By the middle of March, the air in Hagrid's cabin was thick and heavy, saturated with humidity, soot, and the potent, sulfuric tang of anticipation. A relentless, focused fire blazed in the hearth, raising the interior temperature to an almost unbearable level.
Beside the massive stone oven, four young wizards stood huddled together, their faces flushed from the heat and etched with a mixture of apprehension and wide-eyed wonder.
Hagrid crouched low, his immense frame trembling slightly, not from the heat, but from sheer paternal tension. His gaze was fixated on the object of all this chaos: a dark, heavily speckled dragon egg lying deep within the glowing embers.
Click… click… click. The sound was faint at first, then rapid and insistent, emanating from the shell. Hagrid instantly donned his thick, fireproof dragon-hide gloves, handling the egg with the delicate tenderness usually reserved for a priceless relic. He moved it quickly, carefully, onto the large, rough-hewn table.
"Nearly ready, nearly ready now," Hagrid whispered, his voice hushed and reverent. "Don't yer blink, now. The little fella's comin' into the world."
A tiny, hairline crack suddenly appeared on the shell's surface, spiraling outward with alarming speed. The entire egg began to shake, vibrating with the strenuous, struggling power of the infant creature within.
With a final, sharp CRACK! that sounded like a miniature gunshot, the shell splintered completely. A small, black, wrinkled creature, looking wet and disconcertingly like a discarded umbrella, struggled free. It was not majestic or beautiful; it was a clumsy, bat-winged serpent with tiny, knobbly horns, still smeared with albumen.
The Norwegian Ridgeback hatchling lifted its head, its miniature, oily scales catching the faint light. Its eyes, the color of molten brass, locked onto the first large, friendly face it saw.
It emitted a thin, reedy yelp of recognition and then, with no warning, a gout of searingly bright red sparks and smoke shot forth from its nostrils, momentarily singeing Hagrid's thick, wiry beard.
"Merlin, she's perfect," Hagrid sighed, utterly oblivious to the singed hair, his enormous hands gently cradling the terrifying bundle of instinct and flame. His eyes were overflowing with devotion. "She thinks I'm her mum, she does."
Perfect? Harry suppressed a reflexive cringe. While he was glad for Hagrid's happiness, the newborn dragon possessed the immediate, inherent aesthetic appeal of a damp lizard mixed with a smoking chimney. He glanced at Ron, who was staring with a mixture of terror and fascination, and Hermione, who was already calculating the required volume of anti-venom.
"My turn!" Malfoy snapped, pushing past Ron. He was fully prepared, having kept his own pair of supple dragon-hide gloves secured in his sleeve. Eagerly, he lifted the tiny, writhing hatchling, holding it at arm's length with a practiced, if somewhat theatrical, caution.
"Look at you, all kitted out in your precious dragon-hide gear, Malfoy," Ron sneered, although his voice lacked its usual punch, tainted by a lingering nervousness. "Afraid the little mite will scorch your delicate fingers? Step aside, I'll show you how a brave Gryffindor handles a powerful magical creature!"
Malfoy rolled his eyes, a flicker of genuine disdain crossing his face. Gryffindor bravery, or Gryffindor idiocy? he thought. He knew that even at this stage, the Norwegian Ridgeback possessed venomous fangs and the reflexes of a predator. He carefully placed the struggling creature back onto the table, stepping back to watch the show.
"Ah…!"
Ron's display of courage lasted barely five seconds. He reached in with a bare hand, attempting a rough, friendly stroke, and immediately let out a sharp, choked gasp of pain. He snatched his hand back, gripping his wrist tight.
The tiny creature had nipped him with a speed that defied its size, sinking its surprisingly sharp, venomous fangs just deep enough to draw blood. Ron managed to maintain a façade of calm for Hagrid's sake, but his face was grey.
Feigning only mild discomfort, Ron straightened his robes. "Hagrid," he gasped, changing the subject with practiced speed. "Is the chicken blood and the brandy ready? The hatchling is hungry. First feeding is critical."
"And ensure the brandy is of sufficient proof, Hagrid," Malfoy chimed in, stepping back into the fray with smug superiority. "That is essential for generating strong, robust flame early on. Poor quality spirits result in a weak, sputtering combustion. It's a basic principle of draconic metabolic chemistry."
