The Tenth Weasley - CH - 154

The morning Hogwarts began to empty did not announce itself with trumpets or fireworks. It arrived quietly, with the pale light of dawn slipping through tall windows and the soft echo of footsteps in corridors that, for months, had never truly slept. Trunks lined the stone floors like patient sentinels. Owls fluttered in restless circles above the Owlery, sensing change. Even the staircases seemed less mischievous, turning more slowly, as if reluctant to carry anyone away.

Harry noticed it first when he stepped onto the grounds.

The air felt different.

Not lighter—just… finished.

Beauxbatons’ sky-blue carriages stood near the edge of the lawns, abraxens stamping and snorting gently as attendants made final checks. The enchanted creatures that pulled them shimmered faintly, wings folding and unfolding in practiced patience. Nearby, the Durmstrang ship sat low in the Great Lake, its dark hull reflected in rippling water, ropes creaking softly as gangplanks were lowered and raised in preparation.

Students gathered in clusters, their voices overlapping in a dozen languages. Some laughed too loudly. Some hugged too tightly. Others stood awkwardly, unsure whether to wave, speak, or simply stare at the people they were about to lose.

Harry watched from a short distance away, Hermione at his side, her hand resting easily in his. He didn’t feel the sharp pang he saw on so many faces. Instead, there was a calm sense of inevitability, like closing a well-read book.

For him, this wasn’t a severing.

It was a pause.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” Hermione said quietly, her eyes following a pair of Beauxbatons girls clinging to each other near the carriages.

Harry glanced at her. “Like what?”

“Like… something’s ending,” she said. “Not just the tournament. Everything around it.”

He nodded. “For them, it is.”

Hermione studied him. “And for you?”

Harry considered it honestly. “For me, it feels like Tuesday.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Only you could say that after winning the Triwizard Tournament.”

“It’s not arrogance,” he said mildly. “It’s geography. Most of these people? I’ll see them again. Diagon Alley, Dumstrang. Summer travels. Letters.”

He gestured vaguely toward the crowd. “Distance doesn’t mean disappearance.”

Hermione smiled. “You’ve always thought like that.”

The Weasley family was nearby—Fred and George already exchanging whispers about importing foreign prank items “purely for cultural exchange.” Charlie stood with them, arms crossed, watching the lake with a thoughtful expression.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Charlie said as Harry approached. “Durmstrang sailing off with that cup.”

Harry smirked. “You’re just jealous you don’t get that.”

Behind them, Viktor stood at the foot of the gangplank, saying goodbye to a small group of Hogwarts students who looked like they’d rather face a Hungarian Horntail than let go. One boy shoved something into Viktor’s hands—a charmed address, judging by the glow.

“For writing,” the boy said quickly. “In case… you know.”

Viktor nodded solemnly. “I will write.”

Harry watched the exchange with quiet surprise.

He hadn’t expected this.

He hadn’t expected friendships to root so deeply across language barriers and national lines, forged in late-night study sessions, shared dangers, whispered jokes in the stands, and long walks around the grounds when nerves were too frayed for sleep.

Durmstrang students embraced Hogwarts students. Beauxbatons girls kissed cheeks and pressed folded parchments into hands. Promises were made—not all of them realistic, but all sincere.

Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand. “I think you underestimate how intense it’s been for everyone else.”

“Maybe,” Harry admitted. “I just… don’t feel like I’m losing anything.”

The Beauxbatons departure came first.

Madame Maxime strode across the lawn with her usual regal poise, her students falling into orderly lines behind her. The carriages shimmered brighter as final enchantments were cast. A hush fell as the winged horses reared slightly, then settled.

Madame Maxime turned, surveying the crowd with a proud, wistful smile. “Mes enfants,” she said warmly, “we go home.”

The carriages lifted.

Not abruptly, but with a smooth, elegant grace, wheels rising from the grass as though buoyed by invisible hands. Cloaks fluttered. Hair whipped in the wind. Beauxbatons students leaned out, waving frantically, calling names, tossing ribbons that floated lazily downward.

Hermione waved back, smiling despite the shine in her eyes.

“Write me,” one girl called. “About everything!”

“I will!” Hermione shouted.

The carriages rose higher, sunlight glinting off their polished sides, and then they were gone—blue shapes disappearing into the clouds.

A long exhale seemed to ripple through the crowd.

Then all eyes turned to the lake.

