The Tenth Weasley - CH - 117

The morning following the Quidditch World Cup was bleak. The sun barely illuminated Britain as the wizarding community awoke not to festivities but to anxiety.

The Daily Prophet boldly proclaimed on its front page:

“THE DARK MARK RETURNS: IS HE BACK?”

Beneath this headline was a moving image of the ominous green skull and serpent hovering above the campsite. The accompanying article was filled with frantic theories, with some suggesting it was merely a prank, while others insisted Voldemort was back. Most readers, especially those too young to remember the first conflict, were gripped by fear at the sight.

At Weasley Manor, breakfast was somber. Molly, with a worried expression, wrung her hands, while Arthur scrutinized the newspaper with a frown. Nearby, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Ron listened intently as Fred and George exchanged anxious looks.

“It’s just a mark,” Fred finally spoke, though his tone lacked its usual certainty. “It doesn’t mean he’s back, right?”

Arthur set down the paper. “Fred… during the last war, the Dark Mark was always cast for a reason. It was a symbol—a message. Death Eaters only conjured it after committing murder.”

Hermione grew pale. “But nobody died last night… did they?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, thanks to those who acted quickly.” He briefly glanced at Harry without elaborating.

Ginny’s concern was visible. “Harry saved that Muggle family. I read about it in the Prophet—they mentioned unnamed students who fought back.”

Harry shifted uneasily, uncomfortable with all the attention. “It wasn’t just me,” he mumbled. “Sonja, Viktor, and Louis helped. We couldn’t just stand by.”


Before Arthur could reply, the fireplace erupted with green flames, and Sirius Black emerged, his usual confidence overshadowed by tension, followed closely by Remus Lupin, who looked exhausted.

“Any news?” Molly asked urgently, rising from her seat.

Sirius offered a grim smile. “Depends on how you define news. The Ministry arrested several masked individuals last night. They were all… well-known names.”

Arthur's frown deepened. “Who?”

“Selwyn. Rosier. Avery. Nott,” Remus stated quietly. “All from old families—Death Eaters from the last war.”

“They should already be in Azkaban!” Molly gasped.

“They claimed they were under the Imperius Curse,” Sirius said bitterly, pacing the room. “They all insisted they were controlled. Unsurprisingly, the Wizengamot released them this morning due to political pressures and bribery.”

The twins slammed their fists on the table in unison. “That’s outrageous!” George exclaimed. “They terrorized families last night! We witnessed the fires!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sirius replied, his grey eyes flashing. “Some names are invulnerable. Pureblood wealth keeps them safe. Just like always.”

Harry clenched his jaw, his hand forming a fist on the table. “So they get away with it again.”

Hermione placed her hand over his and whispered, “Harry, don’t—”

But Harry’s voice rose, infused with anger. “They attacked innocent people! They would have killed that family if we hadn’t intervened. And now they’re free because of politics?”

Arthur took a slow breath. “That’s the reality, son. The Ministry fears what the name ‘Voldemort’ evokes in people. They want to quell the panic, so they choose to hold no one accountable.”

Harry's eyes burned with rage, the peculiar silver ring in his gaze shimmering in the morning light. “If the Ministry won’t handle it, then someone else will.”

Silence enveloped the room. Even Sirius and Remus exchanged worried glances. Hermione tightened her grip on Harry’s hand.

“Harry,” Remus said softly, “don’t go down that path. I understand your anger—we all do. But the last person who took justice into his own hands was Gellert Grindelwald.”

That comparison struck Harry hard. For a moment, no one spoke. Yet, deep down, Harry couldn't ignore that part of him admired Grindelwald’s conviction, his refusal to submit to feeble politics.

Clearing his throat, Arthur shifted topics. “For now, we should keep a low profile. Hogwarts will open soon, as will Durmstrang. Life must continue. But mark my words—” he tapped the newspaper, “—this Dark Mark signifies something. We’d be foolish to believe last night was the end.”


As summer drifted by faster than Harry anticipated, he found himself caught up in the whirlwind of Bill's wedding, Hermione’s visits, the Quidditch World Cup chaos, and quiet evenings at the Manor. Before he knew it, summer was concluding, and it was time to depart again.

Harry stood in the Granger’s living room with Hermione clinging to his arm. Her parents hovered nearby, trying not to intrude, though Mrs. Granger wore a nostalgic smile.

