The Tenth Weasley - CH - 85

The chill of Durmstrang never truly left the air, not even within the thick stone walls of the castle. Yet in the Dragon Wing—an upper level of the fortress shaped like a coiled serpent above the cliffs—the atmosphere was far from cold.

It was competitive.

And it was alive.

Harry walked beside his fellow Dragons, his newly embroidered cloak billowing behind him. The dragon emblem stitched in silver thread shimmered slightly in torchlight as if breathing. Around him moved some of the most elite young witches and wizards in Europe—tall, broad-shouldered sixth and seventh years with hardened eyes, scarred knuckles, and sharp minds.

And yet, they accepted him.

He didn’t expect it at first. In Hogwarts, he'd grown used to suspicious glances, whispered rumors, and hesitant greetings. But here at Durmstrang, especially within the Dragon rank, things were different. Respect was earned, not inherited. Power spoke louder than surnames.

“Harry,” said Viktor Krum, leaning back on the leather sofa in the common Dragon Hall. “You vant to join us? We are arguing about which broom is best for deep-snow flying. Obviously, it is the Bloodhawk 6.”

A dark-skinned boy from Morocco scoffed. “That thing stalls in high winds. Everyone knows the Sirocco Wave is better balanced.”

“And if you care about not dying,” added a girl with platinum-blonde hair from Estonia, “you fly the Seraphim Mark V. Sirocco’s tail fins snap under pressure.”

Harry chuckled and sank into the chair beside Viktor. “I’m sticking with my Firebolt. British make, smoothest flight I’ve ever had.”

Half the room groaned in protest.

“Of course the Brit likes the Firebolt,” one muttered.

“Broom snob,” another teased.

Harry grinned. “You’re all just jealous I got mine before it was released to the public.”

Viktor laughed. “He is not wrong. You should see the waitlist at home.”

Their banter rolled on as firelight danced across the stone walls. The Dragon Hall was carved from black granite, with arched windows overlooking the frozen sea and enchanted runes that warmed the room despite the icy cliffs beyond. Their private space was filled with floating shelves of advanced magical books, sleek study tables made from rune-carved ironwood, and armchairs that adjusted themselves to a sitter’s mood.

And, most importantly, they had privacy.

The Dragons lived in the tower's upper suites—private rooms with thick doors, self-sealing wards, and magical protections keyed to each student. But the common Dragon Hall was where they met, trained, argued, studied, and laughed.

To Harry’s surprise, he was included in everything.

They didn’t treat him like a child. They didn’t speak down to him. Even if he was two to three years younger than most of them, he had earned his place. That mattered more than age.

“You know,” said Nadja from Romania as she handed Harry a mug of steaming spiced cider, “when I heard they admitted a third year into Dragon, I was furious.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for the honesty.”

She shrugged. “I don’t mean offense. But then I saw your duel record, and Professor Zavarro talks about your rune constructions like a proud grandfather. You proved yourself.”

The Moroccan boy—his name was Faysal—nodded. “And if Viktor likes you, well, that’s worth something here.”

Harry smiled slightly. “I appreciate it. I’m just trying to learn as much as I can.”

That was all the opening they needed.

The Dragons, competitive as they were, prided themselves on their collective strength. One by one, they offered to tutor him in their specialties.

“I’ll help you with dark water charms,” said a pale girl from Finland. “They’re nasty if done wrong, but you’ll need them for underwater defense trials.”

“Transmutation combat,” said Faysal. “I’ve been working on shifting metal into weapon shapes. Very useful when disarmed.”

“You like magical creatures?” asked Viktor. “My cousin breeds nightfangs. Come to one of the classes with me.”

And so, over the coming days, Harry became the youngest Dragon… and also its newest student in a dozen master-level disciplines.

Each evening after formal lessons, he joined one of his earmates for private study or sparring.

One night, he stood ankle-deep in snow while Nadja showed him how to cast cold-forged shields that reflected ice curses.

Another time, he helped Viktor carve a dueling arena out of runestone and tried to keep up as the older boy demonstrated advanced movement hexes used in international dueling circuits.

Despite Harry's natural reticence, he found himself liking these people. They didn’t pry into his past. They simply judged him by his ability—and in Durmstrang, that was everything.


It was a quiet Friday evening when Viktor came to Harry’s door.

Harry had just finished reinforcing the mental barrier spells around his study chamber. The faint hum of layered wards pleased him.

“You free?” Viktor asked as the door opened.

“More or less,” Harry said, wiping ink from his fingers.

Viktor stepped inside, glancing around the magically expanded apartment. “You know, most Dragons don’t do this level of enchantment until sixth year. Impressive.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied. “I like having my space.”

“Come. I vant to show you the high observatory. You’ll like it.”

They walked through one of the upper corridors, past a frozen mural of a sea serpent curling around the cliffs. Snowflakes fell gently outside the enchanted windows, and the castle hummed softly with ancient magic.

