Year Two — Chapter 9: The Black Crown
Durmstrang was never generous with acknowledgment. Praise was rare, and when it came, it was clipped, curt, and heavy with suspicion. To be recognized too openly was to be marked, to be tested harder, to be hunted by rivals eager to tear you down. But by the spring of his second year, even Durmstrang's professors could not deny what Ivar Malfoy had become.
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The Professors' Decision
It began in Professor Volkov's ritual chamber. The air there always smelled of iron and dust, of wax and blood soaked into stone. The older man beckoned Ivar forward with a flick of his ink-stained hand and placed a parchment in front of him. The runes inscribed upon it were layered in a spiral, deceptively simple at first glance but laced with deliberate traps. The kind of test meant for sixth- and seventh-years who already bore scars from mistakes.
"Read it," Volkov said. His voice carried no warmth, only expectation.
Ivar studied the runes for a breath. Then, calmly, he began. First in Latin, precise and crisp. Then in Old Norse, the guttural cadence heavy and sure. Finally, he whispered in Parseltongue, the sibilant hiss that slid over the stone like smoke. As he spoke, his wand carved the symbols in the air, reshaping them into clarity. The circle glowed faint green, then dissolved without collapsing — clean, flawless.
Volkov's quill scratched once, then stilled. For the first time, the professor's expression softened, not into a smile but into recognition. "There is nothing more I can teach you," he said at last. "You have outgrown this class."
The words spread like wildfire. By dusk, the entire school had heard that the Black heir had been excused from Rituals. Not because he had failed — but because he had mastered.
The next trial came in Charms. Professor Ulrike was a woman famed for her cruelty toward complacency. She summoned Ivar to the front, conjuring three objects and instructing him to levitate them in sequence. He did — but added his own flourish, rotating them like a constellation and splitting the charm across five objects at once, each spinning at a different angle, each glowing with a different hue.
Ulrike's quill snapped in her fingers. She muttered under her breath, "Graduated," and dismissed him without another word.
In Dark Arts, Makarov tested him more brutally. The old warrior hurled curses like thunderbolts, his wand striking like an axe. Most students would have been crushed, but Ivar moved as though the spells were steps in a dance. His shields shimmered silent, woven with runes traced mid-air. Then, with a whispered hiss in Parseltongue, he shaped those shields into serpentine flame that lashed the curses aside.
Makarov lowered his wand after a long silence. "You are no longer a student," he grunted. "You are a peer."
The final proof came in Battle Transfiguration. The challenge was simple: turn snow into stone. Ivar did not stop at stone. His wand sliced the air, reshaping the flakes into polished steel, sharp as blades. He then transfigured the steel into a mirror, reflecting the torchlight across the arena in a brilliant display.
Even the hardened transfiguration master blinked in surprise. "Enough," she said. "You have no more to learn here."
By the end of the week, the verdict was formal. In the eyes of Durmstrang's staff, Ivar Malfoy had graduated out of Charms, Runes, Dark Arts, and Battle Transfiguration. At eleven years old.
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The Students' Response
The shift was immediate.
In the dining hall, where once students jostled for space, now they parted without thinking, leaving him clear passage. Conversations dropped to whispers the moment he entered. Even upper-years who once sneered now measured their words, eyes flicking to him with a respect edged by fear.
Roskov, his old rival, did not raise his voice anymore. He avoided Ivar's gaze entirely, his bluster melted into silence. Others, more cautious, began greeting him with careful nods, as though acknowledging not just a peer but a superior.
It wasn't loud, this change. It was subtle. Instinctive. A dozen small gestures that added up to something larger: deference.
During a sparring session in the training yard, one younger boy stumbled, his shield charm collapsing under a hex. Instead of looking to the professor, he looked instinctively at Ivar. And Ivar, calm as breath, corrected him with a single word in Russian. The boy adjusted — and the spell held.
At meals, students began gathering around him, waiting for him to speak before starting their own conversations. When he raised his glass, others raised theirs. When he leaned forward, they leaned with him.
It was not authority granted by professors. It was authority claimed in silence.
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Jannik and Klara
Jannik noticed first.
"You do realize," he said one evening, sprawled across Ivar's bunk with a grin, "that they're treating you like their general, right? Not a classmate. Not a rival. Not even a prodigy. A commander."
Klara, sharpening her dagger on the edge of her bed, snorted. "And he doesn't stop it."
"Why should I?" Ivar asked, his green eyes calm, steady. "They follow because they want to. Fear may have started it, but inevitability keeps it."
"Sounds like a crown," Jannik teased. "Cold as ice. Fits you perfectly."
Klara looked up, meeting Ivar's gaze. Her scar-knuckled hands stilled. "You wear it already. Even if you don't see it."
Ivar tilted his head, studying her, then allowed a faint smile. "Better to wear a crown they choose to bow to than one forced upon them."
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The Black Crown
That night, he walked alone into the ritual chamber. No chalk. No salt. No circle. He didn't need them anymore. He simply stood in the center, wand across his palm, aura heavy enough that the shadows bent toward him without being summoned.
"They follow," he whispered in Parseltongue, the syllables curling like smoke. "Not because of blood. Not because of contracts. But because they see what I am becoming."
The chamber stirred. The stone itself whispered back, as though the castle had grown a voice.
A crown already rests on your brow. Cold. Black. Inevitable.
For the first time, Ivar smiled without restraint. It wasn't arrogance. It was recognition. Acceptance.
"Good evening," he said softly.
The shadows bowed.
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Word Beyond
By spring, the whispers crossed the sea. Reports of the "Black Crown" reached Britain — stories of the Malfoy heir who had graduated out of disciplines at eleven, who commanded respect like a commander.
In Wiltshire, Lucius Malfoy sat in his study, cane tapping against the floor. "He rises too quickly," he muttered.
Narcissa's eyes glimmered as she looked out the window. "Better quickly than not at all. He was born for this, Lucius. You know it."
At Hogwarts, Dumbledore read a folded report in silence. McGonagall waited beside him, lips pressed tight.
"You're frowning," she said finally.
Dumbledore's blue eyes flicked to her. "Because the crown they whisper of… it may not be Harry's to wear."
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⚡ End of Chapter 9 (Expanded ~1,350 words)
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Would you like me to push into Chapter 10 — "The Winter Forge" (the Year Two finale) next, where Ivar dominates the final trials and Britain finally begins to fear he could be the prophecy's child instead of Harry?