**The Hospital Wing**
Harry's consciousness drifted back to him like fog lifting from a lake—slowly, then all at once, with a disorienting rush of awareness that made his head spin. The first thing he noticed was that everything felt... wrong. Not painful, exactly, but fundamentally different in a way that made his brain struggle to process the information his body was sending.
The second thing he noticed was that he could hear Ron breathing three beds away with crystal clarity, could smell the lingering scent of Mrs. Weasley's homemade soap on his robes, and could see individual dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunlight streaming through windows that should have been nothing but blurry shapes without his glasses.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice coming out deeper than it had any right to be, and sat up—
And immediately cracked his head against the headboard of the hospital bed with a sound like a small thunderclap.
"Ow! What the—" Harry rubbed his skull, blinking in confusion as he stared at his hand. His hand, which was definitely not the same size it had been when he'd gone to sleep. The fingers were longer, the knuckles more pronounced, and there were faint, almost imperceptible scales along the backs that caught the light like tiny mirrors.
"Harry!" Ron's voice cracked with relief as he shot up from his chair beside the bed. "You're awake! Finally! I was starting to think you were going to sleep for a week! Though, er..." Ron's expression grew increasingly bewildered as he looked Harry up and down. "Mate, I don't know how to tell you this, but you've gotten... bigger."
"Bigger?" Harry looked down at himself and felt his stomach lurch. The hospital pajamas that had fit him perfectly when Madam Pomfrey had first put them on him were now straining across his chest and shoulders, the sleeves ending several inches above his wrists. His legs, visible beneath the too-short pajama bottoms, were corded with muscle that definitely hadn't been there before.
"How much bigger?" Harry asked weakly.
Ron bit his lip. "Well, when you first got here, you were still your usual scrawny self—no offense. But then you started glowing again about twenty minutes after we got you settled, and you just... grew. Right before my eyes. Madam Pomfrey had to transfigure your clothes twice because you kept outgrowing them."
Harry swung his legs out of bed and stood up, immediately stumbling as his center of gravity proved to be several inches higher than his brain expected. When he'd lain down, he'd been perhaps five feet tall and thin as a rail. Now, looking across the hospital wing, he estimated he was at least five and a half feet tall, with the kind of lean muscle definition that usually took years of Quidditch training to achieve.
"This is impossible," Harry said, running his hands through his hair—hair that now hung past his collar and seemed to have developed a subtle shimmer, like oil on water. "People don't just grow six inches overnight!"
"Yeah, well, people also don't usually get magically reconstructed by phoenix tears and basilisk venom," Ron pointed out with the kind of practical logic that would have made Hermione proud. "I think we've moved well past 'normal human biology' at this point, mate."
Harry walked over to the window, moving with an unconscious grace that was completely at odds with his usual slightly clumsy gait. When he reached for the window latch, his depth perception was perfect despite the absence of his glasses.
"Ron," he said slowly, "where are my glasses?"
"Er..." Ron looked uncomfortable. "Madam Pomfrey took them off when she was checking you over. Said they were probably making your head hurt, since your eyesight had apparently fixed itself."
"Fixed itself?" Harry stared at his reflection in the window glass and nearly jumped backward. The face looking back at him was recognizably his own, but sharper somehow. His features had become more defined, more angular, and his eyes—his eyes were still green, but they seemed to glow with an inner light that had definitely not been there before.
"Your eyes are doing that glowing thing again," Ron observed helpfully. "They've been doing it on and off since you woke up. It's actually pretty impressive, though a bit unnerving when you're trying to have a normal conversation."
Harry turned away from the window and nearly knocked over a bedside table as his new wingspan proved to be significantly wider than he was used to. "Ron, what happened to me? And don't say 'phoenix tears and basilisk venom' because that doesn't explain why I've apparently grown half a foot and developed supernatural senses."
