The Tenth Weasley - CH - 128

The library was silent except for the rustle of parchment as Harry flipped through another dragon compendium. The restricted section had given him access to books most wizards would never be allowed to touch, and now his table was buried under towers of leather-bound tomes. Illustrations of roaring beasts sprawled across the pages—Hungarian Horntails, Swedish Short-Snouts, Common Welsh Greens—all annotated with deadly warnings in tight script.

Harry muttered under his breath as he read.
“Territorial… vision sharper than a hawk’s… hates sudden movements… calm approaches work better than brute force.”

His quill scratched notes onto a roll of parchment. Not just about how to survive—but how to perform. Harry wasn’t a Gryffindor glory-hound like Charlie or Ron. He understood the truth: the Triwizard Tournament wasn’t about speed; it was about spectacle. The judges wanted a show. The crowd wanted awe. If he was going to win, he had to turn this into a performance that made even dragons bow to him.

As he leaned back, rereading his scribbles, he heard footsteps. Hermione appeared, her arms full of books.

“There you are,” she said with relief, dropping her stack beside his. “I’ve been tearing through old tournament records. Some of these—Harry, you wouldn’t believe how gruesome they were. Champions burned alive, gored, crushed—”

“I believe it,” Harry interrupted, calmly flipping a page. “That’s why I’m preparing.”

She sat across from him, her face pale but determined. “I’ll help you. I’ve already marked sections about calming charms, fire-shielding spells, even modified sleep enchantments that—”

Harry cut her off again, but softer this time. “Hermione… you don’t need to help me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course I do.”

“No,” Harry said firmly, leaning forward. “I can manage this on my own. But Charlie—he needs you. He doesn’t think the way I do. He’ll go in charging like a Gryffindor, and that’ll get him killed. If you want to help, go to him.”

Hermione blinked, thrown off. “You want me to… help Charlie instead?”

Harry smirked faintly. “You’re brilliant, Hermione. You’ll figure out ways he hasn’t even thought of. I’ll be fine. But Charlie—he’ll listen to you.”

Her heart warmed at his words. “That’s… very considerate of you, Harry. Thank you.” She gave him a small smile and gathered her books. “I’ll talk to him, then.”

Harry nodded and returned to his tome, though his mismatched eyes glinted with calculation. He knew exactly what he was doing.


Hermione found Charlie Potter later in the common room, quill in hand but no real notes on his parchment. He looked more nervous than studious.

“Charlie,” Hermione began, forcing a kind smile. “I thought maybe… I could help. I’ve been researching nonstop about dragons. Fire-shield charms, evasive strategies, historical accounts—I think—”

Charlie cut her off with a sharp laugh. “Of course you’d come from Harry.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’re his girlfriend,” Charlie said, his voice laced with irritation. “If you ‘help’ me, it won’t be my work. It’ll be Harry’s. I don’t want that.”

Hermione stiffened. “I’m not Harry’s mouthpiece. I’m trying to help you.”

Charlie shook his head, jaw tight. “No. I’ll fight my own battles. If I fail, it’ll be on me—not on anyone else. Especially not Harry.”

The words stung more than Hermione expected. She stood there, searching his face, and realized he was deadly serious. His pride wouldn’t allow her to interfere.

“Fine,” she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. “But don’t mistake stubbornness for strength, Charlie. Pride doesn’t stop dragon fire.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Charlie staring after her with guilt creeping into his chest—but not enough to change his mind.

Back in the library, Hermione returned to Harry, fuming.

“Well?” Harry asked without looking up.

“He refused,” Hermione said, arms folded. “Said he doesn’t want my help. Said it would be like you helping him through me.”

Harry smiled knowingly. “I thought he’d say that.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You knew?”

Harry finally looked up, his mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement. “Of course. He’s a Potter. Too proud to take help when he needs it. That’s why I sent you. To prove it.”

Hermione huffed. “Honestly, Harry. Sometimes you’re insufferable.”

Harry grinned. “And yet you still love me.”

Despite herself, Hermione flushed. “Just don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

Harry leaned back, hands behind his head, the faintest smirk tugging his lips. “Hermione, I’m not planning to survive the dragon. I’m planning to tame it—and make it look good.”



