Year Two — Chapter 3: The Duel of Wills
Snow fell in a steady curtain over the Durmstrang yard, muffling sound until only breath and boots broke the silence. Students gathered in a circle, eager for spectacle, torches flickering in the gloom. Tonight, it would not be another classroom bout. Tonight was sanctioned: a test, a trial, and for many, a chance to see if the Black heir could finally be humbled.
Ivar faced his challenger — Konstantin Dragovic, a sixth-year champion chosen often to represent Durmstrang abroad. Tall, scarred, eyes like chips of flint, Dragovic was the kind of fighter who had carved his name in blood. He smirked at the smaller boy before him.
"A child," he said, his Russian thick. "I will end this quickly."
Ivar only tilted his head. "Children grow," he replied in flawless Russian, then added in French, "Some men never do."
The crowd laughed nervously. Dragovic's jaw tightened.
---
Britain Watches
Even here, news had flown ahead of him. Students had heard the rumors: the Malfoy heir already mastering advanced disciplines, already speaking of alliances with Greengrass, Bones, Delacour.
Far away in Britain, those same whispers reached the ears of families. Greengrass and Bones sent polite, cautious inquiries. Delacour's response from France was sharper: interest laced with warning.
And at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore set down a letter with his long fingers and frowned. "The Malfoy boy at Durmstrang," he murmured. "Too talented, too soon. It is not only Harry who may shape prophecy." His eyes darkened behind the half-moon glasses. "No child should have power so heavy at eleven."
But Ivar was no child. Not anymore.
---
The Duel
The runes lit green across the snow. The signal.
Dragovic struck first, fast and brutal: a chain of curses, hexes meant not to test but to injure. Fire arced, stone cracked, snow hissed into steam.
Ivar moved like water, shields unfolding silent and precise. His wand sang in his hand — elderwood thrumming, hellfire flickering faintly at the seams. He deflected, redirected, then slipped in a counterspell woven with three tongues at once: Latin, Parseltongue, Old Norse. The curse split in mid-air, dissolving into harmless frost.
The crowd gasped.
Dragovic bellowed, fury cracking his voice. He hurled a Blasting Hex strong enough to rattle the fortress walls. Ivar whispered in Parseltongue, tracing a rune with his wand-tip — and the ground itself answered, swallowing the curse in a plume of black snow.
Then, calm as breath, Ivar struck back.
He didn't use brute force. He layered runes mid-air, overlapping them with whispered languages, each word a thread in the weave. The result: a coil of green-black flame that lashed like a serpent, striking not at Dragovic but around him. Fire hissed at his feet, smoke curled at his throat, binding him without touching flesh.
The duel circle flared white. Victory.
---
Aftermath
The yard erupted in whispers.
"He spoke in three languages at once—"
"That fire—what was it—?"
"Dragovic couldn't even touch him."
Dragovic staggered back, eyes wide, pride broken. He didn't bow — but he didn't challenge again.
Professor Makarov's voice cut through the noise. "Competent," he said, as if the word could disguise the awe in his eyes.
Volkov muttered to another professor, "No. More than that. He is inevitable."
---
The Dormitory
That night, Jannik sprawled across Ivar's bunk, grinning. "You humiliated a sixth-year champion. I'd toast you, but I'm still worried my cup might freeze solid."
Klara leaned against the wall, arms folded. "They'll fear you more now. That kind of fear turns dangerous."
"Good," Ivar said simply, eyes calm. "Fear is a chain. And chains can be pulled."
---
Alone
Later, he sat in the ritual chamber, wand across his knees. He whispered in Parseltongue, the words curling against the stones.
"Good evening. Did you see?"
The chamber stirred, shadows bending closer. The dark seemed almost amused.
We saw. And so did they.
---
⚡ End of Chapter 3
Would you like Chapter 4 to dive deeper into his political weight in Britain (marriage contracts, Dumbledore's growing suspicion, other families circling) or to focus on Ivar experimenting further with ritual magic — his second brush with death that deepens the Peverell inheritance?