The Tenth Weasley - CH - 131

The stadium had fallen into chaos.

Screams echoed through the air as the massive shadow of the Hungarian Horntail swept over the stands. The dragon roared, its golden eyes burning with fury, wings beating thunder into the air. It rose higher and higher, the sunlight flashing across its scales like molten metal.

And clinging to the broomstick, just ahead of it, was Charlie Potter.

“CHARLIE!” Lily’s scream pierced the air. She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. James was beside her, shouting for someone — anyone — to stop the beast, but there was nothing anyone could do.

Charlie threw away the golden egg. It plummeted, glittering, and shattered harmlessly against the scorched earth of the arena below. He didn’t even glance back. His entire focus was on flying — surviving.

He bent low on his Firebolt, wind whipping his hair, every ounce of control poured into the broomstick as he shot upward. The dragon followed, wings stretching wide, fire bursting from its jaws in furious blasts that barely missed his tail.

“Merlin help him,” whispered Lily Potter, her hands trembling as she clutched her daughter, Rose, close.

Rose’s eyes were wide with tears. “Mum, he’ll fall—he’s too high—he’ll fall!”

“He won’t,” Molly said quickly, though her own voice quivered. “He won’t, dear. That boy’s strong, he’ll be alright, you’ll see…”

But her words were drowned by the sound of the dragon’s next roar — a guttural, monstrous cry that made the entire stadium shake.


Down on the judges’ platform, chaos reigned. Officials from the Ministry were shouting orders, waving wands, but none dared cast toward the dragon for fear of hitting Charlie.

“What do we do?!” Ludo Bagman shouted, his voice shaking for the first time.

“The dragon’s breached containment!” barked a Dragon Handler from Romania, pale-faced. “The chains are enchanted — they can’t just break!”

Dumbledore stood at the edge of the platform, eyes narrowed, cloak whipping in the wind. His calm face was tight with tension, his wand raised but unmoving. “No… it did not break by accident,” he said softly. “Someone tampered with it.”

Harry’s heart sank.
“That’s what I was thinking…” he muttered, his eyes never leaving the sky. “Those chains are reinforced with seven layers of enchantments. They can’t break under normal dragon strength.”

Hermione looked at him sharply.
“You mean someone wanted this to happen?”

Harry nodded grimly. “Yes. And if I don’t do something now, Charlie will die.”


Harry’s eyes darted across the sky. The dragon and the tiny dot that was Charlie were nothing more than specks now, vanishing into the clouds above the stadium.

“They’ve gone beyond the boundary charms,” Remus said quietly. “The tracking wards won’t hold up there.”

Sirius cursed, slamming his fist into the railing.
“Bloody hell, he’s gone! We can’t even follow on broomsticks — the Ministry has locked down the spectators area with lot's of protections!”

“Locked it down?” Harry snapped.

“Harry—” James began, but Harry turned to him sharply, eyes blazing.

“You don’t understand! That chain didn’t just snap. It was tampered with — deliberately! That dragon wasn’t supposed to fly! Whoever did it wanted Charlie dead!”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dumbledore turned his gaze toward Harry, his expression grave but unreadable.
“Do you have reason to believe this, Mr. Weasley?”

Harry’s wand hand trembled with rage. “Yes. Because I know of those chains. They’re dragon-forged metal, unbreakable under normal strain. There’s only one way they could fail — sabotage.”

A heavy silence fell. Even the roaring crowd seemed distant now.

Lily and Rose were crying in the corner of the stands, clinging to each other.
“Please,” Lily whispered. “Please let him come back.”

Molly’s sobs filled the air as Arthur held her tightly, whispering words of comfort that sounded hollow even to him.

Sirius turned to Dumbledore. “Can’t we send someone after them? Aurors, dragon handlers, anyone!”

“The dragon’s enraged and airborne,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Any spell cast at it could drive it to attack the entire crowd. If we provoke it, more lives may be lost.”


Harry jumped from the spectators area to the center of the arena with a thud. His boots hit scorched earth, still warm from the dragon fire he had dodged not long ago. The smell of smoke, ash, and fear filled the air.

Above him, faint but growing fainter, he could hear the dragon’s roar and the echo of broom bristles slicing through the sky. Charlie’s broom.

He clenched his fists.
“Come on, think. There’s no time to chase them. He’s too far. You need something faster.”

The crowd hadn’t noticed him yet; their attention was skyward. The Aurors were still arguing with Dumbledore, wards shimmering faintly overhead.

Harry’s eyes flicked upward, glowing faintly violet as he studied the enchantments.

