The Tenth Weasley - CH - 125

Harry leaned casually against a column near the entrance to the Great Hall, arms folded, watching with quiet satisfaction as the Mini-Marauders strutted past like a single unit. Charlie Potter in the middle, Ron on his left, Neville on his right—they were back to being inseparable, just like old times.

Whoever thought it clever to mock Charlie for being “the spare champion” quickly learned the cost. That morning, Draco Malfoy had laughed a little too loudly in the Great Hall, remarking that Charlie “needed Harry to hold his hand through the Tournament.” Ten minutes later, Malfoy had bolted from the Slytherin table, clutching his stomach, his pale face twisted in horror. He didn’t make it past the doors before the explosive results of a Marauder prank had the entire hall groaning in disgust and roaring in laughter.

“Merlin’s beard,” Seamus Finnigan gagged, pulling his plate away. “That’s foul.”

Fred leaned across the Gryffindor table, grinning ear to ear. “Effective, though, isn’t it? Nobody’s going to want to cross the Fourth Champion now.”

George raised his goblet in salute. “To gastrointestinal justice!”

Even Harry had to admit the prank was both revolting and effective. By supper that evening, nobody dared breathe a word against Charlie. The Mini-Marauders had reclaimed their authority, and the school knew it.


If anyone still considered testing their luck, they only had to look at Harry. His mismatched eyes—one hazel, the other rimmed in silver—had grown infamous in a matter of weeks. A single sharp glance was often enough to silence whispers. There was something predatory about the way he held himself now, honed from Durmstrang’s relentless training.

“People keep staring,” Anya muttered as they walked toward the grounds.

Harry smirked. “Let them. Fear’s as useful as respect. Both make people think twice.”

Near the Great Lake, Professor Navarro had called for a demonstration. Harry and Navarro squared off on the grassy banks while students from all three schools crowded to watch. The air buzzed with anticipation—this was the duel everyone wanted to see.

Navarro gave a courteous bow. “Show them, Harry, why the Dumstrag stands above the rest.”

Harry twirled his wand once, casually. “Don’t hold back, professor. Wouldn’t want them thinking you went easy on me.”

The first spell came fast—Navarro’s wand snapped forward, releasing a streak of violet fire. Harry sidestepped smoothly, his shield charm snapping into existence before the flames could lick at him. He countered with a chain of spells that blended transfiguration and raw force: the grass beneath Navarro surged upward, vines twisting to bind his arms, while a concussive blast slammed toward his chest.

The professor broke free with a slash of light, but Harry was already moving, his motions quick and merciless. A flurry of Grindelwald-style strikes followed, too fast for the watching students to keep up. Shields flared, sparks exploded, and the ground shook as if thunder itself had descended.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered. “He’s making Navarro look—slow.”

“He’s not even winded,” Ginny said, awe in her voice.

Hermione clutched Harry’s communication mirror in her pocket, silently thankful he was still in one piece—but watching with equal parts fear and pride.

Finally, Navarro lifted his wand in surrender, his chest heaving. “Enough.” He smiled, shaking his head. “You’re already stronger than half the so-called masters I’ve faced.”

Harry lowered his wand, breathing steady, eyes flashing in the torchlight. “They needed to see it. Sometimes intimidation is the best shield.”


Later that night, the halls buzzed with talk of the duel. Hogwarts students whispered about the “Durmstrang prodigy” who fought like a dark lord reborn. Beauxbatons students eyed him warily, while Slytherins whispered with grudging admiration.

In the Gryffindor common room, Ron sprawled in an armchair. “No wonder no one dares mess with him. One glare, and it’s like he’s already hexed you.”

Charlie grinned. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll just prank the rest.”

Neville nodded, relief plain on his face. “Feels like the old days again, doesn’t it?”

For Harry, watching from the shadows of the firelight, it did. But this time, the whole school knew better than to underestimate either of them.


The Hogwarts library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the scratching of quills. Harry sat hunched over a massive tome bound in cracked black leather, its spine etched with faded runes. Elemental Manipulation: A Study of Advanced Magical Conduits. He had found it in the restricted section the day before, and the thing was as heavy as a troll’s club.

Harry’s finger traced a paragraph about binding one’s magic to the raw forces of wind and fire. He could almost feel the possibilities thrumming in his wand hand.

This… this could be useful, he thought, his mismatched eyes glinting at the possibilities.

He glanced at the empty seat across from him and smirked. Hermione would have loved to be here. She was endlessly jealous of the new privilege the Triwizard champions had—unsupervised access to the restricted section. Harry had promised to smuggle out a few titles for her, and already his enchanted trunk carried two thick books wrapped in protective parchment.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke his concentration. He looked up to see a tall Ravenclaw boy, pale and nervous, hovering at the end of his table.

“Weasley,” the boy said, voice a little breathless. “They’ve been looking for you. The wand-weighing ceremony—it’s happening now. You’re wanted immediately.”

Harry closed the tome slowly, dust puffing out in the lamplight. “Ceremony?” he asked, rising to his feet.

The Ravenclaw nodded quickly. “Yes—Bagman and Mr. Ollivander are here. All the champions have to attend. It’s to test your wands before the first task. Everyone’s waiting.”

Harry muttered, “Of course they are,” and tucked the heavy tome under his arm before sending it floating back toward the restricted shelves with a flick of his wand.

As he walked alongside the boy through the corridors of Hogwarts, Harry’s thoughts ran ahead. So, Ollivander. Testing wands, weighing them… making a spectacle of us before the whole castle.

