The Tenth Weasley - CH - 113

The morning sun spilled golden light across the Weasley Manor’s breakfast table, glinting off polished cutlery and the steaming teapots Molly had set out. The smell of fresh scones and cinnamon toast filled the room, but Harry barely tasted the bite he’d taken. His gaze kept darting to the thick envelope resting by his plate—crested with Durmstrang’s seal in deep crimson wax.

Ginny noticed first. “You’ve been staring at that for ten minutes. Going to open it, or should I hex it for you?”

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. “Patience, Ginny. It’s not every day you get your final results.”

Arthur looked up from his Daily Prophet, curious. “Ah, is this the big one? The end-of-year scores?”

“End-of-year,” Harry corrected, “and end-of-course. This decides where I rank in Dragon Class.”

Across the table, Fred leaned back in his chair with mock seriousness. “Well, if you fail, Harry, you can always join us in the joke shop business. We could use a foreign ambassador for our Skiving Snackboxes.”

“Don’t listen to them, dear,” Molly said briskly, though her eyes were warm. “Go on—let’s hear the news.”

Harry broke the wax seal, unfolded the parchment, and let his eyes skim the bold lettering. His breath caught. “Ninety-nine percent,” he said, voice low at first, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. Then louder, “Ninety-nine. Highest score in Dragon Class!”

For a heartbeat, the room went still. Then it exploded into cheers.

Fred whooped. “First rank! Our Harry!”

George grinned. “We always knew you had it in you. Well—mostly.”

Molly beamed, clutching him in a hug so tight he thought his ribs might crack. “Oh, Harry, I’m so proud of you! First rank—what an achievement!”

Even Arthur abandoned his paper to clap Harry on the back. “That’s no small feat, son.”


An unfamiliar barn owl swooped through the open window, circling once before landing neatly in front of Harry. A long, narrow parcel was strapped to the owl’s leg.

Molly untied the parcel and raised an eyebrow at its surprising weight. “Looks important,” she said, passing it to Harry.

He opened Viktor’s letter first, recognizing the jagged strokes of the Bulgarian’s hand:

Harry,
Congratulations on finishing the year strong. I am sorry I could not be there to congratulate you in person —Quidditch season demands my attention. We are in the middle of the International Tournament, and I am chasing a trophy I intend to win.

Enclosed are tickets for the final match. I have sent one for every Weasley, and of course, for Hermione. I expect you all to come. Bring your loudest voices.

Train hard. I am still chasing your score in Dragon Class.
—Viktor

Harry grinned and opened the narrow package—inside was a velvet case lined with gold foil, holding a neat stack of enchanted tickets. Each shimmered faintly, with the words International Quidditch Final shifting into the names of the guests as he counted them.

Fred and George leaned over his shoulder instantly.
“You’re joking—these are for us?” Fred said, wide-eyed.
“Every single one of us?” George echoed.

Harry nodded. “Even for Hermione.”

Ron was already on his feet. “This is going to be brilliant!”


Then more owls came with letters from his friends.


Harry,

It’s official—I’ve passed NEWTs with top marks. I’m going pro, dueling circuit, Europe first and then the Americas. Once I’ve got a few trophies under my belt, I’ll come and remind you why I’m still your best sparring partner.

—Sonja


Harry,

Passed well—better than I thought I would. I’ve decided not to take any job straight away. There’s a big world beyond the castle walls, and I want to see it all before settling. Planning to start in the Mediterranean and work my way east. You’re welcome to join me if you ever get a break from school.

—Marek


Dear Harry,

Top results in Charms and Transfiguration, with the rest not far behind. I’ve been accepted into a Master’s programme for Charms. It’s going to be brutal, but I can’t wait to dive into the theory and application at that level. I’ll visit next summer—if I survive the workload.

—Ingrid


Harry,

NEWTs done—better than expected! I’ve just been hired as a photographer for a magical creatures magazine. First assignment: the Andes, to find a Peruvian Vipertooth. I’ll send you the first issue with my photos. If I get eaten, tell people it was for a good shot.

—Louis


Harry set the last letter down, smiling as he looked around at the table. “They’ve all passed—done brilliantly, in fact. Looks like it’s just me and Viktor still in Dragon Class.”

Arthur lowered his paper. “Fine group you’ve got there, Harry. Hardworking, ambitious—going places.”

Ginny smirked. “And international. You’ll have invitations to more countries than you can visit.”

Fred raised his butterbeer in salute. “To Harry, first rank in Dragon Class, and to Viktor for giving us the best seats in Quidditch history!”

The mugs clinked, laughter spilling through the kitchen, the warmth of family and friendship lingering like the glow from the enchanted tickets still sitting on the table.



A week had passed since the letters from his friends arrived, and the mood at the Weasley Manor had been warm, filled with laughter and planning for the upcoming Quidditch Final. But that morning, an unfamiliar black owl tapped sharply at Harry’s window. Its talons clutched not a letter, but a single folded piece of parchment with a small metal paper clip holding a yellowed newspaper cutting in place.

Harry took it with a frown, the owl vanishing the instant its burden was taken. He unfolded the paper and saw Sonja’s familiar handwriting scrawled in quick, jagged strokes across the top.

Harry — thought you should know before you read it in the papers.

The clipping below was from a German wizarding newspaper, printed in a language Harry had only picked up in scraps from his friends at Durmstrang. He still managed to make out the name immediately: Antonin Krovitch. His breath caught.

With the help of a quick translation charm, the words shifted into English:

Berlin Magical Herald — In a joint operation by the German Auror Corps and the Department of Mysteries, Antonin Krovitch (17) was apprehended in the Black Forest for conducting a prohibited necromantic ritual. Authorities report that the suspect was attempting to animate the remains of a centuries-old war mage. Due to his age, Krovitch was tried as an adult under international wizarding law and sentenced to six years in Nurmengard Prison.

