The Tenth Weasley - CH - 120

The hum of wards thrummed through the ship like a living heartbeat as it cut through the depths of the ocean. The enchanted lanterns along the corridors glowed softly, casting long, rippling shadows as shoals of fish darted past the portholes. The Dragons had made their home here for the long voyage to Britain, and excitement buzzed through every room.

Harry had barely finished his breakfast when Anya dropped into the seat opposite him, her dark braids swinging over her shoulder. Damon, the sharp-eyed duelist, leaned on the table beside her, and within moments Harry found himself the target of a barrage of questions.

“So,” Anya began eagerly, “how tall is Hogwarts really? I’ve heard the towers stretch above the clouds. Is that true?”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Not above the clouds. But they’re tall enough that you can see the whole valley and the Black Lake from the Astronomy Tower. On clear nights, it feels like you’re standing among the stars.”

Damon leaned closer. “And the Forbidden Forest? Tell me you’ve been inside.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Plenty of times. It’s dangerous—full of centaurs, acromantulas, even a herd of unicorns if you’re lucky enough to see them. Trust me, if you’re not careful, you won’t come out.”

That only seemed to thrill Damon further. “Excellent,” he murmured.

Volkova came and clasped her hands together. “And the library? Is it really as vast as they say? Thousands of books, shelves that reach the ceiling?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, remembering the smell of parchment and candle wax. “Bigger than any collection you’ve seen in Durmstrang. The Restricted Section alone could keep you busy for years. You’ll lose yourself in it if you’re not careful.”

Volkova sighed dreamily. “I will lose myself in it. Finally, a library worthy of my talents.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head as Damon and Anya groaned.


While Anya and Damon peppered Harry with endless questions, Viktor Krum sat nearby, his massive frame folded into one of the cushioned benches, arms crossed. His dark eyes followed the conversation, though he didn’t join in. He had heard most of these descriptions before—Harry had told him countless stories, and he’d even glimpsed memories of Hogwarts through the Pensieve last year.

Finally, Harry turned to him with a smirk. “Victor, you already know all this. Want to tell them about the moving staircases?”

Victor grunted. “They move. That is all.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Very helpful.”

Damon laughed. “No wonder you’re a Quidditch star and not a historian.”

Harry shook his head, amused. “What he means is that the staircases shift whenever they like. One moment you’re going up to the library, the next you’re in a hallway of tapestries. Makes life… interesting.”


As the hours passed, Harry walked the narrow corridors of the ship with his friends, answering every question he could. The Dragons were wide-eyed at every tale—Hogwarts’ feasts, the Great Hall ceiling that mirrored the sky, the Triwizard champions of the past, and even Harry’s more dangerous adventures.

But as he leaned against the polished rail, staring out into the rolling green of the deep sea, his thoughts turned elsewhere. Hogwarts. Hermione.

He could already picture her in the library, parchment stacked high beside her, her quill scratching away. He imagined her smile when she saw him again—not through a mirror, but face-to-face. The thought pulled a warmth into his chest that not even the cold seawater pressing against the ship could chase away.

For Harry, this voyage wasn’t just about representing Durmstrang in the Triwizard Tournament. It was about returning to the place he once called home, stronger than before, and standing beside the girl who mattered most.

And that thought alone made the long journey through the dark sea feel like no time at all.



The magically expanded dueling hall aboard the smaller ship gleamed with lanternlight. The ceiling stretched high overhead, charmed to resemble a star-filled sky even though the vessel sailed beneath the sea. Every member of the Dragon Class gathered, their robes neat and their expressions sharp with expectation.

Highmaster Igor Karkaroff stood at the center of the polished floor, his pale hands clasped behind his back. His voice carried easily through the enchanted hall, each word thick with his rolling accent.

“Dragons!” he declared, his eyes glittering as he surveyed the group. “When Durmstrang arrives at Hogwarts, it will not be as supplicants, nor as simple guests. We will arrive as conquerors. You will strike awe into the eyes of every witch and wizard who dares look upon you. Hogwarts must remember who we are.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the hall. Anya’s eyes lit up as she whispered to Damon, “He wants a spectacle.”

Damon smirked. “Good. I like spectacles.”

