Year Two — Chapter 4: Shadows in Britain
While the northern snows buried Durmstrang in silence, Britain buzzed like a hive. Every whisper of the Black heir's exploits crossed the Channel faster than parchment could dry.
At first it was idle gossip, traded between pureblood salons and Ministry corridors: Lucius Malfoy's elder son — prodigy, duelist, ritualist. But gossip, when repeated often enough, sharpens into fear.
---
The Greengrass Contract
Lord Greengrass sent a letter sealed in green wax, polite but edged:
He has exceeded expectations. Daphne will be raised with this in mind. When they come of age, the contract will bind our families tighter than iron. See that the boy continues his… progress.
Lucius read the letter in his study, cane tapping against the hearthstone. He allowed himself a thin smile. "Progress," he murmured. "That word means leverage."
Narcissa, sitting nearby, did not smile. "And burden."
---
Bones and Delacour
From Amelia Bones came another letter, blunt as its writer:
Susan is already marked by war's shadow. If this boy of yours carries both Malfoy cunning and Black inevitability, see that he uses it for Britain's future, not its ruin.
The Delacours' missive was the most striking. Written in elegant French, it carried the sharpness of a duel:
Fleur will not be a trophy. If your son is to honor our contract, he must prove he is more than power wrapped in arrogance. France will not bow to ice and fire alone.
Lucius burned the letter after reading. But Narcissa remembered every word.
---
Dumbledore's Watch
At Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore set aside his lemon drops and tapped a folded Prophet against the desk. A thin article spoke of "The Black Heir Thriving Abroad." No names, no details, only suggestion — but it was enough.
Minerva McGonagall frowned from her chair. "Durmstrang breeds fighters, Albus. If what they say is true, the boy will be more soldier than student by the time he is grown."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said, eyes distant behind the half-moon glasses. "But soldiers can be guided. It is generals who must be feared."
He leaned back, sighing. "The Malfoys defied Voldemort thrice. Yet their son may rise to a power even Tom Riddle would envy. If that happens…" He let the thought hang.
McGonagall's lips thinned. "And what of Harry Potter?"
Dumbledore folded his hands. "Harry will need more than courage, Minerva. He will need to survive a storm that has not yet arrived."
---
Letters to Durmstrang
Meanwhile, in the cold stone halls of Durmstrang, ravens landed on Ivar's sill with increasing frequency.
One bore Greengrass' wax.
Another, Bones'.
A third, Delacour.
He sat at his desk, parchment spread before him, quill in hand. Jannik sprawled nearby, trying to peek.
"You're writing to them?" Jannik asked, grin mischievous. "All of them? At once? You've got more brides than robes."
Klara smacked him. "Shut up, idiot. This isn't a joke." She turned to Ivar. "What will you say?"
Ivar dipped his quill, eyes sharp. "The truth. That alliances are not chains. They're weapons. And I choose how to wield them."
---
The Response
That night, in the ritual chamber, he traced a circle with each family crest at its edge. He whispered their names in Parseltongue, in Latin, in Norse.
Greengrass. Bones. Delacour.
The runes flared, then dimmed. Promises, not shackles.
He lifted his wand, elderwood blackened, cores thrumming like a heartbeat. "Good evening," he whispered. "They think they are binding me. But it is I who will bind them."
The dark hummed back, approving.
---
⚡ End of Chapter 4
Would you like Chapter 5 to show Ivar's next ritual — his second brush with death that strengthens the Peverell inheritance or to turn back to Durmstrang, focusing on how his peers now fear and follow him after news of the contracts spreads?