The training room was spacious, with high ceilings and reinforced walls that gleamed with protective enchantments. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the polished floor. Magic lingered in the air—residual energy from his previous training session that created a slight pressure that any competent wizard could detect.
Harry stood in the center, his wand that he didn't really need a blur of motion as he worked through a series of complex spellcasting exercises.
He had been at it for nearly two hours already, starting with standard combat drills before moving to increasingly complex magical theory applications. Sweat had soaked through his original shirt, forcing him to discard it for the tank top he now wore. The floor around him was littered with the remnants of transfigured objects—some still partially transformed, others completely altered from their original state.
He'd shed his outer shirt, leaving him in a fitted black tank top that revealed the lean muscle of his arms and shoulders. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his skin as he moved with practiced precision, his magic filling the room with crackling energy. The intensity of his concentration was evident in the slight furrow of his brow and the controlled rhythm of his breathing.
Several training dummies lay scattered across the floor, some blasted apart so thoroughly that only scorch marks remained as evidence of their existence. Others were frozen in bizarre contortions—mid-transformation or caught in the aftereffects of spells Harry had been experimenting with.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for something more challenging. He twirled his wand between his fingers, a habit he'd recently developed during his long hours of solitary practice in the Room of Requirement. "Time for the real work."
Harry took a deep breath, centering himself. Once he was ready, he began tracing intricate patterns in the air—not the standard wand movements taught at any wizarding school, but something older, more esoteric and complex. The air around him shimmered and distorted, like heat waves rising from sun-baked pavement. Each movement was precise and calculated, flowing into the next with a rhythmic precision. He had perfected these movements over the years, both during the war and in the aftermath of it.
The magic he was invoking wasn't found in any standard textbook. It was knowledge he'd spent years accumulating—fragments from ancient grimoires, techniques learned from depictions of magical cultures across the world, and innovations of his own design. It was magic few wizards would even attempt, let alone master.
He murmured an incantation in a language that wasn't Latin—something more ancient, with harsh consonants and flowing vowels that seemed to vibrate the very air in the room. The words themselves carried power, each syllable building upon the last to create a framework for the magic to follow. Magic gathered around him in visible waves, colors shifting between deep purple and electric blue. The temperature in the room fluctuated—growing colder, then warmer, as the energies he manipulated sought equilibrium.
The floor beneath his feet began to glow faintly, magical symbols appearing briefly before fading away. It was a response of the room's enchantments to the power he was channeling, fainter than what he'd observed in the Room of Requirement, but it wasn't as if this training room could compare to the marvel that Rowena's enchantment was in the slightest. Dust motes caught in the sunlight froze in midair, suspended in the field of magical energy that was building around him.
With a sudden thrust of his wand, Harry released the spell. The magic coalesced into a perfect sphere of swirling energy around him, pulsing with power. He stood motionless at its center, his eyes closed in concentration as he slowly expanded the sphere outward.
This was old magic—boundary magic that predated modern shield charms. Instead of simply deflecting spells, it created a field where Harry had absolute control over the magical environment. Within this sphere, he could dampen others' magic, amplify his own, or even alter the fundamental properties of spells cast within it. It was volatile and challenging, and the risks were massive, but he had never been one to back down from what people deemed impossible.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he maintained the complex enchantment. With a twist of his wand, he began to layer additional spells into the boundary. The sphere's color shifted, patterns forming across its surface like constellations.
Harry wasn't just training—he was pushing the boundaries of what most wizards considered possible, combining ancient protective magics with modern combat techniques in ways that hadn't been attempted in centuries. This was the true extent of his studies—why he'd spent countless nights poring over forgotten texts and studying anything he could find on remote magical communities. He'd long ago surpassed the curriculum of any magical institution, venturing into realms of theory and practice that most deemed impossible or too dangerous to attempt.
The sphere pulsed once, twice, then stabilized—a perfect manifestation of his will and power. Within its confines, he was more than a wizard casting spells; he was a conductor orchestrating magic itself, bending it to purposes for which it had never been intended.