The following morning, Harry noticed Charlie walking with Ron and Neville. They were laughing about something, but Harry’s face remained serious. He signaled to Charlie with a subtle tilt of his head and led them into a more secluded corridor behind one of the old stone archways, where no curious ears could overhear.

Charlie frowned.
“Why so secretive, Harry? You look like you’re about to confess a crime.”

Harry folded his arms. His expression was grave, not playful.
“Charlie, I need you to hear me out. I’ve never really… acknowledged you as my brother in public. I know that. But to me, you are my brother. We’re twins. And I never said it openly because I didn’t want to destroy the House of Potter’s reputation. If people learned, you would have been mocked, treated like a joke. I thought I was protecting you.”

Neville blinked in shock at Harry’s words. His mouth closed, then opened again.
“Wait—twins? You mean… you and Charlie…?”

“Harry Weasley is your twin brother?” Neville repeated in disbelief, staring between them.

Harry pressed on, ignoring their stunned faces.
“When I sent Hermione to help you, it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It wasn’t because I thought you were weak. It was because Hermione’s clever, sharper than I am in some ways, and I thought her guidance could give you an edge. I wasn’t insulting you, Charlie. I was trying to keep you alive.”

Charlie shifted uncomfortably, guilt flickering across his face.
“…I thought you were pushing me aside, Harry. I refused her help because of my pride. I wanted to face it myself.”

Harry’s eyes hardened.
“This isn’t about pride, Charlie. This is about survival. The First Task isn’t a game—it’s a dragon. A beast that can kill you in seconds if you make one wrong move. You can’t afford ego. What you can afford is intelligence. Don’t try to act tough—act prepared. Have three plans before you even step foot into that arena.”

For once, Charlie couldn’t argue. The weight in Harry’s voice made it clear: this wasn’t exaggeration, this was warning born from experience.

Neville muttered under his breath, still trying to process and looked at Ron.
“Merlin’s beard… twins and you kept it from me.”

Ron added softly, “Harry’s right. It’s not my secret to tell.”

Charlie exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping as he looked away. Then, with reluctant humility, he finally nodded.
“…Alright. I’ll do it your way. I’ll ask Hermione.”

That afternoon, Charlie found Hermione in the library. She looked up, startled, when he stood before her desk. His pride seemed to weigh him down, but his voice was steady.

“Hermione… I need your help. With the Task.”

Her eyes widened at first—then softened with quiet determination. She shut her book with a snap.
“Of course, Charlie. Let’s make sure you’re ready.”


The morning of the First Task dawned cold and tense. Even the air seemed charged with anticipation, carrying the distant murmurs of thousands of witches and wizards gathering for the spectacle. On the Durmstrang ship, Harry sat at his desk, waiting for Charlie to arrive. He had been preparing something in secret, and today was the moment to reveal it.

When Charlie stepped into the room, Harry gestured for him to close the door. Without a word, Harry reached beneath his bed and pulled out a folded bundle of deep black leather that shimmered faintly under the light.

Charlie’s brow furrowed.
“What’s that?”

Harry placed it on the table and unfolded it, revealing a jacket unlike anything Charlie had ever seen. The material was sleek, scaled, and faintly iridescent—as if light itself slid over it reluctantly.

“This,” Harry said, his voice low, “is made from basilisk hide. Enhanced with every protective enchantment I could layer on it. Fire-resistant. Spell-resistant. Strong enough to turn aside claws and teeth. You’re going against a dragon today, Charlie. If things go wrong, this could mean the difference between walking away and being carried out.”

Charlie froze. He reached out and brushed his fingers against the hide, then looked up sharply.
“Harry… this is priceless. Basilisk hide is rarer than dragonhide—more valuable than most vaults in Gringotts. You’re giving this to me?”

Harry folded his arms, meeting his twin’s eyes.
“I’m not giving it. I’m lending it. You’re my brother. I won’t let you walk into that arena with nothing but courage and a wand. Take it.”

For a long moment, Charlie said nothing. His pride warred with the raw fear curling in his stomach. Finally, he swallowed hard, took the jacket, and pulled it on. It fit perfectly, hugging his frame like it had been tailored for him.

“…Thank you,” Charlie whispered.

