The Tenth Weasley - CH - 81

With his trunks packed, his robes measured, and every item on the Durmstrang supply list accounted for, Harry might have taken a few days to relax—if he were anyone else.

But he wasn’t.

The moment the final item—The Complete Theory of Rune-Combat Tactics—arrived by owl post, Harry shut the door to his room, cleared his desk, and began studying.

Gone were the days of reading Slytherin’s journals under candlelight. Gone were the hours spent experimenting with Parseltongue spells and wandering through obscure texts in the Weasley library.

This was different.

This was schoolwork.

Real, relentless, unforgiving schoolwork.

The books themselves were enormous, most of them bound in black or crimson leather and inscribed with old runic titles. No charming covers, no whimsical illustrations like in The Standard Book of Spells. Just pages and pages of densely written theory, formulas, diagrams, and essays in tight, curling script.

The first textbook he cracked open—Durmstrang Year III: Arcane Mechanics and Applied Force Magic—nearly gave him a headache.

The opening paragraph read:

“All magic is built upon tension. The moment of resistance between wand, will, and world. Durmstrang teaches not only the casting of spells, but the application of force through discipline. Expect pain. Expect rigor. Expect mastery.”


“Charming,” Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead.

Even Hermione would have groaned at the footnotes.

Still, Harry dove in. He divided his day into strict intervals. Morning drills in the training yard—usually with Charlie or Bill tossing him random dueling challenges. Then three-hour study blocks. Afternoons reserved for practical application. And evenings for reading theory and making notes.

The Transmutation for Survival book alone covered fifty different spells used in environmental combat.

“Scutra Flamma,” Harry muttered, flicking his wand at the wooden dummy.

A burst of flame erupted from his wand and twisted midair into a spinning disc of fire that hovered for three seconds before dissipating.

“Better,” he whispered. “Still needs more focus.”

The dummy, already charred from earlier sessions, gave a creak as if groaning in protest.

At lunch, he would bring the books downstairs with him, ignoring the sighs from Ron and the occasional teasing from the twins.

“Mate,” Fred said one afternoon, “you’ve read more in a week than we have in five years.”

“You’re going to turn into a rune,” George added. “Your forehead’s already wrinkling like one.”

Harry didn’t respond. His nose remained buried in Defensive Constructs and Counterformations: Year III.

Molly brought him extra sandwiches and didn’t push. Arthur, watching Harry scribble meticulous notes beside his pumpkin juice, only said, “He’s going to be dangerous by Christmas.”

Charlie peeked over his shoulder one evening. “Half this stuff is used in field dueling. You’re learning this now?”

“They expect it,” Harry said without looking up. “Durmstrang doesn’t do beginner-level spells past Year One. I’m already two years behind.”

Bill smirked. “I’d say you’re catching up fast.”

Even Ginny commented once while passing the study. “You’ve changed, Harry.”

He glanced up from his notes. “How so?”

“You used to read because you liked it. Now you read like it’s war.”

Harry looked down at the opened tome in front of him. The page detailed magical nerve suppression and dueling tactics used against elemental users.

“Maybe it is,” he said quietly.

As the week passed, Harry’s magical output changed. His wand flicks were sharper. His control tighter. His spells, even the basic ones, had more weight behind them. He was no longer casting for effect—he was casting to dominate.

And all the while, a quiet fire built in his chest.

Hogwarts had never pushed him like this. Had never demanded so much.

And yet… he thrived in it.

Every page was a challenge.

Every diagram a puzzle.

Every spell an opportunity.

By the end of the week, Harry had nearly finished the theoretical portions of all five core textbooks: Arcane Mechanics, Rune Combat, Magical Geography of the Northern Territories, Elemental Symbiosis, and Durmstrang History (Volume II).

He’d barely touched his old books since.

He didn’t want to.

Those were from a time when he was still uncertain.

Now, he was something else.

A young man preparing for war.

And Durmstrang would be the battlefield where he would earn his armor.


As the days crept closer to his departure for Durmstrang, Harry couldn’t shake one persistent thought:

What had he missed?

He had been accepted as a third-year student, but Durmstrang was a school that prided itself on discipline, rigor, and advanced magical education. Unlike Hogwarts, where Year One began with wand waving and levitating feathers, Durmstrang’s curriculum started heavy—and never let up.

