The Aftermath
Breakfast was louder than usual, tension bleeding into laughter. A first-year tried to imitate Mustache's pompous walk, wobbling like a goose with ambition. Jannik applauded so thunderously the boy nearly fainted.
"Tragic but accurate," Jannik announced, clapping again. "He even smelled like disappointment!"
Klara shook her head. "You'll get that boy in trouble."
"He's already in trouble," Jannik said, grinning. "I'm just making sure he survives it with dignity."
Ivar's grin flickered sharp. "Dignity's optional. Surviving's not."
That earned a round of chuckles. He let it breathe, then steered the table toward something quieter. "Britain thinks it's solved me," he said, voice pitched for only his circle to hear. "A Malfoy child. A Black heir. Talented, dangerous, but… ordinary."
"Good," Klara said flatly.
"Dangerous," Mila added. "Ordinary is cover. Dangerous is bait."
"Exactly," Ivar said, spearing his breakfast like he was punctuating a sentence. "They'll watch Potter. They'll ignore me. I prefer it that way."
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A Letter From Wiltshire
By midmorning, the raven came again. The seal bore Lucius' crest this time. The parchment unfolded like a mirror that didn't lie.
Ivar, it read, the observers returned to London and spoke of you. They used words like "precise," "controlled," and "respectful." They said you are a boy of unusual discipline for your age. They said you are less dangerous than rumor suggested. I am pleased. Britain is comforted. Comfort breeds blindness. That is useful.
Do not rush to prove them wrong. Their certainty that Potter is the prophecy child shields you more effectively than any spell. Take that shield, wear it, and move beneath it unseen. Your mother sends love. Draco sends complaints about Professor Snape's homework and claims his new friends are insufferable but loyal. I expect you to read between those lines. —Father
Ivar closed the letter with a chuckle. "Even Father enjoys their blindness."
"Blindness makes better tools than vision," Klara agreed.
"And better jokes," Jannik added. "Because when they finally see, it'll be hilarious."
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The Duel That Wasn't
That afternoon, Durmstrang's practice hall became a theater. A seventh-year, Erik Sorensen, decided the observers' absence meant it was safe to reestablish his pecking order. He called Ivar out with the arrogance of a man who thought height and heritage were the same as power.
The room hushed. Whispers ran like sparks. Everyone wanted to see it—the Black heir against a boy who'd been feared longer than Ivar had been enrolled.
Ivar didn't rise from his bench. He sat, turning the challenge into a joke. "Another time," he said lazily, "when I'm not digesting lunch."
Sorensen sneered. "Afraid?"
"Of indigestion? Always," Ivar replied, grin spreading. "Of you? Not even when you're awake."
Laughter burst around the hall. Sorensen's face went red. He raised his wand—reckless, unwise.
Ivar moved then, not with a spell but with words. Parseltongue slipped into the room, curling like smoke. The torches guttered. Sorensen froze, his bravado collapsing under the hiss that felt older than bones.
"Sit," Ivar whispered. Sorensen sat.
The hall erupted. Cheers, shouts, disbelief. Jannik slapped the bench. "That wasn't even a duel! That was theater!"
"That was survival," Klara corrected. But even she smirked.
---
Chaos Among Friends
Later that evening, chaos found a gentler stage. In the dining hall, spoons began to tap-dance again, but this time Ivar amplified the charm. Forks joined, mugs clinked in rhythm, and suddenly the entire left wing of the hall was an orchestra of tableware.
Students cheered. Teachers groaned. Jannik stood on the bench, conducting with a breadstick until it broke in half. Klara tried—and failed—not to laugh when her knife played bass against the plate without permission.
Mila leaned toward Ivar, whispering, "Why?"
"Because fear without joy curdles," Ivar said simply. "And family deserves both."
The music collapsed into chaos when the headmaster stormed in, bellowing. The utensils clattered guiltily to the ground. Students pretended innocence. Jannik bowed. Ivar grinned.
---
Britain's Blind Spot
In London, the observers filed reports.
Mustache wrote: Arrogant boy. Skilled, but no prophecy child. Overconfident. Dangerous if unchecked.
Tie wrote: Charismatic. Could sway peers. Ministry should keep an eye on him, but primary focus remains Potter.
The witch wrote: Disciplined. Shapes culture in subtle ways. Chooses when to be less. Potentially more significant than he appears. Suggest further observation, discreetly.
Amelia Bones read the three reports side by side. She tapped her quill against her teeth, unimpressed with Mustache, faintly amused by Tie, and quietly interested in the witch. But in the end, she set all three aside beneath the same heading: Monitor. Not Priority.
And across the channel, Albus Dumbledore read his copy of the Prophet, saw Potter's name in the headlines, and nodded. He thought himself wise.
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In the Ritual Chamber
That night, Ivar returned to the chamber. He lit no candles. He needed none. The dark was enough.
"They think Potter is prophecy," he told the stone. "They think I am talent and nothing more. Good. Let them. I'll be the storm they never checked the sky for."
The weight of the room answered, cold and approving: Shadows grow while eyes look elsewhere.
Ivar smiled. "Exactly."
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The Oath
Before bed, he gathered his friends in the dorm. Jannik sprawled across his bed like a collapsed banner. Klara sat sharpening her blade. Mila wrote runes with ink that smelled faintly of pine.
Ivar looked at them—his chaos, his steadiness, his mirror. Family, whether they liked the word or not.
"They'll keep watching Potter," he said. "They'll keep dismissing me. But here? Here we build. We build loyalty, strength, tables. We build what they won't see until it's too late."
Jannik saluted with the half-breadstick he'd saved. "To chaos."
Klara nodded once. "To survival."
Mila looked up, eyes shining. "To family."
Ivar raised his hand, fingers curling like a crown. "To us."
The oath hung in the air, stronger than any spell.
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⚡ End of Chapter 13 (~1,000 words)
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Do you want the next chapter to shift gears into Ivar preparing for his fourth year at Hogwarts (laying groundwork for the Chamber of Secrets arc), or do you want to stay in Durmstrang for another couple of chapters to flesh out his dominance there before he transitions?