Year One — Chapter 5: Rivals and Recognition
Snow swept sideways across the Durmstrang yard, a knife-edged wind that made the torches gutter. The students had grown used to Ivar Malfoy's quiet precision, his flawless dueling, his unsettling aura of control. Most had accepted it. One had not.
Viktor Roskov.
The boy he had humiliated in the first duel of the year still simmered like a coal beneath ash. And Roskov was not without talent — brute force came easily to him, and his physicality gave him an edge against weaker students.
One evening, Roskov cornered Ivar near the ritual chambers, where the corridors twisted into darkness and the torches burned low. His friends fanned out behind him, broad-shouldered boys with fists itching for trouble.
"You embarrassed me before the whole school," Roskov growled. His breath steamed in the cold. "I'll take it back now. Blood for blood."
Ivar didn't flinch. His wand, old elderwood blackened by hellfire, tapped once against his palm. "You came with an audience. Wise. You'll need witnesses when you fail again."
Roskov lunged first — not with wand, but with fists. He was fast, stronger than most. But Ivar had trained his body as much as his magic. A sidestep, a pivot, and Roskov's punch slammed into stone. He howled, clutching his hand.
"Pathetic," Ivar said softly, switching to Russian this time, his accent crisp. "Do you even know what you are fighting for? Pride? Or fear?"
Roskov spat, drew his wand, and unleashed a torrent of curses. Blasting hex, bone-breaker, a slashing curse aimed to scar.
Ivar met them all. Shields unfolded silently, his counterspells precise. He twisted a rune mid-air with a flick, redirecting a hex into the ceiling so sparks rained down on Roskov's friends. Then, in German, he whispered a command woven with transfiguration. The snow at Roskov's feet solidified into stone shackles, locking his legs.
Roskov bellowed, fought, broke free—just in time for Ivar's wand to hiss in Parseltongue. A coil of green-black flame lashed out, curling inches from Roskov's chest. Not burning. Just waiting.
The elder boy froze. His eyes flickered with something worse than anger. Fear.
"You think this is strength?" Ivar asked, his voice low and cold. "Strength isn't noise. It's inevitability. You can fight me until the day you die, Roskov, but the result will always be the same."
He lowered the fire with a casual wave, dismissed Roskov like a chess piece no longer worth moving, and turned away.
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Recognition
The next morning, Ivar was summoned to Headmaster Karkaroff's office. The chamber was warm, scented with cedar and ink. Runes glowed faintly along the shelves, protective wards layered deep.
Karkaroff studied him across a desk piled with scrolls. His thin smile revealed little. "You have… unsettled the balance of my school, Mr. Malfoy."
Ivar inclined his head. "I did not ask for challengers. But I will not lose to them."
"You duel as if you were trained before you could walk." Karkaroff tapped a finger. "Fluency in multiple tongues. Ritual magic well beyond your years. Hellfire—" His eyes narrowed. "That is not something Durmstrang teaches."
"No," Ivar agreed. "It is something Durmstrang will remember."
The silence stretched. Then, slowly, Karkaroff chuckled. "Ah. Yes. I see why your professors send me reports not of your grades, but of your potential."
He leaned forward, eyes glittering. "Tell me, do you seek to master power… or to rule it?"
Ivar's green eyes held his without wavering. "Both."
For the first time, Karkaroff inclined his head in respect. "Then Durmstrang will be your forge. But beware: a blade too sharp cuts its wielder first."
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The Dormitory
That night, Klara dropped onto the bench beside him, scarred knuckles propped on the table. "Roskov won't try you again," she said. "Not unless he wants to die of humiliation."
"And if he does?" Ivar asked.
"Then he's an idiot," Jannik said, slouching across from them with a grin. "Which he is. Still, you've made half the professors take notice. I've never seen Makarov nod at a first-year before."
Klara studied Ivar with steady eyes. "They're beginning to treat you like one of them."
Ivar folded his parchment, sliding it into an envelope for Narcissa. "Good," he murmured. "That's exactly what I want."
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The Ritual Chamber
Later, alone, he returned to the chamber beneath the school. He redrew his circle, this time smaller, tighter, carved in languages layered atop one another: Latin, Parseltongue, Norse.
The wand pulsed in his hand — elderwood scarred by fire, cores humming like a chord in perfect pitch. He let the hellfire spark, controlled, and felt the weight of inevitability settle around him.
"Good evening," he told the stone.
This time, the stone whispered back.
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⚡ End of Chapter 5
Would you like Chapter 6 to focus on his professors pulling him deeper into advanced studies (accelerating him beyond his peers), or to shift toward his first genuine friendship — or possible alliance — with Klara and Jannik, showing his extroverted charisma balancing his cold ambition?