Eventually the day of the first trial comes, and he nearly laughs when he is shown what he is to do. Dragons. He’s been studying them in those books in the Room of Requirement, along with all sorts of creatures: werewolves, giants, acromantula, the list went on. Harry knew what to do. He steps into the arena, flitting away in shadow from the dragon’s first strike. He reaches out and summons the sword with a simple spell. He flickers around the arena, just out of reach of fire and claw until the sword, silver and gleaming, smacks into his hand. He grins and moves in, flicking in and out of view, confusing the dragon, until he stands behind it. Faster than the creature can follow, he flits up to its back, just behind its head, and he rams a sword into the soft spot just at the base of the skull. The dragon falls, and Harry jumps down to claim his prize with a smile. Dead, stunned silence greets him, but he ignores it. He does not care what they think. He cares that he lives.