The Tenth Weasley - CH - 80

Three days after Harry sent his letter, the reply came in a midnight-black envelope bearing a wax seal shaped like a wolf’s eye surrounded by runes.

He opened it with steady fingers.

To Mr. Weasley,

Your request to transfer into the Durmstrang Institute has been reviewed. Headmaster Ivanov has agreed to an in-person interview and combat evaluation to be conducted by our Dueling Master in Eisenwalt, a secure magical township in the Black Forest, Germany. Please arrive at the Durmstrang Orientation Hall on the 15th of this month at precisely noon.

Regards,
Office of the Headmaster
Durmstrang Institute


Bill read over Harry’s shoulder and gave a low whistle. “That’s fast. Ivanov doesn’t waste time.”

“I’ve already been to Eisenwalt before,” he added. “I know the way. I’ll take you.”

Arthur, who had just returned from a late shift at the Ministry, stepped into the kitchen, holding out an object wrapped in Ministry cloth. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “Portkey to Eisenwalt. Cleared through International Portkey Control. Set for 11:45 a.m. on the 15th.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Harry said, genuinely touched.

Arthur smiled and patted Harry’s shoulder. “Good luck, son. You’ve got more than enough talent to impress them.”

Charlie, overhearing the conversation, burst into the room with his rucksack half-packed. “If you think I’m missing a trip with Harry to Germany, you’re mental. I’m coming too.”

So it was settled—Bill, Harry, and Charlie.

And with the Weasley family now flush with gold and their reputation soaring, the Ministry hadn’t hesitated to grant Arthur the portkey. Wealth had a way of silencing old judgments.

At exactly 11:45 on the 15th, the three touched the portkey and vanished in a swirl of blue light.

When the world righted itself, Harry found himself standing in a cobbled square surrounded by half-timbered buildings, black stone chimneys, and towering pine trees that seemed to whisper in the wind. The village of Eisenwalt was silent, crisp, and cold—even in summer.

“It always feels like winter here,” Bill said. “Even their summers are chilly.”

The Durmstrang Orientation Hall was a long, slate-roofed building lined with crimson banners. Wizards and witches from across Europe had gathered there, most of them parents with children in tow, all attending orientation for first-year students.

But Harry wasn’t here for orientation.

He was here to be tested.

They entered the hall and were immediately greeted by a stern-faced witch in thick red robes who guided them to the Dueling Arena. In the center stood a tall, battle-worn man in a fur-lined dueling robe, with runic tattoos on his arms and a wand carved from dark, scorched wood.

“This,” the woman said, “is Dueling Master Karlo Stoyanov. He will oversee your trial.”

The man stepped forward, sizing Harry up with cold, pale eyes.

“You are Weasley,” Stoyanov said, accent thick and gravelly.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, standing straight.

“You wish to enter Durmstrang. We do not admit weaklings.”

“I’m not one,” Harry said firmly.

“Then you will answer my questions, and then you will fight me.”
He turned to the crowd. “Those who wish to observe may remain.”

A group of parents and first-years gathered near the arena seats, curious to see what the Weasley could do.

Stoyanov began with questions.

“What are the five elemental cores used in wand-forged magic?”

“Fire, Earth, Water, Air, and Spirit,” Harry replied instantly.

“What spell counters Glacius Maxima in open ground?”

“Thermas Reverso,” Harry said.

“How do you shield against a Trennzauber slash spell?”

“Reinforce with Protego Viventis. It channels magical resistance through the bones.”

Stoyanov raised an eyebrow at that. “Impressive. Most Hogwarts students would say ‘duck.’”

The laughter from the onlookers was sharp.

Then the man stepped onto the dueling floor and cracked his neck.

“Wands ready. No killing spells. No interference. Begin!”

The first spell from Stoyanov was a low-powered jinx, something light and quick—likely meant to test Harry’s reactions.

Harry parried it with a basic shield and countered with Expelliarmus. The man sidestepped.

A few more textbook exchanges followed. Stunning spells, shields, minor disarms. Harry was quick and precise, but he knew this wasn’t a true test yet.

Then Stoyanov’s eyes narrowed, and his wand flicked sharply.

“Vulturas Ignis!”

A stream of burning red birds shot from his wand like arrows.

Harry’s wand slashed forward. “Aegis Tempesta!”

A spiraling wind shield erupted around him, scattering the birds into embers. The spectators gasped.

“You know wind channeling?” Stoyanov asked, intrigued.

“I know a lot more,” Harry said.

The tempo changed. Stoyanov’s spells came faster, more vicious—blasts of freezing air, earth spikes, flashes of shadowflame.

And Harry responded in kind.

He dropped his English-style casting and began hissing out spells in Parseltongue—a whip of green flame, a twisting vine of shadow, a wall of silver energy that absorbed one of Stoyanov’s hexes and flung it back.

The crowd had gone silent.

Each spell lit the arena in flickers of red, green, silver, and blue. The air pulsed with magic. Even Bill and Charlie, watching from the side, had gone stiff.

