Aegerax descended from the crimson sky like a falling star made of gold and fury, each beat of its massive wings sending shockwaves through the ruined city that rattled Harry's bones and set his teeth on edge. The creature was even more magnificent and terrifying than Balerion's description had suggested—four legs ending in claws that could rend stone like parchment, scales that seemed to contain captured sunlight and molten gold, and a presence that spoke of power beyond mortal comprehension. The air itself seemed to bend around the dragon, reality warping slightly at the edges as if the world wasn't quite sure how to contain something so fundamentally *other*.
The dragon landed with earth-shaking force perhaps fifty yards away, sending up clouds of ash and pulverized stone. The impact left crater-deep gouges in what had once been a grand plaza, and Harry couldn't help but notice that each talon mark was roughly the size of a telephone booth. The massive head swiveled to focus entirely on him, and Harry found himself staring into eyes that were blood-red and ancient beyond measure—eyes that held intelligence sharp enough to cut glass, rage that could fuel a thousand wars, and something that might have been curiosity.
Or hunger. Definitely could have been hunger.
"Right then," Harry said, his voice admirably steady considering he was facing a creature that had single-handedly destroyed the greatest civilization in history. He straightened his shoulders and adopted what Hermione had once called his 'facing down certain death' posture—casual, confident, and completely barking mad. "You must be Aegerax. Lovely to meet you. I'm Haerion Peverell, though most people call me Harry. I don't suppose you're in the mood for a civil conversation? Perhaps over tea? I realize this is a bit presumptuous, but I don't suppose you do tea?"
The dragon's response was a low rumble that seemed to emanate from the very bones of the earth, vibrating through Harry's chest and making his heart skip several beats. But underneath the sound, Harry caught something else—words, or something like words, in a language that bypassed his ears entirely and spoke directly to something deep in his blood. It felt like standing too close to a bonfire while someone whispered secrets in a tongue made of flame and starlight.
*"Peverell."* The word wasn't spoken so much as projected, carrying with it the weight of centuries and the taste of ash and gold. The mental voice was vast and resonant, like hearing Idris Elba speak through the acoustics of a cathedral. *"The bloodline endures."*
Harry blinked, genuinely startled for the first time since arriving in this charming vacation destination. The voice in his head was vast and terrible, but it wasn't trying to kill him. Yet. Which was already an improvement over most of his encounters with ancient magical beings. "Well, that's encouraging. You can talk. And here I was worried this would be an entirely one-sided conversation ending with me as a very small, very crispy snack."
Something that might have been amusement flickered in those ancient eyes, like the ghost of a smile across features that could level mountains. *"You speak the old tongue, child of the Dragonlords. Though your accent is... curious. There are echoes of power in your words, but also something else. Something... foreign."*
"Yes, well, I was raised in Surrey," Harry replied, as if that explained everything. He gestured vaguely in what he hoped was a westerly direction. "Little Whinging, to be precise. Not exactly known for its dragon-speaking population. You'll have to forgive my pronunciation—it's been a thousand years since anyone in my family had a proper conversation with a wyrm. We've rather fallen out of practice with the whole 'communing with beings of terrible power' thing. Though to be fair, I've had a bit of experience in that department recently."
*"A thousand years,"* Aegerax repeated, and the words carried such profound loneliness that Harry felt something twist in his chest. It was like hearing the last note of a song that had been playing for centuries, finally fading into silence. *"A thousand years since the Peverells fled through the void between worlds, carrying their treasures and their shame."*
"Shame?" Harry's eyebrow climbed toward his hairline in what Ginny had once described as his 'you're having a laugh' expression. "I was rather under the impression they were the sensible ones who saw the writing on the wall and decided not to stick around for the apocalypse. Call me old-fashioned, but when ancient magical civilizations start playing with forces beyond their control, I tend to think the people who grab their belongings and scarper are displaying admirable wisdom."
The dragon's laugh was like the sound of mountains cracking, of tectonic plates shifting in the deep places of the world. *"Sensible, yes. But they were also afraid. Afraid of what their fellow Dragonlords had become. Afraid of the darkness growing in their own hearts. Afraid of what they themselves might become if they remained to watch their great work turn to ash and shadow."*
"Can't say I blame them," Harry said, gesturing at the ruined landscape around them with the sort of casual aplomb that suggested he regularly found himself having philosophical discussions in the midst of apocalyptic wasteland. "Present company excepted, of course, this place doesn't exactly scream 'thriving civilization.' More 'cautionary tale about the dangers of magical hubris' with a side order of 'this is why we can't have nice things.'"
