It was in the deep recesses of the Chamber, within a crumbling tome bound in scaled hide and stitched with sinews that no magical creature Marcus recognized could claim, that he came across the revelation. The book bore no title on its cover, but its presence on the dark pedestal beneath the crest of Salazar Slytherin suggested a guarded significance. The script within was written in a twisting mix of ancient runes and stylized Draconian glyphs, illuminated with faded silver ink. Translating its contents had taken Marcus weeks, and even then, some portions remained indecipherable. But what he had gleaned was a truth so potent, so far removed from the accepted understanding of the magical world, that it threatened to unravel centuries of falsehood.
Modern dragons were not dragons.
The idea had struck him at first as preposterous—sacrilege, even. The Hungarian Horntail, the Antipodean Opaleye, the Hebridean Black—these were considered the pinnacle of magical beastdom. Revered. Feared. The very embodiment of the term "dragon" as taught in every classroom, chronicled in every bestiary, and embedded into the collective consciousness of the magical world.
And yet, the texts were unambiguous.
The creatures we know today as "dragons" were but **wyverns**—beasts of fire and scale, yes, but mere shadows of a far greater, ancient lineage. Marcus had found references to this distinction not only in the lost Draconian treatises but also encoded within ancient Celtic runic structures, long forgotten in the wake of Rome's conquest and standardization of magical education. Even Egyptian hieroglyphic stelae, when read through the lens of both magical and historical runic overlay, hinted at the same truth.
Wyverns, as Marcus now understood them, were elemental reptiles, highly magical, certainly intelligent in a primal sense, and bred—or possibly devolved—from a far older species. They had wings, they had breath of fire, some even displayed mild language mimicry, but they lacked the **core essence** of what made a **true dragon**.
True dragons were not beasts. They were **entities**.
They did not merely breathe fire—they commanded **elemental domains**. Their speech was not mimicry but **primordial intent** turned into sound, language that shaped reality and bent it to their will. They did not die of age, but rather **shed their presence from this world** when it no longer suited their purpose. Where wyverns were creatures, true dragons were **beings of power**, intellect, will, and ancient magic layered so deeply into their essence that wands, spells, and charms paled in comparison to a single utterance of their tongue.
The realization unsettled Marcus. The magical world he had been raised In, even as an outsider, clung tightly to the belief that the creatures nesting in the mountains and glaciers were the apex. But the texts told another story. A story of how, after the Age of Mists and before the forging of the First Wand, dragons ruled—not through conquest, but through **presence**. Their will shaped ley lines. Their breath carved rivers. Their flight etched skies. And above all, they were keepers of knowledge so profound that even Salazar Slytherin's library barely scratched its surface.
But then, they vanished.
Not hunted, not killed. **Departed.**
The ancient glyphs described it as the **"Exhalation of the Sovereigns"**—a moment when the last of the true dragons, finding the mortal world no longer aligned with their essence, **opened the paths to other realms** and **left this Earth**. Where they went, no human, elf, goblin, or centaur ever followed. The entrances to these realms—called *Varneth-Ka*, the Hidden Vaults—were closed behind them, sealed by Draconian Word and elemental harmony.
And no resident of Earth, magical or mundane, has since found their way to them.
It was then that Marcus finally understood the undercurrent of sorrow in the older texts. The records weren't simply historical—they were **eulogies**. The wyverns that remained were not their descendants but their remnants. Bastardized by time, war, perhaps even magical degradation, they bore resemblance but not heritage.
Marcus closed the book with trembling hands. This was not knowledge fit for textbooks. It was not even knowledge safe for the public eye. To admit that the dragons of today were not dragons at all would be to ignite an upheaval in magical academia, bestiaries, and bloodline lore. It would call into question treaties, symbols of ancient families, and the foundation of many magical traditions.
And yet—he knew.
