Hogwarts Reimagined

CW: Life threatening danger and fear of death. A child being forced into a death match (how do you write that in CW speak, idfk). Fire, blood, burns. Mentions of the smells of burnt hair and flesh. Possible disfigurement. Severe injury. Near death experience (and when I say near death, I mean near death), times two. Flashbacks, being essentially enveloped by something that is a trauma trigger. Watching a friend almost die. Being uncertain whether a friend is going to live or not and unable to find out.

With her wand in her left hand and cane in the right, Rhiannon limped across the tent, favouring Fleur and Viktor with a wan smile as she passed them. She left her cane leaning against the tent wall, then pushed her way through the canvas flaps and out into the grey sunlight, wincing as the gate clattered open and then she was in the arena, leaning heavily against the arena wall, staring across the rocky field at the massive black dragon. No, no she couldn’t get bogged down on how big it was, even though it was terrifyingly enormous.... nope. “Accio!” Rhiannon incanted aloud, and immediately wished she hadn’t – the dragon had been idly studying her before but now it was intent, and it lowered its’ head and growled at her, a low, threatening sound full of a power that rattled the very stones of the arena floor. This wasn’t a predator a werewolf could intimidate. Rhiannon was thoroughly outclassed in a way she had never experienced – this animal didn’t see her as an equal predator, she realised as she bowed her head in a vain attempt at submission, it saw her as an insignificant scavenger akin to a fox stealing scraps from a polar bear, and operating more on instinct than anything else she dove for cover behind a boulder, desperate only to escape that terrible violet gaze. This thing was more likely to eat her than accept any attempts at submission.

Rhiannon had at least thought ahead enough to stow her beloved Firebolt outside in the Quidditch broom sheds once she had finished fireproofing it, but it had still been a long enough hike up to the arena that Rhiannon expected it to be a solid five or so minutes before her broom actually turned up, which meant five minutes she had to stay alive and stay mobile on knees she wasn’t sure would support her weight. This fight wasn’t like the others, Rhiannon could feel that already – this dragon wouldn’t sit and wait for her to come within striking range, as far as it was concerned her being in the arena was too close already – in the wild individuals or bonded pairs of this species claimed territories hundreds of square feet in size and defended that massive area ferociously.

The arena floor shook under the dragon’s weight as it prowled towards’ Rhiannon, and she realised she had to make a move or her friends would have to watch the dragon eat her. Where to move, where to move – ultimately it didn’t matter, so long as it was away from the dragon, and Rhiannon scurried away from her hiding position across the arena to a new spot behind a large rocky outcrop at the edge of the chasm that ringed the whole arena save for the bridge to the entrance gate, she could duck over the edge of the cliff if the dragon lunged at her – better bruised than eaten, she decided, and if it really came to it she could probably leap most of the way out again – she’d prefer not to, it would hurt her knees and out her to the crowd, but again – outed was also better than eaten.

A jet of violet-tinged fire seared the air just above Rhiannon’s head and she flattened herself to the ground, cursing her squirrel brain for refusing to stay on task. Nothing to sharpen her up like a trauma trigger, she thought grimly, as once again she darted to a new rocky shelter, skirting around the edge of the central arena platform with the cliff to one side as she counted endless seconds waiting for her broom to arrive. “Finite incantatem,” she muttered, releasing the jinxes on her senses – she couldn’t afford to dull her senses now. And there it was, on the very edge of her hearing, a low buzzing sound that thrummed below the whispers of the crowd, the very familiar sound of a broom approaching at high speed. Her broom.

Now, how to get to it. If she called it right to her hiding place, the dragon would be on her before she got a chance to get airborne... no, Rhiannon had to intercept it. If the broom was coming from the castle, that meant the dragon was between her and it and she had no doubt the Hebridean Black’s reflexes were sharp enough that it would crunch her precious Firebolt in midair before it ever reached her.

With that in mind, Rhiannon set off again, hunched over and using her hands for balance as she scrambled around the platform’s edge, navigating more by hearing than sight so that she could put herself between the dragon and the broom until... there it was, the buzzing was loud enough that it drowned out the crowd on this side of the arena as it whizzed between the bars of the arena wall and sped towards Rhiannon. She crouched, tensing her muscles to spring with her wand clenched in her teeth to leave her hands free, and as it drew near enough she leapt straight up at it, catching the handle in her good hand and hauling herself onboard as the broom immediately took off straight upwards. There was a terrible snap and a concussive blast of air from just feet below her and Rhiannon clung to her broom for dear life as it shot upward, reacting like an extension of her own body to her instinctive need to get the fuck out of there.

