The Tenth Weasley - CH - 79

The morning sun filtered lazily through the windows of the Weasley Manor as owls swooped across the countryside skies, dropping the latest edition of the Daily Prophet onto porches and windowsills.

Harry had just sat down with a piece of toast when Errol, the ancient Weasley owl, slammed into the kitchen window with a thud and dropped the rolled newspaper into the marmalade dish.

“Another glorious landing,” Charlie muttered, fishing the soggy Prophet out of the mess and handing it to Harry.

Harry wiped off the sticky corners and unrolled the paper.

The bold headline stopped him cold.

“PETER PETTIGREW ESCAPES AZKABAN!”

He blinked, then read aloud:
“Yesterday morning, Azkaban guards reported the shocking disappearance of convicted Death Eater Peter Pettigrew. Ministry officials have confirmed that Pettigrew, who had been imprisoned for treason against the Potters and for collaborating with You-Know-Who, is the first known inmate to successfully escape Azkaban since its founding.”

Harry’s toast dropped to the plate, forgotten.

Bill frowned and leaned in. “Pettigrew? He’s still alive?”

“Apparently,” Harry said. “It says here he betrayed Potter’s parents. Leaked their location straight to Voldemort.”

Across the table, Ron looked up mid-bite. “Didn’t think anyone could escape Azkaban. You’d need serious power for that.”

Arthur, who had just entered the kitchen, scoffed. “Please. Pettigrew? Power? He was a worm. No offense to actual worms.”

“He was weak,” Bill said, pulling the paper closer. “Always hiding behind stronger wizards. Couldn’t duel to save his life. But he was clever. Good at vanishing. Finding information. A proper little sneak.”

“Still,” Harry muttered, tapping the article, “people are scared. They’re making him out to be some master of dark magic just because he escaped.”

“That’s how it always is,” George said, joining them with a bowl of cereal. “People don’t understand, so they assume the worst. ‘Escaped Azkaban? Must be more dangerous than Voldemort himself!’”

“But those who know,” Arthur said darkly, “know better. Pettigrew doesn’t fight. He hides. He listens. And he runs.”

From the other room, Molly Weasley gasped as she read her own copy.

“Oh dear,” she called, walking into the kitchen with her apron still dusted in flour. “James must be furious.”

And he was.

That very afternoon, James Potter had arrived at the Auror’s Office in London and demanded to take over the investigation himself. As a captain in the Order and one of the last people with personal history tied to Pettigrew’s betrayal, he didn’t wait for permission.

“It’s personal,” he told the Minister’s liaison, slamming his fist on the desk. “Pettigrew gave up my parents to Voldemort. My children lost their grandparents because of that rat. If anyone’s going to bring him in, it’s me.”

By the next day, James had already organized three strike teams to cover known Death Eater haunts. Sirius Black had joined him without hesitation, eager to put an end to the man who had escaped justice.

Even Lily had become involved, working on tracking spells and artifact scanning with the Magical Surveillance Bureau.

Which meant, of course, that Charlie and Rose Potter were now spending every single day at the Weasley Manor.

“You’re back again?” Harry asked, not even hiding his irritation as Charlie Potter wandered into the library with a grin.

“Mum said to stay here until they’re done,” Charlie replied, plopping down on the couch. “Anyway, aren’t you glad to have your favorite brother around?”

Harry didn’t answer. He merely turned a page in Slytherin’s journal with an exaggerated calm.

“Do you ever take a break from reading?” Rose chimed in, stepping in behind her brother. “You’ve got that same book open again.”

“It’s not just a book,” Harry said flatly. “It’s ancient Parseltongue magic, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t barge in every ten minutes while I’m trying to study.”

Rose tilted her head. “What’s it say today? Another creepy curse that turns people into snakes?”

“Actually,” Harry said with a deadpan stare, “it’s a spell that makes annoying guests vanish into swamp water.”

Ron, seated in the corner with a chessboard, laughed aloud.

Charlie Weasley poked his head in from the hallway. “If it works, teach it to me. Fred’s been threatening to charm my boots again.”

Despite the constant interruption, Harry couldn’t fully blame them. With their parents gone chasing a dangerous fugitive, the Potter children had little else to do but hang around the only other place they called home. Still, it wasn’t doing his study schedule any favors.

“I just need some quiet,” Harry muttered to himself as he shut the book and stood up. “I’ve got too much to learn and not enough time.”

Ron looked up from his chessboard. “You think Pettigrew’s got something to do with you?”

Harry frowned, thoughtful. “I don’t know. But he’s a Death Eater. And the last time a Death Eater came into my life, I ended up in a chamber fighting a monster. So no, I’m not taking any chances.”

That night, Harry sat at his desk, quill in hand, making notes from Slytherin’s texts by candlelight. But for the first time in weeks, he found it hard to concentrate.

Because somewhere out there… in a world where magical wards could be bypassed, where rats could vanish into attics and alleyways unnoticed… Peter Pettigrew was hiding.

And Harry had a feeling this escape was only the beginning.


The arrival of the Hogwarts letters came as expected—right after breakfast, delivered by a flurry of owls who swooped down on the Weasley Manor with practiced grace. The moment the letters dropped, the household erupted into its usual buzz of excitement.

“Textbooks, robes, cauldron refills… same as always,” Ron muttered as he unfolded his list.

“Don’t forget new gloves,” Molly called from the kitchen. “Harry, yours were in tatters last year.”

Harry glanced down at his own letter, skimming the neat handwriting and the official Hogwarts seal. Another year. Another trip to Diagon Alley.

Later that day, the entire Weasley family—joined by James, Lily, and their children—took the Floo to Diagon Alley. The cobbled streets were just as bustling as ever, crowded with witches, wizards, and magical creatures from all corners of Britain. Children dashed between windows, holding up quills and potion kits. Parents argued over textbook prices. The smell of roasted nuts and sweetfire tarts filled the air.

It should have felt familiar. Comforting.

But for Harry, something felt… off.

As they walked past Quality Quidditch Supplies, something caught his eye—a gleaming broomstick in the shop window. Sleek, black, and hovering with quiet power.

The Firebolt.

Even Ron stopped and whistled. “Blimey. That’s the one Krum flies.”

“Fastest broom in the world,” Charlie Potter said, eyes wide. “Accelerates from zero to one-fifty in ten seconds.”

As they stared, Harry noticed someone else was standing near the display—another boy, about their age, with sharp blue eyes and short silver-blonde hair. He was tall, well-dressed in deep green robes with dark fur trim, and watched the Firebolt with a quiet intensity.

Curious, Harry stepped forward. “Hey. Cool broom, right?”

The boy glanced at him and nodded. “It’s more than cool. It’s a masterpiece.”

“I never saw you at Hogwarts?” Harry asked, offering a friendly smile.

The boy raised an eyebrow. “No. I attend Durmstrang Institute.”

Harry blinked. “Really? That’s… far.”

“Not too far with portkeys,” the boy said. His accent had a faint Eastern lilt. “My family has connections. I come to London for summer holidays.”

Harry hesitated, then asked, “Why Durmstrang? Why not Hogwarts?”

The boy turned to him fully now. “Because Durmstrang values strength. Discipline. We’re taught combat magic from our first year. No babying. Professors train you like you're already in the field.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Sounds intense.”

“It is. But it's better than learning turning matchbox into needle all year,” the boy said offhandedly.

Harry stared.

The boy glanced sideways. “You’re a Weasley, aren’t you?”

Harry didn’t reply right away. His thoughts were racing.

This stranger knew his family.

Last year came flooding back—the stares, the whispers, the betrayal. Hogwarts, the school he had once dreamed about, had treated him like a monster. Even Dumbledore hadn’t lifted a finger until it was too late.

“You said they teach combat?” Harry asked quietly.

The boy nodded. “Every year. Wands, wards, dueling, survival. No house points. No light and dark magic. Just magic and strength. Headmaster Ivanov makes sure of that.”

Harry’s heart beat faster. “Do they accept transfers?”

“If your magical aptitude is strong enough,” the boy said. “And your records show... potential.”

The boy glanced at him meaningfully, then gave a small smirk. “You’d fit right in.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Name’s Nikolai,” the boy added. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

With that, Nikolai turned and vanished into the crowd, leaving Harry staring at the Firebolt’s reflection on the shop window.

That night, back at Weasley Manor, Harry sat in bed with his Hogwarts letter unopened on the nightstand. He didn’t need to read it. He knew what it said. He knew the expectations. The routine.

But what he also knew—deep in his chest—was that he didn’t trust Hogwarts anymore.

They had failed him.

And now, another path had opened. A path filled with power, knowledge, and independence. No Houses. No whispers. No professors turning a blind eye.

Durmstrang.

He reached over and quietly folded the Hogwarts letter shut.

It was time to think about his future—not the one they tried to give him.

The one he would build for himself.



When Harry finally told the Weasleys about his decision to transfer schools, it was as if a Bludger had crashed through the manor’s kitchen window.

The news exploded during breakfast.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Harry said quietly, buttering a piece of toast without looking up. “I’m not going back to Hogwarts.”

The entire room fell silent.

At the table sat Molly and Arthur, Percy with his morning tea, Ron halfway through a bite of sausage, Ginny blinking in confusion, and Fred and George frozen mid-snicker. Charlie and Bill had just returned from a short trip and stood leaning against the doorframe, eyebrows raised.

Ron was the first to speak. “Wait—what?”

“Not going back to Hogwarts?” Molly repeated, her voice rising. “But—but that’s absurd, dear!”

Arthur coughed politely. “You’ve got to explain that, Harry.”

“I don’t belong there anymore,” Harry said calmly. “Last year proved that.”

“Harry,” Molly began, placing her cutlery down and folding her hands in her lap, her tone adopting a soft, motherly warmth, “I know last year was difficult, but every student goes through hardship. It doesn’t mean we abandon our school.”

Harry gave her a tight smile. “Hardship? I was hunted, blamed, and nearly expelled for something I didn’t do. Professors turned their backs. Students threw curses at me in the corridors.”

“You’re a Weasley,” she pressed, gently but firmly. “We always go to Hogwarts. That’s our school.”

And that was the moment.

Harry stopped chewing. He looked up slowly, his green eyes sharp and unflinching. “I’m not really a Weasley, am I?”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

No one moved.

Even the gnomes outside the window seemed to stop rustling.

Molly opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Fred looked uncomfortable. George scratched at the table. Ron stared at his plate like it might offer guidance. Ginny blinked back what might have been tears.

Arthur cleared his throat after a long, tense pause. “Harry… that’s not how we see you.”

Harry’s voice was steady. “But it is how you treat me when I don’t follow the script. I’m not choosing Durmstrang because I want to rebel. I’m choosing it because I don’t trust Hogwarts to protect me anymore. And if I can’t even make choices about my own future without being guilted for not being a ‘true Weasley,’ then maybe I should remember that I’m a Potter too.”

His words struck deep.

Molly lowered her eyes, hands clenched in her apron.

Arthur, to his credit, didn’t respond with anger or argument. He simply nodded slowly, the lines on his face drawn tight with thought.

“You’re right,” he said at last, looking around the table. “He’s not a Weasley by blood. And he doesn’t owe us blind obedience.”

Everyone turned toward him in surprise.

Arthur gave Harry a small, solemn nod. “We took you in because you needed family. But family means standing by someone even when they make choices we don’t understand. And if this is what you’ve decided—if you truly believe Durmstrang is better for you—then… we’ll respect that.”

Harry blinked. For a second, he didn’t know what to say.

Bill spoke next. “To be honest, I’ve heard Durmstrang’s combat curriculum is serious stuff. If it were me, I’d be tempted too.”

Charlie grinned. “Maybe you’ll come back hexing dragons and teaching us all a lesson.”

Fred and George exchanged glances. “Bit jealous, actually,” Fred muttered.

“Reckon Hogwarts never gave us wand-fighting drills in Year Three,” George added.

Ron looked torn. “It won’t be the same without you.”

Harry’s expression softened. “We’ll still see each other. I’m not leaving the planet.”

And with that, the argument was over.

Later that afternoon, Harry sat at his desk in the upstairs room, quill in hand, parchment laid flat before him. The sun glinted through the window as he dipped the tip in ink and began to write.


To Headmaster Ivanov

Durmstrang Institute,

My name is Harry Weasley. I am currently enrolled at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Britain, but I wish to request a formal transfer to Durmstrang.

Due to circumstances that have led me to question the safety and integrity of my current environment, I am seeking a place where I can grow both in magical knowledge and strength. I have recently come into possession of rare magical texts, and my magical education is already progressing beyond the curriculum offered at Hogwarts.

I believe Durmstrang would be the right fit for my future.

If possible, I would like to request an interview or examination to complete the transfer process.

Sincerely,
Harry J. Weasley