The Tenth Weasley - CH - 106

The torches along the narrow corridor sputtered with a pale, flickering light as Igor Karkaroff led Harry deeper into Durmstrang Castle—deeper than any student had ever gone. The path was silent and oppressive, thick with ancient enchantments and colder than the Arctic wind that howled outside the fortress walls. Every step echoed like a whisper from the past.

"How far does this go?" Harry asked, his breath forming small clouds in the air. He trailed behind Karkaroff, wand drawn but dimmed, his silver-ringed eye darting across the walls.

Karkaroff didn’t answer immediately. He simply walked, his black robes brushing against the damp stone as if the air itself were resisting their presence.

They finally stopped in front of a massive stone wall—unmarked, unadorned, but emanating power. It was so ancient, the stone seemed to thrum with residual magic. There were no doors, no hinges, no carvings. Just a seamless wall of gray that hummed in Harry’s bones.

Karkaroff turned to face him.

“This is as far as I go,” he said flatly. “The vault lies beyond this wall. Its entrance is hidden. And warded in ways I cannot begin to unravel.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, stepping forward and running his hand across the cold surface. “No clue how to get in? No passphrase or ritual?”

Karkaroff’s lips twitched into something close to a smile. “The last Highmaster… he didn’t share the method. As you may have heard, he died under unusual circumstances.”

Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Karkaroff’s eyes glinted. “There are whispers, yes. Rumors that I killed him to ascend. That I returned to Dumstrang with his blood still drying on my wand. But here’s what matters, Mr. Weasley—you are the only one in this school capable of peeling this wall open.”

Harry took a slow breath, his wand glowing now with diagnostic spells. “And you waited until now to ask?”

“I waited until you proved yourself,” Karkaroff said smoothly. “You command light and dark with equal precision. I know you broke into Grindelwald’s private chamber without triggering a single trap. And above all, you hunger for knowledge.”

He turned, leaving Harry alone.

“Take your time,” he said over his shoulder. “But not too much. History is waiting.”

And with that, Karkaroff vanished into the shadows.

Harry crouched, staring at the wall. With a whisper, he cast Revelum Magicka.

And the world exploded.

Lines of runes and sigils burst into view across the wall in spectral light—thirty layers of wards, no, more—shimmering like ghostly armor. Each ward pulsed with a different magical frequency. Some were rooted in Runespoor logic, others in Hebrew glyphs, Norse enchantments, Slavic sacrificial bindings, and even experimental spell matrices that Harry had only read about in Grindelwald’s journals.

The protection was so dense it looked like a living web of ancient minds layered on top of each other. And it moved—the wards shifted, recoded, reassessed.

“A self-adapting vault,” Harry muttered, impressed despite himself. “It evolves.”

He raised his wand and began dissecting the outermost layer.

“Analyticus Rota.”

A shimmering circle appeared, revealing rotating locks hidden within. He traced them with his wand and began sketching the arrangement in his enchanted journal. He added annotations, magical frequencies, response patterns. After three hours, he managed to safely deactivate the outer binding.

One layer down.

Twenty-nine more to go—and that’s if no others had been added secretly.

Harry sat on the stone floor, his back against the wall, eyes scanning his growing notes. Each layer bore a different magical signature—proof that every headmaster had indeed left their mark. He recognized some—like the signature of Aleksi Grigorov, known for his expertise in soul-bonded enchantments, and Hellevir Frosthearth, who pioneered elemental defenses. But others were unknown, strange, alien.

This isn’t a school vault, he thought. This is a legacy. A crypt of minds. A tower of sealed ambition.

The weight of it pressed on him—not with dread, but excitement.

He conjured a small blue flame for warmth and summoned a cushion. His silver eye shimmered as he resumed mapping the protections.

The vault would not yield in a month. Or a year.

But Harry wasn’t in a hurry.

He had already claimed Grindelwald’s path.

Now, he was walking a new one.

Into the heart of Durmstrang’s forgotten power.



Durmstrang’s ancient stones held many secrets. The deeper Harry explored beneath its frost-covered battlements, the more he felt the pull of the unknown. The hidden vault, which once only seemed like an academic challenge, had now become something else—his sanctuary. A place where the lines of morality blurred like candle smoke.

He spent one to two hours every day seated on the cold, stone floor, tracing spell structures through overlapping enchantments, deciphering centuries-old puzzles, and leaving behind enchanted parchments to float mid-air, displaying his complex rune equations. At times, he wondered if he was still the same Harry who once played Gobstones in the Burrow’s backyard. Back then, he had a strong sense of right and wrong.

Now?

He wasn’t sure.

Because what did it mean to be good, when most of the spells he studied would have him imprisoned in Azkaban back home? Soul magic, blood-binding rituals, self-augmenting spell circles—none of these were legal, yet every one of them gave him knowledge. Gave him power.

And he loved it.

He didn’t know if Karkaroff was a good man either—there were too many stories, too many hushed whispers about the former Death Eater turned Highmaster. But it didn’t bother Harry. They understood each other in a strange, silent way. Both men walking a line between light and dark, and pretending that the line itself still existed.

Their subtle bond meant Harry now had privileges others didn’t. So when the International Dueling League Tournament was announced, and Sonja qualified in the top twenty five, Harry didn’t have to beg for a ticket. Karkaroff handed it to him without a word.

“Spain,” he had said, sipping warm plum wine. “The air’s warmer. The magic’s hotter. Go see what your friend has become.”

And Harry went.


The Spanish arena shimmered with enchantments. Built high into the cliffs of Ávila, it overlooked the glimmering sea. Magical banners danced in the air, each displaying the name and ranking of competitors in golden script.