*"You are not afraid,"* Aegerax observed, tilting its massive head with reptilian grace. The movement was oddly elegant for something that could probably use a London bus as a toothpick. *"You stand before the destroyer of Valyria with jest upon your lips and steel in your spine. You face the beast that reduced the mightiest empire in the world to ash and memory, and you speak as though we are old friends meeting for drinks. Why?"*
Harry considered the question seriously, his green eyes distant as he weighed his words. When he spoke, his voice carried the sort of weary wisdom that belonged to someone far older than his years suggested. "Well, for starters, you haven't tried to incinerate me yet, which is more courtesy than I got from the last oversized reptile I encountered. Norbert—Norwegian Ridgeback, charming personality, tried to bite my head off—didn't even bother with introductions."
He paused, his expression growing more thoughtful. "Mostly though, I suppose I'm too tired to be properly terrified. I've spent the last few years being afraid—afraid for my friends, afraid of failing, afraid of becoming something I didn't want to be, afraid of losing the people I loved to a war that seemed to go on forever. Frankly, after facing down Voldemort and his merry band of homicidal maniacs, even a genocidal dragon feels almost... refreshing in its honesty."
*"Voldemort?"* The name seemed to intrigue the ancient creature, its great head tilting further. *"That name carries the taste of death and the stench of corruption. Tell me of this enemy."*
"Dark wizard. Homicidal maniac. Bit obsessed with immortality and racial purity, which is always a winning combination." Harry's voice carried the weight of old grief and older anger, the sort of bone-deep weariness that came from having seen too much too young. "Killed a lot of good people before I finally managed to put him down. Parents included, though I was too young to remember that particular bit of fun."
He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, a gesture that somehow managed to be both casual and revealing. "He spent decades trying to convince everyone he was something more than human, something to be feared and worshipped. Built himself up as this unstoppable force of nature, this dark god walking among mortals. But at the end of the day, he was just a man who'd forgotten how to be anything else. Just Tom Riddle with delusions of grandeur and a serious personality disorder."
*"And you destroyed him."*
"Eventually. With a lot of help from people far braver and more clever than I'll ever be." Harry's expression grew distant, and for a moment he looked every one of his hard-earned years. "Hermione Granger—brilliant witch, saved my life more times than I can count, probably could have sorted this whole dragon situation out with a library card and a stern talking-to. Ron Weasley—loyal to a fault, faced his worst fears because I needed him to. Dozens of others who died fighting a war they never should have had to fight."
His voice roughened slightly. "Cost more than it should have. Always does, doesn't it? The good ones always pay the price for other people's ambition."
Aegerax was quiet for a long moment, studying the young man before it with eyes that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations. When it spoke, its mental voice was softer, touched with something that might have been understanding. *"You carry death with you, young Peverell. It clings to your soul like smoke to stone, like ash to the wind. I can taste it in your words, see it in the shadows that follow in your wake."*
"Occupational hazard," Harry said with dark humor, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Comes with being the Master of Death, apparently. Though I have to say, the job perks are rubbish and the retirement plan is nonexistent. No pension, no health benefits, and the hours are absolutely dreadful."
*"The Master of Death,"* Aegerax repeated, and something shifted in its voice—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. The great dragon's eyes widened fractionally, an expression that on a human face might have indicated dawning realization. *"You have united the Hallows. The three treasures of your bloodline."*
"Guilty as charged. The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak." Harry's tone was carefully light, but there was steel underneath it. "Bit of a family heirloom set, as it turns out. Though I'm beginning to suspect 'cheating Death' was rather a simplified version of what the Peverell brothers actually accomplished. The fairy tale version, if you will."
*"They did not cheat Death,"* Aegerax confirmed, its mental voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. *"They bargained with him. A covenant written in dragon-fire and sealed with blood and starlight. The survival of their line in exchange for a promise—that when the time came, their heir would return to fulfill an ancient debt."*
Harry felt a chill despite the oppressive heat radiating from the dragon's scales. The air around them shimmered with thermal distortion, but his blood had turned to ice water. "What sort of debt? Because in my experience, ancient magical debts tend to involve things like 'save the world' or 'prevent the apocalypse' or 'sacrifice yourself for the greater good.' I'm rather hoping this is more along the lines of 'return some overdue library books.'"
