The sun dipped below the horizon like a coin dropped into a wishing well, casting long shadows across the serene grounds of Hogwarts. The twilight painted everything in shades of melancholy—fitting, really, considering Harry Potter's current mood. He stood alone by the white marble tomb of Albus Dumbledore, looking every bit the war-weary hero he'd never wanted to become.
At seventeen, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd faced down the darkest wizard in history and lived to tell the tale. His frame had filled out during the war—gone was the scrawny boy who'd first walked through Hogwarts' doors. Now he stood tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the unconscious grace of someone who'd learned that hesitation meant death. But it was his eyes that truly marked the change. The emerald green orbs that had once sparkled with mischief and wonder now held depths that spoke of too much seen, too much endured, too much lost.
The Elder Wand rested loosely in his right hand—not gripped with the desperate clutch of someone afraid to lose power, but held with the casual indifference of someone who understood exactly how dangerous such things could be. The Resurrection Stone sat heavy in his pocket, its weight both literal and metaphorical, while the Invisibility Cloak draped over his shoulders moved gently in the evening breeze.
"You know, Professor," Harry said conversationally to the tomb, his voice carrying that particular brand of dry wit that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count, "most mentors at least have the courtesy to explain the whole 'raising you as a pig for slaughter' thing before they snuff it. But not you. No, you had to go and be all cryptic and noble about it."
The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient trees surrounding the tomb, and for a moment, Harry could almost hear Dumbledore's familiar chuckle. Almost. The ache in his chest that had been his constant companion for the past month twisted sharply. Hermione should have been here with him. She should have been standing beside him, probably lecturing him about talking to tombs and insisting they research proper memorial etiquette in the library.
But Hermione was gone. Had been gone since that terrible night at Malfoy Manor when Bellatrix's curse had found its mark. The brightest witch of her age, reduced to silence in an instant, her brilliant mind stilled forever. The love of his life, gone before he'd ever found the courage to tell her how he felt.
"What's that supposed to be? Your ghost having a laugh?" Harry raised an eyebrow, the gesture so perfectly sardonic it would have made Snape proud. "Because honestly, sir, your timing was always rubbish. A thousand years too late for a proper explanation, wouldn't you say?"
As if in response to his words, the world around him began to shift. The familiar stone and grass beneath his feet seemed to dissolve, replaced by something that felt both more solid and less real at the same time. The air grew thick with an ethereal mist that tasted of copper and starlight, and the comfortable grounds of Hogwarts faded into an otherworldly plane where the very concept of time seemed negotiable.
"Oh, brilliant," Harry muttered, though his stance shifted subtly—weight balanced, wand ready, every line of his body speaking of someone who'd learned not to trust sudden environmental changes. "Because my day wasn't quite surreal enough already. Let me guess—another mysterious benefactor with cryptic advice and a convenient tendency to show up at dramatically appropriate moments?"
The mist swirled and coalesced, and from its depths emerged a figure that commanded attention without demanding it. Tall, dignified, with skin dark as polished mahogany and hair white as fresh snow, the being moved with unhurried grace that spoke of someone who had literally all the time in the world. His presence was magnetic without being overwhelming, authoritative without being harsh. When he spoke, his voice carried the warm authority of someone accustomed to being both respected and trusted—deep, resonant, with just a hint of something that might have been gentle amusement.
"Haerion Peverell," the figure said, and somehow managed to make even that simple greeting sound like both a benediction and a gentle correction.
Harry blinked once, slowly, then tilted his head with the kind of polite interest he'd perfected during particularly trying Divination classes. "Right, well, points for the dramatic entrance, I'll give you that. Very impressive use of mystical fog and otherworldly lighting. But I'm afraid you've got the wrong bloke." He gestured at himself with his free hand. "Name's Harry. Harry Potter. Common mistake, I'm sure—happens all the time. People see the messy hair and the scar and just assume I'm some ancient wizard or another. Very flattering, really, but I'm barely old enough to buy my own firewhisky."
The being's eyes—dark as the space between stars—seemed to twinkle with genuine warmth and something that might have been fond exasperation. "I am Balerion, the Valyrian god of Death. And no, young man, I have exactly the right person."
