The Tenth Weasley - CH - 107

The vast, enchanted arena buzzed with excitement as crowds gathered to witness the upcoming match between Professor Navarro of Durmstrang and a highly anticipated Swedish duelist named Astrid Malmström. Harry and Sonja sat in the VIP balcony reserved for distinguished guests of the tournament, watching the pre-match ceremonies unfold with interest. Below, banners of gold and blue floated above the dueling ring, while magical announcers amplified commentary in multiple languages.

Navarro, dressed in his customary black dueling robes embroidered with silver runes, looked poised and confident. Astrid stood across from him, tall, elegant, and wrapped in a midnight-blue cloak that shimmered with every movement.

Harry leaned closer to Sonja. “I’ve never seen her duel before. She looks like she means business.”

Sonja nodded, adjusting the collar of her fur-trimmed coat. “Astrid is ranked twelfth. Navarro barely made it to sixteenth. But if he fights smart, he has a chance.”

Harry chuckled softly. “If he uses what we practiced last week, he’ll overwhelm her in ten seconds.”

Sonja smirked. “Only if he doesn’t get distracted by her illusions. She’s famous for her Veela heritage.”

Just as the duel began with the ceremonial bow, something pricked at Harry’s senses. His back stiffened. A tingling heat rolled across his shoulder blades—a spell.

His eyes widened.

Not a dueling charm. A probe spell.

It wasn’t cast from the stage. It came from behind.

He turned his head just slightly, enough to glance at the audience section above and behind him.

And that’s when it hit—an aggressive pulse of Legilimency slammed against his magical core, attempting to shatter through his mental defenses. Instinct took over.

Harry spun on the spot and raised his wand, drawing a blindingly fast arc in the air. His counter-spell—a silvery whip of deflection—lashed backward, crackling like lightning, and shattered the probing spell mid-air. It rebounded with a snap that sent three spectators stumbling.

“What the—” Sonja stood, wand out, eyes scanning.

There was a silence. Then someone shouted, “It’s him! It’s Grindelwald!”

In a heartbeat, wands came out.

Three more spells hurled toward Harry. He didn’t even blink.

His wand moved with lethal grace, invoking the signature dueling style passed down by the master himself—Gellert Grindelwald. One deflection, one redirection, and one retaliatory burst of a binding curse that slammed the first attacker against the stone pillar.

The crowd erupted into chaos.

“GET DOWN!” someone screamed.

“Call the Aurors!”

“DEFENSE WARDS UP!”

Sonja stepped beside Harry without hesitation. “We’re surrounded!”

Harry’s eyes glowed—one green, one silver—and his voice deepened with cold command. “Then we make them regret their choice.”

More spells came—stunning hexes, flame curses, even a bone-crusher hex from the side.

Harry danced through them.

He didn’t dodge—he flowed. His wand swept and turned, creating magical ripples that snuffed fire mid-air, shattered bone spells into dust, and reflected stunners like a mirror. He didn’t use standard dueling form—no, his style was sharp, efficient, unorthodox. Deadly.

A wizard in red robes lunged toward him—Harry flicked his wrist and sent a twisting black cord of magic spiraling through the air. It wrapped around the man like a serpent, yanked him upward, and slammed him into the ground.

Sonja fired a chain of icy blades toward a group approaching from the left. Three fell, one screamed, the fourth barely blocked the spell with a shimmering shield.

“Harry, your left!” she called.

Without turning, Harry whispered, “Mortivox.”

A sound-shatter curse ripped across the marble, exploding like a sonic boom. Two witches staggered back, clutching their ears.

By now, ten witches and wizards—some from the professional circuit, some old masters from their prime—had joined the fight.

And one by one, Harry took them down.

He didn’t kill. But he could have. That was the part that terrified them most.

One wizard collapsed, gasping, pinned under a field of gravity. Another screamed as vines of fire crawled up his robes—Harry extinguished them with a snap of his wand, leaving the man sobbing and scorched. Another fell unconscious after being struck by a twisting bolt of silver light that left his wand cracked.

