The morning sun filtered through the enchanted skylights of the workshop, casting long shadows across the floor as Haerion hefted Dragonbane for the first time in actual practice. Despite all his theoretical preparation, despite months of careful planning and precise crafting, the weapon felt alien in his hands—not unwelcome, but undeniably *other* in a way that made his enhanced magical senses hum with uncertainty.
He cut quite the figure standing there in the golden light—tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair catching hints of auburn where the sunlight touched it, emerald eyes with their distinctive violet flecks gleaming with a mixture of determination and barely concealed excitement. The crimson and gold armor he wore moved like liquid fire around his form, adapting and flowing with each motion while maintaining perfect protection. When he smiled—which he did often, despite the serious nature of his training—it was the sort of expression that suggested he found the entire world genuinely amusing and was eager to see what would happen next.
"Right then," he said, settling into a basic combat stance that felt awkward and unfamiliar despite years of Defense Against the Dark Arts training. His voice carried the sort of confidence that had once convinced his friends to follow him into situations that any reasonable person would have avoided entirely. "Let's see what you can actually do, shall we?"
His first swing was a complete and utter disaster.
The axe moved like it was cutting through treacle, the blade's path wobbling uncertainly as Harry tried to adapt techniques designed for wands to a weapon that demanded entirely different muscle memory. The double-bladed head carved through the air with none of the fluid grace he'd envisioned, and when he tried to follow through with a second strike, he nearly lost his grip entirely, stumbling backward with a distinctly undignified yelp.
"*That,*" Aegerax observed with the sort of diplomatic restraint that suggested he was trying very hard not to laugh—his mental voice carrying the rich, resonant tones of someone who had spent centuries perfecting the art of devastating understatement, "*was perhaps the most unimpressive display of martial prowess I have witnessed in several centuries. Are you quite certain you're descended from Dragonlords? Because at the moment, you're wielding that legendary weapon like a particularly confused gardener attacking stubborn weeds. I've seen drunken peasants with more natural grace.*"
"Encouraging as always," Harry muttered, adjusting his grip and trying again while shooting a pointed look toward the ceiling where he knew Aegerax was resting. "And here I thought dragons were supposed to be wise mentors, not critics with delusions of comedic grandeur. Perhaps I should have bonded with a nice, supportive phoenix instead. They're much better at positive reinforcement."
"*Oh, please,*" Aegerax replied with the sort of amused disdain that could have withered flowers at fifty paces. "*Phoenixes are essentially flying motivational posters with delusions of mystical significance. All healing tears and inspiring music, no practical sense whatsoever. You'd be dead within a week, killed by something that a phoenix would try to 'redeem through the power of song' instead of simply incinerating like any sensible magical creature.*"
This attempt was marginally better—at least Harry managed to complete the swing without threatening his own limbs—but the weapon still felt wrong in his hands, like he was fighting against its natural inclinations rather than working with them. The crimson blade sang through the air with obvious potential, but it was potential being wasted on someone who was clearly approaching the entire endeavor with completely the wrong mindset.
"*The problem,*" Aegerax continued, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone settling in for a lengthy lecture with all the patience of a professor who genuinely enjoyed teaching but wasn't about to coddle his students, "*is that you're thinking like a wizard. Precise, controlled, minimal movement designed for maximum efficiency with minimum risk. It's all very civilized and proper and utterly wrong for what you're attempting. Dragonbane isn't a wand—it's a weapon that was forged to channel the fury of dragonfire itself. It wants to move like flame, like wind, like the great sweeping strokes of a dragon's wings cutting through storm clouds.*"
"Easy for you to say," Harry replied, pausing to wipe sweat from his forehead despite the fact that he'd only been practicing for a few minutes. His emerald eyes flashed with a mixture of frustration and determination that would have been immediately familiar to anyone who'd ever seen him facing down impossible odds. "You've got wings and centuries of experience and the distinct advantage of being, you know, an actual dragon. I've got arms that are distinctly un-wing-like and muscle memory that keeps trying to cast Expelliarmus every time I raise this bloody thing."