Harry paused in the middle of running a hand through his perpetually untidy hair. "Valyrian god of Death," he repeated slowly, as if testing the words for their flavor. "Right. And I suppose next you'll be telling me I'm some long-lost prince of a mystical dragon-riding civilization?" His tone was perfectly conversational, but there was steel underneath it—the voice of someone who'd had quite enough of being told his life wasn't his own. "Because I should mention, the whole 'secret heritage' thing has been done to death in my experience. Literal death, in some cases."
"As a matter of fact," Balerion said, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now, warm and rich as aged whiskey, "that's exactly what I'm telling you."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, studying the being before him with the same intensity he'd once reserved for particularly dangerous Dark Arts textbooks. His emerald eyes swept over Balerion's form, cataloging details, looking for threats or deceptions. Finally, he sighed—a sound that somehow managed to convey seventeen years of exasperation, three years of war, and a lifetime of people making decisions about his fate without consulting him.
"Of course you are," he said, his voice carrying that particular note of weary resignation that had become his trademark. "Because why should today be any different from every other completely mental day of my life?" He gestured vaguely with the Elder Wand, the motion casual but somehow managing to convey exactly how unimpressed he was with cosmic revelations in general. "Go on then. Mystical heritage, ancient bloodlines, terrible family secrets—lay it on me. But I should warn you, the bar's been set pretty high. I've already been the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and the Master of Death all before my eighteenth birthday. What's next? Secret dragon prince? Long-lost heir to Atlantis? Please tell me it doesn't involve more prophecies—I've had quite enough of those, thank you very much."
Balerion chuckled—a sound like distant thunder, warm and encompassing. The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled with genuine mirth. "Your wit serves you well, young Peverell. It will serve you better still in the trials ahead."
"Will it now?" Harry's eyebrow climbed higher, disappearing beneath his fringe. "And what trials would those be? Please tell me they don't involve facing down another Dark Lord. I've just finished with one, and I'm not particularly keen on making it a hobby."
"You stand here because you have united the Deathly Hallows," Balerion explained, his tone taking on the cadence of someone settling in for a proper story. "In doing so, you have fulfilled an ancient covenant—one that spans not merely years or decades, but worlds themselves."
Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the otherworldly mist. "Worlds?"
"Long ago, your ancestors—the Peverell brothers—were not mere wizards seeking power from Death himself," Balerion continued, his voice taking on the weight of ages. "They were Valyrian Dragonlords from another world entirely, who foresaw the Doom of their homeland and made a pact with me to ensure the survival of their bloodline."
"Another world," Harry said flatly. "As in, not this world. Not the world I've spent seventeen years learning to navigate, fighting to protect, bleeding to save."
"Your world—what you know as the wizarding world—exists alongside many others," Balerion explained with infinite patience. "The Peverell brothers arrived in your realm a thousand years ago, bringing with them three artifacts of immense power. They integrated into your world so completely that their true origins were forgotten. They became legends, myths, bedtime stories about three brothers who cheated Death."
Harry processed this information with the same careful attention he'd learned to apply to potentially explosive potions. "So let me see if I've got this straight," he said slowly. "My ancestors were alien dragon riders who jumped dimensions, settled down in medieval Britain, and started a family. And now you want me to pop round to their old neighborhood for a visit?"
"In the most basic terms, yes," Balerion confirmed.
"Right." Harry was quiet for a moment, then let out a short laugh that held no humor whatsoever. "And what exactly happened to this grand civilization? Let me guess—they got too big for their dragon-riding boots and something nasty happened to them?"
Balerion's expression grew solemn, and for the first time, Harry saw something like grief flicker across the god's features. "Valyria fell to its own hubris. The Dragonlords, in their endless hunger for power, sought to create the perfect dragon—not the intelligent, noble creatures they had partnered with for centuries, but a beast of pure destruction. They called it Aegerax."
"Aegerax," Harry repeated, and somehow made the name sound like a profanity. "Let me guess—it sounds friendly but definitely isn't."
"Four legs instead of two, wingspan that could blot out the sun, scales of gold and eyes of blood," Balerion continued, his voice heavy with ancient sorrow. "They poured their darkest magic into its creation, convinced they could control any force they brought into being. They were... mistaken."
Harry snorted softly, a sound that managed to convey both disbelief and weary familiarity. "Oh, let me guess—the super-weapon they created to solve all their problems turned around and ate them instead? Because that never happens. Honestly, you'd think people would learn. Create a monster, get eaten by the monster. It's practically natural law at this point."
"The beast destroyed everything," Balerion confirmed. "Men, dragons, the very land itself. It was a creature of such rage and power that it brought about the Doom of Valyria, consuming the civilization that created it."
