The Tenth Weasley - CH - 102

The snows of winter melted slowly, reluctantly, across the Durmstrang mountains. The frozen lake cracked and sang during dawn, and long icicles wept into trickling brooks as spring crept up the cliffs. But Harry didn’t slow down. If anything, he pushed himself harder.

Day after day, week after week, he honed his body and magic until every fiber of his being felt like it thrummed with purpose. His room no longer looked like a student dormitory. One wall was stacked with copied tomes from Grindelwald’s vault, another cluttered with enchanted schematics, wand cores, rune drafts, and alchemical materials. The center was a dueling ring—a warded, silenced area where he could test the deadliest of spells without consequence.

Harry had long since abandoned the spell chains taught at Hogwarts. No more "Expelliarmus, Stupefy, Protego." No more half-hearted disarms or clever dodges. He had adopted something far older—something primal, efficient, and dangerous.

Grindelwald’s fighting style.

Where others twirled and waved their wands like artists, Harry carved the air with brutal, deliberate precision. He struck like a hawk and defended like steel. And the spells he used—Reducto, Confringo, Sectum Tempestus, Arcum Incendio—were not for stunning. They were for ending.

Even Professor Navarro had suffered the change firsthand.

One cold morning in the dueling chamber, Navarro stood shirt-sleeved, his wand raised, eyes sharp. “Again, Harry.”

Harry didn’t speak. He moved.

A volley of shimmering silver bolts exploded from his wand, interwoven with crackling whip-chains of lightning. Navarro parried the first two—barely—then was caught mid-air by a spell that wrapped him in stone chains before hurling him backward into a padded wall.

Boom.

The professor hit the ground with a grunt, coughing, but laughing too.

“You don’t fight like a student,” Navarro wheezed. “You don’t even fight like a professor. You fight like a… like a dark lord masquerading as a boy.”

Harry extended a hand, helping Navarro to his feet. “You told me to stop holding back.”

“And I meant it,” Navarro said, brushing dust off his robes. “You’re changing the way I teach. That style… those spell-chains—you’re creating new theory, Harry. I’ve never seen magic used that way.”

Harry gave a small, grateful nod. “It’s Grindelwald’s style. But it’s mine now.”

Navarro grinned. “Then teach me.”

There was no shame in his voice. No resentment. Navarro, a master duelist and a veteran of magical war, came to Harry every week, asking for new drills, new theory. And soon, a few other professors began to quietly consult Harry too—on enchanting, transfiguration, even ward stabilization.

Respect came without fanfare, but it was there. In the way they spoke to him, in the way they didn’t try to correct him, but instead listened.


As Easter approached, students began preparing for the short spring break. Letters were written, portkeys requested. The Dragon-class tower grew quieter each day, its members slowly filtering out to visit family or travel abroad.

But Harry sat alone by his dormitory window, a folded parchment resting on the desk beside him. It was Ron’s latest letter.

"Mum’s planning a big dinner. Charlie and Rose will be there. Even Potters said they’d stop by early, get a few days off from work. Come home, mate. We miss you. – Ron."

Harry re-read the letter five times.

Come home.

But what home?

His heart ached at the thought of Mum’s warm kitchen, of Dad’s cheerful questions about wand cores and Muggle plugs. He missed Fred and George's pranks, and Ginny’s teasing glares. Even Percy’s lectures.

And his birth parents would be there. James and Lily Potter. Charlie and Rose. His original family.

But what would they think when they saw him?

He walked to the mirror and looked at himself. One eye still hazel—warm and familiar. But the other was silver-ringed, deep, stormy, like mercury rippling through an old well.

He looked older. Sharper. There was something in his gaze now that hadn’t been there before—the silent power of someone who had crossed thresholds others didn’t dare approach.

Would they see that too?

Would they understand?

He sat on the edge of his bed, hands steepled, wand spinning slowly between his fingers. “They’ll look at me like I’m not me,” he whispered.

The door creaked behind him.

It was Sonja.

She leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “You’re not leaving with the others?”

Harry shook his head.

“Your family’s expecting you.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

Sonja stepped into the room and looked at the parchment. “You’re scared they’ll see the silver and think it’s darkness.”

He met her eyes.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “That eye… isn’t darkness. It’s focus. It’s power. You don’t feel evil, Harry. Just… intense.”

