The Tenth Weasley - CH - 116

The lanterns around the Bulgarian tent sputtered low as most of the crowds had already dispersed to their own camps. Harry, Sonja, and Louis lingered, still wanting to spend a little more time with Viktor Krum before the night ended. The air was thick with the tang of smoke and fireworks, but the mood in the Bulgarian camp was anything but celebratory.

Inside, the players sat slumped on benches, voices sharp and angry.

“You cost us the Cup, Viktor!” snapped Dimitrov, his face flushed as he tossed a towel to the ground. “If you’d held off—just a few more minutes—we could have closed the gap!”

Ivanova shook her head, scowling. “Ten points! Ten! That’s nothing! Another couple of goals and—”

Viktor stood stiffly, his jaw tight. “Another couple of goals?” His voice, low and gravelly, cut across the mutters. “You were not scoring. Ireland was faster, tighter. If Lynch caught the Snitch before me, we lose by three hundred points instead of ten. That would have been humiliation.”

The room fell silent for a heartbeat, then Volkov slammed his fist on the table. “Excuses!”

Harry, standing quietly near the entrance with Sonja and Louis, felt the weight of the players’ bitterness. Sonja crossed her arms. “He’s right. Ireland controlled the Quaffle. You barely touched it after the first ten minutes. Don’t blame him for making the only choice left.”

Her words made several heads snap in her direction. Louis raised his camera protectively, as if expecting sparks.

Dimitrov sneered. “And who are you to lecture us? Some schoolgirl duelist?”

Harry stepped forward, his mismatched eyes glinting in the lamplight. “She’s someone who understands tactics. Viktor caught the Snitch at the only time it made sense. You don’t want to admit it, but you were outplayed by the Irish Chasers. Blame that, not him.”

The tension crackled. For a moment, Harry thought Dimitrov would rise and throw a punch. But Viktor lifted a hand, silencing them all.

“Enough,” Viktor said quietly. “They can talk all they like. I know what I did, and I stand by it.” He turned to Harry, Sonja, and Louis, his expression softening. “Come. We talk outside.”


The cool night air was a relief after the heavy atmosphere inside. The sounds of singing and fireworks still carried from the Irish camps, green sparks painting the sky. Viktor walked slowly, his shoulders heavy with more than the weight of the game.

“They’ll forgive you eventually,” Sonja said. “They’re angry now, but history will remember you caught the Snitch, not that they fumbled goal after goal.”

Viktor gave a wry half-smile. “History is not so kind. They will remember I lost the Cup.”

Harry shook his head. “No. They’ll remember you dived headfirst into the ground, pulled off a Wronski Feint, and still caught the Snitch with a broken nose. That’s the kind of thing people talk about for decades.”

Louis adjusted his camera strap. “I already know what headline I’d write: ‘The Seeker Who Chose Honor Over Numbers.’”

For the first time that night, Viktor chuckled—short, rough, but real. He clapped Harry’s shoulder. “You always see things differently. Maybe that is why I keep you as friend.”


As they parted ways, Sonja muttered, “Honestly, if those players think they can blame Viktor for everything, they don’t deserve him.”

Harry agreed quietly, glancing back at the Bulgarian camp where muffled arguments still continued. “They’ll realize sooner or later. But tonight… they just need someone to blame.”

Louis nodded. “And Viktor is strong enough to carry it, even if he shouldn’t have to.”

Together, the three of them started toward the darkened rows of tents, the Irish cheers echoing over the fields. Viktor wanted to introduce them to his family—his mother and father, and his older brother. The camp paths glowed faintly with lanterns, laughter drifting from the tents, and the smell of roasted meats and firewhisky carried in the air.

Harry walked a little ahead, his eyes scanning the crowd instinctively, years of training and fighting duels in Durmstrang, and the power from the ritual he performed, had sharpened his senses to something almost unnatural. He could hear the distant scrape of boots on gravel, the uneven pitch of voices.

Then it came—shouting. Screams.

Harry stopped dead, every nerve in his body tightening. That’s not celebration. That’s fear.

