“Uh…” Hagrid started, voice cracking. “Professor Babbling, this isn’t what it looks like.”

She stepped forward, her robes still damp from Cassian’s earlier mess. Her eyes flicked to the creature, tiny wings flapping uselessly as it let out a pitiful squeak.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” she said flatly. “For a second, I thought that was a bloody Norwegian Ridgeback on your table.”

Hagrid’s face went crimson under his beard. “Er… it is, Professor.”

Bathsheda turned her head slowly to look at him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief, exhaustion and ‘Really? Is it really a Norwegian Ridgeback?’

“Of course it is,” she murmured. “Because why wouldn’t there be an illegal dragon in a hut made of splinters?”

The dragon hiccupped, and a tongue of flame licked out across the table.

“Brilliant,” she said under her breath.

Hermione twisted her hands around her sleeves. “It just hatched.”

Bathsheda fixed her with a sharp look. “No matter, it is still a Ridgeback, Granger.”

Ron gave Harry a nervous nudge, but Harry stayed quiet, clearly weighing whether explaining anything would dig them in deeper.

Bathsheda pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is not my problem. Not tonight. I’ve got one lunatic professor sending me on a ridiculous egg chase, and now this.” She gestured vaguely at the hatchling, which let out another wheeze of smoke. “Whatever this is, it had better not end up torching half the castle.”

Hagrid opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

“Not a word. Don’t make me report this. If Minerva catches wind of it, you’ll be writing lines until your beard falls out.”

Hagrid’s mouth closed with an audible click.

She stepped back to the door. “Keep it quiet, all of you. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t let it sneeze near anything flammable.”

Hermione looked like she might faint. Harry muttered a faint, “Yes, Professor,” while Ron gave an awkward little nod.

Bathsheda didn’t bother replying. Her fingers tightened around her wand as she turned to leave. But before she could take a full step, the dragon hatchling charged her.

Typical.

Dragons were intuitive creatures. This one, still reeking of smoke and shell, clearly thought she was the threat. Truth be told, it wasn’t far off. She had been thinking of at least a dozen ways to make Cassian regret every decision he’d ever made, and the little beast must’ve felt the edge of that hostility, thinking she was a threat to it.

Bathsheda’s wand came up, lips ready to spell out a Protego.

Instead, what came out wasn’t English. Or Latin. Or anything she’d spoken, ever.

A roar, low and guttural, like rolling thunder, ripped from her throat before she could even register it. The sound vibrated through the cramped hut, cutting off the hatchling mid-charge.

The dragon froze.

Then, to everyone’s absolute shock, including her own, it dropped to the floor. Tiny claws scraped against the wooden planks as it prostrated itself in front of her, head pressed low like a knight pledging fealty.

Hagrid let out a strangled noise and lurched forward, massive hands outstretched to scoop the creature up. The hatchling hissed and squirmed out of reach, crawling straight towards Bathsheda instead.

It stopped by her slippers and, to her utter disbelief, licked her toes.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered.

Hermione’s cake slipped from her fingers, denting the wooden floor. Ron’s mouth flapped silently like a stranded fish. Harry stood perfectly still, staring at the hatchling.

Hagrid tried to make a move again, hands out again. “It, er… it don’t normally do that,” he said weakly.

“No,” Bathsheda said, still too confused to comprehend what the frozen hell was happening, “I imagine it doesn’t.”

The hatchling hissed again as Hagrid reached for it, wings flaring pathetically in warning. Bathsheda crouched, robes pooling around her knees.

Cassian rushed in, breathing hard, one wand clutched in his hand. “I heard a roar. What the hell happened?” His eyes swept the room, then froze on the scene in front of him. His mouth opened slightly. “Uh-oh.”

Bathsheda didn’t even glance at him. She was still crouched low, staring down at the baby Ridgeback licking her slipper like it thought she was its mother.

Cassian edged closer. “Is that…?”

“Yes.” Bathsheda’s voice was flat.

“A dragon?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Brilliant.” He dragged a hand through his hair, staring at the hatchling as it burped up a tiny ember.

Hagrid flinched like Cassian might kill it on the spot. “Cassian, it is only a baby,” he mumbled.

Cassian shot him a sharp look. “Yes, and babies grow up. That one’ll be the size of a carriage in two years and will torch half the Forbidden Forest before breakfast.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it quickly when Cassian’s gaze flicked to her.

Cassian sighed, dragged a hand down his face. “Alright. Which one of you lunatics thought this was a good idea?”

Nobody spoke.

Bathsheda stood slowly, brushing ash off her robe. “Don’t waste your breath. It’s not worth it.”

Cassian glanced at her, noting the damp streaks on her sleeves and the faint scent of lavender clinging to her. “Did… did you bathe in a potion or something?”

“No,” she said shortly. “You dumped half a dozen eggs on me and sent me running across the castle like a deranged scavenger.”