Just feet from the space she had previously occupied, the Hebridean Black’s powerful jaws had closed on thin air and now it reared up on its hind paws for a better reach, glaring balefully up at Rhiannon as she circled the arena airspace, surveying the dragon from a safe distance – if anything within a hundred kilometres of this creature could be considered safe, Rhiannon thought grimly as she dodged a gout of fire. Unlike the other two dragons which had been unwilling to leave their nests, this one paced the ground below, growling and snarling up at the werewolf who circled high above the top of the arena fence. To her, that said it didn’t consider her a serious threat to its eggs – enough of a threat to chase off or kill, but not one that required the furious mother to keep a close watch on the nest the way the first two dragons had.

Wait – she could use that, Rhiannon realised, and the first fragments of a plan slowly began to come together in her mind as she circled the arena again, studying the dragon and the terrain for anything she could use. This dragon wasn’t reticent to leave its’ nest – that meant all she had to do was get it to chase her far enough away, then double back on it, not a problem now that she had the Firebolt. There had to be a reason it hadn’t already flown after her already, though, and that could be a hitch in her plan... yes, there, a huge beaten metal shackle that gleamed with magic even from this distance, fastened firmly around one of the great black dragon’s hind ankles. Well, it did make some sense to chain the dragon down, Rhiannon mused grimly – their perch here in the highlands was within flying distance of the dragon’s natural habitat, if it wasn’t restrained it might simply bail on the competition altogether – it wasn’t unheard of for this species to abandon nests.

So, flying was out of the question, Rhiannon thought to herself as she studied the dragon. But climbing... the dragon had six limbs including its wings, and sturdy taloned digits extending from the wrist of each of those wings – that suggested to Rhiannon it was well suited for climbing, which made sense given its rocky natural habitat... yes, it could probably climb the bars if she annoyed it enough, Rhiannon surmised.

Now, annoying other beings on purpose wasn’t Rhiannon’s strong suit, and she took her broom for another circle of the airspace above the arena as she considered the problem. Then it occurred to her with a flash of the obvious – she could speak to snakes, and a Basilisk wasn’t much more closely related to regular snakes than a dragon was, the ability might well work just fine here – she was under no illusions about having any persuasive sway over the dragon using Parseltongue, she wasn’t Fleur, but it might just irritate the dragon enough to give chase if the little scavenger actually talked back in a way it understood.

Rhiannon shook her head and blinked a few times to clear her vision, narrowing her focus in on the dragon’s shovel-horned head and its’ long, sinuous neck... not far from a snake indeed. HEY! Rhiannon bellowed down in Parseltongue, swooping tauntingly closer as she spoke. Yeah, you know what I am – and I’m not leaving, aren’t you going to do something about it? Or are you too slow? Oh, I could fly rings around you, you big ugly brute, come on, she taunted the dragon. It sent a shiver down her spine, being so rude to a creature that could flatten her with a single paw-swipe, but she reminded herself it couldn’t fly – probably – and she could just get out of range if need be. Wolves goaded prey into overextending themselves all the time, she remembered – and while this was a little different, what with her being a short step from the dragon’s natural prey, she supposed the skills should still translate so long as she stayed out of her own head.

The spikes that prickled along the black dragon’s spine stood on end and its’ head shot up, goring horns pointed straight up at Rhiannon and amber fire flaring in its’ nostrils, setting the werewolf’s nerves to prickling in apprehension. How DARE you, hairless little rat-monkey! The dragon roared, words translating in Rhiannon’s mind through the power of her family’s serpent-speech even as the very air rattled with the power of its’ lungs. The sky is my domain, yet one such as you would challenge me? My forebears ate bears when they still roamed this land – yes, and little wolves too, impudent pup, the dragon growled.

It was more instinct than any conscious thought that sent Rhiannon rocketing skyward again as the furious dragon leapt at her, once again missing by mere feet before crashing back to the stones with a crash that almost shook Rhiannon loose from her broom. Oh, you asked for it! The dragon snarled, and crossed the arena in a scant handful of bounds before it began to climb, six limbs making short work of the five hundred feet of bars while Rhiannon climbed ever higher to keep abreast of it, careful not to shoot off too quickly, she didn’t want the dragon losing interest in a menace it could not catch. The crowd below them shrieked and fled from the section of the stand directly beneath the wall that had become the dragon’s climbing frame as the metal shrieked and groaned in protest at the weight. Rhiannon expected the dragon to be jerked back by the chain, but it just climbed after her at an ever increasing pace, roaring its’ fury into the overcast sky and battering Rhiannon with an onslaught of fury until she had to close her mind to the Parseltongue or risk losing consciousness under the sheer mental force.

Somewhere in the back of Rhiannon’s mind she supposed the dragon’s chain must be extendible or it would have fallen by now, but it was hard to care that much about a chain with the largest animal she’d ever met on her tail, she was counting the clack of the dragon’s talons on the bars below her until they stopped and she slowed her ascent, still counting until she judged she had enough distance on the dragon to turn back and ready her wand, grinning toothily at the incensed beast – despite her terror, there was an addictive adrenaline to the experience and Rhiannon had to rein what felt like it could be a dangerous cocky enjoyment of the flight as she swooped down on the dragon again.