“Harry?” Sonja asked sharply.

But Harry had already moved. “Trouble. This way!”

They sprinted down the path, weaving between tents, until they burst into a clearing. Harry’s stomach clenched at the sight.

Fifteen masked witches and wizards—robes black, wands flashing—were firing curses at random tents, igniting canvas, toppling enchanted lanterns. And at the center, a Muggle man and woman, with two terrified children, hung upside down in midair, spinning helplessly while a Death Eater laughed.

The children’s screams cut through the air.

Harry didn’t hesitate. His wand was already in his hand as he surged forward with inhuman speed, faster than the eye could track.

“Reducto!”

The spell slammed into the Death Eater holding the Muggle family, blasting him backward into a tent pole with a sickening crack. At the same time, Harry barked, “Accio!”

The family shot toward him as though pulled by invisible ropes, landing in a heap at his feet. He dropped to one knee and swept his arm around them, conjuring a shimmering silver shield that deflected two stray curses before they could hit.

“Get behind me!” he shouted, not caring that they couldn’t understand. His voice carried enough command that they crawled to safety, eyes wide with terror.

Sonja was beside him now, her wand flashing in tight, practiced arcs. Coracis! Cume Thoden ! Dextera Mortis !” Her voice was steady, her stance unyielding—every bit the dueling master she was becoming.

Viktor roared, charging forward with brute force, blasting curses that sent two Death Eaters sprawling. Louis, though not as battle-hardened, kept his head, snapping pictures even as he flung spells to shield stray curses from hitting bystanders.

The Death Eaters turned their focus to Harry.

“It’s him!” one of them shouted. “The boy with Grindelwald’s eyes!”

Another laughed, voice cruel under the mask. “We’ll see how strong you really are!”

They fired in unison—Bolts of green, red, and purple streaked through the air.

Harry didn’t even flinch. With a flick of his wrist, he cast Grindelwald’s signature defense: a shield charm so dense it shimmered like black glass, catching every curse in its surface. Then, with a twist, he threw the spells back, ricocheting them into the attackers. Two fell screaming as their own curses struck them down.

Sonja’s eyes widened, but she didn’t falter. “Harry—left side!”

He spun, wand already moving, and together they cut through the masked witches and wizards with terrifying precision.

“Terra Motus!” Harry bellowed, blasting three off their feet, the ground erupting beneath them.

“Os Fractus!” Sonja snarled, her curse snapping another Death Eater’s wand arm with a sickening crack.

The clearing became a storm of spellfire. Harry moved like a phantom, dodging, striking, every motion echoing Grindelwald’s ruthless style. He could see every twitch, every wand movement, as if the world moved in slow motion. One by one, the masked attackers fell—stunned, broken, disarmed.

“Merlin’s beard…” Viktor muttered under his breath, watching Harry blast aside a curse that would have taken his head off. “He fights like… like no one I’ve ever seen.”

In less than five minutes, more than half the Death Eaters were on the ground.

The last of them faltered, pulling back, shouting to one another. “Retreat! RETREAT!”

But Harry stepped forward, silver-ringed eyes glinting with cold fury. “You don’t get to run after torturing Muggles.”

He raised his wand, gathering power, ready to unleash something darker—something he had read in Grindelwald’s journals.

“Harry!” Sonja’s voice cut through the haze. She stepped in front of him, eyes fierce. “Don’t. Not like this.”

For a moment, Harry’s chest heaved, his wand trembling. Then, slowly, he lowered it. The fleeing Death Eaters Disapparated into the night with sharp cracks, leaving their fallen behind.

The clearing fell silent, save for the crackle of burning tents and the sobbing of the Muggle family.

Harry turned, crouched low, and spoke softly to the children. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” His voice gentled, the fury draining away. The children clung to him, tears soaking into his robes.

Behind him, Sonja let out a long breath. “That… that was madness. If they were Death Eaters, they’ll spread the story. And if they weren’t…” She shook her head. “Harry, the whole world just saw what you can do.”