For the next hour, Ron and Malfoy argued incessantly, each attempting to outshine the other as the superior, most knowledgeable dragon-rearing expert.
Ron argued based on Charlie's letters; Malfoy based his pronouncements on expensive pureblood library texts, their mutual animosity temporarily channeled into an exhausting, bizarre contest over the quality of feed and the ideal temperature for a Norwegian Ridgeback nursery.
The only positive outcome of this strange, shared endeavor was a begrudging, temporary cessation of open hostility between the two boys, bound by the secret of the rapidly growing, increasingly aggressive beast they had helped bring into the world.
The ensuing week passed in a frantic, exhausting blur. Sebastian's one-week deadline was a strict necessity, as the Ridgeback—which Hagrid quickly, and with surprising lack of foresight, named Norberta—grew at an exponential rate.
In just seven days, the tiny, wrinkled creature ballooned into a leathery, six-foot-long, thick-necked lizard that now entirely dominated the small, single room of the hut.
Norberta was perpetually hungry, perpetually aggressive, and deeply possessive of her temporary 'mother,' Hagrid. She roared, she scratched, she spewed smoke and occasionally full jets of fire, singeing the curtains and causing Hagrid to wear an increasingly thick layer of protective clothing.
Ron, still nursing a heavily bandaged hand that swelled alarmingly, kept a careful, terrified distance. Even Malfoy's courage wavered when Norberta chewed the leg off the wooden table, mistaking it for a potential food source.
The little plot had become a massive, unsustainable security disaster. The time for the "White Lie" had arrived.
It was a cold, bright Friday morning. The entire student body was instructed, via a highly unusual, last-minute announcement from Professor McGonagall, to remain outside the Main Gate at 10:00 AM for an "Urgent Demonstration of Ministerial Vigilance and Cooperation."
When the students finally gathered, a buzz of confused anticipation quickly escalated to outright shock.
Hagrid emerged from the grounds, carrying Norberta—now a frighteningly large, struggling beast—in a massive, heavily reinforced, enchanted leather sling. He was flanked by the four students, Harry and Hermione looking solemn, Ron looking pale and trying to hide his swollen hand, and Malfoy looking like he was marching in a victory parade.
As the procession reached the wrought-iron gates, the students saw it: an absolutely massive crowd had gathered outside. Flashing bulbs went off like miniature bombs. The air was thick with the scent of flash powder and the shouted questions of at least two dozen reporters, all straining against a Ministry-erected cordon.
Across the top of the gate, enormous, hastily erected banners proclaimed the day's narrative in garish, celebratory lettering:
PROTECTING MAGICAL CREATURES BEGINS WITH FIGHTING DARK WIZARDS!
HOGWARTS HERO RANGER THWARTS SMUGGLING ATTEMPT!
[BRAVE HAGRID]: THE GUARDIAN OF THE FORBIDDEN FOREST SAVES ENDANGERED DRAGON!
The scene was pure, theatrical chaos. Several members of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (DRCMC) stood waiting, looking highly professional, while behind them stood the ultimate stamp of official approval: Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, beaming and visibly preening for the cameras.
Fudge immediately strode forward, extending a hand to Hagrid—who was weeping openly, terrified to let go of the squirming Ridgeback. Norberta, overwhelmed by the crowd noise and the flashes, roared in genuine fear, spitting a brief, powerful sheet of flame that thankfully hit an empty patch of grass. The students nearest the gate screamed in delighted, terrified panic.
"Hagrid, my dear man, come right here!" Fudge boomed, his voice carrying easily over the din. He gestured dramatically to a specific spot next to the Minister.
"Hold the magnificent beast up! Stand to my right, so the Prophet can capture this perfect moment! This, my friends, is what Wizarding Law Enforcement looks like! You, Hagrid, are the biggest contributor to the harmonious future of both wizards and magical creatures!"
Fudge then spotted a Ministry official wearing the insignia of a registered Dragon Handler. "And you, Dragon Farm Employee! Come here! Let's shake hands—a powerful symbol of the smooth transition of this creature from the clutches of darkness to the safety of legal sanctuary!"
