The Tenth Weasley - CH - 62

The news spread like Fiendfyre.

By breakfast, the entire school was buzzing with the same chilling report: Colin Creevey had been petrified.

The Gryffindor first-year had been found early that morning, stiff as stone, eyes wide with frozen fear, his camera clutched tightly in his unmoving hands. According to the professors, he had been sneaking out after curfew to photograph something near the fourth-floor corridor—and whatever he found had left him paralyzed in place, mid-snap.

When the whispers reached Harry in the Great Hall, he paused mid-bite, the toast growing cold in his hand.

“Another one?” Blaise murmured beside him, glancing around as the chattering students looked toward the Slytherin table with fear and barely concealed accusation.

Daphne leaned in, her voice low and tense. “They’re already blaming you.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He could feel the eyes—staring, judging, suspecting. And some were no longer just staring. That very morning, two Ravenclaws had bumped into him deliberately in the corridor, muttering “Snake” under their breath. A Hufflepuff had tripped him on the stairs. Gryffindors shot glares and whispered curses with open hostility.

And that was just today.

It wasn’t that Harry was scared. He had never been scared. He was patient—perhaps too patient.

For weeks he had taken the whispers, the sneers, the rumors, the little curses cast behind his back. He had taken the professors’ cold glances and Dumbledore’s looming watch. He had tolerated.

No more.

That afternoon, Harry sat in his usual place in the common room, sharpening his wand, the light from the enchanted lake wall rippling across his features. Blaise and Daphne flanked him silently, knowing that something inside Harry had shifted.

“I'm not running anymore,” Harry said at last, his voice low but steady.

“You’re going to fight back,” Blaise said knowingly.

“I already started,” Harry replied.

He had. The last time a group of fifth-year Gryffindors cornered him near the Astronomy Tower, he hadn’t waited for their taunts to become hexes. He’d struck first—non-lethal, but effective. Two had ended up stuck to the ceiling, webbed by enchanted vines, and another was vomiting feathers for an hour. The Hufflepuff who tried to hex him in the corridor found himself talking in reverse for a full day. A Ravenclaw had left the library with hair turned to snakes that hissed and bit at anyone who came too close.

And yet, every single time, it was Harry who ended up in trouble.

Detentions stacked up. Points were deducted. Even Snape had to show token punishment now that the entire school was watching.

“You attacked first,” Professor McGonagall had accused.

“I defended myself,” Harry said coldly. “If you can find a spell that stops six hexes at once, I’ll start using that instead.”

“Violence begets violence, Mr. Weasley—”

“No,” Harry had interrupted, “silence begets violence. I was silent long enough.”

As the school day ended, Harry walked back through the corridors, his presence cutting a line through the throngs of nervous students. The crowds parted as he passed.

Some moved away out of fear. Some out of hatred.

But none dared cross him anymore.

Rose caught up to him by the staircase. “They’re saying you cursed Colin,” she said, wringing her hands. “Charlie says it’s nonsense but—people are scared, Harry.”

“I know,” he said simply.

“Are you scared?” she asked softly.

He paused.

“No,” he said. “I’m angry.”

And when he turned, Rose noticed something she hadn’t seen before in her brother’s eyes—something colder than fear. Not rage. Not darkness.

Determination.

Unshakeable. Dangerous.

Harry didn’t want to be feared.

But if they insisted on casting him as the villain…

He’d show them what that meant.


The knock at Harry’s door was soft but persistent—three measured taps, then silence. Blaise and Daphne looked up from the table where they were playing a slow game of enchanted chess.

Harry already knew who it was.

He stood from his armchair, gave his friends a look that said stay, and crossed the room to the enchanted door. With a flick of his wand and a whispered password, the ward shimmered and the door cracked open.

Charlie Potter slipped inside.

He was out of breath, his face flushed from either running or the guilt of sneaking into enemy territory. Harry closed the door behind him, the wards reactivating with a soft hum.

"You’re lucky no one saw you," Harry muttered. “If anyone catches the Golden Boy sneaking into the Slytherin dungeon, I’ll have a queue of Gryffindors calling me the Dark Lord for corrupting their hero.”

Charlie gave him a sheepish smile, but his expression turned serious quickly.

“I needed to talk to you.”

Harry nodded toward the couch. “Then talk.”

Charlie sat, wringing his hands.

“Do you remember that house-elf I told you about? Dobby?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “The same one who warned you Hogwarts would fall, the walls would bleed, and some melodramatic prophecy of doom?”

Charlie looked dead serious. “Yeah. That one.”

Harry sighed. “I told you already, that’s Malfoy’s house-elf. You think Draco’s smart enough to set him loose with vague riddles? The guy struggles to tie his shoes without Lucius signing off on it.”

Charlie shook his head. “I didn’t believe it either. I thought it was a prank. But then Colin—Colin was attacked. Just like Dobby warned. The exact words he said… ‘history will repeat itself.’”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Coincidence.”

“I don’t think so.”

There was a beat of silence. Tension settled between them like dust.

“Look,” Charlie added, leaning forward. “Maybe it’s not Malfoy, maybe it’s someone else. But I think Dobby knows something. And I think… I think we’re running out of time.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. He walked to the enchanted window wall, where the flickering light from the lake outside bathed the room in soft blue-green hues. Squid tendrils brushed lazily past the glass.

He kept his voice calm. “You came all the way here to warn me about Dobby’s doomsaying?”

“No,” Charlie said. “That’s not all.”

Harry turned. Something in Charlie’s voice was different—regretful.

“I wanted to talk about Ron.”

The name hit Harry like a cold breeze. He crossed his arms, bracing for the blow.

Charlie continued, slowly. “He’s scared of you.”

Harry didn’t move.

“He’s been keeping his distance. Says it’s because of class schedules and—whatever. But I know him. He’s scared, Harry.”

“Because of the Dark Arts books?” Harry asked flatly.

Charlie nodded. “That. And… your Parseltongue.”

A hollow laugh escaped Harry’s lips. “Right. Of course.”

“I’m not saying I believe it,” Charlie said quickly. “I don’t think you’re dangerous.”

“But he does,” Harry finished. “Your best friend. My… brother.”

The word felt foreign.

Charlie looked down. “He doesn’t say it outright. But he avoids you. Keeps his wand closer when you’re near. And when we talk about the Chamber, he always gets quiet when your name comes up.”

Harry’s fingers clenched. “You think I’m the Heir too?”

Charlie looked up, shocked. “No. Never.”

“But you had to come here. To tell me Ron does.”

Harry turned back to the lake wall, his reflection distorted by the shifting water. He hated how familiar this felt. Accusation. Isolation. As if all he’d built since coming to Hogwarts—since becoming a Weasley—was crumbling.

Charlie stood. “He’s just scared, Harry. The whole school’s paranoid. People are whispering. I just wanted you to hear it from me, not from some hallway gossip.”

Harry didn’t answer. The silence stretched long enough for Charlie to move toward the door.

Before he left, he turned back. “For what it’s worth… I trust you.”

Harry glanced back over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

The door shut quietly behind Charlie.

And Harry stood there alone, beneath the weight of suspicion and bloodline, wondering how many more friends would break away before this was over.


The next morning, the atmosphere inside Harry’s private quarters was unusually tense. The enchanted window that usually reflected the calm ripples of the Great Lake now cast a dim, watery gloom. The usual morning banter between Blaise and Daphne was absent, replaced by quiet glances passed over steaming cups of tea.

Harry leaned against the wall near the bookshelf, his arms crossed, his thoughts still lingering on Charlie’s visit.

Daphne finally broke the silence.

“So,” she said, setting her teacup down with a delicate clink, “are you going to tell us why the Golden Boy of Gryffindor was skulking around Slytherin territory last night?”

Blaise arched an eyebrow, lounging back on the couch. “You don’t exactly keep light company, Harry. If someone like Charlie Potter visits you in secret, people will start to ask questions.”

Harry sighed, pushing off the wall. “He wanted to talk about the Chamber of Secrets,” he said, walking toward them.

Daphne and Blaise exchanged a glance. She tilted her head slightly, inviting him to continue.

“He told me… Ron’s scared of me,” Harry said bluntly, voice flat. “Ever since they found the Dark Arts books. And the Parseltongue thing. Ron thinks I might actually be the Heir.”

Blaise frowned. “Your own brother?”

“He’s not really my brother,” Harry muttered, then immediately regretted it. “I mean, not by blood.”

Daphne sat upright. “That’s not what matters, Harry.”

Harry let out a bitter chuckle. “Apparently it does. Ever since the rumors about me being adopted got out, the gossip mill has gone into overdrive. Half the school thinks I’m some long-lost descendant of Voldemort.”

“Which would be impressive,” Blaise added dryly, “since there’s no record of him ever having children.”

“And yet,” Daphne said, her voice tight, “you’re a powerful young wizard, adopted, Parselmouth, and you used to hang around with Quirrell—who turned out to be a dark wizard. Doesn’t take much for people to connect the dots.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and sat beside them. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“About Ron?” Daphne asked gently.

“No,” Harry replied. “About him telling people I’m a Parselmouth.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed. “That would be catastrophic.”

Daphne nodded slowly. “It’d confirm every rumor. Every whisper. You wouldn’t be safe.”

“I know,” Harry said, his voice low. “I don’t think Charlie would ever let that happen. But Ron… he’s unpredictable. He doesn’t lie, and he doesn’t hide what he’s feeling. If someone pressures him…”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the quiet gurgle of the enchanted kettle refilling itself.

“You need to talk to him,” Blaise finally said. “Not as Harry the Slytherin. Not even as Harry the possible Parselmouth. Just as Harry, his brother. Set things straight.”

Harry scoffed. “You think a heart-to-heart is going to fix this?”

Daphne reached out and placed a hand on his. “It’s not about fixing it. It’s about controlling the damage.”

Harry looked down at her hand, then nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

Blaise stood and stretched. “In the meantime, you better hope he keeps that mouth shut.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Harry asked.

Daphne’s gaze darkened. “Then we find a way to deal with it. Together.”

Harry looked at them both, his heart a strange mix of gratitude and anxiety.

He wasn’t alone. Not yet. But the line between trust and survival was getting thinner every day.


The air inside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was damp and thick with the pungent aroma of stewing ingredients. The flickering candlelight danced off the cracked mirrors and damp tiles, casting long, eerie shadows across the walls. Steam hissed from the cauldron in the center of the room, bubbling like a living thing.

Hermione Granger sat cross-legged in front of the cauldron, sleeves rolled up, her bushy hair tied back in a messy bun. She stirred the potion with practiced precision, eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” she muttered. “Risking a month’s worth of detention for something we could just ask Harry about.”

Ron stood near the sinks, arms crossed, scowling. “We can’t ask Harry. He’s being watched more than a hippogriff on trial. You think he’ll just hand over Slytherin’s darkest secrets?”

Neville, shifting awkwardly on his feet, added, “He might be the Heir, Hermione.”

“He’s not,” she snapped, glaring over her shoulder. “You’re just buying into the same gossip that’s going around the entire school.”

Charlie Potter, leaning against a cracked stall door with arms folded, sighed. “Look, I don’t think he is either, Hermione. But something is going on. And if he isn’t the Heir, then he might still know who is. That’s why we need to do this.”

“Polyjuice Potion is advanced, dangerous, and very illegal without supervision.” She turned back to the cauldron and gave it another stir, the potion thickening with a muddy swirl.

“You’re still making it,” Ron said, a grin tugging at his lips.

Hermione huffed. “Only because Charlie promised me the first edition of Hogwarts: A History.”

Charlie grinned sheepishly. “You’ll have it by Christmas.”

“You better,” she warned. “Or I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”

Neville chuckled nervously. “Wh-who are we changing into again?”

“Crabbe and Goyle,” Charlie replied. “And I’ll take Montague. We’ve already got hairs from their robes in the laundry. If we’re going to find anything, we need to hear it directly from Malfoy.”

Hermione leaned back, wiping her brow. “Well, it won’t be ready for month. Polyjuice isn’t something you rush unless you want to spend the rest of the semester with a tail.”

Myrtle, floating above one of the toilets, gave a loud sniffle. “You never ask me for help. I know all of Slytherin’s secrets.”

Ron winced. “Er—not today, Myrtle. Thanks.”

“Hmph!” she vanished into the toilet with a splash.

Hermione groaned. “Honestly, boys, this entire plan is bound to fall apart.”

Charlie pushed off the stall and knelt beside her. “Maybe. But if there’s even a chance we can stop another attack—wouldn’t it be worth it?”

Hermione didn’t respond for a long moment. Then she reached for another vial and poured it into the cauldron, the potion hissing as it absorbed the liquid.

“I suppose,” she said finally. “But if this backfires, I’m not taking any blame.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ron said cheerfully.

Outside the bathroom, the corridors of Hogwarts buzzed with unease. But inside Myrtle’s gloomy domain, the mini-Marauders were planning their infiltration—one bubbling dose of transformation at a time.