“Make sure you call me every day,” Hermione insisted, her brown eyes intense.

“I promise,” Harry replied, grinning slightly. “Though I might annoy you after a week.”

Hermione huffed. “Not a chance.” She pulled him into a hug, whispering in his ear, “Be cautious, Harry. I’m uneasy about how things are unfolding in the magical world.”

Harry squeezed her hand. “Danger lurks everywhere, Hermione. At least in Durmstrang, I can confront it directly.”

Mr. Granger spoke, clearing his throat. “Safe travels, Harry. You’re always welcome here.”

Harry nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”

He stepped back, shot Hermione one last glance, then summoned the Knight Bus back to his manor.


At Weasley Manor, Arthur and Molly awaited him. The sky bore the first signs of autumn, and the orchard behind the house swayed gently. Harry embraced Molly, who fussed over his cloak and hair before letting him go.

Arthur pulled him aside at the gate, his tone serious. “Harry,” he said, “enjoy your time at Durmstrang. But… prepare yourself. You might be back in Britain sooner than you think.”

Harry looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Arthur shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sometimes plans change. Just remember—you may face situations even if you’re not ready for them.”

Harry frowned, feeling a sense of unease, but he didn't inquire further. If his father kept quiet, there must have been a reason. Yet, Arthur’s words lingered in his mind like a shadow.

The Portkey whisked him away to France, where a bustling magical station was filled with Durmstrang students. Well-dressed families exchanged farewells as French witches and wizards embraced their children. With his trunk over his shoulder, Harry maneuvered through the crowd. Some stared, his mismatched eyes still drawing attention, but no one dared approach him.

He boarded the enchanted ship bound for Durmstrang, the vessel foreboding and enormous, adorned with a dragon-shaped figurehead. Once the gangplank was raised, the ship glided silently below the surface, operating like a submarine.

Inside, the familiar chill of the northern journey permeated his body. Students gathered on the decks and in the common rooms, laughing and sharing recent experiences. Harry leaned against the railing, watching bubbles rise in the dark waters through the enchanted windows. His heart felt heavy—Sonja, Louis, Marek, Ingrid, Antonin… all were gone or graduated. Only Viktor remained, and even he was busy with Quidditch.

“Durmstrang will be different this year,” Harry whispered to himself.

He adjusted his trunk, squared his shoulders, ready to face whatever lay ahead in the frozen North while Arthur’s words echoed in his mind like an unresolved puzzle.

You’ll be back sooner than you expect.


The Durmstrang ship surged through icy waters, the deck tilting until the cold northern winds struck Harry’s face again. The castle’s black spires pierced through the frozen cliffs, evoking a mix of nostalgia and anticipation. He had left as a boy surrounded by a close group of older friends; now he returned alone, laden with secrets, victories, and powers he questioned whether he should possess.

Upon disembarking from the ship, a group of professors awaited at the grand stone steps. To his surprise, they greeted him warmly, far more than he had expected.

“Ah, our youngest Dragon returns,” said Professor Navarro with a smile, patting Harry on the shoulder. “And not just the youngest—but ranked first. Truly impressive, Harry.”

Professor Guldenhavn, the Runic and Ward expert, gave a rare nod of approval. “Even in Durmstrang’s storied history, few can claim such an achievement.”

Feeling a bit uncomfortable under the attention, Harry replied, “I just put in the effort, sir.”

“Put in the effort, he says,” Navarro chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve managed to make professors twice your age feel old.”

Inside the grand entrance hall, Viktor Krum awaited, easily identifiable among the other students. His face brightened at the sight of Harry.

“Harry!” Viktor approached him, embracing him in a quick hug. “Finally! I was starting to think you would change your mind about returning.”

Harry smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it. Still, with your hectic Quidditch schedule, I wasn't sure you’d be here.”

Viktor laughed and shrugged. “Practice, traveling, and always Quidditch. But Dragon class is Dragon class—I make time.”

They walked side by side into the inner halls. This year, the Dragon class common chamber buzzed with excitement. The heavy iron doors creaked open to reveal twenty students gathered beneath the carved dragon skull hanging overhead. Some were familiar faces from last year—students he had trained and fought alongside. The majority were newcomers, however.

