CHAPTER 1: A Scheme Gone Wrong

Another day, another display of Potter's inexplicable good fortune. 

How utterly predictable. 

Earlier in the day, Draco had watched from across the Great Hall as the bespectacled buffoon basked in his undeserved glory, one of his sycophantic followers, Granger, hanging on his every insipid word. It's enough to make one physically ill.

"Can you believe it?" Draco mutters to Crabbe and Goyle, his voice dripping with disdain. "Saint Potter, Triwizard champion. As if his ego needed further inflation."

His minions grunt in agreement, their intellectual capacities stretched to their limits by this simple task. 

Draco rolled his eyes. 

One can't expect pearls from swine, after all.

As he meticulously puts away his homework, Draco ponders the sheer audacity of Potter's latest stunt. Somehow, the boy who can barely tie his shoelaces without Granger's assistance managed to hoodwink the Goblet of Fire itself. 

It's preposterous, really. A fourth-year student, outwitting an ancient magical artifact? The very notion is absurd.

"There must be a way to expose him for the fraud he is," he mused aloud, his mind already whirring with possibilities. "Perhaps a little... sabotage is in order."

A plan began to crystallize in his mind, as elegant as it is devious. 

The first task involves dragons - his father told him, of course - formidable creatures, to be sure, but not invulnerable to a bit of magical meddling. A smirk plays across Draco's lips as he rises from his seat in the common room, his assignment forgotten in the thrill of impending mischief.

"Where are you going, Draco?" Pansy simpers, her eyes wide with adoration.

Draco favors her with a condescending smile. "To ensure our esteemed champion gets the welcome he so richly deserves."

*

The night before the first task, he steals across the grounds towards the Forbidden Forest. 

His heart pounds against his ribs, a traitorous feeling of excitement and anticipation. The forest looms before him, a mass of twisted shadows and unseen dangers. He dismissed the memory of his first detention in the Forbidden Forest during his first year. A dark history that he wanted to erase. Ironically, a dragon was also involved that night. 

Lesser wizards might quail at the prospect, but he is a Malfoy. They do not cower in the face of adversity. 

He slipped between the gnarled trunks, his wand held aloft to illuminate the path. The soft glow casts eerie shadows that dance and flicker with each step. In the distance, Draco hears the unmistakable sound of draconic snoring - a low, rumbling growl that sends tremors through the earth beneath his feet.

Carefully, he picked his way through the underbrush, every sense on high alert. The smell of smoke and charred flesh grew stronger as he approached the clearing where the dragons are kept. He flinched at the sight of them - magnificent beasts, each more terrifying than the last.

He paused at the edge of the enclosure, drinking in the sight of the slumbering monsters. Their scales glitter in the moonlight, razor-sharp talons digging into the earth even in sleep. One of them, a particularly nasty-looking Hungarian Horntail, shifts in its slumber, and Draco freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

You're not some sniveling Hufflepuff! You're a Slytherin, and more importantly, you're a Malfoy.

With a renewed blind courage, he stepped into the clearing, his eyes fixed on the chains that bind the dragons. 

Just a few well-placed spells, and Potter's first task will become a spectacle of an entirely different sort. Draco can almost taste the sweet nectar of vindication as he raises his wand, ready to unleash chaos.

The incantation dances on the tip of his tongue, a delicate balance of power and precision. With a flourish that would make even Snape grudgingly nod in approval, Draco began the intricate wand movements.

"Catena Infirma," he murmurs, his voice barely audible above the dragons' sonorous breathing. A faint blue light emanates from his wand, snaking towards the nearest chain. "Fragilit—" 

Suddenly, a shout rang out behind him. "Oi! What do you think you're doing?"

Shite!—Draco whirled, his concentration shattered. The half-completed spell sparked and fizzled at the end of his wand, and the dragons woke, rumbling in agitation.

"Bloody hell," Draco hissed, backing away from the enclosure. His mind raced, searching for an excuse, an escape. But the dragons' stirred and the approaching figures drew nearer, he realized with sinking dread that his carefully laid plans had just gone terribly, horribly wrong.

The spell, now untethered and volatile, crackled with uncontrolled energy. Draco's eyes widened in panic as a swirling vortex of magic began to form, its tendrils reaching out towards him and the agitated dragons.

"No, no, no," he muttered, frantically waving his wand in a desperate attempt to dispel the growing maelstrom.

But it's too late. With a deafening crack, the very fabric of reality seems to split open. A yawning void materializes where the chains once were, its edges crackling with arcane energy. The ground beneath his feet begins to tremble violently, and an inexorable force tugs at his body.

"Help!" Draco cried out, his voice lost in the cacophony of draconic roars and the howling wind of the vortex. His fingers clawed at empty air, searching for something, anything to hold onto.

"Save me!" He screamed.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the dragon keeper who had caught him, was cursing as he called for outside help.

As the world around him dissolved into chaos, Draco realized with growing terror that his name and lineage meant nothing in the face of this arcane disaster. The dragons thrashed wildly nearby, their massive forms tumbling through the vortex alongside him.

"Someone, please!" Draco screamed again, though he knew it was futile. 

There was no answer, no rescue. Only the relentless pull of the magical vortex, dragging him further and further from everything he knew. In that moment, as fear overwhelmed his senses, Draco Malfoy felt truly, utterly terrified.

Father will be furious if I'm expelled for this, he thinks. It's a ludicrous thought, given the circumstances, but terror has a way of conjuring the most inappropriate musings.

