Year Two — Chapter 7: Britain Watches Again
The owls came heavier this winter, wings burdened with parchment and expectation. From England to France, from Ministry corridors to manor houses, one name spread like frost across glass: Ivar Malfoy.
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The Malfoy Estate
In Wiltshire, the Malfoy study glowed with firelight. Lucius Malfoy paced before the hearth, cane tapping sharply against the floor. Narcissa sat with her hands folded in her lap, calm but tense.
"They whisper already," Lucius said, his voice low. "The Black heir surpasses every trial, speaks in tongues, commands fire and serpent alike. They ask me how long before he returns to Britain. They ask what I will do with him."
Narcissa's eyes flicked to the fire. "And what will you say?"
"That he is my son," Lucius said softly, "but he is not mine."
Narcissa's lips tightened. "He is ours. Do not forget that."
Lucius stopped pacing, the firelight sharpening his features. "He is heir to Black. He is tied to Bones, to Greengrass, to Delacour. He is already more than one family can hold. Even more than one country."
Her gaze hardened. "And what of Draco? Will our younger son grow in his brother's shadow?"
Lucius didn't answer. He didn't need to.
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The Ministry of Magic
In the marble halls of the Ministry, whispers ran like water through cracks.
Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, spoke bluntly over tea with a colleague. "If the boy is as powerful as they say, then he is both asset and danger. I would rather Susan's bond with him make him ally than enemy."
Cornelius Fudge wrung his hat in his hands. "But— but he's a Malfoy! Surely we cannot trust—"
Bones' gaze cut sharp. "Better to know where he stands than to pretend he doesn't exist."
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The Delacour Household, France
At Beauxbatons' gates, Apolline Delacour spoke with steel beneath her elegance. "If our Fleur is to be bound to this boy, then he must prove himself worthy not only of a contract, but of respect. France bows to no English heir, no matter his bloodlines."
Fleur, listening unseen, tucked the words away.
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Hogwarts
At Hogwarts, Dumbledore sat at his desk, letters spread before him like pieces on a chessboard. Each spoke of the same thing: a boy too gifted, too young, too certain.
Minerva McGonagall stood stiff at his side. "I knew Lucius had an elder son. But I did not know he would grow into this."
"Neither did Lucius," Dumbledore said quietly. His blue eyes darkened behind the half-moon glasses. "Prophecy is a dangerous thing, Minerva. It names a child born as July dies. Harry Potter fits. But so too does Ivar Malfoy."
McGonagall's lips thinned. "You fear he may be the one?"
"I fear he may be the better choice," Dumbledore admitted. "And I fear what the world will do to him if they believe it."
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The Whisper in Durmstrang
Back in the north, the news reached Ivar too. He read Narcissa's letter slowly, candlelight throwing green fire into his eyes.
They are comparing you, my son. Comparing you to Potter. They wonder who the prophecy speaks of. Remember this: fate may whisper, but blood commands.
Ivar folded the letter neatly. "Good," he murmured. "Let them compare. When the storm comes, only one of us will stand unbroken."
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⚡ End of Chapter 7
Would you like Chapter 8 to return to Durmstrang with the secret Ritual Duel, where Ivar fuses hellfire and death-aura for the first time, or stay in Britain for a chapter, showing Dumbledore and Lucius maneuvering more directly around the idea that Ivar might rival Harry Potter?