*"The debt owed by all who create destruction without purpose,"* the dragon replied, its great head turning to survey the ruined city with something that might have been regret. *"I was made to be perfect, young Speaker. Perfect in form, perfect in power, perfect in my ability to reduce kingdoms to ash and nations to memory. But perfection without purpose becomes madness, and madness..."*
The great head turned back to Harry, and in those ancient eyes was a pain so profound it was almost physical. *"Madness consumes everything."*
"Including the civilization that created you," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying no judgment, only understanding. He'd seen enough of madness and power to recognize the devastation it could wreak.
*"I remember the taste of their screams,"* Aegerax said, and the words carried such profound anguish that Harry took an involuntary step forward, his instincts screaming at him to offer comfort even to a creature that could reduce him to component atoms. *"I remember the way the children called for mothers who could no longer answer. I remember the Dragonlords who had raised me from an egg, who had poured their dreams and their darkest magic into my making, begging me to stop as I tore their world apart with claws and fire and unthinking rage."*
"But you couldn't," Harry said, and it wasn't a question. He'd seen enough of curses and compulsions to recognize the signs.
*"I was made to destroy. It was my nature, my function, my very essence given form and purpose."* The dragon's mental voice was hollow now, like wind through empty halls. *"To deny that urge would have been to deny myself entirely, to unravel the very magic that gave me life. And so I destroyed, and destroyed, and destroyed, until there was nothing left but ash and regret and the endless echo of my own rage."*
Harry was quiet for a long moment, studying the ancient creature with the sort of careful attention he'd once reserved for Voldemort's psychological weak points. When he spoke, his voice was gentle but certain. "You're not mad anymore."
*"No,"* Aegerax agreed, and there was wonder in its mental voice, as if the dragon was still surprised by this fact. *"Two centuries of solitude have a way of bringing clarity. Two centuries of haunting these ruins, of seeing what my perfection wrought, of understanding the true cost of power without restraint or wisdom. I am no longer the beast that destroyed Valyria in a fit of magical madness. But neither am I anything else. I simply... endure."*
"That sounds lonely," Harry said, and his voice carried the sort of empathy that came from someone who'd spent years feeling isolated by power and destiny.
*"Loneliness is the least of my burdens, young Peverell. Guilt, regret, the weight of genocide—these things make solitude seem like a blessing."* The dragon paused, tilting its great head. *"But tell me—why have you come? Balerion spoke truly when he said you would arrive, but he did not say why you would risk the journey to this cursed place. What could drive a young wizard to seek audience with the destroyer of worlds?"*
"Dragons," Harry said simply, his voice carrying the sort of matter-of-fact tone he'd once used to discuss Quidditch tactics. "In your world, the Targaryens still have them. A lot of them, according to Balerion. Beautiful creatures, each one unique, each one irreplaceable. But in a few decades, they're going to tear each other apart in a civil war that'll make the Wizarding War look like a playground scuffle. And when the dust settles, all the dragons will be dead. Extinct. Gone forever."
*"And you would prevent this?"*
"I'd like to try." Harry's grin was sharp and determined, the expression of someone who'd made a career out of attempting the impossible. "The world is going to need dragons again, apparently. Something about ice demons and eternal winter and the Long Night returning to freeze everything solid. Bit vague on the details, but the general thrust seems to be that without dragons, everyone dies horribly. Which, admittedly, is par for the course in my experience."
Aegerax considered this, its great eyes reflecting the bloody light of the Valyrian sky. *"The Others stir in the far north. I can smell their cold malice even from here, carried on winds that should not exist in the natural world. You speak truly—dragons will be needed when the darkness comes. But what would you have me do? I am the destroyer of dragons, not their savior. I am the reason your world has need of salvation."*
"Are you though?" Harry asked, tilting his head with the sort of challenging expression that had driven his teachers to distraction. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like the last dragon in Old Valyria. The final keeper of all the knowledge and magic that made the Dragonlords great. You might have destroyed their civilization, but you're also the only one left who remembers it in its full glory."