Harry read the lines twice, his stomach tightening with every word.

He sank into the chair by the window, the clipping trembling slightly in his fingers. Antonin had been the last to join their tight-knit group at Durmstrang, and though quieter than most, he had a kindness to him—a willingness to help anyone who asked. He’d been the one gave the group lots of things, the one to crack a rare smile when they were all under pressure.

Hermione stepped into the room, catching sight of his expression. “Harry? What is it?”

He passed her the clipping without a word.

She read it, eyes narrowing in shock. “Necromancy? That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“No,” Harry muttered, staring at the floor. “But it does sound like Antonin to… want to know. To learn everything, no matter the risk.”

“He felt like a good man,” Hermione said softly, setting the clipping down. “But curiosity like that… it can be dangerous if someone doesn’t stop you.”

Harry swallowed hard. He could still remember Antonin staying up late in the common room, muttering over dusty tomes, always searching for the next piece of forgotten knowledge from the Grindelwald's collection. And now, that hunger had led him somewhere Harry couldn’t follow—into a prison built by one of the darkest wizards in Europe.

He folded the clipping carefully and tucked it into his pocket. No matter what the world thought, he couldn’t bring himself to hate Antonin.



Antonin’s arrest lingered in Harry’s mind for days. No matter how much he told himself that Antonin wasn’t the type to harm anyone, the fact remained—if the German Aurors had caught him attempting necromantic rites, it meant they had evidence. And if they had dug through his possessions, Merlin only knew what else they might have found.

Harry knew exactly what that meant for the rest of them. Because Antonin wasn’t the only one with dangerous books.

The Weasley Caves had been all but forgotten by Fred and George after they moved on to bigger ventures, but Harry still remembered every twist and tunnel. Taking no chances, he slipped away after lunch, ensuring no one followed.

The mouth of the caves was hidden behind thick brambles, and Harry pushed through them until he reached the section deep enough that even the echoes of the outside world were gone. His own warded section waited there—a fortress of layered protections: anti-Apparition fields, bloodline recognition, detection wards keyed only to his magical signature, and a locking weave so intricate that even a curse-breaker would struggle to untangle it in less than a month.

With a flick of his wand, the wards parted, revealing the hidden pocket chamber he had crafted. The air inside was cool and dry, preserved by enchantments.

Harry stepped in and began stacking everything he knew could cause trouble if the wrong person got hold of it—dark tomes bound in dragonhide, brittle scrolls written in languages long dead, silver-caged artifacts humming with latent power, and even a bundle of cursed jewelry they’d taken from Grindelwald’s vault. He placed the chests of Galleons beside them; money could buy silence, and Harry wasn’t naïve enough to think they might not need it someday.

When it was done, he sealed the chamber with an additional ward—a personal spell so obscure he’d found it buried in one of those very tomes. The stone rippled shut, leaving no trace it had ever been there.

Back in his room, he penned letters to Victor, Sonja, Marek, Ingrid, and Louis.

Hide your collections. Every scrap of parchment, every relic. If Antonin talks, the authorities will start looking at all of us.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries—there was no time for that. The letters were gone within the hour, carried off by a fleet of owls.

Later that night, as he sat by the fire, Harry’s mind drifted to something else—something that had been gnawing at the edge of his thoughts for months.

The vault in Durmstrang.
The one Karkaroff had asked him to open.

Next term, he decided, he wouldn’t just wonder—he would crack it, tear down every spell guarding it, and finally see what secrets it held.



Hermione’s visits to the Weasley Manor became a regular part of the summer. Though she and Harry had their magical mirrors for daily conversations, the enchanted glass could never match the real thing. Through the mirrors, he could see her smile, hear her voice, but he couldn’t feel the warmth of her hand in his, or the way she’d lean against him when they sat together.

In person, they made up for the distance between their schools with long walks through the orchard, quiet talks by the pond, and stolen moments in hidden corners of the manor. They weren’t exactly subtle about it either—almost every member of the Weasley family had caught them snogging at least once.

Fred and George teased them relentlessly.
“Careful, Harry,” Fred said one afternoon when they were caught by the pantry door. “If Mum sees that again, she’ll have you married off before the year ends.”

Hermione blushed, pulling away, but Harry only grinned.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said under his breath, which earned him a playful swat on the arm from her.

It soon became a running joke in the household. Whenever they vanished for more than ten minutes, someone would call out from across the manor, “Check the broom cupboard!” or “Bet they’re in the library again!”


Harry also made the trip to visit Hermione’s house once more during the summer. The Grangers welcomed him warmly, as always, and this time Harry came bearing a gift—a charmed frame that displayed a rotating collection of magical photographs from their time together. Hermione’s parents were fascinated, lingering over each moving image as it shifted from snowy walks to Hogwarts grounds to the sunny Weasley orchard.

Later in the week, Harry invited Hermione on a proper date in Diagon Alley. They met outside Flourish and Blotts, and spent the afternoon wandering from shop to shop. Hermione gravitated to the bookstore’s newest section on magical law, while Harry coaxed her away with promises of ice cream from Florean Fortescue’s.

“You only like dragging me away so you can eat half of mine,” she accused with a smile.

“I like dragging you away because you work too hard,” he countered. “Ice cream is important.”

By the time they returned to the Manor that evening, their hands were full of small packages—Hermione’s new books, a few quills for Harry, and a bag of sugar quills they’d agreed to share but both knew would be gone by tomorrow.

For Harry, these days were the perfect reminder that despite everything—the danger, the dark magic, the secrets—he still had moments worth protecting.