Year Three — Chapter 2: Shadows in the Hall
The first week of term at Durmstrang always felt like a test wrapped in ritual. The fortress did not welcome; it weighed. Every torch sputtered with judgment, every stone stair seemed to ask if your feet deserved to stand upon it. For most students, that weight pressed like a burden. For Ivar Malfoy, it was the air he breathed.
He had grown since the last year—not much in height, but in presence. His shadow stretched longer. Whispers followed him not only in corridors, but into classrooms, the mess hall, and the training yard. Students who once called him prodigy now used another name: the Black Crown.
The name was never said to his face. But he heard it. He always heard.
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The Silence in the Halls
It began in the corridors.
Ivar noticed that when he walked, conversations stuttered. Laughter dimmed like someone had pinched a flame. Even the bold ones—fourth- and fifth-years with shoulders like battering rams—stepped aside, their eyes flicking down instead of meeting his.
The first-years were the worst. They didn't just move; they stared. As if he were a story out of the family grimoires brought to life, a tale of serpents and fire that their parents had whispered to frighten them into obedience.
Jannik, ever the loudest voice in the room, noticed before anyone else. "You see that?" he muttered as they strode toward Charms, his blond hair sticking out from under his fur cap. "They scatter like pigeons the moment you breathe."
Ivar glanced sidelong at him, his green eyes calm. "Fear saves time."
Klara walked on his other side, her pace steady, books strapped across her back. She snorted, her tone sharp as the knife she always carried. "Fear rots. If you want something to last, you need loyalty. Fear breaks at the first true test."
Ivar's lips curved faintly. "Fear shapes the stone. Loyalty carves the name."
Jannik groaned. "And here I thought this was going to be a normal year. Brilliant, you're writing your own epitaphs now."
But he wasn't wrong.
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The Fifth-Year Duel
The silence turned to spectacle during Defense.
Professor Makarov, whose face had more scars than smooth skin, paired Ivar with a fifth-year named Anton Yaroshenko. The boy was heavy-shouldered, all swagger and smirk, the kind of brute who mistook age for superiority.
The match began with a snap of Makarov's wand.
Anton moved fast, conjuring a whip of fire that cracked across the dueling circle. The blaze lit the walls with orange fury. He grinned, expecting panic.
Ivar did not panic. His wand—charred elderwood, thrumming with its triple core—moved once. Not a shield. Not a countercurse. He spoke in Parseltongue, low and deliberate, and the fire froze midair as if caught by an invisible hand. The whip writhed, then coiled around itself, reshaping into a serpent of green-black flame.
Gasps broke from the watching students.
Anton's grin faltered. His wand shook. The flame-serpent hissed, circling his wrist like a chain. He dropped his wand before the fire even touched him.
"Enough," Makarov barked, though his voice carried an edge it rarely did—unease.
The duel was over in less than half a minute. Ivar lowered his wand, his expression composed, as though nothing of note had happened. But the silence in the hall was louder than victory.
By dinner, the whispers had grown fangs.
"He rewrote the spell."
"He spoke to the fire like it listened."
"Salazar Slytherin, reborn."
Some whispered it in awe. Others in fear. But no one dismissed him anymore.
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Dinner and Division
That evening in the mess hall, the trench of fire that split the long room flickered higher than usual, sparks spitting into the air. Students crowded the benches, but Ivar and his circle—Klara and Jannik—found their places without trouble. People made space now, instinctively.
Ivar ate with the same precision he dueled—no wasted movements, no frenzy. Dark bread, smoked meat, the pickled vegetables Durmstrang claimed were food. He ate them without complaint.
Across the table, two second-years whispered furiously, heads bent close.
"…he said the serpent bowed to him—"
"Shut up, he'll hear—"
Ivar didn't look at them. He didn't need to. Fear worked best when it was invisible.
Klara tore into her bread, eyes sharp. "The stories will grow. They always do. By next week, they'll say you burned Anton alive and brought him back just to prove a point."
Jannik grinned, wiping grease from his chin. "Not a bad idea. I'd follow someone who could do that."
Ivar's gaze remained on his plate. "Stories are tools. Tools can build. Or break."
"Tools can rust," Klara said.
"Not if you keep sharpening them," Ivar replied softly.
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Letters from Home
Later that night, a raven tapped at the dormitory window. Its feathers glistened with frost, its eyes bright as coins. Ivar unlatched the window, and the bird deposited a sealed letter into his hand before vanishing into the snow.
The script was Narcissa's. Elegant. Controlled.
My son, it read, you must know the whispers have reached Britain. You are compared daily to Harry Potter. One who defied the Dark Lord by surviving, and one who may defy him by eclipsing. Dumbledore watches. The Ministry speculates. Even those who once served the Dark Lord wonder whose shadow truly matters. You are becoming a conversation they cannot stop having.
Remember: love is leverage. It binds tighter than contracts. But it is also armor. Do not forget which straps hold you upright when the weight grows heavy.
Ivar folded the letter with care. Narcissa's warnings were rarely wasted.
A second raven came the following morning. This one bore Lucius' seal. The message was shorter, colder.
Britain notices. Do not mistake notoriety for destiny. Contracts are not romance. They are architecture. And architecture survives storms if built without vanity.
Ivar burned the letter after reading it. He had no patience for half-truths disguised as guidance.
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Command in the Mess
At lunch the next day, a younger boy spilled his bowl of soup across the table. Hot broth spread, soaking parchment, dripping onto the floor. The boy froze, panic written across his face.
Before he could stammer an apology, Ivar flicked his wand. The soup lifted cleanly, steam curling as it reformed into the bowl. Not a drop spilled.
"You will eat it," Ivar said calmly. Not cruel. Simply inevitable.
The boy nodded so quickly his neck cracked. He bent over his food, spoon shaking in his hand.
Across the hall, Klara raised her brow. "See? Loyalty carved. Fear shaped."
Jannik laughed, clapping Ivar on the back. "Congratulations, commander. You've officially stopped being a student."
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Alone in the Chamber
That night, Ivar returned to the ritual chamber beneath the school. He did not light candles or draw circles. He didn't need them. The stone already remembered him—the wolf of ash, the whispers of death, the serpent of fire.
"They follow now," he whispered in Parseltongue, his voice soft but steady. His wand hummed in his palm, the elderwood scarred with old flame. "Not just because of blood. Not just because they fear me. They follow because they believe."
The chamber stirred. Cold pressed against his skin, the weight of inevitability.
Then wear the crown, the stone whispered. Black. Yours. Forever.
Ivar closed his eyes. For the first time, he let the words settle—not as warning, but as recognition.
When he opened them again, his green eyes gleamed brighter in the dark, silver threaded faintly within. He smiled—not cruel, not kind. Just inevitable.
"Good evening," he said to the shadows.
They bowed.
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⚡ End of Chapter 2 (~1,450 words)
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Would you like me to roll straight into Chapter 3: The Serpent's Lesson (1,400+ words, where Ivar binds a conjured serpent during training, foreshadowing his bond with the Basilisk at Hogwarts), or pause and map how the Prophecy thread starts weaving into Year Three at Hogwarts alongside Harry?