The Tenth Weasley - CH - 123

The Great Hall had never looked so dazzling. Golden banners bearing the crests of the three schools hung from the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the star-studded night outside. The Goblet of Fire blazed at the center of the staff dais, its blue flames leaping higher than ever before. The tables were crowded—every student of Hogwarts, every visitor from Beauxbatons, every dragon from Durmstrang. Tonight was the night that would decide everything.

Harry sat between Anya and Viktor at the Durmstrang side of the Slytherin table. The long silver plates before them sat untouched. The excitement and tension in the room left little room for hunger. Anya leaned close, her dark eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“You didn’t really put your name in, did you?” she hissed.

Harry smirked, casually swirling his goblet of pumpkin juice. “I told you I did.”

“You’re only fourteen, Harry! You saw what happened to the others who tried. Your twin brothers, those Ravenclaws with the wigs… even the Hufflepuff who nearly got scorched bald. The age line throws back everyone.”

“Almost everyone,” Harry said lightly. His silver-ringed eye caught the Goblet’s flame and gleamed. “The Ministry may think they’ve written the rules, but they don’t know everything.”

Anya shook her head, muttering under her breath. “You’re either mad, or you really are really Grindelwald reborn like many believe.”

Before Harry could answer, a hush swept through the hall.

Barty Crouch had risen at the staff table, his thin face severe, voice clipped and formal. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come. The Goblet of Fire has made its decision. From its flames shall emerge the champions—those chosen to face three tasks, the most difficult challenges ever devised, for the honor and glory of their schools.”

The flames of the Goblet roared, turning a dazzling white-blue. Shadows danced wildly across the professors’ faces. Dumbledore, standing beside it, raised his hand.

“The champions will have eternal glory,” he intoned, “but the path will be perilous. Their names will be bound to the contract.”

Gasps and whispers rippled through the students. Harry’s hands tightened on the table. He could feel the tension like a storm in the air.

The Goblet hissed—and then with a loud whoosh, a charred piece of parchment burst forth, flying into Dumbledore’s waiting hand. He unfolded it slowly, peering over the rim of his spectacles.

“The Champion of Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore announced, “is Fleur Delacour.”

Applause broke out. The elegant French witch rose gracefully from the Ravenclaw table, her silvery hair glinting under the enchanted ceiling as she walked to the front.

The Goblet flared again. Another slip flew out.

“The Champion of Hogwarts,” Dumbledore declared, “is Cedric Diggory.”

The Hufflepuff table erupted in cheers, their champion rising with flushed cheeks, waving modestly as he strode forward.

The Goblet’s flames surged a third time. All eyes turned toward the Slytherin table.

“And the Champion of Durmstrang,” Dumbledore said clearly, “is… Harry Weasley.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

The Great Hall erupted into chaos. Gasps, shouts, even boos. Students craned their necks to stare at him.

“Impossible!” a Ravenclaw cried.

“He cheated—he must’ve cheated!” shouted a Gryffindor.

“He’s too young!” a Beauxbatons boy exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

Anya’s mouth fell open. “You weren’t joking,” she whispered.

Victor’s eyes gleamed with something between pride and challenge. “Knew it,” he muttered.

Harry pushed back his chair. The scrape of wood against stone echoed loudly. Every eye was on him as he rose, his movements calm, deliberate. He adjusted his robe, silver-ringed eye glinting beneath the hall’s flickering light, and walked with steady steps toward the staff dais.

The murmurs rose, following him.

“That’s Weasley’s boy—how—?”

“Durmstrang put forward a child? Shameful!”

“He looks like Grindelwald—did you see his eyes?”

Harry ignored them all. He kept his gaze locked forward until he reached Dumbledore, who was studying him with an unreadable expression.

“Harry Weasley,” Dumbledore said, his voice carrying. “Please wait in the trophy room adjacent to the Great Hall.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” Harry replied coolly. His voice carried too, clear and unwavering.

He turned, cloak swishing behind him, and walked out of the Great Hall. The door shut with a heavy thud, leaving the chaos of voices behind.



The trophy room was quiet, lit only by the flicker of torches. The glass cases along the walls gleamed, reflecting distorted images of Quidditch cups, Triwizard relics of ages past, and long-forgotten awards. The silence was broken only by the faint crackle of fire and the soft shuffling of feet as Harry entered.

