Harry's Solution

Harry decides his only viable tactic for the First Task in the Tri-wizard Tournament is . . . Today is a . . . good day. . . to die. Only, it doesn't quite go as he expected. (another version of Reptilia28's challenge). Warning! Rated Mature! Harry accidental Harem. (Just as in real life, if you are powerful, you attract the ladies. In a culture where multiple wives is allowed, however grudgingly, such men are quite sought after.)

1. Dragon

Harry sat in the tent, shivering. He could hear the crowd screaming and yelling, the dragons' roaring and flaming, and Bagman's terrifying and less-than-ideal commentating.

The three seventeen-year-old students that preceded him in this farcical tournament were vastly more knowledgeable about magic and spells than he was. They were more powerful, too. How could he, a mere fourteen-year-old Wizard — not very smart, poorly-trained, and Muggle-raised — hope to compete? If he didn't die today, then surely one of the other two tasks would do the job. The odds that the other two tasks wouldn't be as dangerous, if not more, ranged from zero to none.

His bipolar luck wouldn't let anything else happen.

In the meantime, he would suffer the disdain, hate, and bullying of his fellow students. If he didn't do well in this first task, then even his so-called Gryffindor "family" would turn on him, especially those who had only grudgingly supported him, so far.

Everything was just as it had been in his Second Year, what with that whole Heir of Slytherin thing. Only much worse — this time, even Ron had turned against him, one of his staunchest supporters in the three previous years.

He could see that clearly. Yes, it might just be jealousy as Hermione insisted, but it still hurt that he would choose to be jealous of Harry's awful luck. He wasn't someone Harry could depend on, anymore. If he could desert him once, and so completely, he would do it again.

Harry had learned that lesson in primary, to his bitter regret.

As it was, only one person in the entire school believed him when he said he hadn't entered himself — Hermione. The rest thought he had cheated his way in, even the Professors. Not even Professor Dumbledore believed him, his protests to the contrary notwithstanding.

If he truly believed Harry, then why didn't he stop the constant harassment Harry suffered from the other students? He hadn't said, not even once, that Harry hadn't entered by choice. He had remained silent. It was almost as if he approved of what they were doing, his silence seemingly acknowledging that he thought Harry was lying. Not even the buttons that said "Harry Potter Stinks" had gotten any reaction from the Professors. Snape smirking at seeing one before it switched back to "Support Cedric" was proof they didn't care, that they thought he deserved the disdain.

If the Headmaster didn't take his side, then the rest of Hogwarts reasoned that Harry had to have cheated his way into the Tournament. And, naturally, the rest of the Wizarding public took their cues from what their children, or their friends' children, said.

Nothing of which was either complimentary or forgiving.

Time marched by at a snail's pace, and then, suddenly, what seemed like only seconds after Viktor had left, the whistle blew.

It was his turn.

He looked at the figurine in his hand, the Hungarian Horntail. It was ineffectually gnawing on his finger, its wings flapping lightly. He was going to die. He knew it, right down to the bottom of his soul. Nothing could save him.

Not even the Muggle world could save him.

If he tried to save himself by fleeing, he had been assured, it would only result in the loss of his magic. He could deal with the loss of his magic, truthfully. He would miss it, sure, but he had lived without it for ten years.

He could live without magic forever . . . well, as long as any Muggle could live.

He would miss it, but he didn't need it to live.

Unfortunately, they had also assured him, losing his magic would probably kill him. Which meant, with his bad luck in his adventures, he would die.

So, running away merely postponed his death by hours, maybe as much as a day.

So, he was just going to have to accept his fate. It was simpler that way. He hoped it would be quick and not too painful.

But still, his knees were shaking so hard he wasn't sure he could stand. His legs felt like marshmallows. His stomach was a solid knot of panic. He was covered in a cold sweat. He was breathing in short pants, getting a full breath was difficult.

He unsteadily exited the tent, the panic rising to a crescendo inside him. He mechanically walked past the trees, barely noticing where he was, and through a gap in the enclosure fence.

