I wake to the scent of old parchment and burning wood. The air is heavy with something else- power, perhaps. The weight of a legacy that does not belong to me.
Damian Selwyn.
The name means nothing to me. Not yet. But it will. I do not cry. Crying is for children, and I am not one. Not truly. My body is weak, unfamiliar. My limbs flail, uncoordinated, and I feel trapped—a mind too vast for such a tiny, fragile form.
I listen instead. The room is silent, save for the occasional flicker of a candle against marble walls. Shadows stretch long and dark, broken only by the occasional shimmer of runes carved into the furniture. I recognize the wealth.
This is not a common home. This is old money, pureblood money—aristocracy in its purest form. Footsteps echo beyond the door. Measured. Controlled. A man steps into the room, tall and severe, his robe a shade of midnight blue embroidered with silver thread. Benedict Selwyn. My father, though I do not yet understand the concept. He looks at me not with love, but with curiosity, as if I am a specimen under a microscope. He does not know the depth of what he has brought into this world.
"Damian," he says, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret he's reluctant to share. "An ancient name for an ancient line."
I cannot speak. I cannot even hold my own head up. But I can see—and remember. I am more than this body that squirms in the crib. I am a mind reborn, a consciousness transplanted into a world of magic and ignorance.
Cassandra Selwyn follows, her presence like a whisper in a library. She is beautiful in a distant, untouchable way. Her eyes linger on me, but they do not light up with maternal warmth. There is something else there—a flicker of apprehension, perhaps. Does she sense it? The otherness that clings to my newborn soul?
"He has your eyes, Benedict," she remarks, and there is a note in her voice that I file away for future scrutiny. It is a tone that suggests she sees more than she should, knows more than she lets on.
They do not touch me. They do not coo or smile. They simply watch, as if waiting for something—any sign that I am more than just another Selwyn heir. They do not realize that they have invited a wolf into their gilded cage.
As they withdraw, their conversation fades into the background, a low hum of words that I am already beginning to decode. They speak of legacy, of duty, of the expectations that come with the Selwyn name. They do not know that I come with expectations of my own.
I close my eyes, and in the darkness, I smile. A plan begins to form, a grand design that will reshape this world in my image. They believe they are raising a child. But I am no child. I am Damian Selwyn, and I am destiny incarnate.
Time flows with deliberate precision, each second a note in an orchestral piece I conduct with unseen hands. The Selwyn estate stretches before me, a testament to the legacy of a pureblood lineage that predates the memory of most. It is a fortress of stone and enchantment, every hallway a gallery of relics whispering tales of conquest and arcane power.
The air within these walls is thick with the incantations of our ancestors, a subtle reminder that wealth, in our world, is not merely counted in gold but in the strength of one's bloodline and the wards that shield us from the prying eyes of the mundane.
In this grandiose maze, I am not alone. My mother, Cassandra Selwyn, glides through the corridors like a spectre woven from frost and intellect. Her beauty is as severe as the winter frost, devoid of the warmth that is so often the downfall of the weak. She does not shower me with unnecessary affection, for she knows that such tenderness is a chink in the armour of a Selwyn.
"Damian," she instructs, her voice a chisel sculpting the bedrock of my being, "a Selwyn does not plead. We do not request. We command."
From her, I inherit the essence of self-mastery, the ability to remain an impenetrable fortress, impervious to the emotional tempests that assail lesser beings.
"Never let them glimpse your true feelings, my son. To reveal your hand is to invite defeat."
Her wisdom is a constant echo in the chambers of my mind, a guiding refrain even in her absence.
Benedict Selwyn, my father, is a man whose very entry into a room commands reverence. His lessons are not couched in soft words or gentle smiles. They are delivered with the solemnity of a judge pronouncing sentence.
"Remember, Damian, true power does not lie in instilling fear. It is found in the certainty of obedience."
From him, I learn the nuances of dominion—the unyielding gaze that demands respect, the cadence of speech that carries the weight of authority, the economy of movement that speaks volumes without uttering a single
By the age of five, I have transcended childhood, transforming into a discerning observer of power dynamics. My education is a rigorous affair, overseen by a succession of tutors and private instructors, each selected with meticulous care by my father. Unlike the offspring of less distinguished lineages, I am neither relegated to the rudimentary instruction of Muggle institutions nor granted the licentious freedom afforded to the likes of the Weasley progeny.
My daily regimen is meticulously structured and inflexible. It encompasses a broad array of subjects, each chosen to sculpt me into the epitome of pureblood excellence.
Wizarding Etiquette—I am drilled in the nuanced art of social graces, mastering the subtleties of when to offer a deferential nod, the precise diction expected in conversation, and the fluid choreography required to navigate a room without inviting scrutiny.
Politics & Diplomacy—I am versed in the intricate dance of alliances and rivalries that bind and divide the noble houses, the machinations of the Ministry of Magic, and the grander stage of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Magical Theory—My education extends beyond mere spell work. I delve into the arcane underpinnings of magical law, unravelling the complexities that govern the wizarding world's most profound secrets.
Foreign Languages—I am fluent in German, Russian, and Latin, for magic knows no borders, and influence is a polyglot's currency.
Occlumency—This is the cornerstone of my mental fortress. At six years old, I kneel before my father, a man as unyielding as the darkest magic. "A weak mind is a broken mind," he intones, his voice a blend of expectation and threat. "Selwyns do not bow. You will fortify your mind, or you will no longer be my son."
The initiation is brutal. Legilimency, the mind-invading counterpart to Occlumency, rips through my defences, eliciting a cry that echoes through the halls of our ancestral home. It is a mistake I make only once.
By the age of seven, I had perfected the art of opacity. My expressions, my reactions—all are honed to be as indecipherable as a sealed tome. At eight, I begin to challenge the expectations placed upon me, testing the boundaries of my father's authority. By nine, I have surpassed him in cunning and foresight, though I am careful to keep this realization hidden beneath a veneer of deference. I let him believe he holds dominion over the rising tide of my potential. For true power lies not in the brute force display of strength but in the strategic and judicious application of one's true capabilities. It is a lesson I learn early, a truth I carry with me as I navigate the treacherous waters of the wizarding world, a world ripe for the taking by one with the vision and the will to reshape it according to his grand design.