Fleur Delacour turned sharply, her silvery hair catching the light. Her blue eyes narrowed as they swept over him. “Toi? You are Durmstrang’s champion?” she said incredulously. “But… that is not possible. The Goblet only accepts those who are of age.”

Harry said nothing at first. He met her stare calmly, his silver-ringed eye glinting, a hint of amusement in his expression.

Cedric Diggory, however, recognized him and his face broke into a panic. “So it’s you. Harry Weasley. I should’ve guessed.”

Fleur turned to Cedric, bewildered. “You know him?”

“Oh, I know him,” Cedric said, folding his arms. “Back in his second year, half my House tried to ‘teach him a lesson’ because everyone thought he was the Heir of Slytherin. Didn’t end well for them. A bunch of sixth- and seventh-years landed in the hospital wing. He put them there.”

Harry smiled faintly at the memory, though he said nothing. The old bitterness of those days lingered, but so did a kind of dark pride.

“He was only twelve,” Cedric continued, shaking his head in wonder. “And now… Merlin’s beard, he must’ve grown even stronger.”

Fleur looked at Harry again, her gaze softer this time but still edged with suspicion. She tilted her head slightly, studying him as though trying to see through his calm exterior. “You are… dangerous,” she said quietly. “Too dangerous for someone so young.”

Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed spoke louder than words.

The door creaked suddenly, breaking the moment. All three champions turned, expecting perhaps Dumbledore, Karkaroff, or a Ministry official.

Instead, Charlie Potter stepped into the room. His face was pale, eyes wide with something Harry instantly recognized: fear.

“Charlie?” Cedric frowned. “What are you doing here? Did Dumbledore send you with a message? Are we needed in the Great Hall?”

His voice was casual, dismissive, as though Charlie was nothing more than an errand boy.

But Harry leaned forward, watching him carefully. He had grown up with Charlie Potter. He knew the set of his jaw, the tremor in his hands. This wasn’t a messenger’s errand. This was terror.

Charlie’s mouth opened as though to answer—but before he could speak, the door burst open again.

Dumbledore strode in, followed closely by Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, Barty Crouch, and Alastor Moody. The room, once quiet, suddenly buzzed with the presence of power and authority.

Fleur straightened at once, Cedric stepped back, but Harry only folded his arms, watching.

Dumbledore’s eyes, for the briefest flicker of a moment, rested on Harry with something unreadable. Concern, perhaps. Or suspicion.

“Champions,” Dumbledore said gravely, “there has been… an unexpected development.”

The firelight flickered across their faces, casting long shadows on the trophy cases. Harry felt the weight of the moment settling like a storm about to break.



The air in the trophy room grew heavy as Madam Maxime’s voice cut through it, sharp as a whip.

“This is absurd!” she thundered, her great frame towering over the others. “’Ogwarts has two champions—two! Zis is cheating!”

Her accusation hung in the air like smoke. Everyone turned toward Charlie Potter, who stood in the corner, pale and trembling. For the first time, it became clear—he wasn’t here as a messenger. He was here because the Goblet had chosen him.

Dumbledore raised his hands calmly, though the lines on his face deepened. “Please, Olympe. I assure you, this is as unexpected to me as to you.”

Karkaroff’s mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile. His cold eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “How convenient, Dumbledore. Hogwarts gets two chances at glory while the rest of us get only one. Is this how your school maintains its reputation? By bending rules in your favor?”

Harry leaned back against the wall, arms folded, watching.

Maxime wasn’t done. She gestured toward Harry, her voice dripping with disdain. “And what of ’im? He is a child, not of age. ’Ow is it Durmstrang presents a champion who should not even be eligible?”

Before Harry could respond, Karkaroff stepped forward, robes swirling. “That is none of your concern. We presented one champion, and the Goblet chose him. His age is irrelevant—the Goblet decided. And let us not forget, the age rule was your Ministry’s invention this year. There was no such rule in any previous Tournament.”

Harry’s silver-ringed eye flashed. For once, he found himself silently grateful for Karkaroff’s defense.

The officials, however, had eyes only for Charlie. Barty Crouch adjusted his tie nervously. Dumbledore’s voice softened.

“Charlie,” he said, “did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?”

“No!” Charlie blurted at once, his voice cracking. “No, Headmaster, I swear I didn’t.”

Dumbledore’s gaze didn’t waver. “Did you ask an older student to put it in for you?”