"*Excuses, excuses,*" Aegerax replied with the sort of fond exasperation that suggested he was enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "*Your ancestors managed perfectly well with the same basic human anatomy you're cursed with. Though I admit, they had the advantage of starting their training before they developed unfortunate habits like 'thinking things through' and 'considering consequences.' Children are wonderfully reckless when it comes to learning dangerous skills.*"
"Are you suggesting I'm overthinking this?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow in a way that suggested he found the accusation simultaneously insulting and probably accurate.
"*I'm suggesting that you're approaching the wielding of a legendary weapon like you're trying to solve a particularly complex Transfiguration equation,*" Aegerax replied with devastating precision. "*Stop calculating angles and force vectors and start feeling the rhythm. Dragonfire doesn't follow mathematical principles—it follows passion, instinct, the wild joy of creation and destruction dancing together in perfect harmony.*"
"Passion and instinct," Harry repeated thoughtfully, looking down at Dragonbane with new consideration. "Right. Less 'careful academic study' and more 'barely controlled magical mayhem.' I can work with that. After all, barely controlled magical mayhem has been the defining characteristic of most of my educational career."
"*Now you're learning,*" Aegerax said with obvious approval. "*Though I do hope you'll aim for slightly more control than your typical Hogwarts adventure. I'm quite fond of this mountain and would prefer not to see it reduced to rubble because you got carried away with enthusiasm.*"
But as Harry continued to practice, something remarkable began to happen. Instead of trying to impose his will on the weapon, he began to listen to what it was telling him—and Dragonbane, it turned out, was remarkably chatty for an inanimate object. The weapon itself seemed to be teaching him, guiding his movements with subtle resistance when he tried to force it into unnatural positions and flowing like liquid mercury when he moved in harmony with its design.
"*Better,*" Aegerax said approvingly as Harry managed a series of flowing strikes that actually resembled proper weapon work. "*The axe recognizes you as kin—it wants to work with you, not against you. Stop trying to control it like you would a wand and start learning to dance with it. Think of it as a particularly dangerous waltz where the wrong step could remove important body parts.*"
"A waltz," Harry repeated, his expression brightening with the sort of grin that had once made his professors simultaneously proud and deeply concerned. "Right, I can work with that analogy. Though I should probably mention that I'm absolutely terrible at dancing. Hermione tried to teach me before the Yule Ball and it was a disaster of truly epic proportions."
"*Dancing with a partner who doesn't want to remove your head is considerably more challenging than dancing with a weapon that actively desires to help you succeed,*" Aegerax pointed out with the sort of dry humor that suggested he had extensive experience with both scenarios. "*Plus, if you step on Dragonbane's metaphorical toes, the worst that happens is embarrassment. Miss Granger, I suspect, was far less forgiving of clumsiness.*"
Within an hour, Harry's movements had transformed from awkward fumbling to something approaching actual competence. The weapon sang through the air with increasing confidence, each swing building naturally into the next as muscle memory that had never existed began to form with impossible speed. His emerald eyes brightened with genuine excitement as he began to understand what Aegerax had been trying to tell him—this wasn't about precise control, it was about partnership, about finding the harmony between his own natural rhythms and the weapon's inherent nature.
By the second hour, he was moving with a fluid grace that would have impressed his old Defense professors, the axe spinning and cutting in patterns that seemed to bend light around their edges. The crimson blade left trails of golden fire in its wake, and where those flames touched the air, brief images seemed to form—glimpses of dragons in flight, of mountains carved by wind and time, of possibilities that existed just beyond the edge of vision.
"This is extraordinary," Harry breathed during a brief rest, examining Dragonbane with new appreciation and no small amount of awe. The weapon's surface was warm to the touch, almost body temperature, and the runic patterns seemed to pulse with a gentle light that matched his heartbeat. When he held it, he could feel its eagerness, its desire to be used for the purposes it had been created for. "It's like it's alive—not sentient, exactly, but aware. Responsive. It knows what I'm trying to do and helps me do it better."