When they reached the appointed chamber—an ornate classroom near the staff wing—the doors were already open. Inside, the other champions had gathered: Cedric stood with quiet confidence, Fleur Delacour looked radiant and composed, and Charlie Porter shifted uneasily, his wand clenched a little too tight.

Professor Dumbledore, Barty Crouch, and Ludo Bagman were already present, talking in low voices. At the center stood the white-haired figure of Mr. Ollivander, his pale eyes shining with the same strange light Harry remembered from years ago when he had chosen his wand in Diagon Alley.

“Ah, Mr. Weasley,” Ollivander said softly as Harry stepped inside. “I wondered when you would join us. Please, come forward. We are about to begin.”

Bagman clapped his hands together. “Right then! Champions, this is but a formality—your wands must be weighed, examined, and declared fit for the tasks ahead. Nothing to worry about.”

Fleur raised her chin slightly. “But it is our magic, yes? Without it, we are nothing in this tournament.”

“Exactly,” Bagman said cheerily. “And we need to ensure everything is above board.”

Ollivander gestured. “Mr. Diggory, if you would.”

And so the ceremony began, each champion stepping forward, presenting their wand for examination. Ollivander scrutinized each one, murmuring its core and wood, commenting on its responsiveness. Fleur’s wand gave off a faint silver glow, Cedric’s sparked with warmth, Charlie’s flared with golden sparks.

When it was Harry’s turn, Ollivander looked at him with unmistakable interest.

“Mr. Weasley,” he said, “let us see the wand that chose you.”

Harry drew it out slowly, the polished holly gleaming faintly in the light. He held it out, and Ollivander took it carefully, turning it over in his long fingers.

“Fourteen inches, Elder, with dragon heartstring core. Supremely supple.” Ollivander’s pale eyes flicked up to Harry. “Yes… I remember this one well. It has grown with you, I see. Very loyal. Very strong.”

The wand gave a sharp, bright spark when Ollivander tested it. He smiled faintly. “Impeccable. More powerful than when I first handled it. You have honed it well, Mr. Weasley.”

Harry said nothing, only inclined his head.

The room was quiet, all eyes on him. It was as though the silver ring in his left eye made him more than just another champion—something other, something dangerous.

At last, Ollivander returned the wand to him with a soft bow. “Fit for the tasks ahead.”

And with that, the ceremony continued, but Harry could feel the weight of every gaze lingering on him.



The wand-weighing had barely ended when a commotion at the doors announced the arrival of a squat witch in lurid green robes, carrying a beetle-shaped handbag and a self-writing quill that bobbed behind her like a predator scenting blood.

“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet,” she announced, sweeping into the room as though she owned it. Her eyes, sharp behind jeweled spectacles, darted immediately to the two youngest champions—Charlie and Harry.

“Well, well, aren’t you just the darlings of the hour?” she cooed, striding straight past Cedric and Fleur as though they didn’t exist. “Two boys, so young, so tragic, so—photogenic!”

Harry felt his jaw tighten. He had no problem with the flashes of enchanted cameras lining the walls, but Rita’s tone made his skin crawl. She didn’t care about the tournament; she cared about the story she wanted to write, whether it was true or not.

Before he could answer, Rita’s hand clamped on his arm. “Just a quick word, dear, you and your… friend here.” She gave Charlie a sharp tug as well, already steering them toward a shadowed corner.

Charlie stumbled, caught off guard. Harry planted his feet and yanked his arm free with effortless strength. Rita jerked backward, blinking in surprise. “My, my,” she said, her smile faltering for a moment. “Strong, aren’t we?”

“Don’t touch me again,” Harry said flatly, his mismatched eyes narrowing. “If you want a quote, you can ask politely.”

Rita blinked, clearly not used to anyone—least of all a fourteen-year-old—refusing her. She recovered quickly, lips curling into a false smile. “Of course, of course. Polite, yes, always. But the readers demand to know, Mr. Weasley. How does it feel, stealing glory from those older and more experienced? And you—” she jabbed her quill toward Charlie, “—the Boy Who Lived, now caught in scandal. What a tale!”

Charlie flushed, looking at the floor. Harry stepped between them. “There will be no private interviews,” he said firmly. “Not with me. Not with him. You can write whatever lies you like, but you won’t get them from us.”

Rita’s quill scratched furiously in the air, twisting his words into something he hadn’t said. She smirked. “We’ll see, darling. We’ll see.”

By the next morning, the Daily Prophet headline blared:

“UNDERAGE WIZARDS—A DANGEROUS DUO? — RITA SKEETER EXCLUSIVE”

The article was riddled with errors: Harry’s age inflated, Charlie described as trembling in fear, claims that Harry practiced “dark, foreign magic” to trick the Goblet of Fire. Even their names were spelled wrong in places.

Hermione slammed the paper down in front of Harry at breakfast. “This is outrageous! She twisted everything! She even said you hexed the photographers!”

Harry only shrugged. “That’s Skeeter. Fame doesn’t matter to me. But Charlie’s never dealt with it before. Reporters never cared about him beyond his scar. I’ll keep an eye on him. That’s what Potters asked of me.”

Across the table, Charlie Potter sat stiffly, trying to ignore the stares of half the hall. His hands shook slightly as he folded his own copy of the paper. Harry caught his eye, gave him a nod, and the boy’s shoulders eased.

Hermione sighed. “You really should do something about Skeeter.”

Harry smirked. “Oh, I will. Just not the way she expects.”