Power does not exist in isolation. No man, no wizard, no king has ever ruled alone. True power comes from connections, alliances, and influence carefully cultivated over time. And in the wizarding world, those connections begin early. Pureblood Gatherings—grand affairs draped in wealth and history, brimming with the subtle tension of unspoken war. Here, beneath the veneer of conviviality, marriages are arranged with the precision of a chess game, business deals are brokered like sacred pacts, and the children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight are paraded before one another, oblivious to the fact that their futures are being decided before their very eyes.
At six years old, with the poise of someone thrice his age, I make my entrance into this world of power and pageantry. The air is thick with the scent of enchantment and the weight of generations. I am Damian Selwyn, scion of an ancient lineage, and I do not intend to be merely another heir vying for attention in the shadows of my elders. I intend to command the room, to etch my presence into the annals of this world, to own the board before the game has even begun.
The first event I attend is at Malfoy Manor, a pureblood gathering meant to display the wealth and influence of the wizarding world's elite. The Malfoys, with their penchant for grandeur, have spared no expense. Towering chandeliers, enchanted to cast a soft, flattering light, illuminate the cavernous hall. Its pure white marble floors reflect the shimmering glow, while the tables are laden with the finest silver and goblets hewn from obsidian, each piece a testament to the family's status. It is a scene designed to dazzle and overawe, a statement of power and prestige.
Yet, as I step into the opulent foyer, the splendour does not move me. I am Damian Selwyn, and I have seen through such displays since the cradle. My gaze remains impassive, unimpressed by the excess that surrounds me.
"Ah, Lord Selwyn! Welcome."
The voice belongs to Lucius Malfoy, the patriarch of the Malfoy line. He stands before my father, the very picture of aristocratic refinement. His robes are as dark as a moonless night, contrasting sharply with his platinum hair, which is swept back to reveal a high, unlined forehead. His voice is smooth, each word carefully modulated to convey confidence and control.
In response, my father offers a slight nod, his head inclined just enough to acknowledge his greeting without conceding superiority. "A pleasure, Lord Malfoy," my father's voice steady and assured. His eyes, as cold and grey as polished steel, fix on me with an intensity that many would find unnerving. But I am not like many; I am the heir of the Selwyn dynasty. I meet his gaze squarely, refusing to be cowed or intimidated. I see the subtle assessment in his eyes, the silent appraisal of my worth and potential.
I do not falter under his scrutiny. I do not blink. I stand motionless, a statue carved from ice, exuding an air of quiet authority that belies my tender years.
After a moment that feels like an eternity, a small, satisfied smile tugs at the corners of Lucius's mouth. It is a smile that speaks of recognition, of a predator acknowledging another of his kind.
"And this must be young Damian," Lucius says, turning his attention fully onto me. "I've heard much about your... precocity."
I incline my head, mirroring my father's earlier gesture. "Lord Malfoy," I greet, my voice betraying not a hint of the childish timbre that would be expected of someone my age. "Your home is as grand as the tales suggest."
The words are a delicate balance of flattery and polite distance. I am here to observe, to learn, and to be seen—but not to be drawn into the orbit of lesser men. Lucius Malfoy is powerful, yes, but he is not the sun around which I intend to revolve.
As the evening unfolds, I am introduced to the offspring of other ancient families. All the children are gathered in the adjacent hall, under the watchful eyes of their parents. Some stand in small clusters, forming early alliances. Others linger near their mothers, still too young to fully understand why they are here.
And then there are the ones who already think they are rulers.
Draco Malfoy stands at the centre of a small circle, flanked by Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini. His presence is overconfident, casual, and smug. A boy who believes himself the sun, around whom the rest of us must orbit.
I step forward. His gaze flickers to me. For a moment, there is nothing but silence. A silent weighing of who will speak first.
Draco smirks. "Selwyn."
"Malfoy." My tone is neutral. Flat. Unimpressed.
Something in his expression shifts. A flicker of irritation. Malfoy is used to instant deference. He is used to the Parkinsons, the Crabbes, and the Goyles bending to his will. I do not bend. I wait. Let him make the first move.
"Your father is well connected in the Ministry," Draco says, seeking footing. "My father says he has the ear of certain departments."
A fishing attempt. He wants to know what cards I hold.
"Your father is correct." I do not give more than necessary.
He hums, dissatisfied with the lack of detail. Good.
As the evening wears on, I observe the dynamics of this gathering. The parents are engrossed in their discussions of politics and power, their eyes occasionally drifting toward their offspring. They are testing us, gauging our potential to navigate the intricate web of the wizarding world's elite.
