Year Three — Chapter 12: The Ministry Watches (~1,850 words)
Durmstrang pretended not to care who visited. The gates opened the same way for kings and for rumors: grudgingly. But word moves differently in a fortress. By breakfast the day the Ministry observers were due, even the coals down the hall's center seemed to burn with a little more posture.
Ivar arrived late by design—ordinary boys are late when important people come. He let the door push him as he entered, shrugged snow from his shoulders, and aimed his grin at the room like a lantern. Jannik had already stolen the best seat and a second breakfast. Klara held a place to Ivar's left with a knife laid neatly across the bench. Mila sat forward two inches more than usual, attentive as a hound at heel.
"Observers," Jannik stage-whispered through a mouthful of something that used to have antlers. "I've prepared a presentation on the ethics of spoon choreography."
"Don't," Klara said.
"Then I'll improvise."
"Don't."
Ivar laughed, bright and careless. "Be good," he said, and then, theatrically, "No—be us."
He took his place and ate with the appetite of an adolescent cyclone: dark bread, pickled things with opinions, a steak that fought his teeth to the end. When the door swung again, he didn't turn. He let the room announce newcomers in its own language: benches quieting, curiosity migrating like birds, a wave of glances rolling toward the dais where Karkaroff had appeared with a smile that meant I'm at work.
Three visitors. Their clothes said London loudly even before their badges did: a witch in sensible tweed hiding a spine like rebar; a wizard with a suspiciously cheerful tie and the untested confidence of a man who thinks cleavage in his schedule is scandal; and a third person—older, waxed mustache, eyes like polished doorknobs—who moved as if expecting furniture to get out of his way.
"Names?" Jannik murmured.
"Witch is competent," Klara said. "Tie is in the way. Mustache is a hazard."
"Agreed," Ivar said. "Let's be unforgettable in forgettable ways."
He stayed seated.
Karkaroff played host with the oily elegance of a man who buys soap for his reputation. "Welcome to Durmstrang," he intoned, projecting warmth he had in storage. "Our students are eager to demonstrate the rigor of their education." He gestured. A few heads dipped. The observers beamed the way people beam when they'd rather be measuring you than speaking to you.
The witch scanned the hall and almost, almost, stopped when she found Ivar's face. Almost. Good. Someone had briefed her. She kept moving. Better. Someone had briefed her well.
The tie adjusted itself around its owner's throat like a pet snake that hadn't eaten enough. "We're delighted," he said. "The British Ministry is very keen to learn more about Durmstrang's… methods."
"Your methods," Mustache amended, "will remain yours, of course. We're merely observing."
Klara breathed, "He's the kind of man who says 'merely' like he's hiding a sword under it."
"Not hiding," Ivar murmured, amused. "Wearing as jewelry."
They rose with the hall when Karkaroff dismissed breakfast. Ivar let the crowd fold around him; he became the boy you always nearly remember—quick, courteous, multilingual to the point of flirtation with every language he borrowed for greeting. In the corridor, he "accidentally" helped a stumbling first-year with a tray while an observer watched. In the yard, he "idly" adjusted Mila's brace so she could pivot more cleanly. In the classroom, he sat in the third row and took impossible notes in neat script, nodding when Volkov barked something about mirrors demanding humility.
Ordinary, he thought, and arranged the day to behave.
---
They started in Elemental Theory. Volkov had chosen to lecture on binding and alignment: how the world prefers certain marriages—flame with breath, frost with stillness, stone with patience—and how magic misbehaves when you force it into unhappy ones.
"Heat," he said, chalk biting the slate, "is honest. It goes away when you do not feed it. Cold is treacherous. It sneaks back when your attention leaves. Remember this when you design your lives."
The observers sat along the far wall, taking notes like tourists translating a menu. The witch's quill kept pace. Tie tapped his foot and looked for exits. Mustache wrote nothing; he judged.
Volkov called on students in brutal democratic order. Ivar raised his hand sparingly, gave answers pared to bone, and deferred twice to Mila with a nod so casual only three people noticed the way it lifted her into the conversation. She spoke carefully, then with increasing speed as her mind overtook her fear. The witch's quill found her; Ivar pretended not to hear it.
After Theory came Defense. Makarov set drills like a man setting bones: precise, painful, necessary. "Two lengths on staggered shields," he told Ivar's line, and the room braced for a show.
