The quiet of the summer break settled over Hogwarts like a soft, heavy blanket. Most students had departed on the Express, leaving the castle to the ghosts, the house-elves, and a handful of professors. Echo, however, remained. Hogwarts was his home, and the Forbidden Forest his sanctuary. The incident with James and the near-catastrophic slip of the Killing Curse had solidified his resolve: this summer would not be for rest, but for rigorous, terrifying self-mastery. His days quickly fell into a demanding routine. Mornings were dedicated to intense, clandestine study with Snape in the deserted dueling hall. He didn't shy away from the darker texts, those grim tomes that delved into the forbidden corners of magic. He himself confronts the theoretical underpinnings of the Unforgivables, dissecting their raw power, intent, and precise magical pathways.
"The Cruciatus Curse," the text would intone, his voice low and precise, holding up a shimmering, dark-bound book. "It is not merely pain. It is the amplification of one's own darkest intent, projected onto another. The force is not external; it is drawn from within. To master it, to prevent its accidental manifestation, you must first understand the nature of such a profound violation of will."
Echo spent hours meditating, pushing his mind to its limits, visualizing the flow of dark magic, not as something inherently evil, but as a raw, dangerous energy. He learned to identify the subtle shifts within his own core, the tell-tale hum that signaled the stirring of destructive intent. It was like learning to navigate a treacherous, internal landscape, mapping out the quicksand of rage and the precipices of despair. He practiced controlling the ambient magic around him, drawing it in, channeling it, but always pulling back before it twisted into anything harmful, only enough to cast the spells. He still could cast the Unforgivables, even though he wouldn't do that on any normal day, but he was learning to recognize the currents that fed them, and, crucially, to redirect them. The goal wasn't to just use them, but to disarm them within himself and others. He could cancel out Imperio and draw out the painful effects of Curcio, but there was not much he could do with Avada Kedavra.
The only thing he could do with the killing curse was to tag a target with a bit of his dark malice, making a connection between anyone who had it, then any effect that one target took, the other who felt no matter the spell, especially the unforgivables. These three worked so well with this technique that Echo was honestly scared of the discovery he had made and promised never to tell another soul.
Afternoons belonged to Hagrid and the Forbidden Forest. Their lessons shifted from broad creature identification to specialized, intuitive understanding. Echo learned to track the faint magical signatures of creatures, to sense their emotions, and to offer them comfort or assistance through his unique empathetic magic. He helped Hagrid heal a sick Bowtruckle with a gentle touch that coaxed the creature's own healing magic to surge. He calmed a skittish herd of Mooncalves during a thunderstorm by projecting a sense of peace that resonated with their shy natures.
The highlight of each day was the journey to Wick's cave. With each passing week, Echo noticed a dramatic change in his dragon. Wick was no longer the tiny, scuttling creature he'd hatched. She was growing at an astonishing rate, her scales now a deep, iridescent black, hinting at the fiery core within. Her emerald eyes, once wide and innocent, now held a keen intelligence. Her chirps had deepened into throaty rumblings, and her smoke puffs were more frequent, sometimes accompanied by faint sparks.
One sweltering afternoon, as Echo entered the cave, he stopped dead, his jaw dropping. Wick was enormous. She was easily the size of a small pony, her leathery wings unfurling to span the width of a good-sized room. She lay curled on a bed of warm sand, her tail twitching idly, a half-devoured wild boar carcass beside her. She looked up at him, her large head tilting, and let out a rumbling purr that vibrated through the cavern.
"Well, I'll be a blithering blast-ended skrewt!" Hagrid exclaimed, arriving moments later, equally stunned. "She's shot up like a ruddy giant sequoia! Reckon she's near big enough, Echo."
"Big enough for what, Hagrid?" Echo asked, still marveling at Wick's sheer size.
Hagrid grinned, a wide, excited beam. "For a ride, little wizard! That's what! A Hebridean Black, she is. Fierce and fast. And loyal to you, I reckon, as she could be."
Echo's heart pounded with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. Ride a dragon? The idea was both terrifying and utterly thrilling. He looked at Wick, who seemed to sense his thoughts, nudging his hand with her massive snout, her emerald eyes gleaming with an unspoken invitation.
"Can… can I really?" Echo whispered.
Hagrid nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Aye. But it ain't like ridin' a broomstick, Echo."
"Good, cause I still have no idea how to ride one," Echo admitted.
"You gotta feel her, understand her. You gotta become one with her. Your magic, that special kind o' yours, it'll help, just like with the Bowtruckle. Connect with her. Feel her power. And show her yer trust." Hagrid explained.
Echo spent the rest of the afternoon and the following days learning the subtle art of dragon riding. It wasn't about reins or stirrups; it was about connection. He would lie on Wick's warm, leathery back, feeling the rumble of her purrs and the powerful beat of her heart. He learned to anticipate her movements and sense her shifts in balance. He focused his unique magic, not projecting it onto her but weaving it with hers, creating a symbiotic flow of energy.
Their first true flight was breathtaking. Wick launched herself from the cavern floor, a powerful beat of her wings sending gusts of warm air through the cave. Echo clung to her neck, his knuckles white, but then, as they burst into the open air of the forest at dusk, a profound sense of freedom washed over him. The wind roared in his ears, the trees below becoming a blur of dark green, and the castle, bathed in the last golden rays of the sun, looked like a distant toy. Wick soared, majestic and powerful, and Echo felt an exhilaration unlike anything he had ever known. He was flying, truly flying, not on a broom, but on the back of his own creation, his own family. He was part of her, and she, a magnificent beast of myth, was an extension of his will.
