The Tenth Weasley - CH - 122

The Great Hall had never looked so crowded. Long tables stretched from end to end, but tonight there were no house divisions, no space left empty. Hogwarts students sat shoulder to shoulder with the visiting delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. The air buzzed with anticipation, voices overlapping, the scrape of chairs echoing against the enchanted ceiling, which was dark and clear, stars glittering as though watching over the gathering.

Harry slipped into his seat with the rest of the Dragons, their crimson-and-black cloaks standing out among the blue silks of Beauxbatons and the familiar house colors of Hogwarts. Even he, who had seen his share of battles and rituals, felt the heavy press of history in the air. This was no ordinary meal.

At the High Table, every seat was filled. Professors McGonagall and Snape sat stiffly on either side of Dumbledore, who looked both grave and twinkling as usual. Beside them were new faces: Bartemius Crouch, with his neatly pressed robes and iron-straight posture, and Alastor Moody, whose magical eye roved constantly, unsettling everyone it fell upon. Several foreign officials sat as well, their insignia gleaming in the torchlight.


The clamor died down when Dumbledore rose, spreading his arms. His voice carried with practiced ease:

“Tonight, my friends, begins a new chapter in the long history of magical cooperation between nations. The Triwizard Tournament is more than a contest of skill. It is a test of character, of courage, and of the bonds between wizarding peoples. The champion who emerges victorious will earn not only a prize but something greater—eternal glory.”

The phrase rolled off his tongue, heavy and dramatic. Murmurs swept the room, excitement crackling like fire.

Harry leaned toward Anya, muttering, “Eternal glory sounds like a curse disguised as a prize.”

Anya smirked. “Spoken like someone who already has too many enemies.”

Laughter rippled faintly among the Dragons at Harry’s whisper, but their attention snapped back when Bartemius Crouch stood to speak. His voice was crisp, precise, cutting through the excited whispers.

“As safety demands, only those witches and wizards who have reached the age of seventeen will be permitted to enter their names for selection. Youth is bold, but this Tournament is deadly. Its tasks are dangerous beyond measure, and we will not allow children to risk their lives.”

The words had barely left his mouth when the students erupted in boos and protests. Gryffindors banged their goblets. Even Ravenclaws muttered heatedly. Fred and George Weasley’s voices rose above the din, calling out indignantly, “Unfair!” and “We’re nearly of age!”

Harry shook his head. He could already imagine the twins plotting in some corner.

Barty Crouch did not flinch. “The age restriction will be enforced by powerful magic. No underage witch or wizard will fool the enchantments of the Goblet.”

At this, Dumbledore motioned with his hand, and the air in the center of the Hall shimmered. Students craned their necks as a large, ancient cup rose into view, set upon a tall pedestal. The Goblet of Fire glowed with an eerie blue flame that licked silently at the air.

Whispers flooded the hall.

“That’s it?” one boy muttered behind Harry.
“A goblet?” another girl whispered.
Harry felt the hair rise on his arms. The flame was alive. Dangerous.

Dumbledore’s voice once more filled the silence. “This, the Goblet of Fire, will serve as the impartial judge. Each school may submit their names until the end of the week. On Hallowe’en night, the Goblet will choose one champion from each school to compete.”

Victor Krum, seated beside Harry, crossed his arms, eyes locked on the flame. “Glory or death,” he muttered, half to himself.

“Or both,” Damon added grimly, earning a few nervous chuckles.


As the hall emptied after the feast, students buzzing about who would enter, Harry lingered at the back with Hermione, who had slipped between the rows to walk beside him.

“Are you going to put your name in?” she asked, her voice low.

Harry smirked. “That's why we are here, right?.”

Hermoine frowned, glancing up at his mismatched eyes that glowed faintly in the torchlight. “You don’t need the Tournament. You already attract enough attention.”

He chuckled softly, but the truth was, part of him was curious. Not to win, not for glory, but to test himself against what lay ahead.

For now, though, he said nothing, only slipping away with the rest of the Dragons as they returned to the ship, leaving the Goblet burning silently behind them in the Great Hall.



The hum of the enchanted lamps filled the great hall of the Durmstrang ship. The Dragons sat in a wide circle, their cloaks draped casually over chairs, the air thick with anticipation. For once, they weren’t dueling, brewing, or working through dusty tomes. Tonight’s topic was more urgent—the Triwizard Tournament.