Unbeknownst to him, the training room door had silently opened, welcoming a slender figure who now stood frozen in the entrance, utterly transfixed by the display before her. The wave of magical energy that washed over her as the door opened had nearly driven her back. It felt like stepping from a climate-controlled room into a hurricane. However, her curiosity and determination kept her rooted to the spot, her eyes wide as she witnessed magic that defied her understanding.
Clarisse had come prepared for battle—both magical and otherwise. She wore an elegant dueling outfit that managed to be both practical and devastatingly flattering. The fitted jacket was cut from midnight-blue fabric with silver accents that highlighted her veela heritage, hugging her torso snugly and accentuating her curves while still allowing freedom of movement. The neckline dipped daringly, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage without being impractical, and the material clung to her form as though custom-tailored—which it was. Her fitted trousers were tucked into knee-high boots of supple leather, and her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that swung with each movement, a few strands left loose to frame her face.
However, any plans she'd harbored evaporated the moment she stepped through that door. The raw magical power emanating from Harry hit her like a physical force, stealing her breath and freezing her in place. It pressed against her skin, slid into her lungs with each breath, making her lightheaded with its intensity.
She'd felt powerful magic before—had grown up surrounded by witches and wizards of considerable talent—but this was different. This was primordial, vast as an ocean and just as deep, controlled with a precision that seemed impossible given its magnitude.
To her veela senses, it was overwhelming—like standing under scorching sun after being in darkness. Where most wizards' magic presented as a gentle aura, Harry's radiated outward in waves she could almost see, fierce and controlled and utterly intoxicating. It called to the magical creature within her, the part that recognized and responded to power on an instinctive level. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart racing beneath her palm, her skin flushing with heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.
Her veela nature—typically so controlled, so carefully maintained—stirred to life unbidden, responding to his magic like a flower turning toward the sun. She bit her lip, trying to suppress the reaction, but it was futile. The carefully constructed plan she'd developed after their encounter in the kitchen seemed laughably inadequate now.
Mon dieu, she thought hazily, unable to tear her eyes away. What is he doing? I've never seen magic like this... Her knees felt weak, and she clutched the doorframe to steady herself, the wood cool beneath her suddenly overheated skin. The veela within her—a part of herself she'd always controlled, always directed—was now responding independently, drawn to Harry's power like iron to a lodestone.
The boundary sphere continued to grow until it reached the walls, where it settled like a dome of shimmering energy. The colors shifted constantly across its surface—deep indigo fading to electric blue, then pulsing with veins of gold that formed intricate patterns before dissolving again. The air inside the dome felt different somehow—denser, more responsive to Harry's will.
Harry then began to conjure objects within it—not with the standard Latin incantations but with gestures and murmured words in that same ancient language. Training dummies materialized, but these were unlike any Clarisse had seen before. They moved with unnatural speed and precision, attacking from all sides, their forms rippling and changing as they struck. Some wielded wands, casting actual spells that flashed and sizzled through the air. Others engaged in physical combat, their limbs extending and morphing to strike from unexpected angles.
But instead of defensive spells, Harry fought back with wandless magic from his free hand while maintaining the boundary with his wand. Streams of concentrated magic shot from his fingertips—not standard spells but raw magical energy shaped by will alone. The magic was visible to the naked eye, condensed into ribbons of power that twisted and turned according to his commands. When they struck the dummies, they didn't simply knock them back—they disrupted the very magic holding them together, causing portions to dissolve or transform in ways that defied logical explanation.
One dummy approached from behind, and without even turning his head, Harry gestured backward. The attacker froze mid-motion, its form vibrating intensely before collapsing inward as though being sucked into an invisible vortex. Another lunged from the side, and Harry deflected its attack with a shield conjured with just a thought—no incantation, no wand movement, just pure magical intent.
Clarisse watched, mesmerized, as he moved with fluid grace between attacks. This wasn't just impressive spellwork—it was magic on a fundamental level that few wizards ever mastered. He wasn't just casting spells; he was manipulating the very fabric of magic itself.