"*The finest Valyrian weapons were always more than mere tools,*" Aegerax explained, his mental voice carrying the weight of ancient memory and deep satisfaction. "*They were partnerships, bonds between wielder and weapon that grew stronger with time and shared experience. Your ancestors understood that the greatest power comes not from domination—though they were certainly fond of that approach in other areas—but from harmony. From mutual respect between all elements of the partnership.*"
"Speaking of harmony," Harry said, raising the axe and feeling the familiar tingle of magic gathering at his fingertips, "let's see how it handles spellwork. I'm rather curious to see what happens when I try to channel magic through something that's part Elder Wand, part Resurrection Stone, and entirely too pleased with itself."
"*I resent the implication that your weapon has inherited my personality traits,*" Aegerax replied with mock indignation. "*I am not 'pleased with myself'—I am appropriately confident in my abilities, which is an entirely different thing.*"
"Of course it is," Harry said with the sort of grin that suggested he was enjoying their banter as much as the dragon was. "And I'm sure it's purely coincidental that my weapon seems to have developed your talent for dramatic flair and pointed commentary."
His first few attempts were simple—basic charms and hexes that any competent wizard could cast wandlessly. But channeled through Dragonbane, even the simplest spells took on new dimensions of power and precision that made Harry's enhanced magical senses sing with recognition and delight. A Lumos charm became a blazing star that filled the workshop with golden radiance, warm and welcoming and bright enough to read by from fifty feet away. A Levitation Charm lifted not one practice dummy but half a dozen, holding them suspended in perfect formation while rotating them through complex aerial maneuvers that would have impressed a Quidditch team.
"*Remarkable,*" Aegerax murmured as Harry worked through increasingly complex spellwork with the sort of focused intensity that had once convinced his Defense professors that he might actually survive his tendency to seek out mortal peril. "*The power amplification is extraordinary, but it's the control that truly impresses me. The weapon isn't just making your magic stronger—it's making it more precise, more refined. You're casting with the focus of a master and the power of a force of nature. Most wizards would kill for that combination.*"
"Most wizards don't have the advantage of being bonded to the most magnificent dragon in existence," Harry replied with the sort of shameless flattery that suggested he knew exactly what effect it would have on his partner's ego. "Though I have to admit, this level of power amplification is slightly terrifying. I cast a simple Cutting Charm earlier and accidentally carved a trench in the floor that's three feet deep."
"*Flattery will get you everywhere,*" Aegerax replied with obvious pleasure, though his mental voice also carried a note of genuine concern. "*Though you're right to be cautious about the power levels. The weapon is essentially allowing you to channel magic on the scale of a dragon without the natural safeguards that prevent us from accidentally incinerating ourselves. Perhaps we should establish some basic safety protocols before you attempt anything truly ambitious.*"
"Safety protocols," Harry repeated thoughtfully. "Right. Because accidentally leveling a mountain would be awkward to explain to the neighbors. Assuming there were any neighbors to explain to, which there aren't, but the principle stands."
But it was when Harry attempted a Patronus Charm that the true magnitude of the change became apparent, and the workshop fell silent except for the gentle hum of magical energy building to unprecedented levels.
He raised Dragonbane, feeling the weapon's eager response to his magical intent, and spoke the incantation with the same conviction that had once held off a hundred Dementors at the edge of a lake. "*Expecto Patronum!*"
What emerged from the axe was not the silver stag he had summoned for years, not the familiar guardian that had protected him through his darkest moments and stood sentinel against the creatures of despair that had haunted his nightmares. Instead, blazing forth in brilliant gold that put the workshop's magical lighting to shame and made the very air shimmer with concentrated joy, came a dragon.
Not Aegerax—this creature was smaller, more compact, built for speed and agility rather than overwhelming power. But it was unmistakably draconic, four-legged and golden, with wings that caught and reflected light like burnished bronze and eyes that held intelligence and fierce protective instinct that made Harry's breath catch in his throat. The Patronus-dragon coiled through the air with liquid grace, its form solid enough to cast shadows despite being made of pure concentrated happiness and hope.
"Bloody hell," Harry whispered, staring at his transformed Patronus with a mixture of awe and confusion that rendered him temporarily speechless. His emerald eyes widened as he took in every detail of the magnificent creature that had emerged from his magic, and for a moment he looked exactly like the boy who had first discovered magic—wonder and joy and barely contained excitement written across his features. "That's... that's not what it used to be. My Patronus was always a stag—Prongs, like my father's Animagus form. It's been the same for years. I could summon that stag in my sleep."