Around them, the arena was chaos. Screaming crowds, fleeing spectators, and a dozen magical wards flaring as security teams tried to lock down the area.

But none could stop the duel.

Because what they saw wasn’t just a talented boy.

They saw a legend reborn.


Finally, ten minutes into the skirmish, a dozen security officers apparated in, surrounded by floating shields and throwing net-curses.

“CEASE IMMEDIATELY!” one roared. “You are attacking tournament personnel!”

But Harry didn’t even blink as the magical nets closed in. He raised both arms and let the nets fall around him, encasing him.

He let himself be captured.

The crowd hushed.

The arena, shattered and cracked in many places, fell silent. Broken pillars, scattered wands, and groaning duelists lay around the floor where Harry stood perfectly still—surrounded by magical chains.

A security officer cautiously approached. “State your name and origin.”

Harry looked at him, calmly. His mismatched eyes gleamed.

“I am Harry Weasley, son of Arthur and Molly Weasley.”

The words rang out, enchanted and amplified by his wand’s truth-verifying magic.

The runes on the chains shimmered.

The officer frowned. “Confirmed… no identity spells, no glamours, no illusions. This is not Grindelwald.”

The crowd, now frozen, began to murmur again—but this time in confusion. In disbelief.

“He’s just a boy…”

“But he fought just like him…”

“No. Like a Dark Lord…”


Hours later, after everything was cleared, after all charges were dropped and Harry had been thoroughly questioned by international authorities, he stood outside the venue in the dusky evening light.

Sonja walked beside him, brushing a scratch off her shoulder. “Well… I think we can safely say your dueling career is over for the year.”

Harry gave a humorless smile. “That’s fine. I think I’ve had enough of tournaments.”

She paused. “You know… they still think you’re him.”

“I know,” Harry replied, eyes looking off toward the mountains. “But maybe that’s okay. Let them fear me. It’ll keep them from trying again.”

Sonja nodded. “Still, next time someone attacks you, remind me not to stand too close. You damn near collapsed the floor.”

They shared a tired laugh.

Harry sighed and turned away from the arena, the bruised earth behind him. “I think I’ll head back to Durmstrang. I’ve got exams, secret researches, and far fewer idiots to duel.”

Sonja smirked. “And I’ll stay here and win the tournament, now that everyone else is too afraid to fight me. Perks of having a dark lord for a best friend.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Former. Alleged dark lord.”

“Right,” she said with a wink.

And with that, the two walked off in opposite directions—one toward the dueling spotlight, the other back into the shadows of Durmstrang. But the world would remember what happened that day. The dueling masters had been humbled by a red-haired boy with eyes of fire and storm—who fought like the legend reborn.



The sun had barely crested the horizon when owls flooded the skies of magical Europe.

Bundles of folded newspapers soared through dormitory windows, dropped onto porches, and thudded against doors across wizarding cities, villages, and schools. The bold headline dominated every major publication from La Gazette Enchantée in France to Der Tageszauber in Germany.

"DARK LORD REBORN? MYSTERIOUS RED-HAIRED DUELIST STUNS TOURNAMENT—IS HE GRINDELWALD’S SUCCESSOR?"

And beneath the title, an enchanted photograph dominated the front page.

A boy—young, fierce, and red-haired—stood in the center of a ruined dueling arena. His cloak billowed behind him, eyes glinting like a storm, and from his outstretched wand blossomed a glowing, spiraling shield that shimmered silver and violet. Four deadly spells collided into it from different directions—and the shield held.

In the next frame of the magical photograph, the boy spun, launching a binding curse so fast it blurred through the air. The crowd behind him recoiled in awe and fear.

The caption read:

"Harry Weasley, age 14, schooling at Durmstrang, battles ten professional duelists in a chaotic bout during the International Dueling Tournament. Experts alarmed by resemblance to Gellert Grindelwald—magical analysis of fighting style confirms uncanny similarities."


