The Tenth Weasley - CH - 124

The next morning, the castle woke to the steady drum of rain against its ancient windows. A gray mist coiled over the Black Lake, and the towers of Hogwarts were half-hidden in drifting fog. Harry sat in the Great Hall with the other Durmstrang Dragons, the long tables glowing under floating candles that hissed faintly when droplets of enchanted rain slid down invisible barriers overhead.

Halfway through his breakfast, a flurry of wings swept down from the rafters. Owls burst into the hall, some so drenched that their feathers clung tightly to their bodies. They shook themselves violently, spraying water over the already damp students.

A large tawny owl swooped straight for Harry and dropped a thick bundle of letters onto his plate, narrowly missing his toast. Harry looked up at the owl and shook his head with a grin. “You’ve had a long flight in this storm, haven’t you?” He muttered a drying charm and fed it a piece of bacon before it took off again.

He broke the first seal and unfolded the parchment. His mother’s neat script greeted him:

“Dear Harry,
We are so proud of you. When the news reached us, I nearly dropped a pan of treacle tart. Arthur is beside himself—he says no Weasley has ever entered the Triwizard Tournament before, and now you’ve gone and made history. Your father has already started building a table in the sitting room to hold the Cup when you win it. He says it will go right beneath the family clock. Do be careful, Harry. Glory is one thing, but you are still our son first and foremost.
With all our love,

Mum."


Harry smiled faintly, then opened his father’s letter.


“Harry,
I always knew my children would bring our old prestige back to the family. Your mum says I’m jumping ahead, but I can see it already—you, standing with the trophy. Don’t let the others intimidate you. Remember: even the strongest spell can be undone with wit.

P.S. Molly made me promise not to say this, but between you and me—make sure the cup looks polished. I’ve already carved a fine oak stand for it.

Dad.”

Two smaller letters followed, one from Bill written in his sharp, confident hand, the other from Charlie in bold scrawl.

Bill wrote of pride, of watching Harry take on challenges larger than himself. Charlie spoke with fire: “If you can handle Dragons in Dumstrang, you can handle anything Hogwarts throws at you.”

Harry sat quietly for a while, his breakfast forgotten. Pride burned in his chest, but there was weight there too. Expectations—family expectations, Hogwarts’ whispers, Durmstrang’s reputation.

He quickly penned replies, thanking each of them. He wrote that he was determined to do his best, that he missed them, and that no matter what happened, he’d make the family proud. He sealed each letter and cast a waterproofing charm over them before tying them to waiting owls.

“Go on, then,” he said softly, stroking one of the birds as it blinked at him. They took off into the storm, their wings cutting through sheets of rain.


Across the hall, Hogwarts students leaned in to whisper behind their hands. The story of how Harry entered the Tournament had already spread like Fiendfyre. They looked at him differently now—not just as the Durmstrang champion, but as the boy who outsmarted Dumbledore’s age line with a trick so simple no one else had even considered it.

“They say he didn’t even use magic,” one Hufflepuff murmured, eyes wide.
“Just tossed his name in like it was nothing!” another added.
“And that shield he used at the tournament in Spain… they say it was Grindelwald’s technique.”

Rumors piled on rumors. Some admired him, others were frightened, but all agreed on one thing: Harry Weasley wasn’t someone to underestimate.

Harry ignored the stares. He wiped his quill on a rag, leaned back in his seat, and muttered under his breath, “Let them talk. It’s not their expectations I have to meet—it’s mine.”

Anya elbowed him lightly from his right. “You’re enjoying this more than you admit,” she teased.
Harry smirked but didn’t deny it.



The corridors of Hogwarts were still buzzing with talk of the Triwizard Tournament when Harry caught sight of a familiar group making their way through the castle. At first he thought it was just another cluster of curious visitors, but then he recognized them—the Potters. James strode ahead, his hair as untidy as ever, Lily walking beside him, while Rose skipped along holding Sirius Black’s hand.

