The cold mountain wind howled relentlessly outside the stone walls of Durmstrang, a constant reminder of the harshness of the world beyond the school. Inside the dormitory, Dorian lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep eluded him, his mind racing with thoughts of what was to come. His ambitions had always been clear to him, but Durmstrang presented a new kind of challenge—a microcosm of the wider wizarding world, with its own hierarchy, its own battles for power.
He had arrived only a day ago, yet already the pieces on the board were shifting. Ingrid Ravnsborg—her presence lingered in his mind. She was different from the others, her power quiet but undeniable. Her words from the night before echoed in his head: "Power is earned, not given." It was a sentiment he understood well, and one he intended to prove.
But it wasn't just the students he had to contend with. Durmstrang, for all its prestige, was still a school under the shadow of larger forces. Igor Karkaroff ran the institution, but Dorian knew the man was a coward, fleeing from Voldemort's wrath years ago. Karkaroff might have influence within these walls, but outside of them, he was a relic—a man whose betrayal was remembered by both the Ministry and the Death Eaters alike.
Dorian knew he would have to walk a fine line here. His rise to power would need to be subtle, calculated. But in time, he would make Durmstrang his, just as he would claim the Selwyn legacy and take his place among the most feared wizards in the world.
The dormitory was quiet, the other students fast asleep in their beds, save for the occasional shuffle of blankets or the soft murmur of someone's dream. Dorian sat up, the weight of his thoughts too heavy to ignore any longer. He needed answers—answers that only the Selwyn family's history could provide.
The journal of Salazar Slytherin lay at the foot of his bed, wrapped carefully in an old, weathered leather case. Dorian reached for it, his fingers tracing the worn edges before opening it to the page where he had last left off. The words were written in an ancient hand, the language archaic but still readable to those who knew how to decipher it.
"The heir of Slytherin shall rise in the shadows, mastering the old magic, forgotten by time. Blood shall bind him to the darkness, and through blood, he shall conquer."
Dorian's eyes lingered on the passage. He had read it countless times, each reading bringing with it a new layer of meaning. Slytherin's words were a guide, a prophecy that stretched back centuries, pointing toward a future that was not yet written. Voldemort had claimed to be the Heir of Slytherin, but Dorian knew the truth—Tom Riddle's claim was built on a hollow foundation. His bloodline might have connected him to Slytherin, but his understanding of the old magic was superficial at best.
Dorian's bloodline, however, was far more ancient, tied not only to Slytherin but to other forgotten branches of dark wizardry. And with the journal in his possession, he had access to the kind of knowledge that could reshape the wizarding world.
He flipped the page, his heart quickening as he read the next section. Here, Slytherin described a ritual—one so dangerous, so powerful, that it had been hidden from even his most trusted followers. A ritual that could bind one's magic to the very forces of nature, amplifying it far beyond the limits of ordinary wizards.
Dorian's eyes scanned the details—ingredients, incantations, ancient symbols that were to be drawn in the blood of the caster. It was not a spell for the faint-hearted. One misstep, and the consequences would be catastrophic. But the rewards…
The rewards would be unparalleled.
He closed the journal, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The ritual was dangerous, yes, but it was also a key—a key to unlocking the power he would need to truly rise above Voldemort, the Ministry, and anyone else who dared stand in his way.
But first, he needed more information. The journal was incomplete, certain passages missing or deliberately obscured. He would need to find the missing pieces, the fragments of Slytherin's legacy that had been scattered over the centuries. And he knew just the place to start looking.
Durmstrang's library.
The next morning, Dorian awoke early, long before the other students stirred. The sky outside was still dark, the sun yet to rise over the snow-capped mountains. Dorian dressed quickly, his movements silent as he grabbed the journal and slipped it into his robes. The halls of Durmstrang were empty at this hour, the only sounds the distant echoes of the wind outside and the occasional crackle of a torch.
Durmstrang's library was vast, a labyrinth of ancient books and scrolls, many of them forbidden in other schools of magic. It was one of the reasons Dorian had chosen to come here. Hogwarts, for all its history, could never compare to the knowledge hidden in Durmstrang's archives. Here, dark magic was not something to be feared or suppressed—it was studied, explored, and mastered.
