The Tenth Weasley - CH - 119

The chill of Durmstrang’s stone corridors pressed in on Harry as he descended deeper into the school than any ordinary student would ever dare to go. His boots echoed on the steps, each hollow thud swallowed quickly by the damp air. At last, he came to the great stone wall at the far end of the basement: the Vault of the Highmasters.

The runes across its surface shimmered faintly, like veins of molten gold, pulsing with protective magic. Harry drew a long breath, set down his satchel, and unfurled his notes. The pages were littered with diagrams, translations, and rune sequences he had been scratching at for months.

“This thing doesn’t want to be opened,” Harry muttered to himself, tapping his quill against the parchment. “Thirty layers of wards—some blood, some bone, some old Durmstrang binding spells.”

As though summoned by his words, footsteps echoed in the hallway behind him. High Master Igor Karkaroff swept into the chamber, his fur-lined cloak trailing across the floor. His eyes gleamed with curiosity as he watched Harry standing before the vault.

“You’re here again, young Weasley,” Igor said smoothly, folding his hands behind his back. “I told you before—you’re wasting your time.”

Harry didn’t look away from the wall. “And I told you, I’m not wasting anything. Every time I work at this, I learn something new. Even if I don’t open it this year, I’ll be closer.”

Karkaroff gave a sharp, almost amused chuckle. “You remind me of myself when I was your age. Stubborn. Hungry for secrets. But this vault…” He gestured toward the ancient wall. “It was sealed by generations of Highmasters. Each one added his own protections. It’s not meant to be unsealed easily.”

Harry finally turned, his mismatched eyes catching the light. “Then why tell me about it at all, Highmaster? If you really thought it was impossible.”

For a moment, Karkaroff’s expression wavered. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Because you are not like the others. You’ve walked paths most wizards your age would never dare. Dark rituals, runes, the sort of studies even Dumstrang fears. If anyone could unravel this web, perhaps it would be you. And if you succeed… then both of us will profit.”

Harry smirked faintly, returning his gaze to the vault. “Then let me not waste my time.”

Karkaroff studied him for a long moment before sighing. “Very well. But do not let it consume you. Hogwarts awaits, and the Triwizard Tournament will demand every ounce of your strength. Do not forget that.”

With a swirl of his cloak, the Highmaster left, leaving Harry once more in silence before the vault.


Harry knelt, tracing the outer ring of symbols with his wand tip. Sparks hissed where wood met stone.

“Blood wards… keyed to the Castle's main wardstone,” he whispered. “And beneath that, a reflection ward. Any wrong attempt, it mirrors the curse back.”

He set his jaw and began dismantling the sixth ring of enchantments, murmuring counter-runes under his breath. A cold sweat broke across his forehead as invisible pressure pressed down on him. His wand hand trembled.

The first layer gave way with a dull pulse, like a heartbeat. Harry staggered back, breathing heavily.

“Eight down. Twenty-two more to go.” He gave a short laugh that sounded half-mad in the empty chamber.

Still, he pressed on—sketching, testing, recording. Each visit left him drained, sometimes even stumbling back to his dormitory half-conscious. But each visit also brought him closer, one ward at a time.

Harry knew, deep in his bones, that this vault held something more than dusty books and trinkets. It was the legacy of Durmstrang’s leaders. And if he could crack it, he wouldn’t just be a Dragon. He would be the one who outwitted centuries of the greatest minds in the school’s history.



Harry sat at the long, oak table of the Durmstrang dining hall, a plate of steaming buckwheat porridge before him, dotted with sour berries and thick cream. Platters of rye bread, smoked fish, and boiled eggs filled the hall with their hearty smell. He had grown used to this fare, so different from Hogwarts’ feasts, yet now he found the simplicity grounding. He didn’t even miss treacle tart or pumpkin pasties anymore.

He had just raised a slice of buttered rye to his mouth when Anya’s voice cut through the noise of clinking cutlery.

“Harry! Come quickly!”

Harry glanced up, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Can it wait until I’ve finished? I’ve barely touched this.”

“No,” Anya said firmly, tugging at his sleeve. Her blonde braid swung as she leaned down. “You’ll regret it if you don’t come now.”

With a sigh, Harry pushed his plate away. “Fine, fine. This better not be about some snow hare loose in the kitchens again.”

Anya only smirked and tugged harder. “Just come.”


They hurried out of the castle and down the stone steps toward the shoreline, their boots crunching over gravel paths. The icy wind from the sea stung Harry’s cheeks, but he quickly noticed he wasn’t the only one braving the cold. Dozens of students streamed toward the coast, their voices buzzing with excitement.

