Starting from where Harry's fist landed, a layer of white frost spread across half of Ragehorn's head, even in the warm water. The dragon, caught off guard by the pain, opened its maw to roar—only to gulp down a mouthful of water, choking in surprise.
Though the Norwegian Ridgeback was a predator in water as much as on land, its body wasn't built to breathe underwater. Before diving, it had to store a lungful of air to sustain itself. But now, under the impact of Harry's frost-infused punch, Ragehorn forgot it was submerged. In its panicked roar, it expelled the air from its lungs. A massive bubble burst from its maw, shattered by the churning water, and rose swiftly, breaking on the surface in the blink of an eye.
Harry didn't waste the opportunity. He hammered at every part of Ragehorn's body he could reach. Within seconds, the dragon's scales were coated in frost, as if draped in a white cloak. Its struggles slowed, and its desperate attempts to reach the shore grew sluggish.
The cold was consuming it, stiffening its muscles, dulling its speed.
Completely disoriented, Ragehorn was in uncharted territory. Having lost its air and choked on water, it flailed in panic, ignoring Harry's relentless assault. It thrashed in the water, desperate to reach the shore—or at least the surface, where it could breathe.
From high above, the suitcase world's serene lake lost its azure clarity, turning murky with churned mud and sand. The birds and beasts near the river sensed danger and fled toward the distant forest or beyond, moving as fast as their legs or wings could carry them.
Splash!
The already turbulent water erupted as a jet-black dragon broke the surface, frantically flapping its wings toward the shore. Clinging to its body was a figure relentlessly throwing punches.
Ragehorn, still a young dragon, had only a handful of moves at its disposal. After coughing up a glob of water, it could no longer tolerate the human pummeling it. It snapped its jaws and swung its wings, trying to bite or smash Harry. But in its weakened state, this was a nearly impossible task.
It was exhausted.
The earlier attacks—rolling, diving, soaring, and plummeting—had drained its stamina. Its movements were sluggish, no doubt worsened by the icy punches it had endured.
And Harry—Harry felt the fatigue too.
At his core, he knew his limits. He wasn't a tauren, born with a robust frame and endless endurance. Nor was he a warrior, thriving on rage and renowned for physical might. His young body, after such an intense battle, was running on fumes.
But it didn't matter. In that moment, a wild roar seemed to echo in Harry's ears. His muscles surged with newfound strength, tinged with a faint, blood-red hue.
Bloodlust!
This was the signature spell of a shaman, a burst of magic that pushed allies beyond their normal limits. It amplified strength, sharpened reflexes, and fueled a frenzied fervor—faster, stronger, deadlier.
It was as if Harry's body had been inflated. His muscles bulged, and he seemed to grow larger, taller, more imposing.
He knew the cost. When Bloodlust faded, exhaustion would crash over him, and he'd need potions to mend the strain it left on his body. But while the spell lasted, Harry wielded power great enough to drag Ragehorn to the ground.
To the dragon's disbelief, it was yanked off balance by this human, smaller than its crouched form. Despite straining with all its might, clawing to stay upright, Ragehorn collapsed.
Then came the pain.
Harry gritted his teeth, his fists flying. Frost crackled on his knuckles, sparking with lightning or flaring with fire as they struck. Chains, also coated in frost, bound Ragehorn's wings. Harry yanked them, stepping and tearing, ensuring the dragon couldn't spread its wings to take flight.
A blood-red mist enveloped Harry. As his movements cut through it, beads of blood glistened on his pine-oiled skin—blood forced from his body by the intensity of Bloodlust.
If anyone touched Harry's reddened skin, they'd find it scorching yet hard as iron.
Ragehorn's roars turned pitiful, almost whimpering. It scraped at the ground, desperate to flee to the safety of its cliffside nest. But under Harry's control, it couldn't move an inch.
Panic, fear, the desperate will to live, and the dread of death surged in Ragehorn's heart. Never had a Norwegian Ridgeback—known for its ferocity and love of battle—felt such terror. This human left an indelible mark, one that shook its very instincts.
But Harry knew it wasn't over.
As before, he kept up the assault, his enchanted fists unrelenting. Translucent spirit wolves, wreathed in lightning and storm, flickered around his strikes, tearing at Ragehorn's flesh and scales.
In the end, Ragehorn's cries faded. It lay still, its head burrowing futilely into the dirt, defeated by the relentless fists.
Numbly real.
Bloodlust had long since worn off. Harry was running on sheer willpower, his hair and skin drenched in sweat that sprayed with each swing.
Ragehorn's keen nose caught the scent of that sweat, imprinting it deep in its memory.
With one final punch, Harry stood atop Ragehorn's back, drawing a deep, shaky breath. He swayed but shook his head, steadying himself.
Still gripping the chain, Harry leapt down. With a tug, he forced Ragehorn to turn its head, its massive eyes meeting his.
What clear eyes.
In those giant dragon orbs, Harry saw panic, hostility, and submission—but the reckless defiance from before was gone.
For the first time, Ragehorn sensed a primal beauty in this human's strength—a conquest even a beast could understand, born of raw physical power.
It had been beaten, every inch of its body aching, forced to face its conqueror despite its reluctance.
Suddenly, Harry released the chain.
