Harry Potter: Dragonborn comes

Shadows in the Ministry

"Who was the bloody idiot who gave the order to arrest that brat Diggory!? He's on the front page of every newspaper now!"

Fudge's voice thundered through the office as he slammed the headline down onto his desk with a fury that made the ink seem to sizzle.

The still-fresh letters blazed like fire:

[The Ministry tries to silence a young hero: Four Aurors ambush Cedric Diggory in broad daylight, but even they weren't enough to subdue one of the champions of the Triwizard Tournament.]

Percy, standing calmly in front of the Minister, read the first line with the unshakable composure of a spy planted behind enemy lines. Not a single muscle of his face twitched, though inside he was torn between contempt and the urge to burst out laughing. How could such an incompetent man be running the country?

"You gave the order, sir."

His voice was so neutral that for an instant, Fudge was left speechless, gaping like a fish pulled from water. Then, his face darkened into a furious red, on the brink of bursting.

"That's not what I ordered! I said to find a way to shut that brat up! To threaten him with Azkaban if he kept spewing that nonsense! Not to attack him in the street like some common criminal!"

Percy didn't move an inch. He remained standing, unflinching, like the silent witness who sees everything and forgets nothing.

"Fire one of the Aurors. Tell the press he acted out of personal revenge… some nonsense about a lost bet during the tournament. Let him take the blame. And from now on…" His hand jerked in an angry, clipped motion. "…I want more discreet tactics. I want that boy to become a problem that disappears without anyone knowing how."

"Yes, sir."

Percy inclined his head slightly before turning to leave.

At that moment, the door creaked open. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped in without bothering to knock. Percy paused for just a second, studying that brutal face.

It was Goyle. Not the son who had always skulked behind Draco Malfoy at Hogwarts, but the father: an old follower of Lucius, now turned into Fudge's liaison to the pure-blood families. The stump of his left arm, replaced by a black iron prosthetic engraved with runes, stood as a living reminder of the scars Einar had left on his enemies.

Percy suppressed a shiver. If there was anyone in that room who represented real danger, it was that man. And he knew it.

Without looking back, he finally stepped out of the office, while in his mind, details and observations piled up—information he would later pass on, with utmost care, to the report Harry and Einar would receive before midnight.

…

Meanwhile, far from that office, Cedric Diggory walked at a calm, steady pace down a cobblestone street in an old wizarding district. The place exuded the discreet opulence of those who had always had too much money and far too little conscience.

Around him, the late afternoon died in golden hues. No one noticed the instant his silhouette flickered under a violet shimmer. His features blurred, his body seemed to fold into itself… and then simply ceased to exist.

The Cloak of Nocturnal's Shadow—given to him by Einar after taking it from Sirius, since Cedric needed it more—wrapped him in perfect invisibility and absolute silence. It wasn't an ordinary spell: even an enchanted eye like Moody's would not have been able to track him so long as he remained still.

It was a dangerous mission. That was exactly why he had accepted it.

The objective was clear: identify where the remnants of Voldemort's forces were regrouping. And every rumor, every clue, pointed to the old Malfoy manor. Ever since Lucius had been killed by Einar, and Narcissa and Draco had fled to America, the abandoned mansion had turned into a haven for the most fanatical.

From a narrow alleyway, Cedric watched. Every movement was carefully recorded in his enchanted notebook—names, descriptions, routines. Some were illustrious surnames that made his teeth grind; others, unknown faces that reeked of danger.

And then he saw him.

A man so tall he seemed like a living shadow. Black hair, brown eyes, his face covered in scars that slashed across his jaw, his neck, even his knuckles. Cedric felt a cold shiver. He didn't know his name, but the way everyone stepped aside as he passed said more than any introduction.

It was as if Mad-Eye Moody had been pulled from another universe, stripped of all humanity, and set loose without a chain.

Cedric held his breath. That man was too dangerous. He began to jot down every detail… when, suddenly, the stranger turned his head, slowly, with an unnatural precision.

Those empty eyes locked onto the wall Cedric was using as a hiding place.

"Hmm." The voice, rough and deep, rumbled in the deserted street. "I thought… there was something here."

A deadly silence fell as the man raised his wand. Cedric didn't dare blink.

"…No." The stranger tilted his head, like a predator tasting the air. "Yes. Someone's here."

Cedric turned his gaze away. He knew that sometimes attention itself was a magical thread that betrayed one's position.

"Where are you, little rat?" The man's smile spread with a quiet, vicious pleasure. "To hell with it."

His wand flared, and a torrent of curses exploded against the walls. The alley trembled as chunks of brick and mortar flew in all directions. Cedric rolled across the cobblestones, reactivating the cloak and swallowing a shout.

For a second, he thought he had escaped. But an instant later, the stranger flicked his wand with a movement almost lazy in its precision. A spell lanced toward him like a sniper's bullet.

Cedric barely had time to press his palm to the medallion at his chest. The barrier burst to life with a sputter of energy, absorbing the curse—but the rune etched into it split clean down the middle.

He collapsed to his knees at the far end of the alley, gasping for air.

"Fuuu…" he muttered, heart hammering in his ears. "That was… dangerous."

