The Tenth Weasley - CH - 94

Snow fell thick as goose down over the Durmstrang harbor, layering the piers and the sloping roofs of the watchtowers in white. The enchanted ship waited at the dock, its runes pulsing in the cold dawn light as students trudged up the gangplank one by one, trunks floating behind them.

Harry was nearly the last to board, his satchel heavier than usual with letters, photographs, and small gifts. His friends waited nearby—Victor with his arms folded, Sonja hugging a bundled parcel, Louis still half-asleep despite the crisp air.

“Going home, then?” Sonja asked softly.

Harry nodded. “I promised Mum I’d come for Yule. She’ll want me at the table, no excuses.”

Victor smiled faintly. “Tell your brothers I will give them a Quidditch lesson later.”

“I will,” Harry promised.

Louis blinked blearily. “Bring back biscuits. The ones with the sugar crust.”

Harry smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Ingrid shifted closer, brushing a stray snowflake from his shoulder. “Be careful,” she murmured. “And… try to rest. You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

He opened his mouth to protest but caught sight of the dark circles under her own eyes and let it go. “You too,” he said instead.

Sonja gave him a one-armed hug. “Send an owl when you arrive. We’ll be here when you get back.”

The ship’s horn boomed, rattling icicles from the eaves. Harry stepped up the gangplank and looked back one last time. In that moment—watching them in the snow, Victor’s breath misting, Sonja’s hair dusted white—he felt something tug at his chest.

Family, he thought. In more ways than one.

The voyage south was quiet. Most students slept in their bunks or murmured softly in small clusters. Harry stood at the rail for hours, watching the ice floes slide by under a dim sun. When the ship finally docked in the magical port of Oslo, he felt the tension start to melt from his shoulders.

It was nearly dusk by the time he made his way down the cobbled quay. Wizards Apparated in and out, portkeys flashed with a crack of displaced air, and dozens of returning families gathered in huddled groups.

Harry paused, scanning the crowd. For a moment he wondered if he’d been mistaken about the pickup arrangements—then he saw the tall, broad-shouldered figure in a thick dragonhide coat waving from near the customs office.

Charlie.

Harry broke into a grin. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed his brother until that instant.

Charlie strode forward and wrapped him in a crushing hug. “There you are,” he rumbled. “Merlin, you look taller.”

“You look exactly the same,” Harry shot back, muffled against his coat. “Like you wrestled a Hungarian Horntail on the way here.”

Charlie leaned back, eyeing him critically. “Mother says you’ve been in every paper from here to Athens. A hero again, eh?”

Harry flushed. “Something like that.”

Charlie clapped his shoulder, warm pride in his eyes. “Well, you can tell me all about it on the way. Got the portkey here—”

He reached into his pocket and produced a battered pewter goblet engraved with a runic spiral.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “A goblet?”

“It was the only thing big enough to key to both of us,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Come on. Mum will have kittens if we’re late.”

They stepped into the circle of runestones marking the portkey zone. Snow gusted in around them, swirling in bright eddies. Charlie held out the goblet, and Harry placed a hand on the cold metal.

Charlie met his eye. “Ready?”

“More than,” Harry said, heart already racing.

The world tilted—colors smearing into white and silver, the cold rushing over his skin—and then the dock vanished in a blur of motion.

When the spinning stopped, Harry’s boots hit solid ground. He staggered once, blinking. The air was damp and warmer here, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and frostbitten earth.

He looked up—and there it was: the Weasley Manor. Lights glowed in every window, smoke curling from the chimney. A wreath of holly hung askew on the door.

Home.

Before he could say a word, the front door burst open. Molly Weasley charged across the garden path in her patched apron, tears streaming down her ruddy cheeks.

“Oh, Harry!” she cried, arms flung wide. “You’re home!”

He barely had time to brace himself before she wrapped him in the sort of hug only a mother could manage—half embrace, half determined inspection to make sure he hadn’t come home missing limbs.

“Hi, Mum,” Harry managed, his voice thick.

Behind her, Ron, Ginny, and the twins piled onto the porch, each wearing identical grins.

“Look at the hero!” Fred called.

“Don’t start,” Harry warned, smiling despite himself.

Molly stepped back, cupping his cheek. “Come inside. You can tell us every bit over supper. You look thin as a reed.”

Charlie squeezed his shoulder once more. “Welcome back, little brother.”

As they all filed into the warm, bustling kitchen, Harry felt something settle in his chest—a feeling he hadn’t let himself name while he was away.

Safe.



From the moment Harry stepped through the front door of the Burrow, it felt as if the house itself woke up. The air was full of the scent of baking bread and pine boughs, the old rafters creaking with the bustle of too many people in too small a space.

It wasn’t long before everyone—siblings, friends, neighbors—seemed determined to ask him every question imaginable.

“Did you really duel ten poachers all by yourself?” Ron demanded, wide-eyed, as he trailed Harry through the kitchen.

“Only four,” Harry corrected patiently, ducking under a drying rack of sprigs and wreaths. “The rest were stunned in the first minute.”

“That’s still four more than I’ve ever fought,” Ron muttered, sounding almost impressed.

Ginny was waiting for him in the sitting room with an entire parchment scroll of questions she’d apparently been compiling for weeks. She pounced as soon as he sat down.

“Is it true Durmstrang has a whole chamber for dueling practice? How big was the dragon cave? Did the hatchlings bite you? What do they eat? What—”

“Ginny,” Molly called from the doorway, half exasperated, half amused, “give the boy five minutes to breathe!”

Charlie, meanwhile, had planted himself firmly in the armchair opposite Harry, arms folded over his broad chest, grinning like he’d just won a prize.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve been telling the other handlers that my little brother fought off dragon poachers. They all think I’m exaggerating.”

Harry smiled sheepishly. “And are you?”

Charlie’s grin only widened. “Absolutely not.”

Fred and George wandered in, each holding a slice of mince pie. George waved a photo Harry had brought—a moving image of the three rescued hatchlings playing tug-of-war with Victor’s cloak.

“This one’s going straight in our bedroom,” Fred declared.

“Or maybe the front hall,” George suggested. “Better intimidation value.”

Arthur Weasley joined them a moment later, spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose. He took five of the photographs Harry had set on the table—pictures of Harry and his friends with the dragons—and held them up to the lamplight, his expression full of quiet pride.

“I think,” Arthur said slowly, “these ought to be framed.”

He tapped the largest photo—a shot of Harry kneeling beside the massive mother dragon, one hand resting between her golden eyes.

“Front hall?” Molly suggested, smiling.

Arthur nodded. “Front hall.”

While the frames were fetched and the photos enlarged with a careful charm, Charlie finally got his chance to interrogate Harry properly.

“So,” he began, leaning forward intently, “did you notice if the hatchlings preferred any particular cuts of meat? Are they eating whole bones? Do they preheat the meat before swallowing?”

Harry laughed. “Preheat?”

Charlie looked perfectly serious. “Dragons usually flash-cook everything. Helps digestion.”

“They did that!” Harry exclaimed. “They roast the meat first. I wasn’t sure if it was normal.”

Ginny scribbled this down as if she were documenting a top-secret discovery.

“And how often are they eating?” Charlie pressed.

“Every other day, sometimes daily,” Harry said. “But they’re growing fast. I was going to ask you—what else can we feed them? I don’t want them malnourished.”

Charlie launched into a detailed explanation about iron-rich organ meat, magical mineral supplements, and the importance of calcium for scale development. Molly kept glancing over with a look of polite horror, but Harry was enthralled.

It was nearly an hour later when the front door opened again, and new voices joined the din.

James Potter strode in first, tall and rumpled, rubbing the bridge of his nose in weary frustration.

“Still no sign of Pettigrew,” he sighed as he shrugged off his traveling cloak. “The rat’s slipperier than an eel.”

Behind him came Lily, red-haired and bright-eyed as ever, with Charlie Potter and Rose in tow.

As soon as Lily saw Harry, she wrapped him in a fierce hug.

“You,” she said firmly, “are never allowed to give me another heart attack like that again.”

Harry tried to grin. “I’ll do my best.”

She pulled back to look him over. “Honestly, dragons. As if the basilisk wasn’t enough.”

Charlie Potter slipped past and thumped Harry on the back. “You’re going to end up in the history books, you know that?”

Rose sidled up beside Ginny, peering shyly at the photos. “Did you really touch the mother dragon?”

Harry nodded. “She let me.”

Ginny shot her a look of pure triumph. “See? I told you he’s mad.”

Before Harry could reply, another voice boomed from the doorway.

“Move aside, you lot—some of us haven’t seen the hero yet!”

Sirius Black swept into the room with all the dramatic flair Harry had come to expect, hair tousled and a grin already in place.

“Look at you,” Sirius said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Chasing down poachers, rescuing baby dragons. Merlin’s beard, Harry—you’re making the rest of us look lazy.”

Harry felt himself blushing. “It wasn’t just me. We all did it.”

“Don’t be modest,” Sirius said, eyes twinkling. “But if you insist, you’ll have to tell us everything over dinner. Lily’s demanded it.”

Molly clapped her hands decisively. “And dinner is nearly ready. Everyone—into the kitchen!”

Within minutes, the long table was crammed with Weasleys, Potters, and a few honorary strays. Steaming platters of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding appeared under Molly’s wand. The air was thick with the mingled scents of gravy, buttered vegetables, and warm bread.

As everyone crowded in, Harry caught himself smiling so hard it hurt.

This—this was the part of coming home he hadn’t dared to hope for. Not just safety, but belonging.

As the first plates were passed around, Charlie raised his glass, and the din fell to a hush.

“To Harry,” he said simply. “And to family—whatever shape it comes in.”

Harry felt the warmth in his chest and lifted his own glass.

“To family,” he echoed.



It was the kind of winter that wrapped everything in white, turning the orchard behind the Weasley Manor into a wonderland of frost-laced branches and drifting snow. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so… ordinary, in the best possible way. No dragons to rescue, no duels to fight—just the steady rhythm of life at home.

On the second morning after he arrived, Errol the owl flopped unceremoniously onto the kitchen windowsill with a bundle of letters tied to his leg. Ginny untied them as Harry poured porridge into bowls.

“Three for you,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Popular, aren’t you?”

“Apparently,” Harry muttered, taking the first letter.

He recognized Hermione’s tidy handwriting at once. He settled at the long kitchen table and read as the others leaned in to listen:


Dear Harry,

I hope you’re enjoying your holiday. I wanted to come as soon as I heard you were home, but we’re hosting my grandparents for Christmas, and you know how my mum gets when everything isn’t exactly perfect.

I’ll visit right after the holiday—please don’t go back to Durmstrang without seeing me first. I have about a hundred questions, so I’ve started making a list to keep track. Ginny saw me writing them down and decided she’d make her own list, too. I think she plans to challenge me to see who asks more questions.

Happy Christmas, Harry.

Love,
Hermione


Harry glanced up to see Ginny fidgeting by the stove, cheeks pink.

“You’re making a list?” he asked, trying not to grin.

She crossed her arms defensively. “If Hermione’s allowed, so am I.”

Charlie let out a bark of laughter. “Merlin help you, Harry. You’ll be interrogated for days.”

The next letter was written in loopy blue ink that drifted up and down the page:


Dear Mr. Weasley,

I’m writing to request an interview for the Quibbler about your recent adventures with the dragons and the poachers. My father is especially interested in whether any of the poachers were actually disguised Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

If you would be willing to visit the Rookery after Christmas, we would be most grateful. I’ve attached a small drawing I did of the hatchlings.

Yours sincerely,
Luna Lovegood


Harry flipped the page over, and sure enough, a crayon drawing showed three dragon hatchlings with enormous eyes and fluffy tails that looked suspiciously like rabbits.

Fred leaned over his shoulder and squinted. “Is that… accurate?”

“Not even close,” Harry said, though he was smiling.

Molly bustled by with a kettle. “You will go see them, won’t you? Xenophilius has been dying to publish something about you.”

“I will write Luna I’d visit after Christmas,” Harry promised.

Just as he finished the last letter—a polite note from the Hogwarts library reminding him to return a borrowed charms text—someone knocked on the front door.

Ginny went to answer, and moments later returned, trailed by Cedric Diggory and his parents. Cedric looked the same as ever—tall, even-tempered, with a polite smile.

“Harry,” he said warmly, holding out a hand. “You’re something of a legend now.”

Harry shook it, feeling a little embarrassed. “Hi, Cedric.”

Amos Diggory stepped forward, beaming like he’d just discovered a vault full of Galleons. “We simply had to stop by,” he said in his booming voice. “Every paper in Europe is writing about you, you know. Rescuing a hundred magical creatures—why, it’s practically history in the making!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Harry protested.

But Amos ignored him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nonsense! You’ll be in textbooks one day. Mark my words.”

Cedric’s mother, a gentle-looking witch with a kind face, reached out to squeeze Harry’s hand. “I’m glad you’re safe, dear.”

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely.

Molly ushered everyone to sit, plates of spiced buns and hot tea appearing by magic. Soon the kitchen was full of chatter. Amos cornered Arthur to speculate about whether the ICW would be giving Harry another medal, while Cedric asked quietly about Durmstrang’s dueling curriculum.

“I’ve heard it’s brutal,” he said, curious.

Harry nodded. “It is. But it’s…fair, in a way. They don’t coddle you.”

Cedric looked thoughtful. “I think I’d have liked that.”

When the Diggories finally departed, dusk was falling outside, and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon and pine.

That evening, Harry helped Ginny and Ron string enchanted fairy lights along the eaves. Fred and George threw enchanted snowballs at one another until Molly chased them indoors.

After supper, he sat in the living room by the crackling fire, a mug of chocolate warming his hands. Charlie sat opposite him with a dragon handbook open across his knees.

“All right,” Charlie said, tapping the page. “Let’s talk about hatchling diets again.”

Harry grinned. “Only if you promise not to test me afterward.”

“No promises,” Charlie said, eyes twinkling.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and endless. Inside, the Weasley Manor felt like a haven—full of laughter, questions, and the kind of gentle chaos that made it feel like the safest place in the world.