The Tenth Weasley - CH - 83

Durmstrang was not a school for the complacent. Here, you did not merely attend classes and pass exams—you earned your place with merit, not bloodline or background. The moment Harry stepped into the stone-walled Evaluation Hall, he realized just how different this place was from Hogwarts.

Gone were the playful house banners, the enchanted ceilings, and the informal chatter. The hall was lined with stone statues of beasts—dragons, griffins, thunderbirds, and unicorns—all staring down with blank, judging eyes. Each statue bore an engraved plaque in ancient runes, glowing faintly in red and silver light.

At the front of the room stood a long table where several stern-faced professors observed the arriving examinees. Behind them, a massive iron door remained closed, leading into the Practical Hall, where wand duels, spellcraft, and magical endurance trials would be held.

Harry stood with three other transfer students, all wearing blank black cloaks—no insignia, no markings, just the plain woolen robe of the unranked.

“Until your rank is determined,” said a deep-voiced instructor with graying temples and a jagged scar down his chin, “you will wear the blank cloak. These tests will take two weeks. There are seven written and seven practical exams. You will be evaluated alongside other Durmstrang students who have voluntarily entered the advancement trials.”

Harry glanced to the side. Nearly fifty older students stood at the edge of the room—confident, experienced, their cloaks already bearing insignias. Cloaks were stitched with flaming dragon sigils, each embroidered with gold thread and trimmed in thick fur. Another group bore the silver griffin, a symbol of valor and strength. Below them were the thunderbirds, in deep blue and bronze.

And then there were the unicorns, whose cloaks bore no marking.

The rankings were everything at Durmstrang.

There were only 20 dragons in the entire school. No more, no less. Becoming one meant that someone else had to fall. Below them stood 60 griffins, respected and powerful. Then 100 thunderbirds, strong but still learning. And finally, the unicorns, who formed the largest body of students—novices still finding their way.

Harry took a deep breath as the instructor continued.

“Those who believe they are worthy of advancement may sit these exams. However, a fee of 500 galleons is required to enter. If you succeed and rise in rank, your galleons will be returned. If you fail… the gold is forfeit. No exceptions.”

Harry blinked. That was a lot of gold. But no one around him flinched. At Durmstrang, advancement meant everything—not just prestige, but access to better professors, deeper libraries, rare spellbooks, personal dueling coaches, and advanced magical training.

Harry didn’t need to pay. Transfers were tested freely, their results determining where they belonged. But the pressure was no less heavy.

The professor clapped once.

“Begin.”

Tables were conjured. Quills, ink, and parchment materialized. The exam had begun.

Day 1: Magical Theory

The first written test was dense with magical theory. It questioned the very nature of magic—its sources, its threads, its resistance under specific conditions. Unlike Hogwarts, which focused on applications and history, Durmstrang drilled deep into arcane roots and theoretical complexity.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek as he scratched through question after question.

“Compare the resonance principle of runic alchemy with that of elemental transfiguration. Use examples from at least three magical cultures.”

He was grateful—beyond grateful—that he had spent the summer devouring the Durmstrang curriculum from first and second year. His knowledge of rune symbiosis from Salazar’s books helped bridge the gaps.

Day 2: Defensive Spell Construction

They were asked to construct a defense system using no more than five spells. They had to design ward diagrams, explain their anchoring methods, and justify each choice under multiple combat scenarios.

Day 3: Cursed Object Identification

A box of enchanted trinkets was placed before each student. They were to identify which were cursed, which were hexed, which were illusionary traps, and which were harmless fakes.

Harry’s hand hovered over a singing locket. A faint vibration in the air warned him—it was a blood-activated compulsion charm. He marked it quickly and moved on.

Day 4-7: Advanced Magical Law, History of Magical Warfare, Enchantment Deconstruction, and Ritual Diagram Analysis

By the end of the first week, Harry’s eyes ached, and he could barely think straight. He barely had time to eat, and only scribbled short letters home:

“I’m alive. Busy. Tell Ron not to touch my books. Love, Harry.”

