The Tenth Weasley - CH - 98

The ancient bones of Durmstrang groaned under layers of magic and time as Harry and his companions stood in front of the final three hidden rooms. Snow swirled furiously against the high, arched windows far above them, but deep beneath the castle, the air was still and charged with an invisible pressure—a hum of ancient enchantments buried in stone.

Antonin stood slightly apart from the group, the flickering torchlight casting shadows on his sharp features. "These last three," he murmured, his voice tight with anticipation, "they are the ones I believe hold Grindelwald's secrets. I've researched them for years, but the wards are unlike anything I've ever seen. And... deadly."

Harry stepped forward, wand loose in hand, eyes scanning the shimmering air where the first doorway should be. He could feel it—the subtle thrum of magic so complex and layered it almost sang in the air.

"This one," Antonin pointed to the far left, "reacts to magical signature. If you don't match the caster's magical essence, the ward plunges you into a hellish illusion. I tried once. I was trapped in it for twenty seconds, and it felt like a lifetime."

Sonja stepped back instinctively. "How did you escape?"

"A failsafe rune I inscribed on my robes. It ripped me out before it burned me alive."

Harry furrowed his brow. "So these are keyed to Grindelwald's own signature?"

Antonin nodded. "Or someone just as powerful. The second room..."

He turned to the middle passage, a stone wall marked with runes that shimmered faintly, like heatwaves. "This one demands a password. If the password is wrong, the runes react with a burst of magical lightning."

Marek rubbed his arm. "That doesn’t sound pleasant."

"It isn't. And the third..." Antonin hesitated. "I don’t even know what it does. But I couldn’t get near it without a splitting headache and blurred vision. The enchantments are like a maze folded on itself."

Harry paced slowly in front of the leftmost chamber. "We’ll start with the middle one. Password traps are brutal, but at least they don't attack your mind."

He knelt before the runes and examined them. "These are layered. Trigger traps, delay glyphs, and—ah, here—a bleed rune. It absorbs magic from failed attempts. Clever."

Sonja handed him a shielding charm crystal. "Just in case."

Harry nodded, took a breath, and whispered the first unlocking spell. The runes shivered, sparked—and then fell still. A shimmer passed over the stone. He continued, layer by layer, stripping each protective enchantment with surgical precision. After nearly an hour, the wall trembled.

A faint grinding sound echoed through the chamber, and slowly, the wall peeled open like a stone mouth yawning.

They stepped inside.

Gold.

Piles and piles of gold. Stacked galleons glinted under the torchlight. Antique chests brimming with coins, jewel-encrusted goblets, and velvet bags filled with gems rested neatly on pedestals.

Luis let out a low whistle. "Sweet Merlin... this isn't Grindelwald's. This is a vault."

Antonin stepped forward, eyes scanning the treasure. "This... is centuries old. I recognize the minting on some of these coins. This belonged to someone before Grindelwald’s time."

Sonja ran her fingers along an ornate chest. "A headmaster, maybe? Someone who used this room as a treasury and forgot to tell the next in line."

"And it just sat here," Viktor said, stunned. "For hundreds of years."

Harry nodded slowly. "Whatever it is, we agreed to share. Let’s start cataloguing."

It took hours to sort through the mountain of treasure. When they were done, each of them had their share—a small fortune in galleons, rare gems, and magical artifacts. Even Antonin, stoic as he was, smiled faintly.

"Still," he said as they exited the chamber, resealing it behind them, "this isn't what we came for."

Harry looked to the remaining two doors, the ones soaked in danger and secrets. "No. But it tells us we’re close. Grindelwald’s real sanctum is still ahead. And we’ll break through."

They returned to Harry's room in silence, carrying their newfound wealth and a renewed fire in their hearts. Grindelwald's legacy was within reach—and they had no intention of turning back now.



The Dragon Class was buzzing with magical theory, practical enchantments, and private projects, yet among them, three students had drifted onto unique, individual paths—each a prodigy in their own right.

After their exploration of the ancient, warded rooms, Harry and his friends agreed to delay further exploration until the coming Sunday. The decision was a matter of necessity—there were classes to attend, spells to master, and for some, professional ambitions to chase.

Victor Krum, the celebrity of the school, had once again donned his crimson Quidditch robes. He could often be found alone on the storm-lashed training grounds, flying through tight formations with brutal precision. There was no smile on his face as he practiced, no flair for showmanship—just pure, unrelenting focus. Harry watched him one afternoon from the stone balcony overlooking the field.

“He’s like a storm himself,” Harry muttered, clutching a warm mug conjured by Ingrid.

“He has to be,” Ingrid replied. “You think it’s easy being the youngest Seeker in the Bulgarian national team? He’s not just training for the school anymore. The world watches him.”

Victor had declined countless invitations to hang out or join the other Dragons in magical experiments, saying only, “Quidditch doesn’t wait.” And indeed, it didn’t.

Meanwhile, Sonja was immersed in a different kind of combat—the professional dueling circuit. At seventeen, she was finally old enough to compete as an adult. Every evening, she met Harry on the polished obsidian floor of the dueling chamber, the walls humming with residual magic and sigils flickering like restless flame.

“Stupefy!” Sonja cried, darting left.

“Protego Maxima,” Harry replied casually, his shield absorbing the spell and bouncing it harmlessly into a column with a spark of gold.

“Again!” she barked, sweat dripping from her brow.

They dueled for hours, the clash of colored spells echoing through the halls until even the enchanted sconces dimmed with fatigue. Sonja lost every match—but not by much. Her grit impressed Harry more than any victory.

