The Tenth Weasley - CH - 118

The Great Hall of Durmstrang buzzed with chatter, the air sharp with the smell of pinewood fires and roasted meats. Harry sat with the other Dragons, their long table closer to the dais than the rest of the school, as was tradition. The moment Highmaster Karkaroff rose from his chair, the hall fell into silence.

“My students,” Karkaroff’s voice carried, smooth and deliberate, “a new era has dawned for Durmstrang. This year, the Triwizard Tournament has been revived. And we—our school, our traditions, our strength—shall take part.”

A ripple of excitement passed through the younger years. Someone in the back cheered. From another corner came a groan, and mutters rose like bees disturbed from their hive.

Karkaroff raised a hand, silencing them. “Only the finest of Durmstrang will represent us. The Dragon Class.”

The announcement hit the hall like a thunderclap. Students at the other tables erupted—some with protests, others with awe.

“That’s unfair!” shouted a burly fifth year from the Elemental Studies table. “What gives them the right—”

“We have earned it,” snapped a girl with platinum-blonde hair at the Dragon table, her voice like a whip crack. She leaned back in her seat, smirking at the noise. “Anyone here think they can beat us? Go on. Duel me. Duel any of us. If you win, you can go in our place.”

The hall went deathly quiet. Harry caught her eye. She was tall, elegant, her grey eyes sharp as daggers. She tilted her head in challenge before flicking her gaze back to the muttering students.

“Volkova,” Viktor Krum muttered under his breath to Harry. “Always looking for a fight.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Seems she’d fit right in.”

A few seats down, a boy with a shock of wild brown hair tapped his quill against his teeth, studying Karkaroff rather than the students. He hadn’t spoken yet, but when Harry glanced his way, the boy gave a crooked smile and whispered, “Imagine the libraries in Hogwarts. Centuries of knowledge waiting. That’s the real prize.”

The girl beside him snorted. She had dark braids coiled neatly against her head and an expression like carved stone. “Always books with you, Richter,” she said flatly. “Try not to get yourself killed reading while we fight.”

Richter grinned at Harry. “See? She worries about me.”

“Do not.” The girl—Anya, Harry remembered hearing earlier—turned her gaze back to Karkaroff.

The Highmaster’s pale eyes swept the Dragons. “You are Durmstrang’s champions. You will bring us honor. The world will see our strength. Do not fail me.”

He dismissed the hall with a wave, but the tension lingered. As benches scraped back and conversations flared, the Dragons clustered together.

The platinum-haired girl—Volkova—leaned over the table toward Harry. “So. The little Weasley boy, who plays with Grindelwald’s tricks… you’ll be coming to Hogwarts with us.”

Harry met her smirk calmly. “ How about a duel then, you can show everyone how little I am.”

She chuckled, sharp and cold. “Good. I’d hate for this trip to be boring.”

Richter’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “This is going to be fun.”

And for the first time since he’d returned, Harry felt the spark of anticipation. Hogwarts, the Triwizard Tournament, and the world watching—this was only the beginning.



That night, the firelight in Harry’s room flickered across the silver-backed mirror as he whispered Hermione’s name. The glass rippled once—then her face appeared, framed by bushy curls and a smile that softened the weariness in his own chest.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice crackled slightly through the enchantment. “I was just about to call you.”

Harry grinned. “Then I saved you the trouble. You’ll never guess what happened here today.”

Hermione tilted her head knowingly. “The Triwizard Tournament?”

Harry blinked. “Wait—you already know?”

“Of course I know,” she said matter-of-factly. “Dumbledore announced it the very first day of term. Everyone’s been talking about it nonstop.”

Harry frowned, leaning closer to the mirror. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

Her cheeks colored faintly. “I didn’t think you’d care! You left Hogwarts, Harry—I thought the last thing you’d want to hear about was a big tournament held here.”

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line before he let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Well, you’re wrong this time. Because I’m coming to Hogwarts.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re—what? Harry, are you serious?”

