Royal Mercy
𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃, snow-laden outskirts of the northernmost reaches of Europe, Durmstrang Institute stood as a formidable fortress of magical education. Its stone walls, weathered by centuries of harsh winters, loomed against the backdrop of jagged, icy peaks. The air was crisp and biting, a constant reminder of the unforgiving environment the students called home. The sprawling grounds were shrouded in an eternal frost, with the occasional glint of sunlight reflecting off the ice, turning the landscape into a realm of cold beauty.
At Durmstrang, discipline was the cornerstone of its educational philosophy, and the atmosphere resonated with a sense of austere rigor. The castle's corridors echoed with the sound of stern footsteps, punctuated by the distant howling of the wind. Students marched in precise lines, their expressions solemn and focused, a testament to the school’s rigid expectations. The faculty, clad in deep crimson robes, moved with an air of authority, their presence commanding respect and an unyielding adherence to the rules.
Classrooms at Durmstrang were dim and austere, with narrow windows that allowed only slivers of light to penetrate the gloom. The walls were lined with ancient tapestries depicting scenes of magical prowess and battle, serving as both inspiration and warning. The professors, with their sharp gazes and measured tones, delivered lessons in a lecture style that brooked no interruption. Students sat in silence, absorbing the complex theories and incantations, their minds honed to razor-sharp focus by the relentless demand for perfection.
Wandwork was reserved for the most advanced students, and even then, under strict supervision. The younger students were expected to master the intricacies of spell theory without the aid of practical application, a method that fostered an intense mental discipline. Failure to meet the rigorous standards was met with swift repercussions; the echoes of harsh reprimands were as much a part of the school’s environment as the biting cold.
Durmstrang's reputation for embracing the Dark Arts added a layer of ominous allure to its already formidable character. In the shadowy corners of the castle, whispers of past students who had delved too deeply into forbidden practices lingered, their stories serving as both caution and challenge. The specter of Gellert Grindelwald, once a student within these very walls, hung over the institution like a dark legacy, a reminder of the fine line between brilliance and infamy.
The student houses were microcosms of the school's broader ethos, each instilling its distinct values alongside the overarching culture of discipline.
House Skadi, perched in a secluded tower, taught self-reliance and resilience. Its members thrived in the cold, their common room warmed by enchanted flames that flickered against the backdrop of snow-covered peaks visible through frost-free windows. The icy blue and silver colors of Skadi were reflected in the house's stoic demeanor, a testament to their fortitude.
In contrast, House Vanaheim was a sanctuary of intellectual pursuit, nestled within Durmstrang’s vast library complex. Its members were the thinkers and innovators, driven by a thirst for knowledge symbolized by their deep green and gold colors. The common room, filled with ancient tomes and magical artifacts, was a haven of quiet contemplation, the scent of old parchment hanging in the air like a gentle reminder of the wisdom contained within its walls.
House Fólkvangr, situated in a serene garden, emphasized honor and diplomacy. The lavender and silver of their crest mirrored the elegance and peace that defined the house. Enchanted flora bloomed perpetually around the dormitory, creating an oasis of calm amidst the starkness of the school. The sounds of a nearby stream added to the tranquility, fostering an environment conducive to reflection and harmony.
Lastly, House Havsirene, located by the shores of the great Durmstrang lake, was a place of introspection and allure. The common room, with its oceanic motifs and ambient lighting, offered a space for creative exploration. The view of the lake’s ever-changing surface served as a constant reminder of the mysteries of the natural world, inspiring the house members to hone their intuition and eloquence.
Durmstrang’s militaristic approach to education was evident in every facet of life at the school. The daily routine was as precise as a clockwork mechanism, with students rising before dawn to begin their studies. Mealtimes were brief, the dining hall echoing with the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of subdued conversation. Every moment was accounted for, every action scrutinized, fostering a relentless pursuit of excellence that left no room for mediocrity.
Despite the harshness, there was a sense of pride among the students, a recognition of the strength and resilience instilled by their environment. They emerged from Durmstrang not only as skilled wizards but as individuals forged in the crucible of discipline and determination. The icy winds and shadowed halls became a part of them, a shared legacy that bound them to the storied history of the institution.
In the end, Durmstrang was more than just a school; it was a proving ground, a place where the boundaries of magical education were tested and expanded. Its legacy, both revered and feared, continued to shape the wizards who passed through its hallowed halls, leaving an indelible mark on the world beyond.
Draconian “Draco” Malfoy-Black was a name that commanded both fear and reverence within the institution. He was the epitome of House Skadi's values—endurance, independence, and an icy resilience that left a lasting impression on all who crossed his path. A figure of striking presence, he stood tall and poised, an embodiment of the school’s formidable reputation. His long, silver hair cascaded like molten moonlight down his back, framing a face as sharp and elegant as a sculpted statue. His icy blue eyes, piercing and unyielding, seemed to gaze into the very soul of those who dared to meet them, revealing nothing yet seeing everything. His skin, pale as the winter snow surrounding the institute, added to his ethereal allure, while his handsome features held an edge of danger that was impossible to ignore.