He saw everything in front of him as though it were an extremely vivid dream. The colours were . . . more vibrant . . . in a way he had never noticed before. Or maybe that was because he was going to die, and, now, he noticed the details he would normally have dismissed. After all, he would never see these things again.

Nothing focuses the mind as harshly as imminent, unavoidable, death. He had heard that in a war film on the telly, once, while he was locked in his cupboard.

It seemed to be true.

There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands, maybe a thousand — maybe two. They were a blur of pink faces yelling, screaming, and scowling. He could see each individual's expression as clear as if he were right in front of them.

Then there was the hissing dark Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs. Her wings were half-furled, her yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, and leaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground behind her.

She was not a happy mother dragon.

She was, in her own way, rather beautiful. Something he had not noticed in the dim flickering light, and his shock, that other night.

Then, she had been merely terrifying.

The crowd was making a great deal of noise, which couldn't help but add to her discomfort and anger.

He looked up. It was a beautiful, brilliant, cold but not unpleasant day, with a bright-blue cloudless sky overhead. It wasn't the normal cloudy, dreary weather of a Scottish late-autumn. The organizers couldn't have asked for better weather than they had today.

The day would have drawn him and his two mates outside to enjoy the weather for a short time. They would have spent some time lazing on the grass; talking and goofing around before being sent inside by the cooling evening to enjoy cups of hot chocolate provided by the house-elves — the way they had in the previous years. This was probably the last such day this year before they would be driven inside for the rest of the season by the arriving winter.

The arena was rocky, and he could feel the heat from the grounds and rocks already blasted by the previous dragons' flames. There was a small breeze, bearing with it the faint air of burnt wood and baked-rock from the arena, but it was still pleasant. The crisp Autumn air of the Forbidden Forest behind the arena-stands overlaid everything.

The panic began to recede and a curious quiet peace settled over the young Wizard. His breathing slowed and started to approach normal. He began to distance himself from what was about to happen. Soon, everything would be over and all this would be gone. Everything he could do to prepare he had done last night.

All things considered, today . . . was a good day . . . to die, he decided.

He looked around. The stands were organized by the Houses and the students' parents or relatives, with an additional area for visitors and VIPs almost doubling the attendance. The Houses were, for once, almost united — but not for Harry. Oh, no, not for him!

The Slytherins were booing, as were the Hufflepuffs. Most of the Ravenclaws joined the other two Houses, with a smaller number quietly watching. The Gryffindors were split between those who thought he really was an attention-seeking git who had cheated his way into the Tri-Wizard Tournament and those who supported Harry simply because he was in Gryffindor. The former only scowled at the boy, while the latter half-heartedly cheered, somewhat worried that the other students in Hogwarts might think them traitorous for not supporting Cedric Diggory, the official Hogwarts' Champion.

Harry could tell that by their nervous glances to their sides, to the students closest to them and those in the other stands.

They expected him to panic, to run away, to faint, to fail in the most humiliating way possible.

The disdain and hatred would only continue throughout the year, getting worse with every passing week. It wouldn't be as bad as his Second-year, it would be worse — many times worse.

At least in Second-Year he had had four mates whole-heartedly supporting him. Unfortunately, this year the twins didn't believe he hadn't entered himself. They thought he lied about it. That he was pranking the school. They backed him — but for all the wrong reasons.

It was odd, reflecting back on it, how the Headmaster had done nothing to stop the harassment in Second-year year. He had said he knew Harry had nothing to do with the Heir of Slytherin. Then, why hadn't he clearly said as much to the students? When anyone had accused him, the Professor, no, none of the Professors had corrected them or explained how it could not have been Harry. It was as if he had wanted Harry isolated and friendless.

Just as he did nothing this year to dissuade the others' opinions that Harry was a liar and a cheat. He didn't tell everyone that someone far more powerful than a mere student had bamboozled the Cup. That only an adult with years of experience would have known what to do. It was as if he wanted Harry isolated and friendless, again.

Just as the Dursley's had kept him isolated and friendless in primary.

Only now was worse.

Worse because he now knew what having friends was like . . . and he could miss them.