Harry folded his arms, quietly observing. He had seen Dumbledore’s theatrics at Hogwarts before. Clearly, Karkaroff wanted to outdo him.


One of the seventh-years raised his wand. “Highmaster, perhaps we should use powder charms—enchant our boots to send sparks with each step. It will make our march down the grounds look like a trail of fire.”

Karkaroff nodded slowly. “Not bad. Intimidating. Yes.”

Another suggested, “What if we conjured a massive banner of flame? A phoenix, perhaps—rising as we step ashore.”

That caused a stir. A phoenix was a potent symbol, tied to rebirth, victory, and strength. Some students whispered in excitement; others frowned at the risk of invoking Dumbledore’s association with Fawkes.

“Fiery phoenix,” Karkaroff repeated, his eyes gleaming. “Yes… let the English see we are not afraid to challenge their myths.”


Soon, the Dragons were lined up in neat rows, instructed to practice their march. Karkaroff paced before them, barking orders.

“Straight backs! Shoulders square! Walk as though you own the very ground beneath your boots!”

Sparks hissed and burst beneath their enchanted shoes, golden and crimson trails lighting the polished floor. Damon laughed as his steps set off a spray of sparks. “Feels like I’m walking on fireworks!”

Harry shook his head, but when he tested the charm, he admitted silently it looked impressive.

“Again!” Karkaroff thundered. “You will not slouch like schoolchildren. You are Dragons!”

The students repeated their entrance, timing their strides, synchronizing wand gestures that would release the fiery phoenix when they reached the imagined gates of Hogwarts. As the flames coalesced into a shimmering bird that spread its wings, the hall filled with gasps of awe.


At last, Karkaroff raised his hand for silence. His gaze swept over them before landing on Viktor Krum.

“And when all eyes are upon you,” Karkaroff said with a sly smile, “we reveal our greatest weapon. Viktor Krum. International Quidditch star. Champion of Bulgaria. You will step forward last, Viktor, and Hogwarts will see what glory Durmstrang sends to claim their cup.”

The students clapped, some with genuine admiration, others with jealousy thinly veiled.

Victor shifted uneasily, muttering, “I am not a show pony.”

Harry smirked. “You’ll live. Just don’t trip on the sparks.”

Even Anya laughed at that.


Karkaroff lifted his arms, his robe sleeves billowing. “Remember this, Dragons. Victory is not simply won on the field of battle. It is won in the hearts of those who watch. When we arrive at Hogwarts, we will not just compete. We will dominate. Dismissed!”

The hall filled with murmurs of excitement as the Dragons broke into groups, rehearsing their steps and refining the conjuration for the phoenix. Harry lingered behind, his mind torn between amusement and unease. He couldn’t deny the spectacle would impress the Hogwarts students—maybe even intimidate them.

But he also knew: the real test wasn’t going to be in the entrance. It would be in the Tournament itself.



The days at sea passed slowly, and yet every hour felt alive with tension. The enchanted ship, gliding silent and unseen beneath the waves, had become both home and stage. Every corridor hummed faintly with the wards Harry himself had strengthened, every room buzzing with energy as the Dragons prepared for what was no longer just a competition—it was a performance, a declaration of their strength to all Europe.

On the fifth day, Harry woke earlier than usual. He had grown used to the rhythm of the ship: the sway beneath his feet, the muffled rush of water outside the enchanted windows. This morning, though, the corridors were already alive with footsteps. When he reached the great hall, he saw the Dragon Class gathering, their expressions sharp with expectation.

Professor Navarro stood at the center of the dueling floor, wand in hand, his dark cloak brushing the floor as he gestured for silence. Beside him, Highmaster Karkaroff sat in a conjured chair of black iron, his thin fingers steepled, his pale face lit only by the flickering enchanted torches.

“Dragons,” Navarro said, his deep voice carrying across the vaulted hall. “We near Britain’s coast. Hogwarts will be in sight within two days’ travel. And so, your Highmaster wishes to see your progress. The intimidation you practiced must not be mere showmanship—it must embody the pride of Durmstrang.”

Karkaroff leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “Hogwarts children,” he said with a sneer, “believe they are the center of the magical world. They play at being warriors, but you…” He extended his arm toward them, his voice rising. “You are Dragons. You will remind them why Durmstrang’s name is whispered with both fear and respect.”

