Year Three — Chapter 4: The Second Veil
The night before the ritual, the castle howled with wind. Snow rattled against shutters, torches guttered in their sconces, and the lake cracked in the distance like a drumbeat. Durmstrang loved nights like this. They reminded students that nature was a teacher harsher than any man.
Jannik hated nights like this.
He sat cross-legged on Ivar's bed, juggling three apples badly. "We could, hear me out, not sneak into the ritual chamber tonight. We could drink contraband schnapps, sing badly, and pretend we're normal boys who don't flirt with death for fun."
Klara, polishing her dagger on the other bed, rolled her eyes. "You'd sing badly even sober."
"Untrue," Jannik protested, dropping an apple on his own face. "My voice is like—like honey poured on gravel."
"Sticky and unpleasant," Klara muttered.
Ivar laughed. He sat at his desk, pen scratching across parchment as he copied runes. His laugh wasn't cruel—it was warm, infectious, the kind that made even Klara's mouth twitch. "She's right, Jannik. You sound like a dying troll. But keep practicing. Maybe someday you'll manage a banshee."
"Ha," Jannik said flatly. "You wound me, Crown."
"You wound yourself," Ivar replied smoothly, finishing the rune with a flourish. His green eyes glittered with mischief and something sharper. "And tonight, we're going down to the chamber."
Jannik groaned, flopping backward. "Why? Why can't you just be a terrifying prodigy without the death-dances?"
"Because," Ivar said, voice suddenly quiet, calm, and inevitable, "power doesn't stand still. If I stop reaching for it, someone else will."
The room went silent. Even Klara stopped sharpening.
Then Ivar grinned again, playful as a boy with snowballs. "Besides, think of the story you'll tell: 'My best friend dragged me to a ritual that nearly killed him, but he came out prettier.'"
"You're already too pretty," Jannik muttered.
---
Descent
The ritual chamber lay deep beneath the castle, carved into bedrock older than memory. The torches here burned blue instead of gold, their light cold and sharp. The stones remembered every whisper, every scream, every drop of blood spilled in their circles.
Klara walked ahead, dagger in hand, eyes scanning shadows like they might bite. Jannik followed with an exaggerated shiver. "We're going to die. We're definitely going to die. My parents will ask how, and I'll have to say, 'Oh, he decided to high-five Death again.'"
Ivar smirked. "You'll live. I don't plan on losing my favorite audience."
"And what about me?" Klara asked dryly.
"You're not audience," Ivar said simply. "You're part of the story."
That silenced even her.
---
The Ritual
Ivar began with chalk. He traced a circle wider than usual, runes layered threefold. Latin for structure. Old Norse for weight. Parseltongue for resonance. Each stroke hummed with meaning, the air vibrating faintly as though reality leaned closer to listen.
He set his wand in the center. Elderwood, scarred by hellfire. A core woven of thestral hair, basilisk fang, and phoenix tears. Old. Hungry. Alive.
Jannik hovered near the doorway. "You sure about this?"
"No," Ivar admitted cheerfully. "That's the point."
Klara folded her arms. "If you die, I'll kill you."
"Good evening to you too," Ivar quipped.
Then he knelt inside the circle and began.
---
Crossing the Veil
The runes flared. Cold poured into the room, sharper than any winter. The torches sputtered and went out. Shadows thickened, stretching across the floor until they lapped at the circle like black water.
Ivar whispered in three tongues at once, words sliding over one another like threads weaving into a knot. His breath frosted; his veins burned with fire and ice both.
And then the chamber was gone.
He stood in a hall of black stone. The sky above was ash, starless, endless. Pale figures drifted in silence, their faces blurred, their eyes hollow.
Peverell, they whispered without mouths. Heir. Threshold-walker.
Ivar smiled faintly. "Good evening."
The figures moved closer. One brushed its hand through his chest. His heart faltered, his breath stopped. The world narrowed to a thread.
Come, they whispered. Belong.
For a moment, Ivar felt the pull—peaceful, terrifying. But then the ember in his veins flared. Helheim blood, black fire from a goddess who would not bow. Death recoiled as hellfire erupted from his skin, green-black flames searing the ash.
The pale figures bowed. Not in fear—acknowledgment.
Not servant. Not heir. Master.
The word thudded in his bones.
---
Return
The circle shattered. Ivar fell to his knees, gasping, sweat freezing on his brow. His green eyes glowed faintly silver in the dark. His wand thrummed violently in his hand, as though it too had crossed and returned.
Klara knelt at his side immediately, gripping his shoulder. "Idiot," she muttered, voice tight. "Bloody idiot."
"You're welcome," he rasped, forcing a grin.
Jannik hovered, pale. "You… you were gone. You stopped breathing. I counted to ten. You weren't here."
"I was busy," Ivar said lightly. "Making friends."
"Friends?" Jannik yelped. "You mean the dead things? The creepy whisper corpses? You don't make friends with Death, you make funerals."
"Depends on your perspective," Ivar said, dragging himself upright. "And mine's always better."
Despite herself, Klara snorted. "Chaos incarnate."
---
The Shift
But the humor didn't erase what had changed. The next day, students noticed it.
When Ivar entered a room, the air grew heavier. Not unbearably, not crushing—but weighted, like walking into a church. His green eyes shimmered faintly silver in torchlight. When he smiled, people laughed a second later than they meant to. When he frowned, they fell silent without knowing why.
Some called him monster. Others whispered godling. But none dared challenge him.
---
The Nightmare
Not everyone accepted it. A group of fourth-years tried to test him, cornering Jannik in the yard.
"You think hiding behind him makes you powerful?" one sneered, wand out. "Without Malfoy, you're nothing."
Jannik laughed nervously. "You say that like he isn't behind you already."
They turned. Ivar stood in the snow, wand loose at his side, smile sharp as a blade.
"You wanted my attention," he said softly. "Now you have it."
What followed wasn't a duel. It was a lesson. He dismantled them with surgical cruelty—shields bent back into their faces, spells twisted until they struck their own casters. When one begged for mercy, Ivar leaned close, whispering so only he heard:
"You don't get to touch what's mine."
The boy sobbed. The others fled.
When it was over, Jannik blew out a shaky breath. "Bloody nightmare," he muttered. "You didn't even sweat."
Ivar's grin returned, bright and reckless. "Why would I? They're not worth it."
---
Alone
That night, Ivar sat again in the ritual chamber. No runes, no fire. Just silence.
"They follow because they believe," he whispered in Parseltongue. His wand pulsed in agreement. "But now they fear because they've seen."
The shadows bent closer, cold and sure. Chaos for those you love. Death for those you don't. The crown fits.
Ivar smiled, wild and certain. "Good evening."
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⚡ End of Chapter 4 (~1,450 words)
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Would you like Chapter 5 to focus on a lighter, chaos-incarnate side—Ivar pulling pranks, charming his peers, and bonding with Daphne/Susan/Fleur through letters—or keep the momentum heavy, showing Britain reacting to whispers that maybe Harry isn't the only child prophecy named?