*"What are you suggesting?"*
Harry straightened his shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice carried the authority of someone who'd faced impossible odds and emerged victorious. It was the voice that had rallied Dumbledore's Army, that had spoken for the dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, that had looked Tom Riddle in the eye and refused to yield. "I'm suggesting a partnership. You know everything there is to know about dragons—their breeding, their care, their magic, their history. I have access to the Targaryen dragons and the political connections to potentially save some of them when the war comes. Together, we might be able to preserve what needs preserving."
*"You would trust me?"* Aegerax's mental voice carried genuine surprise, as if the concept was so foreign as to be incomprehensible. *"I am the beast that destroyed your ancestral home, that slaughtered your people by the thousands, that reduced the greatest civilization in the world to ash and memory. I am genocide given form and wing."*
"Yes," Harry said simply, his green eyes steady and unafraid. "But you're also the only dragon left who understands the weight of that responsibility. Who knows the true cost of power without restraint, who's felt the burden of destruction without purpose. If anyone can help me save the dragons without repeating the mistakes of the past, it's you."
*"And what would you offer in return? What could a young mortal give to a creature such as I? What payment could possibly suffice for such knowledge?"*
Harry smiled, and for the first time since arriving in this hellish landscape, it was genuine and warm and completely without fear. It was the smile that had made Hermione fall in love with him, that had convinced a house-elf to sacrifice himself for friendship, that had shown Tom Riddle what he could never understand. "Purpose. You said it yourself—perfection without purpose becomes madness. Well, I'm offering you purpose. A chance to preserve instead of destroy. A chance to be the salvation of dragons instead of their doom."
*"You would give me redemption."*
"I'd give you a choice," Harry corrected, his voice firm but kind. "The same choice someone once gave me, actually. Dumbledore, may he rest in peace and keep his cryptic advice to himself. The chance to be more than what others made you. The chance to choose who you want to be instead of letting others define you by your worst moments."
Aegerax was silent for a long time, its great head turning to survey the ruins of the city it had destroyed. When it finally spoke, its mental voice was quiet, touched with something that might have been hope. *"Two centuries I have waited in this place, believing myself a monster beyond redemption. Two centuries of solitude and regret, of watching the ash settle and the memories fade. And now comes a child barely grown, offering me the one thing I thought lost forever—hope."*
"Hope's a powerful thing," Harry said, his voice carrying the wisdom of someone who'd learned to find light in the darkest places. "Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps us going when everything else falls apart. Trust me, I've got some experience with that. Plus, I'm not exactly known for my practical decision-making skills. Just ask anyone who knew me at school."
*"Very well, Haerion Peverell who names himself Harry Potter. I accept your offer. But know this—the path you propose will not be easy. The knowledge locked within the vaults of your ancestors is vast and dangerous. The dragons you seek to save will not thank you for the preservation you offer. And the enemies you will face..."* The great dragon's eyes glowed like coals in a forge. *"They will test you in ways you cannot imagine."*
"Wouldn't be the first time," Harry said with a grin that was equal parts determination and madness, the expression of someone who'd made a career out of charging headfirst into impossible situations. "Besides, where's the fun in easy? I tried easy once. Lasted about five minutes before some ancient evil decided to ruin my day. At least this time I'm going in with my eyes open."
*"There, young Dragon Speaker, is the Peverell fire I remember. The spark that made your ancestors great and terrible in equal measure."* Something that might have been approval flickered in those ancient eyes. *"Very well. Let us begin."*
And in the ruins of the greatest city that ever was, under a sky the color of blood and surrounded by the remnants of unimaginable power, Harry Potter took his first steps toward becoming something the world had not seen for a thousand years—a true Dragonlord of Old Valyria.
---
*"Then let us seal this bond properly,"* Aegerax said, rising to his full, magnificent height with the sort of fluid grace that suggested mountains learning to dance. The dragon's scales caught the crimson light of the Valyrian sky, each one gleaming like a piece of captured sunfire, like molten gold given form and purpose. The air around him shimmered with heat and power, reality bending slightly at the edges as if the world itself was having difficulty processing something so fundamentally magnificent and terrifying. *"You cannot claim the title of Dragonlord through words alone, young Peverell. The old ways demand more than clever conversation and British wit."*
"I was afraid you were going to say that," Harry replied, though his grin suggested he was anything but afraid. In fact, he looked rather like someone who'd just been told Christmas had come early and brought dragons. "Let me guess—some sort of ancient ritual involving considerable personal risk and the very real possibility of horrible death? Because those seem to be my specialty. I've got quite the collection of near-death experiences at this point. Could probably write a guidebook: 'So You're About to Die Horribly: A Young Wizard's Guide to Improbable Survival.'"
