The weeks leading up to the first task were filled with a tense, school-wide anticipation. The champions were excused from exams, a fact that Ron bemoaned loudly, and were seen huddled in corners, poring over books and practicing spells. Harry, however, was in a state of quiet panic. He knew, thanks to a midnight tip-off from a guilt-ridden Hagrid, what the other champions did not: the first task was dragons.
One evening, looking pale and deeply stressed, he found Ariana, Hermione, and Daphne in their usual alcove in the library.
"It's dragons," he whispered, his voice tight with fear. "The first task. I saw them with Hagrid. Four of them. A Welsh Green, a Swedish Short-Snout, a Chinese Fireball, and… a Hungarian Horntail. They're bringing them in for us to fight."
Hermione and Daphne gasped, their faces paling. The idea of pitting a fourteen-year-old against a fully grown, nesting mother dragon was not just dangerous; it was barbaric.
Ariana, however, did not look surprised. She simply closed the book she was reading, marked her page, and gave Harry her full, analytical attention. "A Hungarian Horntail," she mused quietly. "The most aggressive and dangerous of the breeds. They will, of course, assign that one to you." She sighed, a soft, weary sound. "The organizers of this tournament seem to possess a flair for predictable, theatrical cruelty."
"What am I going to do?" Harry asked, his voice desperate. "I can't fight a dragon!"
"No, you cannot," Ariana agreed calmly. "A direct magical confrontation would be suicidal. Your objective is not to defeat the dragon. Remember our discussions, your objective is to retrieve the item, most likely the golden egg it is guarding. This is not a battle; it is a heist. Therefore, we will not approach it with brute force. We will approach it as a tactical problem to be solved with your specific, established skill set."
She leaned forward, her periwinkle eyes sharp and focused. "Harry, forget about what you can't do. Tell me, what is your greatest, proven skill?"
Harry stared at her, confused by the question. "I… I don't know. I'm okay at Defence, I guess…"
"No," Ariana corrected gently. "Your greatest skill. The data is unequivocal. You are, by a significant margin, the most naturally gifted flyer in this school. You also have a demonstrated aptitude for a single, specific charm, one you used to snatch the cookies of someones table once."
It took Harry a moment to understand. "The Summoning Charm? Accio? The one you asked me to learn, during summer, for fun."
"Precisely," Ariana affirmed. "Flight and Summoning. Those are our primary variables. Therefore, the solution is not to fight the dragon on the ground. It is to bypass it entirely."
A slow, dawning light of understanding spread across Harry's face. "My Firebolt…the one Sirius gave me during the summer."
"You will summon your Firebolt to the arena," Ariana laid out the plan, her voice crisp and clear. "You will then use your superior flying skills to outmaneuver the dragon, retrieve the egg, and exit the engagement zone. The dragon is bound by a chain; its range of attack is limited. Speed and agility will be your shield."
It was a plan so simple, so elegant, and so perfectly tailored to his own abilities that Harry felt a surge of hope for the first time in days.
"But my Summoning Charm isn't that good," he protested. "It's okay for small things, but a broomstick, all the way from the castle? I don't know if I can do it."
"Then your training begins now," Ariana stated. "We will not just practice. We will perfect it."
For the next week, the Room of Requirement transformed again. It became a private training ground. At Ariana's command, the room filled itself with objects of varying size and weight, scattered at increasing distances.
Her training methods were rigorous and logical. "The power of a Summoning Charm is not in the wand movement or the volume of the incantation," she explained, pacing as Harry attempted to summon a heavy book from across the room. "It is in the clarity of your Intentio. You are not just calling the object. You are creating a magical tether between your will and its physical form. You must see the path it will take. You must know, with absolute certainty, that it will come to you. Doubt is the enemy of this charm."
Day after day, she drilled him. Books, cushions, heavy iron goblets. He practiced until his arm ached and his voice was hoarse, but under her focused tutelage, his skill grew exponentially. He was soon summoning objects from a hundred feet away with a simple, clear "Accio."
But Ariana's training didn't stop there.
"In the arena, your reaction time will be critical," she told him, handing him his wand holster. "You need to be able to draw your wand and cast a shield in a single, fluid motion. The dragon will breathe fire. A half-second delay could be fatal."
She had him practice drawing his wand from the speed-holster she had given him, over and over, until the motion was second nature, a thoughtless reflex. Hermione and Daphne would fire harmless Jelly-Legs jinxes at him, and he would have to draw, shield with a Protego, and retaliate before the jinx could hit him.
"You will also need diversionary and environmental charms," Ariana continued, her training regimen expanding. "The arena is rock and dust. Use it." She taught him the Nebulus charm to create pockets of thick, disorienting fog. She taught him disorientation charms that could be aimed at the ground near the dragon to create flashes of light and concussive sounds. "Do not aim at the dragon. You will only anger it. Affect its environment. Control the battlefield."
By the day of the first task, Harry was transformed. He was still terrified, but it was no longer the helpless, panicked fear of a lamb going to slaughter. It was the focused, adrenaline-fueled fear of a trained warrior stepping into the arena. He had a plan. He had the skills. He had a chance.
As he walked towards the champions' tent, his friends gave him one last word of encouragement.
"You can do this, Harry," Hermione said, her voice full of a nervous confidence.
"Show them what a Gryffindor can do," Daphne added with a rare, encouraging smile.
Ariana simply met his gaze, her own calm and steady. "You have the data. You have the training.
Execute the protocol."
He nodded, took a deep breath, and walked into the tent, his hand resting on his wand, ready. He was as prepared as he could possibly be. And it was all thanks to the quiet, logical, and terrifyingly brilliant girl who had refused to let him face the dragon alone.