The Tenth Weasley - CH - 127

Harry had never been one to gamble with luck. His whole life had taught him that luck abandoned you the moment you trusted it. So even though he smiled easily in front of Hermione, teased her about over-preparing, and laughed off her fears, the truth was very different.

Every dawn, long before most of Hogwarts stirred, Harry was already training. Sometimes it was in the magically expanded dueling chamber within the Durmstrang ship, his wand flashing as he rehearsed combinations of Grindelwald’s techniques and his own creations. Other times, he chose the cold, misty shore of the Black Lake, practicing elemental manipulations he had been studying from the forbidden tome. His eyes—one hazel, one silver—glittered as they tracked every movement, every possible flaw.

“Paranoid, Weasley?” Damon joked one morning, watching Harry conjure a storm of icy daggers from the lake surface.

Harry flicked his wand, shattering the ice shards midair. “Prepared,” he corrected flatly. “Paranoia is thinking people are out to get you. Preparation is knowing they are.”

That answer silenced Damon, and Harry went back to work, sweat dripping down his brow.


Later that evening, Victor Krum slumped into the common area of the ship, a smirk on his usually stern face.

“You vill like this, Harry,” Victor said, dropping heavily into a chair. “Guess who I saw in Hogsmeade?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “If it’s another fangirl mob, I’m not interested.”

Victor chuckled. “Not this time. It vas your brother. Charlie.”

Harry blinked, stunned. “Charlie? What’s he doing here?”

Victor leaned forward, clearly pleased with himself. “He vas there when I went into town. Ve started talking—about Quidditch, of course. You know, ve both seekers. You remember we ended up having a little… how do you say? Match.”

Harry smirked faintly. “The seeking competition?”

Victor nodded, his eyes bright. “Ja. In the backyard of your manor during the vedding, ve had a quick game. He is rusty, yes, but still good. Ve released three snitches—he caught one, I caught two. Not bad for someone out of practice for years.

Harry remembered it very clearly, Victor and Charlie weaving through the skies above the Weasley Manor backyard, Molly screaming for them not to break her garden gnomes, the rest of the family cheering from below.

But then his smile faded, replaced by something harder. “If Charlie’s here, and he didn’t tell me…” Harry’s voice dropped. “That means he’s here in secret.”

Victor frowned. “Secret? Vy would he hide it?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Harry muttered, leaning back, his eyes narrowing. “He wouldn’t come without a reason. Not Charlie. And if he didn’t even write me, then something big is going on.”

Anya, who had been listening nearby, spoke up. “Maybe he wanted to surprise you.”

Harry shook his head. “Not him. Not now. He’s hiding, or being hidden. Either way… it’s dangerous.”

Victor shrugged, though the weight of Harry’s words made his smirk vanish. “Vell, ve vill find out soon enough. He looked strong to me. Determined.”

Harry tapped the table with his wand, deep in thought. His instincts screamed at him—something was moving in the shadows, something connected to the Tournament, to the Goblet, to why Charlie’s name had been chosen at all.

And Harry Weasley, paranoid or not, would be ready.


Hermione had been at it all morning. Her stack of parchment was already spilling off the library table, and she read each line with the same intensity she used for exam preparation. Harry leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching her with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“…and in the 1792 Triwizard Tournament,” Hermione was saying breathlessly, “the three champions were all seriously injured by a cockatrice—only sheer luck prevented any fatalities. Then in 1877, one of the contestants was nearly drowned when they attempted to cross the Lake of Shadows without proper protections. And—and this is important, Harry—” she looked up at him with wide, worried eyes, “in 1923, a champion was literally burnt alive by a dragon! The Ministry banned the Tournament for fifty years after that incident!”

Harry’s expression sharpened. A dragon.

It clicked like a key in a lock. His mind flashed to Victor’s casual story about bumping into Charlie in Hogsmeade, his brother working at the dragon reserve in Romania, and how strangely quiet his family had been about the tasks.

He sat up straighter. “Hermione… say that again. About the dragon.”

Hermione frowned. “What about it? That it killed a champion? That’s exactly why I’m worried! Harry, you don’t understand—”

“No, I do,” Harry cut across her, his eyes gleaming with sudden realization. “It makes sense now. If Charlie’s here in secret… then it’s not just coincidence. The first task—it’s dragons. It has to be.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “Dragons?!” She nearly toppled her inkpot. “Harry, don’t even say that. Dragons are—”

“—dangerous, I know.” Harry finished for her, his voice calm, almost steady with excitement. “But I’ve dealt with one before. Remember? The cave in Durmstrang. That mother dragon and her hatchlings. I know how they think. How to calm them.”

Hermione shook her head violently, curls bouncing. “That’s completely different! Those dragons weren’t being used in a deadly contest—they weren’t trained to see you as a threat. This would be worse, Harry, much worse!”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. “I’m not mad at my family for not warning me. They’re Gryffindors to the core—follow the rules, honor, all that. But I know them. If Charlie’s here, it means dragons. And if Charlie’s part of it, then the Ministry’s brought the reserves in to supply them.”

Hermione bit her lip, fear swimming in her eyes. “So you’re… you’re not afraid?”

Harry gave a lopsided grin. “Afraid? No. Excited? Definitely. But it’s not me I’m worried about.”

She blinked. “Then who?”

“Charlie.” Harry’s tone dropped into something protective, almost grim. “He’s brave, but he doesn’t know dragons the way I do. If the first task really is dragons… then he could get himself killed.”

Hermione reached across the table and took his hand, squeezing it tight. “Then you’ll have to do what you always do. Save him. Just—just promise me you’ll come out alive too.”

Harry squeezed back, mismatched eyes flashing with determination. “I promise.”