The other two schools, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, weren't actively catcalling. Their Headmaster/mistress had reminded them how unseemingly that would be. The reputations of their schools would be better represented by maintaining an aloof silence towards the "pretender." They had been told to let the English louts flaunt their bad manners, proving their ignorance of proper manners and deportment.

The other schools' disapproving murmurs, though, hung over their sections like a low cloud. He had no supporters in either school — well, he had one, maybe two if he counted his fan-girl Ginny. He knew that as the year went on, no matter the results of today's task, the other schools would begin copying the Hogwarts' students' antagonistic attitude. In a few months — no, weeks — they would join Hogwarts to become one united mass of hate towards him. It was what had always happened in primary with new students turning against him to join the rest — if only to avoid being targeted, themselves.

He would be even more alone by the end of the tournament than he had ever been in Little Whinging — if he survived that long.

But he wouldn't, that was certain — survive today, that is.

Today was it.

He looked over their heads, at Hogwarts, barely visible above the stands in the distance behind them, and the clear cloudless sky above.

Today, he decided, was a good day to die.

His gaze drifted back to the stands and he looked for his only true mate. It was easy to pick out the white-faced horrified expressions of Hermione and Ginny sitting beside Hagrid. Harry had to smile, realizing he could see Ginny's freckles even at this distance, her face was so white. Even if she did think he was lying, at least she cared about him. It was too bad her adoration was for a fictional, made-up character out of a bunch of books and not the real Harry.

She supported him, but, like her brothers, she thought he was lying about not entering, pranking the school.

Hermione looked almost catatonic with fear for him. He was so sorry to let her down. He hoped she would understand. He hoped she wouldn't miss him too much. At least, he knew, she would take proper care of his things. With any luck, his Last Will and Testament that he had sent off to Gringotts last night with Hedwig would help her achieve her dreams.

Hagrid was cheering him on. It was mildly amusing how he thought Harry really could cow a dragon a hundred times his size, not to mention beat three students with two years more experience and skill with magic, more mature magical abilities.

He looked at Hogwarts, looming behind them.

Hogwarts.

The only place he had ever known happiness.

First Year had been a joy, despite nearly dying four times. At the Dursleys' he nearly died at least once a month — so four times in ten months was quite an improvement by comparison.

He had made mates for the first time ever, that year. He had saved the life of the girl who had become his best mate in the whole world. Discovering that he could no more trust the adults in the magical world than he could in the normal world had only been mildly disappointing — he had expected it, in a way. Not to mention that all the rules were meant to keep him down. He was punished for doing things that others did with impunity. Or, blamed and punished for things others had done. Or just blamed and punished for no reason at all.

Snape was the worst offender in that respect.

Just like the Muggle world and the Dursleys.

Having Professor McGonagall dismiss the other students' complaints about Snape, complaints about harassment from Slytherins, and finally his and his mates concerns about the Philosopher's Stone at the end of that year just proved how useless adults were.

Especially those who claimed to have "his best interests" in mind.

Second-year hadn't been nearly as much fun. That year he had discovered just who his real mates were — Ron and his older brothers Fred and George. And Hermione. Especially Hermione.

He had discovered that the adults really didn't care about the safety of any Hogwarts' student. In that respect, at least, he had plenty of company.

Otherwise, the school would have been shut down after the first student was petrified. Not to mention him almost dying five times

He had again saved a life that the adults couldn't be bothered with saving, Ginny, while nearly dying himself.

Third-year had been better than the previous year, the other students hadn't out-right harassed him, or treated him like he had the plague and run away at the mere sight of him in the halls. Discovering that his favourite teacher, Professor Lupin, had been a good friend of his parents, and yet had never once mentioned that fact, had been a crushing blow. Didn't he deserve being told about his parents? Was he that much of a failure, as the Dursleys complained?

Similarly, he had discovered he had a godfather, that Sirius hadn't betrayed his parents. But that was tempered by realizing that his god-father had put revenge above caring about Harry.

Both adults had let him down. As he had figured out once he had returned to the Dursleys and reflected on the year.

He had thought Hermione had betrayed him, that year, but that summer he realized she had only been concerned with his safety — and she had been right! The broom had been from the escaped and accused mass-murderer. Unfortunately, they hadn't known at the time that Sirius would never hurt Harry. Based on what they knew, at that time, she had been in the right, and he had been, quite clearly, in the wrong.

