Year Two — Chapter 6: Alliances in Fire and Ice
Winter at Durmstrang was less a season and more a gauntlet. The lake froze solid, the winds cut through fur and flesh alike, and training grew harsher, as though the cold itself was a professor.
Every year, students were thrown into the Winter Trial — not exams, but survival. Teams of three or four against upper-years, duels fought in snow and stone, where wands and fists were both permitted. Bruises were earned, blood spilled, bones sometimes broken.
This year, Ivar Malfoy entered with Klara at his right and Jannik at his left.
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The Trial
They faced four fifth-years, each broader and older by years. The match began with a roar of spells, curses lighting the snow green and red.
Jannik ducked low, hurling hexes like fireworks, wild but fast. Klara met curses head-on, her shields snapping up like walls, scar-knuckled fist occasionally cracking against an opponent's jaw when she got close enough.
And Ivar — he orchestrated.
He spoke in Latin to direct Jannik's spells into arcs. In Old Norse, he reinforced Klara's shield with runic weight. And in Parseltongue, his voice slid through the snow, weaving into the spells themselves until they resonated with something more.
One fifth-year fell when Jannik's reckless curse became guided by Ivar's correction, striking true. Another staggered back when Klara's shield, reinforced by his runes, rebounded a hex into her opponent's chest.
The last two pressed harder, circling him directly. Ivar let them. He waited until their curses crossed — then he spun a coil of hellfire between them, green-black flame erupting in a serpentine lash. The two older boys dropped into the snow, their wands flying from their hands.
The circle flared white. Victory.
The crowd roared, but the roar wasn't for the fifth-years. It was for them. For him.
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Recognition
Later, by the fire, Klara scowled at her bruised knuckles. "You didn't even break a sweat."
Ivar smirked faintly. "Why should I? You two did exactly as I needed you to."
Jannik threw his arm over Ivar's shoulder with a grin. "That's the thing, isn't it? You don't just win duels, you make everyone around you better. It's infuriating."
"Good," Ivar said, quiet but certain. "A crown means nothing if no one will follow. And you two… you follow."
Klara rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.
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Whispers in Britain
Far away in London, whispers filled pureblood halls. The Greengrasses polished their silver and spoke of their daughter's future. The Bones family debated whether this heir of Black might be a stabilizing force — or a weapon.
In France, the Delacours stiffened their backs. "If Fleur is bound to him," her mother warned, "then he must prove himself not only powerful, but worthy."
And in Hogwarts' office, Albus Dumbledore read a letter with a frown. It spoke of a boy commanding serpents, dueling champions, bending rituals to his will. A boy named Malfoy, not Potter.
McGonagall stood stiff beside him. "You think he could be the child of prophecy?"
Dumbledore's gaze darkened. "The prophecy names one who has power the Dark Lord knows not. Perhaps Harry Potter… but perhaps not. We must not forget that prophecies bend, as does fate."
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Alone
In the ritual chamber that night, Ivar lit no circle. He sat with Klara and Jannik beside him, both silent, both still. He didn't need spells or fire — the weight of their loyalty was ritual enough.
"Good evening," he whispered to the stones.
The shadows leaned close, their whisper curling like frost. Not alone. Never alone.
For the first time, the dark did not feel cold. It felt like an ally.
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⚡ End of Chapter 6
Would you like Chapter 7 to shift the focus fully to Britain — showing Lucius, Narcissa, and Dumbledore beginning to move pieces around Ivar's rising reputation — or stay in Durmstrang, where students start treating him less like a peer and more like a commander?