Evening had settled over the castle like a soft velvet curtain, the golden light of early October dimming into a grey hush over the grounds. I sat at my desk in my single dormitory room, quill idle between my fingers, staring absently out the window. Ravenclaw Tower's view was unparalleled—one could see beyond the Forbidden Forest into the ragged hills where the land broke against the horizon.
The fire in the hearth flickered low, casting orange shadows across the stone walls and my open textbooks. A week had passed since my return to Hogwarts for fourth year, and though I kept pace effortlessly with the material, my mind had begun to itch with a hunger for something beyond the curriculum—something more primal, older, arcane.
Draconian.
The word alone stirred a resonance in me, like an old chord strummed in the depths of my blood. The language of dragons. Supposedly lost after Merlin's death. I had seen only passing references to it in obscure texts—always brushed aside as either myth or forgotten beyond recall. But Slytherin's portrait had once offhandedly mentioned that Merlin had "not so much conversed with dragons as commanded them," and that the words he used were not any human tongue.
And Merlin had been a Slytherin.
My fingers drummed against the oak of my desk. If I could even begin to piece together the foundation of Draconian, I might not just be unraveling a mystery lost to time—I might gain insight into a kind of power that predated even wand magic.
I closed my Charms textbook and stood, tugging on my cloak. The fire hissed as I extinguished it with a flick of my wand. Then I moved to the back corner of my room, whispered a soft unlocking incantation, and pushed open the hidden panel that led to a narrow stairwell. One of the many forgotten passages of the castle, this one dropped through three floors and emerged near the dungeons—close enough to the entrance of the real Chamber of Secrets.
Once I reached the heavy stone serpentine door, I pressed my palm against the central sigil and hissed, "Open."
The chamber sighed as it acknowledged its heir.
The descent into the Chamber of Secrets was as thrilling as ever, though the basilisk skeleton no longer fazed me. I had transfigured its skull into a permanent ward node—part of the greater network I had built to keep my presence here secret and safe. My boots echoed off wet stone as I moved into the main vault and stepped before the massive obsidian frame where Salazar Slytherin's portrait watched, always faintly amused.
"Speak, Heir," Salazar greeted me in Parseltongue, his voice serpentine silk. "Your eyes burn with obsession tonight."
"I want to know about Draconian," I said without preamble. "The language of dragons. You once said Merlin commanded them—not spoke to them. That language… was it real?"
Salazar's painted lips curved upward, and the torchlight around the room flared subtly.
"Ah," he said, tilting his head thoughtfully. "So you have finally turned your eyes to the flame. Yes. It was real. Is real, perhaps, though lost. Draconian is not merely a language—it is a force. It shapes intent through resonance, not just phonetics. It is older than wandwork, older even than structured incantations."
"Can it be learned?"
"Not in the way you learned Latin or Runes," he said. "It must be remembered. Every magical creature speaks to the world through what they are. Dragons, being of the oldest magical bloodlines, embody their tongue. To speak Draconian is to command, not request. And only those who have mastered themselves—mind, magic, will—can bear the strain of it."
I swallowed but knowing I will be able to learn it due to the boon I chose before birth I persistently asked "But if it's remembered, that means it exists somewhere. In records?"
Salazar raised a hand toward a side wall. With a gesture, a segment of the stone shimmered and retracted, revealing a narrow archway I had never seen before.
"There lies what little Merlin left behind," he said. "Encrypted, encoded, and obscured in the way only he could manage. You will not understand all of it—not yet. But begin there. And Marcus... tread carefully. The tongue of dragons can break minds as easily as shields."The room beyond the archway was a small study—ancient, dry, and filled with preserved parchment and tomes bearing no titles. There was a scent in the air like scorched wind and aged leather. My wand illuminated row upon row of scrolls wrapped in serpentine symbols.
I spent hours poring through them. The glyphs were maddening—neither Latin nor runes, but something primal, shapes that vibrated with inner intent. I could feel them more than read them.
One scroll caught my attention—it was wrapped in a sheath of wyvern scale and bound with iron twine. When I unrolled it, I felt the thrum of power beneath my fingers. It spoke of Names. Not names like "Harry" or "Marcus," but True Names—the kind that bound stars and shattered enchantments.
I took notes, careful not to read anything aloud. And when I finally returned to the central hall where Salazar's portrait still waited, he looked at me with quiet approval.
"You feel it now," he said. "The burn of it in your bones. You will not master Draconian this year, Marcus. But you may begin to shape your will in its likeness. You may forge yourself into the kind of wizard who could. That is more than most."
Back in my dormitory, the fire in my hearth was cold. The tower was silent—everyone asleep, or too deep in study to bother with chatter. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the scroll still burned into the back of my eyes.
Draconian. I would devote the entire year to it. Not at the expense of what I'd already built—no. My proficiency in Transfiguration, Charms, and Defence would remain razor-sharp. But everything else would bend around this goal.
This year, I would touch the edge of the forgotten.
And someday, I would speak with flame.
With that thought, I pulled the blanket higher, mind already weaving through half-remembered shapes and syllables. Sleep took me slowly, like sinking into embers.