The crisp November wind bit at Harry's cheeks as he ascended the wooden stairs leading up to the spectator gallery. The stands, hastily constructed with enchanted scaffolding and protective charms, overlooked a vast, enclosed arena carved deep into the Hogwarts grounds.
It was the first time in Harry's life that he was watching a life-threatening magical event instead of being thrown into one.
He wasn't sure how to feel about it.
To his left, Hermione Granger sat wrapped in a crimson scarf, gripping the rail with a mixture of anticipation and worry. To his right, Neville Longbottom looked tense but excited, bouncing his new wand against his knee nervously.
"Hard to believe we're actually just… sitting here," Hermione said softly.
Harry smirked. "Don't jinx it."
Neville leaned in. "Do you know what they're facing?"
Harry gave a noncommittal shrug. "I've heard rumors. That's all."
He had heard rumors. And he had seen the truth.
Down in the center of the arena, the dragon handlers began to emerge—broad-shouldered witches and wizards in scorched leathers, armed with long steel rods enchanted with fire-suppressing charms. A few of them, spotting Harry in the stands, gave him subtle nods of respect.
Harry returned none of them.
He hadn't told Hermione or Neville what happened the night he followed Hagrid and Madame Maxime into the Forbidden Forest. He hadn't told them how the Hungarian Horntail broke loose. Or how he stopped it.
He doubted they'd believe him anyway.
A massive steel gate creaked open at the far end of the field. The crowd gasped and leaned forward.
And with a thunderous roar, the first dragon was dragged into the arena.
Its scales shimmered like obsidian. A Swedish Short-Snout, Harry recognized. Sleek and silver-blue, its eyes burned with rage as chains bound to its limbs forced it to move toward the center.
The dragon fought them every step of the way—slashing its claws against the stone, lashing its tail. The dragon handlers placed enchanted stakes into the ground, anchoring the chains deep into the earth. The beast's legs were tied in place, and a magically-reinforced nest was summoned with a wave of several wands.
Three large, stone-colored dragon eggs were gently placed within the nest.
And then… a fourth.
The Golden Egg, shining like treasure from a storybook.
"They're using maternal instinct," Hermione whispered, disgusted. "That's awful."
"Necessary," Neville muttered. "Otherwise they wouldn't protect it with enough force to be a challenge."
Harry said nothing. He watched the way the dragon curled her body around the nest, letting out a guttural growl, her head swaying like a predator.
And then a loud voice boomed across the stadium:
"CHAMPION CEDRIC DIGGORY OF HOGWARTS!"
The crowd erupted in cheers as Cedric Diggory stepped into the arena, his wand clenched tightly. He looked composed—but Harry could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes flicked toward the dragon and then immediately away.
"Go, Cedric!" shouted someone behind them.
Hermione clasped her hands. "He looks so nervous…"
Harry leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
Cedric was brave. No doubt about it. But even bravery can tremble when faced with living flame.
The Short-Snout immediately rose with a threatening growl, spreading her wings as far as the chains would allow. Cedric took a few steps, then dove behind a large boulder as the dragon unleashed a stream of silver fire that lit up half the field.
Neville flinched. "Bloody hell!"
"Language," Hermione hissed, but her voice shook.
Cedric tried Summoning Charms, Freezing Charms, and a series of illusion spells, but none of them lasted long enough to distract the dragon. Twice, he narrowly avoided being burned. The crowd gasped when the fire licked his sleeve and turned it to ash.
Harry watched silently. He admired Cedric's skill—but he also saw his fear.
Then Cedric did something clever. He transfigured nearby rocks into cows, sending them trotting across the field. The dragon's eyes tracked the movement, confused. For just a second, it hesitated—sniffing the fake cattle—and in that moment, Cedric sprinted.
One breath. Two.
And he grabbed the Golden Egg.
The dragon roared, spinning violently and firing off another jet of flame. Cedric dove, rolling across the dirt as the fire grazed his arm. The protective wards shimmered around the arena's perimeter, absorbing the stray blast.
The crowd exploded into applause.
"YES!" Neville shouted. "He got it!"
Hermione clapped enthusiastically, though her eyes were still wide with worry. "That was… that was terrifying."
Harry exhaled slowly.
"He was lucky," he said.
"Lucky?" Hermione turned to him. "He was brilliant."
Harry didn't answer. His eyes were still locked on the dragon, now being slowly calmed by the handlers.
He knew what it was like to face a dragon. Not as a challenge.
But as something else.
A force of nature.
Something ancient… and beautiful… and dangerous.
As the crowd's cheers for Cedric Diggory died down, the dragon handlers moved quickly and cautiously into the arena. The Swedish Short-Snout was still restless, snapping at the chains even as they began releasing it from its restraints. The dragon let out one last angry snort before lashing out with its tail, knocking over a handler, and sending a small burst of fire toward the wooden arena wall.
The protective barrier held firm, shimmering like a golden dome.