Before Ron could answer, the hospital wing doors swung open with the kind of dramatic timing that suggested Dumbledore had been waiting just outside for Harry to wake up and have his inevitable identity crisis.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with what looked suspiciously like delight as he took in Harry's transformed appearance. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been body-snatched by someone considerably taller and more muscular than I am," Harry replied honestly. "Professor, what's happened to me? And please don't tell me this is normal, because Ron's expression suggests otherwise."
"Normal?" Dumbledore chuckled. "My dear boy, nothing about your life has ever been normal. However, before we discuss your... changes... I have some good news. The Mandrake Draught is being prepared as we speak. Miss Granger and the other petrified students should be fully recovered within the hour."
Harry felt a surge of relief so intense it made his knees weak. "Hermione's going to be okay?"
"Perfectly fine," Dumbledore assured him. "Though I suspect she's going to have quite a few questions about your transformation. Speaking of which..." He conjured a comfortable chair with a casual wave of his wand and settled into it with the air of someone preparing for a lengthy explanation. "Shall we discuss what appears to be happening to you?"
Ron perched on the edge of his own chair, looking fascinated and slightly worried. "Is Harry going to be alright, Professor? I mean, he's grown six inches, his eyes glow, he can apparently see without glasses, and I'm pretty sure he can hear conversations happening three rooms away."
"Can you indeed?" Dumbledore asked Harry with interest.
Harry concentrated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Madam Pomfrey is in her office writing a report about my 'unprecedented physiological changes.' She's using quite a bit of creative vocabulary about it, actually."
"Fascinating." Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Harry, what I'm about to tell you is largely theoretical, based on my understanding of similar cases throughout magical history. The combination of basilisk venom and phoenix tears appears to have triggered what we call a Creature Inheritance."
"A what now?" Ron asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar term.
"Certain wizarding families carry dormant magical creature bloodlines in their genealogy," Dumbledore explained patiently. "Usually, these bloodlines remain dormant forever—a distant ancestor's liaison with a veela or a vampire remains nothing more than a footnote in family history. However, in extremely rare cases, magical trauma or exposure to powerful magical substances can awaken these dormant genes."
Harry felt his stomach drop. "Are you telling me I'm turning into some kind of magical creature?"
"I believe you already have turned into one," Dumbledore corrected gently. "The question is what kind."
"Well, that's reassuring," Harry muttered.
Dumbledore continued as if he hadn't heard the sarcasm. "Based on your symptoms—the dramatic increase in height and muscle mass, the enhanced senses, the change in your eyes, and the fact that your body temperature is now running approximately four degrees higher than normal human—I believe you've awakened a draconic bloodline."
The silence in the hospital wing was so complete that Harry could hear dust settling on the windowsill.
"Dragon," Ron said eventually, his voice climbing several octaves. "You think Harry's turning into a dragon."
"Not exactly," Dumbledore clarified. "More accurately, I believe he's become what historical texts refer to as a Dragon-Human Hybrid. A being with human intelligence and form, but with certain draconic characteristics and abilities."
Harry stared at him. "Dragon-Human Hybrid. That's... that's a real thing?"
"Exceedingly rare, but yes. The last confirmed case was over eight hundred years ago. They were said to possess enhanced physical capabilities, superior senses, natural magical resistance, and in some cases, the ability to produce dragonfire."
"Dragonfire," Harry repeated faintly. "As in, breathing fire."
"Among other things, yes."
Ron's expression had shifted from worry to something that looked suspiciously like excitement. "That's brilliant! Harry, you're part dragon! That's the most amazing thing I've ever heard!"
"Ron," Harry said slowly, "I've just found out I'm not entirely human anymore. I'm not sure 'brilliant' is the word I'd use."
"Are you kidding? Dragons are the most powerful magical creatures in existence! They're intelligent, they're nearly indestructible, they can fly—"
"I can't fly, Ron."
"Yet," Ron said hopefully.
"I don't have wings!"
"That you can see."
