The Tenth Weasley - CH - 86

The fire in the Dragon Common Chamber crackled softly as Harry sat by his desk in his private room, sorting through a small mountain of parchment envelopes. A few had official wax seals—Durmstrang notices and curriculum updates—but the ones Harry cared about were tied with colored ribbons, stamped with familiar handwriting, or carried by well-fed owls that clearly knew the way to and from Britain by heart.

Hermione’s letter was the thickest of them all. Again.

Harry chuckled softly as he opened it, her precise cursive inked in deep blue. She had used a self-inking quill, clearly trying to conserve parchment space.


Dear Harry,

I still can’t believe some of the subjects you’re studying. Wandless Spell Theory? Spell Chain Formation? Cursebreaking Rituals?! How is that fair?

I asked Professor Flitwick about spell chains, and he told me the Ministry doesn't allow them to be taught in Hogwarts until N.E.W.T. level—and even then, only to select students in Defense specialization. I need to get my hands on those books! You must promise to lend them to me once you’re done.

I know you’ll say “Wait till summer,” but honestly, Harry, I think I could keep up. And yes, yes, I’ll be careful with the Dark Magic chapters. Honestly. I’m not a Gryffindor just for bravery.

Anyway, in less exciting news—Hogwarts is getting chaotic. The mini-Marauders tried to transfigure Filch’s cat into a dragon again (it didn’t work, thank Merlin). And guess what? Dementors stormed the Quidditch pitch during the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match! Half the stadium nearly fainted! Dumbledore is furious, but the Ministry doesn’t care.

They’re still pretending they’re just here to protect us. Ugh.

Oh—and the Daily Prophet. Don’t even get me started. They’ve declared Peter Pettigrew as Voldemort’s “Second Coming.” They call him The Rat King, can you believe it? It’s disgusting. Half of what they print reads like bad fanfiction.

Stay warm and don’t burn out, okay?

Always your friend,
Hermione


Harry smiled as he folded the parchment back into its envelope. He had already written his reply—five pages long—detailing everything from Professor Navarro’s dueling exercises to Viktor Krum’s sarcastic commentary during Transmutation of Weaponry class.

“I promised her the books,” he murmured to himself. “That girl’s going to outlearn the professors one day.”

Another letter lay nearby. This one bore the neat, careful writing of his mother, Molly Weasley, and came with a small enchanted handkerchief that cleaned itself every time he sighed into it too hard. She told him to eat well, sleep early, and “not blow up anything too expensive, dear.”

From Arthur, the letters were briefer but filled with quiet pride.


Son,

I’ve read in The Whispering Quill—that niche European magazine your Uncle Gideon used to read—that a British third-year got into the Dragon Class at Durmstrang. That’s you, isn’t it?!

Well, your mother had tears in her eyes for a full hour. Just know, whatever you’re doing—keep doing it.

Proud of you,
Dad


Even Charlie had written, telling him about a Norwegian Ridgeback named Emberwing that was more interested in him than in the reserve handlers. He suggested they meet during spring break to see it together.

And then came the letters Harry didn’t open.

Daphne Greengrass. Blaise Zabini. Even one with delicate handwriting that could only belong to Tracey Davis. All carried similar messages: apologies. Regret. Questions.

Harry placed them unopened into a small, rune-carved drawer in his magically-expanded wardrobe. He wasn’t ready for that chapter of his life to reopen. Not yet.

He read his brothers’ letters instead. Fred and George’s letters came scrawled in two inks, peppered with jokes, half-invented prank blueprints, and an alarming recipe for something called “Dragonfire Fudge” that actually gave off smoke when opened. Ron wrote too, awkward but earnest, and Ginny’s letters were full of stories about school, Quidditch, and her new kitten.


As Harry walked through the halls later that day, Viktor Krum noticed the bundle of letters tucked under his arm.

“Popular boy,” Viktor grunted with a smirk. “You get love letters or hate mail?”

“Both,” Harry replied dryly. “But I only read the ones I care about.”

“Wise choice.”

That evening, Harry wrote another letter back to Hermione.


Dear Hermione,

I’ll send you the books at the end of the term. But only if you promise not to read the Blood Curse sections before bed. You’ll end up dreaming of your textbooks walking and cursing you.

Your stories about the Marauders made me laugh. Tell them from me—if they survive to Christmas without turning Snape purple or setting the castle on fire, I might just send them enchanted fireworks.

About the Dementors... be careful. They’re not guards—they’re predators. The Prophet can write whatever garbage they want about Pettigrew. They’ll call him Voldemort’s heir next. Doesn’t make it true.

