The cupboard under the stairs was not a place for a dragon. Yet, there Harry was, or rather, there Ignis Draconis was, crammed amidst dust bunnies and discarded shoes. He was five years old, though in dragon years, that barely counted as hatchling. It had started with a fever, a burning sensation that had wracked his small human frame. He'd screamed, and the Dursleys, predictably, had done nothing. Then, the change had come.
Scales had erupted from his skin, tearing the ill-fitting clothes. His limbs had lengthened, talons scraping against the cramped space. A roar, far too loud for the small cupboard, had shaken the house. When the transformation subsided, leaving behind a trembling, scaly child, Ignis had known. He was not Harry Potter. Harry Potter was the disguise. He was Ignis Draconis, a dragon in human skin.
The following years were a torment. The Dursleys, terrified and bewildered, were even more abusive. They locked him in the cupboard, fed him scraps, and screamed whenever he so much as breathed too loudly. Ignis learned to control his transformations, shifting back into the pathetic human form whenever they were near. He learned to suppress his fire, the burning rage that threatened to consume him and everything around him.
But the dragon was always there, simmering beneath the surface.
His magic, amplified by his draconic nature, manifested early and often. Dudley's toys spontaneously combusted. Aunt Petunia's prized roses withered at his touch. Uncle Vernon's temper tantrums were often punctuated by small, controlled bursts of flame from Ignis, directed just out of sight. He enjoyed the fear in their eyes, the way they tiptoed around him, even as they continued to treat him like dirt.
Then came the letter.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Ignis, in his human form, felt a flicker of something akin to hope. A place where he wouldn't be a freak, where his magic wouldn't be punished. A place where he could learn to control the dragon within.
His first glimpse of Hogwarts was breathtaking. The castle, ancient and imposing, resonated with power. But the wonder quickly faded as he was sorted into Gryffindor, a house filled with boisterous, often idiotic, students.
He met Ronald Weasley, a well-meaning but dim boy, and Hermione Granger, a brilliant but insufferable know-it-all. They became his friends, of sorts. But Ignis always felt a distance, a chasm that separated him from their petty concerns and childish squabbles.
The first year was a blur of lessons, near-death experiences, and the growing realization that Hogwarts, too, was filled with fools. He defeated Quirrell, possessed by Voldemort, not with the power of love, but with a blast of dragonfire that nearly incinerated the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Dumbledore, the ancient and enigmatic headmaster, seemed unsurprised. He merely smiled knowingly, his eyes twinkling with an unsettling awareness.
The second year brought the Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk. Ignis, in his dragon form, faced the serpent in the depths of the castle. The battle was fierce, a clash of scales and fangs, fire and venom. He won, of course. Dragons did not lose to snakes. But the experience left him weary, disgusted with the foolishness of the wizards who had allowed such a creature to fester in their school.
Sirius Black, his godfather, escaped Azkaban in his third year. Ignis found him, not out of any familial obligation, but out of curiosity. Black, a broken man haunted by his past, was pathetic. Ignis considered incinerating him on the spot, but decided against it. He was more useful alive, a pawn in a game he was only beginning to understand.
The Triwizard Tournament in his fourth year was the last had no desire to participate in the idiotic games, to risk his life for the amusement of the masses. But his name was drawn from the Goblet of Fire, a binding magical contract he could not break. He suspected Dumbledore's involvement, the old wizard's manipulative hand guiding him towards some unknown purpose.
The first task: dragons.
Ignis scoffed. He was a dragon. Hewasthe task.
The other champions, pathetic in their fear, struggled against their scaled opponents. Ignis, in his human form, approached the Hungarian Horntail. He spoke to her in the ancient language of dragons, a language of fire and blood, of mountains and storms. He told her of his plight, of his imprisonment in human skin, of his growing contempt for the world of wizards.
The Horntail listened, her fiery eyes softening with understanding. She nudged him gently with her snout, allowing him to retrieve the golden egg without resistance. The crowd roared, oblivious to the silent conversation that had transpired between dragon and dragon.
The second task, a rescue mission in the Black Lake, was equally pointless. He transformed, his scales shimmering in the murky water, and retrieved Ron Weasley with ease. The merpeople, normally hostile, parted before him, their eyes wide with awe and fear.
The third task, the maze, was where Ignis finally snapped.
The obstacles were tedious, the creatures annoying. He incinerated a sphinx that dared to ask him a riddle, blasted a boggart into oblivion, and crushed a dementor with his bare hands. He reached the center of the maze, the Triwizard Cup gleaming in the darkness.
And there he found him.
Peter Pettigrew, the rat-like traitor, and Lord Voldemort, reborn in a grotesque, infantile form.
Pettigrew forced him to touch the cup, a portkey that transported them to a graveyard. Voldemort, surrounded by his Death Eaters, prepared to perform a ritual, to regain his full power.
Ignis watched, his dragon eyes burning with contempt. He had played along, endured the idiocy, tolerated the fools. But no more.
As Voldemort began his incantation, Ignis transformed.
Scales erupted from his skin, tearing the ill-fitting clothes. His limbs lengthened, talons digging into the soft earth. A roar, far too loud for the small graveyard, shook the very foundations of the earth.
The Death Eaters screamed, scattering like cockroaches. Voldemort stared, his red eyes wide with disbelief.
Ignis Draconis, the dragon of Privet Drive, had finally awakened.
He unleashed his fire, a torrent of pure, incandescent rage that consumed the graveyard in a blinding inferno. The Death Eaters were incinerated, their screams silenced by the roaring flames. Voldemort, caught in the heart of the inferno, shrieked in agony as his fragile body was reduced to ash.
When the fire subsided, only Ignis remained, a magnificent dragon silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky. He spread his wings, vast and leathery, and launched himself into the air.
He was done with Hogwarts, done with wizards, done with the world of humans. He would find a new home, a place where he could be a dragon, free from the constraints of his pathetic human disguise.
The world would tremble at the roar of Ignis Draconis. They would learn to fear the dragon. And perhaps, just perhaps, they would finally understand the power they had so foolishly underestimated.