Chapter Text
A.N.: Hello! For the first time, I'm writing an Indy!Harry series. This story contains Weasley and Dumbledore Bashing, which is not everyone's cup of tea. If you're looking for a different take on these characters, you won't find it in this story's universe. It's an alternate universe and will diverge from canon. I hope you have as much fun reading this prologue as I had writing it!
No dragons were harmed in the making of this story.
The sky over the Quidditch Pitch was grey and heavy with clouds, but Ron Weasley was laughing like it was the best day of his life.
The redhead had scored a great seat, front row, no less, thanks to his brother Percy. He had been waiting for this day for weeks!
The ginger boy chewed loudly on greasy, caramel popcorn, sipping ice-cold pumpkin juice, eyes glued to the task.
He had already eaten a good handful of that sweet, crunchy treat, and each bite seemed to match the agony of a champion.
The first to enter was Cedric Diggory, and the result was hilarious. The Hufflepuff champion looked around dazed and confused, utterly unprepared for what stood before him.
Ron laughed, because he already knew about the scaly, deadly beasts thanks to his brother Charlie. The champions didn't. A satisfaction sweeter than any treat he'd ever had.
The Gryffindor had nearly spilled his juice on the unfortunate soul next to him when Cedric was flung into a boulder while trying to grab the golden egg and blacked out momentarily.
"Is he…Is he breathing?" someone whispered.
Cedric had barely survived, and Ron was sure that badger wouldn't be showing his face in public anytime soon, not with a burned cloak and pants nearly shredded to pieces.
Next up was Fleur Delacour, the dazzling French veela. She was a majestic girl, but Ron hated the fact that she didn't even notice him and always kept to herself, in her own little world.
The wizard was sure this beating would knock her down a peg.
That witch looked more prepared than Cedric and transformed into a winged version of herself, almost like one of the harpies his brother Bill had told him about.
She didn't hesitate, charging straight at the dragon in an attempt to fight it. Every burst, every growl, every flame was music to Ron's ears.
He burst out laughing when Fleur, despite her fierceness and determination, was nearly smashed against the rocks by a tail swipe.
"Did you see that?" he snickered, elbowing the juice-soaked neighbor beside him. "Guess even pretty faces burn!"
"She's done for!" another shouted.
However she got back up, bloodied but still standing.
The French champion's performance was far better than Cedric's, though she too left with wounds across her goddess-like body.
Then came Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian champion. Ron couldn't deny he had once been a huge fan but alas, Viktor was just another arrogant show-off who deserved to be humiliated.
The Durmstrang students were on their feet, chanting his name at first but the cheers quickly died when the dragon nearly bit off his leg.
Ron shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, caramel oozing down his fingers as he laughed with his mouth full. His eyes were glued to the fight below, where Viktor had just narrowly avoided a lethal swipe from his dragon.
"Now this is entertainment!" he exclaimed, spitting crumbs on his poor neighbor, who was holding back curses with Herculean effort.
"Thought he was some kind of prodigy?" someone scoffed from the Ravenclaw section.
Behind Ron, several students, mostly Hufflepuffs, laughed along with him. You didn't get to see 'great champions' nearly turned to ash every day.
They laughed, but none with the same cruel enthusiasm as Ron. He wasn't just there to enjoy the show. No, he was waiting for one moment.
That moment.
"Harry Potter!"
The Traitor. The Hero. The Boy-Who-Did-Nothing-But-Show-Off. No one was cheering for Harry, they wanted blood. And he was first on the list.
After all, it was the fair punishment for someone who cheated his way into the tournament.
Harry's assigned dragon, a Hungarian Horntail, was the fiercest of them all. His brother Charlie had told him no one could handle that beast. Ron licked his greasy fingers, ready for the spectacle.
He had waited with cruel patience. After years living in Potter's shadow, the time had finally come to watch him fall.
No one would save him this time.
And yet, when Harry walked out of the tent, he didn't look nervous or afraid. He walked with confidence, eyes unwavering even in the face of that terrifying creature.