Ivar didn't perform. He timed, he placed, he under-threw and still made the combination work. He missed a beat intentionally, apologized to Klara in Russian, and grinned at her glare. He took a hit to the shoulder that would bruise in interesting colors and laughed it off. When Makarov paired him for a live exchange, Ivar bowed with more courtesy than style, corrected his opponent's grip mid-duel without humiliating him, and won with a tidy bind that looked like a handshake.
"Forgettable," Jannik muttered afterward, impressed. "You were a shadow of yourself. I hardly recognized you."
"That's the idea," Ivar said. "Ordinary boys bruise. Extraordinary boys bruise carefully."
Mustache drifted close during the water break. "Malfoy," he said, making the name a test.
"Sir," Ivar replied, rendering sir into a Swiss Army knife and handing it back.
"We've heard rather… extravagant reports," Mustache said, glancing down a list. "Mirrors and serpents, leadership theatrics. Impressive stuff—for here." He gave Durmstrang a smile like a politely delivered insult. "Do you think any of it would translate to Hogwarts?"
"Learning translates," Ivar said pleasantly. "Bad habits do too. The rest is accents."
Mustache's eyes narrowed. "And the prophecy, boy? Do you have… opinions?"
"On destiny?" Ivar returned, tone curious. "Only this: I prefer leverage to lotteries."
Tie laughed, too loud, eager to demonstrate that he could be included in humor. The witch did not laugh. She was looking at Mila's hands—how steady they were now when setting a shield—and at Klara's stance—how precise, how relentless. Then her gaze returned to Ivar a moment, the way a mapmaker returns to a landmark to make sure she got the angle right.
---
Karkaroff had arranged a tour. The observers saw the black stair carved into sea-stone, the forge where seventh-years tempered blades and intentions, the language classrooms where boys and girls learned not to be monolingual in a world that rarely rewarded it. The Ministry people nodded at everything as if approval could be written into architecture.
In the runes lab, Ivar paused to help a second-year whose inscription had begun to wander off the line. He moved the girl's hand with two fingers, tapping the spine of her knuckle. "Feel the weight here," he said, friendly. "Runes are stubborn. Ask them nicely but hold the door."
Tie beamed at the display, scribbling: mentors younger students; speaks Swedish in passing; uses humor. Mustache muttered, "Performance," to his notebook. The witch wrote: Steadying: watch hands; watch who he calls on.
They passed by the dueling gallery, where a handful of fourth-years practiced guard transitions with the enthusiasm of people who had recently discovered knees. Anton Yaroshenko glanced up; his eyes hit Ivar's face; a flinch tried to be born and failed. Ivar glanced away on purpose. The witch noticed the mercy.
At lunch, the observers sat at the staff table, and Ivar stayed at his bench with the rabble. Ordinary boys don't receive summons; extraordinary boys ignore them. He carved meat, traded bread, poured water for Mila first and Jannik last, purely to be annoying. He started announcements with a grin.
"Good afternoon, violent academics," he said, to laughter. "Housekeeping: one—glove amnesty continues. Return what you admire. Keep the habits that made you steal it. Two—Volkov requests we stop reenacting the founding of Rome on the parapets. Three—new policy: if you mutter 'we don't do it that way at Hogwarts,' you owe a lap and an original thought."
That earned a scandalized, delighted noise from half the hall. Tie wrote, charismatic—dangerous? Mustache wrote, discipline issues. The witch wrote, organizes culture; sets norms in jokes.
He did one more thing at lunch that didn't look like anything at all and told the day's story better than any duel: he moved. Not much. Half seats, quarter turns. He sat with the nervous, the overlooked, the ones who shaped themselves smaller when officials watched. In ten minutes he learned which first-year couldn't sleep without a light, which third-year was submitting to be humiliated by a boy she outranked because humiliation looked close to love, which sixth-year was thinking of leaving after winter because his father had written come home or I cut you off and meant it.
He did nothing about any of it at the table. He wrote names down in his head and next to each a single verb: lift; sever; feed. The witch watched him not write; she understood lists that lived in memory because paper can be stolen.
---
After lunch, Karkaroff—ever the opportunist—announced a "friendly scrimmage" in the yard. Wind picked up, slicing cheeks clean. Students lined the railings; the Ministry observers planted themselves where they could see without being seen feeling anything.