"*Dragon bonds change everything,*" Aegerax said, his mental voice carrying profound satisfaction tinged with something that might have been paternal pride. "*Your magical core has been transformed by our partnership, your very essence reshaped by dragonfire and ancient blood. It makes sense that your Patronus would reflect that transformation. Though I admit, I'm rather pleased that your subconscious chose to model it after my own magnificent form rather than those inferior wyverns the Valyrians were so fond of breeding.*"
"Modest as always," Harry said, though his grin suggested he was more amused than critical. "And here I thought dragons were supposed to be humble, self-effacing creatures who never mentioned their own obvious superiority."
"*I have no idea where you got that impression,*" Aegerax replied with the sort of dignity that was only slightly undermined by his obvious amusement. "*Dragons are magnificent creatures with appropriately magnificent opinions of themselves. False modesty is for lesser beings who have something to be modest about.*"
The golden dragon-Patronus seemed to sense their attention, turning its luminous gaze toward them with an expression of benevolent interest that was somehow both alien and immediately familiar. When it opened its mouth, instead of a roar, it released a sound like silver bells ringing across vast distances—pure joy given voice, hope made audible, the sound of laughter and love and all the things that made life worth living.
"It's beautiful," Harry said softly, watching as the Patronus began to patrol the workshop with obvious purpose, its presence driving back shadows that Harry hadn't even realized were there. Wherever it passed, the air seemed cleaner, brighter, more alive. "And powerful. I can feel it—this isn't just a guardian anymore. It's... more. Like it could actually fight, actually protect, not just drive off Dementors but face down real threats. Physical threats."
"*Test it,*" Aegerax suggested, his mental voice carrying the sort of eager curiosity that suggested he was as interested in the Patronus's capabilities as Harry was. "*Summon something for it to contend with. Nothing genuinely dangerous, but something that will let you gauge its capabilities. I'm rather curious to see what a dragon-form Patronus can accomplish.*"
Harry nodded, raising Dragonbane again and casting a series of conjuration charms that filled the air with shadowy constructs—not Dark Magic, but simple manifestations of darkness and cold that approximated the emotional resonance of Dementors without actually posing any real threat. The constructs writhed and twisted through the air like living smoke, their presence making the temperature drop noticeably and filling the workshop with the sort of oppressive atmosphere that pressed against the soul.
The Patronus-dragon responded immediately, diving through the conjured shadows with fierce joy that transformed its musical voice into something like a battle cry. Its golden light burned away the darkness like sunrise after the longest night, and where its claws touched the shadowy constructs, they dissolved into motes of fading darkness that scattered harmlessly into the air.
But it wasn't just dispelling the constructs—it was *destroying* them, tearing through shadow and cold with claws that left trails of brilliant fire in their wake. Each sweep of its wings sent cascades of golden sparks dancing through the air like falling stars, and where its feet touched the ground, brief flowers of light bloomed in its footsteps before fading back into ordinary stone.
"*Extraordinary,*" Aegerax breathed, his mental voice carrying genuine amazement that would have been flattering if Harry hadn't been too mesmerized by his Patronus to properly appreciate it. "*That creature isn't just a guardian—it's a weapon of pure positive force. I can sense its power even from here, and I suspect it could hold its own against threats that would overwhelm most conventional Patronuses. You have created something entirely new, young Dragonlord.*"
"Created, or discovered?" Harry mused, watching as the Patronus completed its patrol and settled into a resting position near the workshop's entrance, its luminous form coiled like a cat but radiating alert watchfulness that suggested it was ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. "I didn't consciously change the form—it just emerged differently. Like the dragon bond awakened something that was already there, waiting."
"*Perhaps both,*" Aegerax suggested, his mental voice carrying the sort of thoughtful consideration that suggested he was working through theoretical implications. "*The Peverell bloodline carries mysteries that even I do not fully understand, and I've had considerable time to study such things. It's entirely possible that your magical core contained the potential for this transformation all along, needing only the right catalyst to reveal its true nature.*"
"A hidden dragon," Harry said with obvious delight. "I rather like that idea. Though it does make me wonder what other surprises my magical core might be hiding. I suppose I'll find out as we continue this partnership."