Harry, Hermione, and Ron stood at the edge of the organized chaos, staring in stunned silence. The scale of the public spectacle was entirely beyond their wildest expectations.
"Is… is all of this Professor Swann's doing?" Harry muttered, utterly lost in the moment. "This is immense. The Minister of Magic himself is here! This must have cost a fortune in Ministry favors."
"It's going to be the lead story in the Prophet for a week," Ron mumbled, rising onto his tiptoes. His bandaged hand was twitching with residual pain and fresh envy. His eyes darted to the side, where he spotted Lucius Malfoy, standing near the cordon, looking immensely proud.
Lucius had his arm clamped firmly around Draco's shoulder, guiding him towards a reporter from the Evening Standard who was taking a private, exclusive interview.
Ron pursed his lips into a tight line of pure, acidic resentment. "Look at Malfoy's face! That smug, privileged ferret! He's standing there like he single-handedly captured the Dark Wizard and raised the dragon! And an exclusive interview? I bet his father spent half their vault on getting him a front-page photo-op."
In a fit of pique, Ron angrily kicked a stray stone, sending it skittering across the flagstones. "Just because he's rich doesn't mean he can steal the spotlight! Slytherins are all cunning politicians, but Gryffindors like us never get the recognition we deserve for the actual work!"
"Ron!" Hermione snapped, her voice low and sharp, her frown severe. "Stop it! You are missing the point! We should be relieved that Malfoy is so keen to be recognized as a key team member. His father's presence here, and Draco's public involvement, acts as a political shield! No one, not even Lucius Malfoy, will dare attack Headmaster Dumbledore over this now, because it would mean implicating his own son in a scandal! The professor made Draco's self-interest work for Hagrid's protection."
Just then, Fudge's booming, political voice cut through the noise once more.
"And wait!" the Minister cried, looking around dramatically as if suddenly remembering a key detail. "There were four other young, brave wizards who dedicated their time and risked injury to ensure the successful birth and transfer of this magnificent creature! Come forward, young talents! Let the world meet the Future of the Magical World!"
Young talents? That's me!
The word limelight acted like a powerful Sticking Charm on Ron Weasley's jealousy. His bandaged hand—the proud badge of his suffering—shot up.
"Make way, make way!" Ron yelled, shoving his way past a pair of confused third-years. "Move! Don't delay my time on the news!"
Harry and Hermione exchanged a final, resigned look, utterly dumbfounded by the sheer theatrical efficiency of Sebastian's manipulation.
While the Minister of Magic was happily posing with a heartbroken Hagrid and the terrified dragon, Sebastian Swann was far away, in the serene quiet of his office, hosting a highly important guest.
"The operation was, shall we say, a resounding diplomatic success," Sebastian remarked, the faint commotion of the distant crowd a meaningless background hum. He poured his guest a tall glass of cola over ice, the sound of the fizzing bubbles oddly comforting against the backdrop of world-altering strategy.
The visitor, Albus Dumbledore, smiled gently, his eyes twinkling above his half-moon spectacles. "Indeed. A masterful display of narrative alchemy, Sebastian. You managed to convert a capital crime into a Ministerial commendation and a public holiday for the student body, all while ensuring Hagrid remains precisely where he wishes to be."
Dumbledore's expression then shifted, becoming quiet and intensely focused.
"Now that the attention is directed elsewhere, we must finalize the other matter. Sebastian, the data you have collected on Quirinus is alarming. His absorption rate is increasing, even with your treatments. If this continues, I fear Voldemort will absorb too much residual life force and find a way to manifest a physical form far sooner than we anticipated. It is time to close the net."
Sebastian sipped his drink, the clink of the ice the only sound.
"No problem, Albus," Sebastian replied, his tone relaxed and confident, as if discussing lesson plans. "Let us set the date for the first Saturday of next month. I will ensure Professor Quirrell is positioned precisely where he needs to be. The crisis is solved, the distractions are in place, and the main event is ready."
"Excellent," Dumbledore confirmed, his smile returning, though holding a dangerous, determined edge. "It is time to test the defenses against the Dark Arts that I have spent a lifetime erecting."