The Tenth Weasley - CH - 153

The world snapped back into place with a familiar, wrenching sensation.

Harry stumbled as Apparition released him, boots scraping against polished stone. Strong hands tightened instantly around his shoulders, keeping him upright.

“Easy,” Arthur said, steady and grounding. “I’ve got you.”

They stood just inside the glass doors of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The entrance hall glowed with soft, pearly light, floating lanterns drifting lazily near the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of potions, disinfectant charms, and old magic. Healers in lime-green robes moved briskly in every direction, stretchers gliding past on their own, murmured incantations overlapping like distant waves.

Harry hadn’t realized how loud the world had been until now.

His knees finally gave out.

Arthur caught him fully this time, one arm hooked firmly around Harry’s back, the other bracing his chest.

“HELP!” Arthur barked, voice carrying the sharp authority of a man who had spent years dealing with crises. “My son needs immediate attention!”

Two healers appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by instinct alone.

“What happened?” one demanded, already flicking her wand to scan Harry from head to toe.

“Combat trauma,” Arthur replied shortly. “Multiple curse impacts. Exhaustion. Possibly internal injuries.”

Harry tried to protest. “I’m really—”

The healer shot him a look so sharp it could have cut glass. “You are absolutely not fine.”

A stretcher rose smoothly from the floor and slid beneath him. Harry barely had the energy to resist as they lowered him onto it.

“Dad,” Harry muttered, blinking up at Arthur. “I don’t need—”

Arthur leaned close, his face pale but composed, eyes scanning Harry with barely contained panic. “You fought someone,” he said quietly. “You collapsed afterward. That’s all the justification I need.”

The stretcher began to move.

Harry caught Arthur’s sleeve weakly. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur said immediately, gripping Harry’s hand.

They passed through the Accident Ward, glass doors swinging open to admit them. The noise softened here, voices lowered, magic gentler. Curtains shimmered with privacy charms as patients rested inside glowing beds.

“He’s stable,” the healer murmured, adjusting the stretcher’s height. “But dangerously overextended. His magic reserves are nearly empty.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “He’s always been stubborn.”

Harry managed a faint huff of laughter. “Inherited trait.”

Arthur snorted despite himself, then sobered quickly. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur squeezed his hand. “Don’t apologize.”

They stopped at a private healing room. The stretcher glided inside, settling beside a crystal-rimmed bed. The healer waved her wand, and Harry felt warmth wash through him as invisible magic began stitching torn tissue, knitting bruised muscle, easing fractures he hadn’t even realized were there.

Another healer entered—a witch with silver hair pulled back tightly and sharp, assessing eyes.

“Mr. Weasley,” she said briskly, nodding to Arthur. “I’m Healer Crowe. You may stay, but do not interfere.”

Arthur inclined his head respectfully. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Harry’s vision blurred as exhaustion finally caught up to him. The ceiling swam. His limbs felt heavy, as though gravity itself had doubled.

“Harry,” Arthur said softly, brushing damp hair away from his forehead. “Stay with me.”

“I am,” Harry murmured. “Just… tired.”

“I know.”

The healers worked efficiently, murmuring diagnostics to one another.

“Residual curse scarring—non-verbal, high density.”

“Magical backlash along the spine.”

“Core depletion bordering on collapse.”

Arthur listened silently, each word etching itself into his mind.

Finally, Healer Crowe straightened. “He’ll recover fully,” she said. “But he needs rest. No magic for at least forty-eight hours. And I mean none.”

Harry groaned weakly. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

Arthur shot him a look. “You hear that? Doctor’s orders.”

Harry sighed theatrically. “I suppose I’ll survive.”

The healers exited, leaving the room wrapped in a soft hush. The privacy wards shimmered faintly as they settled.

Arthur pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down heavily, suddenly looking every one of his years. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped tightly together.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Arthur said quietly, “What happened out there, Harry?”

Harry stared at the ceiling, watching faint golden runes drift across it. “A lot.”

Arthur waited. He always did.

“I fought him,” Harry said eventually. “Not… not fully. Not the way he wants. But enough.”