“Pathetic…” he muttered under his breath. “Half-layered perimeter wards and a containment dome held by only four anchor points? No wonder the dragon escaped.”

He lifted his hand — no wand — and closed his fingers as if gripping invisible threads.

The wards cracked.

The air shivered with sound like breaking glass. The golden barrier that surrounded the arena flickered once, twice… and shattered into a storm of light.

Gasps echoed from every direction.

“WHO BROKE THE WARDS?!” someone shouted.
“Was that—was that Weasley?!”

Hermione’s voice rang out from the stands.
“Harry, don’t—please!”

But Harry was already walking toward the exact center of the arena, his cloak snapping in the wind, his mind racing.

He knew what he was about to do. And he knew exactly what it would cost him.


To him, ward-breaking and ward-making were as natural as breathing. But what he was planning now wasn’t a ward. It wasn’t protection. It was power.

A spell that no wizard in Britain dared to use.

A spell known to be the signature of Gellert Grindelwald.

And if Harry used it… they would never look at him the same way again.

But Charlie’s up there. He’ll die if I do nothing.

Harry drew a deep breath, spread his hands wide, and whispered a single Latin word —
“Ignis Aeternum.”

Blue fire burst from the ground in a circle around him.

The crowd screamed. The heat didn’t burn, but the sheer force of it made robes billow and hair whip in the wind. The entire stadium was bathed in an eerie sapphire light.

From the royal box, Dumbledore’s expression turned grave. He raised his wand slightly, eyes narrowing.
“That… that can’t be…”

Sirius’s voice cracked.
“Tell me he’s not doing what I think he’s doing.”

“He is,” Remus said quietly. “He’s summoning a Flame Construct. Grindelwald’s magic.”


Harry’s eyes blazed as he moved his arms in a perfect circle, tracing runes of pure light into the air. The Latin incantation rolled from his tongue, ancient and commanding —
“Per flammam et voluntatem meam, forma draconis exurget. Patefac, caeli! Aperite cineres! Ignis Draconem!”

The ring of blue flame around him expanded outward, stretching across the entire arena. It climbed higher, twisting and writhing, taking shape like molten glass being molded by invisible hands.

The crowd fell silent, struck dumb by the sight.

Out of the fire rose a creature — vast, majestic, terrible. A dragon made entirely of blue flame, its horns curved and gleaming, its wings spanning the width of the stadium. The ground trembled as its roar thundered through the air, shaking every soul who heard it.

Students screamed. Aurors stumbled back, shielding their faces. Professors shouted for calm, but none dared move closer.

And at the center of it all stood Harry, eyes glowing white-blue, his voice carrying like a storm.
“Find the dragon and kill it.”

The fire dragon turned toward the sky, its burning eyes locking on the distant shadow above the clouds. Then, with a single beat of its massive wings, it launched upward, leaving a trail of glowing embers behind.

The heat and pressure of its ascent sent ripples through the air. The clouds parted in a swirl of blue light as it soared into the heavens.


Silence followed. The kind of silence that carried judgment.

Everyone was staring at him — wands raised, eyes wide. Some in awe, most in terror.

“That’s… Grindelwald’s spell…” whispered one of the Ministry officials, voice trembling. “The Blue Flame Dragon. No one’s used that magic since—since Nurmengard…”

Another cried out, “He’s dangerous! Someone stop him before he summons more!”

Harry ignored them. His chest rose and fell, his eyes fixed on the sky. Above, the faint outline of his conjured dragon blazed through the clouds like a living comet.

Hermione rushed forward, tears in her eyes.
“Harry—what did you do? Everyone’s terrified!”

Harry looked at her, his expression calm but weary.
“I did what I had to. He’s my brother.”

From the judges’ platform, Dumbledore’s voice rang out, soft yet powerful.
“Mr. Weasley… that spell is forbidden for a reason.”

Harry’s reply was quiet but defiant.
“Then the law can wait until he’s safe.”

The crowd parted around him, still staring — some in awe, others with fear that cut deeper than words.

Because in that moment, standing in the middle of a burning circle of blue fire, Harry looked like something the world had always feared — Grindelwald reborn.

And above, the Blue Fire Dragon roared as it vanished into the clouds in pursuit of its prey.



For long, breathless minutes, the sky above the stadium burned blue. The flames churned inside the clouds like a second sun, the echo of a dragon’s roar rolling across the mountains. No one dared to speak.

Then, out of the haze, a single shape appeared — small, fast, and familiar.

“Look!” shouted a voice from the stands. “It’s a broomstick!”

The crowd craned their necks, hearts pounding. The broomstick shot downward in a steep dive, the figure upon it wobbling but still gripping the handle.