Damon leaned forward, eyes glittering. “So, who’s throwing their name in?”

“I am,” Viktor Krum said immediately. His voice was steady, as if there had never been a doubt. “If I win, they’ll stop blaming me for the World Cup. I want to take the Triwizard cup back to Bulgaria.”

Several Dragons clapped him on the back. Viktor was an international Quidditch star, and though he’d had a rough summer, his presence in the Tournament felt inevitable.

“I’ll enter too,” said Anya, flicking a strand of dark hair over her shoulder. “Durmstrang must be seen in the strongest light. And what better way than crushing Hogwarts on their own ground?”

Three more voices chimed in—Stellan, Katya, and Markus—all confident, all eager. That made five. A sixth, Leif, raised his hand with a grin. “Count me in. If glory is up for grabs, I’ll take my share.”


The others laughed, and for a moment, the room buzzed with talk of strategies and dreams. Everyone turned expectantly to Harry, who had been silent, leaning back in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the lamplight.

“You’re not seventeen,” Damon said finally, the words half-teasing. “So I suppose you’ll be our cheerleader.”

Harry’s lips curled into a smile. “Actually, I’m entering too.”

The hall fell silent. Every head swiveled toward him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You can’t be serious,” Anya snapped. “Did you not hear Crouch? Seventeen. That’s the rule.”

Harry straightened, his voice calm but firm. “That’s the rule now. But I’ve read about the Triwizard Tournament’s history. In the past, fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds competed. The Ministry only added the age restriction this year because they’re afraid of bad press if someone dies.”

Katya snorted. “Afraid of bad press? Afraid of parents, more like.”

Harry shrugged. “Whatever their reason, it’s not tradition. And Dumbledore’s age line? That’s just another barrier. And barriers are challenges to overcome.”

“Challenges?” Markus raised an eyebrow. “You talk like you’ve already figured out how to break it.”

Harry’s mismatched eyes gleamed. “Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. But I won’t sit by and watch when I know I’m capable of standing with the rest of you.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Viktor chuckled, low and approving. “Let him try. If anyone can beat Dumbledore’s magic, it is Harry.”

“But what if you’re caught?” Leif asked nervously. “Wouldn’t that get us all in trouble?”

Harry shook his head. “If I fail, it’ll only be me who looks foolish. But if I succeed… well, then Durmstrang will have the Triwizard cup.”

Anya studied him with narrowed eyes. “You really think you can defy the greatest wizard of our time?”

Harry smirked. “Defy him? No. Outsmart him? That’s different.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter spread through the group, but there was also admiration in their gazes. He was the youngest, the first-ranked Dragon, the boy who had already outdueled professors and fought poachers. If anyone could do it, perhaps it was him.

Victor leaned back, his deep voice carrying the final word. “Then let him enter. Hogwarts will never forget the year Harry Weasley walked back into their castle.”



For the past five days, Harry had made a habit of lingering near the Goblet of Fire. He sat through meals in the Great Hall with one eye fixed on the tall, wooden cup burning at the center, its blue-white flames flickering high into the air. The Goblet hummed with power, every so often swallowing down a new name written on a scrap of parchment.

It became something of a show for the whole school. Students from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang came forward one after another, striding proudly to drop their names in. Some whispered prayers under their breath, others puffed out their chests, as though the Goblet could be impressed by arrogance. Harry watched it all silently, taking mental notes.

Victor Krum had already stepped forward on the second day, parchment in hand, his walk calm and deliberate. The Beauxbatons girls had cheered, the Durmstrang dragons nodded in respect, and Harry clapped along with the rest. Anya and two other dragons followed, all looking as though they were marching into battle rather than submitting their names.

But what interested Harry most weren’t the eligible champions—it was the failures.

A wiry Gryffindor fifth-year tried to dash through the shimmering golden age line that Dumbledore had cast. He was thrown back so hard that he landed in a heap against the wall, his hair standing on end. The hall erupted in laughter. Two Ravenclaws tried glamour charms to make themselves look older; the Goblet burned their disguises away instantly and sent them tumbling across the stone floor for good measure.

And then came Fred and George. Harry had been waiting for this.

The twins strutted forward, each with a tankard of potion. They gulped it down theatrically, their faces stretching and twisting as the aging brew took hold. The crowd cheered as they marched across the line with identical grins. For a single heartbeat, Harry thought they’d actually done it. Then the age line reacted with a roar of magic.

