“You look troubled, Harry,” Dumbledore said as Lyle resumed his invisible post.

“Just got a lot on my mind, sir.”

“Anything you want to share?”

Harry swallowed. Part of him just wanted to tell the man everything and get it off his chest; he knew Dumbledore would have some words of wisdom that would hopefully help. But he wondered if that was selfish—after all, Snape had admitted that Dumbledore knew very little about him and Lily, and all the related recent revelations, and to do that would mean revealing that Snape had kept secrets from Dumbledore. Harry wasn’t sure that would go down well with either of them.

“Not really.”

Dumbledore didn’t look convinced, and Harry was reminded of his ‘no’ last year after Dumbledore had asked if he had anything to tell him. This time, the lie felt so much bigger.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, although Harry could tell from his tone that he hadn’t deceived him. “But you know if you change your mind, you can come to me about anything, Harry.”

“Er—I know, sir. Thanks.”

Dumbledore changed the subject, for which Harry was relieved. “You couldn’t hand me the Chocolate Frogs, could you? Help yourself to one as well if you wish.”

Harry obeyed and passed them over, taking a single Frog for himself and thanking Dumbledore, who chuckled. A moment later Dumbledore lightly touched his bandages. “Ouch.”

“Does it hurt?” A stupid question, really, Harry thought after the words had left his mouth.

“Just a little.”

Harry tried to suppress a grin, recognising his own habit of downplaying ailments.

“But what hurts more is, I lost my beard,” Dumbledore said forlornly, toying with what remained of it. “Burned almost short! You have no idea how long I have been growing it out.”

“I think you look quite fetching with it short, sir. If you get it trimmed properly, I think it might suit you.”

“Hmm … you think so?” Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “I suppose it would make it less of a hazard in my office.”

Harry tried not to snigger as he thought of the whirring contraptions, and wondered if Dumbledore had ever got his beard trapped in one of them. The thought had never occurred till now.

“Who knows,” Dumbledore continued with a twinkle in his eye, “maybe the ladies will prefer a shorter beard?”

“Well, personally,” Harry said slyly, “I think Professor McGonagall likes you whatever length your beard is.” He was amused and rewarded by Dumbledore blushing crimson, and hastily changing the subject.

-

The week passed very slowly. Harry struggled to catch up in his work, hampered by an occupied mind, despite Hermione’s notes from the classes he had missed and her offer of helping him understand them. He was grateful, knowing how much work she had to do herself, but it just wasn’t working.

Snape didn’t approach Harry for the next few days, and in the next Potions lesson, suddenly decided to act as if Harry did not exist. Nobody really seemed to notice the change in attitude, and Harry again felt grateful. Snape was probably giving him some space to figure things out.

Harry had no direct contact with Lyle, either; although he could sense the man following him around, the two did not speak. Most of the time this was probably due to Harry being with other people, and whenever Harry was alone he was usually either trying desperately to study, or go to sleep.

This all changed one day in the library. Harry and Hermione were both poring over their homework, Hermione giving Harry concerned glances every now and then. Ron was leaning back in his chair, playing with a paperclip and quickly hiding behind a book every time Madam Pince passed.

“Maybe you should ask the teachers for help,” Hermione said as Harry groaned and thumped his head on the table. “That’s what they’re there for.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Harry mumbled, though he wasn’t sure about asking Snape to help him with his Potions work. Whilst he had slowly accepted that the man was not the slimy git he had always thought him, he just didn’t feel ready to talk to him yet.

He sighed and stood up. “I’m going to stretch my legs. Back in a bit.”

“Well, if you’re up—could you fetch me a book please, Harry?”

Harry wandered down the Ancient Runes section, staring at book titles. Hermione had said the one in question was probably not very big, and at the top somewhere. After what seemed like forever, Harry spotted a slim volume tucked in a row that looked as if it were rarely disturbed.

He pulled out the book in question, sending dust everywhere, and his nose started to itch. He was almost back at the table, Hermione waiting expectantly, before the sneeze finally came. “Atchoo!”

It was the most peculiar sensation—for a moment, all Harry could see was a tongue of flame, before it cleared a split second later and he was left with a smouldering book spine in his hands, the papers disintegrated into ashes.

He yelped in surprise and dropped it on the floor, heart beginning to pound. That did not just happen—had he just sneezed fire?

Harry looked back at his friends, expecting gaping mouths and gasps, but was surprised to see Ron ignoring him and Hermione still looking expectant, with a little bit of disapproval. “Bless you,” she said.

“Er—thanks.”

“You’d better pick that up before Madam Pince sees it on the floor.”

In bewilderment, Harry bent down to retrieve what was left of the book, wondering what to do and thinking uneasily that Madam Pince would try and get him expelled for this—defacing books carried a heavy enough punishment, he had just destroyed one completely.

Before he could touch it, however, he heard a whispered spell and the book flipped shut, suddenly looking brand new.

“Thanks Lyle,” Harry said out the corner of his mouth, relieved. He should have known that dragons would have some way to repair fire damage. Still, he felt incredibly nervous. What else was he capable of?

“Harry? My book?”

“Oh—sorry, Hermione.” Harry quickly gave it to her, now wondering why she hadn’t commented on his bizarre sneeze. Could it be the illusion that covered his wings also covered up any … fire accidents?

He jumped a mile as someone gently tapped his shoulder, which he took to mean Lyle wanted to talk, so he took his cue to leave the library. Once he was out in the grounds, away from other people, Lyle, still invisible, spoke.

“My apologies, your highness,” he said, and Harry bit back the protest at being addressed that way. “I should have warned you.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “We had enough to talk about.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I should perform a Flame-Freezing Charm,” Lyle said, except Harry suddenly realised that he was not saying ‘sir’ with a strange accent—the word was actually ‘sire’. “Within the dragon community, objects such as books are automatically protected; here in the wizarding world, other precautions must be taken.”

“Er—okay, then.” Harry felt strangely ticklish as Lyle performed the charm. “So does that prevent me breathing fire, or …”

“No, but if you were to, the flames would do no harm. It’s a good thing it was only a book—people are harder to repair,” Lyle said seriously. “The charm must also be re-applied weekly.”

“Right. And I’m guessing the reason my friends didn’t react was because of the illusion?”

“Correct,” Lyle said.

Harry sighed. “Anything else I should know?”

“Just the one thing, I think.” After a moment to check the coast was clear, Lyle appeared and then withdrew something from his robes. “I did not have the opportunity to do it when we last talked, and I thought it should wait until you had had the chance to take things in.”

Harry’s eyes widened as he saw, in Lyle’s hand, a clear crystal about the size of a conker on a fine gold chain. “What is it?”

“Your inheritance, sire. The Royal Ruby.”

“Wow.” It really was beautiful. “I thought rubies were supposed to be red?”

“Take it.”

Harry did so, and to his surprise the gemstone turned a deep blood-red. “Whoa. Why did it change?”

“To signify your status. The Ruby is clear when being touched by a non-royal, green for royal blood, and black signifies a user of the Dark Arts. Red, however, means you are the rightful heir to the throne.”

Harry nearly dropped the thing. “So … does this mean …” He swallowed. “What does it mean, for me?”

“Well, at this precise moment, it means that you are in great danger. But you knew that already.”