The Tenth Weasley - CH - 82

By midmorning, the arrival zone near Lyderhorn Mountain was no longer silent.

What had begun as an empty plateau wrapped in cold wind had slowly transformed into a sprawling gathering of magical families. Students from across the continent—some alone, some flanked by stern-looking parents—began arriving in waves. Magical portkeys shimmered, others Apparated with muffled pops, and a few arrived on flying carpets or pulled sleighs enchanted with ever-warming charms.

Harry stood quietly beside Bill near a stone bench, taking it all in.

Children bundled in fur-trimmed coats, thick gloves, and snow-ready boots moved through the snowy paths with purpose. Some wore heavy robes lined with sigils from their homelands—Scandinavian runes, Chinese warding scripts, Bulgarian seals. Conversations buzzed in a hundred languages, but all shared one thing: excitement for the school to come.

“I could’ve picked somewhere closer,” Harry admitted, pulling his cloak tighter. “But Oslo’s the main rally point. I figured… might as well see everything.”

Bill grinned as he wandered toward a vendor’s stand glowing with floating rune charms. “I don’t blame you. There’s magic here I’ve never seen before.”

As Bill examined a necklace said to ward off snow demons, Harry noticed a crowd forming nearby—mostly first-years. A massive line of children, some looking barely eleven, all stood shivering but determined in front of a long wooden building with smoke curling out of its chimney.

“What’s that about?” Harry asked aloud.

“Let’s find out,” Bill said, already moving through the snow.

They reached the edge of the crowd and asked a nearby parent, who pointed toward a painted sign above the door written in several scripts—Russian, English, Chinese, and German.

“PENSIEVE TRANSLATION SERVICE – Learn Russian Instantly”

Harry blinked. “Seriously?”

“They’re using pensieves,” Bill murmured, squinting at the line. “For language transfer.”

A helpful Durmstrang assistant passed by, overhearing them. “If you don’t speak Russian, this is the line. Small fee. You’ll absorb two years’ worth of language memory—grammar, writing, basic conversation. Enough to survive at Durmstrang.”

“Is this… safe?” Harry asked.

The man gave a knowing grin. “Well, it’s magic. Safe enough. Bit of a headache afterward. But everyone does it. Russian is the primary language of instruction.”

Bill nudged Harry. “You’d better go, then.”

Harry nodded and joined the queue.

It was slow-moving but steady. Children shuffled forward in fur boots, scarves wrapped around their mouths, eyes wide with nervous energy. Harry, taller than most of the students in line, stood quietly and watched the others. A girl from Egypt in a sunburst-patterned coat. A boy from Poland nervously repeating words to himself. A Chinese first-year clutching a small notebook full of translation scribbles.

So many cultures. So many countries.

And all of them coming together to be forged into something new.

Finally, Harry reached the registration table.

A middle-aged witch with sharp spectacles and a floating quill looked up from her parchment. “Name and country?”

“Harry Weasley,” he said. “British.”

Her eyes flicked to him briefly before the quill recorded his name. She handed him a silver rune-stamped token.

“Follow the line inside. When it’s your turn, place your face in the Pensieve and don’t pull back until told.”

Harry entered the wooden building where it was much warmer, warmed by enchanted stones lining the walls. Students sat on low benches, clutching their heads or blinking rapidly as if they were seeing the world for the first time.

A wand-twirling instructor motioned to Harry. “Next.”

He approached the swirling silver Pensieve, its surface rippling like liquid mercury.

“Lower your face in, hold your breath, and let go,” the instructor said.

Harry nodded.

Then he leaned in.

The cold sensation of the liquid met his skin—and then—

An explosion.

Not of pain, but of knowledge.

A rush of foreign syllables. Grammar structures. Vocabulary. Words he’d never known—suddenly familiar. The rhythm of the Russian language poured into his thoughts like a river crashing through a dry bed. Scenes flickered—blackboards, books, spoken sentences, cultural nuances, spell casting in Cyrillic pronunciation.

And then—

Darkness.

He was yanked up with a gasp.

His head throbbed. The room spun. He blinked several times before he saw the instructor handing him a small cup of something warm.