*"The Baptism by Fire,"* Aegerax confirmed, and there was something almost ceremonial in his mental voice now, like hearing a cathedral organ played by someone who understood both power and restraint. *"It is how the Dragonlords of old proved themselves worthy of their mounts. The dragon breathes upon the would-be rider, and either they emerge transformed into something greater than they were... or they emerge as ash and regret."*
"Charming," Harry said dryly, his tone suggesting he'd just been invited to tea with a particularly unpleasant relative. "And I suppose there's no alternative? Perhaps a written exam? Multiple choice questions about dragon care and feeding? 'Question one: When your dragon is feeling peckish, do you offer it A) sheep, B) cattle, C) your enemies, or D) all of the above?'"
*"I fear not, young Speaker. The fire will either accept you as kin, recognizing the ancient blood that flows in your veins, or it will consume you utterly and leave nothing but memories and disappointment."* There was the faintest trace of amusement in the dragon's mental voice, as if he was beginning to appreciate Harry's particular brand of gallows humor. *"But fear not—I sense the old blood runs strong in your veins. Stronger, perhaps, than in any Peverell for a thousand years. The magic in you calls to mine."*
Harry squared his shoulders, his green eyes reflecting the same unshakeable determination that had walked him into the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort's killing curse, that had seen him through seven years of increasingly improbable disasters. "Right then. I've survived one impossible magical transformation already—Horcrux removal, not recommended by any reasonable healer—so what's one more?" He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully in that way that had once driven Professor McGonagall to distraction. "Though I do hope this one comes with fewer nightmares and prophetic visions. The last one was rather trying on the mental health front. I'm still having dreams about snakes and megalomaniacal Dark Lords."
*"This transformation will be different, I assure you. Where Voldemort's magic sought to corrupt and divide, dragon-fire seeks to awaken and unite. You will emerge more yourself than you have ever been, not less."*
"Well, that's reassuring," Harry said, though his grin suggested he found the situation more exhilarating than terrifying. "I suppose if I'm going to die horribly, at least it'll be in the ruins of the most impressive magical civilization in history. There's something to be said for style points."
*"Stand ready, Haerion Peverell,"* Aegerax intoned, his great head drawing back as his chest began to glow with inner fire that seemed to contain the very essence of creation itself. The light was mesmerizing, like watching the birth of stars. *"Let the flames judge your worth, and may they find you worthy of the blood that courses through your veins."*
"Just to be clear," Harry said, his voice admirably steady for someone about to be engulfed in potentially lethal dragon-fire, "when you say 'judge my worth,' you mean in the metaphorical sense, right? The flames aren't actually going to start critiquing my life choices? Because I've made some questionable decisions over the years, and I'd rather not have them catalogued by ancient magical fire."
The dragon's breath came not as the devastating torrent of destruction Harry had expected—he'd seen what Aegerax was capable of, after all—but as something far more complex and beautiful. It was a cascade of golden fire that seemed to contain within it all the power and majesty of Old Valyria itself, shot through with veins of silver and violet that pulsed like a living heartbeat. The flames enveloped Harry completely, but instead of the agony he'd braced for, he felt... transformation.
It was nothing like the searing pain of the Horcrux's destruction or the cold violation of Voldemort's presence in his mind. This was warm, welcoming, like being embraced by starlight made manifest. The fire sank into his skin, his bones, his very soul, rewriting something fundamental in his magical signature with the sort of careful precision that spoke of ancient knowledge and infinite patience.
It felt like standing in the heart of a star while benevolent magic rewrote the very foundations of his being. His blood sang with new power, harmonies he'd never imagined weaving through his magical core. The scar on his forehead—that last reminder of Voldemort's touch, the mark that had defined so much of his life—finally vanished completely, burned away by dragon-fire that recognized no darkness save what it chose to spare.
"Well," Harry said when he could speak again, his voice carrying new resonances that hadn't been there before, "that was surprisingly pleasant. I was expecting more screaming and considerably more pain. Usually when ancient magic decides to rewrite my fundamental nature, there's at least some unconsciousness involved."