With a clatter, the bindings slid off Ragehorn's body and wings.
Incredulous, the dragon hesitated, testing its freedom. Then, with a burst of speed, it dove into the lake. Moments later, it emerged with a fat fish in its jaws and scrambled ashore.
It was starving.
Ragehorn had never been this ravenous. It craved a feast—fish, pigs, leopards, even swallows snatched from the sky.
It didn't understand why, but it knew it needed food to recover its strength and heal its wounds.
The plan was simple, but as Ragehorn opened its mouth to devour the fish, a ball of molten lava shot through the air, charring the fish to inedible ash.
"ROAR!"
Eyes blazing with fury, Ragehorn charged at Harry—only to collapse as swiftly as it had lunged. Harry, shifting into a Ghost Wolf, dodged its snapping jaws with agile leaps. He tore at its scales, then reverted to human form, slamming Stormstrike into its head, snapping two of its dorsal spines.
When Ragehorn lay still again, Harry collapsed beside it, sprawling on the lakeside ground, his chest heaving.
After a long pause, he staggered to his feet. The suitcase world had shifted from day to night, cycling as if nothing had happened.
Ragehorn dove into the lake to hunt, this time trying to eat its catch underwater. But Harry followed, destroying its prey.
The dragon and human clashed again.
Ragehorn hunted a boar and caught it, but Harry's Lava Burst turned it to charcoal.
This time, Ragehorn lacked the strength to fight back. It limped away, unable to return to its nest or even fly. When it found a flat spot to rest, Harry's fist smashed into its head.
Another surge of rage, another shudder, another collapse.
Ragehorn stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Neither moved.
In the dragon's massive eyes, Harry saw his reflection—his shoulder scorched by a sudden blast of black-smoked dragonfire, his waist gashed by a claw that nearly gutted him.
He'd cauterized the wounds with fire to stop the bleeding.
Exhaustion, hunger, and thirst threatened to overwhelm Ragehorn. It licked the blood trickling from its head—its own blood.
Yet it held Harry's gaze, neither willing to look away. Both knew what yielding meant.
The suitcase's starry night faded, sunlight filtering through the trees, warm and gentle.
The standoff continued until, abruptly, Ragehorn lowered its head, exhaling deeply. Its body relaxed, resting fully on the ground.
A brilliant smile spread across Harry's face.
He'd won.
In this contest between human and dragon, Harry had triumphed. Ragehorn had yielded.
"Dragonhide satchel, come!" Harry rasped, his voice hoarse from dehydration. He summoned the satchel with an Accio charm and staggered toward Ragehorn.
No ambush, no resistance. Ragehorn lay still, like a dragon's corpse, as Harry touched its jaw, eyelids, and teeth.
"Good boy," Harry said weakly. "From today, your name is Ragehorn."
He pulled out the food he'd prepared—meat mixed with healing herbs, three buckets' worth—dumping it onto the grass before the dragon.
At first, Ragehorn grunted, exhaling through its nostrils. Then it began devouring the meat, nearly choking on bones but never slowing.
It was famished. All it wanted was to eat and drink until it could no more, then find a safe, warm place to sleep.
Throughout, Harry stroked Ragehorn's face and neck, applying thick layers of dittany to its wounds and mixing healing potions into its food.
Ragehorn showed no resistance. It flinched only when Harry touched sore spots, but as the pain eased and a cooling sensation spread, even those small movements ceased.
Though Harry hadn't eaten or drunk in just as long, he pressed on. He knew he had to tend Ragehorn's wounds first, to show care and prove life with him would be better.
This was just the beginning. Taming a dragon was never simple.
In the days to come, Harry would need to bond with Ragehorn, build trust, feed it, play with it, clean its scales, and fly together.
But as Ragehorn grew, shedding its juvenile stage and nearing adulthood, Harry knew it might challenge him again. Its strength, wildness, and ambition would evolve.
This was why wizards could never truly tame dragons.
No wizard could conquer them as Harry had, meeting them on their terms, accepting their challenges.
But for now, he had succeeded.
To prevent accidents, Harry had sealed the suitcase's entrance during the taming. When he finally emerged—fed, watered, and rested—he wasn't greeted with questions about the dragon. Instead, Neville's anxious face awaited.
Final exams were approaching.
Though every professor knew Harry's talent, his magical knowledge far surpassing his age, and his ability to teach a unique magic course, he still had to take exams.
Failing meant repeating a year.
Ron, Hermione, and Neville weren't worried about Harry passing. They feared he'd miss the exams. Now that he was out, all was well.
Only after exams did his friends have time to visit the suitcase world and meet the "tamed" dragon—except Hagrid.
Both Harry and Ragehorn looked rough. Harry's wounds were somewhat hidden by clothes, but Ragehorn… If Hagrid saw its scars and missing scales, he wouldn't fight Harry, but the group agreed he'd weep uncontrollably.
Considering Hagrid's sensitivity, Harry decided to wait until Ragehorn's wounds healed and its scales regrew before letting Hagrid meet it.
It wasn't a bad thing for Hagrid.
At least when he saw Ragehorn again, he wouldn't have to worry about a grown dragon playfully nipping his arm or leg.
---
Support me & read more advance & fast update chapter on my patreon:
pat reon .com/windkaze