Harry turned to Dumbledore with an expression of growing panic. "Professor, please tell me Ron's wrong about the wings."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with amusement. "I'm afraid I can't say definitively what abilities you may or may not develop, Harry. Dragon-Human Hybrids were so rare that very little is known about them. You may be the first person in centuries to experience this particular transformation."
"Wonderful," Harry said weakly. "I'm a magical experiment again. Just what I always wanted."
"What would you even call someone like that?" Ron asked, apparently oblivious to Harry's existential crisis. "I mean, there must be a name for it. Half-dragon? Dragon-person?"
"The historical term," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, "was 'Dracotaur,' though some texts referred to them as 'Dragonborn.'"
"Dracotaur," Ron repeated, testing the word. "That sounds properly impressive. Much better than my suggestion of 'Weredragon.'"
"Weredragon?" Harry stared at his best friend. "Ron, that's not even how magical creature naming conventions work. Werewolves transform during the full moon. I'm not going to turn into a dragon once a month and then change back."
"You don't know that," Ron pointed out with the stubborn optimism that was his defining characteristic. "Maybe you'll get to transform whenever you want. That would be absolutely brilliant! Imagine showing up to Quidditch practice as an actual dragon!"
"I'd be banned from the sport for life!"
"Details!"
Dumbledore cleared his throat gently, bringing their attention back to him. "While Mr. Weasley's enthusiasm is commendable, there are more practical matters we should discuss. Harry, your transformation is likely not complete. Based on what little we know about Creature Inheritances, the changes typically occur gradually over several weeks or months."
Harry felt his last hope of returning to normal evaporating. "So I'm going to keep changing?"
"It's quite possible. You may develop additional abilities, further physical changes, or new instincts and behaviors. The process is typically guided by the creature's magical nature—in your case, draconic instincts."
"Draconic instincts," Harry repeated slowly. "What kind of instincts?"
"Territoriality, protectiveness of those you consider yours, an affinity for treasure—though in your case, that might manifest as protectiveness of your books or possessions rather than traditional hoarding behavior. You may also find yourself drawn to warm places, experience changes in your dietary preferences, or develop an enhanced ability to sense magical auras."
As if summoned by Dumbledore's words, Harry suddenly became aware of the distinct magical signatures of everyone in the room. Ron's magic felt warm and steady, like a banked fire. Dumbledore's was like standing near a powerful thunderstorm—vast, complex, and slightly overwhelming. And from the far end of the hospital wing, where the petrified students lay, he could sense several smaller but familiar magical signatures, including one that made his chest tighten with relief and affection.
"Hermione," he said suddenly. "I can feel her magic. She's still under the petrification, but she's there."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Remarkable. Magical sense usually takes weeks to develop, if it develops at all."
"Is that good or bad?"
"For you? Probably very good indeed. Enhanced magical sensitivity is one of the most useful abilities a wizard can possess."
Ron was practically bouncing in his chair. "This is incredible, Harry! You're going to be the most powerful wizard at Hogwarts! Maybe in all of Britain! No one's going to mess with a dragon-wizard!"
"Ron," Harry said patiently, "I'm still me. I've just... grown a few inches and developed some new abilities. I'm not going to start terrorizing the countryside and demanding tribute."
"That's what you say now," Ron replied with a grin. "Wait until you develop the fire-breathing. Then we'll see how humble you stay."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, then paused as a warm, tingling sensation built up in his chest. For just a moment, he could have sworn he tasted smoke.
"Er," he said carefully, "Professor? What were you saying about dietary changes?"
---
**Meanwhile, in the Hospital Wing's Private Room**
Hermione Granger's consciousness hovered in that strange twilight state between sleeping and waking, aware but unable to move or open her eyes. She had been dimly aware of increased activity in the hospital wing over the past few hours—hushed conversations, the sound of rapid footsteps, and what she could have sworn was Mrs. Weasley's voice raised in either relief or panic, possibly both.
