Morven K. Draeger

Feelings are distractions dressed as truths.

Name : Morven Keith Draeger.
Place of Birth : Niedersachsen, Germany.
Date of Birth : October 07th, 2008.
Gender : Male
Nationality: German
Blood Status : Half-blood

1. Intimidating. Morven doesn’t seek attention—he commands it. His quiet presence and piercing gaze often speak louder than confrontation ever could.
2. Composed. Even in the face of chaos or confrontation, he remains calm and unreadable. His silence often speaks louder than words, unsettling those who try to get too close.
3. Ambitious. Morven doesn’t chase recognition—he chases results. He sets his goals high and doesn’t hesitate to do what’s necessary to reach them.
4. Detached. He keeps his emotions locked away, preferring logic over empathy. Connections are rare, and trust is earned slowly—if at all.
5. Perceptive. He notices what others overlook—hidden motives, subtle shifts, the weakness behind the smile. Nothing escapes his scrutiny.

He was left in the dead of night.
Wrapped in a coarse black blanket and laid at the iron gate of Eirlicht Asylum for War-Displaced Wards, a forgotten institution nestled among the frostbitten valleys of the North, the infant had no name, no note—only a tarnished silver clasp engraved with a single word: Morven.No one ever came for him. No relatives appeared. No story was offered. The matrons of the orphanage made no effort to create one.Morven grew up in cold hallways lined with cracked stone and colder rules. Kindness was scarce, and conversation was currency. He spoke little, listened often, and learned to move without drawing notice. He quickly understood that people revealed more when they believed he was indifferent. And so, he became that: a boy who watched, remembered, and said very little.Other children clung to the fantasy of families who might return. Morven never entertained the thought. The world had already given its answer. Instead, he spent his nights reading old books left behind in the asylum’s forgotten corners—obscure philosophy, old maps, and records no one else bothered to touch. While the others searched for belonging, he searched for order, for structure, for understanding. He believed knowledge was the only thing no one could take from him.On his eleventh winter, while the others slept beneath threadbare sheets, an envelope arrived bearing no insignia, sealed in wax darker than blood. The headmistress handed it to him without a word. Durmstrang Institute—a name he had only read once in a passing mention. A place far from here. A door, perhaps, to something more than survival.He accepted it in silence.That night, he folded his meager belongings into a worn satchel. No goodbyes were given, none were expected. As the first snow of the season fell on the cracked stone steps, Morven stepped into the dark without looking back.
He had never belonged to the world that left him behind.Now, he would shape one of his own.