“I’m not coming back as a Hogwarts student,” he clarified quickly. “I’ll be there as part of Durmstrang. The Dragon Class is going to represent the school in the tournament.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open slightly, then curved into the brightest grin he’d seen in days. “That’s—Harry, that’s incredible! I thought I’d never get to see you here again, not properly.”

His chest warmed at her excitement, though he tried to play it down. “Don’t get too happy. I’ll still be standing with the Dumstrang, not Hogwarts.”

“I don’t care!” she insisted, beaming. “Just seeing you there will be enough.”

Harry chuckled softly, but before he could say more, Hermione’s expression turned wry. “Although you’ll be missing Quidditch. The whole school’s in uproar. The matches were cancelled to make room for the Tournament.”

Harry grimaced. “I can imagine how well that went.”

“You can,” Hermione said dryly. “The Gryffindor team nearly staged a protest. Your brothers—Fred and George—have been whispering about entering the Tournament themselves.”

Harry sighed. “Figures.”

Hermione leaned closer to her mirror, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “And… well, you should probably know. Since you’re not here, a lot of people have been—” She hesitated.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Been what?”

“Trying to ask me out,” she admitted quickly, cheeks pink. “Ever since people heard we’re together, some think I made it up. Others just don’t care. It’s been… frustrating.”

Harry’s grip tightened on the mirror, and his eyes flashed with something darker than jealousy—possessiveness mixed with anger. “Who?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I turned them all down. But—well—you’re not here to scare them off, are you?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “If I were, they wouldn’t dare.”

“Harry,” she said gently, her tone softening. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You don’t need to fight everyone who looks at me.”

He forced himself to breathe, then smirked slightly. “Still… once I’m at Hogwarts, maybe I should make it clear to everyone.”

Hermione groaned. “Oh, honestly…” But she was smiling, her eyes warm even as she shook her head.

The conversation shifted after that, Hermione peppering him with questions about Durmstrang—what the castle looked like in winter, whether the lakes really froze solid, what the new Dragon Class students were like. Harry, in turn, asked about Hogwarts gossip: Neville’s improvements in Herbology, Ginny’s latest dueling club antics, and whether the mini-Marauders had been caught after their last prank.

By the time they finally said goodnight, Harry’s heart felt lighter. For the first time in a long while, Hogwarts wasn’t just a memory he’d abandoned—it was a place he was going to walk again. Only this time, not as a boy lost in the shadows of others, but as a Dragon with fire in his veins.



Harry had honestly thought Viktor wouldn’t come to Hogwarts. With the national team’s schedule, with training camps and practices that swallowed entire months, Viktor was always too busy. That’s what Harry told himself, and for a while, he believed it.

But one evening in the Durmstrang common hall, Viktor Krum himself sought him out. His broad shoulders were slumped a little, his face set in the same brooding expression he often wore, but his eyes carried a sharpness Harry hadn’t seen in weeks.

“You’re coming?” Harry asked, surprise flickering across his face.

Viktor gave a short, humorless laugh. “Da. I come. Durmstrang goes to Hogwarts, I come.”

Harry tilted his head. “What about the national team? You said you’d be buried in practices after the World Cup.”

For a moment, Viktor didn’t answer. He leaned back against the stone wall, arms folded, looking more like a sulking dragon than a Quidditch star. Then he said flatly:

“Team blames me. All of them. For catching snitch too early. They say if I had waited, if I had let Ireland score more… we could win. But what was I supposed to do? Let their seeker take it?”

Harry frowned. “They’re just bitter. You gave them a chance to save face. If you hadn’t caught it, Ireland would have trounced you even worse.”

Viktor nodded slowly. “I know. But logic does not matter when pride is wounded. They start… little things.”

“Little things?” Harry pressed.

“Pranks. Mocking. Cold shoulders. You play long enough, you see it,” Viktor muttered, his accent thicker when he was angry. “But it gets worse. They push. They whisper. Even coach turns blind eye. Is no team anymore—just wolves circling.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “So you left.”

Viktor’s lips twitched into something like a smirk. “Da. Let them play one year without me. Let them see how easy it is to fly without Krum. Then, when they crawl back, maybe they learn respect.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “You sound like Fred and George. Quit to make them suffer.”