The Durmstrang ship’s horns sounded—deep, resonant notes that vibrated through the ground. Sailors and students moved in coordinated motion, lines being cast off, lanterns dimming.

Professor Navarro stood near the gangplank, posture straight, expression composed. When Harry approached, Navarro inclined his head respectfully.

“You will be returning with us,” he said. “Briefly.”

Harry nodded. “For the formalities.”

“And the celebration,” Navarro added, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Of course.”

Viktor joined them, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You come back soon,” he said. “Castle will be loud.”

Harry smiled. “It always is.”

As the Durmstrang students began to board, the atmosphere shifted again—less tearful, more resolute. Their goodbyes were firmer, promises shorter but no less sincere.

“See you in Berlin.”

“Write to me.”

“Don’t forget us.”

“I won’t,” Harry heard himself say more than once.

Hermione stayed close, moving with him as naturally as if they’d been walking together forever. When the gangplank began to rise, she finally paused.

“I’ll be here,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

She studied his face, then leaned up and kissed his cheek—brief, warm, grounding. “Go.”

The ship began to move.

Water churned softly as the massive hull shifted, mist curling around it like a living thing. The Durmstrang banner unfurled, dark fabric snapping once in the breeze before settling.

Harry stood at the rail, watching Hogwarts recede.

He felt no ache.

Just a sense of chapters turning.

By the time the ship vanished into the fog, Hogwarts felt smaller—not diminished, just… complete. The Triwizard Tournament was over. The extraordinary had receded back into legend.

And with it, the questions began.

They came quickly.

Owlers cornered him before he could even leave the grounds, quills poised, eyes bright with hunger. “Mr. Weasley—just one question—what happened in the maze—”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied calmly.

“But there were Aurors—”

“I was unconscious.”

“Witnesses reported—”

“I remember the Cup.”

Dumbledore’s questions were quieter, more precise, and far more unsettling.

“You truly recall nothing beyond the maze?” the Headmaster asked gently, standing with Harry near the now-empty shore.

“No.”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, blue eyes searching for something they did not find.

“Very well,” he said at last. “You may go.”

Harry did.

On the ship, the celebration began almost immediately.

Durmstrang’s main hall filled with music—deep drums, resonant strings, unfamiliar rhythms that vibrated through bone and blood. Food appeared in great quantities. Toasts were made in languages Harry only half understood.

“HARRY WEASLEY!” someone shouted. “CHAMPION!”

The cheer was deafening.

Harry endured it with good humor, accepting congratulations, nodding, smiling, but he didn’t linger at the center. He found Anya eventually, standing near the edge of the hall, eyes shining.

“You’re really back,” she said, as if still checking reality.

She laughed and hugged him without hesitation. “I was worried.”

“I know.”

The night wore on. Stories were told. Songs were sung. At some point, Harry slipped away, stepping out onto the deck.

Across open sea and frozen current, past wards older than most nations, the distance between Hogwarts and the northern stronghold was vast enough that ordinary travel would have been an ordeal. But the Durmstrang ship was no ordinary vessel.

To Harry, the passage felt like a single long night.

Students slept in shifts, exhaustion finally claiming them now that the tension of the tournament had truly ended. Even the most hardened among them moved with a sense of quiet satisfaction, as though they had survived something historic and were only now allowing themselves to feel it.

By midmorning, the familiar outline of Durmstrang rose from the horizon.

The fortress-castle loomed out of the northern fog like a thing carved from shadow and ice—black stone towers rising from sheer cliffs, banners snapping sharply in the cold wind. The harbor lay below, protected by jagged rock and layered wards that shimmered faintly as the ship passed through them.

Harry stood at the bow, the Triwizard Cup held loosely at his side.

He hadn’t meant to bring it out. It simply felt wrong to hide it away for this moment.

Professor Navarro joined him, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the approaching docks. “You know,” he said mildly, “this will cause a disturbance.”

Harry glanced at him. “Wasn't that why we are here.”

Navarro’s mouth twitched. “Since only Dragon-class students were permitted to attend Hogwarts. The rest have been watching from afar, listening to rumors and secondhand stories. You returning with the Cup in hand will… clarify matters.”

The ship slowed, magic easing as it glided into the harbor. Ropes flew outward of their own accord, securing the vessel before the gangplank even touched stone.

The moment it did—

Noise exploded.