Try THIS on for size, ya overgrown inkblot! Rhiannon jeered as she sailed past, and as the dragon swung its’ massive head toward her she drew back her wand and spat out an incantation she had memorised in her weeks of training since learning their task would involve dragons. “INFICIO OCULO!”

Rhiannon shut her ears to Parseltongue as the dragon howled in pain and fury and the sickly smell of pus threatened to choke her, she couldn’t get distracted – the dragon would be fine, the Conjunctivitis Curse wasn’t lethal on an animal of that size and she guessed if it fell its’ instincts would take over and allow it to use its wings as a parachute to land without being injured too badly. Her target now was the nest almost five hundred feet below her and closing rapidly, the wan sunlight glinting off the golden egg nestled among the black ones that gleamed with a faint iridescent sheen.

The first sign of danger was a low roar that buzzed in Rhiannon’s inner ears, then a searing heat on her back as she plummeted downward. Rhiannon looked back and panic clutched at her heart as her vision was filled with a plume of yellow fire so wide it swallowed the sky around her, rapidly bearing down on her even as she accelerated downward. There was no outrunning the fire, only weathering it, and Rhiannon remembered too late that while her robes and broom had been thoroughly fireproofed, her own body had not. “FRIGNIS!” she screamed, throat stripped raw in the instant before she was engulfed by the flames and her daring dive became a barely-controlled free-fall plummet towards the rapidly-nearing stone, every nerve set afire in the most literal way. There was no thinking, her plan was in tatters and all Rhiannon could do was scream in pure animal terror until-

WHAM-

Rhiannon struck the ground hard and was thrown from her broom, winded and gasping for air in her blind panic and pain. She had no idea where she was, only that there was hard stone beneath her torn and bloodied case-paws – no, hands, gloves, she reminded herself distantly, she was wearing gloves – and everything reeked of smoke, blood and raw fear. Every breath was agony, dimly she realised that breathing inside the firestorm must have scorched her lungs and it was only thanks to her Flame-Freezing Charm that she had survived at all. No teenager could hope to enact such a charm powerful enough to render dragonfire truly harmless – but it had kept her alive.

Coughing and wheezing, keening with pain, Rhiannon pushed herself up into a kneeling position, then clapped her hands over her scorched ears, her howl of pain at the sensation of scalding, shredded leather against the blistered skin of her cheeks swallowed up by the crowd far, far above as the stands erupted in a storm of cheers – they must have all been holding their collective breath, waiting to see if she had survived the fall. Well, I did survive, Rhiannon thought mutinously, gathering her scattered wits from where they nested like a flock of particularly errant geese among the spreading fires of that terrible summer night that lived on in her memory. Wits – check, she thought, taking stock of her situation. Her fireproofed robes had saved most of her skin from the worst of the heat – but the worst was a low bar when dealing with dragonfire as she was quickly learning, and she doubted there was any part of her body not at least blistered. The back of her head and neck had borne the brunt of the heat, and Rhiannon identified a new, acrid reek amongst the fear, blood, sweat and general charring around her that she quickly discovered to be burning hair. Over the two years since leaving the Dursleys for good, with the help of a little magic, Rhiannon’s hair had grown into a curly mass that brushed her mid back, but that was ruins now she realised with a childish pang of grief – even the strands that had hung loose over her face were brittle and broken, the back was as good as gone and her scalp and neck alike badly burned. Some of Rhiannon’s wits scrambled out of the mental pen she had built as what was left of her hair fell apart in her investigating hands, the remaining flames crumbled into embers in her palms. Her gloves were ruined – fireproof yes, tear-proof, less so; and she stripped them off and tossed the bloodied leather aside with another low moan as it dragged over her blistered palms. Wand, wand, where was her wand... there, it had been thrown a few metres and she had to crawl to retrieve it, sobbing breathlessly with the pain all the while. “S-ssssss- st-st-st-st-ssss- stinguo,” Rhiannon stammered, finally managing the incantation for the charm that would at least douse any unseen flames still dancing across her skin. She had no way to tell if it had worked – it still felt as if the flames were at her very back and she turned in clumsy circles trying to see, keening in pain all the while, but there was no real fire and she had to conclude that at least until the task was up, she was going to have to live with the pain.

Well, how’s that, brain? Phobia, survived, Rhiannon told herself grimly, but she knew it wasn’t that simple – she was running on adrenaline and survival instincts right now, if anything her fear of fire would likely worsen after this – phobias weren’t rational things, her da Remus had taught her that much. And even now, she doubted her ability to get through this if she saw the fire again, the fence keeping her mind in check was a fragile one and a repeated trigger when she was already in so much pain could well trigger an episode. She couldn’t afford to dissociate now, that would get her killed. And she had promised to survive.