He shouldn't have let Ron's anger at being deprived of riding Harry's Firebolt prevent him from listening to Hermione.

As if a broomstick was more important than a friend!

He was grateful she had accepted his apology once they had returned to Hogwarts this August.

The only conclusion he could reach was that all adults, Muggle or Magical, were completely unreliable. They refused to tell him things that he rightfully should know, that he should have been told for his own safety. They ignored what he said when he discovered a problem, and carried on as if they knew best when they had bad or incorrect information. His concerns were always unimportant. They preferred their opinions over the facts, and refused to believe he could have found information that they didn't have.

They pretended to care about his welfare while punishing or hurting him on purpose — Snape — and by neglect — every other adult.

This year, the Tournament just reinforced all his conclusions of the previous years. As he had realized this morning, while trying to sleep after mastering the accio charm with Hermione.

Up until Halloween it had been fun. Like the first two months in the previous two years, before November he had looked forward to a normal year of learning and having fun with his mates — even if Quidditch being cancelled had been disappointing. Then, Halloween had arrived and it had turned into a disaster. His only loyal mate was the girl whose life he had saved in his First Year. Everyone else refused to believe him when he said he hadn't entered the Tournament. Instead, they thought he had cheated his way into the Tournament.

Someone had entered him, wanting him maimed or dead, according to Professor Moody.

Which the Professors never bothered to tell the students.

Everyone said that Harry was lying when he repeated what Moody had said.

Ron had quit their friendship as if it were a disgusting piece of filth. He spent his time scowling at Harry, insulting him, or just plain ignoring him. Only Hermione and Hagrid had believed him . . . and he wasn't sure about Hagrid.

The adults were, of course, useless.

Discovering that the first task involved dragons had confirmed that the Tournament's goal was his death. The adults had said they had made it safe — that was a bald-faced lie if ever he had heard one — and he had heard many lies from adults in his short life.

Anything that took teams of specially-trained wizards to control, who still suffered injuries, was deadly-dangerous, by definition!

And Dragons?

Only an idiot would consider anything involving dragons as safe.

He had been in a panic ever since then. There was no way he knew enough magic to battle a dragon. There was no way he had enough power to battle a dragon. And that ludicrous idea of Moody's, of him out-flying a dragon? Hah! All the mother had to do was stay right on top of her nest. The very idea that a dragon was unused to aerial combat and incapable of predicting where her target was going to be, and putting a flame there, was ludicrous! She was a creature of the sky, for god's sake! No matter how fast he flew, she eventually would put a flame where he couldn't dodge, and then it was all over.

He had to be lucky every time, she had to be lucky just once!

If this was merely the first task, then how could the other tasks be less dangerous!

He would never survive to the end of the year.

Early this morning, after nearly exhausting himself trying to master accio'ing a heavy object like his broom across a room, he had realized that there could only be one outcome. His success with accio, late, late last night, had been gratifying. In the cold light of dawn, however, the arrogance and ludicrousness of actually expecting to be able to out-fly a dragon, took hold. Never mind the audacity of expecting to be able to summon his broom all the way from the castle!

He should have had Hermione smuggle and hide it under the seating stands.

He felt oddly detached, as if his body were separate from him, moving like a remote-controlled toy. The crowd sounded muffled to him, and yet crystal clear. Distantly, as if he were hearing the telly in the sitting-room when he was upstairs in his room, he heard Mr. Bagman telling the crowd he wondered what Harry planned to do.

Harry started walking towards the fearsome dragon. The ground was so far away, he could barely feel it beneath his feet, as if he were walking on air, or really thick cushions.

She bared her teeth at him, smoke curling from her mouth. He continued on, unperturbed. He was going to die, but bloody hell if he was going to entertain them while doing it. He hoped, again, that it would be quick and not too painful.

On the other hand, it occurred to him, he would finally get to meet his parents. Now, that was something to look forward to doing. Something that made him happy to think about. Yes, whatever happened here didn't really matter when weighed against that. He began to look forward to dying, to seeing his parents.