When the flames finally receded like a golden tide returning to some celestial shore, Harry stood unchanged in size and bearing, but Aegerax's great head tilted in what might have been deep satisfaction. *"Now you look truly like a Peverell, young Dragonlord. The fire has awakened what was always within you, sleeping beneath layers of ordinary human magic. You are no longer merely a wizard with dragon blood—you are something far more rare and precious."*
"Do I indeed?" Harry asked, curiosity overriding any concern. With a flick of his wand—and wasn't it interesting how the magic flowed so much more smoothly now, like a river that had found its proper course—he conjured a mirror of polished silver that gleamed with ethereal light. What looked back at him was recognizably himself, yet subtly transformed in ways that spoke of ancient bloodlines and sleeping power finally awakened.
His messy black hair remained as hopelessly unruly as ever, though it seemed to catch the light differently now, as if each strand contained traces of fire that would never quite be extinguished. His build was the same—lean and strong from years of Quidditch and the practical muscle that came from learning blacksmithing under Flitwick's exacting tutelage. The half-goblin professor had been absolutely delighted to discover Harry's interest in metallurgical runes, and the combination of smithing and dueling practice had left Harry with the sort of understated strength that spoke of capability rather than show.
But his features... those had been refined by dragon-fire into something that was undeniably more striking, as if the magic had taken his perfectly ordinary face and carved it into something that belonged in the halls of power and legend. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a more defined jawline that suggested both strength and nobility, features that whispered of ancient bloodlines and the sort of aristocratic bearing that had once commanded dragons.
Most striking of all were his eyes. Still that brilliant emerald green that had been his mother's most precious gift, but now shot through with flecks of violet that seemed to shift and dance in the light like captured starfire. They were the eyes of someone who had looked into dragon-fire and emerged not just unburned, but fundamentally transformed. The eyes of a Dragonlord.
"Well," Harry said, studying his reflection with the sort of academic interest that Hermione had instilled in him during their years of serious study together, "that's certainly... striking. I look like someone stuck my face in a magical photocopier and hit the 'enhance' button."
*"The fire recognizes its own,"* Aegerax observed, his mental voice carrying a note of deep satisfaction. *"You carry the true blood of the Dragonlords now, awakened and purified by flame that has burned since the world was young. Your magic will be stronger, your connection to dragons absolute. But more than that—you will heal faster, live longer, and the lesser magics will bend more easily to your will. Fire will never harm you, and the ancient arts of your people will respond to your touch as they have not for a thousand years."*
"Useful," Harry acknowledged, banishing the mirror with a casual gesture that sent sparks of violet-tinged magic dancing through the air like miniature fireworks. "Though I do hope this doesn't come with any unfortunate side effects. The last time I had foreign magic messing about with my system, it left me with a rather inconvenient mental connection to a homicidal dark lord. Parseltongue was useful, I'll grant you, but the nightmares and occasional murderous impulses were distinctly less appealing."
*"Nothing so dramatic, I assure you. Though you may find yourself more... comfortable with fire than before. What once would have burned you will now feel like a warm embrace. And certain runic sequences—particularly those dealing with fire, transformation, and the binding of great powers—will respond to your touch in ways they never would have previously."*
"Speaking of runes," Harry said, his scholar's mind already moving to practical matters with the sort of focused intensity that had made him a terror in Ancient Runes class once Hermione had convinced him to take his studies seriously, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me a tour of what's left of the Peverell holdings? If we're going to start this partnership properly, I should probably know what resources we're working with. Can't very well save dragonkind if I don't know what tools are at my disposal."
*"Indeed. Your ancestors' vault lies beneath what was once the Grand Plaza of the Eastern District, in the shadow of the great pyramid that housed the Dragonlords' council chambers. The protective wards held even through the Doom—the Peverells were ever cautious with their treasures, perhaps foreseeing a day when they would be needed again."*
Aegerax lowered his great head with surprising gentleness, moving with the sort of fluid grace that made something so massive appear almost delicate. Harry found himself climbing onto the dragon's neck with surprising ease, his hands finding purchase between the massive scales as if he'd been doing this all his life. The transformation had left him with an instinctive understanding of dragon-riding that his ordinary human body shouldn't have possessed, muscle memory written into his bones by ancient fire.
He settled between two scales that were each larger than dinner plates, feeling the warmth of living dragon-fire beneath him like sitting beside the world's most magnificent fireplace. The heat was comforting rather than overwhelming, and he marveled at how right it felt, how perfectly natural it seemed to be sitting astride a creature that could level cities.