When Harry reached the rocky cliffs overlooking the harbor, he finally understood why.

A massive galleon floated in the dark waters below, its black sails furled, its deck gleaming with frost. Runes carved along the hull pulsed faintly, a reminder of the magic that carried it across oceans. Harry knew it well—it was the Durmstrang ship, the same that had ferried him across seas when he first joined.

But beside it was something new. A smaller ship, sleek and narrow, its sides polished like obsidian. It lacked the grandeur of the galleon, but its design suggested speed and discretion. Its single mast bore the sigil of Durmstrang, though much smaller than the banners on the larger vessel.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, narrowing his mismatched eyes at the newcomer.

“That,” Anya said with a grin, “is ours.”

Harry turned to her. “Ours?”

“The Dragon Class’s,” she clarified. “That’s the ship we’ll take to Hogwarts.”

Harry blinked. “What about the galleon? Isn’t that what Durmstrang always uses?”

Anya folded her arms smugly, enjoying his confusion. “The galleon needs to stay here. It has to carry the younger years home for the holidays, ferry new students, and it’s too big just for twenty Dragons. We’re all they’re sending to Hogwarts, remember? We don’t need half a fleet.”

Harry’s lips curved into a slow smile. “So we’re getting our own private ship.”

“Exactly.”


Around them, the students whispered, pointing eagerly at the sleek craft below. Some marveled at the craftsmanship, others speculated about the enchantments placed upon it. Harry noticed a few envious glares thrown their way—the Dragon Class always had privileges, but this was on another level.

“You realize,” Anya said softly, leaning close so only Harry could hear, “when we sail that ship into Hogwarts’ harbor, every student there will know the Dragons have arrived.”

Harry’s eyes lingered on the black sails of their new vessel. His stomach tightened—not from nerves, but anticipation. “ I don't care what Hogwarts students think,” he murmured.



Professor Navarro stood at the dock with his arms folded, his sharp eyes moving from one Dragon student to another. Behind him, the sleek ship bobbed gently in the water, its mast reaching high into the misty sky.

“This,” Navarro declared, his voice carrying easily over the waves, “will be your home for the year. Hogwarts may be hosting the Tournament, but you are Dragons. That means you will represent Durmstrang not just in the competition, but in your bearing, your study, and your discipline. If you are to live upon this vessel, you will make it worthy of Dragons.”

A murmur spread through the group. Some students exchanged uncertain glances, while others looked eager.

Navarro’s eyes narrowed. “This ship is bare inside—walls, decks, and little else. You will enchant it yourselves. Expand it. Ward it. Make it into something that reflects the prestige of the Dragon Class. Ten days. That is the time you have.”

Harry stepped forward, a quiet confidence in his stance. “I’ll lead it, sir.”

Navarro raised a brow. “You, Weasley?”

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. “I’ve done expansions before. Magical rooms, wards, enchantments. I know the theory, and I can anchor the framework. Everyone else can help build on it. Together, we’ll have more than just a ship—we’ll have a palace.”

A ripple of approval moved through the students. Victor gave Harry a small nod, and even the usually aloof Anya smirked in agreement.

“Very well,” Navarro said after a pause. “Show me what you can do.”


For ten days the Dragons worked tirelessly, wands flashing, voices chanting, magic humming in the salty air.

The first night, Harry drew runic frameworks across the ship’s wooden floors, carving intricate patterns of expansion into the planks. He anchored them with blood and magic both, the way Bill's journals had taught him, though he kept that detail to himself.

“Stabilize the wards at the corner beams,” Harry instructed, sweat beading at his brow. “If the expansion isn’t anchored, the ship will tear itself apart in the waves.”

“Yes, Commander,” muttered Viktor with a smirk, but he followed Harry’s directions without question, bracing the starboard beam with a strengthening charm.

Volkova rolled her eyes but worked diligently. “You’re lucky I respect results more than orders, Harry.”

By the third day, the interior no longer resembled a cramped hull but a wide corridor stretching into impossible distance. Doorways appeared where there had been none, leading into freshly expanded rooms.

“We need thirty bedrooms,” Harry announced, checking his notes. “And each one with attached bathrooms. We’ll rotate teams for transfiguring the furniture. I want comfort, not bare bunks.”

On the fifth day, the library took shape. Shelves stretched ceiling-high, enchanted to adjust to the size of whatever book was placed upon them. Alfonzo muttered happily as he tested the shelving charms, while Ingrid laid wards to protect against fire and water damage.

“Feels like a palace already,” one of the sixth-years whispered, awestruck as he walked through the growing ship.