Charlie shook his head violently. “No! I didn’t!”

From the corner, Cedric’s voice broke in, steady and skeptical. “Would it even work if someone else put his name in? An older student?”

“No,” Dumbledore admitted, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “It would not. The Goblet recognizes intent as well as age.”

“Then why are you asking him foolish questions?” Harry’s voice cut cleanly across the room. His tone was calm, but edged like a blade. “If you know it wouldn’t work, then stop pretending he slipped it in himself. Clearly, this was manipulation.”

A low murmur spread through the professors until Moody’s growl silenced them.

“Someone tampered with the Goblet,” Moody said, his scarred face twisting in suspicion. “Confounded it. Tricked it into believing a fourth school was competing. Then entered the boy’s name under that false school.”

The word “tricked” hung in the air, heavy with implication.

“And it would’ve taken a very powerful wizard to do it.”

All eyes turned back to Charlie, who flinched under the weight of the stares. Fleur looked horrified, Cedric troubled, and Harry—Harry simply studied his brother, every muscle taut, his mind racing with questions he wasn’t ready to ask out loud.



The trophy room felt like it was closing in on them. The four chosen champions stood apart, each processing the impossible truth: there were not three champions, but four.

Cedric leaned against the wall, eyes darting between Charlie and Harry. Fleur Delacour looked confused, her gaze sharp but detached; she didn’t yet understand the undercurrents between the British students and the red-haired Durmstrang boy.

But the Hogwarts professors, and several older students who had slipped into the room, did understand. Murmurs grew louder, and finally, it was Snape who voiced what everyone was thinking. His black eyes gleamed with suspicion as they settled on Harry.

“Of course. It makes sense now. The Goblet did not choose two Hogwarts students by mistake. No—Weasley must have put Potter’s name in. They’ve been inseparable since their first year, even when the whole school turned against him. Who else would take such a risk?”

The accusation hung in the air like poison.

Charlie froze, pale as parchment, while Cedric frowned deeply. Fleur’s eyes flicked curiously to Harry, clearly piecing together the bond she hadn’t known about.

“Is that true?” Cedric asked, his voice measured but firm. “Did you find a way to trick the Goblet? If you did it for yourself, fine—Durmstrang got their champion. But for Charlie too?”

Every gaze turned to Harry now.

Harry didn’t flinch. He let the silence stretch, then stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor. “You want to know how I entered?” he said evenly. “Then I’ll show you. But stop pretending you’ve already figured it out.”

He strode to the side of the room, seized a massive Quidditch Cup from the trophy shelf, and dragged it into the middle with a loud metallic scrape. The sound made Charlie swallow hard.

From a nearby desk, Harry snatched a scrap of parchment, wrote his name in bold strokes, and crumpled it into a tight ball. He held it up high so everyone could see.

“No tricks. No charms. Just this.”

He flicked his wrist and threw. The parchment arced cleanly through the air and landed with a hollow clink inside the gleaming cup.

The room went dead silent.

Cedric’s jaw dropped. “You mean… you just threw it? From outside the age line?”

Harry smirked faintly. “Exactly. The age line stops you crossing. It doesn’t stop you from using your arm.”

A stunned ripple moved through the adults.

Karkaroff barked a laugh of triumph. “Ha! You see? No dark ritual, no trickery—only cleverness!”

Moody snorted, his magical eye whirling madly. “Merlin’s beard. It’s bloody obvious once you see it. Everyone else was so busy brewing potions and hexing themselves older, not one thought about the simplest way through.”

Dumbledore’s expression was unreadable. His blue eyes twinkled, though there was sharpness under the amusement. “Remarkably simple,” he murmured. “Sometimes the cleverest solutions are the ones most overlooked.”

Snape’s lip curled in distaste, but he had no counter.

Even Fleur and Cedric stared in disbelief. Both had assumed Harry must have used advanced magic, some secret Durmstrang spell. But no—it was nothing more than a scrap of parchment, a steady hand, and the nerve to do what no one else thought of.

Harry folded his arms and looked around the room, unshaken. “You all wanted to know. Now you do. The Goblet chose me. That’s all that matters. And If I put Charlie's name like that only one champion would have selected.”

The whispers that followed weren’t just about how he’d gotten in. They were about something deeper, more unsettling. If Harry Weasley could outthink the Goblet of Fire with nothing but simplicity, what else could he outthink?