“Merlin’s beard,” Charlie muttered. “He’s toying with a Durmstrang master.”

The duel lasted over thirty minutes. Sweat ran down Harry’s face, but he held his ground. His robes were torn, his boots scuffed—but he hadn’t fallen.

Neither had Stoyanov.

At last, the man raised a hand and stopped the duel.

“Enough,” he said, breathing heavily. “You are no child.”

He walked forward and extended his hand.

“You fight like a professional duelist.”

Harry grasped it firmly.

The dueling master nodded. “Interview concluded. You will receive the decision in one week.”

As Harry turned to walk back to Bill and Charlie, applause erupted from the crowd.

Murmurs followed him—“Did you see that duel?” “I’ve never seen a third-year duel like that…”

Bill clapped him on the shoulder. “Well,” he said with a proud grin, “if they don’t accept you after that, they’re out of their minds.”

Charlie laughed. “Come on, let’s go find some food. You earned it.”

And Harry, for the first time in a long while, smiled—not because someone told him he should, but because he felt it.

He had fought. He had proved himself.

Now all that remained was to see if Durmstrang would open its gates.


Harry had just finished his morning exercises behind the Weasley Manor—slinging spells at enchanted dummies and reviewing a handful of Parseltongue incantations from one of Salazar’s journals—when he heard the sound of urgent voices near the front of the house.

By the time he rounded the garden hedge, a figure in deep, star-patterned robes had already stepped through the Floo into the Weasley sitting room.

Albus Dumbledore.

The air changed immediately.

Molly and Arthur stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, looking as though they’d just been caught in the middle of a storm. Bill leaned against the fireplace mantle, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said as he spotted him. His voice was gentle, almost weary, but Harry could feel the sharp edge beneath the calm tone. “May I speak with you?”

Harry crossed his arms and didn’t sit. “You’re already speaking.”

Dumbledore gave a slow nod. “Very well. Then I will be direct. I have received troubling reports.”

“About what?” Harry asked flatly.

“About your… duel,” the Headmaster replied. “With Master Stoyanov. At Eisenwalt.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I didn’t know you followed Durmstrang affairs so closely.”

“I do when it involves one of my students,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You are still listed under Hogwarts.”

“Not for long.”

The silence that followed was thick. Dumbledore studied Harry carefully.

“You are a remarkable young man, Harry,” he said finally. “Your gifts, your talents—they were meant to be nurtured at Hogwarts. Where your family and friends are. Where you are safe.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Safe? I was blamed, isolated, cursed in the corridors, and nearly expelled over something I didn’t do.”

Dumbledore’s face tightened ever so slightly. “I acknowledge the school failed you last year—”

“You didn’t lift a finger,” Harry interrupted coldly. “You watched. You let it happen.”

The tension in the room climbed. Bill shifted slightly, but didn’t intervene.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “There is danger in Durmstrang, Harry. Dark magic is studied there. You must see how this concerns me.”

Harry met the old man’s gaze with unflinching certainty. “Then maybe you should focus on your school, Headmaster. I’m no longer your problem. I’m going to Durmstrang, and I don’t need your permission to decide where I study.”

The words rang like a curse.

Dumbledore’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

At that moment, more voices filled the hall. James and Lily Potter had arrived with Charlie and Rose, having clearly heard the end of the confrontation.

“Albus,” James said stiffly. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I came to speak to Harry,” Dumbledore said, turning. “And try to dissuade him from abandoning Hogwarts.”

James sighed, glancing at his son. “Harry, can we talk? Just us?”

Dumbledore, seeing he was no longer welcome, stepped toward the Floo. “This isn’t over, Harry,” he said softly. “You’re still young. You still have time to change your mind.”

Harry didn’t answer. The flames swallowed Dumbledore a second later.

In the silence that followed, James motioned toward the garden. “Come on. Just a few words.”

They stepped outside, leaving the rest of the Weasleys and Potters inside.

James looked at Harry with concern. “Are you really going through with this?”

“I already did,” Harry said. “I passed the interview. I’ll get the result any day now.”

Lily spoke gently. “We’re just worried about you, Harry. Your friends… your home… they’re all at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s voice was quiet but steady. “I don’t have friends at Hogwarts. I have many enemies.”

Charlie Potter shifted uncomfortably. “You’re not wrong, mate… but it’s still hard to imagine Hogwarts without you.”

“I need to be somewhere that treats me like more than a name,” Harry said. “Somewhere that teaches me how to protect myself. Durmstrang will do that.”

James didn’t argue further. He gave Harry a look of quiet understanding, the kind that came only from years of surviving things most others couldn’t imagine.

“All right,” he said. “We won’t fight you on this. Just promise us you’ll be careful.”

Harry gave a small smile. “You’re the only ones who haven’t tried to stop me. That says a lot.”

When they returned to the house, the matter was settled. Dumbledore’s attempt had failed. The Potters had given their cautious blessing. The Weasleys—though deeply shaken by the direction things had taken—knew better than to challenge Harry again.