By the eighth day, the kitchen gleamed with polished counters, enchanted ovens, and a massive icebox that replenished itself with fresh supplies. A dining hall large enough to seat fifty shimmered with enchanted chandeliers that glowed soft gold at meal times.

On the ninth, Harry and Anya worked side by side to weave wards into the hull—protection against curses, hexes, and even elemental storms. The glow of their magic made the wood hum like a living thing.

On the final day, the Dragons added the last of the facilities: a dueling arena with enchanted wards to contain spells, an alchemy lab with self-cleaning cauldrons, and even a potion-brewing wing with shelves lined in crystal jars.

When it was done, Navarro returned to inspect. His sharp eyes softened just a fraction as he stepped through the transformed corridors.

“A palace,” he murmured, running a hand over the polished banister. “You’ve built a palace on the sea.”

Harry, exhausted but proud, exchanged grins with his classmates. For the first time, they all felt truly united—not just as individuals, but as Dragons.



The morning sky over the Durmstrang island was cold and pale, streaked with wisps of silver mist. Inside the great hall, the long tables had been cleared of books and scrolls to make room for a feast in honor of the Dragons’ departure. The aroma of smoked fish, roasted venison, and thick rye bread filled the chamber.

At the head table, Highmaster Igor Karkaroff rose, his sweeping black robes lined with silver embroidery. His thin smile curled as his voice rang out, commanding every eye to turn toward him.

“Today,” Karkaroff declared, “our Dragons leave Durmstrang not merely as students, but as champions. The Triwizard Tournament is no small affair—it is a stage where the greatest schools in Europe prove their strength. And mark my words—” he lifted a goblet high, “—it shall be Durmstrang that brings the Cup home!”

The younger years broke into cheers, some standing on benches to wave and clap. A group of second years rushed forward when the speech ended, tugging nervously at the sleeves of the Dragon Class students.

“You’ll win, won’t you?” a boy asked, wide-eyed.

“We’ll crush them,” muttered one of the Dragons confidently.

Harry gave a small smile and simply nodded. He felt the weight of every expectant look, though inside his chest beat a fierce, steady determination.

Professor Navarro, standing tall beside Karkaroff, added in his gravelly voice: “Remember—every one of you Dragons represents Durmstrang’s strength and discipline. You are not going to Hogwarts to play. You are going to conquer.”


After breakfast, Karkaroff led the Dragons outside, his fur cloak sweeping the icy stones of the courtyard. Waiting professors and students crowded the steps.

“While I am away,” Karkaroff said, his tone formal, “the duties of Highmaster fall to Professor Garcia.”

A man with iron-grey hair and kind but shrewd eyes stepped forward. Garcia, the History of Magic professor, bowed slightly. “I will guard the honor of this school in your stead, Highmaster.”

The students broke into applause, though some whispered in surprise. Harry had only ever seen Garcia with ink stains on his cuffs, recounting battles and treaties with dry precision. Yet today, the man seemed steady as stone—no wonder Karkaroff trusted him.


Down at the frozen shore, two ships awaited. One was the colossal galleon that carried Durmstrang’s regular students to and from their homelands. Its sails were furled, its size so immense that even the cliffs seemed smaller beside it. But beside it floated the new ship—a smaller vessel, sleek and dark, the one Harry and the Dragons had spent ten days transforming into a palace.

“Dragons!” Navarro barked. “Board!”

One by one, they crossed the gangplank, trunks hovering in neat lines behind them. From the shore, the younger students shouted farewells, waving scarves in Durmstrang’s crimson and black.

Victor leaned toward Harry with a grin. “Feels strange, da? Everyone watching us like we are heroes.”

Harry smirked. “Then we’d better live up to it.”

Once all twenty Dragons and the two professors were aboard, the crew sealed the hatches.


Harry stood at the railing as the last shouts of farewell echoed across the water. Then, with a deep groan that seemed to rise from the ocean itself, the ship moved. It glided forward, leaving the icy dock behind.

The waves grew higher, mist curling around them. And then, with a shudder, the vessel plunged downward.

Gasps rippled among the younger Dragons. The world outside turned to shimmering blue-green as the ship sank beneath the waves. Seaweed drifted past the enchanted glass panes, and schools of silver fish darted like streaks of light.

Inside, however, the Dragons were calm. They had built this ship, strengthened every beam and rune. It did not creak or groan. Instead, it moved like a predator of the deep, swift and sure.

Harry let out a long breath, feeling the hum of protective wards under his palm as he touched the polished wood. Hogwarts awaited. And this time, he would not be arriving as the abandoned boy or the dark rumor. He was coming as a Dragon.