Now, however, she was becoming aware of something else entirely. A magical presence that felt familiar but fundamentally different—stronger, more complex, with an underlying current of power that reminded her of standing too close to a lightning storm.
It felt like Harry, but not quite. Like Harry if someone had taken his magical signature and amplified it through a prism, creating something that was recognizably him but infinitely more complex and powerful.
*What happened while I was petrified?* she wondered, struggling against the magical paralysis that held her frozen. *And why does Harry's magic feel like it's been set on fire?*
As if in response to her thoughts, she heard his voice drifting across the hospital wing—deeper than she remembered, but unmistakably his dry humor intact.
"Ron, I'm not going to start demanding tribute. I'm still a twelve-year-old wizard, not Smaug the Magnificent."
*Smaug?* Hermione thought with growing alarm. *Why is Harry making references to dragons? And why does his voice sound different?*
The warm sensation of approaching consciousness began to spread through her limbs, and she realized with growing excitement that the petrification was finally wearing off. Soon, she would be able to open her eyes and demand explanations for whatever impossible situation her friends had managed to get themselves into while she was incapacitated.
*Because knowing Harry and Ron,* she thought with fond exasperation, *it's definitely going to be something impossible.*
—
The tingling sensation in Harry's chest intensified, and he could distinctly smell something burning—not unpleasantly, more like the scent of a well-tended fireplace mixed with something spicier and more exotic.
"Harry," Ron said slowly, staring at his friend with wide eyes, "your nostrils are smoking."
Harry clapped a hand over his nose. "They're what?"
"Smoking. Like, actually producing smoke. Thin wisps of it." Ron leaned forward with the fascination of someone watching a particularly interesting Quidditch maneuver. "It's brilliant!"
"It's terrifying!" Harry protested, though he had to admit there was something oddly satisfying about the warm sensation building in his chest. It felt like having a small, contented fire curled up just below his ribs.
Dumbledore stood and moved closer, his expression shifting from academic interest to genuine concern. "Harry, I want you to take a deep breath and try to center yourself. Don't fight the sensation, but don't encourage it either. Simply acknowledge it and let it settle naturally."
"Acknowledge the fact that I'm apparently developing the ability to breathe fire?" Harry's voice climbed an octave. "Professor, with all due respect, that's not exactly the sort of thing you can just casually acknowledge!"
"Nevertheless, fighting against your changing nature will only make the process more difficult and potentially dangerous," Dumbledore said calmly. "Creature inheritances can be traumatic if the individual resists them. The magic will express itself regardless—it's far safer to work with it than against it."
Harry closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly, trying to achieve some sort of mental equilibrium while his body apparently decided to develop supernatural abilities without consulting him first. The warm sensation gradually settled into a comfortable glow, though he could still taste something that reminded him of cinnamon and copper pennies.
"Better?" Dumbledore asked after a moment.
"I think so," Harry replied cautiously, then opened his eyes and immediately noticed that his vision had somehow become even sharper. He could see individual threads in the hospital wing curtains, count the leaves on the plants Madam Pomfrey kept on her windowsill, and read the titles of books on a shelf across the room that should have been nothing but colorful blurs at this distance.
"Your eyes are definitely glowing," Ron observed helpfully. "They look like emeralds with candles behind them."
"Wonderful," Harry muttered. "As if I wasn't conspicuous enough already."
"The enhanced senses and physical changes are likely the first stage of your inheritance," Dumbledore explained, settling back into his chair. "The more dramatic abilities—if they develop—will probably manifest gradually over the coming weeks or months."
"More dramatic abilities," Harry repeated with a sinking feeling. "Such as?"
"Well, historically, Dracotaurs were said to possess several distinct characteristics." Dumbledore began counting on his fingers. "Enhanced physical strength and speed, which you've clearly developed. Supernatural senses, also evident. Natural magical resistance—we'll need to test that. An affinity for fire magic, which seems to be manifesting. Enhanced magical capacity—"
"Enhanced magical capacity?" Harry interrupted. "What does that mean?"
