Professor Sprout never even had time to react before the gunshot and the dragon’s piercing roar exploded in her ears at the same time.
The wound on the black dragon’s wing tore wider.
Blood sprayed in a violent arc.
The sudden pain made the massive creature snap its left wing shut, throwing its enormous body off balance.
With a thunderous crash it toppled and rolled down the slope, nearly crushing the three of them as it went.
She whipped her head around in shock and saw Lucas still in a half-crouch, the shotgun smoking, his bright hazel eyes blazing with pure excitement.
So that’s what Muggles call a “gun”?
Lucas knew he’d just fired the best shot of his life.
Of course he had.
A dragon that huge was impossible to miss, especially with Grandpa’s favorite 12-gauge buckshot—000 buck, the kind meant for wild boar and other big game.
The pellets had slammed straight into the already-open wound.
Blood still roaring in his veins, Lucas thumbed the safety lever up with his right hand, then slammed the barrels down with his left.
The empty shells ejected with a crisp ting-ting and landed in the grass at his feet.
Clean.
Smooth.
Fearless.
Professor Sprout stared at him, eyes wide.
This boy is definitely going to be sorted into Gryffindor.
Lucas reached for more shells at his waist—then remembered the belt was still on Grandpa.
He turned just as Finlay’s voice cracked with excitement.
“That’s my boy, Lucas!
Finish it!”
Before the words even faded, a furious roar shook the entire valley.
The black dragon surged back to its feet and charged up the slope.
Professor Sprout’s face went white.
Blue light flared at her wand tip.
Dragons were XXXXX-class creatures for a reason.
No way a single shotgun blast could kill one—especially not when Lucas had only hit an existing wound.
Wind roared.
Scorching heat blasted their faces.
“Protego Totalum!”
A bright blue dome flared around them just as a roaring column of dragonfire slammed into it from below.
The shield held like a stone wall, splitting the flames around them.
Lucas stared down the slope in awe.
The black dragon had its jaws wide open, spewing a torrent of fire that turned the green hillside black in seconds.
That’s dragon breath.
And that shield—that’s real wizard magic.
Every second of this felt raw, dangerous, and completely addictive.
The excitement lasted exactly one second.
The blue dome flickered and started to dim.
Lucas snapped his head toward Professor Sprout and saw her face drenched in sweat, her skin deathly pale.
She couldn’t hold it much longer.
“Grandpa—shells!” Lucas shouted.
He had barely grabbed the two cartridges from Finlay’s shaking hands when the shield let out a sound like shattering glass.
Dragonfire was more than heat—it was raw magic.
Most wizards couldn’t stand against it head-on.
“Protego Totalum” was about to collapse.
Think, Pomona!
Think!
The shield burst apart with a final crack.
Lucas slammed the shells into the chambers and snapped the gun shut just as the roaring wall of flame rushed toward them.
He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the burn that would set his hair on fire.
But the fire vanished.
Professor Sprout had grabbed Lucas with one hand and Finlay with the other.
The sudden disappearance of the flames made her freeze, staring at the dragon in disbelief.
The massive creature still had its neck stretched out and jaws wide open, rows of blood-stained teeth gleaming.
But no fire came out.
Its violet eyes had slid shut.
The dragon swayed once… then crashed onto the scorched earth with a ground-shaking boom.
It was unconscious.
Lucas opened his mouth to ask what had happened when seven figures stepped out from behind the fallen dragon.
They wore thick leather hoods and cloaks despite the summer heat.
Every one of them held a wand pointed straight at the black dragon.
Seven wizards.
“They hit it with combined Stunning Spells,” Professor Sprout whispered.
“The magic finally punched through the dragon’s natural resistance.”
She stepped in front of Lucas and Finlay, wand still raised, and called out, “I’m Pomona Sprout, Herbology professor at Hogwarts!
Thank you for your help!
We need to report this to the Ministry immediately—a rogue Hebridean Black—”
Lucas noticed she never lowered her wand.
His finger slid quietly onto the shotgun’s safety.
Who were these people?
One of the hooded figures spoke, voice tired but carrying a thick Highland accent.
“Hogwarts, Professor Sprout?
Come on.
By the time the Ministry finishes writing reports, holding meetings, and passing the problem back to us, we’ll have already handled it ourselves.”
Professor Sprout blinked.
“And you are?”
The speaker pulled back his hood, revealing a face tattooed with dragon patterns.
“First time meeting, Professor Sprout.
I’m Hamish.
Hamish MacFusty.”
MacFusty.
Professor Sprout relaxed at once and lowered her wand.
“The MacFusty clan—guardians of the Hebridean Blacks on the islands.
You were tracking this dragon, then?”
Hamish started to answer, but the figure beside him suddenly ripped off her hood and cloak.
“Merlin, it’s boiling in there.”
A cascade of golden-brown hair tumbled out, shining in the sunlight.
She was about Lucas’s age—tall, athletic, skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat.
She wore only a simple linen shirt now, the heavy cloak tossed carelessly over one arm.
A few loose strands of hair stuck to her face, brushing across a straight nose and full, raspberry-red lips.
Her eyes—bright, vivid violet—locked straight onto Lucas.
They were exactly the same color as the black dragon’s.