And Harry had skipped two entire years of it.

He couldn’t tolerate the idea of being behind. Not there. Not where power and reputation were everything.

So one morning, dressed in plain robes and with his wand holstered under his sleeve, Harry slipped quietly into Diagon Alley—alone.

The bookstore he sought was tucked away beside an alchemy shop, built from old grey stones and smelling of parchment and potion smoke. The owner, a bespectacled witch named Madam Kreel, raised an eyebrow when she saw Harry enter.

“Back again so soon, Mr. Weasley?”

“I’m looking for something specific,” Harry said. “Durmstrang first- and second-year course books. All of them. Full sets.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You’re trying to catch up?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

She hummed as she vanished into the stacks, muttering. “You’ll need: Northern Territories Geography, Basic Rune Marking, Elemental Theory for Youth, Magical Combat Foundations, Warding Circles 101… oh, and Herbology for Harsh Climates—very different from what you’d find at Hogwarts.”

A half hour later, Harry walked out with two heavy sacks of books—and a considerable dent in his day’s energy.

But not in his vault.

Even without the Basilisk fortune, the his personal account had been well-managed. He never wanted for money. And now, with knowledge as his priority, he didn’t hesitate to pay in full.

But that wasn’t his only stop today.

There was one more place he visited when he wanted to find the real books—the ones Hogwarts never taught from.

With his newly acquired materials secured in a magically-shrinking satchel, Harry changed direction and vanished into the shadows between buildings, heading toward a narrow alleyway where the light dimmed and the air grew thick.

Knockturn Alley.

Here, Harry wore his black cloak with the hood drawn low, the hem brushing against the uneven stones. His posture straightened, his steps sharpened. His magic thrummed beneath his skin, cold and heavy.

This was not a place for hesitation.

Knockturn Alley devoured the uncertain.

And Harry had learned early: if you don’t project the predator, you will be eaten like prey.

As he passed, shopkeepers paused. Wandmakers peered warily from shuttered windows. Street duellists and smugglers stepped aside without a word.

He made his way to the crooked front of Borgin and Burkes, pushing the door open with a soft creak. The air inside was dry and stale, filled with dust, secrets, and slow-turning curses.

Mr. Borgin was at the counter, fingers twiddling with a black ring that pulsed faintly with necromantic energy. He glanced up—and paused.

Harry stepped into the candlelight.

The dim flicker lit his face in fractured shadows, and just as planned, he hissed something low and guttural in Parseltongue:

“Your silence keeps you alive, snake-blooded man…”

Borgin’s hands trembled.

He said nothing.

Because somewhere deep in his Slytherin-trained mind, he didn’t know who this boy was. But he knew Parseltongue. He knew that presence. And with the rumors of Voldemort’s strange death and stranger legacy, anything was possible.

And Borgin? Borgin was a collector. A survivor.

“Welcome, my lord,” he said carefully, his voice low. “What might you be… acquiring today?”

Harry tilted his head slightly, letting silence stretch out before answering.

“Books,” he said. “The kind not on any shelf. The kind you keep hidden.”

“I have… several volumes,” Borgin whispered. “Blood rituals… lost transfigurations… even some Durmstrang-forbidden material, if it pleases—”

“I’ll decide what pleases me,” Harry cut in, voice cool.

Borgin bowed slightly and vanished into the back.

While he waited, Harry heard voices just outside the shop.

Three men, half-shadowed in a corner, speaking in low but urgent tones.

“…he almost had him—Auror Potter, I mean.”

“Pettigrew escaped?”

“Barely. Narrowest margin. They say he turned into that bloody rat again. Vanished through a sewer grate.”

“Think he’s headed for Albania? Heard rumors of dark movements there.”

“Maybe. But Potter won’t give up. You know what he’s like.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed beneath his hood. So James nearly caught him.

It was only a matter of time now. Pettigrew wouldn’t stay lucky forever.

When Borgin returned with a crate of books wrapped in shadow-laced twine, Harry made his selections quickly—The Forgotten Paths of the Elder Duelists, Obscura Magicka: The Lost Language of Power, and Elements in Opposition: Fire & Ice in Combat.

“None of these are to be traced,” Harry said flatly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Borgin replied with a nervous smile.