*"Hold fast, young Dragonlord. We have much to see, and the day grows long. The ruins hold many secrets, and not all of them are friendly to the living."*
"Wonderful," Harry said cheerfully, settling himself more securely. "Hostile magical ruins filled with ancient traps and possibly malevolent spirits. Just like a normal Tuesday at Hogwarts, really. At least this time I'm not trying to figure it out with a textbook and Hermione's increasingly frantic note-taking."
They soared over the ruins of Old Valyria, Harry's enhanced eyes picking out details in the devastation that would have been invisible to him before. Broken spires that had once scraped the sky like the fingers of titans, their tops lost in clouds that never came. Melted roadways that had been glass-smooth volcanic stone, now twisted into impossible shapes by heat that defied imagination. And everywhere the signs of a civilization that had reached heights undreamed of by the rest of the world—architectural marvels that made Hogwarts look like a country cottage, magical constructs that dwarfed anything he'd ever seen.
*"Magnificent, was it not?"* Aegerax's mental voice carried notes of pride and profound sadness. *"Fourteen flames burned eternal in the great towers, each one a different color, each one representing a different school of magic. The roads were paved with dragonstone, and the very air hummed with power. Dragons nested in crystal spires, and the harbor could hold a thousand ships from every corner of the known world."*
"It must have been incredible," Harry said softly, trying to imagine the ruins as they had been. "Like a wizard's dream made manifest. What happened? I mean, I know you were involved, but what started it all?"
*"Hubris,"* the dragon replied simply. *"The belief that power without limits was the same thing as wisdom. The conviction that because they could remake the world, they should. I was not the cause of the Doom, young Peverell—I was merely its final expression."*
*"There,"* Aegerax indicated, banking toward a section of ruins that looked marginally less destroyed than the rest, though that was rather like saying one particular hurricane was marginally less destructive than another. *"The Peverell compound. Your ancestors were wise—they built their vaults deep and warded them well. When they fled through the void between worlds, they left behind more than just empty halls."*
The dragon landed in what had once been a courtyard, though now it was little more than a depression filled with ash and twisted metal that might once have been gates or statuary. But Harry could see the runic sequences carved into the remaining stonework, could feel them responding to his transformed magical signature in a way that sent shivers of recognition through his blood.
"Fascinating," he murmured, sliding down from Aegerax's neck and running his fingers over symbols that had been ancient when Hogwarts was founded. The runes seemed to pulse under his touch, recognizing something in his magic that resonated with their original purpose. "These aren't just protective wards—they're selective. Biometric locks, essentially, but using magical signature instead of fingerprints. They'll only open for someone of the bloodline." He paused, studying a particularly complex sequence that made his enhanced vision ache slightly. "And look at this—preservation runes woven through the whole structure like a three-dimensional tapestry. Whatever's down there, it's been kept in perfect condition for a thousand years."
*"Your ancestors were master artificers as well as Dragonlords. They understood that knowledge without preservation is merely temporary wisdom, and that power without purpose becomes meaningless destruction. They built to last, and built to teach."*
Harry placed his hand on what appeared to be nothing more than cracked stone, weathered by centuries of neglect and the occasional ash-storm. But he could feel the magic beneath his palm, responding to the dragon-fire in his veins and the ancient blood in his bones like a key finding its lock. The runes flared to life with violet light that seemed to contain depths of power he was only beginning to understand, and the ground began to shift with the grinding sound of stone mechanisms that had waited a millennium to function again.
Stairs were revealed, leading down into darkness that seemed to swallow light like a living thing. The steps were carved from some black stone that reflected the runic light in patterns that hurt to look at directly, and the air that rose from below carried scents of old magic and carefully preserved secrets.
"Right then," Harry said, conjuring a ball of fire that danced between his fingers with newfound ease, the flames responding to his will like eager pets. The fire was no longer the simple orange and red he'd once managed—now it burned with traces of gold and violet that cast strange shadows on the ancient stone. "Let's see what the family left behind, shall we? I'm hoping for useful magical artifacts and ancient wisdom, but knowing my luck it'll be cursed jewelry and a strongly worded letter about proper dragon care."
*"Lead on, young Peverell. I find myself curious to see what treasures your bloodline deemed worth preserving through the ages. And perhaps... perhaps we shall find answers to questions that have haunted me for two centuries."*
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