As Dorian entered the library, the familiar scent of old parchment and dust greeted him. Shelves upon shelves of books stretched high into the vaulted ceiling, some of the volumes so ancient that they were bound in faded, cracked leather. The place was a treasure trove of knowledge, and Dorian intended to use every resource available to him.
He moved through the rows of books with purpose, heading toward the section on magical rituals and ancient spells. Durmstrang's library was notorious for its collection of forbidden texts, many of which had been confiscated from dark wizards over the years. But there were certain areas even here that required special access—restricted sections that held the most dangerous of magics.
Dorian had no intention of being restricted.
As he approached the far end of the library, his eyes caught sight of a familiar figure standing near one of the shelves, a book open in her hands. Ingrid Ravnsborg. She glanced up as he neared, her expression unreadable.
"Selwyn," she said, her voice low and steady. "Up early, I see."
Dorian met her gaze, offering a slight nod. "Knowledge doesn't wait for anyone."
Ingrid's lips twitched, a hint of amusement flickering across her otherwise stoic face. "Nor does ambition. What is it you seek so early in the morning? Something... forbidden, perhaps?"
Her tone was casual, but there was a sharpness behind her words that Dorian didn't miss. He could tell that Ingrid wasn't just making idle conversation—she was testing him, probing to see what he was after. He had seen the way she watched people, the way she observed without revealing too much of her own intentions. Ingrid was a predator, like him.
But unlike the others, she was more dangerous because she was subtle.
"Rituals," Dorian replied, his voice calm. "Old ones, from before the time of Voldemort. There's much to learn from the past, wouldn't you agree?"
Ingrid raised an eyebrow, closing the book in her hands and placing it back on the shelf. "You seek the power of the old ways? Most here are content with the magic they can learn from the professors."
"I'm not most," Dorian said simply.
Ingrid's blue eyes studied him for a moment before she gave a slight nod. "No, you're not."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I've heard rumors about you, Selwyn. Whispers of your family, of the legacy you carry. Some say you're here to claim that legacy, to take what is yours by blood."
Dorian met her gaze, his own expression unreadable. "And what do you think?"
Ingrid smiled, a slow, calculating smile that sent a chill down Dorian's spine. "I think you're more dangerous than the others realize. But that doesn't worry me."
"Doesn't it?" Dorian asked, his tone soft but challenging.
Ingrid shook her head, her eyes gleaming with something like respect. "No. Because if you're as ambitious as I believe, you'll need people like me."
Dorian considered her words carefully. Ingrid was no fool—she had power, influence, and the respect of the most powerful students in Durmstrang. An alliance with her could be valuable. But Dorian was wary of forming bonds too quickly. Alliances were useful, yes, but they also made you vulnerable.
Still, Ingrid's approach intrigued him. She wasn't looking to challenge him—not yet, at least. She wanted to see what he was capable of, to see if his ambitions aligned with hers.
"Perhaps," Dorian said, his voice careful. "But trust isn't something I give easily."
Ingrid smiled again, stepping back slightly. "Nor should you. But you'll find, Selwyn, that power is often built on trust—trust and fear."
Dorian watched her for a moment, weighing his options. She was offering something, though it wasn't clear exactly what yet. But for now, he would play along. If Ingrid Ravnsborg wanted to see what he was capable of, he would show her.
"Fear I understand," Dorian said quietly. "But trust... that remains to be earned."
Ingrid's eyes glinted with something like approval. "Then we'll see who earns it first."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Dorian standing alone among the shelves. The library was silent once more, but the conversation hung in the air like a dark cloud. Ingrid was dangerous, but she was also an opportunity. Dorian knew he would have to tread carefully, but the potential gains were too great to ignore.
As he turned back to the shelves, his fingers brushing against the spines of the ancient books, Dorian's mind returned to the ritual described in Slytherin's journal. He needed to find the missing pieces, to gather the knowledge that would allow him to unlock the full power of his bloodline.
Durmstrang was just the beginning. Soon, the power he sought would be his.
And when that happened, not even Ingrid Ravnsborg would stand in his way.