sorry for acknowledging harry potter on main but one thing about the books that haunts me to this day is what happened to harry’s dragon miniature that he got in the triwizard tournament. the last time it’s mentioned he puts it down on his bedside and it curls up to sleep and then we never hear about it again. what happened to the dragon. nobody let jkr see this because i don’t want her to pull something out of her rancid ass but i need to know what happened to that dragon.
I like to think it woke up and scurried away before Harry woke up, so the next morning he was like ‘huh must’ve been an illusion or some shit that just faded out’ and of course there was so much shit going on that nobody asked about it, and he forgot entirely.
After that, the dragon becomes a permanent installment of Gryffindor tower, stealing loose coins and trinkets and shiny candy wrappers inside the bottom of a sofa or hole in the masonry. Nobody thinks anything of it, kids being kids and losing things all the time, but some kids waking up in the night from nightmares or homesickness or insomnia will sit by the ever-burning fireplace and see a little silhouette shifting comfortably in the flames. If there are significantly less mice around, nobody takes note of it.
I like to think the other triwizard competitors got to keep theirs, too.
Fleur took hers to the Madame to return it, but was told that it was an enchantment of no real consequence and could keep it if she liked, so long as it didn’t cause trouble or distract from her classes. It sits at present in a lavishly-furnished terrarium with a miniaturized forest, complete with a castle to guard, a village to plunder, and a constant supply of crickets. Someday her grandchildren will inherit the responsibility of seeing to it’s care, and the tank will take a prominent place of honor for generations.
Krum in a similar position found himself growing fond of his, and often (against house rules, one of the few he can be tempted to break) smuggles it around in his big furry coat. It likes to snuggle in the fluff of his inner breast pocket, and only if you are very careful will you see him sneak a little scrap of meat or jerky into it. For many years after, there is a rumor that he has a familiar on him at all times, even if it isn’t seen, and there is some speculation on what it could be. It will only be in his old age that the truth comes out: when his grandchildren let it slip that Grandpa has a dragon, and the old folks down at the bar laugh because of course he does, it all makes sense, they’d forgotten all about the little thing he’d got from that competition all those years ago. Krum sits in a comfortable chair by the fire, wrinkled hands stroking delicate scales draped over his lap, and when his time comes to pass there is no trace of the little thing to be found: only his body laying in bed, peaceful as can be, and a puff of silver dust on the blanket above his heart.
After Cedric’s funeral, life is grey. Mr. Diggory, still quaking in his heart and teetering on grief and denial and pain but knowing he must collect his son’s things, gathers up all his strength and makes the trip up the castle. The Hufflepuff dorm is exactly the same as he remembers from his youth, right down to the smell of dandelion tea and warm sunlight, messy beds and half-scribbled homework left scattered about, but it’s different, now. Smaller. Less wondrous, less hopeful.
He sets about packing Cedric’s belongings (Cedric, his son, his baby boy, his wonderful, beautiful baby boy, gone) with a strange detachment. He won’t remember a second of it, later- the mechanical folding of shirts and binning of trash (not much, he’d always been such a tidy boy)- but he seems to wake from the fog when he grabs the small box hidden under the bed and feels the faintest wiggle.
Of course, he thinks when he opens it, when he sees what’s inside, snuggled up in a nest of thick socks torn to puffs of wool. Of course, he thinks, remembering his boy (much smaller, so much smaller) begging for a puppy, a cat, his first owl. (So lonely, being an only child). Of course, of course, how could he possibly be surprised? (His boy, his good boy, with such a heart in him).
Perhaps he smiles, then. Perhaps, because he can’t quite tell through the tears. Perhaps something fluttery and dead and broken feels the tiniest bit lighter on the journey home, too- which is strange, with the extra weight cradled gently in his arms.