The Tenth Weasley - CH - 97

The wind was bitter and sharp as Harry stepped onto the icy stone dock where the Durmstrang ship had arrived. Snow swept in sideways, pelting his robes, but Harry barely noticed. The chill of the north didn’t bother him much anymore—not after spending so many nights near a dragon’s cave and learning to breathe through frostbitten mornings.

He adjusted the strap on his enchanted trunk, which trailed behind him like a loyal pet, and made his way up the path toward the main castle. A thick fog hung over the cliffs surrounding the fortress, but the towers of Durmstrang loomed tall and solemn above it, their glowing runes faintly pulsing beneath the snow-laden roofs.

As he entered the grand archway of the school, he immediately noticed how quiet the halls were. No rowdy voices. No chatter from first years. The corridors were clean, cold, and humming with magical energy. Just as he passed the main hallway toward the Dragon Wing, he spotted Sonja stepping out of one of the alchemy chambers, her sleeves rolled up and her gloves stained with silver dust.

“You’re late,” she said, raising a brow and folding her arms across her chest.

Harry blinked. “What? It’s the first day back.”

Sonja smirked. “For you, maybe. We never left.”

“What do you mean ‘never left’?”

She led him down the hall as she spoke. “Most of the Dragon Class stayed for the break. There was too much to do. Professor Kessler gave us access to restricted spell creation chambers, Marek and Ingrid are working on a fusion enchantment, and Louis set his robe on fire trying to bind draconic flame essence to an orb. You missed a lot.”

Harry chuckled. “I go home for one holiday, and suddenly everyone turns into a prodigy.”

“You’re already famous,” Sonja said dryly. “We had to catch up.”

As they entered the Dragon Class common hall, Harry saw what she meant. The massive stone dome was buzzing with activity. Runes hovered in the air above parchment-covered tables. Spell crystals glowed in containment fields. Scrolls floated midair, unraveling themselves and presenting notes to students hunched over desks.

Ingrid was carefully adding powdered dragon scale to a cauldron, her hair tied up in a messy bun and protected by a glowing helm. Louis was holding a glowing wand and frowning intensely at a stack of vibrating runes. Viktor, always meticulous, sat surrounded by grimoires on magical bindings and wandless casting.

“You lot didn’t take a break at all?” Harry asked, stepping into the warmth of the room. It smelled of ink, ozone, and something vaguely spicy—dragon hide, probably.

“Sleep is for below fourth-years,” Louis said without looking up.

“Or weak,” added Ingrid, grinning.

“Or both,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes.

Victor finally looked up. “Harry, glad you’re back. Did you bring those notes from the British Ministry’s magical beast registry?”

“I did,” Harry said, pulling a roll of parchment from his enchanted satchel. “Also got a reply from Charlie about dragon hatchling diets. Apparently we’ve been doing fine, but he says we should start introducing mineral-laced meats to help with scale development.”

“Excellent,” said Viktor, taking the parchment. “That’ll help with the growth measurements.”


Later that day, Harry sat in the alchemy lab with Sonja and Marek, watching as Sonja attempted to bind elemental fire into a containment orb lined with gold and elderwood filaments.

“Hold it steady,” she said, sweat beading her forehead.

The orb pulsed with violent orange light, and Harry muttered, “Firmus.” A thin thread of stabilizing magic looped around the orb, and the glow evened out.

Marek adjusted a cooling sigil beneath it. “Almost there...and...done!”

The orb shimmered and then went inert, safely containing the fiery essence inside.

“We need three more like that,” Sonja sighed. “For the comparative analysis.”

Harry groaned. “No wonder none of you left.”

Between advanced alchemy, spell construction, rune theory, and field studies, the Dragon Class curriculum was more like military training crossed with magical graduate school. While the rest of Durmstrang students returned to their houses and resumed normal studies, the Dragons kept pushing boundaries.


In the evenings, after classes, the seven of them would often gather in Harry’s magically expanded room. The dome-shaped chamber, enchanted with starfield ceilings and floating lights, had grown even more homely since Christmas. Plush couches encircled a roaring hearth, shelves overflowed with dragon-themed books, and a table in the corner held a half-eaten cake Ginny had packed in his bag.

“I still don’t know how you made this place so cozy,” said Ingrid, biting into a slice.

“I had lots of practice,” Harry said. “You should have seen my old Slytherin room.”

Victor raised his eyebrow.


Despite the warm camaraderie, the workload was unrelenting. Harry found himself juggling five different branches of magical study:

Advanced Rune Composition, where he was learning to write recursive spell matrices.

Spell Invention, under Professor Kessler’s tutelage, where he had to design a non-lethal restraint spell using only fire and wind elements.

Draconic Communication, which involved practicing mental resonance patterns to better attune to the mother dragon and her hatchlings.

Historical Alchemical Theory, in which he had to reproduce extinct magical metals.

And on top of all that, regular classes in Potions, Transfiguration, Magical Theory, and Charms.

At one point, Harry dropped onto the couch in the dome and muttered, “I’ve written more essays this week than I did my entire second year at Hogwarts.”

Sonja laughed. “That’s because Hogwarts barely counts.”


Despite how exhausting it all was, Harry didn’t regret coming back. Here in Durmstrang, in the Dragon Class, he wasn’t just a student—he was part of a team, a guild, almost a brotherhood. The seven of them—Harry, Sonja, Louis, Ingrid, Viktor, Marek, and Eryk were bound by something deeper than grades or house pride. They had fought poachers, rescued dragons, exposed corruption, and now shared a purpose stronger than any curriculum.

And as Harry glanced toward the enchanted ceiling, where illusionary northern lights swirled gently above them, he realized something.

He belonged here.

Even with the pressure. Even with the endless hours. He was exactly where he needed to be.



The harsh wind rattled the high windows of Durmstrang Castle as Harry adjusted his heavy dragon-hide cloak and pressed deeper into his studies. The break had taken him away from the ever-accelerating pace of the Dragon Class, and now he was behind. Not terribly so, but enough that it gnawed at him. While his friends had been experimenting with elemental synthesis and refining their alchemical formulations, Harry had been back at the Weasley manor, immersed in family and festivity.

Now, back beneath the cold stone vaults of Durmstrang, surrounded by scrolls, glowing runes, and whispering magical currents, he was determined to catch up.

"Still working on that spell shield?" Sonja asked one evening, peering over his shoulder as Harry stood before a floating blackboard scrawled with his notes.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "A shield that blocks everything but lets you cast through it. I think it can be done using a mirrored veil layering with some semi-permeable kinetic rune matrices... but it keeps collapsing under dual-channel stress."

Sonja blinked. "You know, sometimes I think you're part goblin with how stubborn you get with spells."

"Thank you," Harry said with a grin.

Just then, someone cleared their throat behind them. Harry turned and saw a tall, quiet figure standing in the entrance to the dome. Antonin.

A seventh-year Dragon Class member, Antonin was a known loner. Reserved, always serious, always studying in the deeper corners of the library or secluded in one of the empty watchtowers. He rarely joined conversations and had never asked anyone for help.

"Can I speak to you?"

At that moment, the rest of Harry’s group — Sonja, Viktor, Ingrid, Marek, and Luis — entered the chamber, laughing over something. They stopped as soon as they saw Antonin.

“Is this guy bothering you, Harry?” Marek asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” Harry said, standing up. “Actually, I think we should all hear what he has to say.”

Antonin seemed slightly annoyed but continued. “I believe Grindelwald’s hidden vault exists somewhere in this castle. It’s not a vault of gold or artifacts — it's a repository of knowledge. Forbidden magic, ancient theory, forgotten spells. Things even the government feared.”

Sonja leaned forward. “You’re not seriously thinking of going after it, are you?”

“I think we’re already in it now,” Harry replied. “We’re Dragon Class. What’s the point of learning all this if we’re never going to do something with it?”

Luis grinned. “Well… I do like adventure.”

Viktor folded his arms. “If this is real, then it’s dangerous. Grindelwald’s legacy could be cursed. Trapped. Protected by dark enchantments.”

“I know,” Antonin said. “That’s why I need help. This isn’t just about power. It’s about understanding the mind of the greatest magical theorist of the last century.”

Harry looked around at his friends. “We investigate — together. But if it gets too risky, we back off. We’re not going to let some old ghost from the past destroy us.”

“Agreed,” Sonja said with a nod.

“Fine,” said Viktor. “Let’s find the secrets of Grindelwald.”

“Let’s start tonight,” Antonin said, his eyes gleaming. “I’ll show you what I’ve found.”

And with that, the seven students leaned in as Antonin unrolled a detailed map of Durmstrang’s lower levels — layers upon layers of chambers, hidden passages, and forgotten catacombs. In the center, marked in a jagged circle, was one word:

Sanctum.



Snow and wind howled outside the enchanted windows, but in the castle’s deep underbelly — beneath the torch-lit halls and ancient staircases — Harry and his friends walked quietly behind Antonin, their footsteps echoing through forgotten corridors.

Antonin held the magical map he’d created over years of research, with red ink marking every sealed door, every chamber hidden from normal eyes. His voice was low, focused.

“There are seven locations,” he whispered, “each one magically reinforced, all inaccessible to normal spells. I’ve tried every bypassing charm I could. Nothing worked.”

“That’s why you came to me,” Harry muttered, eyes scanning the flickering torches. “You think I’ll crack them.”

“I know you will,” Antonin said seriously. “You're not just clever — you're intuitive. You feel the magic, not just cast it.”

The group moved in silence for several minutes, down a spiral staircase none of them had noticed before Antonin activated an old runic glyph. It sank into the stone, revealing a narrow passage. Luis whistled low under his breath.

“I can’t believe this place was under our noses the whole time.”

“This castle is older than most countries,” Sonja replied, brushing her gloved hand against the wall. “We’re probably walking through magic older than Merlin.”

They arrived at the first sealed chamber — a stone wall with no handle, no lock, only a smooth surface marked with ancient glyphs.

Antonin stepped aside. “I tried everything. If it opens for you, we’ll know you’re our key.”

Harry stepped forward and knelt by the glyphs. “These are Götic runes... modified to act like a triplex lock. They draw power from the ley lines running through the castle.” He ran his fingers over the cold stone, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Finite Aeternum.”

The wall trembled.

A low hum echoed through the air, and the runes slowly flickered and vanished. The stone slid open with a dull groan. They stepped in.

The air was stale. Bones — hundreds of them — lined the floor in cracked piles. At the center was a black runic circle etched into the floor, long faded and cold, but still pulsing with residual magic.

“Oh gods…” Ingrid whispered. “That’s a necromancer’s mark.”

“It’s old,” Antonin muttered. “Decades at least.”

Harry stared into the circle, the whispers of dead magic tingling in his mind. “Grindelwald might not have used this, but someone else did. Someone practiced death magic here.”

“Let’s move,” Viktor said, his face pale. “This isn’t it.”

They resealed the chamber and continued their search. Over the next week, Harry unraveled the enchantments on the second and third chambers. Each one held its own mystery — a room filled with cursed objects that hissed and twitched in their boxes, and a hidden dormitory behind a tapestry, its bed still neatly made, its dust undisturbed.

In the fourth chamber, they struck something curious.

Antonin pushed open the door with Harry’s help, and the smell of ancient parchment and dry herbs filled the air. Long-forgotten vials shimmered faintly on alchemy tables. The walls were lined with tomes bound in cracked leather, and in the center — lying on a plinth of carved obsidian — sat a single journal wrapped in green silk.

Sonja approached it first, carefully peeling away the cloth. “It’s… handwritten.”

Luis took a step closer and read the fading title aloud. “Basic Alchemical Practice for the Young and Curious — by Nicolas Flamel.”

Everyone froze.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Nicolas Flamel? Are you sure?”

“Look at the signature,” Ingrid said, flipping to the back. “It’s his. This is an original copy.”

Antonin raised an eyebrow. “It’s real… but it’s not Grindelwald’s. This is a beginner’s journal.”

“Still,” Harry said softly, taking the book into his hands. “It’s priceless. And it was here for a reason.”

“I think you should keep it,” Sonja said. “You're the only one of us studying both spellcraft and alchemy seriously.”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

They continued their search, determined. Four rooms down. Three to go. And with each hidden chamber explored, they learned a little more about the castle’s long history — and how deeply Grindelwald had embedded himself in its walls before his exile.

One evening, as they sat around Harry’s magically expanded study dome, Antonin sipped from a steaming mug and looked around the group. “I’ll be honest… I didn’t expect this.”

“Expect what?” Marek asked, biting into a sweet roll.

“To find… allies,” Antonin said. “I’ve been alone in this search for years. Now… I feel like we might actually succeed.”

Harry nodded, flipping through Flamel’s old notes. “We will. But we have to be careful. The real vault — if we find it — won’t just open with a spell.”

“It’ll be protected,” Viktor agreed. “Traps. Wards. Illusions.”

“And probably a few things we’ve never seen before,” Sonja added grimly.

Harry leaned forward, placing the Flamel journal on the table. “Then we get ready. We study. And we keep going — because we’re not just chasing Grindelwald’s secrets. We’re chasing the truth about Durmstrang.”

Antonin smiled faintly, a rare expression of hope. “Then let’s find the last three.”