Harry slowed. He hadn’t expected to see them here, not today.

“Harry!” Lily’s voice rang out, and before he could react, she rushed forward and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Her arms locked around him with all the warmth of a mother’s pride.

Harry let her hold him, but the sensation was different—it didn’t anchor him the way Molly’s hugs always did, full of flour-smelling comfort and a grounding weight of familiarity. Lily’s love was there, but it brushed against him like something he didn’t quite know how to accept.

He managed a small smile as he carefully eased himself free. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Lily smoothed her hair, her eyes soft. “We came to see Charlie. He’s been chosen, after all.”

James stepped forward then, his expression a mix of pride and concern. He clapped Harry lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not really my place to say this, but I want you to keep an eye on him. Charlie’s not like you, Harry. You’ve always had… more steel in you. He’s going to need support if things get rough.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “You think he’s not ready?”

James shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not that. He’s talented, but this tournament—it’s a different kind of trial. And you two, you’ve always had a bond. Stronger than most people realize.”

For a moment Harry was quiet, then he nodded firmly. “I’ll look after him.”

James’s shoulders eased, and Lily’s smile returned. “Thank you, Harry. That means more than you know.”

From down the corridor came a burst of laughter—Sirius, entertaining Rose and Ginny with some exaggerated story, his hands flying about like a stage performer. He winked at Harry when he noticed them watching, then went back to making the girls giggle.

The Potters excused themselves a moment later, heading off toward Charlie, leaving Harry standing in the stone hall with rain still pattering faintly against the castle windows. He rubbed the back of his neck, thoughtful. For all the rivalry, for all the whispers and suspicion, the Potters had just placed their trust in him. And that meant he had one more responsibility to carry into the Tournament.



Harry had been keeping a subtle eye on Charlie ever since the Potters’ request. He didn’t crowd him, but he noticed things—small things. Charlie walked into the Great Hall and sat alone at the Gryffindor table more often than not. Ron was a few seats down, laughing with Seamus. Neville buried himself in Herbology notes. The three of them—the so-called Mini-Marauders—were never together anymore.

At Hogwarts kitchen, Harry leaned toward Ginny, who was seated across from him.

“Ginny,” he said quietly, “what’s going on with Charlie? Why’s he always on his own?”

Ginny hesitated, then sighed. “They’re orchestrating him, Harry. Half of Gryffindor thinks he put his own name in the Goblet. Even Ron and Neville aren’t sitting with him. It’s… bad.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “Even Ron?”

“Especially Ron,” Ginny said. “He feels overshadowed. Again.”

Harry tapped the table thoughtfully, then nodded. “Bring them to me. All three. Tonight. Somewhere quiet.”


That evening, Ginny herded Ron, Neville, and Charlie into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind them. Harry was already waiting, arms folded, expression calm but firm.

“Sit down,” Harry said, gesturing to the desks. “All of you.”

They obeyed, though Ron crossed his arms and scowled.

Harry leaned against the teacher’s desk. “I’ve been watching. You lot call yourselves Mini-Marauders, but you’re about to fall apart over a piece of parchment. Ron, talk.”

Ron’s ears went red. “What’s there to say? Charlie gets everything. Fame, attention. Now the Goblet spits his name out too? You can’t tell me he didn’t put it in himself.”

Charlie shot up from his chair, indignant. “I didn’t!”

“Sit,” Harry ordered sharply, and Charlie sat again, fuming. He turned back to Ron. “Think for a second. Our family’s rich now. The Potters are rich. The Longbottoms are rich. A thousand Galleons isn’t a fortune to any of you anymore. And Charlie—he’s already the Boy Who Lived. He doesn’t need more glory.”

Ron glared, but wavered. “Then what about Eternal glory?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Eternal glory? Tell me, Ron—can you name a single wizard who won the Triwizard Tournament before?”

Ron opened his mouth, then shut it. His face went scarlet.

“Exactly,” Harry said, voice cool. “No one remembers them. No one cares. You’re fighting for smoke. And in the meantime, you’re throwing away a friendship.”

Neville finally spoke, his voice quiet. “Ron… he’s right. Once a friendship’s broken, it’s hard to put back together.”

The silence stretched. Then Harry stepped forward, planting both hands on the desk. “You three built something together. Don’t tear it down because of jealousy and rumors. Shake hands. Compromise. Fix it.”

Charlie looked at Ron, his jaw tight. Ron avoided his eyes for a long moment, then muttered, “Fine.” He extended his hand.

Charlie hesitated, then clasped it.

Neville grinned and reached across the desk to pile his hand on top. “Mini-Marauders?”

“Mini-Marauders,” Charlie agreed.

Ron gave a reluctant nod, but Harry saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

Harry allowed himself a small smile. “Good. Because the Tournament’s going to be dangerous. And if Charlie’s name is in that Goblet, he’s going to need friends at his back. Not enemies.”

The four boys exchanged looks, something fragile but real settling back between them. Ginny peeked through the doorway, eyebrows raised. Harry gave her a nod. The fracture wasn’t gone, but the pieces had been fitted together again—at least for now.



The candlelight in the Hogwarts library flickered softly, throwing long shadows across the heavy tomes stacked high around Hermione. Her quill scratched furiously against parchment as she flipped another page of Notable Triwizard Tournaments Through the Ages. She muttered under her breath, her eyes scanning line after line, lips moving with each new discovery.

Harry leaned against the end of the table, arms folded, watching her with a faintly amused expression. “You’ve been at this since breakfast,” he said at last. “I’m starting to think you care more about this Tournament than I do.”

Hermione looked up sharply, her eyes wide and a little frantic. “Of course I care, Harry! This isn’t a game—it’s dangerous. Do you even know why the Tournament was banned the last time it was held?”

Harry tilted his head. “You’re about to tell me.”

She pushed the heavy book toward him, her finger tapping an entry. “The final task was a mountain troll. A mountain troll, Harry! Do you realize how strong those are? All three champions died. That’s why they stopped the Tournament for decades.”

Harry glanced at the page, then pushed the book back toward her with a shrug. “And yet here we are again. History repeats itself, doesn’t it?”

Hermione frowned, exasperated by his calmness. “Don’t joke about it. This is serious. I’ve gone through all the records I could find—there were always magical creatures involved. Dragons, manticores, trolls… Merlin knows what they’ll throw at you this time.”

“Good,” Harry said simply, and when she blinked at him, confused, he leaned closer. “Hermione, I can handle myself. You’ve seen what I can do. I’m not afraid of a few beasts, no matter how big their teeth are.”

“That’s exactly what scares me,” she said softly. “You’re too confident. Overconfidence gets people killed.”

Harry reached across the table, covering her ink-stained fingers with his hand. “It’s not overconfidence. It’s preparation. Grindelwald’s journals, Navarro’s dueling drills, Durmstrang’s training… I didn’t do all that for nothing. I’m ready.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, though her brow stayed furrowed. “And what if it’s not a creature? What if it’s worse? What if—”

“Hermione.” Harry’s voice was steady, certain. “I’ll take care of myself. I promise.”

For a moment she just looked at him, her heart caught between fear and faith. Then she sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You’re impossible.”

Harry grinned. “And yet, somehow, you like me anyway.”

A faint blush crept up her cheeks. She ducked her head back over her notes, muttering, “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop worrying.”

Harry chuckled, reaching over to pluck the book from her hands. “Fine. But if you’re going to bury yourself in research, at least let me read with you. Can’t have you knowing more about this thing than I do.”

Hermione smiled despite herself, and for a moment the tension eased. But in the back of her mind, the words still echoed: They all died. Every one of them. And she knew that no matter what Harry promised, she would never stop worrying.