HP: Fairy Tale Wizard - 169

Chapter 169: Dragon in the Rain

Sterling had never felt so at ease. It was like being six or seven again, that brief, carefree stretch when a small head brimmed with inexhaustible ideas and a half-formed brain crashed one gorgeous fantasy into another, throwing off vivid sparks.

Whatever he wanted to do, he could do. Everything he wished to accomplish, he could accomplish. It felt like freedom, made flesh.

He smiled down at the swarm of ants racing across the ground and idly nudged them with his fingertip.

“Fun.”

The feeling of delight rose pure and unforced.

“No, enough, Mr. Moody. You cannot pin your life on this Dark wizard’s so‑called ‘mercy’ and hope it doesn’t run out at any moment!”

Kingsley, newly arrived, yanked Moody back just as he braced to charge again. The seam between Moody’s wooden leg and what remained of the joint had split; it creaked under the strain.

In the brief time it took Kingsley to Apparate in, Moody had already completed the cycle twice: rush in, throw different spells, get swatted away by a tail.

Yes, a tail.

It was a sleek, streamlined tail, sheathed in pure white scales and astonishingly resistant to magic. Even Moody’s corrosive hex slid off it as if it weren’t there.

Other spells didn’t even produce a visible effect. Sterling was scarcely recognisable as human now. Scales had climbed across his whole body. His five fingers had fused into four talons.

The small nubs of horn had lengthened into spans as long as men standing shoulder to shoulder.

If the horns were like this, the rest required no comment.

He had literally realised “eyes above the crown.” Even crouching, his draconic head rose higher than the nearby buildings; if he stretched his neck upright, he might stand level with Gringotts.

“Kingsley, where’s the rest of our support?” Scrimgeour asked.

Scrimgeour was in rather better shape than Moody. He wasn’t a generalist like Moody. His specialisation was fire, and fire had proven utterly useless on Sterling.

So Scrimgeour focused on managing the field, scattering civilians ahead of the tail’s sweeping cones when it gathered to lash.

Kingsley shook his head.

“Minister Fudge refuses to authorize reinforcements—”

“That imbecile,” Moody and Scrimgeour snapped in unison.

“On what grounds did he refuse? If he’s so bold, let him come and fight this dragon himself!”

Scrimgeour stripped off armour scraped to ribbons by shrapnel and flung it to the ground. Kingsley thought he took it for Fudge’s face, because Scrimgeour ground his boot into it and twisted.

“I knew he was useless. If I weren’t fighting, day in and day out, to keep our Auror Office from being starved and shamed by his grasping hands, I’d never have pretended loyalty!”

“Minister Fudge says he questions the Aurors’ competence. The most powerful force in the British wizarding world, unable to handle a ‘minor’ Dark wizard. He further says—”

“What?” Moody growled.

“He suspects either Scrimgeour or Moody has colluded with the Dark wizard; otherwise, he cannot explain why a mere Dark wizard has resisted this long.”

“He also issued orders to keep other departments from leaving their offices—claims we’re trying to expand our power by dragging them in—so no one can come assist us.”

“Hmph. Fudge.”

Moody snorted, sharp and cold.

“Drag him from his office and make him look, and maybe we can pry his walnut-sized brain out from under the useless papers on his desk.”

A‑choo—

Perhaps he’d worked himself up; Moody sneezed, then rubbed a suddenly stiff arm.

He wasn’t the only one. The Aurors nearby, and those ringed around their charges, began to sneeze—several of the ones with weaker constitutions in particular.

Even their bodies’ senses warned of a drop in temperature.

Please. It was summer. How much could a shower cool the air?

Moody ignored it. He adjusted the wooden leg, hoping it would stay with him a while longer.

No luck. It wasn’t some masterwork of alchemy—never had been. His shove widened the gap, and the leg came off entirely.

Kingsley and the other two twitched at the sight.

Yes, the moment demanded seriousness. But anyone who didn’t crack a smile at the hero Auror like this had probably taken one too many hits from a Dementor.

Moody sighed, embarrassed, and looked from Sterling, steady in the heart of the ruins, to the Aurors dodging the sweeping tail. A wave of helplessness washed through him.

The dragon hadn’t launched any true attack. Breath? Aside from that first blast into the paving stones, nothing.

Claws? Back when it was still half-upright, he’d seen fists—and every time they touched a body, they slackened.

Magic—yes, he hadn’t forgotten that it was a wizard of terrifying skill. Maybe with this transformation, it couldn’t cast—maybe. But what if it could?

So far, it had only swung its tail. And not even particularly fast.

If it takes to the air, there weren’t many Aurors fluent in aerial casting. And even if they were—so what?

He’d already tried, short of the three Unforgivables, the worst Dark Magic he knew.

A little crater. A spray of scales.

That was all. And after a while, they grew back.

His price for that spell would take far longer to pay.

Avada Kedavra, then?

Moody raised his wand and dragged up a curse he hadn’t used in a decade.

If there were no other way, that was the last way.

Thanks to wartime directives from the previous Minister, he had learned it well. Even after years without it, he had confidence.

