The Tenth Weasley - CH - 108

Even though Harry didn’t return to the dueling arena after the chaos in Spain, his interest in the tournament never faded. Every morning, he would conjure the international magical newspapers in his Durmstrang quarters with a lazy flick of his wand, sipping his bitter herbal tea while flipping through pages of animated dueling photos, match breakdowns, and rankings.

One article caught his eye:

"TRIUMPH IN TRANSYLVANIA – Romanian Witch Alina Vaduva Crowned Champion!"

Harry skimmed through the paragraphs: A stunning finale between Romania's Alina Văduva and Japan's Reiji Tanaka stunned audiences as Alina overwhelmed her opponent with a masterful blend of fire manipulation and charm-breaking curses. With this, she claims the top spot in the international dueling circuit.

He whistled softly. “Alina Vaduva… impressive.”

But it was the smaller box at the bottom that made him smile.

A small note below the article read: The top 10 ranked duelists are henceforth granted the title of Elite Dueling Masters—recognized across all international circuits as the most dangerous and skilled magical combatants in the world.

He leaned back on the couch, folding the paper neatly, satisfaction brimming in his chest.

“She did it,” he murmured.

For all their intense training sessions, for every bruise and blasted shield charm she endured, Sonja had now carved her name in the annals of magical combat. Seventeen years old. The minimum legal age to enter the circuit. And already among the ten strongest duelists alive. She wasn’t just a contender anymore—she was now an Elite Dueling Master.

No one could ignore her now.

He leaned back on the couch, folding the paper neatly, satisfaction brimming in his chest.


Sonja’s popularity exploded like a phoenix rising.

Every issue of The Magical Combat Quarterly, Witch’s Arena, and Duelist Digest had her photo on the cover—her platinum braid whipping through the air as spells erupted from her wand like lightning bolts. Interviewers begged for her time. Magical academies from France, Belgium, and even New York sent her lavish letters offering apprenticeship and sponsorship.

And then came the offers.

A Master Arithmancer from Florence offered her an enchanted villa to be his ward and heir. A dueling school in Rio de Janeiro promised full research funding, a personal lab, and a stipend to study her technique. The Minister of Magic in Greece publicly declared her "a rising monument to the brilliance of youth."

Everywhere Sonja went, eyes followed. Owls swarmed her window with scented letters and magical roses enchanted to hum love songs in ten languages.

Harry found it all amusing.

One evening in the common room, Sonja dropped onto the sofa beside him, exhausted, fanning herself with the latest fan letter.

“Fifteen today,” she muttered. “And one of them included a bracelet made of Veela hair.” She grimaced. “Cursed. Obviously.”

Harry raised a brow. “You should be honored. You’re practically the queen of magical dueling now.”

She smirked. “And yet, you’re the only one here who can still beat me blindfolded.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Sonja chuckled. “I don’t forget, Harry. You made me into this.”

Harry blinked, taken aback. “You were always powerful, Sonja. I just… helped you sharpen it.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, half teasing, half sincere. “You’re still not going to enter when you are seventeen, are you?”

Harry shook his head. “Not at all. Let the world talk about you the whole time.”


Despite the growing spotlight on Sonja, Harry’s name never faded. Whispers still followed him in the corridors of Durmstrang. Students lowered their voices when he passed. Some offered silent nods of respect. Others averted their eyes.

His duel in Spain had changed everything.

Some feared him. Others admired him. A few, mostly professors, kept their distance—unsure whether the boy with mismatched eyes and spells from another era was a student or something else entirely.

But Harry didn’t care.

He had rituals to study. A vault to unlock. Forbidden books to master. And now, a girlfriend who stole his heart, and a best friend climbing the highest ladder of magical fame.

Sonja rose like a comet.

And Harry?

Harry waited—deep in the shadows of Durmstrang, sharpening himself into something far greater.



With the N.E.W.T. exams rapidly approaching, the atmosphere within Durmstrang had shifted. Even the mighty Dragon-class, once alive with the clashing of spells and the thundering steps of sparring wizards, now fell eerily silent. Harry, walking the corridors alone, noted how his closest friends—every one of them seventh-years—had retreated into their books and studies with ferocious intensity.

Only Viktor Krum, the lone sixth-year among them, remained partially free, but even he was seldom seen, too caught up with Quidditch practices, flying drills, and coach meetings as Bulgaria's youngest rising star.