The room filled with a low murmur. Damon, ever the joker, muttered under his breath, “I wonder if we’ll get extra points for frightening the little first-years.” Anya giggled, quickly stifling it when Volkova gave her a sharp look.

“Enough,” Navarro barked. He raised his wand, and a circle of fire roared to life around him, casting everyone’s faces in a flickering orange glow. “Demonstrate. Line by line.”

The students obeyed. First, they marched in formation, sparks shooting from the tips of their staffs instead of their shoes—long rods of enchanted metal each had crafted the previous day. When they struck the ground, the sparks erupted into flares of crimson light, leaving scorched marks on the floor that shimmered like molten gold.

“Again!” Navarro snapped. “Higher steps, slower pace. Intimidation is rhythm. Fear is timing.”

They repeated it, over and over, until the sound of their boots echoed like war drums across the chamber. Harry, at the center of the second row, felt his heartbeat sync with the thudding cadence. He remembered what Grindelwald had once written in his journals: Theatrics is not frivolity—it is war before the first spell is cast.

Then came the phoenix. Volkova conjured it first—a magnificent bird of pure flame that burst from her wand, soaring upward before dissolving into embers. The Dragons gasped, but Karkaroff only raised a brow.

“Bigger,” he ordered coldly. “It must be seen from every corner of their cursed castle.”

Harry exchanged a look with Victor, then stepped forward. He raised his wand, muttered a phrase he had picked from Grindelwald’s notes, and released his magic. A phoenix, brighter than any torch, erupted above them. Its wingspan stretched nearly wall to wall, flames shedding sparks that fell like burning feathers. The bird circled once before landing atop one of the conjured iron braziers, its fire form holding steady, its golden eyes unblinking.

Even Karkaroff leaned back, lips curling into a rare smile. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, that will do. Hogwarts will remember this.”

The phoenix gave a final screech before bursting into sparks that showered the students. For a long moment, silence reigned—until Damon muttered, “Well, if that doesn’t make the British soil themselves, nothing will.”

The room erupted in laughter, easing the heavy tension. Even Navarro smirked, though only slightly.


That evening, Harry retreated to his quarters. The others were still buzzing about the rehearsal, perfecting their movements, polishing their staffs, or gossiping about what awaited them in Hogwarts. Harry sat at his desk, the silver ring in his mismatched eyes catching the lantern light as he opened his journal. He wrote:

Hogwarts. I never thought I would return—not like this. Not as a guest. Not as a rival. I wonder how Hermione will look at me when she sees the boy she kissed under the tree is now marching with fire at his heels.

A knock on the door startled him. It was Victor, leaning against the frame, his usual brooding expression softened.

“You still writing everything down, Weasley?” Victor asked with a grunt.

“Old habit,” Harry replied. He gestured to the chair opposite. “What’s on your mind?”

Victor sat, rubbing his jaw. “The phoenix… it was too good. Too Grindelwald.” He hesitated. “You know they already whisper your name with his.”

Harry leaned back. “Let them whisper. It’s only a show.”

Victor’s dark eyes narrowed. “Is it? Or is it who you are becoming?”

Harry didn’t answer at once. He thought of the ritual scars etched into his skin, the heightened senses, the way spells bent more easily to his will. Finally, he said quietly, “It doesn’t matter who I am becoming. What matters is winning the Cup. For Durmstrang. For us.”

Victor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Just… remember you are not alone.” With that, he rose and left.


The following day, the Dragons gathered once more, this time for a final briefing. Karkaroff paced before them, his black robes trailing like smoke.

“Tomorrow, we rise,” he said, his voice cold and sharp. “Tomorrow, Durmstrang emerges from the depths, and Hogwarts will see that we are not shadows of the past—we are the power of the present. When you walk through their gates, remember who you are. Dragons. And dragons bow to no one.”

A roar of approval echoed in the hall, boots stomping, staffs striking the floor. Harry raised his own staff with the others, the firelight glinting off his silver-ringed eye. For a moment, he felt the weight of it all—the pride of Durmstrang, the fear of Hogwarts, the whispers of Grindelwald echoing in his mind.

Tomorrow, the world would see him again.

And this time, he would not be bullied.