Slowly, trembling in agony and exhaustion alike, Rhiannon set her wand between her teeth and dragged herself to her feet and took stock of where she was. Her beloved Firebolt lay metres away, scraped and chipped from the fall but otherwise unharmed, and she made a mental note to congratulate Dudley on how well his potion had worked. And perhaps the makers of the broom itself, for their work on the enchantments so complex that they had granted a simple object powers near enough to sentience that it had kept her alive in her terrible fall.

Rhiannon knew better than to touch it – undamaged by the heat it might be, but it would probably still be searing to the touch. “D-d-d-d-d-Domum,”she whispered, enchanting her broom so that it might return to the castle, she didn’t want to risk it being left in the arena and damaged during Viktor’s fight. Squinting against the sunlight, Rhiannon peered upwards, following the Firebolt’s departure and surveying where she had landed all at once. Ah. She had landed in the deep gorge around the arena – that explained why she had been left in peace to recover, the dragon probably thought she had died in the fall and the pained roars and thuds from above told her that it was still thoroughly disabled by her Conjunctivitis curse.

Sorry, broom, Rhiannon thought quietly, giving up on speech and summoning the Firebolt back to her with a wordless flick of her wand – she couldn’t climb a hundred feet up a cliff even if she were uninjured, her dismissal had been premature. Then with the Firebolt resting against Rhiannon’s shoulder, she applied a quick episkey to her hands before summoning her ruined gloves back and haphazardly repairing them with the Mending charm. They would still be bin material after this task, but she needed the scant protection they offered for the madcap plan that was beginning to form in her head. Briefly she considered frigus, the Cooling charm she often applied to her clothing to keep from overheating, but decided that it would dull her perception too much for what she planned next.

Finally, Rhiannon was ready, and she climbed stiffly astride her faithful broom. Hugging the handle, she nudged it into a slow, deliberate climb upward until she circled just above the rim of the central platform, surveying the scene. The dragon paced the arena, keeping a noticeable distance from its’ nest, perhaps for fear of squashing the eggs now that its’ eyes had swelled shut. There, Rhiannon decided, and she guided the Firebolt into the clumsiest non-crash-landing of her life, immediately stumbling and falling to all fours as she dismounted. That was okay – this way she could feel the vibration of the dragon’s footfalls through the stone, and she took a few moments to accustom herself to the sensation until she was confident she could keep a safe distance from the dragon using that method. “Now, d-d-d-d-domum, f-f-f-f-f’r real th’s time,” she slurred softly – it just seemed more polite to tell the broom out loud even though she could technically cast the same spell either way, that broom had saved her life and she felt it deserved a little bit of respect.

Rhiannon ran her next incantation over in her head – this one she wanted to cast aloud too, but this time for the crowd, so that they might see what she had planned. “O-o-o-o-o-o-Ocuminus totalus,” she announced as clearly as she could, tripping over the first syllable a little as she carefully brushed the tip of her wand across both eyes. The crowd gasped - it seemed they had some way of hearing whatever the champion in the ring said though Rhiannon couldn’t figure out exactly what and didn’t care to try for the moment.

Satisfied that the crowd knew what she had done, Rhiannon opened her blistered eyelids to an empty black field that enveloped her almost like a familiar, comforting blanket. Her pyrophobia was primarily triggered visually – and this eliminated that threat. Next was the actual stealth part. Silencio, she thought firmly, directing her wand first at her feet, then her hands – she needed them for balance like this and it would be foolish to silence only her foot-steps, then her clothes and finally at her throat. It was uncomfortable, existing without the sound of her breath and the rustle of her clothes to mark her presence in the world, but Rhiannon needed to hide that presence right now and only one of the dragon’s senses had been disabled, she still needed to fool the rest. Then, with her wand clamped between her teeth, Rhiannon set off on what could charitably be called two legs, using her gloved hands for balance as she padded quietly – not quite silently, she had silenced her footfalls but not the scrape of loose rocks against eachother, but if she was careful and slow enough Rhiannon was confident enough that the dragon’s continuing distress would mask the occasional skrr-click of the stones.