A wave of heat washed over her that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. Her breathing quickened, her lips parting as she unconsciously leaned forward. The veela part of her nature recognized power on an instinctive level, and it was responding accordingly—with a primal attraction that bypassed all rational thought.
It was an ancient response, buried deep in veela magic—the recognition of a potential mate whose power complemented their own, whose magical signature resonated at a frequency that called to their very essence. It wasn't something taught or discussed in polite company, but every veela knew the stories—of ancestors who had encountered wizards of such extraordinary power that their veela nature had recognized them instantly, had been drawn to them irresistibly.
Clarisse had always dismissed such tales as romantic exaggeration. Now, as she watched Harry wield magic that defied comprehension, she understood. Her skin prickled with awareness, her senses sharpening until she could almost taste his magic in the air. Her own magical core seemed to pulse in response to his, creating a rhythm that made her dizzy with its intensity.
Harry spun suddenly, dissolving three dummies simultaneously with a complex gesture that seemed to bend the light around his hand. The magical backlash rippled through the room, and Clarisse had to brace herself against the doorframe to remain standing, her legs trembling with the effort of keeping her upright. She'd never lost control like this—had prided herself on her self-discipline, on the careful regulation of her veela magic—but now she felt it slipping away from her with each display of Harry's power.
He's not even trying that hard, she realized, watching as he casually deflected a barrage of spells from the remaining dummies, his movements efficient and precise. There was no wasted energy, no flashy gestures or unnecessary incantations—just pure, focused intent translated directly into magical effect. The controlled power in every movement made her previous assumptions about him seem laughably inadequate. This man wasn't just magically talented—he was operating on a level she hadn't witnessed in her entire life.
She'd known he was powerful, of course. She'd felt it the moment he'd arrived, had seen glimpses of it in their previous interactions. But this—this was beyond what she'd imagined possible. He wasn't just casting spells; he was rewriting the rules of magic itself, bending it to his will in ways that should have been impossible.
Her breath came in short, shallow pants now, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to process what she was witnessing. The jacket she'd chosen for its strategic appeal now felt constricting, too warm against her hypersensitive skin. She wanted to loosen it but couldn't bear to look away from Harry's display even for a moment.
She pressed her fists against her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive, and the cool air in the room seemed to brush against her like a physical caress. Every nerve ending was alive with awareness, responding to the magic that saturated the air around them. Her veela magic was responding to his, rising to meet it like a moth drawn to flame—and just as likely to be consumed.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be in control, to use her veela heritage as a tool, a weapon in her arsenal. Instead, it had turned against her, betraying her carefully laid plans with a response so instinctual she could barely think through it. Her magic—typically so controlled, so precisely directed—now flowed freely from her in waves she couldn't contain, reaching out toward Harry like tendrils seeking connection.
If he noticed her presence, he gave no sign. His focus remained absolute, his attention fixed on the complex magic he was wielding. That single-minded intensity only made the effect worse—there was something profoundly attractive about such complete mastery, such unwavering concentration.
Harry had now dismissed all but one dummy and was engaged in what looked like elemental manipulation. Fire bloomed from the tip of his wand, but not ordinary flames—these burned with a blue-white intensity that made Clarisse squint. He shaped the fire into a serpent that coiled around the dummy, constricting without burning, before he transformed it into water with a casual flick of his wrist.
The water froze instantly, encasing the dummy in clear ice that refracted the sunlight into rainbow patterns across the walls. But Harry didn't stop there—with a complex gesture, he began to manipulate the frozen figure, reshaping it without melting it first. The ice flowed like liquid while maintaining its solid state, defying the fundamental properties of matter itself. Another gesture, and the ice sublimated directly into steam that Harry then compressed into a sphere of dense fog hovering above his palm.
He rotated his hand, examining the sphere from all angles, and began to infuse it with additional magic. The fog shifted colors—from white to blue to violet—as he layered spell after spell into its structure. With a sudden movement, he launched the sphere toward the final dummy. Upon impact, the fog expanded explosively, enveloping the target completely. When it cleared, the dummy had been transfigured into a perfect crystal replica of itself, transparent and gleaming in the sunlight.