Harry had only a wand and that damn, insufferable look of determination.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone whispered that he didn't seem scared at all. Ron growled, lips curling. "Smug little git," he said. "Let's see how long that lasts."
The dragon and the young wizard didn't move, they studied each other.
Ron leaned forward, barely breathing. "Come on, Potter," he muttered. "Make me laugh!"
The dragon roared, rose on its hind legs, and unleashed a burst of fire straight at the boy. Ron laughed…and then stopped.
The fire engulfed the final champion completely…nothing.
Harry was still standing. Untouched. The flames hadn't harmed him at all and the real show began.
Harry moved his wand with a flurry of rapid, precise, deadly motions. Ron didn't recognize half the spells being cast. The dragon had no time to breathe, spells striking it from every angle.
Harry didn't stop, didn't flinch, never hesitated.
The dragon collapsed with a guttural roar, wings folded, eyes half-closed.
Silence.
The silence was broken only by the sound of Harry calmly walking toward the golden egg.
And only then did the crowd realize the 'cheater' wasn't dead and he had won.
Ron was frozen. The popcorn bag had fallen into his lap, the rest of his pumpkin juice with it. His hands were cold.
"Did you see that?" the boy next to him said, giving Ron a sharp elbow. For once, Ron had nothing to say.
Harry was walking back toward the tent, and Ron felt worse than ever.
No.
No.
NO!
A girl was waiting for him at the entrance. Short, but with a proud, elegant posture; long, wavy red hair like blood spilled in battle. Sharp, thoughtful eyes.
Ron went pale.
If that girl was with Harry…if she had helped him…
For the entire Weasley family was over.
From the judge's stand, Dumbledore observed with hands clasped and a watchful gaze. His lips hid an enigmatic smile no one would ever interpret as malicious satisfaction and yet, it was.
It was time for Harry to fail.
"A public humiliation…nothing fatal, of course, but something to remind him who he is, who he must be," thought the old headmaster darkly.
"Sacrifice, submission, obedience. All qualities Harry has yet to learn. Defeat will make him more compliant, more willing to do what must be done. Today, he will understand."
As the other champions failed, stumbled or, in Cedric Diggory's case, screamed in terror, Dumbledore nodded slightly, as if everything were going according to script.
Beside him, Karkaroff and Madame Maxime whispered annoyed comments about their champions' results, but he barely listened.
His icy blue eyes were fixed on the arena's entrance.
When Harry walked in, Dumbledore took a long sip of pumpkin juice offered by a visibly worried Barty Crouch Senior, and prepared to witness the fall of the Boy-Who-Lived.
Harry was supposed to be brought to his knees. That was the point of this trial. None of the students had been truly prepared—but Harry? He least of all.
He had left him alone, isolated. He had to fail. And once he did, he would seek help. He would find comfort in the safe, wise guidance of his 'mentor.'
The dragon's fire blazed.
Dumbledore leaned forward, intrigued.
And then…something went wrong.
The fire hadn't touched the boy at all.
Harry wasn't faltering, he was in full control.
Dumbledore's smile vanished.
The boy showed no fear. The spells he cast were not those of a fourth-year student but of a seasoned wizard. They were precise, deadly strikes.
No one understood, but Dumbledore did: Harry was targeting the dragon's tendons, forcing the beast to collapse on itself, unable to rise again.
The dragon stood no chance. And the crowd, who should have booed, ridiculed, humiliated him, was now silent, subdued by something that resembled respect…or perhaps, dread.
Then he saw her.
Standing by the champions' tent, waiting for the victor. Her long, wavy scarlet hair like ocean waves. A confident look no girl her age should have.
"No..." Dumbledore whispered.
Cassandra Prewett.
Molly was the exception in that dangerous bloodline, proud, impossible to tame. Dumbledore had thought he'd neutralized them, reduced them to a harmless, forgotten branch.
But now, Harry was laughing with her.
And in that moment, Dumbledore realized that for the first time in years, he was no longer in control.