Harry clapped him on the shoulder.
“Don’t thank me yet. Prove me right by surviving.”


By midday, the Durmstrang ship carried its passengers ashore, and the Champions were escorted toward the massive stadium that had been conjured on the Hogwarts grounds. Its looming walls towered above them, and even from outside they could hear the deafening roar of the crowd within—cheers, jeers, and the rhythmic chanting of names.

A large, magically expanded tent had been pitched near the entrance. The Champions were led inside, where they would wait until it was their turn.

Inside, the air was thick with tension. The walls of the tent muffled the roar of the crowd but couldn’t silence it completely; every cheer and gasp still filtered through like distant thunder. Officials from the Ministry and the International Confederation of Wizards bustled about, clipboards in hand, issuing last-minute reminders.

An official stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying authority.
“Each Champion will draw from this pouch. Inside are miniatures of the dragons you may face. Whichever you draw will determine your opponent. Approach when your name is called.”

The air seemed to tighten.

“Fleur Delacour.”

The French witch walked forward gracefully, though her fingers trembled slightly as she reached into the pouch. When she pulled her hand free, a tiny dragon squirmed in her palm, snapping its jaws. Its wings beat furiously, shedding sparks of flame.

“The Common Welsh Green,” the official announced. Fleur exhaled slowly and stepped aside, staring at the miniature as it roared softly in her hand before she set it down.

“Cedric Diggory.”

The Hogwarts Champion stepped up next. His jaw was set in determination, though Harry noticed the quick rise and fall of his chest. Cedric plunged his hand into the pouch and pulled free a miniature that hissed and lashed its spiked tail.

“The Swedish Short-Snout!”

Cedric studied the silver-blue dragon with narrowed eyes before placing it down.


“Next… Harry Weasley.”

Harry strode forward and plunged his hand into the pouch and yanked out a model of a dragon so massive that even the miniature radiated menace. A Hungarian Horntail, its barbed tail lashing as it hissed. The crowd outside gasped as the name was announced. Harry ’s jaw clenched, but he gave no sign of fear as he set it down.

Then the official’s gaze turned to the last Champion.
“Charlie Weasley.”

Charlie stepped forward, feeling the weight of every eye in the tent. Harry’s warning echoed in his ears: Don’t go in with one plan—go in with three. His hand slid into the pouch, brushing against scaled, living models thrashing inside. Something bit at his fingertip, and he seized it firmly, pulling it out.

A Norwegian Ridgeback. Its dark scales shimmered with a metallic sheen, wings stretched wide, and smoke curled from its nostrils. The miniature snapped at him viciously before he placed it back on the table.

The official nodded.
“Your dragons are chosen. Each of you will enter the arena alone. Retrieve the golden egg, and the Task will be complete.”

The pouch was sealed again, and silence settled over the Champions. Outside, the commentator’s magically magnified voice began whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

“Each Champion will enter the arena one at a time,” barked a stern-looking witch with steel-gray hair. “Your task is to retrieve a golden egg guarded by your assigned dragon. Do not attempt to harm the creatures unnecessarily. Points will be awarded for skill, creativity, and bravery.”

Another official added, “Medics are stationed nearby, but do not expect rescue. Once you enter the arena, you are on your own.”

Charlie swallowed, tugging the collar of his basilisk jacket higher. His hands itched nervously around his wand. Beside him, Fleur Delacour sat serenely, though Harry noticed the tightness in her posture. Cedric Diggory paced the length of the tent, muttering under his breath as though rehearsing spells.

Harry stepped closer to Charlie, lowering his voice.
“Remember what I said. Don’t go in there with just one plan. Adapt. Think ahead. And if you get into real trouble, trust the jacket.”

Charlie nodded, trying to keep his face steady, though his knuckles whitened around his wand.
“I’ll make it out, Harry. You’ll see.”

Harry leaned in close to him, his voice a low whisper meant only for his twin.
“Remember. Fire won’t touch you as long as you wear that. Focus on the egg, Charlie. Nothing else.”

Charlie gave the smallest nod, then closed his eyes, steeling himself for the trial to come.

From outside, the booming announcement rang through the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen… the First Task begins!”

The tent quivered with the thunder of applause.