"Poetic justice, really," Harry observed, though his tone was gentler now. He'd seen enough death and destruction to know that even justified ends didn't make the means any less tragic. "There's probably a moral in there somewhere about not playing god. Though I'm guessing the moral is somewhat lost on the people who got incinerated."
"Indeed," Balerion said quietly.
Harry studied the god's face, noting the way the ancient eyes seemed to hold the weight of countless sorrows. "But what does any of this have to do with me? I'm barely keeping up with being a normal wizard, much less some mystical dragon heir from another dimension. I've got a world of my own to worry about—assuming I can figure out what to do with it now that the war's over."
"Because, Haerion Peverell," Balerion said, and his voice carried the weight of absolute certainty, "I need you to journey to my world. To the ruins of Valyria itself. There, you will uncover the secrets your ancestors left behind—the true legacy of your bloodline."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice carried a dangerous edge that hadn't been there before. "Let me see if I've got this straight. You want me to abandon my world—the only world I've ever known—to travel to some cursed wasteland where an ancient civilization was destroyed by their own monster, so I can poke around in ruins looking for family heirlooms?"
"To embrace your destiny—"
"My destiny," Harry interrupted, and his tone could have cut glass, "has been decided by everyone except me since the day I was born. Prophecies, manipulative headmasters, well-meaning friends—everyone's had a plan for Harry Potter. Everyone's known better than Harry Potter what Harry Potter should do with his life." His emerald eyes flashed with something that was definitely anger now, bright and fierce as dragonfire. "So forgive me if I'm not jumping at the chance to let another mystical being tell me who I'm supposed to be and what world I'm supposed to save next."
Balerion studied him with those ancient eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was gentler. "And what is it that binds you to your current world, young dragon? What would you be leaving behind?"
The question hit harder than Harry had expected. For a moment, he was seventeen again, standing in the ruins of what had once been his life, counting the cost of victory. "Not much," he admitted quietly. "My best friend Ron is moving on with his life, probably going to be an Auror or play professional Quidditch. The Weasleys have their own grief to deal with—they lost Fred in the war. And Hermione..." His voice caught slightly. "Hermione's gone. Has been gone since Malfoy Manor."
Something in Balerion's expression softened. "I am sorry for your loss."
"Yeah, well." Harry's voice was carefully neutral, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the Elder Wand. "She died trying to save others. Died because Bellatrix Lestrange couldn't stand the idea of a Muggle-born being smarter than her. Hermione was... she was everything good about magic. Everything worth fighting for. And now she's gone, and I'm supposed to just... what? Move on? Find a nice job at the Ministry? Settle down in some cottage somewhere and pretend the last seven years never happened?"
"Or," Balerion said quietly, "you could choose a different path entirely. One where her sacrifice—where all their sacrifices—meant something beyond just stopping one Dark Lord in one world."
Harry looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
"The world I come from faces its own darkness," Balerion explained. "Two centuries ago, Valyria fell, and with it died the last dragons in existence. But dragons will be needed again, young Peverell. In the far north of my world lies a great Wall of ice, built to hold back an enemy that makes your Voldemort look like a petulant child."
"What sort of enemy?" Harry asked, despite himself.
"The Others," Balerion said, and somehow made the simple words sound like a curse. "Beings of ice and death who seek to bring eternal winter to the world. They sleep now, in the depths of the far north, but they will wake. And when they do, when the Long Night comes again, only dragons can stand against them."
Harry was quiet for a long moment. "There's a prophecy involved in this, isn't there?" he said finally, resignation heavy in his voice.
"There is," Balerion confirmed. "But not about you. The prophecy speaks of a prince that was promised, born of a line that has not yet even begun. Your role, should you choose to accept it, would be far more immediate—and far more important."
"Go on then," Harry said, though his tone suggested he was already regretting asking.
"The surviving dragons in my world belong to House Targaryen, the last family of Dragonlords," Balerion explained. "They rule the Seven Kingdoms from their seat on the Iron Throne. But I have seen the future, young dragon, and I know what comes. In a few decades, the Targaryens will turn on each other in a civil war that will see dragon fight dragon until all are dead."
"All of them?" Harry asked.
"Every last one," Balerion confirmed. "The magic that binds them to the world will be broken, and they will not be seen again for centuries—not until the prince of prophecy is born to wake dragons from stone."