Anyway—write back soon. And try not to get too jealous. Remember, you’re smarter than most of us already.

Your dragon in the north,
Harry


As the candlelight flickered and the winter wind howled outside the thick stone walls of Durmstrang, Harry sealed his letters with a tap of his wand.

He had made a home here in this cold, isolated place of strength and structure. But his heart still held warm ties to a messy, chaotic castle in Scotland—and to the girl who never stopped writing, even when the world turned upside down.

And so, across the snowy wilds and storm-filled seas, letters flew—bridging the gaps between one life and the next.



The chill in the Durmstrang air bit a little less sharply now. Harry had grown used to the frozen cliffs, the crunch of frost under his boots, and the silent snowfall outside the high windows of the Dragon Chamber. But what never grew dull was the thrill of knowledge and competition—every day he pushed his limits further, devouring spellbooks, experimenting in the dueling chambers, and mastering techniques that weren’t even whispered about at Hogwarts.

Durmstrang was difficult—but it was his kind of difficult.

One afternoon, while Harry was reviewing a volume on transmutational defense spells in the dragon chamber’s reading alcove, the door burst open and two of his fellow Dragons stepped in, their boots stomping snow onto the warm rune-inscribed floor.

“Herr Weasley,” said the taller one, a silver-eyed seventh year from Poland named Marek Zelezny. “You’ve been sitting too long with books. It is time to fight again.”

Harry lowered his book calmly. “Is that a challenge?”

Marek smirked. “You hold the title of Dueling Champion, no? But you have not defended it. We are Dragons. Titles must be earned, and held.”

Beside him, a broad-shouldered Norwegian named Sigvard Gormson grunted his agreement. “Separate duels. I challenge you after Marek is done. We’ll see if the British boy really belongs among us.”

The room grew quiet. A few of the older Dragons had gathered near the entrance, watching the exchange with quiet interest.

Harry stood up slowly, closing the book with a soft snap.

“All right,” he said coolly. “Let’s set the time. One tomorrow. One the day after. No tricks. No handicaps.”

“Agreed,” Marek said, bowing slightly. “Tomorrow at midday. In the Southern Dueling Hall. The whole school will be there.”


The Southern Dueling Hall was a circular stone arena, its walls embedded with protective enchantments and healing runes. By noon the next day, every bench and balcony surrounding the ring was filled. Whispers echoed through the chamber.

"That’s Marek—he’s a Charms specialist. Uses invisible strikes."
"And Harry? He uses borderline dark spells. He dueled Sonja and she never lost before him."

Marek stood tall and regal, dressed in his winter-trimmed Dragon cloak, wand already drawn.

Harry entered to thunderous murmurs, his expression unreadable, cloak flaring behind him as he stepped onto the platform. Professor Navarro himself raised his hand and gave the signal.

The duel began.

Marek struck first—three spells in a blur, all invisible, intangible charms meant to blind, bind, and disarm. But Harry had studied Marek. He summoned a black-glass shield that shimmered like obsidian and sang with tension. Each of Marek’s invisible hexes rebounded and burst like light against the glassy defense.

Then Harry responded.

“Confractus Umbrae!” he cast, summoning shadowy blades that twisted through the air like serpents. Marek twirled his wand, deflecting most—but Harry didn’t stop. He cast rapidly, moving through a spell chain he’d practiced for weeks.

Pulso. Caligaris. Ardentia!

Marek’s footing slipped as the ground beneath him convulsed. Smoke burst around his head, blinding him, and then a fire curse ignited the hem of his cloak.

“Enough!” Marek shouted, shielding himself and coughing. “Yield!”

The crowd burst into applause as Professor Navarro stepped forward and raised Harry’s hand.

“Victory—Harry Weasley.”


The next day’s air felt heavier. Word of Harry’s first victory had spread like wildfire. Now, all of Durmstrang waited to see if lightning could strike twice.

Sigvard was already waiting in the center of the arena. He was enormous, like a mountain in human form, and known for his brutal, explosive spellwork.

“Ready to be crushed?” he said as Harry stepped into the ring.

“Not really,” Harry replied calmly. “But you’re welcome to try.”

Navarro raised his hand again.

“Begin!”

Sigvard didn’t hold back. His first spell blew a crater into the dueling floor—Harry dove sideways, casting “Protego Maxima” with a twist, absorbing the shockwave.

But this wasn’t a duel of shields and counters—it was a war.

Sigvard sent blazing orbs, earth-shattering waves, and raw blasts of energy. Harry couldn’t match him blow for blow. Instead, he turned to strategy.

“Animortum!” he shouted, transfiguring the arena stones into snarling wolf-like beasts that lunged at Sigvard’s legs.