Neville jumped. "Merlin, they're still dangerous even after the task!"
Hermione pressed a hand to her chest. "Why are they so agitated?"
Harry's eyes didn't leave the handlers. "Because they've been caged. Made to fight. They're not performing animals—they're creatures of instinct."
The three watched as it took ten handlers and a group of enchanted iron rods to finally subdue the Short-Snout. The dragon was dragged, growling and burning, back through the gate. The handlers followed with scorched faces and smoking boots.
And then, the ground trembled again.
Another dragon was being brought in.
The crowd hushed as a Chinese Fireball—also known as the Asian Queen—was wheeled into the arena on an enormous steel platform, its chains crackling with protective enchantments.
Unlike the silver elegance of the Short-Snout, this dragon was strikingly emerald green, its scales shimmering like polished jade. Its snout was shorter, but two golden horns curved back along its head like a crown, and bright ruby eyes glared out across the crowd with menace.
When it opened its mouth, a bright orange tongue flicked out, and fire swirled in its jaws like molten gold.
Neville whispered, "That one looks faster."
"More graceful too," Hermione added. "I read somewhere they use a lot of wing-based attacks. Less ground stomping, more aerial turns."
Harry said nothing. His eyes were locked on the dragon's talons—razor-sharp and stained a deep black.
Then the next champion was announced:
"CHAMPION FLEUR DELACOUR OF BEAUXBATONS!"
The crowd cheered loudly, although the cheers were noticeably mixed with excited whistles from several boys. Even Neville stood up straighter in his seat.
Fleur walked into the arena like a vision of calm, dressed in deep blue robes embroidered with silver thread. Her wand was already out. Her platinum hair flowed loosely, catching the breeze.
"She looks calm," Hermione muttered, though with a subtle edge in her tone.
"Yeah," Neville agreed dreamily. "Really calm…"
Harry snorted.
As Fleur moved closer to the dragon's perimeter, she stayed carefully outside the fire range, calculated and poised. The handlers had already set the dragon's nest with three gray eggs and one gleaming golden egg.
Then Fleur raised her wand to her throat and whispered something. Her voice magnified across the stadium, but not in words.
It was music.
She began to sing.
Not a song with lyrics, not a chant or a melody that anyone could place—this was a song of magic, of soothing, laced with her veela blood. It was a slow, spiraling tune that seemed to wind itself into the minds of those who heard it.
Harry blinked. For a moment, he forgot where he was.
The melody drifted across the arena like a breeze. People in the stands began to sway. One of the announcers actually yawned mid-commentary. Hermione elbowed Harry sharply.
"Don't fall asleep, Harry!"
"I'm not—!"
But even as he spoke, the tension in his chest relaxed. The dragon's wings, which had been partially spread in warning, now began to droop. The fire in its throat dimmed. Its body sagged slightly.
The Chinese Fireball blinked once.
Twice.
Its head dipped… just a little.
Fleur saw her chance.
Like a flash of blue silk, she dashed forward, wand tight in hand. The crowd erupted in excitement as she sprinted toward the nest.
"She's going for it!" Neville gasped.
"She's so fast!" Hermione added, grudgingly impressed.
But before Fleur could reach the golden egg, the dragon's eyes snapped open.
The trance shattered in an instant.
With a bone-rattling screech, the Fireball reared back and opened its jaws. Fire swelled at the back of its throat.
Fleur screamed and threw herself to the side.
A blast of flame exploded over the nest, missing her by inches.
"My God!" Hermione cried out.
"She's okay!" Neville pointed. "She's running!"
Indeed, Fleur—now with the golden egg clutched tightly to her chest—was bolting across the arena, her elegant composure long gone. Her robes were smoking at the edges, her hair tossed in disarray, but she made it to the exit and collapsed behind the protective wall, gasping.
The Fireball howled again, lashing at its chains.
But the crowd was already rising to their feet in applause.
"She did it!" Neville whooped.
"Barely," Harry said, watching her with narrow eyes.
"She still did it," Hermione said, sitting back. "And no injuries. That's what matters."
"I don't think she'll be trying that trick twice," Harry muttered.
He glanced at the dragon once more. It was still burning with rage, stomping and thrashing, the heat waves rippling upward toward the wards.
He knew exactly what that kind of fire felt like.
And Fleur had no idea how close she'd come to being roasted alive.
The air turned tense again as the announcer called,
"Champion Viktor Krum of Durmstrang!"
The crowd roared as the famous Seeker stepped into the arena, his sharp features set in a hard, focused expression. His wand was already drawn, and his heavy boots echoed on the packed dirt of the arena floor.
Before him, bound in thick, enchanted chains, stood the most feared of all dragons:
The Hungarian Horntail.
Even from the gallery, Harry could feel the heat emanating from the creature's coiled form. Its iron-colored scales gleamed like plated armor. Black eyes, narrow and malevolent, scanned the arena while sharp claws dug trenches into the stone. Its wings flexed, ready to strike, and its long tail tipped with vicious spikes swung behind it like a scythe waiting to be used.