Harry frowned. "And you want me to... what, exactly? Stop this civil war?"
"The war may be inevitable—the seeds are already planted, the choices already made by men who prize power over wisdom," Balerion said. "But the dragons... the dragons could be saved. If the right person were in the right place at the right time. If someone with the blood of Old Valyria could preserve what must be preserved."
"You think I can save them," Harry said. It wasn't a question.
"I think you are the only one who can," Balerion replied. "You alone among all mortals have mastered Death itself. You have united the Hallows, faced the ultimate enemy and returned victorious. If anyone could preserve what must be preserved, could hide eggs or hatchlings until the world has need of them again..."
"Right," Harry said slowly. "And where exactly would I be doing this preserving? You mentioned ruins and cursed wastelands—not exactly prime real estate for dragon conservation."
Balerion's expression grew serious. "You would go to Old Valyria itself. To the ruins of the greatest civilization any world has ever known. The Doom may have destroyed the people, but much of their knowledge remains—books of magic, techniques of dragon breeding, treasures beyond counting. All of it yours, by right of blood."
"Mine?" Harry's eyebrow climbed skeptically. "Just like that?"
"You are the last of the Peverells, and the Peverells were among the greatest of the Dragonlord families," Balerion explained. "Your family's palace still stands—or what's left of it. The vaults beneath contain knowledge that has been lost to the world for two centuries. Secrets of magic that could change everything."
Harry was quiet for a moment, then asked the question that had been building since Balerion first mentioned the ruins. "And what about this Aegerax? The monster that destroyed everything? Still lurking about in the rubble, is it?"
Balerion's expression grew grave. "Aegerax endures. Two centuries have not diminished its rage, nor its hunger for destruction. It haunts the ruins of Valyria like a living curse, and all who dare approach the Smoking Sea die screaming."
"Fantastic," Harry said dryly. "And you want me to just pop round for a visit? Maybe have tea with a genocidal dragon? I'm sure that'll go brilliantly. 'Hello, Mr. World-Ending Monster, lovely weather we're having, mind if I borrow some dragon eggs?'"
Balerion's lips twitched with what might have been amusement. "You have an advantage no other living soul possesses," he said quietly. "The Peverells were not just Dragonlords—they were Dragon Speakers. What your people call Parseltongue is but a shadow of the true Dragontongue, the ability to communicate with and command the great wyrms themselves."
Harry felt something stir deep within him, a recognition that went beyond conscious thought. It was like the moment he'd first heard a snake speak, but deeper, older, more primal. "I can talk to dragons?"
"More than talk," Balerion confirmed. "You can understand them, reason with them, even—if you prove yourself worthy—command them. Aegerax has been alone for centuries, mad with grief and rage and the knowledge of what it has done. Perhaps, if approached by one who speaks the ancient tongue, who carries the blood of those who first gave it purpose..."
"You think I can tame it," Harry said. It wasn't a question.
"I believe you are the only one who can," Balerion replied. "Aegerax was created to be the perfect dragon, but perfection without purpose becomes destruction. Give it purpose, give it reason to exist beyond rage, and perhaps..."
"Perhaps I can turn a force of destruction into a force of preservation," Harry finished. "Save the dragons by mastering the dragon that killed them all."
"The irony is not lost on me," Balerion admitted. "But fate, I have found, has a certain sense of humor."
Harry was quiet for a long time, staring out into the swirling mists that surrounded them. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "This is completely barking mad, you realize. Leave my world behind, travel to a cursed wasteland in another dimension, face down an ancient monster that destroyed an entire civilization, prevent the extinction of dragons, all while trying not to get killed by poisonous air and shadow demons."
"Yes," Balerion agreed simply. "It is."
"And if I say no? If I decide that Harry Potter has done quite enough world-saving for one lifetime and would rather just... I don't know, open a shop somewhere and sell second-hand books?"
"Then the dragons die," Balerion said, his voice heavy with regret. "And when the Long Night comes to my world, millions will perish in the cold and dark. And in your world..." He paused, studying Harry's face. "In your world, you will spend the rest of your days wondering what might have been. Whether the woman you loved died for something greater than just stopping one man's madness."
Harry's jaw tightened. "That's a low blow."
"But not an untrue one," Balerion replied gently. "You know I speak truly, young dragon. You were not meant for quiet domesticity any more than a hurricane is meant to be contained in a teacup."