Sigvard growled and tried to blast them—but Harry was already moving.

Obscurus Volatus!—A cloud of black feathers surrounded the field, cutting off sight.

Silencio!

Sigvard grunted—his next incantation died in his throat. Harry used the distraction to send a barrage of binding ropes, one after another—magically charged and enhanced to resist fire and force.

Sigvard thrashed against them, but the final blow came with a whisper.

“Noctus Fulgur.”

A spear of black lightning struck the arena floor, erupting in a flash. When the smoke cleared, Sigvard lay sprawled on the ground, stunned and groaning.

The crowd erupted in stunned silence.

Then—cheers. Roars. Stomps.

Professor Navarro gave a slow, approving nod. “Once again—victory: Harry Weasley.”

Back in the Dragon Chamber that evening, many of the older Dragons toasted him.

“You’ve earned it now,” said Viktor Krum, sipping from a warm goblet. “No one will question your place here.”

Harry shrugged modestly. “I’m just trying to keep up.”

“Keep up?” grunted one of the Russians. “You’re leading us, mate.”



The announcement came on a bitter morning just before breakfast.

All students were summoned to the Great Hall, where the four banners representing the school’s internal ranks—Dragon, Griffin, Thunderbird, and Unicorn—hung stiffly in the cold wind flowing from the open windows. The Dragons gathered first, murmuring softly among themselves.

“Did you hear anything?” Harry asked Viktor Krum, who stood beside him with crossed arms.

Viktor shook his head. “No one knows yet. But something happened. Headmaster Ivanov was not in his tower last night.”

Moments later, Professor Navarro entered and stood at the front of the hall, face grim, eyes shadowed by fatigue. Behind him walked a man Harry hadn’t seen before up close—but whose name was known even at Hogwarts.

Igor Karkaroff.

The room fell silent.

Professor Navarro's voice echoed sharply across the stone.

"Students. Faculty. It is my solemn duty to inform you… that our beloved Headmaster, High Master Ivanov, passed away during the night."

A wave of stunned silence swept through the hall. Even the usually unshakable Dragons stirred in their seats. Harry's heart dropped—not because he had known Ivanov, but because of the weight of grief and disbelief that now clung to every face in the hall.

“What?” someone whispered. “He was fine yesterday…”

“Impossible. He was invincible.”

“Is this a mistake?”

But it was no mistake. Navarro continued, "The cause of death remains unknown. He went to sleep in perfect health and did not awaken. The investigation will continue—but as of today, Igor Karkaroff has been named Interim High Master by the Board of Magical Academics."

That last part was met with a ripple of unrest. A few students looked at each other, frowning. Harry watched carefully. Viktor Krum’s jaw clenched. Even Professor Navarro paused a moment too long.

Karkaroff took a step forward.

"My dear students," he said, voice oily-smooth, "I will strive to honor the legacy of our late Headmaster Ivanov, though I know… I cannot replace him."

He smiled, but no one smiled back.


Back in the Dragons' common chamber, tension boiled over.

“He’s lying,” hissed a sixth-year Dragon named Vika. “Ivanov doesn’t just die like that. He was stronger than half this castle combined.”

“He had the best protections, and he slept in a sealed chamber,” added another student.

Harry listened quietly until someone said what he’d been thinking.

“It’s too convenient. Ivanov dies in his sleep—no signs, no magical residue—and the next morning, Karkaroff’s robes are already embroidered with the High Master sigil?”

“He’s been planning this,” Viktor muttered darkly. “Ever since he joined staff. He’s been waiting.”

Harry finally spoke. “But why him? Doesn’t Durmstrang have some… code of succession?”

Navarro had walked into the chamber just then. He closed the door behind him and said in a low voice, “There was. But Ivanov never named a successor. And when someone dies without naming a magical heir, the Board decides. And the Board… is very easily persuaded.”

“You mean bribed,” Viktor said flatly.

Navarro didn’t deny it.


That week, Karkaroff walked the halls with stiff grace, nodding to staff and students but never lingering. He kept to the upper tower where the High Master now resided. And though he hadn’t changed much yet, students began to notice subtle differences.

The older professors no longer held open discussions. Students were warned to watch their tongues. And a new list of banned books appeared in the Dragon library—most of them written by Ivanov himself.

Harry sat in his magically expanded study room that evening, reading through one of the books Navarro had quietly slipped to him: Alchemy and Power: Philosophies of the North. Ivanov’s handwriting filled the margins.

“Power means nothing if it severs wisdom. Alchemy is restraint.”

Harry stared at the words for a long time.

Something was very wrong.

And he was determined to find out what