with predatory prowess. The tip of its snout entered the light revealing shimmering scales of deep green emeralds. Its slitted nostrils flared, exhaling a puff of steam, strings of reddened saliva dripping from its powerful jaws, pooling on the blood-soaked floor.

A Common Welsh Green Dragon. An adolescent by the looks of it, its body the size of a large deer, yet its tail whipped around, long and menacing, doubling the length of its body.

These dragons were known for nesting high in the mountainous region of Wales, rarely venturing down to human lands unless driven by desperation. This one must have left the safety of the peaks, ravenous after the long, unforgiving winter months, hunting the livestock for an easy kill.

A hunger burned in the dragon's eyes. The light of Barnaby's wand glimmered faintly across its emerald scales. Its mouth stretched wide, rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting in the glow. A forked tongue slithered out, tasting the air hungrily, its pupils dilated into large, obsidian marbles.

Run.

Barnaby stammered back, tripping over something large and fleshy- he went sprawling, his wand slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the floor.

Turning his head, Barnaby's heart dropped at the crumpled form of Mr. McConnor. His lifeless eyes sunken back into his sockets- a permanent look of anguish etched into his pallor.

His breath came in shallow gasps, limbs sluggish and uncooperative as dread sank its claws into him. Barnaby tried to push himself away, scrambling backward on the slick floor, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

The dragon prowled closer, its growl deepened, a guttural rumble that rattled the wooden barn. Massive claws, sharp as scythes, dug deep into the dirt with each step.

Panic spiked as Barnaby racked his brain, fear muddling his thoughts. He needed a plan, a spell, anything. His gaze darted to his wand, its faint glow lying just out of reach, as the dragon loomed ever nearer.

He thought of Norbert.

Norbert had been smaller—so much smaller than the beast before him. And even then, Barnaby had barely survived. He had been prepared, armed with knowledge and allies, and yet that encounter had left them nearly dead. Now, he stood wildly unprepared, trapped in this darkened barn, utterly alone.

His chest tightened. There was no escape, no chance to call for help. There was nothing to do but fight—and pray he would live to see another day.

The dragon crouched low, its haunches tensing, its massive tail whipping behind it. The air crackled with anticipation, the predator savoring the moment before the kill. Barnaby braced himself.

For the briefest moment, Arah's face flashed in his mind. He could hear her laughter, wild and carefree, as she giggled into his shoulder. He could see the way her silver hair fanned out across his pillow in the morning light, her breath soft and even in sleep. How he could count the freckles on her nose.

Perhaps this would be the last thing that would ever cross his mind - and would that be such a bad thing?

No. No.

Fuck. That. He would survive this. He would fight with everything he had—for her. For Arah.

The dragon moved with sickening speed, its massive body lunging forward, jaws snapping open to reveal rows of jagged, needle-sharp teeth.

Barnaby barely had time to react before a blur of white fur streaked past him.

No.

Pearl hurtled toward the dragon, throwing her small frame into its side. The impact strong enough to knock the creature off-kilter, its massive claws skidding on the slick floor.

His heart stopped.

"Pearl!" he screamed, scrambling forward as the hound bore into the dragon's scaley hide. The beast wailed in pain thrashing and whipping its long neck around in an attempt to dislodge the scrappy dog. But Pearl held firm, her jaws locked with a stubborn protective instinct.

It was chaos—pure chaos. They tumbled and rolled in the hay, a whirlwind of snapping jaws and tearing claws.

Barnaby clambered across the floor, his hands fumbling wildly until his fingers closed around the smooth wood of his wand. He pushed himself upright, pointing it at the writhing forms.

He froze. Afraid to cast—not without possibly hitting Pearl. His throat tightened with helpless panic.

The feral growls were abruptly broken by a sharp, helpless yelp that twisted into a pain-filled shriek.

"NO!"

Barnaby's cry was raw, a desperate plea that tore through the disarray. His heart plummeted as the dragon's jaws closed around Pearl's flank, its teeth sank as blood stained her pure white coat. She let out a sorrowful howl, two shocked globes blazed with animalistic fear that shone starkly in her eyes.

With a violent jerk, the dragon whipped its head to the side, hurling Pearl across the barn. Her small body slammed into a haystack, crumpling to the ground with a sickening thud. She lay deathly still.