“You’re stronger than yesterday,” Harry said, offering her a hand after disarming her once again.

Sonja grunted, brushing her hair out of her face. “Still not good enough.”

“You’ll get there,” Harry said. “I’ve seen older duelists with less backbone. If you keep training like this, next season you’ll break into the top ten.”

She smirked. “And what about you?”

Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s no under-seventeen circuit, so I’ll have to wait. But when I turn seventeen…”

“You’ll be the one everyone fears,” she finished for him, tapping her wand against his chest. “I’ve seen the way the professor looks at you now—like he’s second best.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Professor Navarro, the dueling master of Durmstrang, had begun attending their sparring sessions after watching Sonja’s progress with increasing interest. At first, he observed silently. Then he began offering pointers. And finally—he asked to join in their training.

Their first match had stunned the small audience of Dragon Class students. Navarro was lightning-fast, experienced, and ruthless—but Harry kept up with him. Spell for spell. Counter for counter. And though the match was declared a draw by the professor himself, whispers spread quickly through the school.

“He nearly beat Navarro,” students whispered in the halls.

“No, he did beat him,” others claimed.

“I heard Navarro is training for the international circuit now—because of Weasley.”

These rumors only added to Harry’s reputation. But to him, it was never about fame. It was about control. Focus. Mastery. And right now, the only thing on his mind was helping his friends become stronger.


That evening, the trio met again in Harry’s apartment like room—expansive and warm, enchanted to resemble a small common room with thick carpets and a glowing hearth. Antonin had brought more warding notes, but even he paused when Sonja entered, flushed from training.

“You look like you’ve been in a duel with a chimera,” he said dryly.

“Worse. I fought Harry,” she said, throwing her cloak over the back of a chair. “Again.”

Antonin offered her a goblet of hot spiced cider. “Remind me never to challenge him, then.”

Harry laughed. “She’ll win soon. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Not before you find Grindelwald’s room,” Antonin muttered. “That’s the only prize I’m after.”

“Sunday,” Harry reminded him. “We rest, recover, and prep. And then we break those final wards.”

And so the week rolled on—Victor chasing clouds and snitches, Sonja sharpening her magic like steel, and Harry preparing for a vault of secrets waiting to be uncovered in the belly of the old fortress.

What none of them knew, as snow began to fall again over the cold towers of Durmstrang, was that the next door they opened might not only hold lost magic… but something far older. And far more dangerous.



It was well past midnight when Eryk sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat slicking his brow. The enchanted alert rune he had secretly embedded at the dragon nest on the Island had flared with magic. Someone was there. Not just any someone—a wizard or witch, powerful enough to trigger the ward.

He didn't hesitate. He threw on his robes and sprinted through the cold, stone corridors of Durmstrang. In a few short moments, the entire Dragon Class was roused and ready. Wands drawn, broomsticks clutched, and eyes sharp with fury and concern.

"Someone's gone near the dragons," Eryk panted, facing the class. "Magical signature confirmed. This isn't an accident."

In the frigid silence of the northern skies, twenty students soared through the night on broomsticks, flanked by three professors who had joined the scramble. Wind tore through their cloaks, stars wheeled above, and every wand was lit in readiness. They cut through the sky like streaks of lightning.

As they crested the icy hills that led to the hidden cave, the intruders caught sight of them—a dark cluster of wizards whose faces they couldn’t see. Panic broke. The strangers vanished into the trees, teleporting or fleeing as fast as their spells could carry them.

When the Dragon Class landed near the nest, it was Harry who first checked the ground. Burn marks, charred rocks, clawed soil. The dragon had fought. There were traces of defensive fire, wounds still smoldering where it had breathed flame to protect its young.

"They were poachers," Harry muttered, picking up a melted piece of netting imbued with enchantments.

Sonja clenched her jaw. "How did they find it again?"

"The article," Harry said grimly. "When the ICW gave us the award, the news went everywhere. And the ones who’ve been to Durmstrang already... they know the land."

The professors took stock of the situation, but it was Harry who immediately sent an owl to Charlie. Within hours, the response arrived by scroll: a direct message from Charlie Weasley.

You were right to contact me. That dragon and her hatchlings are not safe. I can arrange for their transfer to a protected reserve under the Dragon Alliance. The area is secure, the wards ancient and powerful, and the caregivers are experts.

Harry went to the dragon personally that evening. The mother dragon lay curled around her hatchlings, eyes glowing softly with exhausted warmth.

He sat at the mouth of the cave and spoke gently. "You're not safe here anymore. Not because of us. But others will come. With worse intentions. I have a place for you. A good place. You'll be protected."

The dragon blinked slowly. A low rumble escaped her throat. Then she looked at her young, then back at Harry.

She understood.

The next two days were a blur. Erik, Louis, Ingrid, and Marek—those most experienced with magical creatures—took over the preparations. With help from Durmstrang faculty, they coordinated a massive magical operation. One hundred portkeys, synchronized in magical sequence, were created to safely transport the mother and all three hatchlings without disrupting their natural balance or causing them distress.

Ingrid wept quietly as the dragon nuzzled her farewell. Marek tried to hide his tears behind a stern face. Even Sonja looked shaken.

When the dragon finally vanished in a whirl of magical light, leaving behind only the scent of ash and warmth, the silence that followed was deafening.

Harry stood alone for a moment, staring at the empty cave. It had once echoed with the cries of hatchlings and the huffs of their mother. Now, only the wind spoke.

"They were never really ours to keep," Harry whispered. "Just ours to protect."

And protect them they had. Even if it meant letting go.