"Your magical core—the source of your magical power—has likely increased dramatically. You may find that spells are easier to cast, last longer, or produce more powerful effects than they did before."
Ron's eyes went wide. "So Harry's not just part dragon, he's also going to be more magically powerful?"
"Potentially, yes. Though learning to control that increased power will require considerable practice and patience."
Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. "This is a disaster. I'm barely managing to keep up with normal magical studies as it is. Now I have to learn how to control dragon powers and enhanced magical abilities?"
"And don't forget the potential fire-breathing," Ron added cheerfully. "That's going to require some serious practice. Can't have you accidentally setting classmates on fire during Potions."
"Ron, you're not helping!"
"I think I'm being very helpful! I'm helping you see all the brilliant aspects of this situation!"
"There are no brilliant aspects!" Harry protested. "I'm going to be a freak! Even more of a freak than I already was! Do you have any idea what people are going to say when they find out the Boy Who Lived has turned into some sort of dragon-human hybrid?"
The silence that followed this outburst was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor outside. Harry's enhanced hearing picked up the distinct clicking of Madam Pomfrey's practical shoes, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like multiple sets of lighter footsteps trying very hard to be stealthy.
"Someone's coming," Harry said automatically, then realized he'd just demonstrated another aspect of his enhanced senses. "Several someones, actually. Madam Pomfrey and... I think the Weasleys? Your parents, and possibly Fred and George."
"How can you possibly know that?" Ron asked, though he looked more impressed than skeptical.
"I can hear their footsteps. And Fred and George have that particular way of walking where they're trying to be quiet but can't quite manage it because they're too excited about whatever mischief they're planning."
"That's... actually quite accurate," Ron admitted. "They do walk like that."
The hospital wing doors burst open with the dramatic flair that seemed to be a Weasley family trait, and Mrs. Weasley rushed in with the sort of maternal urgency that suggested she'd been forcibly restrained from checking on them earlier and had finally overcome whatever obstacles had been placed in her path.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" she declared, her voice carrying the particular pitch that all Weasley children learned to fear from infancy. "You nearly gave me a heart attack! Flying a car to school! Fighting basilisks! Trapped in collapsing tunnels! When I think of what could have happened—"
She paused mid-lecture, her attention shifting to Harry, and her expression transformed from maternal indignation to confusion to something approaching awe.
"Good gracious," she breathed, taking in his transformed appearance. "Harry, dear, you've... you've grown."
"So everyone keeps telling me," Harry replied, unconsciously straightening to his full height and immediately hitting his head on the hanging lamp above his bed. "Ow. I'm still getting used to the new proportions."
Mr. Weasley appeared in the doorway behind his wife, followed by Fred and George, who were both staring at Harry with expressions of naked fascination that would have been flattering under different circumstances.
"Blimey," Fred said eloquently.
"Blimey indeed," George agreed. "Harry, mate, you look..."
"Different?" Harry suggested dryly.
"Like you could arm-wrestle a Hungarian Horntail and win," Fred completed.
"Your eyes are glowing," George observed with the kind of scientific interest that usually preceded one of their more elaborate pranks.
"Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you," Harry said with resignation. "Apparently, it's part of my new 'Creature Inheritance.'" He made air quotes around the term, though the gesture looked oddly graceful with his longer, stronger fingers.
Mrs. Weasley moved closer, her maternal instincts overriding her confusion. "Are you hurt, dear? In any pain?"
"Not exactly hurt," Harry said honestly. "More like... everything feels different. Stronger. More intense. It's not painful, just... overwhelming."