He began to smile.

Looking at the skyline of Hogwarts, Harry decided that . . . today . . . today . . . was a good day . . . to die.

The mother gave a small blast of flames in Harry's direction when he reached the edge of her range. The heat washed over him and instantly dried the sweat that covered him. The sweat almost instantly returned from the remaining heat in this area of the arena.

She was angry. Her handlers had moved her and her nest to this strange place and it clearly infuriated her that they had touched her eggs. She would not willingly let them do that again, Harry could tell!

If he went any closer, she would roast him.

He hoped it wouldn't be too painful.

She shot another blast of flames at him. His reaction, though, clearly puzzled her. She was probably used to wizards and witches who became agitated, upset, or even just fled when she did that to them, wetting themselves in fear as they did so. Harry continued forward as if he were walking through the park in Little Whinging, sauntering forward without a care in the world, his unwavering eyes on hers.

Cranky as she was, this was different enough to warrant a bit of thought. She settled back over her eggs. That Harry wasn't afraid, unlike all the other Wizards and Witches must pique her curiosity. At least, that was the only reason he could think of for why she hadn't already toasted him.

After all, Harry came at her alone, when normally there was a group of five or six, or more. Apparently, she could sense he hadn't any sort of malice or trickery in mind — he had no intention of doing anything to her or her eggs.

He hadn't even looked at her eggs.

She glanced around the enclosure, shifting uneasily. She clearly wanted to be in her protected cave at home, alone, with her eggs warm beside or underneath her. So many Wizards and Witches around her made her nervous and angry, the noise they were making made it worse.

She obviously had heard the other mothers defending their eggs and she wasn't about to let anything happen to her clutch! She would have fled with them except she was bound with metal chains on her legs to the ground.

The book on the dragon reserves said the dragons couldn't melt the metal chains — at least not quickly enough to have time to melt them, gather her eggs, and escape. There were special spells that made them resistant to dragon flames. The wizards would be on her too fast, and then her eggs would be at risk — well, more at risk than they were now.

She flamed again, this time over Harry instead of straight at him.

.o\O/o.

In the Ravenclaw stands, a slim, dreamy-eyed girl with dirty-blonde hair sighed and stood up. Sadness seemed to wrap around her. She wore radish earrings and had her wand stuck behind her ear.

"Sit down, loony!" a voice from behind her said derisively, "I can't see through you!"

Luna looked back at the girl. "There's nothing more to see," she said quietly, "it's all over." She looked out at Harry as he stopped in front of the fierce mother Dragon. The people in the stands around her screamed as the dragon blew smoke around him. She might be wrong, but she didn't want to stay long enough to be proven right. His odds of survival were so low she couldn't even feel them. "Tomorrow, everything will be different."

"Merlin, you're weird," another girl said. "You and Potter would make a perfect pair. He never tells the truth and you can't see what's around you."

"Why, thank you," was Lovegood's response as she began to make her way to the stairs.

"I can't believe she's in Ravenclaw," a third girl said. "I think the Sorting Hat made a mistake."

"Do you think we could get her resorted?" the first girl asked.

Luna stopped and looked back at the group of Third- and Fourth-year girls. "The Blibbering Humdingers might like that," she said. "Yes," she added softly, "maybe I would, too." Then she continued her way to the stairs. She was lucky, she said later. She escaped the fiasco at the stadium with the huge mass of Weetimorousbeasties, and made it to the Headmaster's Office for a private talk with the Sorting Hat.

The odd girl left the others open-mouthed in astonishment as she headed down the stairs. She had no desire to see someone only slightly older than herself, die. As soon as she reached the ground, she began skipping back to the Castle.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

Maybe some good would come of it.

With a bit of luck, she could change, too.

.o\O/o.

The dragon glared at him.

Why she didn't just flame him, Harry was unsure. Perhaps it was because he was so peaceful. Animals were never peaceful when they saw her, they all fled in a panic, even Wizards and Witches. They only dared approach her in large groups — and even then, he knew, she could smell their terror.

Even the dragons in the preserves were cautious around the Horntails, the fiercest of the dragons, according to the books.