"Higher, Wick!" Echo yelled, his voice carried away by the wind, a wild, unburdened laugh escaping his lips. "Higher!"
Wick roared in response, a sound of pure joy and power, and ascended into the deepening twilight, carrying Echo towards the stars. Their descent was a controlled, sweeping spiral, Wick's massive wings beating rhythmically, slowing their speed with graceful precision. She landed with a soft thump near the entrance to her cave, stirring up a cloud of dust and sending a startled Bowtruckle scurrying up a nearby tree. Echo, still buzzing with adrenaline, slid off her back, his legs feeling a little wobbly. He looked up at Wick, whose emerald eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement and pride. He stroked her snout, his heart overflowing.
Hagrid, who had been waiting anxiously, rushed forward, his face beaming. "Well, I'll be a Kneazle's uncle! You did it, Echo! You rode her! I knew ya had it in ya, little wizard! That was… that was truly magnificent!" He clapped Echo on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him.
Echo grinned, but then a shiver ran down his spine as the adrenaline faded, replaced by a surge of cold reality. "It was… incredible, Hagrid," he admitted, his voice a little shaky. "The most amazing thing I've ever done. But… I wasn't really in control. Not truly. I just held on. She went where she wanted, how she wanted. I mean, it was brilliant, but if she'd decided to dive straight into the Black Lake, or fly into a rock face… I would have been a goner. I could have fallen to my death, Hagrid!" He looked at the giant, his eyes wide with the stark realization of his vulnerability.
Hagrid's beaming smile softened, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, that's the way of it with a wild creature, even one as loyal as Wick. You can build a connection, a trust, but true, absolute control… that's a different beast entirely. Only one way to do that, little wizard, truly control every twitch and turn." He paused, his gaze darkening slightly. "And that's with the Imperius Curse. Bendin' their will, makin' 'em a puppet."
Echo recoiled instantly. "No! Absolutely not!" The very idea felt abhorrent, a violation of everything he was learning, everything he believed. "I would never. Not to Wick. Not to any creature. That's… that's what Lucius Malfoy would do."
Hagrid nodded, a look of profound relief on his face. "Good, Echo. Knew you'd say that. That ain't the way of it. Not for you. Not for us." He ruffled Echo's hair gently. "But you're right. To truly work with her and guide her, you need a way to communicate effectively. A way for her to understand your intent, beyond just feelin' your emotions."
Echo's brow furrowed in thought. Projecting his magic. He had been doing that for weeks now, subtly influencing the ambient magic around him, drawing it in, channeling it. He had learned to project his emotions to calm the Mooncalves, to offer comfort to the Bowtruckle. If he could project his emotions, his desires, his will… could he project a concept? A command? Could he make something that couldn't understand human language and understand his desire for it to go up, down, or stop?
A sudden, thrilling idea sparked in his mind. He closed his eyes, focusing on the powerful flow of magic within him. He remembered Snape's grueling lessons, dissecting the very essence of spells, understanding their core intent beyond the incantation. Accio, the summoning charm, wasn't just a word; it was the projection of desire for attraction, a forceful pull towards oneself. And Descendo, the reverse, a desire for descent.
He opened his eyes, a fierce determination replacing the earlier fear. "Hagrid," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I think… I think I know a way. It won't be the Imperius Curse. It'll be… a shared understanding. Like a language, but not with words. With magic."
Hagrid leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows raised. "Go on, little wizard."
Echo turned to Wick, who was watching him with intelligent eyes. He extended his hand, not holding his wand, but feeling the raw power thrumming through his veins. He didn't speak. Instead, he channeled his intention, visualizing the command, projecting it directly into Wick's magical core. He thought of the essence of 'up,' of 'forward,' of 'ascend.' He infused it with the raw magical signature of the Accio spell, not the incantation itself, but the pure, unadulterated intent of attraction and movement towards him, and by extension, upward.
Then, he thought of a word, a single, resonant syllable, a label for this complex magical projection. "Accio," he whispered, letting the word resonate with the projected intent.
Wick's head tilted. Her emerald eyes seemed to flicker, absorbing the unspoken command. Then, to Echo's astonishment, she lifted one massive, scaled claw and, with a surprisingly delicate movement, pushed herself slightly upward, rising an inch or two from the ground before settling back down.
Echo gasped, a wild laugh bubbling up from his chest. "She understood!"
Hagrid roared with laughter, a sound that shook the cavern. "By the beard of Merlin! You clever, clever boy! You found a way!"
Over the next few weeks, their dragon-riding lessons became a profound exploration of this new, intuitive language. Echo would project his desires and emotions, layering them with the core intent of various spells he had analyzed with Snape.
"Decendo!" Echo would project the essence of 'down' and 'descent' flowing from him, and Wick would smoothly lower herself.
"Arresto Momentum!" he'd think, focusing on the principle of halting and stillness, and Wick would brake her powerful flight mid-air, hovering gently.
For offense, it was more direct. "Confringo!" he'd project, focusing the raw, destructive force of his fire-creation magic into a focused, explosive intent. Wick would launch a controlled fireball from her maw, precise and potent.
"Incendio!" was the thought for a wider, searing breath of flame, a powerful sweep of fire.
He even adapted the simple Lumos spell, not to create light from his wand, but to make Wick's emerald eyes glow brightly, a shared beacon in the dark forest nights, a visible manifestation of his inner light reflected in her. It wasn't about controlling her will, but about sharing his own, about allowing her to perceive his desires through the language of magic she inherently understood. It was a partnership, a symbiotic dance of wizard and dragon, unique and utterly their own.