Harry dropped a small bag of galleons on the counter and hissed a final word in Parseltongue:

“Tell no one you saw the serpent walk.”

And Borgin, white as a sheet, nodded without a word.

Back in Diagon Alley, cloaked and silent, Harry slipped away unnoticed, his satchels full of forbidden wisdom and his heart racing with silent fire.

He was ready now.

For Durmstrang. For everything Hogwarts could never prepare him for.


The morning sun rose quietly over the countryside, casting a golden hue across the Weasley Manor as a cool breeze whispered through the hedgerows. Inside the house, the air was filled with a rare stillness.

Today was the day.

Harry stood at his bedroom window, staring out across the fields. His travel trunk sat by the door, packed and ready—its enchanted compartments filled with Durmstrang robes, rune textbooks, enchanted gloves, potion kits, and combat gear. But it wasn’t the packing that weighed on him.

It was the goodbye.

He hadn’t gone back to Hogwarts, but he couldn’t deny its pull. That grand castle of towers and secrets still lingered in his heart, even if its halls had turned cold to him.

And then there was Hermione.

Of all the students at Hogwarts, only she had stood by him when things went dark. She hadn’t done it for glory, or House points, or anything else. She’d done it because she believed in him.

He had written her a letter the night before.

Dear Hermione,

By the time you read this, I’ll already be gone. I’ve transferred to Durmstrang.

Please don’t be angry. It’s not because of you. In fact, you're one of the few reasons I almost stayed. You were a real friend—one who never flinched when I was being blamed and mocked. That meant more to me than I can say.

I’m not sure what it’ll be like here, but I want us to write to each other. I’ll tell you what Durmstrang is like, and you can tell me how many times the Mini-Marauders break the rules this year.

You’ll be fine. Honestly, I think Fred and George are already planning to adopt you as an honorary mischief-maker. Just don’t let them drag you into too much trouble.

Thank you. For everything.

—Harry


He sealed the letter in emerald wax, addressed it to her dormitory, and handed it to the family owl that morning.

“Make sure she gets it,” Harry whispered as the owl took off.

Now, downstairs, Bill stood by the hearth with the portkey in hand—a smooth obsidian coin etched with northern runes, glowing faintly with the swirling magic of distant travel.

“You ready?” Bill asked.

Harry nodded, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Mum and Dad already left with the rest,” Bill said. “They’re taking all to King’s Cross. Probably already fussing about their luggage.”

Harry gave a small smile. “I’ll miss them.”

Bill clapped a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll miss you too. But they understand.”

“Charlie’s gone?”

“Yeah, left early this morning. Back to the reserve. He said to tell you to write—and not to get frozen in the mountains.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ll try not to.”

Together, they approached the fireplace where the portkey glimmered on a velvet cloth.

“Oslo station,” Bill confirmed. “Lyderhorn Mountain. You’ll wait there, and someone from Durmstrang will arrive to pick you up. Could be by boat, sleigh, or who-knows-what else.”

Harry took a breath and placed his hand on the coin.

Bill did the same.

“Three… two… one…”

The world spun.

A violent tug yanked at Harry’s navel, pulling him out of the Manor and into a blur of wind and color. The ground vanished. Cold air blasted across his face. The familiar warmth of the English countryside was replaced by the biting frost of the far north.

When the spinning stopped, they landed on a snowy slope just beneath a jagged ridge.

Lyderhorn Mountain, overlooking the magical outskirts of Oslo.

Snow crunched beneath Harry’s boots as he straightened and adjusted his cloak. The wind was sharp and clean. Pine trees stood like black sentinels in the distance, and white fog coiled through the rocks.

A signpost in runic Norwegian pointed toward a stone bench surrounded by glowing runes.

“Designated arrival zone,” Bill muttered, brushing snow off his cloak. “Durmstrang’ll be here soon.”

Harry nodded, but he didn’t speak.

He stood still, his emerald eyes scanning the horizon, heart pounding with quiet tension.

This was it.

No Hogwarts Express. No feasts. No Sorting Hat.

This was the beginning of a new chapter—one forged in ice and fire, magic and will.

Bill turned to him. “Whatever they throw at you, you’re ready. More than ready.”

Harry gave a small, confident smile. “I know.”

They stood in silence as the cold wind howled across the mountain.