"Creature Inheritance?" Mr. Weasley repeated, his curiosity clearly piqued. "What sort of creature? That's fascinating! I've read about such things, but I've never actually met someone who—"
"Arthur," Mrs. Weasley interrupted with the kind of firm tone that suggested this was not the time for his scholarly enthusiasm. "The boy has clearly been through an ordeal. Perhaps we should let him rest instead of interrogating him about his magical biology."
"Actually," Dumbledore interjected gently, "I believe Harry would benefit from having friends and family nearby during this transition. Creature Inheritances can be emotionally challenging as well as physically transformative."
Harry shot the headmaster a grateful look. Despite his protests about becoming a freak, the truth was that having the Weasleys there—people who had always treated him like family—was enormously comforting.
"So what sort of creature are we talking about?" Fred asked, perching on the edge of the bed with the casual disregard for personal space that was characteristic of all Weasley siblings.
"Dragon," Ron answered before Harry could speak. "Harry's a Dracotaur. Part dragon, part human, all brilliant."
"Dragon?" George's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? That's—"
"The most amazing thing we've ever heard!" Fred finished. "Harry, you're going to be unstoppable! No more worrying about Snape's detentions when you can just threaten to set his dungeon on fire!"
"I'm not going to threaten to set anyone on fire!" Harry protested. "And I can't even breathe fire yet! I'm just... smoking slightly from the nostrils when I get stressed!"
As if to demonstrate his point, thin wisps of smoke began curling from his nose again, carrying with them that distinctive scent of cinnamon and something that might have been sulfur.
"That's brilliant!" the twins said in unison, their eyes lighting up with the kind of unholy glee that usually meant trouble for someone.
"No," Harry said firmly, recognizing that expression. "Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no. I am not going to be part of any pranks involving my apparently developing fire-breathing abilities."
"But think of the possibilities!" Fred exclaimed.
"Smoking out the Slytherin common room!" George added.
"Heating the Gryffindor dormitory during winter!"
"Providing dramatic lighting effects during Quidditch matches!"
"Setting Lockhart's office on fire—accidentally, of course!"
"No, no, no, and absolutely not," Harry said, though he couldn't quite suppress a smile at their enthusiasm. "Besides, I have no idea how to control any of this yet. For all I know, I might accidentally incinerate half the castle."
"Now that's what I call school spirit!" Fred grinned.
Mrs. Weasley fixed her twins with the kind of look that could have petrified basilisks. "Frederick and George Weasley, you will not encourage Harry to set anything on fire, accidentally or otherwise!"
"But Mum—" they protested in unison.
"No buts! The poor boy has been through enough without you two giving him ideas about using his new abilities for mischief!"
"Actually," Harry said thoughtfully, "I'm more worried about the opposite problem. What if I can't control it? What if I sneeze during Transfiguration and accidentally barbecue McGonagall's desk? What if I get nervous during exams and start producing actual flames instead of just smoke?"
This sobering thought cast a temporary pall over the group's excitement. The reality of Harry's situation was beginning to sink in—he was developing abilities that were powerful, potentially dangerous, and completely unprecedented in modern magical society.
"We'll figure it out," Ron said firmly, his loyalty overriding any practical concerns. "Whatever happens, we'll help you figure it out. That's what friends do."
"Ron's right," Mrs. Weasley added, her voice warm with maternal determination. "You're not alone in this, Harry dear. Whatever these changes bring, you have people who care about you."
Harry felt a surge of emotion that seemed to resonate through his entire transformed body, and for a moment, the small fire in his chest flared with something that felt almost like contentment. These people—this chaotic, loving, thoroughly impossible family—had accepted him completely even when he'd been nothing but an abused child with a famous scar. Now they were accepting him even as he turned into something that had never existed before.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his enhanced senses picking up the increased heartbeats around the room that indicated the depth of their shared emotion. "I... thank you."
It was then that the doors at the far end of the hospital wing opened with a soft whisper of hinges, and Madam Pomfrey emerged carrying a tray of steaming goblets.