Shouts echoed up from the docks. Bells rang from somewhere within the castle walls. Students poured out onto balconies, stairways, battlements, leaning dangerously far over railings as word spread with wildfire speed.

“He’s back!”

“The champion—!”

“The Cup—look at the Cup!”

Harry stepped onto the gangplank beside Navarro, the Cup catching the cold northern light.

The reaction was immediate.

A roar surged up from the assembled students, echoing off stone and cliff alike. Cheers thundered across the docks, fists pounding against chests, boots stamping in unison. Even some of the older professors paused mid-step, surprise flickering across their faces before pride settled in.

Harry blinked.

This—this was different.

Hogwarts had applauded him. Durmstrang erupted.

Students rushed forward as soon as protocol allowed, Dragon-class and non-Dragon alike. Hands clapped his shoulders, his back, his arms. Voices overlapped in a dozen accents.

“You actually did it!”

“You brought the Cup home!”

Harry found himself smiling despite the exhaustion still lingering in his bones.

“I told you,” he said mildly, and was promptly drowned out by laughter.

The procession up to the castle was less orderly than usual. Navarro made a valiant attempt to maintain decorum, but even he gave up when a group of fourth-years began chanting Harry’s name in rhythm, joined enthusiastically by half the courtyard.

By the time they entered the Great Hall, the entire castle seemed to be there.

The long tables were already filling, magic working overtime to conjure food, banners, and floating lights. Durmstrang’s colors blazed brighter than usual, and the air hummed with excitement. Faculty took their places with expressions ranging from stern pride to open amusement.

Harry was ushered toward the High Table, Navarro at his side.

When the Triwizard Cup was placed at the center, the cheering redoubled.

Professor Navarro raised a hand, and slowly—reluctantly—the noise subsided.

“Durmstrang,” he said, voice carrying effortlessly. “You all know why we are gathered.”

A ripple of laughter followed.

“For the first time in many years,” Navarro continued, “the Triwizard Cup returns to these halls. It returns not through luck, nor favoritism, nor brute force—but through discipline, restraint, and intelligence.”

His gaze settled on Harry.

“Harry Weasley,” he said, “has represented Durmstrang with honor.”

The hall erupted again.

Harry inclined his head once, accepting it without flourish.

Food appeared in overwhelming abundance. Platters of roasted meat, heavy bread, spiced stews, sweets dusted with sugar and frost—all steaming, fragrant, irresistible. Goblets filled themselves. Music began somewhere near the back of the hall, drums echoing low and strong.

Harry barely had time to sit before he was surrounded again.

Students took turns congratulating him, asking questions he answered carefully, deflecting details without outright lying. The story remained simple: the maze, the Cup, exhaustion, victory.

No one pressed too hard.

For Durmstrang, the result mattered more than the mystery.

As the celebration continued, Harry leaned back slightly, taking it all in. The warmth, the noise, the unrestrained pride—it was infectious in its own way.

For a moment, he let himself enjoy it.

Later, as the feast wound down and students began drifting away in clusters, Harry found a quiet corner near one of the tall windows. Snow had begun to fall outside, soft and steady, dusting the cliffs below.

Navarro shook his head. “Dragon-class students were once isolated. Now the entire castle celebrates one of them. You bridged a gap most didn’t even acknowledge existed.”

Harry considered that. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Intent is rarely required for impact,” Navarro replied.

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Well,” Harry said eventually, glancing back at the hall where laughter still echoed, “if nothing else, they seem happy.”

Navarro allowed himself a small smile. “They are.”

Harry looked once more at the Cup, gleaming softly under the enchanted lights.

The tournament was over.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed in his Durmstrang room, folding his clothes with uncharacteristic care.

He wasn’t in a hurry.

Going home, for him, was never a dramatic event. It happened every year, as reliably as winter turned to spring. He would see Hermione soon enough. He would see Ron, Ginny, Fred, George—Diagon Alley had a way of pulling everyone together whether they planned it or not.

Still, there was something final about this packing.

The Triwizard Tournament was over. Durmstrang’s celebration had faded into satisfied exhaustion. The castle had already begun resetting itself into its older, harsher rhythm.

Harry opened a smaller trunk, layered with anti-detection charms, and began transferring the last of his belongings.

That was when the door opened without knocking.

Viktor stepped inside, already dressed for travel, heavy coat slung over one shoulder. His trunk hovered behind him obediently, fully packed and sealed.