I circulate among the children, my interactions measured and deliberate. I engage with them, noting their strengths and weaknesses, their ambitions and fears. I am collecting pieces for a game that will span decades, and every word, every gesture, is a move on the board.
Not far from Malfoy's group, I catch sight of Daphne Greengrass. She stands apart from the others, her posture one of detached observation. Where Pansy Parkinson clings to Malfoy with the desperation of a pet seeking approval, Daphne is a solitary figure. She watches the room's dynamics with an astuteness that belies her years.
I approach, and she notices me before I am within earshot. Her eyes, a cool shade of green, meet mine with an impassivity that is a rare find in one so young.
"Greengrass," I greet her, my voice carrying the same detached coolness.
She does not bow her head, nor does she offer a smile. "Selwyn," she replies, her tone measured and devoid of the fawning affectations I've come to expect from others.
I study her, this girl who stands on the fringes of her peers. She is only a child, yet there is a wisdom in her gaze that speaks of a keen understanding—power is not about being the loudest voice in the room. It is about knowing when to remain silent, when to observe, and when to strike.
I make a slight tilt of my head, a silent acknowledgment of her poise. "You don't like them," I say, keeping my voice low so that our conversation remains private.
Her reaction is subtle, a brief parting of her lips as she considers her response. The silence stretches between us, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her mind, calculating the implications of her next words.
Finally, she inclines her head in a gesture that is neither agreement nor denial. She is treading carefully, but not carefully enough to escape my notice.
"Nor do you," she counters, her voice steady.
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, a rare break in my usually impassive expression. "Perhaps we have that in common."
The words hang in the air, a delicate probe to test the waters of a potential alliance. For the first time this evening, I witness a shift in her demeanour—a flicker of intrigue behind her guarded eyes. It is not interest, not yet, but it is the spark of awareness. She is not yet an ally. But she could be.
Theodore 'Theo' Nott stands apart from the crowd. He rarely speaks and doesn't seek the limelight, choosing instead to observe from the sidelines. While Draco Malfoy revels in the attention of others, and Pansy Parkinson giggles in her forced adoration, Theo remains a quiet sentinel, watching everything unfold around him.
I find myself drawn to him.
"You don't speak much," I remark as I take a seat beside him, our gazes fixed on the rest of our peers, engaged in their usual antics. It seems easier to watch rather than join the fray; I feel a kinship in his silence.
"Words are a waste when most people don't deserve to hear them," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper, yet heavy with conviction.
I shift slightly, taken aback by his unexpected response. There's depth in his words; he has clearly contemplated the value of conversation.
"And who deserves to hear yours?" I probe, curious and a bit flirtatious, testing the waters of our budding connection.
There's a short silence, as he considers my question. Finally, he answers, "Ask me again when we're older."
Although he doesn't meet my gaze directly, a subtle smirk graces his lips, hinting at a hidden confidence beneath his reserved exterior.
By the time the evening concludes, I have meticulously catalogued everything I need to understand about the room and its occupants.
Draco Malfoy is predictable—his arrogance is palpable, and though he will undoubtedly inherit his father's formidable power, he lacks the intelligence to wield it with finesse. His bravado is an armour for his insecurities, a facade that will crack under scrutiny.
Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, is fraught with desperation—a willing sycophant whose loyalty is as ephemeral as the fleeting attention of those in power. She is a moth drawn to the flame of influence, ready to cling to whomever promises her the brightest shine.
Daphne Greengrass stands out as a future asset—her reserved nature belies a sharp mind that understands the game far better than her peers. Yet, she remains cautious, not yet ready to engage in the intricate dance of alliances. Patience is her armour, but I can sense the potential within her, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Theo Nott captures my attention as the one to watch. He exists in the periphery, a shadow among stars, observing with a keen perceptiveness that few possess. He refrains from unnecessary conversation, and when he does speak, his words carry weight. There's an intensity to his silence that intrigues me, indicating depth beyond the simple elegance of his family's name.
The adults, meanwhile, continue their own intricate dance of alliances, their hushed whispers weaving together a tapestry of future marriages, trade agreements, and political manoeuvres. Each conversation is layered, filled with undertones and mutual interests that fly over the heads of the uninitiated. They are architects of the old world, each plotting meticulously while oblivious to the shifting tides of power around them.
But I do not care for the old generation. Their time is concluding—their methods, outdated and predictable.
Ours is just beginning. The next phase is approaching, and I am at its helm, ready to unleash a transformation they cannot foresee.
And when it does, they will not realize who is truly pulling the strings. They will remain blissfully ignorant, continuing their rituals, believing they control the board, when in fact, the pieces are already in motion under my subtle guidance. I am not merely a player; I am both the architect and the puppeteer, crafting a future that aligns with my grand design while they remain my unwitting marionettes.