“I don’t want to scare them.”

“Then don’t. Go home. Show them that it’s still you.” She smiled faintly. “Just… maybe don’t start quoting Grindelwald at the dinner table.”

Harry let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll try.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward. “You’ve changed, yeah. But you still care. That’s what matters.”

He finally stood. The air shifted with his motion, the aura around him flaring faintly before settling. “Alright. I’ll go.”

“Good.” Sonja turned to leave. “Tell your mum I said hi.”

“Only if you let me teach you that new counter-hex tomorrow.”

“You’re on, Weasley.”

As she left, Harry summoned his trunk and tapped it with his wand. Books and supplies flew neatly inside. He looked around the room one last time, then took Ron’s letter, folded it, and slipped it into his cloak.

The silver eye glinted in the lantern light.

It was time to go home.

Easter always meant something more for Harry Weasley.

It wasn’t just the scent of chocolate frogs or the pastel eggs enchanted to float above the breakfast table. It wasn’t even the spring air blowing gently through the Burrow’s crooked windows or the garden coming alive with buzzing gnomes and enchanted lilies.

It was the promise of a day—his day.

When the Weasleys adopted Harry, he hadn’t known when his real birthday was. No parchment marked the day, no cake ever came for it. Just a blank space in his memory, as if the world had forgotten to mark his beginning.

So Molly had knelt down before him, her arms soft and warm, and asked, “Harry, dear… would you like to choose a day? One day that we can call your birthday?”

He had been small then, smaller than even Ron. His hair a mess, his eyes wide with the uncertainty of being loved.

He had thought hard.

And then he picked April 22, two days after Easter.

Because every year, without fail, Bill and Charlie came home from Hogwarts for the Easter break. Ron and Ginny were already there, and Percy made sure to keep his schedule clear. Fred and George always had something ridiculous planned. And Arthur Weasley, no matter how busy the Ministry got, would take the day off just for him.

That first year, they decorated the Burrow with golden streamers, conjured a sky full of floating candles, and Molly made a cake so big it had two chocolate Hippogriffs perched on top. Fred had spelled the candles to sing. Ginny had wrapped a book in purple ribbon. Charlie had even brought back a dragon scale from Hogwarts’ Care of Magical Creatures class.

It was his birthday—not because a date told him so, but because he chose it.

Years passed. He grew older. Wiser. Stronger.

He eventually learned his real birthday. He even saw it etched on Ministry forms and school documents. But it never meant the same.

Because on that chosen day, the Weasley Manor still lit up like a warm hearth. The table still overflowed with food and laughter. His name was still sung over cake, and hugs still wrapped around him like safety.

Even now, far away from his family—on distant shores, in cold castles, in secret rooms filled with ancient power—that day remained sacred.

No matter where he was, or what he became, Harry Weasley would always celebrate his birthday on April 22.

Not because it was the beginning of his life.

But because it was the beginning of his family.



The dark waters churned gently under the pale light of dawn, and in the distance, like a sleeping leviathan rising from the depths, the Durmstrang Ship surfaced beside the ancient dock of the Durmstrang Isle. The ship was colossal, forged of black ironwood and deep-sea obsidian, its hull veined with old Norse runes that shimmered faintly as magic pulsed through them.

One by one, students emerged from the castle, trunks floating behind them, cloaks fluttering in the icy wind. The members of the Dragon Class stood tall, clustered near the ship’s lower ramp, casting long shadows across the stones.

Harry stood among them, his silver-ringed eye catching the sunlight like molten steel.

“Look at that,” murmured Marek as the ship let out a deep, groaning whump of enchanted gears shifting into place. “Still gives me chills, no matter how many times I ride it.”

Ingrid nudged Eryk with her elbow. “Don’t pretend you’re not scared every time it dives.”

“Lies and slander,” Eryk muttered, trying to maintain his dignity.

The ship opened its grand entrance—a yawning, rune-inscribed gateway flanked by armored golems, and the students began entering in lines, guided by professors and the ship’s caretakers.

Before boarding, Harry turned to Sonja and offered a hand.

“You’ll write?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes but shook his hand with a firm grip. “I’ll duel you. That’s how I say hello.”

Victor gave Harry a nod from under his hood. He was already half-packed for his next match. “Be careful in Paris. Don’t break the country.”