"Impressionnant," she whispered, forgetting herself momentarily. The word escaped her lips before she could stop it, carried on a breath that was half sigh, half gasp. Her fingers pressed against her lips too late to contain the sound.
Harry didn't hear her though, too focused on his magic. The boundary sphere suddenly contracted, compressing back toward him until it was just a shimmering outline around his body. With a final, complex movement, he absorbed the remaining energy back into himself, the colors dissipating into his skin like water into sand.
He stood motionless for a moment, his eyes closed as he breathed deeply. Moments later, he opened his eyes and frowned slightly, his head tilting as though listening to something. His gaze swept the room, finally landing on Clarisse in the doorway.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
"Enjoying the show?" he asked, casually tucking his wand into a holster on his forearm.
Clarisse straightened, trying desperately to compose herself. She hadn't expected to be caught so thoroughly off-guard. The plan had been to challenge him, to regain the upper hand after the kitchen incident. Instead, she stood there feeling like a schoolgirl caught staring at her crush.
"I..." She cleared her throat, annoyance at her own reaction giving her the strength to step fully into the room. "I thought you might appreciate another wand for practice. It is my job to take care of our guests' requirements, after all."
Harry's smile widened as he took in her appearance—the elegant dueling clothes that somehow managed to be both practical and provocative. His gaze was appreciative but analytical, noting every detail of her carefully chosen outfit. His eyes lingered on the way the fabric clung to her curves, accentuating her perky rear and the swell of her tits, before returning to her flushed face. He noted the dilated pupils, the quickened breathing, and the slight tremor in her hands that she was trying to hide—all signs of the effect his magic had on her veela nature.
"Another wand, hmm?" he said, amusement clear in his voice as he slowly walked toward her. Each step was calculated, unhurried, like a predator who knows their prey isn't going anywhere. The remnants of his magical aura still clung to him, creating slight distortions in the air around his body. "I'm not sure you're in any condition to help me right now."
The closer he came, the more pronounced the effect was. Clarisse could feel the residual magic washing over her in waves, each one sending fresh shivers across her skin. It was like standing at the edge of a storm—electricity in the air raising the fine hairs on her arms, the pressure building in her chest with each breath.
"I am perfectly capable," she insisted, lifting her chin defiantly even as she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact as he stopped directly in front of her. "Perhaps you underestimate me, Monsieur Peverell."
Harry chuckled lowly. "I don't think I'm the one doing the underestimating here, Clarisse." He gestured to her outfit. "You came dressed for a duel, but that's not all you had in mind, was it?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "A proper dueling outfit is appropriate for ze training room," she said, her accent slipping as her composure wavered.
"Your accent is showing," Harry observed with a grin. "Only happens when you're flustered, I've noticed."
Clarisse straightened her shoulders, drawing on years of training to regain her composure. The veela within her still responded to his proximity, but she forced herself to focus, to remember why she'd come here. "Are you accepting my offer to duel or not?" she asked, proud that her voice remained steady despite the turmoil within.
Harry considered her for a moment, his head tilted slightly. There was something calculating in his gaze—as though he was solving a puzzle, seeing layers to her request that even she wasn't fully aware of. Finally, his lips curved into a smile that held equal parts challenge and amusement.
"You know, I'm curious to see what you can do. Let's duel." He stepped back, giving her space. The movement was casual, but Clarisse didn't miss how he positioned himself precisely in the center of the training area, how his stance shifted subtly into a dueling posture—relaxed but ready. "Basic rules: no lethal spells, nothing that causes permanent damage, and we stay within the marked area." He gestured to the lines inscribed on the floor, which began to glow faintly in response to his attention.
"I'll maintain shields around the perimeter—wouldn't want to damage this lovely home with any... stray spells." As he spoke, he made a series of small, efficient gestures with his wand, and the air along the boundaries shimmered briefly as protective enchantments settled into place.
"Acceptable," Clarisse said, drawing her wand with a flourish. She took a deep breath, centering herself. The plan could still work. She just needed to focus.