The truth was simple.

Harry had made up his mind.

And once Harry lost trust in someone or something, it was lost forever.


The morning owl came just after sunrise.

Harry was already awake, standing near the window of his room at the Weasley Manor, when the sleek, red-eyed owl tapped once against the glass. Its feathers shimmered like black satin, and a scroll bound in deep red parchment hung from its leg.

Harry opened the window and untied the letter carefully.

The seal of Durmstrang stared back at him—an iron wolf head ringed with arcane runes.

He broke it open.

To Mr. Harry J. Weasley,

Following your successful interview and combat evaluation, the Durmstrang Institute is pleased to confirm your transfer admission into the third-year class, effective immediately. Your acceptance into Durmstrang marks the beginning of a new academic journey.

The school remains hidden and inaccessible by traditional magical means. Students are required to arrive at one of the six official gathering locations across Europe. From there, they will be escorted by Durmstrang staff to the Institute. You will find the list of designated rendezvous points enclosed.

Your list of supplies and required equipment is also enclosed. Durmstrang expects preparedness, precision, and pride. You are no longer a child.

Headmaster Ivanov
Durmstrang Institute


Harry sat down on the edge of his bed, heart racing—not from nerves, but from the thrill of finality.

He was in.

At breakfast, he laid the parchment on the table. Bill read it aloud for the others while Ron, Ginny, and the twins all leaned over from different sides of the table.

“Norway, huh?” said Charlie, tapping the parchment. “Figures. Cold, remote, surrounded by snow and mountains.”

“And nobody even knows where the school is?” George added, eyebrows raised.

“Not even the students,” Bill said. “They take an oath once they arrive, apparently. Total secrecy. Keeps outsiders away.”

Molly sighed as she took the supply list and squinted at the runic font. “Well, this is a bit more than what Hogwarts expects.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. The robe material is reinforced dragonhide. The gloves are dual-layered for handling cursed ingredients. And they want full combat boots.”

“Standard kit for a military academy,” Charlie said. “They train like magical soldiers.”

“Where are we supposed to buy all this?” Percy muttered. “You can’t get dragonhide gloves at Madam Malkin’s.”

Harry grinned. “You can. Just not openly. You have to know where to look.”

That afternoon, Harry, accompanied by Bill, Charlie, and Arthur, set out for Diagon Alley. With their enhanced reputation, the Weasleys walked the cobbled streets like old nobility—respectful nods came from shopkeepers, and even Madam Malkin personally greeted them when they entered her shop.

“Durmstrang?” she repeated, clearly intrigued. “We don’t usually supply them, but I can provide what you need… for the right price, of course.”

Harry nodded. “No issue.”

He ordered three sets of formal robes, double-seamed with reinforced runes stitched into the cuffs. Then came boots—custom made from mountain troll leather, lined with warming enchantments. From there, they headed to a lesser-known side alley near Knockturn Alley called Ashwynd Row, where magical arms and experimental gear were sold.

A hunched old wizard named Mykos at Craven & Vance’s helped Harry acquire a dueling wand holster, combat-grade potions belt, and enchanted armor pads for his uniform.

“Most Hogwarts brats don’t even know this exists,” Mykos croaked, handing over a small obsidian case. “But Durmstrang students? They come prepared.”

Even Arthur seemed impressed as he watched Harry sort through rune-sealed fire charms and frostburst orbs.

“You sure you’ll need all this?” he asked gently.

Harry fastened a holster to his forearm. “Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

Next came the books—hefty tomes in ancient script. Titles like Elemental Warfare: Flame and Frost, Runic Defense Systems, and The Art of Magical Survival stood in stark contrast to Hogwarts’s more tame curriculum.

“You’ll be dueling professionals by the end of term,” Charlie muttered, scanning the covers.

When all was done, Harry had three full trunks worth of gear. Everything from alchemy sets to enchanted parchment, rune-laced winter cloaks, and enchanted survival kits meant for harsh weather and travel.

As they exited the final shop, the late afternoon sun glinted across the rooftops.

“So,” Bill asked, hoisting one of Harry’s trunks with a flick of his wand, “which gathering point are you choosing?”

Harry pulled out the list and pointed. “Oslo. Magical branch station at Lyderhorn Mountain. Quiet. Remote. Easy for portkey travel.”

Charlie nodded. “Smart. Less crowded than Prague or Berlin.”

Arthur placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You’ve done all this with thought. I can’t pretend I’m not nervous—but I’m proud of you for choosing your own path.”

Harry looked up at him and nodded. “I’m ready. For once, I really feel like I’m walking into the right place.”

They returned to the manor with everything packed and ready.

And that night, as Harry sat by the window of his room, watching the stars shimmer in the sky above the quiet countryside, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Anticipation.

Not dread. Not doubt.

The road ahead was cold, distant, and dangerous.

But it was his.

And soon, Durmstrang would become the forge where Harry Weasley would remake himself.