Antonin, carrying a massive stack of copied scrolls, gave Harry a rare smile. “Let me know if you find any Parisian hidden rooms.”

Harry smirked. “I’ll leave a few for you.”

Once aboard, the interior of the ship buzzed with the echo of farewell chants and the rustle of cloaks. The lower decks were filled with chambers, lounges, and spell-insulated compartments. When all the students were finally inside, the doors sealed with a resonating clang and the ship lurched gently—then plunged.

Like a leviathan returning to the deep, the Durmstrang Ship slipped beneath the sea.

Its powerful enchantments kept the ride smooth and its windows projected a magical view of the ocean around them—dolphins racing beside the hull, giant squid watching curiously, and flickering lights from bioluminescent creatures drifting in the dark.

Checkpoint after checkpoint passed. Some students left at magical ports across Europe: the fjords of Norway, the secret harbors of Denmark, the underwater dome near Amsterdam. Each farewell came with handshakes, shoulder slaps, or shy nods.

Finally, as the ship slowed beneath the waters of the Seine and surfaced quietly in a secluded dock below Magical Paris, Harry stood alone near the exit.

The magical attendant—an elderly man with a monocle—raised an eyebrow. “Not heading to Oslo this time, Mr. Weasley?”

“No one's picking me up,” Harry said. “I’ll take the scenic route.”

The man gave him a knowing nod. “Bon voyage. Paris awaits.”


Magical Paris was unlike anything Harry had seen.

Where Diagon Alley was cramped and crooked, Paris stretched in every direction—grand, ancient, and elegant. Floating cafes drifted gently above cobblestone streets. Enchanted lamps glowed soft gold under the bridges of the Seine. Magical creatures walked freely: tiny gargoyles perched on balconies, faerie vendors sold glowing macarons, and a Veela opera troupe floated past in an airborne carriage.

The central district—Rue Mystique—was teeming with life.

Wizards in velvet robes debated alchemy beside living statues. Enchantresses danced through the air playing magical violins. Bookstores housed staircases that rearranged themselves depending on the genre one wanted to find.

Harry walked among them, his hood pulled low at first. But even then… something about him drew attention.

Young witches and wizards passed him without pause, unaware, merely curious about his accent or wand holster.

But the older ones… they stopped.

A wizard seated at a café spilled his espresso as Harry walked past. A middle-aged witch gasped, muttered “Par Merlin…” and pulled her daughter away by the elbow. An elderly couple outside a potion shop stared, wide-eyed, before hurrying inside and slamming the door behind them.

It wasn’t just the silver eye.

It was the way Harry moved. Confident. Smooth. Like he owned the world beneath his boots.

It was the tone of his voice when he asked directions in fluent French. The way his mismatched eyes flicked from building to alley in alert calculation. The aura around him—quiet, coiled, and potent.

He reminded them of someone.

Of a name that still echoed in dark whispers across Europe.

One cloaked wizard stepped aside and murmured as Harry passed, “Gellert…”

Harry stopped.

Turned his head.

“Excuse me?” he asked, voice even.

The man blanched. “N-nothing, monsieur. Forgive me.”

Harry said nothing more and walked on.


By late afternoon, he had explored the Arches de Lux, the market beneath the Pont Neuf where magical artifacts whispered to curious hands. He purchased a rare alchemy book bound in silverthread and a pocket mirror once enchanted by Nicolas Flamel.

Finally, near the Fleur du Port, he found the Portkey Station—a glittering glass tower carved into the heart of a magical museum.

He stepped in line, waited as witches and wizards collected glowing tokens that hummed with destination spells.

The attendant, a short clerk in gold-trimmed robes, squinted at Harry.

“Destination?”

“Ottery St. Catchpole,” Harry replied. “Weasley Manor.”

The man blinked. “That’s… rural.”

Harry nodded. “So am I.”

The portkey token glowed green in his palm. He stepped onto the platform, feeling the pull of magic tug at the pit of his stomach.

But just before it whisked him away, he looked back at Paris one last time—the flickering lights, the spires, the river weaving through the city like a silver snake.

So many places still left to explore.

Soon, he thought.

And then—whoosh.

The world twisted.

And Harry Weasley vanished in a gust of air and green light.