“SONJA VOLARI – RANK #22”
“DUELING MASTER CIRCUIT – FINAL ROUND GROUP STAGE”

Harry wore a dark robe with enchanted runes stitched inside the seams, more for utility than fashion. He sat quietly in the upper viewing box, just behind the judging panel, his mismatched eyes scanning the arena.

Sonja walked onto the dueling platform like a storm held in human skin. Her wand was holstered against her thigh. Her boots rang out with finality. Across from her stood a tall American wizard, a dueling specialist from the Salem Institute with silver-blonde hair and a wide, confident stance.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the enchanted dome:

“On your left! The northern flame of Durmstrang! The youngest to qualify the top ranks! Sonja Volari!”

“And on your right! Julian Graves! Representative of the Salem High Council and five-time regional champion!”

They bowed. Wands drawn. The silence thickened.

And then it began.

Julian opened with a roaring Fulminare!—a thunderous lightning spell meant to intimidate.

Sonja dodged it like water slipping through fingers, answering with a chain of bone-breaking hexes that forced Julian into retreat. He cast walls of wind, spinning shields, ice spears—but Sonja weaved through them like a Valkyrie.

“Brilliant footwork,” Harry murmured.

He could see it all in slow motion. Every muscle twitch. Every shift of weight. The overdrawn spell arcs. The sloppy transitions. Julian was strong, but his wandwork was flashy, all dramatic flair and oversized flourishes. Meant to impress crowds, not win against killers.

Harry’s eye gleamed. “I could end him in six spells.”

When Sonja cast a Fulgur Vortice—a spinning wind whip she had developed during practice with Harry—the crowd gasped. Julian was disarmed, his wand arm flying in the air, and the match was over.

Sonja bowed, calm as ever, and walked off the stage.

They’re entertainers, Harry thought. Not warriors.

When he met Sonja after the match, she was still catching her breath. Her braid had come loose, her robes slightly scorched.

“You saw it?” she asked.

“I saw everything,” Harry replied, offering her a vial of energy-restoring potion. “Your footwork’s tighter. You’re reading better. He left openings all over.”

Sonja grinned. “Think you could take me down now?”

Harry gave a small smile, his silver-ringed eye glinting. “Only if I don’t give you time to blink.”

They both laughed, and it wasn’t until that moment that Harry realized—it wasn’t the darkness that scared him anymore.

It was how comfortable he’d become inside it.



The international dueling arena in Spain was alive with the electric hum of anticipation. After Sonja’s historic win, the attention of the magical community had shifted onto her, the youngest to make it into the top twenty dueling masters, shattering records and expectations. News of her performance had spread like wildfire, and she was now the talk of every magical household from Egypt to Greece. Sonja was the prodigy of the century.

As Harry and Sonja made their way through the crowded corridors backstage, she was constantly stopped by admirers, reporters, and enthusiastic duelists who wanted her to sign autographs or ask for advice. Harry, though used to being by her side, had begun to notice something different in the air around them. People were staring not only at Sonja, but also at him. Their eyes lingered a little longer than necessary. Whispers followed him.

He could feel it, the subtle change in atmosphere. People were not just looking at Sonja as they used to. They were looking at him. Harry's mismatched eyes and the way he carried himself, his every movement, seemed to make people uneasy. But it wasn’t the usual curiosity of a young champion; this was different. This was fear.

They approached a quieter part of the venue, hoping to have a few minutes to themselves.

“What do you think is going on?” Sonja asked as she turned to Harry, noting how stiff and uncomfortable he seemed.

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered, still looking around, his instincts on high alert. “There’s something off today. Have you noticed how people have been looking at me?.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? People love you, Harry.”

“Not in a way that’s normal.” Harry sighed, leaning against the wall. “They’re staring at me, but it’s not admiration. It’s... fear.”

Sonja shrugged, but Harry’s unease only deepened when they walked past a group of witches and wizards from a distant part of the arena. Their conversation faltered when they saw him, and they quickly turned away, muttering something under their breath. Harry’s senses tingled. He had seen this before, back in the halls of Durmstrang when people whispered behind his back, his silver-ringed eye drawing far too much attention.


It wasn’t until they were sitting down for dinner that Harry got an inkling of what might be happening.

The food hall was buzzing with chatter, filled with dueling enthusiasts from all over the world. Sonja had her fair share of admirers, as always, but the noise around Harry seemed to grow quieter. It was when a group of well-dressed wizards approached their table that the tension truly escalated.

One of them, an older wizard with graying hair and sharp blue eyes, leaned over and regarded Harry with a piercing gaze. His gaze flickered from Sonja to Harry, back to Sonja, then he straightened up with a slight nod.

“Sonja Volari, the youngest to ever enter the international dueling rankings,” he said, his voice smooth but with an edge to it. “Congratulations.”

Sonja beamed, slightly uncomfortable with the attention but accustomed to it by now.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, the smile never faltering.

Then, the older wizard’s gaze turned to Harry, more scrutinizing now. His eyes locked onto Harry’s mismatched ones for a moment too long. The wizard’s expression shifted to something else—a slight flicker of fear, of anger. His next words were carefully measured, but the tone was undeniably tense.

“And this,” the wizard said, looking back at Sonja. “This must be your… partner?”

Sonja seemed confused. “Partner? Harry’s not my partner. He’s just a friend, my bestfriend.”

The wizard nodded slowly, but Harry could feel the weight of the moment. The conversation shifted awkwardly, and the group left shortly after, with no more words of congratulations.

As they left, Harry caught a few murmurs, low enough for him to catch the tail end of the conversation.

“...that's Grindelwald...” one whispered.

“...can’t be... too young...” another one added.

The words Grindelwald and too young repeated in Harry's head, like a drumbeat in the silence that followed the exchange.