Gritting his teeth, he fixed his eyes on the notebook. His mission was compromised. But at least he had a list. A lead. A map of enemies.

"I haven't failed completely." He forced himself to his feet, his silhouette blending into the shadows once more. "Not this time."

..

After visiting Hagrid, who had finally returned, it was obvious he was quite happy to have completed his mission. As he spoke with enthusiasm, he carefully removed the ebony armor Einar had given him, which still bore deep claw marks and dents.

Despite the dark bruises covering his arms and a cut across his cheek, he pointed them out proudly, as if they were trophies of victory. It seemed Einar had passed on that habit of turning any wound into an epic story.

He already had everything prepared for his next class, which he mentioned with an almost excited gleam in his eyes—it was going to be about thestrals. Just hearing the word made a shiver run down Harry's spine, but he said nothing.

They had to hide for a moment when Umbridge showed up at the most inconvenient time possible. The moment she laid eyes on Hagrid, she looked at him with such obvious disgust she didn't even bother to hide it.

With her cloying, fake-sweet voice, she announced that she would be present in his next class "to make sure everything was conducted according to standards," though from her expression it was clear she'd be much happier if she could fire him on the spot. Before leaving, she cast one last look of disdain that made it obvious her decision was already made.

Meanwhile, Harry got into an altercation with a group of Slytherin students. It all started with a comment he decided to ignore, but when one of them shoved him, he couldn't hold back any longer. The argument escalated so fast that they ended up rolling on the floor, grabbing each other's robes and shouting in the middle of the corridor.

When they were finally separated, he was told he was expelled from the Quidditch team. Harry was in such a foul mood that he hardly spoke to anyone the entire day.

Until Neville appeared in the Great Hall, running in with his face flushed and a newspaper in his hand.

"Did you see this?" he exclaimed, unfolding the front page.

The headline spoke of Cedric facing off against four Aurors in the middle of the street and escaping arrest. Everyone fell silent, reading the details, until Umbridge's voice echoed through the walls.

Through a magical megaphone, she announced that from that moment on, newspapers were forbidden inside the school.

Harry noticed how some students exchanged incredulous looks. At this point, only an idiot could believe the Ministry wasn't hiding something.

The news lit a spark among the students. More than a few started coming up to Harry to ask if they could still join his training group. He had already been searching for a place where they could meet, but the problem was that Umbridge had surrounded herself with several Slytherin students who seemed to take pleasure in spying and causing trouble for everyone, along with Filch, who prowled around with a look of satisfaction and a list of punishments ready.

"Cedric is doing something. We can't just sit back," Harry said seriously as he folded up the newspaper. "Dobby told me about a place. We have to go see it tonight."

Neville nodded with determination. For Harry, the simple idea of doing something useful eased a little of the frustration that had been building up since morning.

It was then that Hermione arrived, carrying a mountain of books with colorful covers, each one etched with runes and symbols. She was smiling so broadly it looked impossible she hadn't dropped them all.

Viir was perched on her shoulder, lazily flapping her tiny wings.

"Did you raid Professor Einar's office for his books?" Harry asked, a little surprised.

"Of course not, you idiot. He gave them to me," Hermione replied proudly, before casting a teasing look toward the staff table. Fleur, who recognized the volumes, returned a look that was equal parts curious and amused.

"With these, we'll be able to train the students. The professor… technically… gave us his permission."

Viir fluttered her wings and flew over to Harry, who immediately reached out to catch her. The little creature nestled into his robes with a sleepy sigh, searching for her usual place to rest.

That night, after checking that the room Dobby had described was perfect—with shelves, cushions, and plenty of space to practice—Harry went to bed feeling a little calmer.

Even so, he still felt a tight knot of worry about Sirius and everything else that was happening.

Before closing his eyes, he took the sphere Einar had given him. He didn't even have time to speak the activation incantation. Suddenly, an image formed inside it: Arthur Weasley appeared, injured, his robes soaked in blood as a massive snake coiled around him.

He seemed to be trying to reach for another sphere like Harry's.

"Einar… help…" Arthur managed to say, his voice trembling.

Harry felt his heart slam against his ribs. He jumped out of bed and ran through the dormitory, bolting down the corridors without caring about the noise he made until he reached the area where the professors slept.

Without hesitation, he began pounding on Einar's door with all his strength.

"Professor! Mr. Weasley is in danger! He's being attacked!" he shouted desperately.

His cries woke up half the castle. The door swung open instantly, and Einar appeared, fully dressed, his face so serious that Harry fell silent on the spot.

He held up the sphere, but the image had already vanished.

Even so, Einar didn't ask a single question. Without wasting a moment, he turned to the fireplace in his room. Green flames erupted from the stone, and in a blink, his figure disappeared into the fire.

Harry stood there staring at the place where he had been, feeling his heart finally begin to slow down.

If anyone could save Arthur, it was Einar.

The other doors in the corridor opened. McGonagall emerged in her flannel nightgown, her brow furrowed, but when she saw Harry's expression, her voice was gentler than usual.

"Follow me, Potter," she said firmly, before striding quickly toward the Headmaster's office.