The chill of Durmstrang's corridors seemed sharper tonight, more biting than usual. Outside, the snow had thickened, muffling the sounds of the world and trapping the school in a cocoon of silence. Dorian walked these familiar halls, but something felt different, as though the weight of the school's ancient magic was pressing in on him, like unseen eyes were watching his every move. The whispers in his mind had grown stronger since the confrontation with Ingrid, like tendrils of darkness brushing against his thoughts, urging him to embrace the full potential of the power he now possessed.
Control it. Use it. Master it.
He clenched his fists inside his cloak, pushing the voices away, but they were becoming harder to ignore. Dorian had always been able to control himself, always prided himself on his iron will. But now, the magic seemed to be coiling around his mind, feeding on his ambition and stoking his desire for more. Every time he touched it, every time he wielded it, he could feel it shifting, growing darker, more potent—and more dangerous.
He wasn't afraid. He was never afraid.
But a part of him, deep down, wondered how long he could hold on to the reins of this power before it turned on him.
The corridors stretched on endlessly, shadows flickering across the stone walls as Dorian passed. His destination tonight wasn't the library or the common room—it was deeper, hidden away from the prying eyes of students and professors alike. He had spent the last few days preparing for this, digging through the forgotten corners of Durmstrang's labyrinthine archives and gathering the knowledge he needed.
There were places in Durmstrang that even the most seasoned students avoided, places where the old magic still lingered like a specter from another age. One of those places was an abandoned dungeon, sealed off decades ago after an experiment in dark magic had gone horribly wrong. No one spoke of it openly, but Dorian had found references to it in some of the older texts—a place where forbidden magic had once been tested, and where the remnants of that power still lay dormant.
It was exactly what he needed.
When he reached the entrance to the dungeon, he paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the old, iron-bound door. The air here was colder, thicker, almost oppressive, as though the magic inside was waiting, eager to be touched again. Dorian took a deep breath, feeling the familiar surge of power coil through him, and pushed the door open.
The hinges groaned in protest, the sound echoing down the stone stairway beyond. Dorian descended into the darkness, the light of his wand casting long shadows across the walls. The dungeon was untouched by time, as if the school had forgotten it even existed. Old, broken chains hung from the walls, and the floor was littered with the remnants of shattered glass and crumbling stone. But beneath the decay, there was something else—an unmistakable aura of magic, old and powerful, pulsing faintly in the air.
Dorian reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the main chamber, his eyes scanning the space. It was small, barely large enough to fit more than a few people at once, but the symbols carved into the walls told him everything he needed to know. This was a place of power, a place where rituals had been conducted—rituals that had gone wrong.
Perfect.
The whispers in his mind surged again, urging him forward. He knelt in the center of the chamber and began drawing the symbols from Salazar Slytherin's journal on the cold stone floor, the tip of his wand glowing as he traced each intricate line. The magic here was wild, raw, but it responded to him, recognizing him as one of its own.
The symbols glowed faintly as they connected, forming a circle of power around him. Dorian could feel the magic gathering, could sense the ancient energies stirring beneath the surface. He was ready.
But before he could begin the ritual, he heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible sound, like the rustle of robes in the darkness. He stood quickly, his wand raised, his senses heightened.
"You shouldn't be here, Selwyn," a voice said from the shadows.
Dorian's eyes narrowed as Ingrid Ravnsborg stepped out from behind one of the pillars, her face half-hidden in shadow. Her presence here wasn't a surprise—he had suspected she would follow him. But what irritated him was how silent she had been, how she had managed to watch him without him noticing. Ingrid was dangerous, and the fact that she had slipped past his defenses unnerved him.
"You shouldn't be here either," Dorian replied, his voice cold. "This place is beyond you."
Ingrid's gaze was sharp, her expression unreadable. "Is it? Or are you afraid of what I might see?"
Dorian's grip tightened on his wand, the magic inside him flaring in response. "You're testing my patience, Ingrid."
She smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "I'm not testing you. I'm warning you. This magic you're playing with—it's not just dark. It's cursed."
Dorian's eyes flashed with irritation. "I don't need your warnings."
Ingrid stepped closer, her voice soft but insistent. "You think you're in control, but I can feel it, Dorian. The magic here—it's trying to bind you. It's not just power. It's chains."
Dorian's breath caught for a moment, the words hitting harder than he expected. Chains. The magic had felt like that at times, hadn't it? It gave him strength, but it also pulled at him, whispered to him, urged him toward something darker, something deeper. But that was the price of power, wasn't it? A price he was willing to pay.
"You don't understand," Dorian said, his voice low, dangerous. "This magic is my birthright. I was meant for this."
Ingrid's eyes softened, but there was something fierce beneath her calm exterior. "No one is meant for this, Dorian. Magic like this—it corrupts, it twists people until they don't recognize themselves anymore. You think you can master it, but it's already begun to change you."
Dorian's pulse quickened, the anger rising in his chest. "I am in control."
"Are you?" Ingrid asked, stepping even closer, her gaze never leaving his. "Or are you just telling yourself that because you're afraid of what will happen if you admit you're not?"
The question hung in the air like a dark cloud, and for a moment, Dorian didn't know how to respond. He had always been in control—of himself, of his magic, of his ambitions. But lately, the power had felt different, more insistent. The whispers had grown louder, and the pull of the magic had become harder to resist.
But that was the point, wasn't it? The more he embraced the magic, the stronger he became. It was all part of his rise, part of his plan to reclaim his family's legacy and become something greater than anyone had ever imagined.
"I'm not afraid," Dorian said, his voice steady, though there was an edge to it. "This magic will make me stronger. It's already given me more power than you could ever dream of."
Ingrid's expression remained calm, but there was a sadness in her eyes now, as though she could see something in him that he couldn't. "That's what they all say."
Dorian took a step back, his wand still raised, the symbols on the floor glowing brighter as the magic surged through the room. He couldn't let Ingrid stop him—not now, not when he was so close.
"This is my choice," Dorian said, his voice firm. "You can't stop me."
Ingrid didn't move. "No, I can't. But I can warn you one last time."
For a moment, there was silence between them, the weight of the magic pressing down on both of them. And then, slowly, Ingrid lowered her gaze and turned away, disappearing into the shadows once more.
Dorian watched her go, his mind racing. Ingrid's words lingered in the air like a bitter aftertaste, but he couldn't afford to be distracted by doubt now. He had made his choice, and he would see it through.
He turned back to the ritual, his breath steadying as he focused on the symbols at his feet. The magic responded to his will, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. This was his moment.
With a flick of his wand, Dorian completed the final symbol, and the chamber was suddenly filled with a brilliant, blinding light. The magic surged through him, stronger than ever before, a tidal wave of power that threatened to overwhelm him. But this time, Dorian didn't hold back. He let it wash over him, let it fill every corner of his mind and soul.
For a moment, he was weightless, suspended in the torrent of power that flowed through him. The whispers grew louder, clearer now, no longer just faint echoes but distinct voices, calling to him, urging him forward.
More. Take more.
And Dorian wanted to. He wanted to take it all, to drink in every last drop of the magic, to become something greater, something unstoppable.
But then, beneath the voices, there was something else. A faint, distant cry, like a warning from deep within himself.
Stop.
The word cut through the haze of power like a knife, and for a brief second, Dorian hesitated. The magic was pulling him further, deeper, but there was something in that voice—a voice that sounded like his own—that urged him to stop, to pull back before it was too late.
But it was already too late.
The magic wrapped around him, pulling him into the abyss, and Dorian let it. He let the power consume him, because in that moment, it felt like freedom. The chains that Ingrid had warned him about didn't feel like chains at all. They felt like wings.
And with them, he would soar above them all.