Something primal and overwhelming snapped within Barnaby. A guttural, rage-filled roar erupted from his chest, his scream drowning out the melodic cry of the dragon.

The beast hesitated, its slitted eyes flickering with the briefest hint of alarm.

The dragon took a wary step back, as Barnaby squared his stance and raised his wand. His mind raced. He remembered vividly how his spells had rolled off Norbert's hide like water.

Magic alone wouldn't save him this time.

A flash of orange cut through the darkness, a narrow jet of fire shooting forth with blistering speed. Barnaby barely had time to react, throwing up a shielding charm. The flames collided with the invisible barrier, the beast's power nearly driving him to his knees.

Embers burned all around him, scorching the hay-strewn floor. A fire erupting would surely seal all their fates in this hellish tomb. With a sharp flick of his wand, Barnaby quickly smothered the flames before they could spread.

His eyes scanned wildly, his own instincts turning animalistic, searching for any advantage.

The rafters above groaned under the weight of their heavy timbers.

To his right, the barn wall adorned with perilous tools—heavy rakes, rusted saws, sharpened hooks, and dangling chains swayed faintly, glinting in the dim light.

His instincts flared, primal and raw. He shifted his stance, planting himself firmly between the dragon and its path.

He had one chance at this. Only one.

The dragon's hungry gaze bore into him, its body tensing with lethal intent.

Barnaby gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening around his wand. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes, but he didn't blink. He wouldn't dare.

"COME ON!" he roared, taunting the beast. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!"

The beast snarled in response, baring crowded rows of jagged teeth, saliva dripping hungrily off its jowls. With a sickening flash, it lunged toward him.

Barnaby's breath hitched as he planted his feet, forcing himself to stand firm. He waited—just long enough until he could count the golden freckles in it's slitted eyes. Barnaby dove to the side, the dragon's snapping jaws barely grazing him, the sound of teeth clashing against empty air like the crack of thunder. Its momentum carried it into the barn wall, the tools of rusted metal raining down on the beast.

The menacing equipment tore into the dragon's hide, gouging its scales. The beast let out a furious roar, the sound shaking Barnaby to his core.

Barnaby acted quickly, spinning his wand. The metal chains mounted on the wall shuddered, then slithered to life like iron serpents. They whipped through the air, wrapping tightly around the beast's limbs.

Its wild eyes flared with terror as it wrestled against the bindings, its scales grinding against the chains. Its stare locked onto Barnaby—a gaze full of intelligent wrath.

With a quick woosh, a thick fleshy trunk slammed into Barnaby's legs, its tail knocking him back- the air leaving his lungs with a forceful huff. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. His vision tunneled as a stabbing wheeze escaped him. A broken rib no doubt.

The rattling of chains went still, no longer alive with his magic.

Blinding pain exploded in his leg as a hundred razors bed into his flesh, digging into his shin and dragging him across the floor. He screamed, his voice ragged, as the dragon's jaws clamped down around his leg in a death grip. Its teeth, stained crimson with his blood, glinted like porcelain daggers.

His nails clawing futilely at the ground as he was pulled like a rag doll. His hand grazed against something cold and dense—a metal rod. He seized it, desperation surging through him, and swung with every ounce of strength he could muster.

The rusted hoe collided with the side of the dragon's meaty skull. The beast released him with a painful roar. Filled with wrath, it snapped back, jaws straining wide as Barnaby rammed the metal between its mouth. A grinding clash of teeth and metal grated against his ears, hot rancid breath and spittle painted his cheeks.

The only thing keeping Barnaby from becoming this dragon's next meal was this old rusted pole.

Barnaby's gaze flickered heavenward, the rafters looming ominously above them as he wrestled for his life. This would either be completely reckless or stupid. Probably both.

Releasing his only lifeline, the Dragon took hold of the mangled rod and flung it away with a clattering clang, unleashing a roar so intense that it reverberated through Barnaby's chest.

He wasted no time. Barnaby raised his wand, pointing it toward the massive lumber that hung overhead.

"Descendo," He gritted through bloodied teeth.

