The Black Dragon

A Hebridean Black.

Gavin recognized it the moment he saw those purple eyes.

Before deciding to visit Norbert, he had read up on dragons at Rowle Manor.

As the dragon emerged, Gavin got a clear look at it. Deep black scales covered it from head to tail. A row of short, sharp spines ran down its back, and its tail ended in a broad club out of proportion to its body—a hallmark of the Hebridean Black.

The good news was that it was about fifteen feet long, roughly Norbert's size, and clearly not fully grown.

The bad news was that black dragons were notoriously slow growers. A Ridgeback could reach fifteen feet in three or four months, but a black dragon needed at least six.

That meant this was no hatchling Norbert's age. It had at least three or four more months of hunting behind it, and just as much extra experience fighting its own kind.

Those months were more than enough to give it the upper hand against Norbert, who was barely over two months old.

Gavin stood at the cave entrance, running through those comparisons in his head.

Norbert nudged his back with his nose again.

This time the shove was harder, and the message unmistakable: Go on, boss. Take him down.

Gavin stumbled half a step forward.

The black dragon's nostrils flared. A red glint flashed in its eyes, and then it drove off the ground with its hind legs, lunging toward the entrance with speed no fifteen-foot creature should have possessed.

Its tail swept across as it turned, the club whistling toward Gavin's chest.

Gavin barely managed to raise his wand across his chest. A transparent Shield Charm flickered before him. The next instant, the blow swatted him away like a fly. His back struck a