Harry laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Right, because I'm some sort of mythical creature designed for grand adventures and impossible quests? Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just a bloke who got lucky. A lot. Stupidly, impossibly, ridiculously lucky."
"Are you?" Balerion asked quietly. "Or are you exactly what the world needs you to be, when it needs you to be it?"
The question hung in the air between them, and Harry found himself thinking of all the times he'd faced impossible odds and somehow come through. Not through superior skill or overwhelming power, but through sheer bloody-minded determination and the absolute refusal to let good people die if he could prevent it.
"You really know how to make a compelling argument, don't you?" Harry said finally.
"I have had considerable practice," Balerion admitted, and there was warmth in his voice now, the fondness of someone who saw potential being realized. "The question, young Peverell who chooses to be called Harry Potter, is not whether you can do this thing—I know you can. The question is whether you will."
Harry stared out into the swirling mists, seeing shapes that might have been dragons, or might have been memories, or might have been dreams of what could be. The weight of the Hallows seemed to pulse in rhythm with something deep within him, something that had always been there but had never had a name.
"Right then," Harry said finally, his voice carrying that familiar note of resigned determination that had gotten him through seven years at Hogwarts and a war besides. "Let's hear it. The whole plan, start to finish. But I warn you—if this involves any more prophecies about my inevitable doom, I'm walking. I've had quite enough of being special for one lifetime."
Balerion settled back, his form becoming somehow more solid as he prepared to explain. "The world you would be entering," he began, "is one of kings and queens, of knights and sellswords, where dragons soar overhead and magic is both more common and more subtle than in your world. House Targaryen has ruled for almost a century from their capital of King's Landing, and the current king—Jaehaerys the Conciliator—is considered one of the greatest rulers in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Sounds idyllic," Harry said dryly. "I'm sensing a 'but' coming."
"But Jaehaerys is old, and the question of succession grows more pressing with each passing year," Balerion continued. "He has many children, and the choices he makes regarding who will follow him will set in motion the events that lead to the Dance of Dragons—the civil war that will destroy everything he has built."
"When?" Harry asked.
"Four decades hence," Balerion replied. "Time enough for you to establish yourself, to learn the ways of this new world, to find your place within it. Time enough to prepare."
Harry nodded slowly. "And Valyria? When would I be making my little jaunt to the cursed ruins?"
"That would depend on you," Balerion said. "The ruins are dangerous, yes, but they are also... waiting. They have been waiting for two centuries for the return of the bloodline that once ruled there. Aegerax may be mad, but it is not mindless. It will know you for what you are the moment you set foot on Valyrian soil."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "No pressure there."
"There is another consideration," Balerion added, and something in his tone made Harry look up sharply. "Time flows differently between worlds. What might be years in my realm could be days in yours, or the reverse. If you choose this path, you must understand that you may never see your world again."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was steady. "There's not much left for me there anyway. Ron's got his family, his future all mapped out. The war's over, Voldemort's dead, and the wizarding world can rebuild without Harry Potter getting in the way. Maybe it's time for me to find out who I am when I'm not busy being the Boy Who Lived."
"And if you discover you don't like who that is?" Balerion asked gently.
Harry smiled, and for the first time since the conversation began, it reached his eyes. "Then I suppose I'll have to become someone better, won't I? After all, what's the point of having all this dramatic mystical heritage if I don't do something interesting with it?"
Balerion chuckled, rich and warm. "There, young dragon, is the spirit I was hoping to see."
"Right then," Harry said, straightening his shoulders with the unconscious grace that marked him as someone who'd learned to carry impossible burdens and make them look light. "Let's talk details. How exactly does one travel between worlds? Please tell me it doesn't involve any more mysterious train platforms—I've had quite enough of those for one lifetime."
And in the space between worlds, with twilight magic swirling around them both, the last son of the dragon riders and the god of death began to plan a journey that would either save the dragons—or see Harry Potter become the greatest legend a world had ever known.
---
The transition between worlds felt like being turned inside out while falling through liquid starlight. One moment Harry was standing in the ethereal mist with Balerion, the taste of copper and possibility on his tongue, and the next he was stumbling onto cracked stone that radiated heat like a forge left burning for centuries.
"Well," Harry muttered, steadying himself with the Elder Wand as he took in his surroundings, "that was about as pleasant as I expected it to be. Really need to work on your interdimensional travel method, don't we?"