Week Two: Practical Evaluations

The second week tested power, control, creativity, and endurance.

In the Practical Hall, Harry faced conjuration duels, magic endurance trials, where he had to keep his shield charms and elemental control up for extended periods, and precision trials—cutting threads without damaging enchanted barriers.

He sparred with two other griffin-level students in front of four professors, and even the Dragon-ranked students came to watch. Some smirked. Others watched in silence.

And Harry?

He thrived.

His reflexes, sharpened by last year’s betrayals and his summer of relentless training, showed in every duel. His casting style was unorthodox—sometimes swift and savage, sometimes slow and intricate. His use of Parseltongue-based spells fascinated the examiners. One professor even asked him to repeat a serpentine charm that twisted into the air and struck like a real viper.

On the final day of exams, Harry sat beside the three other transfer students in the waiting room just outside the Evaluation Hall. The air smelled of frost and parchment.

The Irish girl—Clara—rubbed her forehead and muttered, “I thought I was smart until I came here.”

Harry gave her a small smile. “It’s not about being smart. It’s about preparation.”

“You prepared?” asked the Moroccan boy.

Harry nodded. “Every day this summer.”

The heavyset Eastern boy whistled. “Then I hope the dragons make room.”

Harry looked down at his blank cloak, thinking. He didn’t care about the embroidery. He didn’t care about the color.

But he wanted to be tested fairly. He wanted a place that matched his potential—not one given in pity or status.

The professor entered the room and raised a hand.

“Results will be posted tomorrow. Until then, you’re free to rest.”

As Harry left the Evaluation Hall, passing once more beneath the gaze of the great stone creatures above, he realized something.

He didn’t miss Hogwarts.

Not even a little.



The great hall of Durmstrang was unlike anything Harry had seen before. Where Hogwarts had floating candles and golden plates, Durmstrang’s hall was a towering cathedral of stone and iron. Massive chandeliers burned with blue fire suspended high above, casting dancing shadows across arched windows etched with ancient runes. Trophies of dragons, wyverns, and other magical beasts lined the walls, their petrified heads mounted as both decoration and warning.

It was the Rank Ascension Ceremony, held only once every school year—a solemn, almost martial affair. Students stood in precise rows, separated by class. Professors in blood-red robes stood behind a black marble dais. Above them, the great banners of the four ranks hung high—Dragon, Griffin, Thunderbird, and Unicorn.

Every student stood tall, waiting for names to be called. The dragons stood with a pride unmatched by the rest. There were only twenty, and their embroidered red-and-gold cloaks gleamed with power and recognition. They were the elite—fearsome duelists, master conjurers, and arcane prodigies.

And then—

A booming voice echoed through the chamber.

“This year, we honor not only those who have maintained their position, but those who have risen.”

Professor Zavarov, the Evaluation Master, stepped forward, holding a long scroll. His eyes scanned the hall before speaking again.

“Of the transfer students, one has achieved a feat unheard of in Durmstrang’s recorded history.”

He let the silence build. Murmurs fluttered like nervous birds.

“A third-year. A British transfer. Top three among dragons.”
“Harry Weasley.”

A wave of stunned silence fell over the hall. The name echoed like a clap of thunder.

“Did he say third-year?” someone gasped.

“Impossible,” whispered a girl among the Thunderbirds. “No one below sixth year has ever became dragon!”

Even the dragons, aloof and sure of their place, leaned forward in their stone seats.

Harry stepped forward, heart steady, his cloak still plain.

Professor Zavarov gestured for him to climb the steps. The marble stairs felt cold underfoot as he walked to the top of the dais. He didn’t look at the students, didn’t scan the crowd. He kept his gaze on the professor, calm and collected.

Zavarov gave a respectful nod. “Harry Weasley. You are now Dragon-ranked.”