"*One can only hope they're all as impressive as this,*" Aegerax replied. "*Though I do hope you'll resist the urge to experiment with major magical transformations while we're in enclosed spaces. I'm quite fond of this workshop and would prefer it remain structurally sound.*"
Harry spent another hour practicing with his transformed Patronus, marveling at its capabilities and feeling like a child with a new toy—if that toy happened to be a magical creature of immense power and dubious restraint. Unlike his old stag-form guardian, this dragon-Patronus could take and execute complex instructions, could coordinate with his spellcasting to create combination attacks that would have been impossible before. When he cast a Shield Charm, the Patronus reinforced it with its own protective aura, creating barriers that sparkled with golden fire. When he sent Stunning Spells at practice targets, the golden dragon added its own force to the attacks, turning simple hexes into devastating combination strikes that left smoking craters where the targets had been.
"This changes everything," he said finally, allowing the Patronus to fade back into the golden motes of light that dispersed harmlessly into the air like dying embers. "Not just the power increase, but the tactical possibilities. Having a guardian that can actually fight alongside me, that can take initiative and adapt to changing situations... it's like having a partner in every magical confrontation."
"*Speaking of partners,*" Aegerax said, his mental voice taking on a note of practical interest, "*perhaps it's time to turn our attention to the saddle project? I've been remarkably patient about your various experiments, but I confess I'm eager to see what innovations you'll bring to the ancient art of dragon-riding equipment. The traditional Valyrian saddles were adequate, but I suspect you can do better.*"
Harry nodded, setting Dragonbane carefully in its warded rack and turning toward the corner of the workshop where the saddle materials waited in organized profusion—dragonhide cured in magical salts, dragon bones carved with precision runes, Valyrian Steel components that would form the framework of something that would hopefully be worthy of the greatest dragon in the world. The project would be even more complex than the axe—not just a matter of combining magical components, but of creating an interface that would allow perfect coordination between dragon and rider while maintaining the independence and dignity of both partners.
"Right then," he said, rolling up his sleeves with the sort of determined enthusiasm that had once made his professors simultaneously proud and deeply concerned. "Let's build something that will make the old Dragonlords weep with envy. Or at least something that won't result in me falling off at the first sharp turn."
"*I would prefer something more ambitious than mere 'not falling off,'*" Aegerax replied with amusement. "*Though I suppose we should establish basic competency before aiming for legendary status.*"
---
Deep beneath the volcanic peaks, in chambers where reality bent like heated glass and shadows moved with independent will, the thing that had once been Malachar Peverell felt the golden light pierce the darkness of its exile like a spear thrust through its heart.
The sensation was alien, impossible—for a thousand years, nothing had touched the crystallized despair that served as its emotional core. The creature had thought itself beyond such mundane influences as hope or fear, its consciousness elevated to a plane where only hunger and patience held meaning. But the brief flare of that golden presence had awakened something in the depths of its being that it had thought long dead and buried beneath centuries of carefully cultivated emptiness.
Hope.
Not its own hope—the creature had abandoned such naive concepts centuries ago, had burned them away along with most of what had once made it recognizably human—but hope so pure and concentrated that it burned like acid against its shadow-wrapped consciousness. The Patronus had lasted only minutes, but its brief existence had filled the ancient chambers with a resonance that made the very stones sing with forgotten joy, with melodies that belonged to sunlight and laughter and all the things that had no place in this realm of crystallized darkness.
"*What... what was that?*" it whispered, its voice carrying tones of confusion that would have been impossible for it to produce since the early days of its transformation. The sound echoed strangely in the curved spaces of its lair, returning as whispers of half-remembered melodies and children's laughter—sounds that had no business existing in these depths where only despair had held dominion for so long.
The creature pressed itself deeper into the shadows, seeking the familiar comfort of darkness and finding instead only uncomfortable awareness of light that lingered even after its source had faded. Its form, usually as stable as liquid mercury finding its level, writhed and shifted with something that might have been distress. For the first time in centuries, Malachar felt something that might have been... vulnerability.