The observatory was a narrow spire capped with crystalline glass. From its peak, one could see the stars above and the frozen sea far below.

Viktor handed him a spyglass. “There,” he pointed. “North ridge. That’s where the upper Dragons do dueling challenges.”

Harry peered through the glass. A ring of standing stones jutted from a snowfield. Torchlight flickered in the cold wind.

“You’ll be called there before term ends,” Viktor said. “Every Dragon gets tested in public. But don’t worry. You’ll hold your own.”

Harry nodded, feeling the pulse of excitement return.

Hogwarts never prepared me for this, he thought.

But here—among Dragons, in the ice-carved halls of Durmstrang—he had found something far more valuable than comfort.

He had found respect.



The chamber beneath Durmstrang Castle had no windows. Its walls were etched with the scars of countless battles, scorch marks and shattered stone sealed with ancient spells. Torchlight flickered from iron brackets mounted along the pillars, casting jagged shadows over the jagged dueling platforms arranged in rows. The floor was obsidian—charred, polished, and engraved with ward lines that shimmered faintly.

Professor Navarro stood at the center of it all, arms folded behind his back, his crimson robes trimmed in dragonhide and accented by a wand holster bound to his forearm. His hawk-like eyes swept across the gathered Dragons, twenty of them in all—Durmstrang’s elite.

And now, one more.

“Today,” Navarro announced, his accented voice resonating with authority, “you will fight. Dragon against Dragon. No holds barred—no mercy spared. You are here because you are the best. But even among the best… one rises.”

A murmur of excitement stirred the chamber.

Harry stood near the rear, adjusting his cloak, feeling the buzz of magic in the air. He had dueled before. He had bled, battled—though that was not something he ever bragged about. But here, in Durmstrang, it was about skill. Not survival.

Navarro’s eyes settled briefly on him, and the faintest smirk curled the corner of his lips.

Pairings were magically summoned.

Glowing lines of blue light crisscrossed the chamber, connecting combatants by name.

When one of the lines linked Harry to a tall, graceful girl with black hair tied in braids, a collective gasp rippled through the room.

“Sonja,” someone whispered.

“No way. He got Sonja.”

“Poor kid.”

“Why even bother?”

“Sonja Volari,” Navarro called out, “Champion of Durmstrang for three years running. No defeat in public combat. No draw. No quarter.”

She bowed lightly to the class, the silver dragon on her cloak gleaming.

“And Harry Weasley,” Navarro continued, “newly arrived from Britain. Third year. Ranked third among the Dragons based on entrance exams. Today, we will see if his reputation… holds flame.”

Sonja turned toward Harry, raising one brow.

“You don’t look like much,” she said in a lilting Italian accent. “But Navarro has eyes like a hawk. Maybe there’s more to you than that baby face.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change. “You’ll see.”

They stepped onto the dueling platform—each rising a few inches above the ground, surrounded by a shimmering containment ward—and bowed to one another.

Navarro raised his hand.

“Begin!”

Immediately, Sonja struck.

“Incendia Spiralum!” she shouted, conjuring a whip of fire that spiraled toward Harry with serpentine speed.

But Harry was faster.

“Protego Caelus!”

A glimmering dome of blue magic snapped into existence, absorbing the whip entirely. With a flick of his wand, he twisted the shield and reformed it into shards of light that shot forward like darts.

Sonja parried them all.

“Fulgari Latcha!” she barked, chains of golden light snaking from her wand.

Harry whispered, “Umbra Eximo.”

The chains passed through a ghostly shimmer where he had just stood—he had vanished, reappearing behind her.

“Expulso!” he shouted, sending a blast of force that struck Sonja in the side.

She tumbled but rolled expertly, wand whipping toward him again.

Their duel exploded into furious motion.

Lightning danced from one wand.

Smoke coiled from the other.

Charms clashed with curses.

Whispers of Latin filled the air like blades slicing the silence.

Yet Harry wasn’t backing down. He was advancing.

Shield. Counter. Redirect. Strike.

Each spell was brutal, efficient, dark—but never illegal.

Sonja grimaced as her right arm singed from a hex Harry redirected. “You… have a duelist’s mind,” she hissed.

“I’ve had practice,” Harry replied, tone level. “Too much of it.”

She cast a barrage of blinding spells—dazzling, intricate, beautiful. But Harry had no time for pretty lights. His eyes locked on her movements, and he muttered a counterspell that bent the light away.

Then, with precision honed through fire and pain, he lifted his wand.

“Somno Tenebris.”

A whisper of black mist curled from his wand and shot like a spear toward Sonja.

It struck her chest.

Her eyes widened—and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

The containment ward shimmered. Navarro stepped forward, wand raised, scanning her vitals.

“She’s fine,” he announced. “Spellwork was clean. Effective. Controlled.”