Hermione clutched Harry's sleeve. "That dragon looks very dangerous?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. The worst of them."
Neville leaned forward nervously. "Do you think he'll be all right?"
Harry didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on Krum.
Krum raised his wand. "Conjunctiva!"
A burst of violet light streaked through the air—but the Horntail dodged.
Another blast—missed again.
The third curse connected.
It struck the Horntail's eyes with a crackling flash of dark magic. The dragon let out an ear-splitting roar, jerking its head back and clawing at its own face. Smoke curled from its eye sockets as the beast thrashed violently against its restraints.
"Was that—?" Hermione began, eyes wide.
Harry's voice was flat. "A Conjunctivitis Curse. But not the standard version. That was laced with dark magic."
Hermione recoiled. "Dark magic?! I thought Krum was… I mean—he seemed better than that."
"Not everyone shows you who they are when they smile," Harry muttered, still watching.
The Horntail howled in agony, bucking wildly. Its leg smashed against its own nest—a sickening crunch followed.
Gasps rang out from the audience.
Neville's mouth dropped. "Did it just—?"
Hermione clutched her mouth in horror. "It crushed one of its own eggs!"
The golden egg rolled dangerously close to the beast's claws.
The Horntail shrieked, blinded and in agony, letting out a cone of fire that scorched the entire northern end of the arena. Several protective barriers shimmered to life to shield the audience from the heat.
Viktor Krum ducked, rolled, and weaved through the fire like a ghost in flight. The crowd shouted his name.
Despite the chaos, Krum kept moving—slowly, methodically—toward the golden egg. The dragon swung its tail blindly, and one spike embedded itself into a large boulder behind Krum with a thunderous crack.
He didn't flinch.
He reached the golden egg, snatched it up—and, to everyone's surprise, raised it high above his head.
"FOR DURMSTRANG!" he roared, triumphant.
The crowd erupted in applause—but Harry froze.
"Idiot…" he muttered.
The Horntail's nostrils flared.
It couldn't see, but it could hear.
The dragon's head snapped toward the sound of Krum's voice, and in a blinding flash of muscle and instinct, its tail whipped forward like a viper.
"Look out!" Hermione shrieked.
The spiked tail hit Viktor square in the chest, launching him like a ragdoll through the air. He crashed into the stone wall at the far end of the arena and fell to the ground in a heap, unmoving.
Gasps and screams echoed throughout the stadium.
"Is he—?" Neville started.
"Alive," Harry said quickly. "But probably has a few broken bones."
The dragon handlers swarmed the arena instantly, throwing chains over the dragon again and dousing flames with jets of enchanted water. Several medics rushed toward Viktor, conjuring stretchers and stasis charms.
A few minutes later, Krum was levitated away from the field, barely conscious but clutching the golden egg in one bruised arm.
Once the final dragon was subdued and taken away, the judges stepped up to their platform. Their robes fluttered in the wind, and murmurs filled the stadium as the crowd waited for the results.
Ludo Bagman's voice rang out magically enhanced:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Now we turn to our distinguished judges for the scores!"
First came Cedric Diggory.
A panel of magical boards lit up one by one:
Madame Maxime: 8
Professor Dumbledore: 9
Barty Crouch Sr.: 9
Ludo Bagman: 8
Igor Karkaroff: 3
Total: 37
The crowd murmured in confusion at Karkaroff's blatant bias.
Next was Fleur Delacour.
Madame Maxime: 10
Professor Dumbledore: 8
Barty Crouch Sr.: 7
Ludo Bagman: 7
Igor Karkaroff: 2
Total: 34
Hermione gritted her teeth. "He gave others low points?"
Neville frowned. "He's just trying to boost Krum's rank."
Finally came Viktor Krum.
Despite his brutal approach—and the crushed egg—the scores came in:
Madame Maxime: 7
Professor Dumbledore: 7
Barty Crouch Sr.: 8
Ludo Bagman: 8
Igor Karkaroff: 10
Total: 40
The crowd's reaction was mixed—some cheered for the highest score of the day, others booed Karkaroff's blatant favoritism.
Hermione folded her arms. "So he used dark magic, injured a dragon, crushed an egg, and still got the highest score?"
Harry shook his head slowly. "That's bias, not justice."
Neville whispered, "What would you have done, Harry?"
Harry didn't answer.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
Everyone want to see flashy moves and powerful spells. They won't even care if you kill the dragon as long as they get entertained .
Author's Note:
Recently, I've been hearing that several of my fanfictions are being reposted on Webnovel without my permission, and some of those uploaders are even attaching their own Ko fi or Pat-reon. Please be aware that those versions are not authorized by me.
If you wish to continue reading my stories s?directly from the source, you can find many free chapters available on my official Pat(reon.) Thank you all for your support and for helping me protect my work.
Beuwulf