Rhiannon took a deep breath into her scorched lungs and sorted through the scents, hunting for the smell of birth-blood that still clung to the live eggs in the nest – ah, there, and among them she could pick out the magic-laden metal tang of her prize, still a significant distance away but within reach as the crowd watched her creep slowly closer and closer. This terrain made for difficult navigation without sight, and several times Rhiannon had to backtrack as she found herself trapped by boulders too tall to risk clambering over in case the dragon still had a little vision and spotted her outlined against the sky. Still, she could taste the magic on the breeze, with every breath a little nearer until – there, that wasn’t a boulder at all but the shell of an egg, so much like stone that Rhiannon had mistaken it for such at first with the limited tactile sensation she could gather through the holes she had rubbed in the fingertips of her gloves just traversing the arena. Carefully she slipped into the nest, and was immediately faced with a new problem – these eggs were easily two or three feet taller than her not-quite-five feet of height. From above she could have picked out the golden egg with relative ease, but Rhiannon didn’t dare lift the curtain on her vision, she could hear the Hebridean Black spouting fire into the air in its fury and that was quite bad enough, the sight would have been unthinkably worse. Instead, Rhiannon took her wand from her mouth, and made ten quick incisions with the Severing charm in the finger-pads of her already-ruined gloves, then stowed it back between her jaws and carried on searching for the golden egg, touch by careful touch, fearful of each soft clink of the stony shells against eachother as she slipped carefully through the real eggs in the nest. Stone, stone – metal, there it was under her fingers, and Rhiannon snatched the egg up in her arms.

But in her haste, Rhiannon neglected to keep quiet and her heart plummeted into her gut as the dragon’s roars stilled and she felt its footfalls grow steady. For a moment she thought she might get away with it, but this dragon was incandescent with fury, a proud creature brought so low by insignificant not-even-prey, and she knew in that instant she had to get out as she felt the tremors of the Hebridean Black’s approach through the earth.

Golden egg tucked under one arm and her wand still clenched in her teeth, Rhiannon scrambled back through the maze of eggs and out of the nest, released the spell on her eyes with only a brief finger-touch on her wand, and took off running across the arena with her now-useful eyes fixed firmly on the terrain and not on the enormous, enraged dragon in the centre of the rocky platform, headed straight for the bridge and the gate that was already beginning to rise.

WOLF-MONKEY! The dragon howled in rage, but it was too late, the rush back to its’ nest had carried it right out of Rhiannon’s path and she couldn’t quite restrain a gleeful little whoop as she pelted toward the bridge, heedless of the pain in her knees and her hips and her everywhere as she closed on the gate. Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Ten, she could hear the dragon whirling around behind her, the rumble of its’ bounding footfalls drawing nearer. Five, the heat of a nearing fireball closing on her back, Rhiannon tore the wand from her mouth and cast the Flame-Freezing charm again almost without thinking even as she put on a last burst of speed. Three feet, two – Rhiannon threw herself to the ground and skidded on blistered elbows through the gateway, hard-packed earth giving way to thin grass, the fireball crashed impotently against the clearly-enchanted arena bars behind her and fizzled out without ever touching Rhiannon.

I beat you, Rhiannon gasped, the whisper of Parseltongue coming easy to her even as she lay winded on the grass, already hearing the Healers and her fellow Champions closing in around her as her vision flickered and began to grow dim as it had so many times before. The wolf-monkey beat you. Remember it, she murmured, one last taunt before her hearing buzzed and grew dull and she rolled over with a giddy smile spreading over her scarred, singed and no doubt soot- and blood-stained face, eyes already closing as the last of her adrenaline faded and gave way to the welcoming dark of unconsciousness.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

Rhiannon awoke, face-down, to the curious sensation of quick, clever fingers dressing her wounds. As her awareness returned, so did the pain, and she whined softly without meaning to. Almost as soon as she began to whimper, she was awash in cool numbing sensation and the Healer made a soft shushing sound. “Dobby’s most apologies, Miss Black,” came a reedy voice from behind and above her. “Dobby did not wish to cool you until you woke lest it become dangerous.”

“’s fine,” Rhiannon demurred as she opened eyes and blinked – she was hovering a few inches above a makeshift hospital bed, presumably so that she could breathe easily while the Healer worked on her injuries, and dressed in what felt like some kind of hospital gown that could be untied in places for easy access to wounds, currently the back lay open and Rhiannon shivered, feeling uncomfortably exposed. Then the rest of what they had said sunk in, and she stirred in earnest, straining against the restraints of the charm until she realised it was fruitless. “D-d-did y’ say- Dobby?”

Something creaked and there was a soft slap of skin on skin, Rhiannon guessed that Dobby – for it could be no other, she would know that voice anywhere – must have bobbed and clapped his hands in that earnest, genuine manner he had in all his emotions. “Yes indeed, Miss Black! It is Dobby, and while D- while I would be most happy to see your face, I need to finish with your back so if you could please lie still, you are rumpling my dressings.” the elf told her firmly. There was a new confidence to Dobby’s manner, a certainty that could only have come from time being treated like a person and not property, and that affected everything from his manner of speech to the new steadiness of his once-tremulous hands as he worked on Rhiannon’s injured back and neck, using what felt like a mixture of charms and plain medicine until he was satisfied with his work and nimbly adjusted the charms to turn Rhiannon over and tie up the back of her gown, then laid Rhiannon carefully down in the bed and with another flick of his sparking fingertips, adjusted the bed itself to bring Rhiannon into a sitting position.

