The Tenth Weasley - CH - 105

For Harry, everything about this was new.

He had faced dark rituals, dueling champions, dragons, and the legacies of two Dark Lords… but being in a relationship—really being in one—was unfamiliar ground. And even more challenging was the fact that it was a long-distance relationship.

Hermione was back at Hogwarts, where the days were filled with books, classes, clubs, and ancient castle corridors. Harry was at Durmstrang, where frost covered the mountains, the sea howled in the distance, and half his schedule was dedicated to dangerous magical experiments. But every evening—without fail—Harry would return to his room, sit on the edge of his desk, tap the silver-rimmed mirror, and say her name.

“Hermione.”

Her face would appear in the mirror, framed by firelight and bookshelves, eyes lighting up the moment she saw him.

“You look tired,” she would say, concerned. “What did you blow up this time?”

And Harry would grin. “Just the dueling chamber. Again.”

But Hermione was curious. Intensely so. She didn’t just want to talk—she wanted to see. She wanted to know everything about Durmstrang. The icy cliffs. The castle’s underground lecture halls. The Dragon Tower. The floating runic ward stones. Even the food.

“Show me your friends,” she asked one evening, tilting her head. “You talk about them—Sonja, Antonin, Eryk—but I don’t know what they’re like.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then turned the mirror.

Sonja appeared first, mid-stretch in the dueling arena. She caught sight of the mirror and gave a short wave. “Is that the girl? Hello.”

Hermione blinked. “The girl?”

“She means you,” Harry said quickly. “That’s Sonja—top duelist in Durmstrang before I arrived.”

“Oh?” Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

Then came Antonin, lounging with a book on ritual theory and levitating a goblet with casual wandless magic.

“Hi,” he said simply, not looking up.

“Right, so,” Harry quickly added, “all my friends here are, uh… older. Sixth or seventh years, most of them.”

Hermione smiled, soft and thoughtful. “You really don’t have any friends your age, do you?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “I am the youngest Dragon, and, well... the magical creatures rescue and everything else, it’s just easier this way.”

“Still,” Hermione said, “I like them. But I’m going to send you a list of conversation starters for people your own age.”

He laughed. “Please don’t.”


Back at Hogwarts, Hermione’s world shifted in subtle but noticeable ways.

It started when people learned who she was dating.

At first, there was disbelief. “Harry Weasley? That Harry?” someone had gasped in the library. “But he’s at Durmstrang!”

“Oh, yes,” said Parvati, eavesdropping expertly. “And he and friends apprehended a massive poaching ring. He’s practically famous now.”

Before long, people began whispering wherever Hermione walked. Some students were curious. Some were a little jealous. A few even looked at her with newfound respect.

Ginny Weasley and Rose Potter made it their mission to “elevate” Hermione’s style.

“You can’t be a legendary wizard’s girlfriend and still wear third-year boots,” Rose said with mock horror, digging into her trunk.

Ginny nodded firmly. “We’ll start with your hair. Honestly, the bushy look isn’t terrible, but let’s bring out the waves instead of fighting them.”

The two girls brought out every charm, potion, and beauty spell they knew. Straightening charms, scalp massages, brow shaping spells, subtle glamour blends to accentuate Hermione’s features.

At first, Hermione protested. “This is ridiculous! I like my look!”

“Sure,” Ginny said breezily. “But you’ll like this even more once we’re done.”

And surprisingly—she did.

When she next walked into the Great Hall, her hair was soft and shiny, falling in gentle curls. Her brows were shaped, her lips subtly charmed to a soft pink, and she wore a confident smirk that surprised even herself.

She felt… radiant.

And people noticed. A lot of people.

By the time the next Hogsmeade weekend was announced, Hermione had received four different invitations to accompany various boys. One from a Ravenclaw, two from Gryffindor, and—oddly—a Slytherin prefect who had never spoken to her before.

She turned them all down, politely.

“Sorry, I’m seeing someone.”

Every time, the same response: a pause, then, “Oh… Harry Weasley?”

She would nod. Proudly.

When Harry heard about it—Hermione casually mentioned it during one of their evening mirror calls—he raised an eyebrow.

“Four people asked you out?”

“Five if you count Zacharias Smith trying to ‘accidentally’ run into me in the courtyard.”

Harry shook his head, smirking. “Guess I should be flattered.”

“You should be grateful,” Hermione teased. “Do you know how many beautiful Durmstrang girls you’ve probably ignored?”

“Only all of them,” he said. “I already found mine.”

And though it was only a mirror, Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm.

Across the cold waters of the world, with no need for owls or long letters, two young hearts stayed tethered—closer than ever, despite the distance between them.