“You’ll be all right in a moment,” the man said. “Drink.”

Harry sat beside several young students on the bench, sipping the tea. A slight headache throbbed behind his eyes, but something else had changed.

A group of students near him chatted softly in Russian.

And Harry understood every word.

“Did yours work?”
“Yeah. I know how to say ‘ice wolf’ now.”
“I dreamt I was reciting the Cyrillic alphabet backwards.”

Harry chuckled—and surprised even himself.

Later, as he exited the hut, Bill met him at the door.

“You alright?” Bill asked.

“I can read Russian now,” Harry replied, rubbing his forehead. “Think I might even think in it sometimes.”

Bill raised an impressed eyebrow. “Right. I’m doing it too.”

Soon Bill returned from the line, clutching his head but muttering Russian phrases under his breath.

“Bloody hell, I just dreamt about writing essays on wand theory in a snow-covered classroom.”

“That sounds about right,” Harry said.

Then the wind shifted.

A sudden rush of cold air blew down from the sea, and a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Children, parents, and returning students all turned toward the water.

There it was.

A massive ship emerged from the foggy sea, towering with black sails embroidered in deep crimson. Its hull was carved from some dark, glistening wood that shimmered with magical sigils. It cut through the water without making a sound, and yet the sheer presence of it was thunderous.

Durmstrang’s ship.

Older students shouted and pointed.

“Она здесь!”
“The ship is here!”
“Finally! That’s how we go to Durmstrang!”

Harry could now understand it all.

He stood in awe beside Bill, watching as the ship slowly approached the dock, the water beneath it freezing into a ice bridge connecting the land.

“It doesn’t dock like a normal ship,” Bill whispered. “It claims the sea.”

And as the wind howled and the crowd stirred, Harry felt something deep inside—an anxious thrill.

The journey to Durmstrang had truly begun.



The wind howled across the edge of the frozen shore, but Harry didn’t flinch. Around him, students from every corner of Europe and beyond were gathered, all facing the newly formed ice bridge that stretched out toward the waiting ship like a gleaming, enchanted road.

It had appeared moments ago, summoned from the sea by old magic—glacial, exact, and ancient. The ship itself loomed beyond the fog, its black sails rippling silently, the crimson insignia of Durmstrang etched like blood upon its mast.

Without a single order, the crowd began to move.

Harry, his heavy trunk hovering behind him via a controlled Wingardium Leviosa, joined the slow procession of cloaked students walking across the narrow bridge. The ice beneath his boots was perfectly smooth, but his balance never wavered. The magic supporting it was as firm as stone.

He walked with quiet confidence, blending in with the others. No one was rushing. No one dared. This was Durmstrang—discipline was expected from the first step.

The moment Harry reached the hull, a staircase unfolded from the wood—slick, dark, and beautifully crafted with inlaid runes that shimmered faintly as each foot touched them. He climbed steadily, each step echoing beneath his boots, until he reached the top deck.

Though the ship appeared modest from the outside, the interior was massive—clearly enchanted to defy physical dimensions. Multiple levels opened beneath the deck, housing student cabins, lounges, study halls, and even a heated dining room lined with glowing lanterns suspended midair.

The ship, it turned out, had already been collecting students from earlier gathering points: Stockholm, St. Petersburg, Prague, Istanbul. Now, Oslo was its final stop.

A stern-looking professor in long crimson robes with a wolf-fur mantle stood near the helm and raised his voice, thick with a Russian accent.

“Students! Below deck. All of you. The crossing begins now.”

No one hesitated.

Harry followed the others down a wide staircase as the main deck shimmered with violet light and sealed itself magically. The moment the last student vanished below, the entire ship gave a low groan.

Then the world tilted.

And the ship plunged beneath the surface of the sea.

Not a drop of water breached its wards. Inside, the light barely flickered. Still, Harry’s heart thudded with the thrill of it.

Now submerged, the windows along the lower levels glowed faintly as the icy sea swept past, revealing massive kelp forests, dancing bioluminescent creatures, and shapes that might have been leviathans swimming just beyond the murk.