“’m happy t’ see you, b-b-b-b-but, how are you here?” Rhiannon asked him clumsily, managing a lopsided smile as she finally laid eyes on the little elf who had spent a full year trying to save her life at great risk to his own. He was dressed in a proper set of Healers’ whites with a sash over one shoulder that might have been green but Rhiannon wasn’t certain - it looked grey and so did a lot of things - and he flicked a puff of cool air at Rhiannon as if in gentle admonishment for her question – or perhaps her smiling, her face did feel a right mess.

“Still, please, Miss Black. Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has been learning to give orders, yes – especially when youngsters get into trouble, hmmm. But I suppose it is as good a question as any. When Dobby was freed, see, the kind Headmaster gave him a job at the castle and wages, yes, but suddenly h- I had a life, I could want things. Dobby likes to help, see – my kind always has. But I wanted also to learn things, to help better. There are so many books of great knowledge in the castle, truly it is a wondrous place! And over time, D- I found myself in the Hopsital Wing more and more, first cleaning messes, then reading books in spare time – spare time! - and eventually, wonderful Madam Poppy offers us a real job, a job where Dobby can help peopleand more learning – the two most favourite things! The green is for a trainee, see, but in time Dobby will be a full Healer – the first elf ever, ac-credited by the Hospital of the Saint and all!”

Dobby’s speech was still a little stilted, filled with quirks of grammar and mannerisms unique to elvenkind, perhaps it always would be – but it wasn’t as if Rhiannon was a particularly fine example of linguistic mastery herself and she followed along happily enough as the elf explained his new role within the castle, which he had clearly been bursting with pride to tell somebody new about.

“I’m-m-m-m-m-nnnn- ‘m, really, really happy for you, Dobby,” Rhiannon told him as the elf began to weave charms across her face, humming to himself in a frowny little way as he worked – a perfectionist, she could feel how careful he was with each little spell, and she had some familiarity with the perpetual dissatisfaction of perfectionism herself.

“But it is all thanks to you, Miss Black!” Dobby cried, his green eyes round with dismay in his sharp-boned little face as he wrung his hands and bobbed anxiously. “You gave us this freedom and now Dobby can never repay you, never!”

Tears welled up in Rhiannon’s eyes and she found herself coughing and choking for breath on a throat full of feelings-snot. “If-f-f-f-ff- if anything, Dobby, I owe you- I just gave you back something that should’ve always been yours, y-y-y-y-y-y-yo-yo-u-ou – you saved my life that night, and Dudley’s, you’re why I’ve got a brother and dads now and... oh, I can’t say it-t-t-t-t-t- it all, I just... if, if you want to give me anything – I’d l-l-l-l-l-like, if w-w-w-we could be friends.”

At that, Dobby burst out into noisy sobs and wrung his hands harder – Rhiannon guessed he would have ordinarily thrown himself at her for a hug but was acutely aware of how badly such an action would have hurt Rhiannon in her current state, leaving him torn. “Miss Black, you are a very kind witch, yes – truly a great witch. Dobby – I – would be most proud, most proud to be your friend.” he managed once he had his sobs under control, his long-fingered hands clasped together in earnest formality before him as he spoke.

Rhiannon grinned broadly, heedless of how the expression pulled at her damaged skin even as Dobby flicked more admonishing breeze-puffs at her. “And-and-an-ana-a-aa- bah, and, I’m just ‘s proud t’ be yours. We should, dunno, have a p-p-p-pro-proper catchup some time, without all th’ bandages an’ burn lotion, maybe one Hogsmeade weekend if you’re free – if you’d-d-d-d like, if that’s okay and all,” she suggested with an awkward shrug.

Dobby’s face lit up and he rocked back and forth between the balls and heels of his feet in delight. “Dobby would- I would, very much enjoy that – there is a very nice tea-shop in the village that employs free elves and pays them well, some of Dobby’s friends and their family have work there and he- and I, very much enjoy a visit. They have many teas without stimulants, safe for woof-friends,” he replied, adding on the quick reassurance as he caught the frown growing between Rhiannon’s eyebrows. “Caffeine is not safe for elves either, we are much too small for it.”

Rhiannon wrinkled her nose – she supposed that made sense. As far as she had seen, elves would ordinarily eat and drink in similar proportions to an average human, something about a very quick metabolism, so it made sense that things like stimulants and most likely intoxicants alsowould affect them more. “I’d – I’d like that, tea’s nice an’ I get dizzy in the Three Broomstick fr’m jus’ the fumes on real busy days,” she agreed.

From outside the tent came a deafening crash and a howling roar that sent Rhiannon shooting upright in bed even as Dobby protested and tried to convince her to relax back again. “N-n-n-n-nuh- no! Viktor, I have t’ – have t’ make sure he’s okay, he – I forgot-” Rhiannon stammered, totally unable to form a coherent sentence in her sudden fear and guilt.

