Year One — Chapter 7: Touch of Death, Shadow of Politics
Durmstrang's winter pressed hard, but Ivar pressed harder. He spent more time in the ritual chambers than in the dormitory, drawing circles, layering runes, weaving languages like a loom. His classmates whispered that he was trying to build himself into something more than human.
They weren't wrong.
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The Ritual of the Veil
It began with a fragment of a text — a page torn from a book older than the school itself. Written in a blend of Old Norse and runic Latin, it spoke of a ritual to "gaze upon the threshold where life bends into death."
Ivar wanted it. Needed it. If the Peverell blood ran in his veins, then he would not wait for it to whisper — he would make it roar.
So he carved the circle with salt and ash, layered with iron filings. His wand lay at the center, elderwood blackened, cores humming with faint anticipation.
He began in Latin, voice steady. Switched to Russian, then Parseltongue, the words more hiss than sound. Finally, in Old Norse, he called upon Helheim itself.
The air thickened. Cold seeped into his marrow. Shadows lengthened until the chamber seemed endless. At the circle's heart, the air thinned — not emptiness, but a veil, thin and trembling, as though he were staring at the seam between this world and another.
And then it struck back.
The veil's touch seared his veins, burning cold. His breath caught, his heart stuttered. For an instant, he felt himself standing on black stone under a sky of ash, with pale figures watching from the dark. They whispered without voices.
Peverell. Heir. Death-touched.
The world tilted. His vision blackened. He collapsed.
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The Awakening
When he opened his eyes, Klara was kneeling beside him, fury in her scarred face. "You idiot. You nearly didn't come back."
"I had to see," Ivar rasped, breath sharp in his lungs. His green eyes glowed faintly in the half-light. "And I did."
She punched his shoulder, hard. "Next time you want to die, ask me to watch so I can stop you."
But when he stood, something was different. His aura, once sharp, now carried a weight that pressed on the air. People glanced away faster. Animals stilled when he passed. Death had brushed him, and it lingered like a shadow behind his smile.
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Word Reaches Britain
News traveled faster than owls when it was juicy. By spring, whispers of the "Black Heir at Durmstrang" had reached Britain. Lucius sat in his study, letters piled high, a glass of firewhisky untouched at his side.
"Promising," one contact wrote.
"Dangerous," another warned.
"Unnatural," muttered a third.
Narcissa read them all, her fingers tightening on the parchment. "They fear him already."
"Good," Lucius said softly. "Fear is coin. Respect is wealth. He will be rich before he is grown."
But privately, even Lucius felt unease. He had sent a son to school, and now it seemed a force was returning in his place.
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The Letter to Draco
One night, Ivar penned a letter in his careful script:
Draco,
When they whisper about Potter, remember that names are not destiny. Power is. You do not need to whine for Father's approval. Take what is yours. Stand tall. And if you falter, write to me. I will show you the path.
—Ivar
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The Professors
The professors noticed too. Volkov, watching Ivar complete a flawless runic weave, muttered to Makarov, "He carries death's shadow now. Did you feel it? The boy reeks of inevitability."
Makarov grunted. "If death walks with him, better it be harnessed than wasted. The world is changing. He may be the knife it needs."
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The Choice
That night, alone in the ritual chamber, Ivar stared at the fading circle. His hand trembled once, then steadied.
"Good evening," he whispered.
This time, the dark answered clearly.
We see you.
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⚡ End of Chapter 7
Would you like Chapter 8 to focus on Ivar consolidating power at Durmstrang — cementing allies, cowing rivals, professors grooming him further OR shift to the Malfoys in Britain navigating the new political weight of having a prodigy Heir Black, especially how Dumbledore begins to take notice?