The wood groaned and splintered as the rafters began to crumble, a portion of the roof with it as it came rushing toward them. A large beam landed on the beast with a meaty clunk, pinning it to the floor as it writhed beneath its immense weight. Barnaby clambered back, considering himself lucky to not have been crushed before debris began to descend all around them. Sheets of sharp, jagged roofing tore through the air, shredding his skin, one slicing across Barnaby's forehead. He gasped as hot blood began to pour down the side of his face.

Dirt and straw caking his wounded leg. He lifted his wand, the metal chains slithering back to life once more, wrapping around the beast's meaty limbs, constraining it further.

Its jaws opened wide, revealing a flicker of orange flame glowing deep in its throat. Barnaby's heart seized before a chain shot forward, coiling around the creature's muzzle and snapping it shut. Steam puffed from its nostrils as it squirmed angrily, fighting against its restraints.

Gradually, the beast's movements grew sluggish, its powerful limbs faltering. Its chest heaved with labored breaths until, at last, it stilled.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing. Barnaby kept his wand pointed at the beast. His bloodied hand trembled, his gaze locked on the creature before him.

The fierce light dimmed in the dragon's eyes. There was something different in its gaze now—no longer predatory, but a strange softness- a kind of mutual understanding.

It almost looked sorrowful as it looked upon Barnaby, no longer considering him prey, but an equal. He could see the exhaustion in the creature, the raw desperation that had driven it here to begin with.

For a fleeting moment, he considered stepping closer to the creature, to lay a hand on its bloodied snout. He wanted to tell it that he was sorry—sorry that it had been so hungry, so desperate. That it shouldn't blame itself for following its natural instincts to hunt- to survive. Sorry that he had to hurt him so.

The thought lingered in the air between them, unspoken but palpable. In that moment, they weren't hunter and hunted, man and beast. They were just two creatures battered and bruised, trying to survive in this demanding world.

A small whimper meweled behind him, soft and weak.

Barnaby's heart plummeted as he limped toward his little companion, a gush of blood trickling down his leg and pooling into his boot, squishing with every step. He dropped to his knees at the sight of the blood-soaked fur, deep puncture wounds marred her flesh, mirroring his own wound. Her breath was labored, eyes blinking slowly.

Barnaby choked back a sob, carefully brushing away the hay that clung to her coat. She flinched, snapping at his hand with a snarl, a white foam flecked her jowls, her once-bright eyes now glimmered with pain and confusion. It pained him - not because it hurt, but to see her reduced in such a way. If it weren't for her, he would certainly be dead.

"Shhh. You're okay," he spoke softly, stroking her fur as gently as he could. Tears blurred his vision, sliding over his cheeks to mix with the dirt and blood.

"We're okay." His voice cracked, the saltiness of his tears dripping into his mouth. The words felt hollow, desperate as he watched the life slowly fade from her eyes.

He lifted his wand with quivering hands. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he whispered the incantation:

Episkey

A warm light emanated from the wand's tip. The spell worked its way over Pearl's broken body, the wounds slowly knitting together. He could only hope he was quick enough to save her.

"Hang in there, girl." he whispered hoarsely.

Pearl lay still, either spent from the battle or letting go of what life she had left, he did not know. Barnaby cradled her gently, speaking softly to her, caressing her sweet face. She nipped weakly at his fingers before licking them as if to say she were sorry - sorry for her animal instincts betraying him so.

Barnaby pressed his forehead to hers, as she blinked softly, peering at him with weeping eyes. She responded with a gentle lick to the tip of his nose as if reassuring him she was still here, still fighting.

Gritting his teeth against the searing pain, he stood upright, his muscles quacking as he cradled the wounded hound in his arms.

He glanced back at the dragon. it lay unmoving, tangled in the heap of chains, its golden eyes locked on him. There was no malice left in its gaze—only a quiet, watchful stillness.

He would notify the officials, have them extract the beast. Maybe he'd even reach out to Charlie, ask him to look after it in Romania.

But all of that could wait.

All he cared about was getting Pearl home. Biting back a pained grunt, he staggered toward the barn's exit, holding the feeble dog close to his chest.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to focus, summoning every last ounce of strength he had left. He pictured the familiar confines of the Magical Creature Regulation Office—its crowded desks, the beasts fine encasements, and the faint scent of dragon dung—and with a sharp crack, they vanished.