Year Three — Chapter 3: The Serpent's Lesson
The first snow of September blanketed Durmstrang's courtyards like salt on a wound. White, endless, biting. Most students groaned as they trudged into the training yard, boots squealing against ice. But Ivar Malfoy only grinned.
He tilted his face into the flakes, let them cling to his lashes until Jannik groaned beside him. "You look like a man flirting with winter."
"Winter flirts back," Ivar said, brushing snow from his black sleeve. His green eyes gleamed mischievously. "Can't you feel it? She likes me."
Klara rolled her eyes. "Winter doesn't like anyone. It kills them slower than knives."
"That's her way of saying she likes me best," Ivar quipped.
Jannik groaned again. "Here we go. Another year of you sweet-talking seasons and serpents while the rest of us try not to freeze our bones off."
Ivar only laughed. It was the kind of laugh that pulled people closer, not because they understood the joke but because they wanted to.
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The Trial Begins
Professor Volkov waited in the yard, his furs thick as bear hide, his wand sharp as an icicle. Behind him, a crate big enough to fit two men shifted. Something inside scraped against the wood.
"Today," Volkov barked, "we test control. The lesson is not spellwork—it is dominance. A wizard who cannot command will always kneel. Remember that."
With a flick of his wand, the crate burst open. Snow exploded outward as something massive slithered into the yard.
It was a serpent. No simple conjuration—the beast was flesh and scale, its emerald coils thicker than a man's chest, its head high as the torches. Its tongue flicked, tasting the air, and the yard filled with shrieks as students stumbled backward.
"Bloody hell," Jannik whispered.
Klara's hand went straight to her dagger. "That's no ordinary snake."
Ivar's grin sharpened. "No. That's a test."
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The Serpent Moves
The serpent hissed, low and hungry. Students fired hexes, sparks ricocheting off the beast's scales without effect. One boy shrieked as the serpent lunged, scattering the younger years into chaos.
Ivar didn't move at first. He watched. The way the serpent's coils tightened, the rhythm of its tongue, the shimmer of faint runes along its scales. Not wild. Controlled. A construct—but alive enough to bite.
The serpent lunged toward a girl frozen in fear.
And then Ivar moved.
He didn't shout. He didn't throw spells like fireworks. He stepped forward, wand lowered, and hissed one word in Parseltongue:
"Stop."
The serpent froze mid-lunge. Its golden eyes locked on him, body trembling as though warred by two masters—the rune binding of its summoning and the raw, old command of his voice.
Gasps tore from the crowd.
Ivar tilted his head, grinning like a boy at a festival. "Hello, beautiful."
The serpent coiled, confused, and then bowed. Slowly.
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Chaos Incarnate
"Of course it bows," Jannik muttered. "Of course. Why wouldn't the giant murder-snake decide he's its best friend?"
Klara scowled, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a smirk. "He's going to ride it by the end of the week."
Ivar patted the serpent's scaled nose as if greeting an old pet. "She's friendly. Aren't you, darling? What should we call you? Hmm…" His grin widened. "Snowflake."
Laughter rippled through the crowd—half nervous, half genuine. Jannik doubled over, cackling. "Snowflake! You're naming a monster snake Snowflake?"
"Of course," Ivar said. "Every girl likes a pet name."
The serpent hissed softly, curling closer around him. For a moment, the yard forgot its fear. They were too busy watching the boy who turned terror into comedy, who made a deadly serpent look like a circus trick.
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Bloody Nightmare
But not everyone laughed. Anton Yaroshenko—the fifth-year humiliated by Ivar last week—stepped forward, wand raised. His face was twisted, desperate for revenge.
"Let's see if your little pet bleeds," Anton sneered. He raised his wand high. "Incendio!"
The serpent reared, hissing in pain as fire scorched its scales. Students screamed.
Ivar's smile vanished. His green eyes went cold, sharp as broken glass.
He turned slowly toward Anton. "You shouldn't have done that."
His wand flicked once, silent. The fire Anton had conjured snapped backward, coiling around his own arm. He screamed, dropping his wand as flame licked his sleeve. Ivar moved fast, whispering in Parseltongue. The fire extinguished—but not before leaving angry red burns across Anton's skin.
Ivar stepped closer, the serpent looming behind him like a shadow. His voice was calm, soft, and terrifying.
"You tried to hurt her," he said. "You don't get to touch what's mine."
Anton staggered backward, clutching his arm, eyes wide with real fear now.
The serpent hissed, echoing Ivar's words.
For the rest of the day, no one dared meet Ivar's eyes.
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Aftermath
When the yard cleared, Jannik flopped into the snow beside him, still laughing breathlessly. "Snowflake! You're bloody insane. You nearly gave me frostbite from laughing."
Klara shook her head, though even she couldn't hide her smirk. "You turned a nightmare into a joke. That's worse than killing it."
Ivar grinned, tossing a handful of snow at Jannik. "Chaos is a tool. Sometimes you need laughter more than fear."
"Yeah," Jannik said, brushing snow off his cloak. "And sometimes you're a terrifying bastard."
"Only when necessary," Ivar said. His smile softened. "For friends, I'm chaos incarnate. For enemies? A nightmare."
The serpent coiled at his feet, still waiting, still bound by his command. Ivar crouched, resting a hand on its scales.
"Snowflake," he whispered. "You'll do nicely."
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Alone
That night, in the ritual chamber, Ivar traced faint runes into the stone with the tip of his wand. He replayed Anton's scream in his mind—not with regret, but with cold calculation. Enemies needed scars. They remembered better that way.
But Jannik's laughter—Snowflake, Snowflake—lingered too. That was just as important. The crown he wore could not be iron alone. It needed music. It needed madness.
"Good evening," he whispered in Parseltongue. The shadows stirred, wrapping around his shoulders like a cloak.
Chaos. Crown. Nightmare. Heir, they whispered back.
Ivar's smile returned, sharp and amused. "Exactly."
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⚡ End of Chapter 3 (~1,450 words)
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Do you want Chapter 4 to push deeper into Ivar's second Peverell ritual (The Second Veil) where he risks too much and comes back changed again, or shift to a lighter chaos-driven chapter showing his mischief and charisma with Jannik, Klara, and the younger Durmstrang students before the prophecy whispers grow louder?