The Dragon Variation

Chapter Fourteen

Trigger warnings: Graphic violence. Physical fighting. Blood warning. Assault.

Queen Of The Hound.

Part One.
July 2002: Day of the Dark Derby

Formi, Latin for fear.

And fear is exactly what is fuelling her blood stream, mixed with adrenaline and the sheer determination to win. She needs to win. She hasn't made it this far to only come this far.

Fight for Draco and win for their daughter. Fight. Do what you do best and fight. Fucking fight for our future. I'm going to get you out, Draco, I'm going to get us out of this. She uses as a mantra.

A Game Keeper pops into her launch room. A dense room resembling much of a horse race starting box, concrete, plain and irritably grey with a steel door and squared window of the Dome.

She stands with her gear on staring down at the goblin, the ash grey and silver lines suit Draco had made for her. The matte grey and silver matching the starting knife set in her hand and goblin wrought silver knives strapped to her things and waist.

Grey jumpsuit with shoulder pieces, grey matte breast plate, grey on grey leather, silvers straps and buckles, black dragonhide boots. Grey bow, silver arrows, all lined with silver with a black number '2' spanning giant across her chest.

A look ready to march and lead a battle.

A fight to the death.

"You are tributing for Luna Lovegood: District Two, is that correct?" the goblin says, staring down at a clip board.

Her skin crawls thinking about it; Luna was her friend from school. Turning up at her house in the middle of nowhere terrified Luna's father naturally, seeing a Death Eater or Angel appear outside a house on the day of the Dark Derby is never a good sign, not until Olli disclosed that she'd be taking Luna's place.

Similar to Molly and Arthur reactions, Xenophilius fell on his knees and thanked at her feet. It didn't make her feel any better; she's still going to have to kill someone today.

Luna looked worn out to Olli, clearly aiding the Order in some way, whatever she is doing is taking the spirit out of her. She'd never have survived the Derby.

But Olli—she's a fighter. She fights well. Extraordinarily even.

"Yes."

"And why are you tributing?" he says, scratching a quill to the parchment, ticking and crossing boxes.

She furrows her eyebrows. "I don't have to answer that."

The goblin doesn't look up from his clipboard and just huffs with indignation. "Right. Death Eater, Angel, or average witch?"

"Lieutenant Angel. I'm usually an attendant here." She replies.

"You know the rules then. Wandless magic is suppressed by the wards, so don't try anything stupid." He looks up at her past his pointed nose with a soulless expression.

She nods once.

"Surrender your wand here." He instructs. "Wands are not permitted in the—,"

"I know."

She pulls her wand from the holster on her thigh and hands it down. The goblin levitates it from her and suspends it into a glass case fitted into the wall, before swiping up a gridded force field ward.

"Weapon?" he asks.

"9 throwing knives and two hunting daggers." She says.

He scratches more ink into the parchment before looking back up at her, "You have 10 minutes to say your goodbyes then," he drops the clipboard from his view and stares up at her.