"Right then," she announced in her brisk, no-nonsense manner, "the Mandrake Draught is ready. Time to wake our petrified students."
Harry's head snapped toward the far end of the wing, where he could now see—with perfect clarity despite the distance—a small group of beds containing motionless figures. His enhanced senses immediately identified the magical signature he'd been unconsciously searching for since he'd woken up.
"Hermione," he breathed, and without conscious thought, he was moving toward her bed, his new coordination allowing him to navigate around the furniture and concerned family members with unconscious grace.
Behind him, he heard Ron calling, "Harry, wait up!" but he was already at Hermione's bedside, watching as Madam Pomfrey carefully administered the Mandrake Draught to each of the petrified students.
The change was immediate and remarkable. Color flooded back into Hermione's cheeks, her chest began to rise and fall with natural breathing, and her eyes fluttered open to reveal the familiar warm brown that Harry had been afraid he'd never see again.
"Harry?" she said weakly, her voice hoarse from months of magical paralysis. "Is that really you?"
"It's me," he said softly, reaching out to take her hand and then stopping as he realized his fingers were significantly larger and stronger than they had been. "I'm here. You're safe."
Hermione struggled to sit up, her movements slow and unsteady after so long in magical stasis. "You look..." She paused, studying his face with the analytical intensity that was so fundamentally Hermione. "Different. Older. And your eyes are glowing."
"It's a long story," Harry said, suddenly aware that explaining his transformation to Hermione was going to require a level of logical detail that he wasn't sure he possessed.
"I have time," she replied with a weak smile. "And I imagine it's quite a story, considering you appear to have grown at least six inches and developed supernatural vision since I was petrified."
"How did you know about the vision?"
"You're standing eight feet away and reading the serial numbers on my medical chart," she pointed out with the kind of logical observation that made Harry wonder why he'd ever worried about explaining anything to her. "Either your eyesight has dramatically improved, or you've memorized every piece of equipment in the hospital wing."
"Right," Harry said with a grin that felt strange on his transformed features. "Like I said, it's a long story."
"Then you'd better start at the beginning," Hermione replied, struggling to sit up fully. "And don't leave anything out. I have the distinct feeling that whatever happened while I was petrified is going to be the most educationally fascinating thing that's occurred at Hogwarts in decades."
Behind them, Ron arrived at the bedside with the rest of the Weasley family in tow, all of them wearing expressions of relief and residual amazement at Harry's transformation.
"Hermione!" Ron exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion. "You're alright! You're actually alright!"
"Of course I'm alright," she replied with characteristic practicality, though her eyes were suspiciously bright. "Petrification is a temporary condition, not a fatal one. Though I gather from Harry's dramatic physical changes that quite a lot has happened since I was incapacitated."
"Quite a lot," Dumbledore agreed, appearing beside them with the silent movement that was his particular talent. "Miss Granger, I'm delighted to see you recovered. I believe you're going to find the explanation for Mr. Potter's transformation to be quite... illuminating."
"Illuminating," Hermione repeated, her gaze shifting between Harry's glowing eyes and the thin wisps of smoke still occasionally emerging from his nostrils. "Professor, please tell me Harry hasn't accidentally turned himself into a dragon."
"Not exactly," Dumbledore replied with twinkling eyes. "Though you're not entirely incorrect, either."
Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Right. Someone please start from the beginning, speak slowly and clearly, and explain to me how my best friend has apparently developed draconic characteristics while I've been petrified."
"Well," Harry began, settling into the chair beside her bed with movements that were still slightly awkward as he adjusted to his new proportions, "it all started when Tom Riddle's diary tried to kill Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets..."
As he began to recount the events in the chamber, Harry couldn't help but notice that despite everything that had changed about his body and his magical nature, this felt exactly right—sitting between his two best friends, explaining the latest impossible adventure they'd somehow survived, while the people who had become his family gathered around to listen.
Some things, apparently, were more fundamental than species.
---
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