The castle of Hogwarts was no stranger to mischief. It had seen centuries of pranks, midnight escapades, and whispered spells under cover of darkness. But recently, the Marauder legacy had taken on a new life—smaller, louder, and more unpredictable.

They were known by the name—“The Mini-Marauders,” —but to most students, they were simply Charlie Potter, Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom.

And lately, they were at war.

Not against professors or Slytherins, but against something they deemed unforgivable—anyone who insulted Hermione Granger.

It started with a Ravenclaw sixth-year who called her “a bossy know-it-all who thinks she’s better than everyone just because she’s dating a Dark Arts prodigy.” The next morning, he found his wand transfigured into a squealing rat that refused to leave his robe pocket. His hair had turned bright pink and glowed in the dark for a week. When questioned, the Mini-Marauders whistled innocently and claimed no knowledge.

Then came a Hufflepuff fifth year, who muttered something about “Hermione spreading herself too thin between books and boys.” The next day, her shoes stuck to the floor every ten seconds no matter where she went, and every time she tried to talk, a duck quacked instead of her voice.

Ron and Charlie took particular pride in the duck spell.

“Pure elegance,” Ron said.

“Subtle vengeance,” Charlie agreed.

Ron, though still awkward around the topic of Hermoine dating his brother, was unflinching in his loyalty.

“She's our Hermione,” Ron said fiercely. “She helped me pass Potions! If anyone talks bad about her or Harry, they deal with us.”

And so, the pranks continued—detentions, howlers from Molly, howls of laughter from Gryffindor. But the Mini-Marauders didn’t care. The only rule? No one insults Hermione Granger.


But things took a darker turn one rainy evening in April.

Charlie, Ron and Neville had just wrapped up a prank on the Slytherin common room involving self-inking quills that spat ink in your face when you tried to cheat. They were returning through the empty halls, the Marauder’s Map spread open in Charlie’s hands.

“Filch is two floors up,” Ron whispered. “We’re clear.”

Neville squinted over his shoulder. “Is that name still there?”

Charlie frowned. “Yeah... Peter Pettigrew. Right there. Third-floor corridor. Near—wait—that's right ahead of us!”

They froze.

The Marauder’s Map didn’t lie. The small footsteps labeled Peter Pettigrew were coming straight toward them.

“Is that—” Neville began, but before he could finish, a small rat scurried out of the shadows.

It was fast. Too fast.

“THERE!” Charlie shouted. He bolted forward, wand drawn. “Stupefy!”

The jet of red light missed by inches. The rat zigzagged down the corridor, darting toward a stone statue.

“He’s going through the secret passage!” Ron yelled. “That’s the one behind the tapestry—!”

The three gave chase, but before they could reach it, the rat slipped through a crack in the wall and was gone.

“Damn it!” Charlie cursed, slamming his fist against the stone. “We had him. That was Peter Pettigrew. That lying rat.”

Neville looked shaken. “Why’s he back at Hogwarts?”

Charlie’s face was pale. “We need to tell Dad. And Sirius.”

And they did.

Within twenty-four hours, James Potter and Sirius Black arrived at Hogwarts. Neither looked amused.

“You say you saw the rat?” Sirius asked again, pacing in front of Professor McGonagall’s fireplace.

“On the map,” Charlie confirmed. “And in person. Same scraggly fur. He was here.”

James’ expression was dark. “We thought he left Europe altogether.”

“Apparently not,” Sirius said grimly. “And if he’s crawling around Hogwarts… he’s up to something.”

McGonagall, sitting stiffly in her tartan robes, looked grim. “I’ll authorize patrols for restricted areas. But until we find him, there’s little we can do.”

James placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You did good, lad. You all did.”

Sirius, however, turned to the group of younger Weasleys and grinned darkly. “But now… the original Marauders are back on the hunt.”


For the Mini-Marauders, everything changed.

The pranks still continued—but now they were laced with purpose. They combed every corridor, checked the map obsessively, and even enchanted a few special traps baited with cheese and old robes.

And in the common room, Hermione watched from the armchair with quiet unease. Harry had already told her everything from Durmstrang over the mirror.

“Be careful,” she whispered through the glass one night.

“I will,” Harry promised. “But if Pettigrew’s there… something big is coming.”

And far beneath Hogwarts, in the cracks and hidden chambers forgotten by time, the rat with the missing toe waited. Watched.

Planned.



Durmstrang Institute had never been this quiet, at least not to Harry. Not since the early days of winter. With the end-of-year exams drawing closer, even the Dragon-class students had begun to abandon the roaring fires and dueling pits for silent study halls and the echoing solitude of their rooms.

But not Harry.

Harry Weasley, the boy with silver-ringed eye and the dueling grace of a phantom, was more than just preparing. He was thriving.

