Year Two — Chapter 2: The Black Heir's Burden
The letters began arriving before the first frost had settled on the Durmstrang walls. Ravens and owls alike found him in the mess hall, their wings stirring the air above the long tables. By the second week of term, his corner of the dormitory looked less like a child's bed and more like a minister's desk, littered with scrolls and wax seals.
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Letters from Home
One bore Lucius' hand, sharp and elegant as the man himself:
You are being spoken of in Britain more than you realize. The Greengrasses have inquired about your progress. The Bones family too. Even the Delacours from France have written, invoking the contract made generations ago. You are not only a Malfoy or a Black now. You are an asset families wish to claim, or to fear.
This is not weakness. It is leverage. Learn to use it.
Narcissa's letter followed days later, gentler, but no less heavy:
Ivar, you must remember that power without restraint is merely another kind of chain. You are heir to two houses now, and your choices will bind others as well as yourself. Be wary of those who seek to flatter. True allies will not flatter. They will challenge.
He folded her letter slowly, tracing the silver-inked signature. She was right.
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A Different Kind of Duel
The political weight followed him into the halls of Durmstrang. Students who had once ignored him now studied him like a rival general. Some sought his friendship, whispering offers of alliance in exchange for favors their families could not truly grant. Others looked at him with suspicion, muttering "dark heir" under their breath.
During one lesson, a boy whose family had ties to the Notts of Britain spat as Ivar passed. "Heir Black," he sneered in thickly accented Russian. "Dark blood. Rotten blood."
Ivar stopped. Turned. His green eyes caught the boy's, calm as winter glass.
"Rotten blood still runs thicker than water," he said, softly, in flawless Russian. Then he switched to French, voice smooth as silk: "And thicker still than cowardice."
The boy paled. The class fell silent. Even the professor, who had turned to watch, said nothing.
It was not a duel of wands. But Ivar won it just as cleanly.
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Jannik and Klara
Later, in the dormitory, Jannik sprawled across Ivar's bunk, tossing a parchment tube into the air. "You're swimming in contracts, cousin. Greengrass. Bones. Delacour. At this rate, you'll need a bigger bed."
Klara punched him in the arm. "Idiot." Then, turning to Ivar, she added: "Doesn't it bother you? Being passed around on parchment like a piece of cattle?"
Ivar set his quill down, eyes sharp. "No. Because cattle have no choice. I do. They may send their daughters with contracts, but it is I who will decide how those bonds are forged."
Klara studied him for a long moment. "Spoken like someone who already wears the crown."
Jannik smirked. "Ice crown, still. Careful, Klara, or he'll freeze the whole continent."
Ivar allowed himself a faint smile. "If I freeze it, I'll rule it. But I'd prefer to keep a few warm places. For friends."
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Alone
That night, he returned to the ritual chamber, parchment scattered around him like fallen leaves. He traced a circle not in chalk, but in ink made from ash and his own blood, binding the names written on the contracts into the ward.
He whispered in Parseltongue, the language curling around the runes like smoke.
Greengrass. Bones. Delacour.
The names glowed briefly, then dimmed, absorbed into the stone.
Not shackles. Not chains. Promises.
Ivar closed the circle, his wand pulsing faintly in his grip. "Good evening," he murmured. "Let them watch. Let them wait. When I choose, it will not be as heir. It will be as inevitable."
The stone stirred. The chamber felt smaller, as if the air itself bent toward him.
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⚡ End of Chapter 2
Would you like Chapter 3 to shift into the Duel of Wills (his first public clash with a Durmstrang champion) or continue exploring his letters and growing political reputation in Britain — especially how Dumbledore begins to notice him?