The Tenth Weasley - CH - 84

Durmstrang Institute, for all its grandeur and prestige, offered students little in the way of personal luxury.

Every student—Dragon, Griffin, Thunderbird, or Unicorn—was provided with the same: a compact stone room, barely larger than a broom closet, with a narrow single bed, a small wooden desk pressed against the windowless wall, a simple wardrobe, and a stiff chair. No adornments, no decorations, no mirrors. Just enough to live, not to thrive.

But Harry was not every student.

The moment he stepped into the room assigned to him, located near the Dragon Wing and bearing only a carved rune for identification, he closed the heavy iron door behind him and let out a slow breath.

"All right," he muttered, eyes gleaming. "Time to get to work."

He pulled out his wand, walked slowly around the room, and whispered, “Revelare limitas.” Soft golden lines spread along the floor and walls, marking the existing magical boundaries of the chamber.

With a knowing grin, Harry pulled out a small pouch from his enchanted robe. From it, he withdrew a shimmering black stone—a Runestone of Expansion—imbued with layered charms and stabilized with Old Magic. He had bought it from a rarely visited shop deep in Knockturn Alley weeks before arriving.

"Let’s stretch your legs, little room,” he whispered.

With a twist of his wand and a firm, “Expansio Gradualis Maxima,” the walls groaned, shimmered, and then moved.

Slowly, the space began to grow. The stone groaned with ancient creaks, pushing out and reshaping itself. The ceiling rose, the walls widened. The cramped closet turned into a spacious personal apartment.

By the time Harry was done, the transformation was astonishing.

A modest bedroom now stood to the right, complete with a magically warmed stone floor, thick fur blankets, and enchanted windows that mimicked real sunlight and moonlight based on his preferred settings.

The bathroom beyond was outfitted with heated water, self-cleaning surfaces, and even a small magical sauna that helped soothe magical fatigue.

To the left, he created a cozy living room, complete with armchairs charmed for posture correction, a fireplace with enchanted dragon fire that obeyed his touch, and a coffee table with built-in levitating trays for snacks.

A study room branched out with shelves upon shelves of books Harry had collected—everything from Slytherin's Journeys to obscure Eastern hex manuals. A wall-length map of magical Europe shimmered and updated itself. A desk at the center held a multi-ink quill that danced to his voice commands.

Behind a concealed arch was a kitchen stocked with basic rations and enchanted to preserve food for weeks. He wasn’t a master cook, but he liked having control over his tea and snacks.

Most importantly—the protections.

Harry took no risks.

He walked to the center of the new room and summoned his knowledge.

“Protego Maxima. Salvio Hexia. Repello Inimicum. Fidelius Fragmenta…”

Layer upon layer of protection settled over the room like an invisible dome. Anti-portkey charms. Anti-tracking sigils. Anti-apparition barriers. Even blood-activated seals at the entryway, bound solely to his magical signature.

He etched four serpent runes across the corners of the room, speaking in Parseltongue. The ancient magic hummed in response, binding tightly to the walls.

“No one enters unless I invite them,” he said with finality, brushing imaginary dust from his robes.

A knock echoed faintly at the main door—no doubt a curious Dragon wondering what all the noise was.

Harry calmly approached, placed his hand on the wall beside the door, and whispered, “Silencio.”

The room quieted instantly. From the outside, it now appeared still, small, and completely unremarkable. A simple, standard Dragon-ranked dormitory. Nothing more.

He smiled.

That evening, Harry relaxed in the armchair of his now-luxurious chamber, sipping hot tea brewed with honey and mint. His wand floated beside him, rhythmically turning pages of a newly acquired book on Runic Combat Theory.

A knock echoed again, this time faint and further away. A voice followed.

“Harry Weasley?” came a thickly accented voice. “Professor Zavarro says there’s a Dragon meeting in the lower hall in half an hour.”

Harry didn’t reply immediately. He waited a beat, then tapped his wand twice against the table. The door shimmered open just enough to let sound through.

“Thank you,” Harry called back. “I’ll be there shortly.”

The sound of boots faded down the corridor.

Harry set his cup down and stood. He looked around, pride swelling in his chest. For the first time in months, he felt completely in control. No teachers to gaslight him. No students to whisper behind his back. No threat of being betrayed by those who claimed to be friends.

Just silence. Knowledge. And power.

He fastened his Dragon cloak, now heavier with pride than ever before, and murmured to the room:

“Stay safe, old friend. Guard my secrets.”



The Dragon Wing classrooms were unlike anything Harry had seen before.

