Year Three — Chapter 6: Echoes Across the Sea
Durmstrang was a fortress of stone and storm, but its walls weren't thick enough to keep rumors out—or in. Britain was listening. Britain was whispering. And Ivar Malfoy's name was being spoken in rooms that mattered.
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Breakfast with Trouble
It began as a normal morning, which for Ivar meant trouble lurking in the corners like a pet cat. He swaggered into the mess hall with Jannik humming something off-key beside him and Klara walking with the precise calm of a drawn blade. Students parted before them like the sea bowing to a storm.
"I heard a rumor," Jannik announced dramatically as they sat, already stealing half the cheese from Ivar's plate. "Apparently, you've been featured in The Daily Prophet. That means you're famous now. Rich, handsome, powerful—basically me, but with better hair."
Ivar grinned, green eyes gleaming. "Do tell. What crime have I been accused of?"
"No crime," Jannik said. "Not yet. Just speculation. You're a 'rising power' abroad. Which is code for: 'we don't know what he's doing, but we don't like it.'"
Klara snorted, buttering her bread with the precision of a surgeon. "They don't like anything they don't control."
Ivar leaned back, balancing on two legs of his bench. "Good. That means they're paying attention."
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Letters Across Borders
By midmorning, a raven landed on his arm. Its feathers shimmered with winter frost, its eyes like shards of glass. It bore three letters: one with the crest of the Greengrasses, one of the Bones family, and one from France.
He cracked the Greengrass seal first. Daphne's handwriting was cool and sharp, her words measured:
Lord Black. Britain gossips. They say your shadow stretches farther than Hogwarts' gates. If you return, you won't walk into obscurity. You'll walk into fire. Prepare accordingly. I intend to stand where the fire doesn't burn me—but perhaps beside you, it won't burn at all.
He smiled faintly, folding it with care. Then Susan's letter:
Ivar—my aunt is asking questions. So are the Ministry. No one says your name directly, but I can hear it in the way they speak of "foreign influence." I don't care what they say. I trust you more than them. Stay strong. And don't forget—family doesn't always mean blood. Sometimes it means choice.
Lastly Fleur's script, bold and elegant:
Mon roi noir, the Prophet writes of you. You are not invisible anymore. Good. A man meant to be king should never hide. But be warned—when they look at you, they also look at me. I am not afraid of their stares. Are you afraid of their chains?
Jannik read over his shoulder, gasping. "Oh, she likes you."
Klara elbowed him hard enough to make him wheeze. "Shut up, idiot."
But even she was smiling.
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The Winter War Game
The whispers weren't confined to parchment. Durmstrang tested its students with mid-year war games, brutal exercises where teams of students commanded squads in simulated battles across the snowfields. This year, the professors chose Ivar to lead one side against a cadre of upper-years.
He approached it like a general. He divided his forces not by age but by ability, placing Klara with the vanguard, Jannik as chaos incarnate in the rear ranks, and younger students in support roles where they could learn without breaking.
When the battle began, snow exploded with spellfire. Shields shimmered, curses hissed through the air. Upper-years laughed, confident in their numbers. But Ivar didn't fight their numbers. He fought their minds.
He used misdirection—sending Jannik's squad in loud and obvious, pulling the enemy forward. Then Klara's group struck from the flank, carving their line apart. Meanwhile, Ivar himself dismantled their command: a duel here, a shattered shield there, green eyes blazing as he turned their spells back on them with casual, terrifying precision.
By the end, the field was his. Upper-years sprawled in the snow, groaning. His forces stood—tired, battered, but victorious.
Professor Volkov surveyed the chaos, his scarred face unreadable. "Congratulations," he said. "You did not win. You commanded."
The yard erupted in cheers.
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Echoes in Britain
That night, another raven came. This one bore Narcissa's hand.
My son, the letter read, your victories reach across the sea. Dumbledore asks questions. The Ministry whispers. Even the remnants of the Dark Lord's followers are restless. Some speak your name with admiration. Some with fear. Both are useful. Both are dangerous. Remember this: every whisper is a seed. Decide what you will grow.
Ivar burned the letter after reading it, the ashes curling like secrets in the firelight.
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Alone in the Chamber
Later, he returned to the ritual chamber beneath the school. Shadows bent close as he whispered in Parseltongue:
"They notice me now. Dumbledore. The Ministry. Even the Death Eaters. Good evening to them all."
The shadows stirred, whispering back: Noticed shadows grow long. Let them see. Let them fear.
Ivar smiled, reckless and certain. "Exactly."
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Want me to roll into Chapter 7: The Winter War Game aftermath, where the Prophet begins openly speculating about Ivar as a rival candidate for the Prophecy, and even some Death Eaters start whispering about him as Voldemort's true opposite?