*

The world spun in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors before abruptly giving way to an endless expanse of blue. Draco's stomach lurched as he felt himself plummeting through the sky, the wind tearing at his robes and whipping his hair into a frenzy. His throat burned raw from screaming.

"AHHHH!" he shrieked, thrashing wildly. Panic clawed at his chest as he twisted in the air, desperately searching for his wand.

The ground below—a patchwork of greens and browns so alien to his eyes—rushed up to meet him with terrifying speed.

Around him, the dragons tumbled and writhed, their massive wings unfurling as they fought to right themselves. Draco's grey eyes widened in horror as he realized they paid him no heed, focused solely on their own balance.

Is this how the great Draco Malfoy meets his end? He thought bitterly, his stomach lurching as he tumbled through the air.

Splattered across some godforsaken landscape like a common muggle? How utterly plebeian.

The ground rushes up to greet him, a patchwork of a city and browns that might have been picturesque if it weren't about to become his final resting place. 

In that moment of blind terror, something deep within Draco stirred. A primal surge of magic, raw and untamed, burst from his core. It exploded outward in a silent shockwave of silvery light, enveloping both Draco and the falling dragons.

The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat.

Then, with a roar that shook the very air, the nearest dragon—a magnificent Welsh Green—twisted in midair. Its yellow reptilian eyes locked onto Draco's, filled with an otherworldly intelligence. The beast tucked its wings and dove, racing towards the falling wizard with deadly precision.

"No, no, no!" Draco cried, so certain he was about to be devoured alive. But as the dragon neared, he felt... something. A connection, tenuous but undeniable, linking his magic to the creature's wild essence.

The Welsh Green dove further below Draco from the air, positioning its huge body right underneath, catching him against its scaled, smooth back as it spread its wings wide, arresting their descent. 

Air was knocked out from Draco's lungs as he crashed and landed rather roughly to the dragon's body. 

As soon as he had something to hold on to—Draco instinctively gripped the closest horned spikes he could grab to prevent himself from falling.

The other dragons were now strangely, circling around him, letting out triumphant roars that echoed across the strange landscape below.

His heart pounded, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and he laughed in relief.

"Hah!" he snorted. "Wait till I tell this to everyone."

"Well.. if we somehow make it back," he muse sardonically.

The Welsh Green beneath him rumbled, as if in agreement. Draco felt a surge of...

connection, pulsing with raw magic, linking him to these magnificent creatures. His grey eyes widened as understanding dawned.

The irony isn't lost on Draco. All those years of magical education, and it's this spontaneous, uncontrolled burst of power that forges an unbreakable link with these overgrown lizards. Amazing.

The wind whips his usually immaculate hair into a frenzy as they descend, their shadows stretch across the city like a portent of doom.

A sprawling city unlike anything Draco had ever seen or smelt. He catches glimpses of crude stone buildings, narrow streets, and what appears to be a massive keep looming in the distance. The stench of unwashed bodies and wastes assaults his nostrils. 

 "Great Merlin, it smells horrid!" Scrunching his nose in disgust.

As they glided lower, Draco's keen ears picked up the cacophony of reactions from below. Men in garish, antiquated armor stumble over each other in their haste to flee, while women in ludicrously voluminous dresses faint with tedious predictability. It's almost gratifying, this display of power and fear. Almost.

"Dragons! Seven hells, look at those dragons!" a woman's shrill voice cut through the din.

"A Targaryen—?" A man's words were swallowed by the growing roar of the crowd.

The dragons touched down with earth-shaking force, their massive claws gouging furrows in the packed dirt. 

Silence reigned for a heartbeat, then two.

Draco's pale eyes narrowed as he took in the sea of unfamiliar faces. 

The peasants below—for they can be nothing else in their ragged, primitive attire—gape up at them with expressions of abject terror and awe. How plebeian of them. Surely they've seen a dragon before? 

He slid from the Welsh Green's back, his legs wobbling traitorously. Draco steadied himself against its scales, acutely aware of how the beasts' eyes sweep the crowd with predatory intelligence, growling and snapping at anyone who dares to step close.

His gaze flicks from one face to another, taking in their crude attire and unwashed appearances. The stench of sweat and fear is overwhelming, mingling with the acrid scent of dragon smoke. A cold dread begins to seep into Draco's bones as he processes the scene before him.

"Merlin," Draco muttered, his aristocratic features twisting in distaste. Don't tell me they're… mudbloods? 

"What manner of backwards place is this?" He looked upward, searching for any sign of the portal that had brought him here. 

Nothing. Nothing but clear blue sky greeted him.

"Fantastic," he hissed, a flicker of panic threatening to breach his carefully cultivated mask of calmness. 

As Draco contemplated his predicament, the crowd parts like a sea of unwashed peasants, revealing a figure that commands attention even in this circus of medieval rejects. A man clad in obsidian armor approaches, his gait exuding an air of authority that would make even Snape raise an eyebrow.

Draco instinctively gripped for his wand, though he doubts these simpletons would recognize a proper magical implement if it transfigured before their very eyes. 

The black-armored man stops mere feet away, his presence looming like a storm cloud over his already precarious situation.

The man's eyes narrow, and Draco can practically feel the tension crackling in the air. It's not unlike facing down an angry Hippogriff, though he dare say this chap might be marginally more intelligent.

"Who are you?" he demands, his voice as cold and sharp as the sword at his hip. "And how came you by these dragons?"