Deep beneath the eastern tower of Durmstrang Castle, the chamber was carved out of solid obsidian rock, polished smooth, and veined with glowing blue runes that pulsed gently with ambient magic. The air was thick with arcane energy, not stifling but invigorating, like the hum of power beneath one's skin.

Harry took his seat near the end of the long, curved table shaped like a crescent moon. The other nineteen students sat comfortably, dressed in their enchanted Dragon cloaks, some lazily twirling their wands, others already preparing parchment and ink. Though most were older—sixth or seventh years—none seemed to underestimate him anymore. Not after the ranking ceremony.

At the center of the crescent stood Professor Zavarro, a tall, silver-haired man with robes that shimmered like quicksilver. His eyes were mismatched—one grey, one gold—and his voice was like thunder muffled by velvet.

“Welcome, Dragons,” he said, his accent thick but precise. “Today we begin your formal studies in Spellcraft—the creation, deconstruction, and inversion of magical phenomena.”

Harry sat upright, intrigued. Spell creation wasn’t even mentioned in the Hogwarts curriculum—not until possibly after graduation.

Zavarro turned to the board behind him, tapping it once with his wand. The black surface lit up with golden runes, and lines of text spiraled outward like a blooming flower.

“Every spell,” he began, “is a language. A sequence of intention, energy, and structure. Words are only one part of it. Gesture, emotion, magical theory—these shape the spell’s nature and limits.”

He paced the room slowly.

“But for the Dragons,” he said, his gaze sweeping over them, “you are not here to repeat. You are here to invent.”

The room stilled.

“You will learn how to craft spells from foundational principles. You will learn how to break them—safely—and how to craft counterspells. You will learn the difference between a spell that sings and a spell that explodes.”

There were a few chuckles, but none from Harry. His mind was racing.

Zavarro’s wand snapped downward.

“Now. A few among you have already submitted spells of your own creation. We will begin with demonstrations. Mister Kaldov, you're first.”

A tall, broad-shouldered seventh-year with runic tattoos along his neck stepped forward. He performed a silent incantation and conjured a thin silver blade of frost from the tip of his wand, which he hurled at a conjured dummy. The ice blade froze the target instantly, shattering it with a follow-up strike.

“Frigus Spina. Ice Spine,” Kaldov explained. “Shaped projectile. Range fifty feet. Pierces leather armor. Weak against fire.”

Zavarro gave a slight nod. “Efficient. You may refine the casting gesture for speed. Next.”

Student after student stepped forward.

Some demonstrated simple creations—light that responded to heartbeat, levitation spells with refined control, a rope conjuring charm that bound a target in a spiral motion. Only seven of the Dragons had successfully created their own original spells, and Zavarro critiqued each with cool precision.

Eventually, the professor turned to Harry.

“Mister Weasley,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “You are exempt from today’s demonstration, being both a third-year and newly arrived. However…”

He raised a brow.

“…do you have anything to show?”

The room turned to look at him. A few smirked. Others leaned forward in genuine curiosity. Viktor Krum, seated near the front, said nothing, but his eyes locked on Harry with sharp interest.

Harry stood slowly.

“I wasn’t planning on showing anything, Professor,” he said calmly. “But… I suppose I could demonstrate one.”

Zavarro gave a curious smile and gestured to the demonstration area. “Then please.”

Harry walked to the center. He raised his wand and muttered, “Aegresco Dormitare.”

A wave of blue-black shot out of his wand. Zavarro opened his mouth to speak—but no sound came. The professor frowned and raised his wand. The other students watched in stunned silence.

“It plays your worst nightmares over and over in your mind,” Harry explained, unaffected.“For fifteen minutes.”

Zavarro stepped forward, eyes gleaming. “A spell of mind arts. Very difficult to create. How did you came up with the idea?”

“I was originally trying to create a spell that have the effect of dementors but this is what came out,” Harry replied.

There was a long silence.

Then Zavarro laughed—not cruelly, but genuinely.

“You may sit, Mister Weasley,” he said, still grinning. “Dragons… we may have underestimated our youngest.”

As Harry returned to his seat, murmurs broke out around the room.

“He created that?”

“Third-year? You sure he’s not twenty?”

“This guy’s got Dark spell discipline.”

Victor Krum leaned sideways in his chair and muttered, “Impressive. You should try dueling with me sometime.”

Harry smirked. “Careful what you wish for.”

Zavarro clapped once, restoring order.

“Enough chatter. Next week, you will begin designing your first collaborative spells in teams. Your assignments will be announced soon. For now—dismissed.”

The class ended with the Dragons rising and filing out, still whispering about Harry’s unexpected display.