So Harry found himself alone.

It didn’t bother him.

While others studied feverishly, Harry used the quiet weeks to focus his attention on the ancient hidden vault buried deep beneath Durmstrang Castle. Every day, sometimes twice, he descended into the cold stone tunnels. The corridor leading to the great sealed wall was now familiar—the scent of ancient dust, runes half-eaten by time, and the ever-present whisper of lingering enchantments.

Each time he stood before the warded stone vault, Harry felt the challenge humming in his blood.

He muttered diagnostics under his breath, wand flicking through precise movements. Pale gold light traced ancient spellwork across the wall’s surface—some defensive, some reactive, and many so convoluted Harry doubted even the most skilled cursebreakers could parse them easily.

On one occasion, Highmaster Igor Karkaroff visited.

"You've been spending quite a bit of time here, Harry," Karkaroff remarked, stepping out of the shadows, his long black robes trailing like smoke behind him.

Harry didn’t flinch. “Every time I peel one layer away, three more appear beneath it. The enchantments overlap, like ancient shields built atop older ones. Whoever created this vault didn’t want anyone breaking in—at least not quickly.”

Karkaroff gave a soft chuckle. “Then you see why I came to you. It was never about speed. It’s about strength. Precision. Patience.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Or desperation.”

The Highmaster didn’t respond to that. Instead, he gave a polite nod and disappeared the way he came.

Harry sat cross-legged in front of the wall, parchment floating mid-air as he scribbled symbols, translations, and magical frequencies. The magical signatures were so varied—some primal, some elegant, some volatile—that it would take years to unravel them all safely.

Still, he loved the challenge.


While others memorized potion ingredients or Transfiguration theory, Harry honed his mind in a different way. He studied the structure of arcane wards, the logic of centuries-old spell matrices. In his free time, he reviewed his standard third-year coursework—but only briefly. After all, his real studies now far surpassed the level of most Durmstrang graduates.

“Do you even remember you’re technically a third-year?” Sonja had teased him during dinner one evening, already taking a break from her own N.E.W.T. prep.

Harry smirked. “My coursework’s just a formality at this point.”

And it was true. Even though as a Dragon-class member he had access to elite-level material, the Ministry of Magic still required him to sit the standard third-year exams if he wished to maintain legal academic recognition.

Still, Harry’s real education was now tied to something much older, much more dangerous—the hidden vault that whispered secrets from the shadows.



The examination week at Durmstrang had begun. The halls were quieter, the libraries full, and even the sparring rings had fallen into silence, replaced by muttered incantations and the scratching of quills on parchment. Harry, despite his usual calm, found himself a little restless—not because of the exams themselves, but because of something Hermione had said during one of their mirror conversations.

“Harry,” she had said gently, her voice warm even through the enchanted mirror, “you spend so much time with older students… but what about your own year? Once the seventh-years graduate, who will you have? You’re not going to fight the world alone, you know.”

She had a point.

It stuck with him more than he liked to admit.

And so, for the first time, Harry took his seat not at the far end of the elite Dragon-class table, but with his own third-year peers in the vast exam hall—where students from every class and section gathered for their written tests.

He walked in with the quiet confidence that had become second nature, his satchel slung across his shoulder, wand tucked neatly in his robes. The moment his boots touched the stone floor, whispers followed.

“There he is…”

“That’s Harry Weasley.”

“Did you see the newspaper? He fought ten professional duelists—alone!”

Harry smiled politely at the murmurs, though inwardly he sighed. The heroic image again. He was used to it by now—the stares, the reverence, the awe—but it still unsettled him. He didn’t feel like a hero. Not really.

As he moved through the rows, a few students shifted to make space for him—nervous, uncertain, but eager. A blonde-haired boy from the Eastern Provinces gave him a small wave.

“You can sit here if you want,” the boy offered.

“Thanks,” Harry said with a nod, and sat down.

To his surprise, the others at the table slowly relaxed. A girl with short raven-black hair leaned over, whispering, “Is it true you once stunned a Dragon?”

Harry chuckled, “No. That part’s just a rumor.”

“But you did fight a whole poacher cell, right?” another boy asked, wide-eyed.

“I had help,” Harry replied modestly. “And a few tricks.”

The atmosphere warmed. Harry began to see what Hermione meant. These were his peers, his age-mates—young witches and wizards with ambition and fear and curiosity. They were looking at him the way many younger students looked at Charlie Potter, with awe and inspiration.