Evening had settled over Hogwarts when Harry cornered the mini-marauders in the courtyard.

“Meet me at Hagrid’s hut tonight,” he told them firmly. “And bring Hermione.”

Neville frowned. “What for?”

“You’ll see,” Harry said, not giving anything away.

So when the shadows grew long, Charlie, Ron, Neville, and Hermione made their way down to Hagrid’s hut. They found Harry already there, leaning casually against the fence, his expression unreadable.

Hagrid greeted them with a booming laugh, practically bouncing with excitement. His beetle-black eyes glistened like a child about to open presents.

“Evenin’, all! Nothin’ like tonight, eh?”

Ron glanced at Harry nervously. “What’s he on about?”

Harry only smiled faintly. “Who knows.”

Once Hagrid had gone about his business, Harry beckoned them silently. Cloaks swished, whispers hushed. With practiced ease, he slipped the invisibility cloak over the mini-marauders, while Hermione remained visible, biting her lip.

“Harry—what are you doing?” she whispered.

“Trust me.” His mismatched eyes gleamed in the dusk.

They walked deeper into the Forbidden Forest. At first, only the crunch of twigs and the whisper of leaves filled the silence. But soon, faint roars echoed through the trees, a sound that made Hermione freeze mid-step.

“Harry…” she said faintly. “That sounded like—”

“Wait.” His voice was calm.

The roars grew louder, fiercer. Sparks of orange and red flickered ahead, lighting the night sky. Then the group broke through the trees—and stopped dead.

Four dragons. Each massive beast was confined in towering iron cages, flames licking through the bars as they bellowed and clawed at the air. Their wings snapped like sails in a storm, and their fiery breath scorched the ground.

Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. “Merlin’s beard…”

Ron’s knees nearly buckled. “Bloody hell, dragons—actual dragons!”

Charlie Potter, wide-eyed, muttered, “They expect us to face that?!”

Harry’s gaze swept the scene calmly. He wasn’t surprised—not anymore. Dozens of wizards bustled around the cages, tightening wards, reinforcing chains, and dousing flames with enchanted water. Among them, Harry’s eyes caught a familiar figure—ginger hair, lean build, moving with careful precision.

Charlie Weasley.

Harry’s jaw tightened. I knew it.

The others, however, looked ready to bolt.

“Relax,” Harry said lightly. With a wave of his wand, he cast a layered concealment ward around their little group, bending sight and sound away. “No one will see us here.”

Then, to their astonishment, he conjured a wooden table and several comfortable chairs. With another flick, he summoned a platter of sandwiches, fruit, and steaming tea—brought instantly by the house-elves from the Durmstrang ship.

He sat down casually, pouring himself a cup, as if the blazing dragons were nothing more than scenery.

“Tea?” he asked smoothly.

Ron gaped at him. “You’ve gone mental.”

“On the contrary.” Harry smirked. “This is the safest spot in the forest right now. Everyone’s too busy worrying about the dragons to bother us.”

Hermione sank into a chair, still trembling. “Harry, you’re unbelievable… eating tea while there are dragons in front of us!”

Harry tore off a piece of bread and shrugged. “Better to watch them calmly than panic. Look closely. Each dragon has a different pattern of movement, a different weakness. That’s the real lesson tonight.”

Neville whispered, “You’re not scared at all?”

Harry’s mismatched eyes glinted in the firelight. “I’ve dealt with worse. Fear clouds judgment. Strategy wins.”

As the dragons roared and battered their cages, the others huddled closer to the table, too shaken to eat, while Harry leaned back, sipping his tea with unnerving composure.

To him, this wasn’t madness—it was preparation.


When the group finally slipped out of the forest, the night air cooler on their faces after the heat of dragon fire, they stopped dead in their tracks.

Coming up the path, lantern swinging in his broad hand, was Hagrid. His eyes were gleaming with excitement, his face red from the glow of fire. But he wasn’t alone. Towering beside him, her jeweled cloak brushing the earth, was Madame Maxime, headmistress of Beauxbatons.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Oh no… he’s shown her.”

Harry’s gaze hardened. He didn’t need to say it, the truth was plain—Hagrid had taken Madame Maxime to see the dragons.

Ron muttered, “Brilliant. So the Beauxbatons champion’ll be ready.”

Neville swallowed nervously. “That means… Cedric’s the only one left in the dark.”

They all looked at Harry. He stood still, mismatched eyes unreadable, the faintest smirk curling his lips.

Hermione spoke hesitantly. “Should we… tell him? It isn’t fair if he goes in blind.”

Harry tilted his head. “That’s your decision, Hermione. I’ve no intention of telling anyone. The rules are clear—champions stand alone. But if you want to bend them… well, that’s on you.”

Ron frowned. “So you’d let him face a dragon without warning?”

Harry’s eyes glinted. “Why not? That’s the whole point. They want to test how we survive when the odds are against us.”

The group shifted uncomfortably at his cold logic. But Harry wasn’t done. He turned to Charlie Porter, whose face was pale in the lantern glow.

“You’re thinking about it already, aren’t you?” Harry asked quietly.

Charlie’s jaw tightened, guilt written all over his features.

“You’re going to tell Cedric,” Harry said, more statement than question.

Charlie opened his mouth, then shut it, glancing at Ron and Neville. Finally, he admitted, “I… I don’t want him walking in blind. He’s decent, Harry. He deserves a chance.”

Hermione gave Charlie a small, approving nod. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Harry shrugged, brushing past them, his cloak sweeping at his heels. “Suit yourself. Just remember—help comes with consequences. Every advantage given makes the test weaker. And weakness…” He paused, looking back over his shoulder, “…is exactly what this tournament punishes.”

The words hung in the air long after he’d gone, leaving his friends staring at one another, torn between fairness and fear.