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HRA# CHAPTER 99
🕑 Added 2025-04-15 18:00:35 +0000 UTCHagrid’s insistence on calling the young dragon Norbert didn’t bother Harry one bit.
After discovering it was a Norwegian Ridgeback, Harry had delved into stacks of dragon-related texts, unearthing one key fact: until the dragon reached a certain size, names meant nothing to it. Hagrid’s endless chatter of “Norbert this, Norbert that” was, frankly, a futile endeavor—the dragon couldn’t yet grasp its own name.
So, my Ridgeback, hurry up and grow, Harry thought, watching the hatchling thrash about in its barrel. A cryptic smile curved his lips, one so unsettling that Neville, catching sight of it, quickly averted his gaze, pretending he’d seen nothing.
Too creepy, way too creepy.
Hermione and the others were at a loss for words over the tug-of-war between Hagrid and Harry regarding the dragon’s naming rights. Harry, however, had already done the math. In just three weeks, the Ridgeback would outgrow Hagrid’s hut entirely. Maybe even sooner, it might accidentally belch a spark and reduce the wooden shack to ashes.
Compared to other dragon breeds, Norwegian Ridgebacks developed their fire-breathing ability early—between one and three months after hatching. This wasn’t just any flame, but true dragonfire. Even before that, though, all dragons could sputter brief bursts of sparks.
Details aside, Harry was quite pleased with the Ridgeback’s appearance. Unlike the sturdy-limbed, broad-winged guardian dragons from his memories, the Ridgeback resembled the proto-dragons of Northrend. On the ground, it propped its front body with its wings, much like those ancient beasts. But while proto-dragons had short, vestigial forelimbs, the Ridgeback had none at all—its wings doubled as its front limbs. From the first joint of each wing sprouted two slender digits, likely its version of fingers.
As a rare breed native to Norway, Norwegian Ridgebacks were fiercely combative, preying on most large land mammals. Females were even more ferocious than males, a trait Harry had confirmed after checking: his Ridgeback was undeniably female.
If raised not just as a flying mount but as a battle companion, she could prove invaluable.
Hagrid’s choice of “Norbert” was clearly a mismatch. Once grown, she’d likely scoff at such a masculine name. Harry gave himself a mental nod—everything was falling into place.
There was just one catch. Unlike other fire dragons, Norwegian Ridgebacks could dive underwater to hunt aquatic prey, which shaped their bodies to be sleek and slender. This strayed from the proto-dragon ideal in Harry’s mind, with their massive heads—jaws alone making up nearly half—and short, thick tails. The Ridgeback’s tail was whip-like, her head sharp and pointed. A pity, Harry thought. He’d have preferred her to embody that raw, primal ferocity.
Tall, robust, reckless, massive, tough—ideally radiating a commanding aura. That was Harry’s vision of the perfect mount.
Oh no. He jolted upright, a sudden realization hitting him. His tastes had been warped by Hagrid’s influence. What a disaster.
For now, Hagrid could still enjoy his time with the Ridgeback without causing chaos or drawing unwanted attention. His spirits remained steady, comforted by the knowledge that “Norbert” hadn’t left him but had merely relocated to Harry’s suitcase. He could visit anytime.
As for what would happen after Harry graduated from Hogwarts in seven years… well, Hagrid didn’t dare dwell on such a heartbreaking question. Maybe Harry would stay on as a professor! Then he’d see Norbert every day, wouldn’t he?
Harry, meanwhile, was in no rush. He’d been pouring his energy into the suitcase, crafting an environment tailored for the Ridgeback’s needs.
Thanks to Dumbledore—bless the man’s patience. One night, after finding Harry lingering at his office door yet again, Dumbledore sighed deeply and followed him into the suitcase world.
Manual labor, essentially.
Or, more precisely, lake-digging.
Was Dumbledore too old for this? Could he still handle it?