Students spread across the deck below—some seated around conjured braziers, others clustered in booths with books and warm mugs. The ship wasn’t loud, but it hummed with energy.

As Harry passed through the corridor, several older students turned to look at him. He felt the stares before he heard the whispers.

“Who is that?…”

“Must be a tranfer student.”

“From Hogwarts, I think.”

It wasn’t long before they approached him.

A boy with sharp features and dark silver robes leaned against a pillar and extended a hand. “Mikhail Dragov. Fourth-year. You’re?”

“Harry Weasley,” Harry replied with a small nod, taking the hand.

Mikhail grinned. “Ah, yes. Transfer student from Hogwarts, right? . But Durmstrang doesn’t take weak students. Only those with strength. You’ll find it suits you.”

“I hope so,” Harry said coolly.

“Why transfer?” another student, a girl with braided black hair and frost-blue eyes, asked as she joined them. “We don’t get transfers. Not… ever.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He looked around the cabin, at the dozens of eyes watching, waiting for something to talk about.

“I want to learn,” he said at last. “The kind of magic that works in real situations. Durmstrang offers that.”

There was silence.

Then, the girl nodded. “Fair enough.”

No one asked again.

He spent the rest of the undersea journey exchanging small words with students from Bulgaria, Latvia, Mongolia, and the Swiss Alps. Each had their own story, but the common theme was clear: they were here to become powerful. There were no jokes. No fluff. Everyone took their presence seriously.

After what felt like hours beneath the sea, the ship shuddered once more.

“To the deck!” someone called.

The upper seal unlatched with a hiss, and students climbed the staircases like soldiers rising from bunkers.

Harry followed quickly, pushing past the heavy wooden doors and emerging into brilliant sunlight.

And what he saw made him stop in his tracks.

Durmstrang.

In the distance stood a massive island, its craggy coastline carved by ancient glaciers. Jagged cliffs jutted from the sea like dark teeth, and atop one of those cliffs sat a castle—not ornate like Hogwarts, but fierce, like a fortress from a time of war.

Its towers were square and thick, its banners hung heavy with runes stitched in iron thread. Smoke curled from chimneys, and wind lashed against the stone. The forest surrounding it stretched down the cliffside—thick pines, silver birches, and dark thorned shrubs, wild and untouched.

Harry’s breath caught.

“I thought Hogwarts was beautiful,” he whispered to himself. “But this…”

One of the older students beside him laughed. “A different kind of beauty, eh?”

Another pointed toward the cliffs. “That’s Durmstrang. We call it Volchiy Kamen—Wolf Rock.”

“Where’s the snow?” Harry asked, blinking at the green pine needled paths, half expecting knee-high snowbanks.

“They enchant the forest to melt snow quickly,” the girl from earlier replied. “Makes it easier for the creature patrols to keep track.”

“Creature patrols?”

“There’s a dragon nest in the east.” She gestured off the side of the ship. “No student is allowed past the black pines. Too dangerous.”

Harry’s stomach tightened with anticipation.

He could see several rampways and paths winding through the forest, connecting waystations, watchposts, and even floating staircases leading up the sheer rock wall toward the castle. Magical carriages moved across bridges. Lanterns floated above paths.

It was an entire military ecosystem built into the wilderness.

As the ship neared the dock—a slate-colored platform built into the cliff’s base—professors began calling names and organizing the crowd.

“First-years, this way! Line up by banners!”

Harry stepped aside and watched as the smallest students formed nervous lines, escorted by fifth-year guides. But then a smaller group, separated from the first-years, was called out by a sharp-faced instructor.

“You three. And you—Weasley. Come forward.”

Harry moved toward them.

Three others stood in the group—an Irish girl with sea-green eyes, a tall boy from Morocco, and a heavyset boy with curly dark hair and an Eastern accent.

“Transfer students,” the instructor said. “You will not be sorted by year immediately. You must be evaluated before placement. Come. Follow me.”

Harry glanced one last time at the looming fortress above.

His heart thudded—not with fear, but with a sense of resolve.

He was here.

This was real.

And soon, he would be a student of Durmstrang.