“Miss Black, your wounds!” Dobby protested as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, swaying on unsteady feet for a moment before she steadied herself on the edge of the bed. “Miss Black, they will break open, they are only beginning to heal – you are not okay, please sit back down!”

Rhiannon waved off Dobby’s warning and staggered across the medical tent to the entrance, then pushed through the flaps and leaned on the nearest tent pole for balance as her tired eyes were assailed by sunlight which, though pale, was blinding in comparison to the low-lit tent interior and she had to take a moment to get her bearings before she set off again, rounding the side of the tent at a shambling jog until she was up against the bars of the arena wall and clutching them for support, peering through in vain desperation as she searched for her friend.

Viktor darted back and forth in the arena, dressed in black-trimmed red robes of a similar athletic style to his peers but with what looked like a leather breastplate over the top and similarly light armoured shoulder pads. He moved like a bull-fighter, facing off against the sinuous blue-grey dragon Rhiannon remembered to be the Swedish Shortsnout. It was deceptively fine in build despite being easily as long and tall as the Hebridean Black had been, with far larger wings spread in a threat display and its long spade-tipped tail lashing back and forth like a furious cat’s as it paced back and forth across the arena floor between Viktor and its nest.

Now that she was watching, the source of the earlier crash was obvious to Rhiannon – a great arcing crater cut into the arena platform right on the cliff’s edge, like something massive had taken a bite out of the rock itself – or a particularly powerful young wizard had set an explosive charm deep in the stone. Indeed, Rhiannon noticed the Shortsnout was heavily favouring one side and blood flowed freely down its scales from a deep wound on its neck just above the shoulder joint as well as countless tears in the arm and membrane of the wing on the same side – far from fatal, but a serious injury nonetheless and all the more impressive for the fact that dragon scales were impervious to spells and all but the highest-quality weaponry. Now the crater made more sense, and Rhiannon whistled in awe as she realised her foreign friend must have exploded the very stone beneath the dragon.

“Ge-g-g-g-g-ge-e-ge-ge-get around it, Viktor!” Rhiannon yelled, seeing an opening in the dragon’s defense on its wounded side. But Viktor was a Quidditch player – he had seen the same gap and bolted for it, surprisingly quick on his feet for his solid build. The dragon lunged after him, unsteady now it had only three good legs, but Viktor was ready for that too and as Rhiannon watched with her heart in her mouth he turned and blasted a yellow-green jet back over his shoulder that she recognised as the Conjunctivitis Curse, disabling the Shortsnout in the same way she herself had done the Hebridean Black.

The dragon staggered back and pawed vainly at its’ eyes, howling in pain and rage while Viktor scrambled over boulders and skidded across patches of shale as he rushed across the arena to the nest and dove in headlong, rummaging for the golden egg hidden among the others. Head down in the nest, he could not see that the enraged dragon had recovered and advanced on him, and Rhiannon’s own heart was torn with a fear sharper than when she had been trying to outfly a torrent of fire – Viktor couldn’t see, she doubted he could hear either as the crowd clamoured anxiously. “VIKTOR GET OUT OF THERE!” she shrieked desperately, but it was no use – Viktor looked up too late, the golden egg in his arms and both feet firmly planted in the dragon’s nest as it flared its’ wings wide, blocking any escape – his back was to the cliff, there was nowhere to go, and Rhiannon could see the glow in the back of the dragon’s throat as it opened its’ mouth...

Rhiannon squeezed her eyes shut and fell to her knees, clutching the bars above her head for support as she gasped and choked on sobs, keening in shock and terrible grief, certain that when she opened them she would see Viktor’s dead body... but as the brilliant cerulean glare of the flames visible even through her tight-shut eyelids dimmed, the stands to either side of Rhiannon erupted in cheers and exclamations of amazement and she opened her eyes to a truly incredible scene-

Viktor, charred to the waist, his robes alight with dancing flames, swayed but stood fast before the imposing blue-grey dragon. Not only was he alive but he was standing, his wand little more than a smoking stump clutched in one bloodied fist. He staggered and shook his head, visibly disoriented, and though Rhiannon heard the arena gate clatter open she could not bear to look away as Viktor, wandless, no doubt grievously wounded, advanced on the dragon right through its’ own nest, using the eggs around him for balance until he stood defiantly between the Swedish Shortsnout and her own nest.

The dragon bellowed a howling cry of vengeance and lunged at Viktor, jaws spread wide as it prepared to finish him off and once again Rhiannon was certain she was witnessing her friend’s death as he stood firm, hands now empty and spread before him in a fighting stance as the dragon closed on him, its head snaking ever closer until-

“BOMBARDA!”