Louis finally lowered his camera, his face pale. “And I got every moment of it.” He hesitated. “Harry… do you want me to destroy the film? Because if people see this, they will not call you Harry Weasley. They’ll call you Grindelwald.”

Harry stood, lifting his eyes toward the night sky, where the Irish fireworks still painted streaks of green and gold. His silver-ringed gaze was unreadable.

“They’ll call me what they want,” he said quietly. “But we’ll decide who we really are.”



The Muggle family huddled close, pale with terror. The man’s glasses were broken, his children still whimpering. Louis crouched beside them.

“They’re in shock,” he said softly. “They shouldn’t remember any of this.”

“Leave that to the Ministry,” Harry replied grimly, his silver-ringed eye catching the light. “But if they don’t hurry, these people will die of fear before anyone arrives.”

A sharp crack split the air—then another, and another. Figures in deep green Auror robes Apparated into the clearing, wands raised. At their head strode Barty Crouch Sr., his gaunt face set like stone, followed by Ludo Bagman in bright yellow robes that looked horribly out of place in the chaos.

“Hands in the air!” one of the Aurors barked. “Now!”

Sonja bristled, but Harry calmly lowered his wand, raising both hands. “We’re the ones who stopped them,” he said, his voice carrying calm authority. “Look around—do you see who’s bound and who’s still standing?”

Bagman’s eyes widened as he recognized him. “By Merlin—it’s Harry Weasley! And Viktor Krum! And—”

“Enough, Bagman,” Crouch snapped, already moving toward the captured Death Eaters. His sharp gaze swept over them, then back to Harry. “You claim responsibility for their capture?”

Harry nodded. “We fought them. They attacked the Muggle campsite. These six couldn’t escape. The rest Disapparated.”

An Auror muttered, “No child should’ve been able to duel these men…” but fell silent under Crouch’s glare.

“Bind them tighter,” Crouch ordered coldly. “And confiscate their wands.”

At once, glowing shackles appeared on the Death Eaters’ wrists, glowing hot against their skin, suppressing their magic.

Another Auror knelt by the Muggle family, lifting his wand. “Obliviate.” One by one, the fear drained from their eyes as their memories were wiped clean. They were gently guided back toward their tent, no longer aware of the horrors they had endured.

Harry exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. At least they won’t carry this nightmare with them.

But then—a scream split the night.

From the far side of the woods, a voice cried, “LOOK!”

Every head turned upward as a skull of emerald-green light blossomed against the night sky, glittering like a constellation. A snake writhed from its mouth, curling hungrily. The Mark.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as more wizards and witches poured into the clearing, some stumbling, others shouting in panic. Even the hardened Aurors faltered, their faces pale.

“The Dark Mark…” Barty Crouch whispered, his knuckles white around his wand.

Harry felt a chill run through him. He’d heard about the darkmark from his dad. But to see it—hanging huge and luminous over the campsite—was something else entirely.

Crouch’s voice rang out like a whip. “Fan out! Find the caster!”

Aurors sprinted into the trees. Bagman looked shaken, tugging nervously at his robes. “No… no, it can’t be. Not him. He’s gone!”

Harry glanced at Sonja and Viktor. “This wasn’t random,” he said lowly. “The Death Eaters were testing the ground. And someone wanted us all to see that.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened. “You think he is back?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “But whoever cast that mark—they want the world to remember Voldemort.”

Another volley of cracks filled the air as Aurors returned, dragging two terrified men and a young witch between them.

“Found them near the treeline!” an Auror shouted.

But Crouch didn’t even look at their faces before snarling, “Take them to the Ministry holding cells. We’ll sort it later.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. The witch was barely older than himself—her wand looked cheap, her robes worn. He doubted she had the skill to cast something as complex as the Dark Mark. Crouch just wants someone to blame quickly, he thought darkly.

Sonja leaned closer. “This isn’t over. You feel that, don’t you? Tonight was just the beginning.”

Harry didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on the glowing skull above, burning its shape into his mind. A warning. A promise.

And in his chest, a dangerous certainty settled: the peace of the wizarding world was cracking, and he was standing at the fault line.