Instead of sulking over bad Gacha spins (Toothpaste, Toothbrush and Soap) of November let's talk about dragons. Majestic, terrifying, and honestly, a little overrated. Sure, they breathe fire and have scales tougher than steel, but when your durability, healing, and magic resistance are through the roof, they're basically oversized lizards with attitude problems.
Anyway, as part of the Triwizard Tournament's first task, I got paired with a Swedish Short-Snout. A pretty dragon, all silvery-blue and shiny, but definitely with a superiority complex. The others—Fleur, Krum, and Harry—got their canon dragons, so nothing much changed there.
Now, I could've ended this whole thing in 3 seconds flat. One swing of Caliburn and it's game over. But where's the fun in that? People weren't here to see a boring one-hit KO; they wanted drama, suspense, and me looking like a total badass. And hey, I wasn't about to disappoint.
---
The arena was buzzing with excitement. The stands were packed, with students and professors leaning forward in their seats, eager to watch some poor champion get roasted.
As I walked into the arena, the Short-Snout glared at me, puffing out a stream of smoke like it was sizing me up. I could hear it muttering in a guttural, dragon-y tone.
"Pathetic little human. Thinks he can take me?"
I smirked but kept quiet. The dragon didn't know I could understand it. Let her underestimate me. This was going to be fun.
---
The whistle blew, and the task officially began.
The Short-Snout wasted no time, unleashing a torrent of fire that could've turned anyone else into a crispy snack. I stood my ground, letting the flames wash over me. Not a scratch. Not even a singed hair. Avalon and Magic resistance for the win.
The crowd gasped, probably thinking I'd been incinerated. When the smoke cleared, and I was still standing there, completely unharmed, the gasps turned into cheers.
"Alright, big girl," I muttered under my breath. "Let's dance."
---
I wasn't going to kill the dragon—this wasn't about brute force. It was about putting on a show. I needed to make it look like I was actually struggling, even if I wasn't.
Dodging her swipes and fire breath, I darted around the arena, occasionally shooting low-powered spells to keep her on her toes. "Flipendo!" I shouted, hitting her in the snout and making her stumble back.
She roared in frustration, clearly annoyed that I wasn't playing fair.
"Is that all you've got, lizard breath?" I taunted, dodging another swipe of her tail.
The crowd loved it.
---
After a few minutes of playing cat and mouse, it was time to wrap things up. I summoned a boulder with a quick Accio and Wingardium Leviosa and sent it flying toward the dragon's side using Depulso. It wasn't enough to hurt her, just enough to knock her off balance.
While she was distracted, I sprinted toward the golden egg she was guarding. The moment I grabbed it, the dragon roared in defeat, slumping down like a pouty child who didn't get their way.
The crowd erupted into applause, and I raised the egg triumphantly, grinning like the showman I am.
---
After the task, the judges announced their scores.
Dumbledore gave me a solid 10, clearly impressed with my performance.
Madam Maxime gave me an 8, probably annoyed that I didn't show more "refinement" or whatever.
And Karkaroff? That shady cheat of a headmaster gave me a 6. A six!
"Really?" I muttered under my breath. "At least pretend to be fair."
But hey, I wasn't too bothered. The audience loved me, and that's what really mattered.
---
Later that evening, while everyone was celebrating the first task, I found myself cornered by a group of girls. They wanted to know how I stayed so calm in the face of a dragon.
Harry, meanwhile, was basking in his own post-task glow, surrounded by Gryffindors who had conveniently forgotten they hated him this very morning. Gotta love how fast opinions change around here.
---
December 1st—a fresh month, a fresh start, and, of course, fresh spins on the Gacha system. But before we dive into the randomness of my morning ritual, let's talk about the little nugget of intel Garuda brought me over breakfast.
Apparently, thanks to my avian spy, Igor Karkaroff was indeed in contact with Voldemort. Now, that wasn't too surprising; I already had a hunch. But the real question was: how was Voldemort even operating?
Peter Pettigrew? In jail. Barty Crouch Jr.? Locked up tight in Azkaban. So, who was pulling the strings? Lucius Malfoy? Another Death Eater flying under the radar? Someone completely unexpected? The mystery was nagging at me, but I decided to shelve it for now.
---
With questions swirling in my head, I headed to the Undercroft to gamble with fate via the Gacha system.
I pulled up the interface, tapped the [Spin] button, and leaned back, waiting to see what chaos the system had in store for me this time.
---
The wheel stopped, and in my hand appeared a sleek, stylish watch. Black leather strap, silver face—it looked like something straight out of a James Bond movie.
"Alright, Gacha," I said, strapping it onto my wrist. "Not bad. You get points for style."
Sure, it wasn't magical or anything (at least, I didn't think so), but hey, a good watch never goes out of fashion.
[Spin]
Now this was another one of those implants. The wheel stopped, and I got an [Mana Vein]—an implant which basically gives people access to mana which would be a game changer but not for me.
---
The final spin landed on... [Cheesecake]. Yep. Just a perfectly normal, delicious slice of cheesecake, complete with a graham cracker crust.
I stared at it for a moment, then shrugged. "You win some, you lose some."
Sitting down on one of the crates in the Undercroft, I dug into the cheesecake, letting its creamy goodness distract me from the Voldemort problem for a few minutes. Priorities, you know?
---
With the cheesecake devoured and my Gacha spins done for the month, I leaned back and started piecing together the puzzle of Voldemort's apparent resurgence.
If Peter and Barty Jr. were out of the picture, that narrowed things down. Lucius Malfoy was a strong candidate, given his resources and connections. But there was also the possibility of other nobel houses helping him after all he had many goons.
"Maybe he's got some new puppet," I muttered to myself. "Or maybe he's managing this from his creepy half-life form somehow."
It didn't make sense, though. Voldemort was weak and barely clinging to existence the last time anyone checked. He needed someone to act as his hands, and with his usual cronies either dead, locked up, or too cowardly to move, who was stepping up?
---
My brooding was interrupted when Garuda spoke, while landing gracefully on a nearby crate.
"You know," he said, tilting his head, "you could always investigate instead of sitting here eating cheesecake and overthinking."
"First of all," I replied, pointing my fork at him, "cheesecake is important. Second, I am investigating—mentally. It's called strategy."
Garuda just gave me a look. You know the one. The "I don't believe a word you're saying" look.
---Note
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