Year One — Chapter 8: The Cold Crown
Spring crept into Durmstrang not with blossoms but with thinner ice. The lake cracked at its edges, steam curling like breath over its black surface. The fortress walls dripped with meltwater, but inside, the cold never left. Here, strength was measured not by warmth, but by endurance.
And by now, everyone knew Ivar Malfoy endured better than most.
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Examinations
Durmstrang's yearly trials were not like Hogwarts' tidy exams. Here, a student was measured by how far they could be pushed before they broke.
In the dueling yard, circles of fire burned across the snow. Professors stood watch while students faced hexes hurled not only by their peers but by their instructors. Shields shattered, curses bruised, blood ran across the white ground.
When Ivar stepped into the ring, silence rippled through the crowd. Even Roskov, still nursing pride from their last clash, folded his arms and watched with narrowed eyes.
Professor Makarov himself cast first: a sequence of rapid curses meant to overwhelm, a whip of fire paired with a bludgeoning hex. Ivar countered without a word, wand carving clean lines. His shields unfolded like glass, translucent but unbreakable, bending the curses aside.
Then he struck back, layering three languages into a single weave: Latin for precision, Russian for force, Parseltongue for resonance. His spell lashed forward — not destructive, but binding, a net of runes that wrapped around Makarov's conjured fire and snuffed it out.
The crowd gasped. Makarov grunted. "Competent," he said, but the faintest twitch at his mouth betrayed more.
Next came the ritual trial. Ivar drew his circle with chalk and iron, speaking first in Norse, then slipping effortlessly into French, German, and back to Latin. He bound the elements not with brute strength, but with rhythm, coaxing them into harmony. When the circle closed, fire, water, earth, and air flickered around him in perfect balance before vanishing into stillness.
Professor Volkov leaned forward, eyes glittering. "You've gone beyond mimicry. You've begun to compose."
Ivar only inclined his head.
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The Crown
By the end of the week, his results were whispered through the school. Top of every trial. Unbroken in every duel. His ritual work spoken of in awe and fear alike.
Students began to shift around him differently. Some sought his favor, trailing after him in the halls. Others fell silent when he passed, muttering only after his back was turned. Even the older years began to measure themselves against him, and more than one student muttered that he was already as dangerous as a graduate.
Klara and Jannik noticed it too.
"They look at you like you're already wearing a crown," Jannik said over dinner, smirking. "Cold one, though. Like ice."
"Better a crown of ice than none at all," Klara muttered, tearing bread with scarred fingers.
Ivar leaned back, calm, green eyes scanning the hall. "They're not wrong. This isn't about friendship or rivalry anymore. It's about inevitability. They're deciding now whether to stand beside me or beneath me."
"And us?" Jannik asked, eyebrow raised.
Ivar's smile was faint but warm. "You'll stand beside me. Always."
Klara met his gaze, then nodded once. "Good."
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Britain Watches
That spring, letters came from England. Lucius' tone was clipped but charged.
You are the subject of whispers across Europe. The Notts and the Parkinsons already seek to curry favor. The Ministry has taken notice of the Black heir, and Dumbledore's eyes, I think, are turning north. Tread carefully. You are no longer invisible, my son. You are seen.
Narcissa's letter was gentler, but the warning was the same.
Do not mistake fear for loyalty, Ivar. Those who bend easily will break just as easily. Choose carefully who you trust.
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The Night Circle
That night, Ivar returned to the ritual chamber. Alone, he drew no circle, lit no candles. Instead, he stood at the center and spoke in Parseltongue, letting the words curl into the stones.
"Good evening," he whispered. "You see me now."
The shadows bent closer. For the first time, he felt not only acknowledgment but recognition. The dark itself seemed to whisper back, not in words but in weight.
A crown of cold settled unseen on his brow.
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⚡ End of Chapter 8
Would you like Chapter 9 to focus on the Parseltongue and serpent moment (him proving mastery by commanding a great serpent in front of others), or to show the political fallout in Britain more directly, with Dumbledore and others beginning to argue over what Ivar represents?