The ruins of Valyria stretched before him like the fever dream of a mad architect. Twisted spires of black stone reached toward a sky the color of old blood, their surfaces still glowing with veins of molten gold that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air shimmered with heat and something else—magic so thick and raw it made his teeth ache. In the distance, the Smoking Sea lived up to its name, sending pillars of steam and ash into the crimson heavens.
"Right then," Harry said to himself, because talking to empty ruins seemed perfectly reasonable after everything else that had happened to him. "Welcome to sunny Valyria, Harry. Lovely place for a holiday. Really should recommend it to the Ministry's Department of International Magical Cooperation—I'm sure they'd love to set up a cultural exchange program."
He took a careful step forward, his boots crunching on what might once have been marble but now looked more like crystallized fire. The Invisibility Cloak rippled around his shoulders, though he suspected it would be of limited use against whatever horrors called this place home. The Resurrection Stone felt warm against his leg, and for a moment he was tempted to use it—to call up Hermione's shade and ask her what she thought of all this madness.
But no. That way lay obsession and despair, and he'd had quite enough of both.
"Balerion mentioned shadow demons," Harry mused aloud, scanning the twisted landscape with eyes that had learned to spot danger in the dark corners of the world. "Poisonous air, cursed ruins, and oh yes—a genocidal dragon the size of a small mountain. Really know how to sell a vacation destination, that one does."
The heat was oppressive, but not unbearable. His body seemed to be adapting to it with an ease that probably had something to do with dragon blood and mystical heritage. Still, he could feel sweat beading on his forehead as he picked his way through the ruins of what had once been the greatest city in the world.
"Now then," he said, pulling out a piece of parchment that Balerion had given him—a rough map drawn in silver ink that glowed faintly in the hellish light. "According to this, the Peverell palace should be... that way. Assuming I'm reading this correctly and not about to walk straight into the mouth of our friendly neighborhood apocalypse dragon."
He started walking, his footsteps echoing strangely in the oppressive silence. The ruins around him told a story of unimaginable power and equally unimaginable destruction. Melted stone flowed like frozen waterfalls, and in some places the very ground was glass, fused by heat beyond anything nature could produce.
"You know what the really mad part is?" Harry said conversationally to a twisted statue that might once have been a dragon or might have been something far worse. "A year ago, the most exciting thing in my life was trying not to get killed by a homicidal Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Now I'm hiking through interdimensional ruins looking for my ancestral castle so I can have a chat with a creature that ate an entire civilization. Really puts things in perspective, doesn't it?"
The statue, unsurprisingly, did not reply.
As he walked deeper into the ruins, Harry began to notice things that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Shadows that moved without anything to cast them. Whispers in languages that hurt to hear. And always, always, the feeling of being watched by something vast and ancient and utterly without mercy.
"Right," he said, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "Shadow demons. Probably should have asked for more specifics about those, shouldn't I? 'Oh, by the way, what exactly do these demons look like and how do I avoid becoming their lunch?' But no, I was too busy being dramatic about mystical destinies."
A sound echoed through the ruins—something between a growl and a sigh, so deep it seemed to come from the bones of the earth itself. Harry froze, every instinct screaming at him to run, to hide, to be anywhere but here.
"Well," he said quietly, "that sounded friendly."
The sound came again, closer this time, and with it came a presence that made Voldemort feel like a petulant child having a tantrum. This was power on a scale Harry had never imagined—raw, primal, and absolutely furious.
"Aegerax," Harry whispered, and somehow the name tasted like ashes and molten gold.
The ground beneath his feet began to tremble, and in the distance, something vast unfolded against the blood-red sky. Wings that could indeed blot out the sun, scales that gleamed like captured sunlight, and eyes—oh, those eyes—that burned with the rage of two centuries and the knowledge of what it had done.
Harry Potter, who had faced down the darkest wizard in history and lived to tell the tale, felt his mouth go dry as the full weight of Aegerax's attention settled on him like a mountain.
"Well," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but still carrying that familiar note of British understatement, "this should be interesting."
The dragon's roar split the air like the breaking of the world, and Harry Potter—no, Haerion Peverell—straightened his shoulders and prepared to have the most important conversation of his life with a creature that could end it with a single breath.
After all, he thought with the kind of mad courage that had gotten him this far, what was the worst that could happen?
The dragon's crimson eyes fixed on him, and Harry had the distinct feeling he was about to find out.
---
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