Then he turned toward the stunned students.

“Harry Weasley, victorious.”

Silence.

Stunned, frozen silence.

Then—

Gasps. Murmurs. Whispers.

“That spell—what was that?”

“I didn’t even see it coming.”

“He just knocked out Sonja Volari.”

“A third year!”

Navarro nodded once, approvingly.

“I told you. Magic is not about age. It is about intent, execution, and control. Mr. Weasley embodies all three.”

Harry stepped off the platform, breathing steadily, wand still warm in his hand.

Sonja was being helped up by two other Dragons, her expression half-confused, half-impressed.

She looked at Harry and gave a short nod.

“You win,” she said. “But next time, I’ll be ready.”

Harry nodded back. “Looking forward to it.”

As he walked back to the benches, Viktor Krum raised a mug of enchanted water and grinned.

“Now they know,” he said.

Harry just smirked.

He didn’t need them to know.

He just needed them to stop underestimating him.

And now… they never would again.



After his triumph over Sonja, Harry advanced to the next round—and then the next. And again. And again.

Four duels in total.

Four clean victories.

Each opponent stronger than the last. Each duel more brutal, more intense.

His final match was against a sixth-year boy from Denmark named Arlo Verhof, a wiry duelist with uncanny reflexes and a style built around disarming and counter-cursing.

It didn’t matter.

Harry learned fast—faster than anyone Navarro had ever seen. He adapted to Arlo’s rhythm within minutes and broke through his defenses using an aggressive series of chain-cast shield-piercing spells that turned Arlo’s entire strategy against him.

It ended when Harry hit him with a twin-blast of a silent Expulso followed by a slicing wind hex that knocked the sixth-year flat.

When Arlo stood, panting and dazed, he raised his hand in surrender.

The crowd of Dragons stood. Not because they were told to, but because there was nothing else to do.

They clapped.

Some cheered.

Some stared in stunned disbelief.

Viktor Krum simply smirked.

And Professor Navarro?

He descended the platform with slow, echoing steps, holding something in his hands. A long, narrow object wrapped in aged velvet.

“Mr. Weasley,” Navarro said, voice echoing through the dueling chamber, “you have defeated every opponent in the Dragon class. That alone is worthy of commendation.”

He stopped in front of Harry, unwrapping the velvet.

Within lay an old, leather-bound book. Its spine was cracked with age, and its cover was engraved with silver runes that shimmered faintly.

“But more than victory,” Navarro continued, “you have demonstrated something far rarer: an instinct for dueling born not from vanity or spectacle—but necessity.”

He handed the book to Harry.

“This is Ferramenta Ignis—The Tools of Fire. It is not published in any shop. This copy has been passed from master to master, and now… it is yours, to study only.”

Harry took the book with reverence. He could already feel the magic bound into its pages.

Navarro stepped back. “This tome contains advanced dueling tactics, countermeasure theories, and—most uniquely—a section on spell chains.”

“Spell chains?” Harry asked, intrigued.

Navarro gave a short nod. “Spells that flow into each other by movement and intent. Cast one, and the next is primed—ready to follow without delay. Like footwork in swordplay.”

Harry’s fingers tightened on the book.

“If you can master them,” Navarro said, “you will not just win duels. You will end them before they begin.”

Whispers echoed around the hall.

“Spell chains…”

“Tools of Fire? That’s Navarro’s book…”

Harry bowed his head. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll study it.”

Navarro’s lips curved ever so slightly. “See that you do. The Dragon class now recognizes you as its reigning champion. That comes with respect… and challenge.”

He turned to address the other Dragons.

“Anyone who believes they can take the title from him may do so in an open duel. But I warn you—do not take him lightly.”

Harry stood silently as the announcement sunk into the crowd. Some looked amazed. Some looked resentful. But none looked indifferent.

Later that night, Harry sat alone in the Dragon Chamber, book open on the table in front of him. The chamber was dimly lit, silent, and filled with the warm scent of burning wood. His wand lay beside his hand, humming with latent energy as he traced one of the diagrams on the page.

“Expulso. Ventorum Fracta. Petrificus Totalus.”

One spell flowed into the next like a dance.

He grinned.

I’m going to enjoy this.

Just then, Viktor Krum dropped into the chair across from him, legs spread casually, a half-eaten apple in his hand.

“You scare them,” Viktor said bluntly.

Harry looked up. “Should I be worried about that?”

Krum shrugged. “Only if you care what they think. But me? I like it. You keep things interesting.”

Harry turned back to the book. “I’m not here to impress anyone. I just want to be strong enough that no one can hurt me again.”

Krum’s smile faded into something more serious. “You’re on the right path.”

And in the quiet glow of magical firelight, Harry returned to the pages—ready to learn, ready to fight, and ready to become the duelist no one, not even Voldemort, would dare challenge.