He knew now why Draconian was a language of power, mystery, and the unseen. Because it was not meant for creatures that breathed fire. It was meant for **gods of magic**. For the original dragons whose breath shaped mountains and whose eyes could stare through time.
And perhaps—if he spoke their language well enough—he could one day find a way to the realms they vanished to.
Not to tame.
Not to conquer.
But to learn.
To kneel before something older than wands, deeper than spells, and more real than any history book dared admit.
To speak with a true dragon.
.
..
…
The next day.
The castle was quieter than usual, the corridors echoing with the soft hum of magic. Marcus sat cross-legged in the Chamber of Secrets, the portrait of Salazar Slytherin observing him with a mixture of curiosity and approval.
"You've delved deep into the ancient texts, Marcus," Salazar's voice resonated. "What have you uncovered about the Draconian tongue?"
Marcus took a deep breath, his eyes still closed as part of his ongoing ritual. He began to recount his findings, each revelation more intriguing than the last.
Words of Power
In his studies, Marcus discovered that the Draconian language, much like the *Thu'um* from the legends of Skyrim universe, contained words imbued with intrinsic magic. Uttering these words could produce tangible effects, from conjuring elemental forces to influencing the minds of others. This concept mirrored the ancient belief that language and magic were inherently intertwined.
The Language of Creation
Further research led Marcus to the idea that Draconian was the primordial language, the very tongue used to shape reality. This aligned with the notion that speaking in Draconian could alter the fabric of the magical world, allowing the caster to manipulate the environment, summon entities, or even traverse different planes of existence.
The Power of Names
Marcus learned that in Draconian culture, names held immense power. Knowing the true name of a being or object granted the speaker authority over it. This concept was reminiscent of the ancient magical practices where true names were guarded secrets, and knowing them could grant unparalleled control.
The Draconic Script
The written form of Draconian was as potent as its spoken counterpart. Inscribing runes in this script could create wards, traps, or even imbue objects with magical properties. Marcus found parallels between this and the runic inscriptions used in ancient magical artifacts, suggesting a shared origin or influence.
The Living Language
Perhaps the most profound discovery was the idea that Draconian was a living language. It wasn't just a means of communication but a manifestation of magic itself. Speaking it required not just knowledge but a deep connection to magic, a harmony between the caster's intent and the language's inherent power.
As Marcus concluded his explanation, Salazar's portrait nodded in approval. "You've grasped the essence of the Draconian tongue. But remember, with such knowledge comes responsibility. Use it wisely."
Marcus stood, the weight of his discoveries settling upon him. He was no longer just a student; he was a seeker of ancient truths, a bridge between the past and the present. And his journey into the mysteries of the Draconian language had only just begun.
I sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of the Chamber of Secrets, the flickering torches casting towering shadows against the serpent-carved walls. My wand lay idle beside me. The silence was comforting. It was not absence, but anticipation—the sort of breathless pause the world takes just before a storm breaks. In the center of the chamber, I had arranged a semi-circle of ancient tomes, most drawn from Salazar's library. The rest were my own notes: ink-streaked, margin-riddled parchment where months of decoding and instinctive interpretation had finally begun to take form.
Draconian. The language of the true dragons. A tongue never meant for human mouths.
And yet, I had begun to *speak it*.
Not fluently—not yet. But enough.
Enough to reshape power.
Enough to *name* magic in the words dragons once used.
The Theory
The concept came to me like fire behind the eyes. I had long known, from studying Ancient Runes, that the *form* of a spell mattered far less than the *intent*. The Latin-derived incantations taught at Hogwarts were convenient, structured approximations—symbols for a deeper, more primal force. They were *names*, not *sources*.
But Draconian—Draconian didn't *name* magic.
It **commanded** it.
It didn't draw from the caster's knowledge of the spell. It drew from the *will* behind it and shaped the magic **with** the incantation itself, forging something more raw, more elemental, and ultimately more dangerous.
In this tongue, spells weren't cast.
They were **unleashed**.
But that came at a price.