But alongside the alien sensation of hope came something else, something far more familiar and infinitely more disturbing: fear.
Not fear of the young Peverell who had summoned the golden guardian—the creature had long since moved beyond concern for individual mortals, no matter how powerful or innovative they might prove to be. This was something deeper, more primal, more honest than anything it had felt since the early days of its exile. The golden dragon-Patronus hadn't just been a manifestation of joy and protection—it had been *designed* to destroy things like what Malachar had become.
"*A weapon,*" it realized, the words emerging as a hiss that made nearby shadows recoil like living things fleeing from flame. "*Not just a guardian, but a blade forged from concentrated virtue and pointed directly at the heart of corruption. The boy doesn't even realize what he's created—a perfect counter to everything I have become. How... deliciously ironic.*"
The creature began to pace through its crystalline chambers, its form flowing like spilled oil as it processed this unexpected development with the sort of methodical analysis that had once served it well in more human pursuits. A thousand years of patience, of careful planning, of waiting for the perfect moment to reclaim its place in the world—and now this descendant had inadvertently created the one thing that might actually pose a genuine threat to its continued existence.
But even as fear crept through its consciousness like ice spreading through still water, the creature found itself... intrigued. More than intrigued—fascinated. The young Peverell showed innovation beyond anything their ancestors had achieved, creativity that transformed traditional magic into something entirely new and potentially revolutionary. The dragon bond alone was remarkable—most Dragonlords had settled for simple dominance, control through force and magical compulsion that reduced their partners to little more than powerful mounts. This partnership sang with genuine harmony, mutual respect elevated to the level of high art.
"*Perhaps,*" it murmured, settling into a contemplative coil in the deepest shadows of its lair, "*this development is not the disaster it first appeared. The child shows promise—more promise than any Peverell since the Doom took the last of the true bloodline. If properly... guided... they could achieve wonders that would make even my thousand years of patient evolution seem crude by comparison.*"
The creature's form solidified slightly as it contemplated possibilities that hadn't existed moments before, plans and strategies reforming themselves around this new and fascinating variable. The young Dragonlord would need to be tested, certainly. Their moral convictions would need to be... examined. Their willingness to embrace the full scope of their heritage would need to be carefully evaluated through trials that would reveal the true depths of their character.
But perhaps, for the first time in a millennium, Malachar had found someone truly worthy of the Peverell name. Someone who might—with the proper encouragement and guidance—be willing to learn what lay beyond the boundaries that constrained lesser minds. Someone who could appreciate the elegant mathematics of necessary sacrifice, the beautiful logic of power pursued without the weakness of conventional morality.
"*Soon,*" it whispered to the darkness, though the word now carried anticipation rather than mere patience. "*Soon, young heir, you will discover that the path of power demands prices you have not yet imagined. And when that moment comes, when you stand at the crossroads between what you were and what you could become, you will need a teacher who understands the true nature of sacrifice. Who has walked that path before you and emerged... transformed.*"
The creature's voice carried a note of something that might once have been warmth, if warmth could exist in a realm where hope came to die and dreams crystallized into permanent despair. It had been so long since Malachar had felt anything approaching kinship, so long since it had encountered another being that might be capable of understanding the sublime beauty of absolute power pursued without restraint.
In the workshops above, Haerion Peverell bent over his saddle designs, unaware that his transformed Patronus had awakened something in the depths that had been sleeping for centuries. The golden light of hope and protection had pierced the darkness of the deepest chambers, carrying with it both promise and threat in equal measure, and in doing so had changed the fundamental nature of the game being played in these ancient ruins.
The last Dragonlord continued his work, building tools and partnerships that would reshape the world, while in the shadows below, an ancient predator reconsidered its plans and found them... wanting. The game had changed, the stakes had risen, and for the first time in a thousand years, Malachar felt truly alive.
The golden dragon-Patronus was gone, faded back to the light from which it came. But its brief existence had changed everything, setting in motion currents of possibility that would shape the fate of dragons and men alike. In the darkness beneath the Fourteen Flames, something that had once been human smiled with anticipation that tasted of graves and starlight—and perhaps, just perhaps, of hope reborn.
---
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