His days were meticulously structured. From dawn until lunch, he focused solely on his advanced curriculum—Transfiguration, Runes, Enchantments, and Arithmancy. The requirements for remaining in the elite Dragon class were brutal: one had to rank within the top 20 of the entire academy, and with talents from all corners of Europe competing, every point mattered.

After lunch, his time shifted to Sonja. The once-invincible Dragon champion had now entered the professional dueling circuit, a stage even most Durmstrang professors only whispered about. But her greatest challenge wasn’t in the tournaments.

It was Harry.

"You're rushing again," Harry said calmly, blocking three spells with a rotating shield ward before stepping in and casting a pressure strike that knocked Sonja off her feet.

She huffed, brushing her sweat-soaked fringe from her eyes. "You fight like Grindelwald now—elegant, brutal, efficient. You read me like a book, Harry."

Harry only offered her a hand up. "Then rewrite the story. Make yourself unpredictable."

Professor Navarro, watching from the dueling gallery, laughed. "He's not wrong. You're still too flashy, Sonja. Grindelwald—Harry’s version of him—is all about minimal effort, maximum devastation."

"And what are you about, professor?" Harry asked with a smirk.

"Learning from you," Navarro said dryly. “You’re the first student to beat me so thoroughly that I wanted to come back for more.”

After training, Harry returned to his private quarters—modified by enchantments and thick with protective layers. There, he dived into his other pursuits: his alchemy project (a restorative potion infused with phoenix tears), his ritual research (based on combining magical resonance frequencies), and his personal spell creation experiments.

The only time he didn’t study was when he spoke to Hermione through the enchanted mirror. Their long-distance relationship had become a ritual itself. She’d show him Hogwarts’ blooming gardens, and he’d counter with glacier views from the edge of Durmstrang’s northern cliff. She was his grounding force in a life rapidly accelerating toward dangerous brilliance.

Victor Krum was rarely around these days, flying back and forth to Bulgaria in preparation for the International Quidditch Championships. When he was home, he spent his time in the gymnasium, working on formation drills and broom responsiveness. They crossed paths often but only in passing.

Then came the knock.

It was sharp. Deliberate.

Harry opened the door to find a silent servant in Durmstrang’s crimson uniform, a silver wolf pin on his shoulder.

"The Highmaster wishes to see you," the servant said in a voice barely above the wind.

Harry nodded and stood. He didn't bother asking why. He rarely did when it came to Karkaroff.

He followed the servant through the winding corridors of the upper tower. The air grew colder as they ascended, magical torches flickering low. When they reached the black oak door with the crest of Durmstrang—wolf, wand, and storm—carved into its center, the servant stepped aside.

Harry knocked once.

"Enter," came Karkaroff’s voice from within.

The Highmaster’s office was dim, lined with ancient tomes, glowing crystals, and maps of magical ley lines stretched across continents. A long table dominated the center, upon which rested a globe of dark iron that spun slowly without touch.

Igor Karkaroff stood by the arched window, looking out over the icy sea.

"Harry," he said without turning. "Come in. Close the door."

Harry obeyed silently, eyes briefly scanning the room for anything unusual.

"You’ve become... impressive," Karkaroff said at last, turning to face him. His pale blue eyes studied Harry the way a collector examined a valuable artifact. “Your professors sing your praises. Even Navarro seems obsessed with you. And I hear whispers about your dueling style—Grindelwaldian, refined, vicious. You’ve earned quite the reputation.”

Harry didn’t respond, merely watched and waited.

Karkaroff folded his arms. “Do you know why I called you here?”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “You’ve never called a student to your office without reason, Headmaster. So no, I don’t.”

Karkaroff smiled faintly. “I want to offer you something, Harry. Something not offered to students. Not even Dragons.”

Harry remained silent, but the glint in his silver-ringed eye sharpened.

“There is a vault in Dumstrang,” Karkaroff continued. “Older than the school itself. It holds the relics of previous headmasters, war artifacts, spell scrolls, and... other things. Dangerous things.”

Harry leaned forward slightly. “And?”

“I want to study them,” Karkaroff said bluntly. “You are the only student here capable of understanding half the things sealed away down there. And more importantly... you are not afraid of dark magic. You walk both paths—light and dark—with precision.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What’s the catch?” Harry asked.

Karkaroff’s smile widened.

“You’ll find it. What I learn, you learn. And you’ll not share what lies below with anyone unless I approve it.”

Harry crossed his arms. “And if I say no?”

“You won’t,” Karkaroff said. “Because you want to see what’s inside. Because it will feed your hunger for knowledge, for power, for truth. Because down there, you might find the next step in your evolution.”

Harry’s heart beat faster—but not with fear. With curiosity.

He could feel the door of possibility opening before him. The last true arcane path not yet walked.

He nodded once.

“I accept.”