Each casting was far more taxing—more so than anything I'd done before. The magic surged through me like molten gold—searing, radiant, unrefined. I could feel it drain deeper wells than the traditional spells ever touched. This was not magic any Hogwarts student should wield. This was the kind of power Dumbledore had warned me against: not dark, but *indifferent*.
And yet—I was not afraid.
I was the last Starborn. The heir of Slytherin. I would wield this, or I would die learning to.
The Spells
The first spell I chose was a simple one, comparatively: **Lumos**.
I closed my eyes, willing the Draconian word into existence—not merely translating it, but *feeling* it. In the language I had reconstructed from glyphs and fragments, it became:
> **"Seryx'valthurak."**
> *(she-riks-VAL-thoo-rak)*
> *Light. Flame-of-mind. Vision-born.*
I lifted my wand. The air grew heavy, and the moment I whispered the word, not spoke it but *willed* it, a searing sphere of light erupted from the wand's tip. Not a gentle glow, but a blinding white flame—like a tiny star, hovering, humming, casting stark shadows. It illuminated every inch of the Chamber. I could see even the dust motes freezing in the air, suspended in the spell's brilliance.
When I released it, my chest heaved. The magic had pulled at me—down to the marrow. It was exhilarating.
I took a breath and moved on.
**Levitation—Wingardium Leviosa.**
In Draconian:
> "Theruun'kar vexar."
> *(THEH-roon-kar VEK-sar)*
> *Air. Will-raise.*
I pointed at one of the heavy tomes and incanted the words.
The book didn't rise gently.
It **lurched upward**, floating high above my head in an instant, as though the air had *seized* it. Holding it in place was harder—it felt like wrestling a living thing. But I managed it. And when I released it, the book fell so gently it did not even whisper against the stone.
**The Cutting Charm—Diffindo.**
Draconian:
> "Zakar'dan thulek."
> *(ZAH-kar-dan THOO-lek)*
> *Split. Truth of form.*
The moment I spoke it, I carved a groove through a thick slab of enchanted stone. The cut was **perfect**—no hesitation, no scorch, just a silver-smooth slice. The magic hadn't been projected; it had *existed* at the target instantly, as though my intent reached out and broke the object with pure will.
I staggered back, sweat rising to my brow. My wand trembled in my grip. This was dangerous. And utterly addictive.
**Shield Charm—Protego.**
Draconian:
> "Tharnyx kavaer."
> *(THAR-niks ka-VAIR)*
> *Wall. Breath of stillness.*
The shield I conjured was translucent, like polished amber, and **alive**. It didn't just block—it anticipated. When I hurled a curse at it, it rippled and absorbed the energy, then **snapped** it into the stone floor in a harmless discharge. Not a reflection, not a block—*a redirection born of understanding the spell itself.*
Each spell cost me more. I could feel the drain in my limbs, behind my eyes. My fingertips tingled. This was not a magic to use in rapid succession. But each one was also *stronger*, *purer*, more **absolute** than its Latin counterpart.
The difference was like swinging a sword versus commanding a storm.
I have realised something.
These were not simply "versions" of spells.
They were **true names**. And each incantation was a tiny piece of something greater—a language born from **will, intention, and truth**. Where Latin merely gestured at magic, Draconian *spoke to it as an equal*.
But only a wizard who had forged their will and magic into harmony could bear it. To cast a dozen Draconian spells without pause was to burn yourself from the inside out.
Only those who *commanded* magic could even hope to survive its deeper uses.
And perhaps that was the point.
I leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. The Chamber buzzed around me with residual power, the stones faintly glowing, reacting to the language that had not been spoken since the Age of Flame.
I was alone.
But I was not lost.
I was building a bridge to a forgotten power—stone by word, breath by syllable.
And one day, I would speak a spell that would make even time *listen*.
Next I took a quill and a parchment and started writing down my observation.