“You leave soon,” Viktor said, glancing around.

“Later today,” Harry replied. “You?”

“I am not going home,” Viktor said plainly.

Harry looked up. “Quidditch camp?”

Viktor nodded. “National scouts. Professional conditioning. They want me early.”

“Figures,” Harry said mildly. “You’ll terrify half the league.”

Viktor snorted. “They should be afraid.”

He leaned against the desk while Harry continued packing, silence stretching comfortably between them. It wasn’t awkward; it never was. They had reached that point long ago—where words were optional.

Then Viktor’s gaze drifted.

On Harry’s desk, half-hidden beneath a stack of books, sat a small glass sphere.

It was unremarkable at first glance. Smooth. Clear. No larger than an apple. Inside it, a thin ribbon of black mist swirled endlessly, slow and restless, like smoke trapped beneath water.

Viktor straightened.

“What is that?”

Before Harry could respond, Viktor reached out and picked it up.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the mist inside the sphere surged violently, pressing against the glass as though it sensed awareness.

Viktor frowned.

“This is not paperweight,” he said flatly.

Harry paused, shirt half-folded in his hands.

“No,” he admitted. “Not really.”

Viktor turned the sphere slowly, studying it with the intense focus he usually reserved for flying formations and enemy Seekers. “It is enchanted. Strongly.”

“Yes.”

“And angry.”

Harry allowed himself a small smile. “Very.”

Viktor looked at him sharply. “What is it, Harry?”

Harry took the sphere gently from Viktor’s hands, holding it up to the light. The black mist recoiled slightly, then resumed its slow, furious circulation.

“It’s nothing important,” Harry said calmly.

Viktor stared at him.

“That is lie,” Viktor said.

Harry shrugged. “A partial one.”

Viktor crossed his arms. “Are you taking it home?”

“No.”

That answer came instantly.

Viktor’s eyebrows rose. “You leave something like this behind?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Harry set the sphere down carefully, then closed the trunk he had been packing with a soft click.

“Because there are places safer than home,” he said.

Viktor was silent for a moment. “You mean Durmstrang.”

“Yes.”

Viktor studied Harry’s face, then the sphere again. “What makes this… thing special?”

Harry considered the question.

Then he answered honestly—just not completely.

“It’s one of a kind,” he said. “And it doesn’t belong in the world.”

Viktor’s gaze sharpened. “Is it dangerous?”

“Only if someone breaks it,” Harry replied.

“And who can?”

Harry smiled faintly. “No one who knows what it is.”

The mist inside the sphere pulsed, dark and furious, pressing outward as though the glass offended it by existing.

Viktor exhaled slowly. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Carry dangerous things like they are ordinary,” Viktor said. “And hide them where no one thinks to look.”

Harry met his eyes. “It’s safer that way.”

Viktor was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he said, “You are not taking it home. You are not telling anyone. And you are leaving it in this castle.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he picked the sphere up again, weighing it in his palm. It was heavier than it looked—not physically, but magically. The kind of weight that pressed on the senses.

“There’s a vault,” Harry said at last.

Viktor frowned. “A vault?”

“Deep beneath Durmstrang,” Harry continued. “Older than most of the wards. It’s tied to the very core of the castle itself.”

The black mist inside the sphere surged again, more violently this time, as though reacting to the unspoken truth.

Lord Voldemort—reduced to shadow, imprisoned, furious—pressed endlessly against the glass, unable to escape, unable to influence the world beyond his prison.

“When I have access to the vault,” Harry said calmly, “this goes there. Buried beneath layers of wards no one alive understands anymore.”

“And then?” Viktor asked.

Harry looked at the sphere, then out the narrow window at the grey northern sky.

“Then the world forgets about it,” he said.

Viktor straightened, hoisting his coat properly onto his shoulder. “I will not ask more.”

Harry inclined his head in thanks.

Viktor smiled faintly. “I will see you in summer.”

“You will,” Harry said.

The door closed behind Viktor with a soft click.

Harry remained where he was for a moment longer, listening to the distant sounds of departures—the hum of magic, the echo of trunks, the fading voices of students leaving for the holidays.

Then he lifted the sphere one last time.

The black mist writhed, furious, powerless.

Harry placed it gently into a lead-lined case, sealed it with layered wards, and slid it into the deepest corner of his trunk—one that would never leave Durmstrang.