Absolutely—and with surprising vigor. In the suitcase’s open valley, beneath the cliff where Harry’s house stood, he’d uprooted an entire forest in one go, transplanting it elsewhere. Meanwhile, Dumbledore, still sighing, excavated a massive lake and even boosted the flow of the suitcase’s river.
Now, beyond the cliffside house, a new mountain rose within this pocket world. Harry envisioned the Ridgeback lounging atop its peak, surveying her domain—a dragon’s favorite pastime. When thirsty, she could swoop down to the lake, vast and deep enough to slake her thirst and sustain any future inhabitants of the suitcase.
Harry had stocked the lake with fish fry and growth potions, prompting Dumbledore to shake his head, barely restraining a comment about magic’s reckless overuse. Harry pretended not to notice. Since Norwegian Ridgebacks hunted underwater, he had to plan ahead for his future partner’s habits.
Sorry, Dumbledore, just a bit more trouble.
He didn’t build a nest for the Ridgeback. Harry figured she should pick her own spot—no need to meddle.
Throughout the overhaul, the resident unicorns panicked only briefly at the start. After that, they kept their distance, curiously observing Harry and Dumbledore’s work. The clever creatures were the first to sip from the new lake.
Another key player in this second phase of the suitcase’s transformation was Harry’s uncle, Vernon.
“Hey, Fawkes!” Harry greeted the phoenix as it materialized in a burst of flame. “Good evening! I’ll need your help again today.”
Fawkes chirped in reply, landing lightly on Harry’s shoulder. It dipped its elegant neck to nibble at the dittany leaves in his hand—a phoenix delicacy.
Harry hadn’t caught—er, found—Dumbledore for two whole days. Each time he visited the headmaster’s office, the gargoyle at the entrance would spot him and flatly declare, “The headmaster’s not here,” refusing to budge.
But Harry wasn’t one to give up. On the fifth day, after four days of waiting, he arrived to find Fawkes perched atop the gargoyle, its expression practically screaming resignation. Yes, Harry could swear he saw “helpless” written across the phoenix’s face.
A note was pinned nearby: Fawkes will assist you.
No greeting, no pleasantries—just that. Harry sighed at the coldness of the world.
Luckily, the suitcase’s major framework was set. What remained didn’t require Dumbledore’s direct involvement. Fawkes was the perfect helper.
“Yorkshire, Malta Farm,” Harry said, stroking Fawkes’s silken feathers. “Let’s go, Fawkes!”
With a flash of fire, Fawkes whisked him to Yorkshire, far from Hogwarts. Harry had sought Dumbledore’s permission to leave school during term time, and since the headmaster had loaned him Fawkes to secure some peace, the result was the same.
“Good evening, Uncle,” Harry called.
His voice startled Vernon, who’d been waiting. The man flinched, spun around, and exhaled in relief upon seeing Harry.
“Good heavens, boy, couldn’t you—” Vernon cut off mid-sentence, as if an invisible hand had clamped his throat. He darted forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Were you seen? When you arrived—any, er, witchcraft or odd business?”
“No, Uncle,” Harry said, exasperated. “Honestly, you’re acting shadier than I am right now.”
His relationship with his aunt and uncle had warmed considerably, but one thing hadn’t changed: anything magical still sent them into a tizzy.
“That so?” Vernon paused, then stepped back, smoothed his coat, and asked gravely, “How’s this?”
“Very dashing,” Harry said with a grin. “With all the weight you’ve lost, I bet Dudley’s bulked up into a proper athlete.”
The Christmas weight-loss potions had worked wonders. Vernon was noticeably slimmer, healthier too. Before, the only difference between him and a hot-air balloon, in Harry’s mind, was that one could float.
“Oh, yes, Dudley’s transformed,” Vernon said proudly, basking in the compliment. “Anyway, we’ll just—”
A sudden blaze interrupted him. Fawkes reappeared on Harry’s shoulder, having briefly flown off to explore. The phoenix’s dramatic entrance froze Vernon in place, his nerves fraying once more.