Viktor’s voice, magically amplified by whatever charm allowed the audience to listen in on the fighting champion’s words, thundered across the mountainside and Rhiannon gaped in wonder, unable to look away as pure yellow-white force and heat traveled through Viktor’s own arms and straight into the dragon’s open mouth. It coughed, choked and staggered back, clawing at its’ throat where Rhiannon could see the glow through the dragon’s very skin, building and building until she couldn’t help but close her eyes against the glare until it burst and spread wide, blazing brilliant yellow even through her closed eyelids a split second before a horrific explosion roared across the mountain, swallowing Rhiannon’s senses so that she had no choice but to fall and writhe in agony, her sensitive ears bleeding and ringing from the sheer concussive force of the magical thunderclap.

Rhiannon lay there, curled in a fetal position and insensate with pain until someone shook her shoulder and she slowly rolled over and uncovered her ears. A cool sensation washed over her face and neck and her hearing began to clear enough to tell her rescuer was Fleur, muttering what sounded like healing spells under her breath until Rhiannon stirred and the older girl caught hold of her shoulders, easing her into a sitting position. “Easy, easy – you have torn everything open, there is blood everywhere, come here – I have to carry you back, that little elf is very worried about you. Tergeo,” she muttered, presumably siphoning blood away from somewhere, which made Rhiannon wonder – what would werewolf blood do to an animal? Could they catch it? No, probably not – Animagi were safe with werewolves in their animal form.

“Is- is-iss-is-is-is-s-sssss-” Rhiannon tried to speak, but a hacking cough bubbled up in her throat and she had to turn over and spit more blood onto the ground, groaning in pain as she did so.

“Not a clue,” Fleur replied tersely, but she was leaking a little bit of magic – Rhiannon could feel her friend’s fear, it was as if she were made of glass with a crack spreading from her core. Fleur was not being cranky or rude on purpose, it was the sort of brusque attitude of someone trying desperately to hold themself together for others while their emotions churned inside. “Come on, lift your arms, I need to get you back to the tent – we can find out what is happening to Viktor in there, he collapsed after the blast and I have not seen him since.”

Trying desperately not to think the worst, Rhiannon raised her arms and begrudgingly allowed Fleur to lift her into her arms and hold her tight against her chest. There, Rhiannon could feel the tremors in the older girl’s muscles and she squeezed her arms as tight around Fleur’s neck as she could, the best imitation of a hug she could manage from this position.

Carrying Rhiannon as easily as she might a small child or a particularly floppy cat, Fleur hurried back to what Rhiannon recognised by the smell to be the medic tent in which she had first awoken. It had smelled clean then, not unlike the school’s Hospital Wing mixed with the fresh scents of grass and mountain air, but now the air inside was soaked in blood and the smells of burnt flesh and hair, setting Rhiannon’s stomach churning, and she groaned in pain as Fleur set her down in a bed so that she could flee the tent, Rhiannon caught the sound of retching from outside and rolled over in bed so that she could curl up and ward off her own surging nausea.

“I will be with you in a moment, Miss Black!” Dobby’s reedy voice called across the tent, the little elf sounded distinctly frazzled. Rhiannon steadied her breathing and strained her ringing ears for any whisper, any hint as to whether her friend would live beyond the next hour – the soft moans of agony told Rhiannon that he was alive, but that told her nothing about whether he would stay that way.

“Dobby, pass the salve – no, the proper numbing one, we need to get his pain level down so that he will lie still,” Madam Pomfrey ordered Dobby in a brisk, professional tone. There was a whisper of fear on the edges of her voice if Rhiannon strained to hear it, something she had not heard from the nurse since the horrible mystery of the Chamber of Secrets.

“Poppy, lying still won’t do all that much – we need Saint Mungo’s, they have the regeneration unit,” a third voice – a light tenor – protested softly.

“Yes, you’re right, of course – but the Floo units large enough to take a stretcher are back at the castle, we can’t Apparate to the castle with him – well, Dobby could, but one attendant will not be enough for the lad in this condition, and it’ll be too tricky to Apparate him, his stretcher and all of us there without proper equipment. No... Dobby, forget the salve, I need you to go ahead to Saint Mungo’s. Tell them we need the Apparition-friendly stretcher and a team of trained medical emergency transport wizards, without delay – here, take my badge, and don’t let them push you around, any extra time is a risk right now,” Madam Pomfrey rattled off firmly.

Rhiannon’s insides grew cold – maybe in part a side effect of the burns, but mostly from fear. From the sounds of it, Viktor was in critical condition and worse, he needed treatment that wasn’t available here. He had beaten the dragon – killed it almost certainly – in a particularly spectacular way, but he could still die here and now, lying in a cold bed outside the arena in the windy highlands. It didn’t seem fair, or right – or a good way to die, if there were such a thing. There was certainly a wrong way to die, a wrong time, only eighteen years old and countless miles from his home, Rhiannon thought bitterly, and she stewed on this and listened in on the Healers’ whispering with rapidly fading attention until despite herself, feeling as if she were betraying her possibly-dying friend, Rhiannon was once again pulled under into the comforting dark of sleep – the first door of the mind.