From the moment he set foot in Durmstrang, he was destined for greatness. His prowess in dueling was legendary, a skill that had been honed from an early age and refined to an art form. He was a prodigy, his abilities unmatched and his victories in international championships a testament to his skill. The magical world knew his name, whispered it in awe and trepidation, for he was not just a duelist—he was a master of the Dark Arts.
His use of dark magic was as much a performance as it was an exercise of power. Watching him cast spells was like witnessing a dance, each movement precise, fluid, and imbued with an almost sensual grace. He wielded magic with an ease that belied its complexity, his incantations rolling off his tongue like a dark melody. The air would shimmer with energy, and as he directed his wand, it was as if the world held its breath, waiting for the inevitable culmination of his will.
It was said that Draco's mastery of the Unforgivable Curses was unparalleled. He approached these formidable spells with a reverence and understanding that bordered on artistry. The Cruciatus Curse, when cast by him, was a symphony of pain, each note meticulously crafted to elicit the desired torment. The Imperius Curse, under his control, became a seductive whisper, weaving through the minds of his targets with insidious charm. The Killing Curse—his use of it was swift, silent, a mere flick of his wand that left no room for doubt or mercy.
His ascent to the position of Head Boy was no mere happenstance. It was a calculated campaign, a series of strategic maneuvers that left no opponent standing in his way. Draco navigated the complex hierarchy of Durmstrang with the deftness of a seasoned general, his every decision calculated to secure his dominance. He inspired both fear and respect in equal measure, his reputation serving as both a shield and a weapon.
The students of Durmstrang revered him as a figure of almost mythic proportions. To some, he was a hero, a beacon of what one could achieve through sheer determination and unrivaled talent. To others, he was a force of nature, his presence a constant reminder of the power and peril of the Dark Arts. Yet, to all, he was Durmstrang’s favorite son, the embodiment of its harsh, unyielding spirit.
Draco’s influence extended beyond the walls of the castle—it seeped into the very fabric of the school. His leadership style was as ruthless as it was effective, fostering a culture of excellence where only the strongest survived. The weak were left to flounder, but those who thrived under his guidance emerged as formidable wizards in their own right, shaped by the crucible of his expectations.
Despite the fear he inspired, there was an undeniable allure to him. His charisma was a potent force, drawing others into his orbit with the promise of power and prestige. He moved through the halls like a predator among prey, his every action deliberate, his every word measured. Yet, beneath the icy exterior, there was a passion, a drive that burned with an intensity that few could fathom.
In the end, Draconian “Draco” Malfoy-Black is a paradox—a beautiful, terrifying enigma that defied simple categorization. To the outsider, he was a figure of fascination and fear, a testament to the heights of magical prowess tempered by the depths of the Dark Arts. His legacy was one of both inspiration and caution, a reminder that greatness often walked hand in hand with darkness.
As Draco stood before the imposing oak door of Headmaster Igor Karkaroff's office, the air around him charged with anticipation. Beside him stood the seventh-year leaders of Skadi, Vanaheim, Fólkvangr, and Havsirene, each casting cautious glances at one another. As the door creaked open, they stepped inside, their movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed dance.
Karkaroff, with his piercing eyes and commanding presence, addressed them in a tone that brooked no dissent.
"Der Trimagische Turnier wurde wieder eingeführt und wird in Hogwarts stattfinden.” He announced, his voice resonant with authority. "Ich erwarte, dass nur die Besten unsere Schule repräsentieren. Sie sind dafür verantwortlich, die besten Schüler aus Ihrem Haus auszuwählen."
“The Triwizard Tournament has been reinstated and will be taking place at Hogwarts. I expect only the best to represent our school. You are tasked with choosing the best students from your house."
His words hung in the air like a decree, each syllable weighted with expectation. He continued, his voice rising with a fervor that bordered on fervent patriotism. "Enttäuschen Sie unsere Schule nicht. Durmstrang steht über allen anderen, und wir müssen unseren Ruf bewahren. Diskutieren Sie es untereinander."
“Do not disgrace our school. Durmstrang stands above all others, and we must uphold our reputation. Discuss it amongst yourselves."
With a curt nod, Karkaroff dismissed them, and they filed out in silence, Draco leading the procession with an air of regal authority. Their footsteps echoed through the stone corridors as they made their way to the meeting room, a place steeped in tradition and strategy, known by generations as the war room.
Entering the room, Draco took his place at the head of the table, his presence commanding. The others followed suit, seating themselves with a deference that spoke of his unchallenged leadership.
"Wer auch immer die Entscheidung getroffen hat, das Turnier zurückzubringen, ist ein verdammter Idiotzl.” Draco began, his voice laced with disdain.
“Whoever decided to reinstate this tournament is a fucking imbecile."
He waved his wand with a flourish, conjuring a list that hovered in the air before them. Names of seventh-year students scrolled like a tapestry of potential and disappointment.
"Jetzt, lasst uns die Liste durchgehen.” He said, his tone clipped and efficient. "Beginnen wir mit Müller."
“Now, let's go through the list. Let's start with Müller."
