Memories of the Heart || Harry Potter x Reader

Y7 ~ Just Helping

Dust still hung in the air, thick and suffocating, a ghostly veil over the devastation. The once-imposing marble grandeur of the Gringotts banking hall now lay in ruin. Pillars were fractured, chunks of gilded stone scattered like broken bones across the floor. The groans of the wounded mingled with the clatter of debris as surviving goblins staggered through the wreckage, dazed and bloodied, their once-proud features etched with disbelief and fear.

Amid the chaos, a small but unmistakably determined figure pushed through the haze.

Griphook.

Clutched tightly in his clawed hand, the Sword of Gryffindor gleamed dully beneath layers of soot, its ruby-studded hilt catching what little light pierced the dusty gloom. He moved swiftly, elbowing past his stunned brethren, his dark eyes flicking over his shoulder with nervous urgency. Behind him, the muffled echoes of battle still lingered—spells discharged, metal clashing, shouts ringing out, now fading into eerie silence.

He turned back around—

—and stopped cold.

Standing in his path was a tall figure clad in black: a Death Eater, face obscured beneath the mask of polished bone, wand already raised with deadly precision. Its tip hovered mere inches from the space between Griphook's eyes.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled.

Griphook's breath hitched. His grip tightened on the sword. Dust swirled slowly between them, catching the shaft of light slicing through a shattered window. Neither moved.

The Death Eater didn't speak. He didn't need to.

This was death staring him down, silent and certain.

...

The sun dipped lower, a molten coin sinking behind the jagged silhouette of the hills. Its fading light bathed the world in a golden haze, turning the patchwork fields of brown and green into a glowing tapestry stretched across the valley floor. Rivers coiled like silver serpents between groves and pastures, flashing as they caught the dying sun. But above it all, cutting through the sky like a blade through silk, came a shadow vast and ancient.

The dragon soared on, a leviathan in the air.

Its wings—immense, tattered things scarred by years of chains and flame—beat with thunderous force. Each downstroke was like a thunderclap, shaking the very air. The wind roared around the creature, tearing through the sky with icy claws, howling through ridges and over valleys far below. The world beneath them tilted wildly as the beast banked, wings outstretched like vast sails catching the air.

Clinging to the jagged spines that ridged the dragon's armored back, Harry gritted his teeth against the scream of the wind. Every muscle in his arms ached. His knuckles were bloodless, locked in a desperate grip. His breath came shallow and sharp, stolen by the cold and the fear that gripped his chest. The dragon shifted again, and he slid slightly—just an inch—but it sent a jolt of panic through him.

He forced himself to look up, squinting through the sting of the rushing wind, trying to see past the dragon's massive, horned head.

"We're still too high!" Harry shouted, the words snatched almost instantly by the gale. "We have to get off soon—we can't hold on much longer!"

Behind him, Ron coughed, his face pressed flat against the dragon's scaled hide. His freckled skin was red and raw from windburn, eyes squeezed shut against the sting.

"Brilliant observation, Harry!" Ron croaked, his voice rasping. "Next time, let's take the Knight Bus!"

Hermione clung with grim resolve, her arms wrapped around the dragon's spine so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Her hair—wild and untamed—streamed behind her in the wind like a flag, her eyes watering from cold and fear. She said nothing, but her jaw was clenched, her whole body locked in a battle against gravity and terror.