Over the next few days, between each exam, Harry made it a point to sit with them again. He learned their names: Nikola from Skopje, Hedda from the Far North, Lisel from the Bavarian Highlands, Emmerick from the Black Sea region. Most of them were hesitant at first, but as Harry joined them at lunch, shared study tips, and even demonstrated a few simple spell techniques, they began to open up.

One afternoon, as they were walking back from their Charms theory exam, Lisel asked him, “Why haven’t you sat with us before? Everyone thought you didn’t like us.”

Harry looked a little embarrassed. “It’s not that. I was just… busy. Most of my friends are older. Hermione made me realize I might be all alone next year if I don’t at least talk to my own yearmates.”

Hedda smiled. “Well, we’re glad you did.”


The moonlight filtered softly through the enchanted windows of Harry’s room, casting silver patterns across the stone floor. Harry leaned back on his bed, feet up on the trunk, and held the magic mirror in his hands with an impish grin stretching across his face.

Hermione’s face flickered into view, her curls slightly damp—she must have just come out of a shower—and her expression warm. “Hey,” she greeted, “how did today’s exam go?”

Harry cleared his throat dramatically, pretending to be serious. “Hermione, I have something truly urgent to report.”

She sat up straighter, immediately concerned. “What is it? Did something happen?”

Harry’s smirk widened. “I received… not one, not two—but twenty-one love letters today.”

Hermione blinked. “What?!”

“I know,” he said, barely suppressing a laugh. “Fourteen in the morning. Seven more after lunch. That’s a solid three an hour.”

She stared at him. “From who?”

Harry pulled a crumpled letter from beside him and waved it like a trophy. “Well, one from a second-year who wrote me a haiku about my eyes. Another from a fourth-year who offered to brew me a love potion ‘just in case I need a reason to smile.’ And a first-year wrote: You’re like a phoenix, powerful and mysterious, will you go out with me?”

Hermione’s expression shifted through disbelief, horror, and then frustration. “Oh no. I told you to talk to people, not charm half the school into falling in love with you!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Harry defended, laughing. “I just sat with them. Talked like a normal person. Helped Nikola with his Summoning Charm. Shared some notes. You know, ordinary things.”

Hermione groaned. “You were mysterious, Harry. The quiet dueling prodigy, the dragon class miracle, the boy who could take down poachers and professional duelists. Of course they were fascinated. But once they realized you’re also sweet and kind and… and… you hold doors open for people—ugh!”

Harry gave a dramatic bow. “Apparently being decent is illegal now.”

Hermione crossed her arms, trying not to smile. “And you’re enjoying this.”

“I am. Immensely.” He held up a pink letter sealed with perfume wax. “This one smells like strawberries. Want me to read it aloud?”

“Don’t you dare!”

Harry snorted with laughter, then leaned closer to the mirror. “You know none of them matter to me, right?”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “Still, I don’t like the idea of them sending you love poetry.”

“Would it help if I wrote you some instead?” he teased.

“Harry Weasley, if you write me a haiku, I’m blocking this mirror.”

He chuckled, then turned serious. “Alright. I’ll tell them tomorrow. Politely, of course.”

“You’d better,” Hermione said, but her smile returned. “Or Ginny and I will write twenty-one rejection letters and owl them ourselves.”

“Now that sounds terrifying,” Harry grinned.

“Good.”

There was a pause. Then Hermione whispered, “I’m glad they’re finally seeing the Harry I’ve known all along.”

Harry’s voice softened too. “I’m glad you’re the one who always did.”


The next morning, Harry indeed did as promised. During break between exams, he stood in front of the gathered third and fourth years in the dining hall.

“Just wanted to say—thank you. For the kind letters, and for being so friendly this past week,” Harry said with a respectful bow of his head. “But… I’m taken.”

The sighs were audible. A few girls exchanged looks of mild despair, others gave him encouraging smiles, while some of the younger students looked confused.

“I’m dating Hermione Granger of Hogwarts,” he added gently.

A girl in the back muttered, “Is she beautiful??”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “She’s brilliant, beautiful, and has better aim with a hex than most of you will ever learn.”

There was a collective laugh, and the tension broke.

And from that day on, they didn’t look at him like a distant legend anymore.

They looked at him like one of their own.