And as Harry walked the echoing halls of Durmstrang with his cloak billowing slightly behind him, he felt something unfamiliar stirring among the student body.

Respect.




Harry stepped out of the Rune Labyrinth classroom, where Professor Gultenhavn had spent the last hour drilling the class on the precise construction of sigil arrays and their applications in battlefield environments. The man had a voice like stone scraping stone and the patience of a snapping dragon. Not a single student dared speak out of turn.

And Harry loved it.

There was no pointless chatter, no half-hearted answers, no teachers rambling off-topic. At Durmstrang, the lessons were strict, sharp, and purposeful. Every moment was used. Every assignment was measured. It was not just a school—it was a forge, and students were the blades.

“This is what magical education should feel like,” Harry thought as he climbed the long staircase back to the Dragon Wing. “Not singing frogs and ghost stories. Not Quidditch over competence.”

He reached his personal warded door and was startled to find an owl waiting for him—an English tawny, noticeably out of place among the black-and-red Durmstrang aesthetic. The bird fluffed its feathers as it saw him, holding out its leg stiffly.

“From home?” Harry murmured, gently untying the scroll of parchment tied with a neat blue ribbon. “No. Not the handwriting of my family.”

He glanced at the parchment.

Hermione Granger.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He stepped into his magically-expanded room, lit a few soft candles, and sat down at his desk to read.


Dear Harry,

I hope this letter reaches you safely. I’ve sent it through the long-distance post service from the Ministry—Professor McGonagall said it’s the most reliable for cross-border messaging. I was worried you might not even get it, but… well, here’s hoping!

I’ve been thinking about you a lot. It’s strange not seeing you in the Great Hall or walking through the corridors. Hogwarts feels different. Quieter, somehow. I suppose it’s selfish, but I miss you terribly.

I know you’ve made your decision, and after what happened last year, I understand completely. I just hope Durmstrang is treating you well. Is it really as cold and serious as everyone says? What are the classes like? Are the professors fair? I want to know everything.

Also… Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini came to me yesterday. They told me they’ve written to you multiple times and that you haven’t responded. They looked really upset, Harry. They said they regret what happened last year—how they didn’t stand by you when it counted. I didn’t say much to them, only that I would mention it.

Please don’t be alone there. I worry about you. You always say you’re fine on your own, but I know how much you give to others. I just hope someone gives something back. Also, the three younger Marauders are a disaster. You were right, they’re incorrigible! They tried to hex Peeves last week and set off a chain reaction that nearly melted a hallway. I’ve taken it upon myself to keep them in line… though I suspect I’ll need a time-turner soon.

Write back when you can. Tell me what it’s really like there. And Harry? Stay safe. Please.

—Hermione


Harry sat still for a while, holding the letter in both hands.

A warmth spread through his chest—not the fire from his magical hearth, but the familiar, grounding comfort that came only from someone who truly understood him.

He reached for parchment, uncapped his ink, and began to write back immediately.


Dear Hermione,

I can’t tell you how glad I am to get your letter. Honestly, it’s the best part of my week so far. It’s been… intense here. Durmstrang is everything people whisper it is—and more. But not in a bad way.

The classes are serious. Professors don’t tolerate laziness. You either keep up or get left behind. No one holds your hand. And I like that. It’s made me focus more than ever.

You wouldn’t believe the spells we’re learning—even a few that are technically banned in Hogwarts. There’s a class just for spell creation, and we’re encouraged to make our own! It’s thrilling, Hermione. Absolutely thrilling.

And don’t worry about me making friends. Viktor Krum’s taken a liking to me, oddly enough. And a few others in the Dragon ranking have started being friendly after my spell demonstration. They’re not like Hogwarts students—they respect skill more than houses or bloodlines.

As for the mini-Marauders—good luck. Merlin help you. Ron got more ambition than Fred and George combined but he is lazy, and Charlie is just reckless. Keep an eye on Neville, though. That boy’s got potential if he channels it right.

I miss you too, Hermione. I really do. Don’t worry—I’ll keep writing.

Your friend, always,

—Harry


Harry sealed the letter with green wax and summoned the owl.

“Back to Hogwarts, please. You’ll find Hermione Granger. She’ll likely be in the library.”

The owl hooted once, nipped at his finger affectionately, and launched into the cold Durmstrang sky.

Harry watched it vanish beyond the runestone peaks in the distance, then sat back, letting the silence of his enchanted quarters settle around him.

Yes, Hogwarts was behind him. But the people who mattered? They still stood with him.

And for now, that was more than enough.