Dragons are classified as 5X-level magical creatures by the Ministry of Magic, making them some of the most dangerous beings in the wizarding world.
Their thick, impervious scales offer protection from most spells, while their immense strength, razor-sharp claws, and fiery breath are the stuff of nightmares for any unfortunate wizard who dares face them.
Yet, just moments ago, in front of the entire student body of Hogwarts, as well as the visitors from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, someone had effortlessly withstood a dragon's assault.
Snowflakes drifted from the sky like delicate white feathers, painting the world in pristine silver. The once lively, chaotic arena now resembled an ethereal winter wonderland, silent and serene.
In the center of this scene, Ino strolled forward, his steps unhurried, as though taking a leisurely walk through the snow. His tailored white robe, lined with Slytherin green, stood in elegant contrast to the pale surroundings, its hem brushing gently against the snow. Despite its simplicity, the robe exuded a refined charm, reminiscent of a subtle yet sophisticated evening gown.
Every movement he made was graceful. His presence, combined with the soft snowfall around him, made it seem like the world itself revolved in harmony with him.
Up in the stands, dozens of Slytherin boys who had been observing him through enchanted binoculars suddenly grew self-conscious. They lowered their lenses, their gazes drifting down to their own robes, confirming that they wore the same standard issue. Yet somehow, when worn by Ino, even the simplest garment seemed like a masterpiece.
Expressions varied — envy, admiration, and disbelief flickered across their faces.
Back in the arena.
After deflecting another wave of dragon fire, Ino noticed a change. The Norwegian Ridgeback before him, once aggressive and wild, had become wary. Its massive body remained tense, but it no longer attacked recklessly.
The dragon was cautious.
Ino's lips pressed into a faint line of amusement. He had done nothing more than defend himself, yet the creature now hesitated, curling its limbs and adopting a defensive posture.
Despite himself, a hint of disappointment flashed through his amber eyes.
This subtle expression did not go unnoticed. The stands were filled with enchanted binoculars, capturing every detail. The sight of Ino's elegant figure, standing amidst the falling snow, combined with his slightly melancholic gaze, sent ripples through the crowd.
A pang of sympathy gripped the hearts of many witches present. House affiliations no longer mattered; neither did age.
They all reached the same conclusion — the dragon was at fault.
"That foolish dragon!"
"Why couldn't it behave itself?"
Murmured complaints drifted from the crowd, though Ino remained oblivious.
Down in the arena.
Though he couldn't hear the whispers from the stands, Ino understood the dragon's mindset. It was not fear that stilled the creature's movements — it was calculated caution.
But knowing that didn't make the situation any less dull.
He had deliberately avoided any aggressive actions, refraining from counterattacks to observe how the Ridgeback would react. Yet even with such restraint, the dragon still cowered.
"What a shame," he thought, shaking his head slightly.
Deciding to break the stale standoff, Ino strolled to a spot thirty feet from the dragon. His every step crunched softly against the snow. Then, without warning, he lifted his hand and gave a light snap of his fingers.
A shimmering frost-blue throne emerged from the snow, rising gracefully behind him. Sculpted entirely from ice, the chair gleamed like crystal, its intricate carvings sparkling under the pale winter light.
Unfazed, Ino lowered himself onto the throne, resting his chin on his palm. His posture was relaxed, his golden eyes calmly meeting the dragon's vigilant gaze.
Snow continued to dance around him, each flake glinting like tiny stars. The scene was so surreal, so picturesque, that it could have been lifted from a dream.
Up in the stands.
Colin Creevey shifted nervously, fingers tightening around his magical camera. While the spectacle was undeniably breathtaking, it filled him with a gnawing concern.
If the other champions were even half as composed as Ino, he feared the rolls of film he'd brought along wouldn't suffice.
But the thought barely lingered before his expression shifted, determination hardening his gaze.
"Well," he muttered under his breath, "worst case, I'll just ditch the Prophet and make a photo collection of my own."
Back in the arena.
Ino sighed, glancing at the dragon with thinly veiled exasperation. Even as he abandoned all defensive postures, even after deliberately displaying open vulnerability, the creature remained unmoving.
Its prudence would have been admirable — if it weren't so frustrating.
Meanwhile, the magical hourglass floating above the arena continued its steady descent, marking the passage of time. Snow piled higher on the ground, muffling any remaining sounds.
Despite the lack of action, no one grew restless. Even the judges watched with rapt attention.
Albus Dumbledore, perhaps inspired by the winter scenery, had begun using a simple levitation charm to gather stray snowflakes. With an amused twinkle in his eye, he shaped them into a small, five-inch snowman.
Maxime, the headmistress of Beauxbatons, gave the snowman a cursory glance before turning away, her lips twitching slightly in disapproval.
Meanwhile, Karkaroff — caught entirely off guard — was left staring at the snowman now inexplicably perched before him. The frown that creased his brow only deepened.
In the arena.
Faced with the dragon's continued stubbornness, Ino made a decision. With a graceful wave of his hand, the snow on the ground stirred.
From the frost, a small castle of ice emerged — an intricate miniature replica of Hogwarts. Its spires and towers gleamed, the details so precise that it seemed almost alive.
Gasps echoed from the crowd.
The castle's great oak doors swung open, and out poured tiny figures. Each no taller than five inches, they were miniature depictions of Hogwarts students, their little robes billowing as they ran across the snow.
"They're like something from a fairy tale," someone whispered.
The miniature students pulled out equally tiny wands and began launching harmless snowballs at the dragon. They pelted its scales with relentless enthusiasm. Though the attacks caused no harm, the sight was comical.
Laughter erupted from the stands as the absurdity of the scene washed over them.
Even Dumbledore, who had just been toying with his snowman, shook his head in amused surrender. His gaze flicked back to the ice castle and its inhabitants, watching as a familiar pair of figures emerged.
A small gray mouse and a brown cat.
Tom and Jerry.
The moment the two iconic figures appeared, the stands erupted in laughter. Even the most composed spectators couldn't resist a grin.
From a fierce battle against a dragon to a scene straight out of a children's cartoon, the transformation was absurd — but undeniably delightful.
As snowballs continued to fly and laughter echoed across the arena, the dragon remained still, perhaps contemplating the absurdity of its situation.
And high above it all, the magically conjured hourglass was only halfway empty.
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