It was an unusual circumstance, for her, he knew. His lack of concern, or fear, his acceptance of his fate, his happiness at finally meeting his parents, seemed to have a calming effect on her the closer he came.

§Go away, I will not leave my eggs!§ she hissed when he was a heads-length from her, smoke puffing from her nostrils and surrounding him. It was like being surrounded by steam in the showers, only dry. The faint odour of sulphur made him scrunch up his nose.

He stopped, startled at how close he really was to her — he had expected her to . . . get rid of him . . . much earlier. After a long pause, still looking her in the eyes, he tilted his head slightly and said, §Hello.§

She leaned her head down, closer, and snorted a smoke ring at him. Harry coughed as it blew over him. The Wizards and Witches in the stands screamed noisily. He was, truthfully, happy at what was about to happen.

Finally, he would get to see and meet his parents! Who wouldn't be happy at that prospect? He hoped they wouldn't be too disappointed in him.

§A speaker to Dragons? I have never met one.§ she paused. §Why are you here?§ she added crossly. §Go! Away!§

He stood quietly, watching her. Up close like this, she was quite beautiful. Finally, he said, happily, §You know, I didn't realize how beautiful you were until I came close. Your scales are just amazing the way they reflect the light with such subtle variations. I could spend hours admiring them.§

She blinked in amazement, and glanced at her side. It was quite possible that no one had ever complimented her before.

§I came to die,§ he continued a moment later.

She reared her head back. He wasn't surprised that she could tell he wasn't lying. No doubt she could pick up from the magic around him that he wasn't trying to deceive her. Many magical animals — and non-magical, too — seemed to be able sense one's honesty. Not Wizards, though. Oddly, he now realized, parseltongue would not let someone lie — not directly.

Most prey fled in fear of their lives when they saw her, he was sure. That he was unafraid, that he wanted her to take his, that he was anticipating it, must be frightfully confusing.

He could see her processing what he had said.

Undoubtedly, she had never met a creature who wanted to die.

The audience had settled into almost silence. Only a low murmur of whispered questions, answers, and guesses could be heard

§There is a fake among your eggs,§ he said, almost as an aside.

§I know. But it is in my nest.§ She settled a little lower and curled her tail around, her eggs cradled between her outstretched front legs. She glared at him. §I had to stay awake all night to protect them from the vermin that infest this forest. I had to keep moving them because there wasn't even a rock under the sand to protect them from tunnellers.§

§I am sorry to hear that,§ he hissed quietly, shaking his head. §You and your clutch were brought here for a contest,§ he said, scowling, §We, the four Champions, are supposed to take the fake from your clutch using our skill and cunning, proving how brave we are.§ His sarcasm was readily apparent. §You heard how the other three fared.§ He paused a moment.

§The others volunteered, wanted, to do this," he continued. "They are thrilled at the challenge of competing. I was forced here, just as you are. The other three Champions are adults, but I am a child, three years younger than them, with two years less training in magic. In your terms, I think, based on what I've read, that that is like a nine-month-old youngling competing against yearlings. While I am brave, I don't have their skills or strength. I am still growing into my magic. And I can't run away. If I do, I will die for not participating. The penalty for being a coward, they said.§

She leaned closer, again, studying him for a few moments, sniffing him. She snorted a puff of smoke around him, to the delighted screams of the audience, and shuffled back a short distance. She delicately picked up the golden fake, so unlike her other eggs, between two of her talons and tossed it before him. §Now leave, before I change my mind.§ She blew a brief flame across her eggs, then settled back down as she had been,

The audience erupted into a loud roar of disbelief and astonishment. The two of them ignored the noise.

§There is one who wants me dead,§ Harry said sadly, shaking his head again. §He had someone sneakily enter me in this so I would die without any risk to himself.

§This is only the first task in this contest,§ he continued mildly. §The remaining two tasks will be more dangerous still, I think. You heard what the other dragons did to the yearlings, and the yearlings used magic I won't learn for another two or three years. And they are the most advanced three students of the three schools in the Tournament while I am a bit below the middle of my creche. I will not survive to the end with what little I know.