“Oh.” His lips curved faintly. “You found them, then?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Cassian Rosier, you are this close to sleeping in the corridor.”

“Worth it,” he said under his breath.

Bathsheda let out a sharp sigh and pointed at the hatchling. “Handle this first. Then we will discuss what part of your brain thinks egg hunts are romantic.”

Cassian crouched slightly, keeping his distance from the Ridgeback. “Hagrid, you can’t keep it here. Dragons are classified as XXXXX-level creatures, deadly, uncontrollable, and strictly forbidden to own.”

“It is only temporary,” Hagrid muttered.

“Mm. That is what people say before they adopt a one and end up as ash.” Cassian rubbed at his jaw, giving Hagrid a long, pointed look. “You are lucky, too. Malfoy was wandering this way. Probably would’ve seen the lot of you and bolted straight to Snape. The roar scared him off.”

Hagrid shifted his weight, looking sheepish but not nearly sheepish enough for Cassian’s liking.

Cassian made a noise as he looked at the creature. “Alright, little terror. Let’s not turn this into a bonfire.”

The Ridgeback hissed, smoke curling from its nostrils.

Bathsheda moved to intercept. “Careful. It is wound up.”

The hatchling snapped, fire flaring as it lunged. Cassian jerked back, wand half-raised, but before he could react, Bathsheda stepped in.

“Hey—” Cassian started, but she shoved him back so hard they both tumbled to the floor.

The flames hit her full on.

Harry yelped. Hermione clapped both hands over her mouth. Ron made a noise like a strangled goose.

When the fire cleared, Bathsheda was still standing. Robes steaming faintly. Hair damp where the heat had hit. Not a single singe mark.

Hagrid’s mouth opened wide. “That… that is not normal.”

“You think?” Cassian pushed himself upright, eyeing Bathsheda up and down, “What was that?”

She brushed ash off her sleeve like it was a minor inconvenience. “No idea. Must be your charm work going wrong again.”

“Is it?” Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “You are not wearing a protective rune? Cloaking charm? Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Bathsheda shook her head, as confused.

Cassian turned to the kids and Hagrid, waving them toward the door. “Take them up to the castle, Hagrid. And you should know, this dragon can’t stay here. We will sort it out for you.”

Hagrid’s face crumpled like someone had just insulted his mum. “What will you do to him? He is only a baby!”

Cassian held up a hand. “Relax. I promise, it will be fine.”

Hagrid hesitated, his gaze darting to Bathsheda. She gave him a firm nod. That seemed to settle him… reluctantly.

“Come on, you lot,” Hagrid muttered, ushering Harry, Ron, and Hermione out the door. The kids cast nervous glances back, but they didn’t argue. The door creaked shut behind them.

Bathsheda rounded on Cassian the moment they were alone. “Why did you send them off? And what exactly do you plan to do with it?”

Cassian looked around and cast a privacy ward. “I read something. Ancient Norwegian magicks could bond with Ridgebacks. If the bond takes, the wizard becomes immune to their partnered dragon’s fire.”

Bathsheda stared at him for a quiet few seconds, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You are telling me you want to test an obscure bit of Nordic folklore on a creature that could burn down the castle?”

“Not want. Need.” Cassian flicked his gaze to the hatchling, its beady eyes fixed on Bathsheda like she was some sort of goddess. “You just stood there and took a faceful of fire without so much as a singed eyebrow. Either you are hiding a bloody powerful charm… or we are staring at living proof that those old texts weren’t a pile of nonsense.”

Bathsheda folded her arms. “So what if the bond exists? You are suggesting I’ve got one. Why me?”

“Good question.” Cassian tilted his head, studying her like she was a particularly tricky rune. “Maybe you’ve got the right bloodline. Or the Ridgeback chose you because you told it off better than its own mother would.”

The dragon let out a faint, chirping growl, curling its tail around Bathsheda’s slippers. She glanced down at it, exasperation softening into something closer to wary curiosity.

“And if you are wrong?” she asked.

Cassian sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Alright. Let’s test if I am right. Call it over and ask for a drop of blood.”

Bathsheda shot him a sharp look, the kind that usually sent first-years scurrying. He didn’t flinch. Not this time. His expression held steady, no grin, no flippant remark, just that face he only ever wore when history, proper history, was staring him in the face.

He was many things, insufferable, obsessive, maddeningly smug. But when it came to history, she didn’t doubt a word he said.

“Fine,” she muttered, turning to the hatchling. Her hand stretched out. “Come on then.”

The Ridgeback hesitated for only a heartbeat before it scrambled into her palm, claws scratching lightly against her skin.

“Let’s do it,” she murmured.

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

The roars of opposition will always sound louder than the quiet cheers. They called it filler, they called it nonsense. Truth is, my mind doesn’t wander that way. Even when I try, every thread still knots back to the tapestry. Unrelated things simply don’t occur to me.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep