The Tenth Weasley - CH - 87

The first snowfall had barely melted before the banners went up—crimson and silver for one team, dark green and steel blue for another. The Durmstrang Quidditch Season had officially begun.

But unlike Hogwarts, where matches were tied to House pride and the elusive House Cup, Durmstrang’s Quidditch was different—more brutal, more independent, and far more profitable.

There were no house teams.

Instead, anyone who could gather ten players and pay the entry fee of twenty Galleons could register a team. Matches were vicious and relentless. The prize for winning the tournament? A thousand Galleons, enchanted broom maintenance for a year, and a week off from classes for all players.

Not surprisingly, most Quidditch teams were made up of Unicorns and Thunderbirds—eager for glory, recognition, and gold. Dragons seldom participated. Their course load and elite training left little time for extracurriculars.

Except for Viktor Krum.

Viktor had formed his own team years ago and had maintained it, even after becoming a professional reserve for the Bulgarian national team. His presence alone ensured that matches he played in drew massive crowds.


Harry found himself walking with several other Dragons through the cold, open courtyard toward the Durmstrang Stadium, a brutal coliseum of black stone surrounded by howling northern winds. He wore a thick black cloak embroidered with the Dragon insignia, and his boots crunched on the frost-covered flagstones.

“You coming to cheer for Krum?” asked Vika, a sixth-year Dragon with wild, icy-blonde hair.

Harry nodded. “He asked if I could show up. Says I bring good luck.”

“I’d say he just likes having the only person who outranks him academically in the stands,” she replied with a smirk.

The stadium was already buzzing. Merchants sold steaming cups of pine-ale and roasted frost nuts. A group of Unicorns were waving enchanted flags with their team’s emblem: a silver falcon biting a broomstick.

The announcer's voice echoed over the enchanted loudspeakers.

“Welcome to the first match of the Durmstrang Quidditch Season! On the north platform: Krum’s Stormriders! On the south: The Iron Wings!”

Harry sat with the rest of the Dragons in a raised VIP platform. From here, they could see everything: the glitter of the brooms, the tense faces of the players, and the long, jagged track that surrounded the pitch like a viper coiled to strike.

Unlike Hogwarts’ polite structure, Durmstrang's pitch had rougher weather enchantments—gusts of wind, random cold flurries, and even sudden fog. Playing here was war.

Viktor flew in first, looking completely at ease on his custom Nimbus Pro-Fang. He hovered mid-air, scanning the field with practiced calm. The Stormriders gathered behind him, dressed in coal-black uniforms with silver linings.

The whistle blew.

The game erupted into chaos.

It wasn’t just skill—it was survival. Bludgers were faster, heavier, and had been enchanted to home in more aggressively. Beaters wielded reinforced bats with carved runes. And while Hogwarts referees would have stopped a foul, Durmstrang’s referee—a hulking Thunderbird professor named Raskovich—only interfered if someone was unconscious or bleeding heavily.

And Krum… Krum danced in the air like lightning made flesh.

“Merlin,” Harry muttered as Viktor shot into a dive that looked suicidal.

He pulled up an inch from the ground, the Snitch fluttering just inches from his glove.

The match lasted twenty-two minutes before Krum caught the Snitch mid-loop, winning 260-90.

The crowd went wild.


Back in the Dragon commons, the students gathered around a roaring fire. Viktor walked in late, still in his gear, his face flushed with windburn.

“You fly like you were born with wings,” Harry said, handing him a cup of warm cider.

“And you duel like your wand’s an extension of your soul,” Viktor replied with a grin. “We all have our thing.”

There was a moment of pride between them—mutual respect not just for titles or ranks, but earned through blood, sweat, and fire.


A few days later, another announcement spread through the halls. Broom-racing season had also begun.

Unlike Quidditch, broom-racing was a solo event. Riders had to navigate a treacherous course through Durmstrang's dense northern forest, dodging enchanted trees, flocks of frostbirds, illusions, and—worse—rogue charms that scrambled your vision.

The goal was to pass through enchanted hoops placed randomly in the terrain. Each hoop passed earned ten points. Missing a hoop didn’t just cost points—it often sent you hurtling into branches or hex traps.

A group of Dragons discussed it in the common chamber.

“You should try it, Harry,” said Gregor, a seventh-year from Romania. “You’re faster than half the racers I’ve seen.”

“I’m tempted,” Harry admitted. “But right now, I’d rather finish translating my ritual compendium from the Dragon Library. I’m this close to understanding anti-spectral warding.”

The Dragons laughed.

“Only you would skip a thrilling broom-race to study ghosts,” Viktor teased.

Harry smirked. “They don’t hit back. Most of the time.”


That evening, back in his magically expanded room, Harry sorted through a stack of letters on his enchanted desk. One from Hermione, one from Bill, and even one from Fred and George (joint, of course), filled with jokes about Viktor’s flying style and suggestions for Harry to start his own team: The Basilisk Blasters.

Harry chuckled and dipped his quill into ink to reply. The forest outside his enchanted window pulsed faintly with the lights of broom-racers training below.

Durmstrang was nothing like Hogwarts.

But for the first time in a long time… Harry didn’t miss it.

He was exactly where he was meant to be.



It was just as Bill had said in his last letter—

“Being a Dragon at Durmstrang is like being Head Boy at Hogwarts… but with real power. Dragons don’t ask for permission—they give it. Just don’t go starting a war.”

Harry had chuckled when he first read it, but now he realized Bill hadn’t been joking.
Being a Dragon wasn’t just a rank—it was a title of respect. Professors addressed Dragons more formally, and students gave them space when they walked through the halls. If a Dragon wanted to explore the massive enchanted forest that surrounded Durmstrang Castle, no escort or permission was needed.

Which suited Harry perfectly.

He had a goal in mind.


The forest loomed like a black wall beyond the castle’s outer courtyards. Its snow-laced trees stood ancient and brooding, their branches twisting like claws into the sky. Magical wards hummed at its border, warning away Unicorns and Thunderbirds and Thestrals who weren’t permitted to enter without supervision.

But Dragons?

Dragons walked where they pleased.

Harry stepped across the threshold with his wand tucked into his sleeve and a leather satchel slung over his shoulder—one filled with collection flasks, enchanted knives, and parchment-scrolls of ritual diagrams. He wore his dragon-marked cloak, enchanted with warming charms, and his boots were warded against frost and poison ivy.

He wasn’t alone.

Behind him trailed a familiar voice. “You could have waited.”

Harry turned.

Sonja was walking toward him, her long dark braid swinging behind her like a whip. She wore dragon-hide boots and a wand holster strapped to her thigh. Her breath clouded in the cold, but her eyes burned with quiet challenge.

“You’ve been following me since the dueling tournament,” Harry said mildly.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t follow. I observe.”

Harry smirked. “Right. Observing my footsteps across three corridors and one library?”

Sonja shrugged. “You interest me.”

Harry turned back toward the trees. “Then observe me collecting magical creature blood for a ritual.”

Sonja tilted her head. “You’re a ritualist?”

“Among other things.”

“You realize most of the creatures in this forest want to eat your face?”

“Which is why I brought gloves,” Harry said casually.

Sonja rolled her eyes but followed.


They walked for nearly half an hour in silence, deeper into the woods. The sun was a pale disc above, barely warming the frozen canopy. Birds didn’t sing here. Instead, faint magical whispers drifted in the air like spirits murmuring through the frost.

Occasionally, a shadow moved through the trees.

Harry marked the path with runes every twenty feet—protection charms, location anchors, and a few explosive surprises in case something decided to chase them back. He pulled out a folded map he had stolen from the Dragon Commons—a crude outline of Durmstrang’s forest with marked “danger zones.”

“There’s a drake nest on the eastern cliffs,” Sonja said, walking beside him now. “And a colony of frost wraiths near the hollow lake.”

“I’m not here for big game,” Harry muttered. “I’m looking for krovlinns. Bloodhoppers. Small, fast, aggressive. Their blood boils when infused with fire magic.”

Sonja frowned. “Those things bite.”

Harry grinned. “Only if you’re slow.”


It wasn’t long before they found the first sign—pale scratch marks across tree bark, and a sticky crimson trail in the snow.

“They’ve been feeding,” Sonja whispered. She crouched near the blood, wand drawn.

Harry pulled a vial from his satchel and placed it in a small copper circle inscribed with runes. “Keep watch.”

“Always do.”

The moment Harry began to chant softly, the copper ring glowed. From the trees, a shriek echoed—and then three small, dog-sized creatures with iridescent scales and needle-fangs leapt from the underbrush.

“Krovlinns,” Sonja muttered.

Harry didn’t flinch. With a flick of his wand, a red beam slammed into one, freezing it mid-air. “Stasis hex.”

Sonja moved quickly, blasting another with a paralyzing jinx and dodging a third that lunged at her.

Harry rolled to the side, used a glowing net spell to pin it to the ground, and swiftly drew a ritual dagger.

“I need a few drops from the heart,” he explained as Sonja held the net in place with a muttered binding spell. “Not enough to kill, just enough to test.”

“You’ve done this before?” she asked, watching him cut expertly across the creature’s chest.

“A few times in the Forbidden Forest,” he replied.

Sonja looked at him strangely. “You’re strange.”

“So I’ve been told.”


After collecting enough blood from two krovlinns—both of which were stunned and left alive—Harry sealed the vials with wax runes and placed them carefully in his bag.

Then they sat together near a frozen stump, catching their breath. The forest was growing darker.

“Why did you come with me?” Harry finally asked.

Sonja stared into the shadows. “You humiliated me in that duel,” she said bluntly. “No one’s done that. Not even the professor.”

Harry raised a brow. “And you want a rematch?”

“I want to understand you. You’re not like the other Dragons. You’re dangerous in a different way.”

There was no malice in her voice. Only fascination.

“You’re dangerous too,” Harry said after a moment.

Sonja smirked. “I know.”


They returned to the castle before sundown. The runes Harry had marked were still glowing softly as they retraced their steps. The magical boundaries of Durmstrang shimmered like a wall of frost.

As they stepped back into the courtyard, Sonja turned to him. “Next time, let me know when you plan on bleeding magical creatures.”

Harry gave a faint smile. “Next time, bring your own flasks.”

She grinned. “Deal.”

And with that, they parted ways—two Dragons with blood on their gloves, secrets in their satchels, and a mutual respect neither had expected to find in one another.



The moment Harry crossed the threshold of his magically expanded chambers, the scent of old parchment and melted wax greeted him like an old friend. Runes etched into the floor glowed faintly beneath the thick carpet. Scrolls lay stacked in orderly piles. The massive desk near the window was scattered with charmed ink, rune-carved stone tablets, and a thick, ancient leather-bound tome—The Principles of Subjugation Through Ambient Arcana, gifted to him by Professor Quirell.

It was a book of dark arts, there was no denying that.

But Harry saw something else in it.

A path.

A possibility.

He cleared the table with a wave of his wand and opened the book to the section that had captured his imagination—“Ritual of Atmospheric Syphon”. The original spell was brutal. Runes were drawn in blood, and the ritual's purpose was purely selfish: to draw in ambient magic and force it into the user’s body, strengthening them through absorption. It was used by ancient warlocks before battle—often leading to bursts of uncontrollable power and madness.

Harry tapped his quill against the edge of the book and whispered, “But what if you reverse the intent?”

He had already spent days studying the structure. Now he was modifying it.

Instead of pulling power inward, he wanted the ritual to do the opposite: to pull healing energies from the environment—not to empower the caster, but to cleanse and restore the wounded. Especially poison.

It was ambitious.

It was delicate.

And no one else needed to know that the foundation of the healing ritual came from a book that once belonged to a necromancer.


Later that evening, Sonja stopped by. She’d taken to visiting unannounced.

She walked in without knocking—his wards already keyed to her presence—and raised an eyebrow at the glowing runes on the floor, arranged in an elaborate circle of intersecting lines and symbols.

“Working on a new trap?” she asked.

Harry didn’t look up. “Healing ritual.”

Sonja blinked. “From that book?” She picked up the blackened cover, brushed dust off the faded title, and whistled. “You know this was banned in Italy, right? The author was flayed alive.”

Harry set down his quill and finally turned to her. “I’m not using it as-is. I’m rewriting it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re modifying a blood-ritual used to empower dark wizards... into a healing spell?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Instead of absorbing power from the ambient magic to enhance the body, I’m redirecting that energy to neutralize toxins and reverse decay. The structure is there. I just have to flip the intent.”

“You’re insane,” Sonja muttered—but her tone was more admiration than judgment. “Do you even know if it works?”

Harry gave a sly smile. “We’re about to find out.”


That weekend, in the secluded Stonework Chamber beneath Durmstrang—an abandoned arena for spell testing—Harry and Sonja stood before a freshly drawn ritual circle, engraved in silver chalk and laced with runes of purification and transference.

On a pedestal rested a sealed vial of wyvern venom—deadly, quick-acting, and incurable by common means.

A small rodent sat next to it in a cage.

“Why not test it on yourself?” Sonja teased.

Harry gave her a look. “Because I’m not that insane. Yet.”

With a careful levitation charm, he lifted the vial, opened it, and allowed a single drop of venom to fall onto the rodent’s fur.

The effect was almost immediate. The poor thing began trembling, squeaking, and convulsing violently.

Sonja grimaced.

“Begin the chant,” Harry said softly.

He stepped into the circle and raised his wand. The runes around the rodent glowed green and blue—cold flames flickering between the gaps. The very air began to shimmer.

Harry’s voice echoed as he recited his reconstructed spell:

“Let the ambient weave converge,
not to feed but to cleanse,
through rune and will, remove the stain—
return the body to what it was.”

Magic pulsed through the room.

Wind howled.

The circle blazed white.

And slowly… the rodent’s spasms stopped.

Its tiny chest rose. Then again. And again.

It squeaked once, then began nibbling on a bit of cloth beside it.

Sonja gasped.

Harry stepped out of the circle, sweat beading his brow.

“It worked,” he said softly.

Sonja stared. “You just... rewrote a dark ritual.” She sat down hard on a stone bench. “You are going to get yourself killed one day.”

“But not today,” Harry murmured, eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovery.