The Tenth Weasley - CH - 133

The world returned to Harry Weasley in fragments.

At first, there was only warmth — the slow, steady warmth of sunlight on his face and the faint scent of herbs and potions in the air. Then came the murmur of voices, low and cautious, and the familiar rustle of quills against parchment.

And then came the ache — deep and bone-tired, a heaviness in his limbs that told him he had poured out every drop of magic he possessed.

His eyelids fluttered open. The white ceiling of the Hogwarts infirmary swam into view.

For a moment, Harry just lay there, breathing quietly. His head throbbed, and his throat felt dry as ash.

“Harry?”

The voice was soft — trembling — and instantly familiar.

Hermione.

He turned his head slightly. She sat by his bedside, eyes ringed with exhaustion but glowing with relief. Her hand shot forward to grasp his.

“You’re awake,” she whispered, half in disbelief. “Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake.”

Harry blinked, still disoriented. “How… how long was I out?”

“Five days,” Hermione said softly. “You gave everyone quite a scare.”

Harry groaned, trying to sit up, but Hermione quickly pressed him back down. “No, you don’t,” she said firmly. “Madame Pomfrey will hex me if you move. She said your magical core still hasn’t stabilized completely.”

Harry exhaled shakily, staring up at the ceiling again.

“The dragon,” he murmured. “Charlie… is he—?”

“He’s fine,” Hermione said at once. “He’s fine, Harry. You saved him.”

Relief washed through him like a wave. “Good,” he whispered. “Good…”

But the calm didn’t last. The moment of peace gave way to the weight pressing on his chest — the distant memory of the crowd’s screams, the circle of blue fire, the fear in their eyes.

He turned to Hermione slowly.

“They saw it, didn’t they? The spell.”

Hermione hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted. “Everyone saw it.”

Harry’s fingers tightened slightly around the blanket.

“I suppose they think I’m a dark wizard now.”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded copy of the Daily Prophet. The pages were crumpled, well-read, and covered in fading ink.

The headline stared up at him:

“DUMBLEDORE CLEARS HARRY WEASLEY — HERO OF HOGWARTS ”

Harry blinked, stunned. “What?”

Hermione gave a small, trembling smile. “He spoke. In front of the entire school. He told them everything — about the basilisk, about why you left Hogwarts. He said you didn’t open the Chamber. You ended it.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “He told them that?”

“Yes. And he told them the truth about the First Task too — that you didn’t use dark magic. That you used ancient, neutral magic, a kind no one’s been able to cast since Grindelwald.”

Harry stared at the paper for a long time, his eyes tracing the words. Beneath the headline were smaller lines.

He swallowed hard. “And the others… the rumors?”

Hermione sighed. “Some people are still afraid. The spell you used — it terrified them. But the truth is spreading. Professor Dumbledore made sure of that.”

She hesitated before adding, “Arthur and Molly were here every day. They wouldn’t leave until Madame Pomfrey forced them to. They’re so proud of you, Harry.”

Harry’s expression softened. “Mum and Dad…”

Hermione nodded. “They never doubted you. Not once.”

The door creaked open, and Dumbledore stepped in quietly, his robes whispering against the floor. His eyes met Harry’s, and for a moment, neither spoke.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said softly. “Welcome back to the waking world, Mr. Weasley.”

Harry tried to smile. “Seems I caused quite the mess.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was gentle, but serious. “Messes can be cleaned, Harry. Truth, however, takes courage to tell — and even more to live through.”

Harry looked down at his hands. “They think I’m like him, don’t they? Like Grindelwald.”

Dumbledore didn’t deny it. Instead, he said quietly, “They think you are powerful. And power, in any form, frightens those who cannot control it. But what I told them — and what I will tell you — is that power does not define the man who holds it. His choices do.”

Harry nodded slowly. His mind was still fogged, but his heart steadied at those words.

Hermione smiled faintly. “You chose to save your brother. That’s what matters.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly behind his half-moon glasses. “Indeed. The rest of the world will come to understand that in time.”

He paused at the doorway, then added softly, “And Harry… your parents are waiting just outside.”

Harry’s breath caught. “They’re here?”

“Every day,” Dumbledore said, smiling gently. “You’ll find they never stopped believing in you.”

As Dumbledore left, sunlight streamed through the infirmary windows, bright and golden, falling across Harry’s bed. For the first time in days, he felt warm, grounded — alive.

Hermione squeezed his hand once more. “You scared me half to death, you know.”

Harry gave her a small, tired smile. “Sorry. I’ll try not to summon any more dragons next time.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

He looked toward the window, where the light touched the faint reflection of blue fire in the glass — fading, but not gone.

“Maybe,” Harry murmured. “But at least I’m home again.”

The infirmary doors creaked open, letting in a rush of cool morning air. Harry turned toward the sound, heart pounding softly in his chest.

For a moment, no one entered — then came the familiar voice that had once been both home and thunder.

“Harry.”

Molly Weasley stood in the doorway, her eyes red and puffy from crying, her hands trembling as she pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Behind her was Arthur, looking older than Harry remembered, his usual calm strained with days of sleepless worry.

And behind them came the rest of the family — a blur of familiar faces: Bill with his proud grin; Charlie looking rather grumpy; Percy pale and anxious, clutching a notebook out of habit; Fred and George whispering but uncharacteristically quiet; Ron standing stiffly beside Ginny, both of them holding hands, as though afraid that if they let go, something might happen again.

For a moment, the sight of them stole Harry’s breath away.

Molly didn’t wait for permission. She rushed forward, tears spilling freely as she wrapped her arms around him.

“Oh, my boy!” she cried. “My poor, brave boy—how could you scare us like that?”

Harry barely managed to return the embrace, his body still weak, but he smiled faintly against her shoulder. “Sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”

She sniffled, swatting his arm gently. “Everything with you just happens, doesn’t it?”

Arthur stepped up beside them, his expression soft and full of quiet pride. He placed a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You saved Charlie, Harry. That’s what matters.”

Harry looked up at him, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t want to scare anyone. The magic — it just came out when I panicked.”

Arthur shook his head. “Son, you didn’t frighten us. You terrified us.” He gave a weak chuckle. “But only because we thought we’d lost you.”

Fred and George couldn’t contain themselves any longer. They stepped forward together, grinning like they were trying to lighten the whole room.

“Blimey, Harry,” Fred said. “You couldn’t just fight the dragon like a normal bloke, could you? You had to summon your own one!”

“Yeah,” George added, “you’re officially banned from family Quidditch practice. Next thing we know, you’ll conjure a basilisk as a referee.”

The joke earned a ripple of laughter from everyone — even Molly cracked a watery smile.

Ron came next, his face still pale but his eyes shining with pride. He hesitated before speaking. “You… you were brilliant, mate. Scary, but brilliant.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Thanks, Ron. But don’t start calling me ‘sir’ or anything.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

Ginny stepped forward next. Her eyes shimmered with emotion, her voice soft but steady. “When the dragon broke free, I thought Charlie were going to die.”

Harry’s smile faltered. “I thought so too.”

Her lower lip trembled, and she leaned forward to hug him, whispering, “Please don’t ever do that again.”

He hugged her back weakly. “No promises.”

Molly wiped her eyes again, her voice trembling. “We almost lost you, Harry. Twice now. Once to that dreadful Chamber, and again to that dragon. I don’t think my heart can take a third.”

Harry squeezed her hand softly. “You won’t have to, Mum. I’m not planning to scare you again.”

Arthur chuckled quietly, though his eyes glistened. “No promises, right?”

The room filled with quiet laughter again — tired, broken laughter that still somehow felt healing.

Madame Pomfrey finally shooed them gently. “Alright, enough tears and chatter! My patient needs rest, not a family reunion that could fill the Great Hall!”

“Just a few more minutes,” Molly pleaded.

Pomfrey sighed but smiled. “Fine. But quietly, please.”

Harry leaned back against the pillow, surrounded by his family — the warmth, the laughter, the scolding, the love. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like an outsider.

He wasn’t the boy from Durmstrang, or the rumored Dark Lord, or the prodigy who wielded forbidden magic.

He was Harry Weasley — son, brother, family.

And for now, that was enough.

The days after Harry’s awakening felt strangely calm, like the quiet after a storm that had shaken the world.

Every morning, sunlight poured through the tall infirmary windows, scattering gold across the white sheets of his bed. The faint smell of potions still lingered in the air, but for once, it wasn’t unpleasant.

Madame Pomfrey kept her distance unless his color faded or his magic flared. Hermione remained close, reading quietly or scribbling notes about his recovery.

And every hour, more people came.

It began with a sound outside the ward — heavy boots and the rumble of accented voices.

When the door opened, Harry almost couldn’t believe what he saw.

Durmstrang students — his friends from the ship — filled the doorway. Their red-lined cloaks were travel-stained from the long walk across the grounds, At their head was Viktor Krum.

Viktor grinned, clapping a hand to his chest in the Durmstrang salute.

“You look less dead than they said.”

Harry laughed weakly. “Always the charmer, Viktor.”

Another of his friends, Anya, stepped forward with a crooked smile. “You should have seen Karkaroff’s face when the newspapers came. He hasn’t stopped bragging that his student out-cast Dumbledore’s entire staff.”

Harry winced. “Please don’t tell me that’s true.”

Viktor chuckled. “Oh, it’s true. Half the school thinks you’re a god, the other half thinks you’re cursed. You’ve made Durmstrang very proud, Harry.”

Their words warmed him more than the potions ever could. For all the fear in Britain, Durmstrang remembered him as one of their own — reckless, brilliant, loyal.

But the next group to arrive left him speechless.

When the door opened again, Lily Potter’s bright red hair was unmistakable. James followed just behind her, and with them came Rose Potter — tall, graceful, her expression torn between worry and excitement — and Charlie Potter, the Hogwarts Champion who had nearly died in the arena.

And right behind them, like ghosts from another lifetime, came Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Lily crossed the room in three quick strides and bent to hug him tightly.

“Harry, sweetheart… you look better.”

James’s hand landed on his shoulder. “You gave the entire Ministry a week’s worth of panic, you know that?”

Harry smiled faintly. “Sorry. I was a bit busy saving your son.”

That broke the tension. Sirius barked a laugh loud enough to make Pomfrey flinch.

“That’s the spirit! Still cheeky after dueling death itself.”

Remus chuckled softly, though his eyes were warm. “You really did it, didn’t you? The boy who killed Slytherin’s monster and summoned fire dragons… Merlin help us.”

Rose Potter had been silent until then. She stepped forward, eyes shining.

“Is it true?” she asked quietly. “About the Chamber? That you really found it — killed the basilisk?”

Harry blinked at her, then glanced at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly.

“Yes,” he said at last. “It’s under the castle. I was twelve.”

A murmur spread through the visitors — disbelief mixed with awe.

Rose Potter stared at him. “You were twelve and you killed a basilisk?”

Harry shrugged lightly. “It was smaller back then.”

The room erupted in stunned laughter. Even Madame Pomfrey smiled despite herself.

But as the noise faded, Rose’s expression turned thoughtful. “We’ve heard the stories for years, but now everyone wants to see it. The real Chamber of Secrets. You’re the only one who knows how to open it.”

Hermione bit her lip. “He’s still recovering—”

“I know,” Rose said quickly. “We’ll wait. As long as it takes. But when you’re ready, Harry… the world deserves to see what really happened down there.”