“It’s Charlie! It’s Charlie Potter!” Bagman’s voice boomed, half-broken with disbelief.

Cheers began, wild and desperate, before collapsing into tears of relief.

Charlie’s Firebolt cut through the smoke and leveled out over the arena floor. When he finally landed, his legs gave way, and he stumbled into the dust, shaking all over.

Lily Potter was the first to move. She tore free of James’s grip, ran down the stairs of the stands, and threw her arms around him the moment her feet hit the ground.
“Charlie! Oh, thank God—thank God you’re alive!”

Charlie clung to her for a moment, breathless. His face was streaked with soot, his eyes wide and dazed. The golden egg lay forgotten somewhere in the dirt.

Someone shouted from the judges’ platform, “Where’s the Horntail? Did it retreat?”

Charlie turned toward them, his voice hoarse.
“It didn’t retreat,” he said quietly. “It’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” Dumbledore’s tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp.

Charlie swallowed, looking toward the sky where the blue flames still flickered faintly.
“A dragon made out of fire appeared… it killed it. Burned it. There’s nothing left but ash.”

The words struck the crowd like a thunderclap. A ripple of gasps spread through the stands. Even the officials, hardened Aurors and dragon tamers, stared in disbelief.

“Fire can’t kill a dragon that size,” muttered one handler. “Not even phoenix fire.”

“That wasn’t normal fire,” said another in a trembling voice. “That was—”

“—Grindelwald’s flame,” someone finished.

Every head turned toward the center of the arena, where Harry still stood within a fading circle of blue light.


Harry’s lips curved into a faint, almost peaceful smile. He could feel the connection to the flame dragon flicker and fade. The spell had done its work.

He’s safe.

Then his knees buckled.

The glow in his eyes vanished. His wand slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the scorched ground.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice ripped through the silence. She was already running before anyone else could move.

The crowd surged forward. Professors shouted for order, but the sound was lost in the chaos. Hermione skidded to her knees beside him, brushing ash from his hair.

“Harry, can you hear me? Please—wake up!”

He didn’t respond. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, but steady. The magical exhaustion had hit him like a tidal wave. The spell had drained nearly every drop of his power.

Hermione spotted his wand lying a few feet away, half-buried in the dirt. Without hesitation, she snatched it up before the stampeding crowd could trample it. Clutching it tightly, she whispered, “Don’t you dare die on me Weasley.”

Madame Pomfrey pushed through the crowd, snapping at everyone to make room. “Move, move! Give him air!”

Dumbledore and McGonagall followed close behind, both looking grim. Even from where she knelt, Hermione could see fear in their eyes — not for Harry’s safety, but for what his magic meant.

Two Aurors lifted Harry gently onto a stretcher, levitating him toward the healer’s tent. The crowd parted around them, whispering furiously.

“Did you see that spell?”

“That was Grindelwald’s dragon flame. No one else alive could cast that.”


By the time they reached the tent, the noise outside had faded into an uneasy hum. Harry lay on a cot, his breathing slow and shallow, pale against the white sheets. Hermione sat at his side, clutching his wand like it was a lifeline.

Lily and Rose stood near the entrance, both still trembling. Molly Weasley was praying softly under her breath. James and Sirius hovered uselessly nearby, unsure whether to be proud or terrified.

“Is he going to be alright?” Lily whispered.

Pomfrey sighed, wiping her brow. “He’s alive. The spell didn’t kill him, but it drained him completely. He needs rest — and I need everyone to stop shouting.”

Hermione’s voice cracked. “He saved Charlie. He didn’t care what anyone thought.”

At the mention of Charlie, the twin brother stepped forward, still filthy and bruised, eyes fixed on Harry.
“He… he summoned that dragon?” he murmured. “It looked alive. It fought the Horntail, just like a real one.”

The tent fell silent again. No one knew what to say.

Then, quietly, almost reverently, Karkaroff’s voice broke the silence.
“My, my…” He smiled, the expression too sharp, too knowing. “So the boy truly is Grindelwald’s heir in spirit, if not in looks.”

Dumbledore’s eyes snapped toward him. “Enough, Igor.”

But Karkaroff only laughed softly to himself. His gaze lingered on the unconscious boy as if he were looking at a prophecy made flesh.
“Such power… and he wields it without fear. The world will not forget what it saw today.”

Outside, the crowd still buzzed with rumor and dread. Inside, only the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing filled the silence.

And in that quiet, every single person — from Lily to Dumbledore to Hermione herself — asked the same question in their hearts.

What has Harry become?