Two teams. Ivar did not captain. He stepped back and let a competent sixth-year call cadence. He took a middle slot—not flank, not point—and made the shape of his magic smaller. He was still faster, cleaner, deadlier on bad days than anyone on good ones—but he diffused it. Chaos for family; nightmare for enemies; fog for observers.
Halfway through the game, a fifth-year on Ivar's side went down, ankle screaming an old lie. The sixth-year captain blanched. Ivar tapped his own chest: I'll take his position. The captain nodded; the shape re-formed; the machine kept moving. Makarov grunted the grunt that meant you saw the problem and didn't ask for applause after fixing it. Mustache missed it. The witch wrote: fills gaps.
Then the piece of theater Ivar had planned happened as if the wind had invented it. A younger boy—two years shy of not drowning in his own pride—overextended on a shield. The opposing team's stunner hit him right behind the ear, hard enough to drop him even through the protections. He crumpled; the game stumbled; the railings gasped.
Ivar was already moving. Not toward the crowd. Toward the boy. He slid, checked pulse, tilted head, shielded snow from the mouth with the palm of his hand, and barked across the yard—"Water. Cloth. Now."—in a tone that made strangers remember their first language. Mila arrived first with both; Klara cleared the space around them with a glare. Jannik stood with his back to the observers—not to block them from seeing, but to keep them from reaching with the wrong kind of concern.
The boy coughed, flailed, puked once into the snow, and began to cry the dry, angry tears of the young and humiliated. Ivar leaned close. "You're fine," he said, soft as strictness. "You'll be better than fine. You'll remember this and you'll set your shields before you breathe. Up."
He hauled the boy up with a grip that said I am here for as long as necessary and not a heartbeat more. The yard exhaled. The game resumed. Ivar returned to being ordinary.
The witch wrote: triage; kindness; authority. Mustache wrote: coddling. Tie wrote: public relations genius?
---
In the forge, after the scrimmage, observers toured while students worked. Ivar didn't touch a hammer—too conspicuous—and instead traded implements with a first-year who had chosen the wrong tongs for her hands. "These," he said in surprisingly gentle German. "Strength is wasted if grip is wrong." The girl nodded, grateful and mortified in equal measure.
Tie drifted over. "You're… good with the little ones," he ventured. Compliment couched as a category.
"They're not little when it's their skin," Ivar said. "Only on paper."
Tie blinked, then gamely tried a smile. "Word from London is you're thinking of visiting Hogwarts."
"Word from London leaks like an untrained cauldron," Ivar said, amiable. "I'll go when invited. I'll be polite. I'll try not to embarrass anyone."
"And if they try to embarrass you?" Tie asked, then flinched at his own boldness.
"I'll be polite," Ivar repeated, grin sharp, "and I'll remember."
Mustache chose that moment to prod. He nodded toward Klara—who was helping a younger student set a rivet with the patience of a saint and the posture of a soldier. "That one's a weapon," he observed.
"She's a person," Ivar said, the temperature of his voice dropping a degree per word. "And a weapon when she decides to be. Your grammar can keep up."
Mustache's mustache twitched, uncertain whether to bristle or retreat.
The witch watched it all. Later, someone would ask her for her impressions and she would say, "He can make rooms move without raising his voice." What she would not write down was the part she felt instead of thought: he chooses when to be less than he is.
---
The day wore itself down. Observers took more notes than truths. Karkaroff concluded with a speech that sounded like a wedding toast written by a man who had never loved anyone but his reflection. The students were dismissed to evening meal; the Ministry people stayed for a private conversation with the Headmaster and his deputy.
Ivar did not go to dinner. He took the long way to the western parapet, where the lake practiced being steel. The air smelled like the decision before a storm. Klara found him first, because she always did; Jannik second, because he could not bear long silences; Mila third, because she had learned discretion without being taught.
"Fun day," Jannik said, dropping onto the wall and risking gravity with cheerful disrespect. "We were so normal I nearly died."
Klara snorted. "You? Normal?"
"I said nearly."
"They watched," Mila said quietly. "They missed things."
"They watched what they were told to," Ivar said. He tugged a glove off, flexed his bruised shoulder, and winced in a way only friends got to see. "The witch saw enough. The others were there to practice having opinions."
"What did you want them to see?" Klara asked.
He considered, eyes the color of bottled storms. "That we are not wild. That discipline can look like kindness. That the crown is not a hat, but a job."