With a wave of his wand, a golden flame danced in the air. It burned the dragon sigil onto Harry’s cloak—an intricate beast with wings spread wide, stitched in shimmering thread that glowed faintly in the firelight. The edges of the cloak changed too—now lined with dark fur, warm and regal.

The crowd erupted.

Some applauded out of genuine awe, others in disbelief. Whispers and shouts echoed across the stone chamber.

“Third-year?! How?!”

“He beat many sixth and seventh years?”

Harry stood still, face unreadable. He turned, nodded politely to the professors, and descended the stairs.

As he walked back to his seat, eyes followed him.

Among the dragons seated at the far end of the hall, a tall, broad-shouldered boy with windswept black hair gave a crooked grin.

Victor Krum.

He clapped twice, then more slowly, deliberately. And others followed suit.

After the ceremony, Harry was given a sealed envelope with his Dragon class schedule.

Bill had already left for Britain, and Harry had no one else to share the moment with—but he didn’t feel lonely. He had earned this.

Inside the envelope was a silver-edged pamphlet, heavy with enchantments. It shimmered with every page turn.

His schedule read:

Harry Weasley

Dragon Rank (Position: 3rd)
Year Level: 3 (Age-based)

Curriculum: Custom Advanced

Advanced Magical Combat (with 6th and 7th Years)

Spell Design and Theory

Dark Arts and Defense (Permitted under Supervision)

Potions: Dual Rank Access (with Griffin and Dragon Labs)

Independent Research Periods – 8 Hours Weekly

Forbidden Magic Ethics (Invitation Only)

Flight & Tactical Aerial Defense

Access: Dragon Wing Chamber & Library

Note: History of Magic, Astronomy, Basic Herbology dropped. Optional attendance for Durmstrang Cultural Seminars.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. The Dragon curriculum wasn’t just advanced—it was personal. Tailored. Designed to push limits.

He made his way to the Dragon Wing, guided by the enchanted map on the back of the pamphlet. At the end of a long obsidian corridor, past five password-locked wards, he arrived at a tall iron door shaped like a dragon’s mouth.

“Speak your name and purpose,” rumbled a magical voice.

“Harry Weasley, Dragon. I seek access.”

The door creaked open.

Inside, the chamber was dim but warm. Candles floated in the air, and a fireplace crackled at the far end. A series of armchairs, study tables, and enchanted windows offered the dragons a luxurious study and rest space. Shelves upon shelves of rare books lined the walls.

Books Harry had never seen before—bound in red dragonhide, gold-trimmed, thick with dust and secrets.

He stepped closer to one titled Elemental Manipulation, Beyond Elemental Theory: Forbidden Pathways. Another, Wandless Articulation in Combat Duels. Another, Blood Magic and Ethical Frameworks.

His eyes gleamed.

“Impressed?”

Harry turned.

Victor Krum stood a few paces away, sipping something dark from a small stone cup. “Not many first time Dragons get ranked top five. None ever got third. I was fifteen, back when I joined last year.”

Harry tilted his head. “I didn’t come to impress.”

“I know,” said Krum. “You came to learn. That’s why everyone was so impressed.”

There was a pause. The crackling of the fire echoed in the quiet chamber.

Victor extended a hand. “Welcome to Durmstrang, Mr Weasley.”

Harry shook it firmly. “Thank you. And I’d prefer just Harry.”

Victor smirked. “Then just Victor.”

That night, Harry sat by the fire in the Dragon Chamber, parchment laid out, ink ready, and a quill in hand. He began a letter to Ron:

I’ve been sorted. Not into a house. Into a rank. And guess what? I’m third. Among all the dragons. Even Victor Krum’s noticed me…

He paused and smiled.

Tell Fred he still owes me five Sickles for that exploding snap game.

Then he added, softer:

Hope Hogwarts is good to you this year. I’ll write again soon.

He sealed the letter, walked to the chamber’s owl roost, and sent it off.

Durmstrang was hard. Ruthless, even.

But for the first time in a long while, Harry felt like he belonged.