"Müller hat nicht einmal den Mut, einen einfachen Schutzzauber richtig auszuführen.” He remarked, his voice dripping with scorn.
“Müller doesn't even have the courage to execute a simple defense spell properly."
The leaders exchanged uneasy glances as Draco continued, his criticisms sharp and unrelenting.
"Und dann haben wir Schmidt. Ihre Fähigkeiten in den Dunklen Künsten sind bestenfalls mittelmäßig."
“And then we have Schmidt. Her skills in the Dark Arts are mediocre at best."
Draco's eyes flickered with a cold fire as he dissected each name with meticulous precision, his words cutting through any remnants of hope.
"Eriksson, ein totaler Versager in Verteidigung gegen die dunklen Künste. Unzuverlässig unter Druck.”
"Eriksson, a complete failure in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Unreliable under pressure."
"Friedrich, talentiert, aber zu emotional beeinflussbar. Kein Rückgrat.”
"Friedrich, talented but too emotionally impressionable. No backbone."
"Schmidt hat die Konzentration eines Goldfisches. Wie soll er Überleben, wenn er nicht einmal einen einfachen Zaubertrank korrekt brauen kann?" Draco spat, his patience wearing thin.
"Schmidt has the concentration of a goldfish. How is he supposed to survive if he can't even brew a simple potion correctly?"
As the list dwindled, Draco's frustration mounted, each inadequacy a personal affront to his vision of excellence. His brow furrowed, and a shadow of doubt flickered across his features, quickly masked by his resolute demeanor.
"Wir werden uns später nochmal treffen.” He declared, his tone brooking no argument. "Ich erwarte von euch, dass ihr darüber nachdenkt und bessere Vorschläge macht."
"We will meet again at another time. I expect you to think about this and come up with better suggestions."
With a final, dismissive wave of his hand, Draco ended the meeting. The leaders filed out, leaving behind the echoes of his relentless ambition and the icy determination that defined him.
When Draco returned to his room, the dim light of the northern sky cast long shadows across the stone walls, creating an atmosphere of solitude and contemplation. He shrugged off his heavy coat, tossing it onto the bed with a casual indifference. The room was sparse yet elegant, a reflection of his disciplined lifestyle. As he moved toward his desk, a folded letter caught his eye, its seal unmistakable.
The contents were as vexing as he anticipated. His father's elegant script revealed the identity of the mastermind behind the tournament's reinstatement—Lucius Malfoy himself. Draco's frustration flared, a curse escaping his lips as he realized the true motive behind this so-called stroke of genius. It wasn't about international relations or school prestige but about Draco becoming a Triwizard Champion.
"Verdammter Narr!" He muttered, the words laced with bitterness. "Meine Mutter verdient Besseres als diesen Idioten."
"Damn fool! My mother deserves better than this imbecile."
Without hesitation, Draco cast the letter into the fire, watching it curl and blacken until it was nothing but ash. The flames seemed to dance with a newfound vigor, as if sharing in his ire. He turned to his desk, determination etched in his features, and began to write a letter to his mother.
"Ich schreibe dir, um dir von den neuesten Eskapaden deines geliebten Mannes zu erzählen. Es scheint, dass Vater beschlossen hat, seine grenzenlose Dummheit der Welt erneut zu beweisen." He muttered his quill moving swiftly across the parchment
"Dear Mother, I write to you to tell you of the latest escapades of your beloved husband. It seems Father has decided to once again display his boundless stupidity to the world."
He paused, his eyes narrowing as he considered his next words. The quill resumed its dance across the parchment with renewed fervor.
"Du solltest wirklich darüber nachdenken, eine reiche Witwe zu werden. Es ist sicherlich besser, als mit Lucius' Dummheit umzugehen. Wenn du mir deine Erlaubnis gibst, erledige ich es selbst."
"You should seriously consider becoming a wealthy widow. It’s certainly better than dealing with Lucius’ stupidity. If you give me your blessing, I’ll handle it myself."
He leaned back, reading over his words with a critical eye. Satisfied, Draco folded the letter with care, sealing it with his personal crest.
As Draco prepared to retire for the night, a sharp knock at his door interrupted the solitude he was beginning to welcome. He opened it to find Katya Nikolsky standing there, her striking features framed by dark, sleek hair. Her pale ivory skin seemed to glow in the dim light, and her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Draco. Du siehst frustriert aus. Vielleicht kann ich helfen?" She said, a smirk playing on her lips as she took in his tense posture.
"Draco. You look frustrated. Maybe I can help?"
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Her presence filled the room with an electric energy, her tall and slender figure moving with a feline grace.
"Wenn du es brauchst, kannst du es an mir auslassen.” She continued, her tone dripping with suggestion.
"If you need to, you can take it out on me."
Draco's annoyance flared at her words, a mixture of irritation and something more complex simmering beneath the surface. Katya's boldness was both infuriating and captivating, and he found himself torn between his frustration and the allure of her presence.
"Du redest zu viel.” He muttered, stepping closer to her with an annoyed glint in his cold eyes.
"You talk too much."
Her smirk widened, a challenge in her gaze. Yet before she could utter another word, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips with his own. In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the charged atmosphere between them.