“Not suffer,” Viktor corrected, his eyes gleaming. “Learn.” He straightened, his usual confidence returning with each word. “Besides, Triwizard Tournament is bigger than World Cup. Whole Europe watches. If I win… Bulgaria will forgive quick enough.”

Harry’s expression softened. He hadn’t realized how much weight Viktor carried beneath his gruff exterior—the pressure of a whole country’s expectations, the loneliness of being both a hero and a scapegoat.

“Well,” Harry said finally, clapping him on the shoulder, “I’m glad you’re coming. Hogwarts won’t know what hit them with Durmstrang’s Dragons stepping onto their grounds.”

Viktor gave a rare smile, small but genuine. “Da. We go together. And we show them what Dragons are made of.”


The following morning, the Dragon Class gathered in their chamber. The long, stone-walled room was alive with hushed conversation until the heavy doors swung open and Professor Navarro strode inside, his dueling cloak swishing behind him. His sharp eyes swept the twenty students until silence fell.

“Listen carefully,” Navarro began, his voice ringing against the vaulted ceiling. “This year, the Triwizard Tournament returns. Durmstrang will stand proud among the other schools. High Master Karkaroff has chosen the Dragon Class as our representatives. Only I and the High Master will accompany you.”

There was a ripple of murmurs, some excited, some uneasy. Navarro raised a hand for silence.

“That means one thing—you will have no other professors at Hogwarts. No hand-holding. No lectures. The rest of the year’s learning falls on your shoulders. Self-study.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Viktor, who gave a small shrug as if to say, we knew this was coming.

Navarro continued, “You are Dragons. The elite. You have already proven your ability to think, to fight, to study without anyone pushing you. That is why this responsibility falls on you.”

A tall seventh-year named Mikhail leaned forward in his seat. “So what do we take with us? The Tournament will dominate the school year—what about our NEWTs?”

Navarro’s expression softened slightly. “That is why today, you will go to the library. Choose the volumes you will need to carry you through the year. Plan your studies wisely. Hogwarts’ library is vast, yes, but it is not ours. There are books we keep that no one else has.”

A buzz of excitement filled the room. The Durmstrang library was smaller than Hogwarts’ but far more dangerous, filled with rare tomes and ancient works that had never been translated into English.

Harry raised his hand. “Professor, may we take as many as we like?”

Navarro’s lips curled into a thin smile. “You may take what you can defend. Librarian Sorokin will not make it easy for you. Some books refuse to leave their shelves without a duel of wits… or will.”

Several students chuckled nervously.

“All right,” Navarro said, clapping his hands. “Go. Arm yourselves with knowledge. When we set foot in Hogwarts, I expect each of you to carry Durmstrang’s pride with you.”


The Dragon Class marched together to the great library. Dark wooden shelves stretched high above, ladders sliding along enchanted rails. The air smelled of ink, parchment, and faint smoke from the ever-burning lamps.

“Remember,” Harry whispered to a group of sixth-years clustered around him, “choose books that will last you a year. Think about your weaknesses. Don’t just grab anything that looks impressive.”

One boy muttered, “Easy for you to say. You’re top rank.”

Harry ignored it, focusing instead on the shelves glowing faintly with warding runes. He reached for a thick tome labeled Advanced Ritual Architecture. The moment his hand brushed the spine, the book snapped shut with a clap like thunder. Harry smirked, murmured a counter-rune Grindelwald himself once described in his journals, and the wards fizzled. The book fell willingly into his hands.

Elsewhere, a group of seventh-years wrestled with an alchemy text that spat sparks every time someone touched it. Viktor, meanwhile, quietly pulled a heavy Quidditch strategy manual from a shelf and muttered, “For balance. Not everything is spells.”

By the time the bell tolled, each Dragon had a small pile of chosen books—defensive spell compendiums, obscure ritual guides, treatises on magical theory, and a handful of hex-breaking manuals.

As they left, Harry glanced back at the towering shelves, excitement thrumming in his veins. Hogwarts won’t know what’s coming, he thought.