§So, even though you give me the fake — for which I am grateful — that will only postpone my death. I will suffer much before the next task, because no one likes me, most hate me.§ He glanced around the stadium §Nearly all who are gathered here to watch this . . . contest . . . will be happy to see me fail.§ He sighed. §There is only one watching us today who believes in me,§ he paused and looked around the arena to find Hermione once again. He waved to her. §But she is a youngling like myself, and powerless under the adults running this contest. So, either in this task, the next task, or the last task, I am destined to die. Probably in great pain.

§So,§ he sighed heavily, and glanced up into the sky and then around the arena with its many boulders and holes, the air above some sections still shimmering in the heat from the rocks below them. Then he looked straight into her eyes.

§Today . . . is a good day . . . to die.§

She studied Harry carefully, turning her head first one way, then the other, considering what he had said. He could almost see what she was thinking. It took many wizards to subdue her. Yet they expected him to best her in a contest? Absurd! The other three had not escaped unharmed, she had heard the other mothers' trumpeting. Compared to the other three, she, a great Hungarian Horntail, was more cunning and quicker. A fact she very well knew from dealing with the dragons at home. She was, Harry knew from the dragon books, the most dangerous and fearsome dragon at their home reserve — and all the other dragons knew it, too.

It is the right of every creature to choose their own path — at least Harry thought so, despite the Dursleys and the other adults trying to control his. She probably did, too, to some degree.

Harry faced his decision without fear. His calm was clearly soothing to her, he could tell.

She probably had been unable to relax at all since they began moving her and the others from their home.

He waited happily for her decision.

He would be disappointed if she refused, and told him to leave.

He wanted to die, right now.

§I will help you,§ she hissed quietly, §Pick up the fake,§ she ordered.

After a moment, he bent down, slowly, never taking his eyes from hers. More noise erupted from the audience around them, but just as quickly died down.

She took a deep breath.

A dragon's flame can be broad, sweeping a wide area. Or it can be narrow and focused. A dragon can control the heat of the flame, but the more focused it is the hotter it is. A Hungarian Horntail could put out a flame that would dry the morning dew in a meadow without browning the grass, or one that would shatter a boulder without harming the tree growing beside it.

.o\O/o.

Harry blinked.

That was rather surprising.

One moment he was standing in the Arena talking with a Hungarian Horntail at Hogwarts, holding a golden egg; the next, he was standing in a what was obviously an office waiting room. He remembered the dragon inhaling as he straightened, and then a wash of heat and the smell of sulphur intensified as it blew over him when she exhaled.

She had flamed him. Well, he guessed, he certainly needn't have worried about dying being painful! Plus, she had done as she had promised — she had helped him out of the Tournament.

It wasn't a small or empty room, either. It was huge! There had to be hundreds of people here. The chairs, arranged in rows, looked like the cheap plastic kind that schools used, with thin, spindly legs and single-piece formed seats that were never comfortable. The walls were a faded green — avocado, he thought his Aunt 'Tunia called it. There were pictures hanging, all landscapes of desolate locations that no one in their right mind would want to visit. The floor appeared to be concrete, with worn paths between the rows, and a thick layer of dust underneath the chairs.

He stared around in amazement. There was music playing in the background, but it almost couldn't be heard for the harried voice loudly calling names, "Pilavullakandi Narayan, room eleven. Gaylord Grouse, room two. Vladimir Ivanov, room twenty. Tyrion Lannister, room seven. Kocheri Rahman, room ten. Yip Chan, room sixteen. Shira Biscus, room six. Clair Hazel, room nine. Nergüi Bürinbilig, room twelve. Chiyo Mitaka, room three . . .," in an almost unbroken stream. People in bizarre clothes and armours were standing and making their ways to the lone hallway, the only exit to the room, one that he could see was lined with doors.

"Qin Shi Li, room fifteen . . .,"

He made his way to a nearby chair and sat, looking around.

"Liu Xiang, room seventeen . . .,"

People in all sorts of clothes and costumes were appearing out of nowhere at the borders of the room, and seated people were just as quickly being called to doors.

"Inigo Montoya, room one . . .,"

.o\O/o.