//////
Grimoire of Draconian Invocations — Volume I
Compiled and Translated by Marcus Starborn
Location: Hidden Study Alcove, Chamber of Secrets
1. Seryx'valthurak
**Incantation**: *Seryx'valthurak*
**Pronunciation**: *she-riks-VAL-thoo-rak*
**Literal Meaning**: *Light — Flame-of-mind, Vision-born*
**Latin Equivalent**: *Lumos*
**Effect**: Produces a sphere of radiant light, blinding in intensity. Unlike *Lumos*, this light is not tethered to the wand but can float freely in the air if controlled with intent. The radiance appears like starfire and may reveal otherwise hidden enchantments or magical entities.
**Magical Cost**: Moderate to High. Drains mental focus and visual acuity temporarily.
**Warning**: Overuse may cause temporary retina strain or light sensitivity.
2. Therrun'kar Vexar
**Incantation**: *Therrun'kar Vexar*
**Pronunciation**: *THEH-roon-kar VEK-sar*
**Literal Meaning**: *Air — Will-raise*
**Latin Equivalent**: *Wingardium Leviosa*
**Effect**: Lifts objects with incredible force and speed, then holds them in the air. The object becomes semi-weightless but retains momentum and can be used as a projectile with sheer thought. Requires continued mental control to maintain elevation and orientation.
**Magical Cost**: Medium. Drains fine motor magical control.
**Warning**: Sudden drop or erratic movement if caster loses focus.
3. Zakar'dan Thulek
**Incantation**: *Zakar'dan Thulek*
**Pronunciation**: *ZAH-kar-dan THOO-lek*
**Literal Meaning**: *Split — Truth of Form*
**Latin Equivalent**: *Diffindo*
**Effect**: Aims directly at the "truth" of the target's composition, creating a clean, instantaneous sever at a structural weak point. Not a projected beam, but an *imposed result*. Can split stone, bone, or magical barriers if will and intent are focused.
**Magical Cost**: High. May cause fatigue in the casting arm and wand resonance.
**Warning**: Must be used with exacting precision. Miscasting may redirect force inward.
4. Tharnyx Kavaer
**Incantation**: *Tharnyx Kavaer*
**Pronunciation**: *THAR-niks ka-VAIR*
**Literal Meaning**: *Wall — Breath of Stillness*
**Latin Equivalent**: *Protego*
**Effect**: Conjures a semi-sentient defensive veil that interprets attacks and redirects them harmlessly. Appears as a rippling amber barrier that pulses in response to hostile force. The shield reacts faster than traditional *Protego*, often dissipating spells before impact.
**Magical Cost**: Moderate to High. Sustained use may dull reflexes temporarily.
**Warning**: May reflect *intent* as well as *spell*, meaning emotional instability could cause unexpected feedback.
Observations on Draconian Magic
* The power lies in **alignment**—mental, magical, and emotional unity.
* Each spell name is not arbitrary; it is a **true naming**, a linguistic invocation that imposes reality rather than suggests it.
* The more complex the concept, the harder it is to form a working incantation.
* *Intent is everything.*
Linguistic Notes
* Draconian often follows a **compound structure**: a primary *force* followed by a modifying *aspect*. Example: *Zakar (Split)* + *Thulek (Truth of Form)*.
* Certain consonant clusters (e.g., *th*, *x*, *k*, *r*) appear to evoke elemental response more strongly.
* Most words are **action-based** rather than **noun-based**, signifying an active reshaping of magic rather than summoning.
Next Objectives
1. Translate higher-tier spells—possibly *Stupefy*, *Expelliarmus*, and *Apparition*.
2. Test counter-curses and healing charms using Draconian equivalents.
3. Develop a meditation technique to recover energy post-casting.
4. Begin speculative construction of original spells *unique to Draconian*—not mere translations.
//////
Staring at the parchment for a while, I nodded to myself and stored it in the drawer of the desk. After which I moved back to my dorm for another date with Morpheus.