Arthur closed his eyes briefly. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “But someone had to.”

Arthur looked up sharply. “That doesn’t make it your responsibility.”

Harry turned his head to meet his father’s gaze. “I know. But it is my problem.”

Arthur studied him—the set of his jaw, the exhaustion lining his face, the weight far too heavy for someone so young.

“You didn’t tell anyone,” Arthur said softly. “You faced this alone.”

Harry hesitated. “I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger.”

Arthur reached out, resting a hand over Harry’s. “That instinct will get you killed one day.”

“Probably,” Harry admitted. “But not today.”

Arthur shook his head, a conflicted smile tugging at his lips. “You sound far too calm about that.”

“I wasn’t calm,” Harry said quietly. “I was terrified.”

Arthur’s grip tightened. “And you still stood your ground.”

Harry closed his eyes. “I didn’t have another choice.”

Arthur swallowed, emotion thick in his voice. “You always think there isn’t.”

Silence settled again, heavier this time.

After a while, Arthur spoke, more gently. “You know… when Molly and I took you in, we promised ourselves something.”

Harry opened his eyes. “What?”

“That no matter how strange the world got, no matter how dangerous things became, you’d never face it without family at your back.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I know.”

“Do you?” Arthur asked softly. “Because tonight, I saw my son vanish into a nightmare I couldn’t reach.”

Harry turned fully toward him. “I came back.”

Arthur nodded, eyes shining faintly. “You did. And Merlin help anyone who forgets that.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Arthur looked up sharply. “Who is it?”

“Healer Crowe,” came the reply. “Just a quick check.”

She entered, scanned Harry once more, then nodded approvingly. “He’s stabilizing nicely. He’ll sleep soon.”

Harry yawned on cue.

Arthur stood reluctantly. “I’ll stay.”

“That’s fine,” Crowe said. “But he needs quiet.”

She left again, closing the door softly behind her.

Arthur settled back into the chair, folding his arms, eyes never leaving Harry.

Harry’s eyelids grew heavy, the world softening at the edges.

“Dad?” he murmured.

“Yes?”

“Thank you… for coming.”

Arthur smiled gently. “There was never a universe where I wouldn’t.”

Harry drifted, consciousness slipping away, surrounded not by darkness—but by the steady presence of someone who would stand between him and the world without hesitation.

Harry returned to Hogwarts under protest.

Not from the school, not from the Ministry—but from the healer who had spent the better part of the morning glaring at him as though sheer disapproval might stitch his magic back together faster.

“You are not,” Healer Crowe said firmly, walking alongside him through the entrance hall, “to cast any magic. Not a charm, not a flicker, not even one of those instinctive little pulses you prod the air with when you’re thinking.”

Harry lifted his hands in surrender. “I promised. No magic.”

Crowe narrowed her eyes. “You promised last night too.”

Arthur cleared his throat diplomatically. “He’ll behave.”

Harry shot his father an innocent look.

Crowe sighed. “Healers’ orders stand. You’re still recovering internally. Your core is stabilizing, but if you overdraw again, you’ll collapse. Possibly permanently.”

Harry winced. “That sounds… unpleasant.”

“Good,” she said briskly. “Remember that feeling.”

Only once she was satisfied—and had personally watched Harry sit down on one of the stone benches near the Great Hall doors—did she finally leave, muttering about reckless prodigies and boys who thought pain was optional.

The Great Hall buzzed with restrained anticipation.

Word had spread fast—faster than Harry would have liked—that he had survived the final task, that the maze had collapsed shortly after, that Aurors had swarmed the grounds, and that the Triwizard Cup had been retrieved with him.

What hadn’t spread were the details.

And Harry intended to keep it that way.

He entered the Great Hall beside Arthur, feeling the weight of hundreds of gazes settle on him at once. Conversations faltered. Forks paused halfway to mouths. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to dim slightly, clouds drifting lazily as though the sky itself was listening.

Hermione spotted him immediately.

She was already on her feet before Harry had taken three steps inside, crossing the aisle at a near-run and stopping just short of colliding into him.

“You’re back,” she said, relief flooding her voice. “You’re actually back.”

Harry smiled, tired but genuine. “Told you I would be.”

She looked him over carefully, as if expecting him to dissolve into smoke at any moment. “You’re pale.”

“I feel fantastic,” he lied.

She huffed, arms folding. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Before Harry could respond, a ripple of applause spread across the Hall—not the explosive cheer of victory, but something steadier, more respectful. Professors were rising from their seats. Students followed suit.

Dumbledore stood.

“Please,” he said gently, voice carrying easily. “Do sit.”

Once the Hall settled again, Dumbledore stepped forward from the staff table, the Triwizard Cup gleaming beside him atop a velvet-draped pedestal. It looked almost peaceful now, inert and silent, nothing like the dangerous object Harry remembered.

“The Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore began, “has tested courage, ingenuity, loyalty, and endurance across three difficult tasks.”

His gaze moved briefly to Harry.

“It has also reminded us,” Dumbledore continued, “that bravery is not merely the willingness to face danger—but the wisdom to act when others cannot.”

The silence was absolute.

“By unanimous decision of the judges,” Dumbledore said, “the winner of this year’s Triwizard Tournament is Harry Weasley.”

Applause thundered through the Hall.

Harry felt it wash over him, strange and unreal. He stood when prompted, nodding once toward the crowd, meeting familiar faces—Ron cheering far louder than necessary, Ginny beaming, Fred and George already whispering animatedly, Hermione clapping with a smile that looked like it might break her face if she widened it any further.

Dumbledore handed him the Cup.

It was warm.

Not magically—but humanly.

“Well done, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You have carried yourself with remarkable restraint.”

Harry inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”

The prize money was announced next—a sum that made several students gasp.

Harry barely reacted.

Gold had never motivated him.

He accepted the parchment certificate, tucked it into his pocket, and returned the Cup to the pedestal without ceremony.

The applause followed him back to his seat.

Arthur squeezed his shoulder once before returning to his own.

Hermione leaned closer. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” Harry murmured. “And hungry.”

She smiled. “I’ll make sure you eat.”

The feast that followed was loud, celebratory, and utterly overwhelming. Harry ate because Hermione reminded him to, drank water because Arthur insisted, and smiled because people expected him to.

But by the time the plates vanished and the enchanted ceiling shifted to twilight, Harry was more than ready to leave.

He didn’t linger.

He simply stood, nodded once toward the staff table, and made his way out.

The Durmstrang ship was already alive with celebration by the time he returned.

Music echoed through the corridors—deep, rhythmic, unfamiliar but warm. Lanterns burned brighter than usual, floating just overhead. Someone had dragged tables into the main hall, covering them in food and drink, laughter spilling freely between languages.

The moment Harry stepped inside, the noise doubled.

“HARRY!”

Students surged toward him, clapping his back, gripping his shoulders, raising glasses in salute. Viktor was the first to reach him properly, gripping him in a crushing embrace.

“You live,” Viktor said, grinning fiercely. “I was betting against it.”

Harry laughed despite himself. “You’re a terrible friend.”

“I am honest,” Viktor replied proudly.

Professor Navarro approached next, offering a formal nod that softened into a smile. “You’ve honored Durmstrang,” he said. “However controversial your methods may be.”

Harry inclined his head. “I’ll take that.”

And then—

Hermione appeared beside him again, slipping her hand into his without hesitation.

She looked radiant, eyes bright, tension finally gone from her shoulders. “You won,” she said softly, as if saying it louder might break the spell.

“We won,” Harry corrected.

She squeezed his hand. “I knew you would.”

Harry glanced around the ship—at the laughter, the relief, the sense of ending that hung in the air—and felt something settle inside him.

Not triumph.

Not pride.

Closure.

The Cup sat elsewhere now.

The gold waited unused.

The danger—at least for tonight—was gone.

Harry leaned closer to Hermione and murmured, “I think I’m going to sit down before the healer apparates in to yell at me.”

Hermione laughed. “Probably wise.”

As the celebration carried on around them, Harry allowed himself to rest—not as a champion, not as a symbol—but simply as a boy who had survived, surrounded by people who were glad he had.