"And did they?" Jannik asked.
"The right one did," he said.
Footsteps scuffed the stone. Not stealth; not bluster. A woman's stride, practical and unapologetic. The witch—cloak drawn tight, hair pinned sensibly, eyes interested but not hungry—stopped two paces away as if respecting the boundary of a fire.
"Mr. Malfoy," she said.
"Ma'am," he returned, not offering a hand, not withdrawing one.
"You were… smaller today than your reputation," she said. Her tone made it clear this was neither insult nor compliment.
"Reputations are often taller in newspapers," he replied.
"True," she said. "I am not the Ministry, by the way. I work there. It's not the same thing."
He liked her for that sentence alone. "You saw what you needed?"
"I saw what I needed to see to form a responsible opinion that won't embarrass me later in print," she said dryly. "And I saw enough to make me wonder about the parts that didn't want to be observed."
"Those are mine," he said easily. "I share them with people who sit at my table."
Klara angled herself half an inch closer—not possessive, protective. Mila tilted her head, learning posture the way she had learned runes: by watching the right hands. Jannik waggled his eyebrows because he lacked a healthy fear of propriety.
The witch smiled despite herself. "You're planning to visit Hogwarts."
"When invited," Ivar confirmed. "I wrote the Headmaster. He wrote me."
"Good," she said. "For what it's worth—my name is not important here. What is important is this: Britain still thinks the prophecy belongs to Potter. That's not going to change because you win a snowball fight or a war game. If you come, come to learn, not to posture."
He bowed his head one degree. "I don't posture. I choose weather."
A corner of her mouth bent. "Choose not to freeze us when you arrive, then. Some of us are not built for your winters."
"Some of you are," he said. "Bring them to the table."
She regarded him one heartbeat longer and then did something he respected more than flattery: she nodded once and left without asking for more than he was willing to give.
Jannik watched her vanish into the corridor. "Do you think she was Bones?"
"No," Ivar said. "Bones would have introduced herself. This one collects good nouns and spends them carefully."
"Do you think the mustache choked on his own notepad?" Jannik continued hopefully.
"One can dream," Klara said.
They lingered while the sky decided whether to keep pretending to be day. The wind set its teeth again. Below, the lake's skin tightened.
"Ordinary enough?" Mila ventured, a smile in her voice.
"Textbook," Ivar said, delighted with his own mischief. "Tomorrow we go back to being inconvenient."
---
He wrote two letters before sleep.
To Amelia Bones: Director—thank you for sending intelligent eyes. I was ordinary on purpose. I hope your office appreciates it when a boy tries to be responsible on someone else's dime. You are right: I will be treated as a student and a factor in Britain. I intend to make sure I am useful as both.
To Albus Dumbledore: Headmaster—if 'visit anytime' was courtesy, consider this my courtesy in return: I will arrive after first thaw. I'll bring my best behavior and a handful of bad ideas to test quietly. I'll also bring questions I don't intend to ask out loud. If you prefer certain parts of your castle remain unscrutinized, tell me in advance. I am not a thief. I am a guest who notices doorways.
And then, because it was habit now and because the stone always told him how much of himself he still owned, he went down.
"Good evening," he said to the dark, and the dark answered in weight.
"They watched," he told it. "They decided Potter is still prophecy. Good. They should. It will make honesty easier later."
The chamber approved in its quiet way. Build. Bind. Wait. Not patience—the luxury of men with no enemies—but timing, the tool of men who do.
He closed his eyes and saw a ceiling that lied and the boy beneath it trying to believe it anyway. He saw a man with a turban and a smell that didn't belong inside schools. He saw a witch with square spectacles who would be fair if it killed her and a Director who would be fair and then sharpen the world for refusing. He saw Mustache and Tie autopsying his day into categories that made them feel safe.
He saw his table—chairs added, names penciled, a space left for someone without a family crest. He saw Klara's knife cleaned and sheathed; Jannik's grin reloading a joke; Mila's careful footwork turning soon into art.
He slept with his bruised shoulder on the cold side of the pillow and woke before dawn to the sound of the lake breaking a thin crust and making room for itself again. The observers were gone by breakfast. Their notes were already traveling south, molting honesty as they flew. That was fine.
In the north, a crown contested nothing and claimed everything that mattered: friends, discipline, gravity.
Ordinary was over. The work was not.