In Hogwarts, the Great Hall was silent. Not the usual breakfast clatter. Not the gurgling chatter of students.

Silence.

Because every single student—Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor—had the same paper open in front of them. Some stared at the photo looping endlessly. Some whispered behind their hands. Others watched the teachers.

Hermione sat stiffly at the Gryffindor table, ignoring the dozens of eyes that flicked between her and the paper. She stared at the headline, lips pressed tightly, while Ginny and Rose Porter sat beside her protectively.

“He looks so…” Ginny whispered.

“Powerful,” Rose finished, awestruck.

Neville leaned over from the Hufflepuff table. “Did you know he could fight like that?”

Hermione blinked slowly, her throat dry. “No. I mean… I knew he was strong. But not…” She gestured helplessly at the photo where Harry’s magic exploded like a tempest. “Not that.”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat from the High Table.

No one noticed.

She cleared it again, louder.

Still, no one turned.

Finally, she rapped her goblet with her wand, sending a chime across the hall.

“All of you,” she said crisply, “finish your breakfast. The Headmaster has called an emergency staff meeting.”

The teachers rose. Even Hagrid looked grim as he followed them out.


In Dumbledore’s office, the fire crackled gently, but the atmosphere was suffocating. The headmaster paced in front of the Pensieve, his long hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Severus Snape sat in one corner, arms folded, face unreadable.

McGonagall looked shaken. “It’s the second time, Albus. First Voldemort, and now this boy—our own student once! If he becomes—”

“He won’t,” Dumbledore said sharply. “He mustn’t.”

Snape sneered. “Your optimism is as persistent as ever.”

“He’s not Grindelwald,” Dumbledore insisted, though he sounded less sure of it himself. “He’s Harry. He’s just Harry.”

“The Just Harry, whom we ignored in second year when he wanted our help. Harry, who you dismissed again and again until he left for Durmstrang,” McGonagall said bitterly. “If he becomes a Dark Lord, Albus… it’s because we helped push him there.”

Dumbledore stopped.

There it was. The guilt. The moment it returned to wrap around his heart like chains.

“I should have helped him,” Dumbledore whispered. “When he was accused of being the Heir of Slytherin… when the school turned against him… I should have reached out. Instead I did what I always do—waited.”

McGonagall gave him a look, neither pitying nor condemning. “You cannot change the past. But you can reach him now.”

Snape said quietly, “Assuming it’s not already too late.”

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk and pulled the newspaper toward him.

The image stared back—Harry, mid-spin, his hair a fiery halo, eyes burning mismatched. One green like emeralds. The other silver like a frozen sky.

He looked like a conqueror.

Like vengeance incarnate.

Like a legend reborn.

“I don’t care what the papers say,” Dumbledore said finally, voice calm. “He is not Grindelwald. He is Harry Weasley. And when Voldemort returns—and he will return—there is no one else I would rather have standing at our side.”


Back at Hogwarts, the murmurs and whispers grew louder.

“He’s dangerous—”

“He fought ten duelists and didn’t get scratched—”

“He’s dating Hermione Granger! Did you know that?”

“Is it true he killed someone?”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “No, he didn’t kill anyone. And yes, he’s my boyfriend. And if you say one more word about him, Ginny will hex you.”

Ginny cracked her knuckles. “And I’m really good at hexes.”

The crowd backed off.


That night, Hermione sat alone in the Gryffindor common room with the mirror Sirius gave her.

She tapped it.

“Harry?”

The glass shimmered—and his face appeared. Tired, eyes still glowing faintly in the dim light of his Durmstrang room.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She smiled. “Hey.”

“Rough day?”

Hermione nodded. “They’re all talking about you. All the papers. Even the teachers are spooked.”

Harry sighed, rubbing his face. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But they don’t.”

“They think I’m a dark lord?” Harry muttered.

“No,” Hermione said firmly. “They think you’re powerful. And they’re scared. But they’re wrong, Harry. You’re not a dark lord. You’re my Harry.”

And for the first time that day, Harry smiled.

Tired.

But real.