Of the twenty, fourteen were fresh sixth and seventh years who had earned their place in the Dragons after years of hard work. Their robes were crisp, their expressions eager, and many glanced at Harry as he entered.

Whispers began to circulate: That’s him… Harry Weasley… the youngest Dragon ever… the one from the tournament… the shadow of Grindelwald…

Professor Navarro raised his voice to command silence. “Dragons! This year’s lineup consists of sixth and seventh years only, as tradition dictates. We have five sixth-years and fifteen seventh-years. Fourteen of you are new to this chamber. You will learn what it means to bear the name Dragon.” He gestured toward Harry. “And you already know our youngest, ranked first, Harry Weasley.”

A tall seventh-year girl with dark hair stepped forward, extending her hand. “Katarina, from Serbia. I've heard a lot about you. I hope the rumors are at least partially true.”

Harry shook her hand firmly. “Depends on which rumors.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

Viktor leaned closer, whispering, “They’re apprehensive about you, Harry. Everyone saw the newspapers. They think you’re Grindelwald reborn.”

Harry frowned. “Wonderful. Just what I needed.”

Navarro cleared his throat. “Enough chatter. Veterans, you will show the newcomers around the Dragon wing. Harry, Viktor—lead the way. Demonstrate where we work and train, and remind them of the standards they must maintain.”

“Of course, Professor,” Viktor replied respectfully.

As they moved, Harry found himself surrounded by curious gazes. The new Dragons bombarded him with questions.

“Did you really fight a basilisk at Hogwarts?” one gasped.
“I heard you and your class captured ten poachers on your own?” another piped up.
“Do you duel like Grindelwald?” whispered a third, half in awe, half in fear.

Harry exhaled but maintained his composure. “Some of it's true. Some is exaggeration. But what really matters now isn't what I accomplished last year—it's what we do together this year.”

This earned him nods of approval. Sonja would have been proud of that response, he thought.

As they navigated the long corridors adorned with carved dragons and flickering torches, Harry felt a shift within him. His old circle of friends may have vanished, but a new generation stood before him, perceiving him not merely as a peer but as a leader. Whether he desired it or not, that mantle was now his.


The formidable oak doors of the Highmaster’s office creaked open as Harry entered. The chamber was illuminated by tall candelabras, their flames dancing amidst the draft creeping through the stone walls. Highmaster Igor Karkaroff rose from his imposing chair, his silver hair glinting in the firelight.

“Harry, my boy!” Karkaroff spread his arms wide, his long sleeves cascading like curtains. His tone was unusually warm, even affectionate. “Come in! How was your summer?”

Harry smiled faintly as he closed the door behind him. He had grown accustomed to the Highmaster’s theatrics and, unlike many students, he no longer found Karkaroff intimidating. “It was… good,” Harry answered simply, moving closer. “Busy, of course. My family had weddings, guests, and the Quidditch World Cup to manage. But I managed.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Karkaroff motioned for Harry to sit. “I see you’ve grown taller and stronger. Durmstrang breeds warriors.”

Harry settled into the chair, resting his hands on its intricately carved arms. His mismatched eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “Highmaster, I came to inform you that I will crack the hidden vault this year. I couldn’t finish the job last term, but this time I will succeed.”

Karkaroff leaned closer, his long fingers steepled together. His smile widened, yet his eyes gleamed with a cunning light. “Ah, yes. The vault. You’ve already proven yourself the finest ward-breaker of your generation, Harry. But this year… there is another matter.”

Harry tilted his head. “Another matter?”

Karkaroff nodded solemnly. “Britain has reintroduced the Triwizard Tournament. A perilous but glorious contest. Durmstrang will send a delegation. I have decided that only the Dragon Class will participate. You are the pride of this school, the best of the best, and with minimal oversight, you can hold your own. If Durmstrang is to triumph, it must be through you.”

Now Harry understood his father's earlier hints about returning to Britain sooner than expected.

“So it’s Hogwarts then,” Harry said slowly, leaning back in his chair. “And Professor Navarro will accompany us?”

“Yes,” Karkaroff affirmed. “Navarro and I will join you. Together, we’ll demonstrate to the other schools what Durmstrang is capable of.”

“I'll prepare,” Harry replied.

Karkaroff's smile faltered. “Do so, Harry Weasley. Britain may think they know who you are, but this year… the world will learn the truth.”