The Tenth Weasley - CH - 132

The healer’s tent was thick with tension. The air smelled of burnt ash and potion fumes; the walls still trembled from the panic outside. Harry lay unconscious on the cot at the center, pale and still, his wand resting beside him where Hermione had placed it.

Madame Pomfrey worked briskly, her wand flashing as she scanned his vitals. “His pulse is steady,” she muttered. “Exhaustion, magical collapse, mild shock. He’ll recover if he’s left to rest.”

But rest was impossible with half the wizarding world shouting over him.

Igor Karkaroff stood tall near the foot of the cot, his fur-lined coat brushing the tent floor. His pale eyes glittered with something between concern and calculation. “This boy is a student of Durmstrang,” he said, his voice sharp and cold. “He will be treated aboard our ship. We have healers trained to handle magical exhaustion—far more experienced than the ones here.”

Dumbledore, standing across from him, leaned on his staff with quiet authority. His eyes, however, were as hard as ice. “Hogwarts is the host of this tournament. By the rules of the Triwizard Accord, any injuries sustained within its bounds fall under our jurisdiction.”

Karkaroff sneered. “Rules, Dumbledore? When have rules ever stopped you from meddling? The boy belongs to Durmstrang until the tournament ends. You will not use him as your experiment.”

McGonagall bristled. “Experiment? How dare you! Mr. Weasley nearly burned himself out saving a life—something your own students could stand to learn from!”

Karkaroff spread his hands, feigning calm. “I am thinking of the boy’s well-being. You saw the magic he used. That was no ordinary spell. My ship has runic dampeners and isolation wards designed for dangerous magic surges. If his power spikes again, he could destroy this entire wing!”

“That won’t happen,” Pomfrey snapped, glaring at both of them. “Not if everyone here would stop screaming and let me work!”

But no one stopped.

Molly Weasley was kneeling beside Harry, her hand clutching his. Her eyes shimmered with tears but burned with steel.

“You’re not taking him anywhere,” she said softly. “He’s my son. My decision.”

Karkaroff’s smile tightened. “Mrs. Weasley, your concern is understandable, but—”

Arthur stepped in front of her. “But nothing. You don’t lay a finger on him. He’s staying here.”

Sirius Black crossed his arms, his tone deadly calm. “If you want to drag him to that frozen death-trap of a ship, you’ll have to go through me first.”

James Potter, pale but steady, added, “He’s family to us too. He risked his life for my boy. He belongs among people who care for him, not where he’ll be studied like a cursed artifact.”

Karkaroff’s temper flared. “I am not suggesting experimentation! I am offering control! The magic he displayed was Grindelwald’s magic, Dumbledore. Even you know what that means.”

A ripple of silence followed those words. The name Grindelwald carried weight like lead in the air.

Dumbledore’s blue eyes flickered with emotion too faint to read. When he finally spoke, his tone was cool and final.

“I know exactly what it means, Igor. Which is why Hogwarts is the safest place for him now.”

The quarrel might have gone on indefinitely had Molly not risen to her feet. Her voice was trembling, but her expression was fierce.

“Enough.”

The room fell silent.

“He’s my child,” she said. “Mine and Arthur’s. And until he wakes up, his guardianship falls to us. We will decide where he stays.”

Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. “And we say he stays here, in Hogwarts, under Madame Pomfrey’s care.”

There was no mistaking the finality in his tone. Even Karkaroff hesitated, his jaw tightening before he gave a stiff nod.

“Very well. But I will be watching closely.”

He turned on his heel, his cloak snapping behind him as he left the tent.

Dumbledore sighed, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. “You made the right choice,” he said quietly.

Molly’s eyes softened, but her hands didn’t release Harry’s. “I just want him safe.”

“You have my word,” Dumbledore replied.

An hour later, Harry was transferred to the Hogwarts infirmary. Madame Pomfrey fussed over him, muttering about “boys and their infernal heroics” as she tucked blankets around him and cast a final stabilizing charm.

Hermione sat by his bedside, Harry’s wand still in her hands, tracing its length with her thumb.

“He looked… so calm when he fell,” she whispered to Molly, who stood nearby. “Like he knew exactly what would happen.”

Molly nodded faintly, brushing Harry’s hair back from his forehead. “He always does.”

Outside the infirmary window, the last traces of blue fire still glowed faintly in the evening sky — a reminder of the power that had both saved a life and frightened an entire world.

And in the corner of the room, unseen by most, Igor Karkaroff lingered just a moment longer before departing.

A slow smile spread across his face, cold and deliberate.

“Oh, Harry Weasley,” he murmured under his breath. “You’ve just changed everything.”

Days passed, and Harry Weasley remained unconscious. The infirmary was silent except for the rhythmic hum of medical charms and the faint beeping of diagnostic spells. Madame Pomfrey kept constant vigil, refreshing the potions that glowed beside his bed. Hermione rarely left his side; she slept with her head resting near his hand, his wand always within reach.

But outside those quiet stone walls, the world was burning with rumors.

The morning after the First Task, the wizarding world awoke to headlines that spread like wildfire.

THE NEW DARK LORD? — HARRY WEASLEY SUMMONS THE FLAMES OF GRINDELWALD

MINISTRY SILENT AS DURMSTRANG PRODIGY TURNS STADIUM INTO BLUE HELLFIRE

ECHOES OF NURMENGARD — IS HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF?

Every copy of the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, and The Wizarding Times carried some version of the same story:

Harry Weasley, the prodigal Weasley son who had chosen Durmstrang over Hogwarts, had used a forbidden Grindelwald spell in front of thousands.

They wrote that he was trained in the Dark Arts. That Durmstrang had “corrupted” the boy. That Arthur and Molly had “lost their son to shadow.”