“Easy, Uncle,” Harry said quickly. “This is Fawkes, a phoenix. You’ve heard of phoenixes, right?”
“…A phoe—phoenix,” Vernon stammered, voice dry. “Yes, heard of ‘em… legends…”
Sweat glistened on his brow. Under Harry’s bemused gaze, Vernon tugged at his collar, took a cautious half-step back, doffed his hat, and addressed Fawkes. “Er, hello?”
Fawkes nodded with a clear chirp, acknowledging the gesture.
“No one else can see Fawkes, Uncle. I’ve used magic to make sure,” Harry reassured him.
A quick Confundus Charm had taken care of that.
“Oh? That’s… splendid,” Vernon said, visibly relaxing. “Not that I meant anything by it, er, no offense,” he added hastily to Fawkes.
Despite Harry’s assurances and the phoenix’s place in Muggle myths, Vernon remained wary. Harry felt a pang of sympathy rather than frustration.
As the saying goes, old secrets unravel in the presence of truth. Harry had learned from his mother why his aunt and uncle loathed magic—Petunia’s envy of Lily’s gifts, Vernon’s disdain for James, who’d casually mentioned Gringotts’ gold while Vernon bragged about his new car. Then James had shown off his flying broom, making Vernon feel mocked since Muggles didn’t ride broomsticks. A tangled mess of pride and misunderstanding.
Harry saw fault on both sides—arrogance clashing across worlds. He had no interest in judging or carrying their grudges.
Lily and James’s deaths, or perhaps a soul-to-soul talk between Lily and Petunia one afternoon, had shifted things. Something had softened.
Maybe that’s why they say baring your heart face-to-face can mend bonds—or that death overshadows all.
Human emotions, Harry mused, were the trickiest magic of all.
For now, he could talk normally with Vernon’s family. Vernon was even starting to feel like a proper uncle.
When Harry had written with a request, Vernon’s reply grumbled plenty but still promised to arrange things. And here he was, in Yorkshire, making it happen.
Pigs.
Yorkshire pigs, to be exact—a breed from 1852, over a century old, divided into large, medium, and small types. Lean, low-fat, early-maturing, with high-quality meat and, crucially, strong reproductive rates.
Perfect prey for a dragon—and a cornerstone of Harry’s plan to populate the suitcase world.
Dragons were pure carnivores. An adult fire dragon could devour two to three cows’ worth of meat in one sitting. If it rested afterward, it wouldn’t need to eat again for a week or two. Harry aimed to introduce five hundred large Yorkshire pigs into the suitcase. Though these were fattened, docile livestock, pigs reverted to wild boars within two years, fierce enough to roam the suitcase’s forests.
This would let the Ridgeback hone her hunting instincts naturally.
Pigs weren’t the only addition. Harry planned to bring in wild bison and smaller carnivorous magical creatures to balance the food chain.
He could’ve sourced them through wizarding channels, but the Galleons would’ve piled up. Muggle routes were far cheaper. Harry wasn’t strapped for cash, but he wasn’t about to be fleeced either.
“This deal’s not losing you money, is it, Uncle?” Harry asked as they walked toward the farm.
“Not at all,” Vernon said with a shrug. “Those gems you sent were top-notch. I’m turning a profit—and expanding my network. Bargained hard for you, boy.”
“Perfect,” Harry said, nodding.
Mutual benefit bred lasting partnerships.
English pigs weren’t castrated. At Vernon’s request—a major client with cash in hand—the farmer had readied five hundred pigs. Once the farmer left, Harry set down the suitcase he’d lugged along, opened it, and faced the herd.
With a casual wave of his hand, the pigs surged toward him, as if bewitched. It was, admittedly, a startling sight.
Five hundred pigs! The stampede looked ready to trample them into pulp. Vernon let out a yelp, unable to hold it back.
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T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