Both twins sprouted long, snowy beards that fell to their knees. White hair burst from their heads, spilling down their backs. They howled in outrage as the Great Hall exploded in laughter. Even some of the Beauxbatons girls covered their mouths, giggling behind their hands.

“Blimey, you look like Dumbledore’s grandsons!” Lee Jordan crowed from the Gryffindor table.

“Shut it, Lee!” Fred bellowed, tugging at his beard.

George groaned. “We’ll never live this down…”

Harry couldn’t stop himself from grinning. It was pure Weasley chaos, and for a moment, it felt like home.

But as the laughter died down and the bearded twins stomped away, Harry’s focus returned to the Goblet. He studied the way the age line shimmered faintly in the torchlight, the faint smell of ozone whenever someone crossed it. Dumbledore had crafted it himself, and that made it the most tempting challenge Harry had ever seen.

The ministry’s rule said you had to be seventeen. Harry didn’t care.

He leaned forward on the bench, hazel-and-silver eyes glinting in the light of the Goblet’s flame. The old tournaments never cared about age, he reminded himself. They wanted skill. Courage. Power.

Hermione’s voice echoed in his mind from their last mirror call: “Don’t you dare, Harry. Dumbledore cast that enchantment. If anyone could make it unbreakable, it’s him.”

Harry smirked faintly. We’ll see about that.

The Goblet burned on, swallowing another name.



The Great Hall was hushed, the torches dimmed for the night. Only the Goblet of Fire remained, its pale flames leaping high, casting eerie shadows that danced across the stone walls. From the far end of the chamber, footsteps echoed—the slow, dragging gait of Argus Filch as he shuffled along, muttering to himself about students sneaking out of bed.

But Harry was already there, hidden beneath the familiar weight of his invisibility cloak. His breathing was steady, his heart thudding louder than he liked as he crept closer to the Goblet. Filch’s lantern swung in the darkness, spilling its yellow glow across the floor, but Harry kept to the edges, silent and unseen.

The caretaker grumbled as he passed the Goblet. “Stupid fire… keeping me awake at this hour. Should throw the lot of you in the dungeons…” Then he wandered off, his cat Mrs. Norris padding behind him.

Harry waited until the footsteps faded. Only then did he inch forward, crossing the cold stone floor until he was within arm’s reach of the golden shimmer surrounding the Goblet. The age line.

It pulsed faintly, a ring of power etched into the floor, woven by Dumbledore himself. Harry crouched low, his eyes narrowing. He whispered diagnostic charms under his breath, letting the strands of magic ripple across the barrier. At once he felt it—layered protections, interwoven like threads of a tapestry. The line didn’t just repel intruders. It recognized. It knew age, it knew intent. It was clever.

Harry smirked faintly. Clever, but not invincible.

He tested it again, flicking another spell, this one softer, more probing. The ward flared in response, like a predator’s warning growl. Harry hissed under his breath, leaning back. Break it and Dumbledore will know. That much was obvious. The entire enchantment was designed to alert its creator the moment someone tampered with it.

Harry rubbed his jaw, silver-ringed eye glinting faintly in the Goblet’s firelight. He could break it. That wasn’t the issue. The problem was stealth. The moment he tried brute force, alarms would go screaming through the castle.

So he thought.


He crouched lower, studying the line as though it were a living opponent. Wizards, he knew, always tried to outthink each other with complicated solutions. Layers of spells upon spells, twisting runes, enchanted charms. They forgot something very simple. Sometimes the simplest answer is the best one.

A thought struck him. His lips parted, the beginning of a grin tugging at his mouth. That might work…

For a long moment he simply sat there, invisible, staring at the Goblet and its shimmering defenses. Filch’s lantern glow flickered once more at the far end of the hall, but Harry didn’t move. His mind was racing now, possibilities unfolding in a flash. He had his idea. Simple, elegant, and best of all—it wouldn’t trigger a single alarm.

He stood slowly, cloak shifting around him, and gave the Goblet one last look. Its flames hissed and roared, casting his shadow long and thin against the wall.

“Tomorrow,” Harry whispered under his breath, voice low and certain. “Tomorrow you’re mine.”

And with that, he slipped away into the night, leaving the Goblet burning silently behind him.