Some articles even speculated that Harry’s sudden decision to study abroad years ago had been arranged by dark sympathizers within the Ministry — that Dumbledore himself had covered it up.

The speculation fed fear, and fear fed hysteria.

James Potter slammed the latest copy of the Prophet onto his desk at the Auror Office, his jaw tight.

“This is garbage,” he snapped, glaring at the photograph of Harry mid-spell, blue flames spiraling behind him. “They’re calling him the next Grindelwald. They weren’t even there!”

Across the desk, Sirius Black leaned back in his chair, eyes cold. “People don’t need to be there to believe a headline. Fear spreads faster than truth.”

James rubbed his temples. “I can’t let this stand. Arthur and Molly are already getting harassed by reporters. Their house is surrounded every morning.”

“Then we shut it down,” Sirius said simply. He flicked his wand, and the stack of newspapers on the desk burst into harmless sparks. “You and I still have some pull. Kingsley’s already spoken with the Department of Magical Media — half these papers can be censored on grounds of slander and panic-mongering.”

And they did. Within days, the most vicious articles were pulled from circulation, and the Prophet’s editor was summoned for questioning. But the damage was done.

People still whispered.

People still feared.

Even those who had watched from the stands spoke about the event in half-hushed voices.

They didn’t deny what they’d seen — the great blue fire dragon that had risen from nothing, the way it had moved like a living creature, the way it had roared with power that wasn’t human.

It was terrifying. But it was beautiful.

And deep down, even the most frightened of witnesses knew they had seen something beyond mortal magic — something divine, or cursed.

Hermione sat in the infirmary one evening, an old spellbook spread across her lap. She had been researching every trace of Grindelwald’s known magic, searching for the incantation Harry had used.

When she finally found the reference, her eyes widened.

It wasn’t listed under Dark Arts.

“Not illegal…” she whispered. “It’s not even classified.”

Madame Pomfrey looked up from her work. “What did you say, dear?”

Hermione’s voice trembled as she turned the book around to show her.

“It’s not banned because no one ever thought anyone could cast it again. It wasn’t even registered as Dark Magic — it was too advanced to label. Only Grindelwald ever used it.”

Pomfrey stared at the words in silence.

“Then we’ve been living in a world that forgot what true power looks like.”

Hermione’s gaze drifted to Harry’s sleeping form. “It was terrifying,” she admitted softly. “But it was brilliant. No one else could’ve done it.”

The flame-shaped shadows on the walls flickered as if in agreement, the echoes of blue fire long faded — yet somehow still burning.

And in that silence, the world beyond Hogwarts kept whispering one name in both fear and awe:

Harry Weasley — the boy who called the dragon of flame.

The name Harry Weasley had once been spoken with pride.

Now, in every street corner of Diagon Alley, every whisper across the Great Hall, it carried fear.

The wizarding world’s obsession with the “Blue Fire Dragon” had turned into something darker.

If Harry could conjure such power — power unseen since Grindelwald — what else had he done?

And that was when the old stories began to resurface.

The Daily Prophet had quieted under James and Sirius’s intervention, but gossip had no leash.

Old rumors that had once died began to crawl out from the cracks again — distorted, reshaped, venomous.

“Remember when he was a student here?” whispered a witch at the Leaky Cauldron. “Didn’t they say he attacked those Muggle-borns years ago?”

“They never proved it,” said another, “but wasn’t he expelled after the Chamber of Secrets mess? That’s why he ended up in Durmstrang — where they teach curses!”

“The serpent in the walls… it all makes sense now, doesn’t it? That kind of magic doesn’t come from nowhere.”

Within days, rumor had replaced memory.

And what was once mere scandal now became a story of prophecy — of the Dark Lord born of fire.

For a time, the staff of Hogwarts said nothing. Some out of fear, others out of guilt.

But when the students themselves began whispering — when even the younger ones who had never met Harry began looking at his old dormitory with dread — Dumbledore decided enough was enough.

That evening, he stood before the Great Hall. The air was heavy; the candlelight seemed dimmer than usual. Every seat was filled, students and teachers alike, even visiting delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang.

Dumbledore’s eyes, though kind, were hard with resolve.

“There are times,” he began, “when silence is a greater sin than lies.”

The hall fell utterly still.

“Many of you have heard stories — ugly ones — about a young man named Harry Weasley. Some of you have even repeated them. You say he was expelled. You say he opened the Chamber of Secrets. That he unleashed the monster of Slytherin.”

He paused, letting the murmurs settle before his next words struck like thunder.

“You are wrong.”

Every eye turned toward him.

Dumbledore’s gaze swept across the students — some wide-eyed, others pale with shame.

“The truth, long overdue, is that Harry Weasley saved this school. It was he who found the Chamber. It was he who fought and slew the serpent of Salazar Slytherin — a basilisk of monstrous size and age — while the rest of us were too blind to see what lay before us.”

Gasps rippled across the room.

Several professors lowered their heads, unable to meet his eyes.

“He did not flee Hogwarts,” Dumbledore continued softly. “He left it. He left because this castle — its teachers and its students — turned against him. Because when he was attacked, mocked, and accused, we stood silent. Even I.”

A heavy silence followed. The kind of silence born from guilt.

Dumbledore’s voice softened.

“He went to Durmstrang not to learn darkness, but to find peace. And though you may fear the power you saw him wield in the First Task, know this — Harry Weasley has never used his gifts for cruelty. Only for protection.”

McGonagall wiped her eyes silently.

Flitwick muttered, “He was only twelve…”

Even Snape’s expression flickered, his usual sneer replaced by a shadow of something unreadable.

Among the crowd, Hermione sat with her hands trembling, her heart aching with both pride and anger.

Outside the hall, in the infirmary, Harry slept — unaware that his name was being reclaimed by truth.