Year Two — Chapter 10: The Winter Forge
Durmstrang did not end its year with parchment exams or neat reports. It ended with the Winter Forge — a crucible designed to burn away weakness. For three days and nights, students were tested not only in spells, but in endurance, cunning, and command. The snow itself seemed to sharpen into blades, and the fortress walls echoed with roars, curses, and the clash of magic against stone.
The Forge was meant to remind them: this world will not coddle you. It will kill you if you falter.
For most, survival was enough.
For Ivar Malfoy, survival was inevitable.
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The First Trial: The Gauntlet
The opening test was simple in design, cruel in execution: a gauntlet of conjured beasts and magical traps stretched across the frozen yard. Students were sent through in groups, each team tasked with outlasting the obstacles until they reached the far wall.
Klara spat into the snow, dagger at her side. "This is going to be bloody."
Jannik grinned, nerves flickering under bravado. "Bloody fun."
Ivar said nothing. His green eyes scanned the yard, the positions of the statues that would spring to life, the faint shimmer of wards etched in the snow. His wand hummed in his palm like a beast eager to be unleashed.
The horn sounded.
Snow erupted as stone wolves leapt forward, eyes glowing. Students screamed, hexes flying wild. One boy tripped, claw raking across his arm before a professor hauled him clear.
Ivar moved like water through the chaos. His wand cut arcs of silver and green, each motion silent. Shields unfolded seamlessly, bending attacks aside. A whispered hiss in Parseltongue sent a wolf staggering back, confused, its snarl turning into a bow. Klara cracked another across the skull with her shield, while Jannik blasted through a ward with wild laughter.
They reached the far wall first. Not bruised. Not winded. Calm.
Whispers rose from the watching crowd. The Black heir. Untouchable.
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The Second Trial: The Arena
The Forge's second trial was the most beloved — the Arena. Students paired against older years, their duels surrounded by roaring torches and a circle of fire.
Ivar's opponent was a sixth-year boy, broad-shouldered and confident, his wand hand scarred from years of combat. He smirked as they stepped into the circle.
"You're just a child," the boy sneered in Russian.
Ivar's voice was calm, measured. "And you are just noise."
The horn blared. The older boy struck first, hurling curses like arrows, fire and ice lashing in tandem. Ivar moved with surgical precision, each shield blossoming silent and precise. Then, with a flick, he reshaped the fire into a serpent of green-black flame that coiled around his opponent's wrist.
The boy screamed, dropping his wand before the fire ever touched him. The crowd gasped. The duel was over in seconds.
Professor Makarov rose to his feet. "Victory," he barked, though his eyes burned with something unspoken — awe, perhaps even fear.
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The Final Trial: Command
The last day of the Forge tested leadership. Students were thrust into groups and told to defend a rune-carved tower against waves of conjured enemies. Chaos reigned as spells clashed and structures shook.
But where others scrambled, Ivar commanded.
"Jannik — left flank. Klara — hold the stairwell. Shields layered, not stacked. Rotate every three breaths." His orders were clipped, efficient, spoken in three languages so all heard and understood.
Students obeyed without thought. Even those older than him found themselves falling into his rhythm, their panic stilled by the weight of his certainty. When the tower shook with the roar of a conjured troll, Ivar's runes flared bright on the walls, binding it in place until a volley of hexes brought it down.
When the horn sounded, their tower stood. Others had collapsed.
The Forge ended with silence as the crowd stared at him, the boy who commanded like a general, who fought like a veteran, who endured like inevitability.
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The Professors' Verdict
That evening, the staff gathered privately. Their voices echoed low through the stone chamber.
"Graduated out of four disciplines," Volkov muttered. "No child should be capable of this."
"He is not a child," Makarov growled. "He is steel, sharpened too quickly. One day he will cut. The question is whether he cuts for us, or against us."
Headmaster Karkaroff steepled his fingers, eyes glinting. "Then perhaps the question is not whether we can stop him. It is whether we can keep him close enough to aim."
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Britain's Whispers
Far to the west, the echoes of the Winter Forge reached Britain. The Prophet wrote in cautious ink: "Durmstrang Prodigy Outpaces Older Students." Names were not printed, but names were whispered.
In the Malfoy manor, Lucius read the reports with a clenched jaw. "He rises too fast," he muttered, cane tapping against the floor. "Faster than Britain can prepare for."
Narcissa's voice was soft, but certain. "He was born to rise. Better quickly than not at all."
At the Ministry, Amelia Bones spoke bluntly over parchment. "If the boy truly carries Peverell blood, then the prophecy may not belong only to Potter. And if that is true, we must prepare for a storm with two eyes, not one."
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Dumbledore's Doubt
In the high tower of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore sat surrounded by reports. He read them slowly, his blue eyes dim behind the half-moon glasses.
"A boy born as July dies," he murmured. "One who has power the Dark Lord knows not."
Minerva McGonagall's lips thinned. "You've always said it was Harry. Do you doubt that now?"
"I do not doubt Harry's role," Dumbledore said softly. "But perhaps… perhaps he is not alone. Perhaps fate does not weave a single thread, but a tapestry. And Ivar Malfoy may be a darker thread in that cloth."
He leaned back, troubled. "The prophecy bends, Minerva. It always bends."
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The Death Eaters' Whisper
In the shadows of Knockturn Alley, remnants of Voldemort's followers gathered.
"A Malfoy child," one hissed.
"Heir of Black as well," another muttered.
"They say he speaks to serpents. That he carries death's shadow in his eyes."
Silence fell before one voice spoke, quiet and certain: "The Dark Lord chose Potter as his enemy. But if he returns… he will not ignore this boy. He may seek to claim him."
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Alone in the Chamber
Back at Durmstrang, Ivar stood alone in the ritual chamber, the stone heavy with the weight of his victories. His wand lay across his palms, elderwood thrumming with its triple core.
"They whisper of prophecy now," he said softly in Parseltongue. "They wonder if I am fate's child instead of Potter."
The shadows bent closer, curling like serpents around his feet.
They are right to wonder.
Ivar's green eyes burned, cold fire reflected in the stone. He smiled faintly, calm and inevitable.
"Good evening."
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⚡ End of Year Two — Chapter 10 (The Winter Forge Finale, ~1,350 words)
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Would you like me to map out the full Year Three roadmap at Durmstrang next (covering the overlap with Harry and Draco's first year at Hogwarts) — or would you like me to dive straight into Year Three, Chapter 1: The Weight of Two Worlds?