He could produce it.

He drew a breath—not to steel himself. He had killed Death Eaters with his own hand. He didn’t mind the Killing Curse. If it solved the problem, it was a tool.

Something fell and smacked his head smartly before he could summon the will.

Wet?

Moody blinked, then looked up.

The sky hung low. A lead-grey ceiling pressed down, and kept pressing—lower, and lower—

No. Not cloud. Snow. A dense fall of snow.

Even at night, without sunlight, it shed a faint phosphorescence. Moody saw it clearly—the brief shimmer of magic.

Then came the hiss of rain.

Streets baked dry by fire spells went slick at once. Hemlines pasted to the cobbles. A few Aurors at a run tripped and sprawled.

Rain and snow fell together, a storm of white arrows from on high.

“A weather charm?”

Kingsley murmured.

“Even a weather charm must respect nature. Summer rain is easy enough. But snow?”

Scrimgeour rubbed his chilled arms and cracked a sour smile, as if he meant to reassure. On his face, it had the opposite effect.

“This takes many times the power of a standard charm—fighting nature itself. And look at the area.”

Everywhere, a curtain of rain.

“A conservative estimate—central London is covered.”

Kingsley swallowed. Though rain pounded his ears, he could hear his heart.

“And the non‑conservative estimate—”

His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—shaking, afraid. He’d thought he’d left that behind.

Scrimgeour said nothing. He drew out a two-way mirror. “Erinda—raining there?”

“It is—a lot. There’s snow mixed in in summer! Are you coming home for supper?”

“Eat without me. It’s a busy day at the Ministry.”

He snapped it shut.

“Erinda is my wife. She was out near London’s edge this afternoon.”

All three fell silent.

They knew what it meant. A weather charm over the city. The Ministry had no way to accomplish such a thing. Only Professor Dumbledore might.

After a long moment, watching the white dragon in the rain—its scales gleaming, edged with a hint of sanctity—Moody patted Kingsley’s shoulder.

“Order the Aurors to withdraw.”

“Then return to the Ministry at once. Muster everyone. Set a ring around it as the centre. No—Muggle-Repelling Charms will suffice. Defences are pointless.”

“Captain Moody—”

“Do as I say.”

Moody scowled. He was the hero Auror. Did anyone think he liked slinking away?

But the truth was plain. Everything the Auror Office could do here was meaningless.

They should have withdrawn earlier.

They’d been doing useless work for far too long.

Scrimgeour braced Moody upright. They spun away into nothing.

Other Aurors received the order and, in silence, lifted the wounded and Disapparated from the ruins.

Their figures flashed in those gold, slit eyes.

“The ants gone home.”

Sterling watched the little ants twist their heads, dig a tiny hole, and vanish.

“Yes. The ants go home.”

Maleficent stroked Sterling’s hair and smiled.

“I didn’t accidentally step on them, did I?”

“No. Andersen was careful. But you needn’t mind them. There are many ants. Even if you step on them all, it doesn’t matter.”

Maleficent crouched beside Sterling. He was very small now, like a child of four or five.

Pure innocence filled those eyes.

Children at that age often possessed a kind of “innocent cruelty.” Sterling frowned.

“I don’t like it. Ants don’t want to die.”

“But Andersen, why care what ants think?”

Maleficent looked genuinely puzzled.

“Andersen is a dream, not an ant. There’s no need to empathise with ants. If destroying them makes you happy, you should.”

“Perhaps they’ll be angry. So what? Can ants hurt you?”

Sterling shook his head. White hair swayed.

“I like these ants. If I destroy them, I won’t be happy. I’ll be upset.”

“Very well, but—Maleficent! What are you telling Andersen?!”

Vivian appeared, shoving Maleficent aside.

Maleficent didn’t get angry. But everything blurred. The lush black forest faded into a rain‑soaked veil stretching to the horizon.

Sterling sat quietly on the ground. Beautiful wings folded against his back. His tail coiled around the broken face of a half‑collapsed tower.

Big Ben stood across the Thames, staring back.

The truth of what had happened trickled back into his mind. His expression didn’t change. Only the sheen on his scales dulled, and dulled.

What did I do?

Rain fell. The dragon was silent.

Atop the clock tower, Andrew, wrapped in black robes, slowly tugged down his hood. The transparent shield over his head dissolved, and his tangled hair was soaked in an instant.

Feeling the familiar presence, he let out a long, lost sigh.

“This is Sterling. Sterling is back.”

“Helbo, are you sure? Why would Hogwarts try to control Sterling’s body? Why—”

“I don’t know.”

A small black serpent slid from his robe and rested on his hair.

“But I know that if you keep absorbing magic, one day you will be able to help your child.”

It was only a serpent, but on that snake’s face Andrew fancied he saw a smile.

“I’m going to drain the magic from the ones who besieged Sterling.”

“Of course! Come. Let’s make a plan—”

Meanwhile, in Avalon.

The tower door of the Black Forest crashed against the wall. Vivian, in a robe of impossible complexity, strode into the hall.

“Maleficent! How dare you let him remember what it was like before he left Avalon!”