Harry moved to the opposite end of the dueling area, turning to face her with casual confidence. His stance was textbook-perfect—balanced and grounded, yet somehow still appearing completely at ease. He twirled his wand once between his fingers, a small gesture that nonetheless demonstrated remarkable dexterity.
"Ladies first," he offered with a slight bow that managed to be both courteous and slightly mocking.
Clarisse drew her wand in a fluid motion, centering herself with a deep breath. She launched her first spell—a simple Expelliarmus—more as a test than a serious attempt to disarm him.
Harry deflected it with a lazy flick of his wand, not even bothering with a verbal counter. His eyes never left hers, studying her technique, her stance, the way she held her wand. Analyzing, assessing.
They began slowly, exchanging simple spells—testing each other's defenses and reaction times. Clarisse was good—better than good, with quick reflexes and creative spellwork that spoke of extensive training. Her movements were graceful and precise, each spell flowing seamlessly into the next. Years of study were evident in the economy of her wand work and the clarity of her incantations.
She incorporated movements from the French dueling tradition—more flowing and dance-like than the British style, emphasizing continuous motion and unpredictable rhythms. A jab here, a flourish there, spells chained together in sequences designed to create openings in her opponent's defense.
But Harry was holding back, she could tell. He deflected her attacks with minimal effort, his counterspells precise but nowhere near the level of magic she'd witnessed earlier.
Ten minutes in, they were both moving faster, spells gaining in complexity and power. Clarisse began to incorporate her veela magic, letting it flow outward in subtle pulses designed to distract and disorient. Most wizards would be struggling to maintain focus by now, their spellwork becoming sloppy as their thoughts scattered.
Harry merely smiled, as though he found her attempts amusing. He allowed his movements to become slightly less coordinated, his reactions a fraction slower—just enough to make her think her strategy was working.
Encouraged, Clarisse pressed her advantage. She cast a modified Aguamenti that splashed water across the floor between them, then followed with a quick freezing charm. As Harry adjusted his footing on the suddenly slick surface, she deliberately overextended on her next spell, causing her to stumble forward.
The "accidental" misstep caused her jacket to pull open at the front, revealing more than it should have. She made a show of fixing it, her movements deliberately slow and exaggerated as she cast her next spell.
"Oh! Excuse me," she said, taking her time to readjust the fabric with nimble fingers while maintaining her casting rhythm.
Harry's eyes flickered briefly to the movement before returning to her face, a knowing look in his gaze. "Careful there," he said dryly. "Wouldn't want any... wardrobe malfunctions during combat."
The duel continued, with Clarisse employing increasingly creative methods of distraction. She incorporated more physical movement into her spellcasting—stretches, spins, and lunges that showcased her physique while maintaining legitimate dueling form. Her veela magic pulsed in time with her movements, attempting to cloud Harry's mind with images and sensations designed to break his concentration.
For his part, Harry appeared to be gradually succumbing to her influence. His responses became less immediate, his gaze lingering longer than necessary on the curve of her hip as she pivoted, or the arch of her neck as she dodged a counterspell. His wand movements grew slightly less precise, his timing a fraction off from what she'd witnessed earlier. Clarisse felt a surge of triumph when he missed an easy block, a minor jinx grazing his shoulder.
"Getting tired, Monsieur Peverell?" she taunted, her confidence building. Her veela magic pulsed outward in stronger waves now, targeting him with the full force of her heritage. She added an extra sway to her movements, letting her jacket fall open just enough to reveal the fitted top beneath it—all while maintaining the perfect form of a duelist.
If her plan was working, if she could just maintain this advantage a little longer...
Harry's answering smile should have warned her. It was the smile of a chess player who had been deliberately sacrificing pawns to position his queen for checkmate. "Not at all," he said, and suddenly the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The air grew heavy, like the moment before lightning strikes.
His next movement was blindingly fast—a silent Expelliarmus that caught her completely off guard, followed immediately by an Incarcerous that bound her with conjured ropes before she could even register that her wand was flying through the air.
The magical restraints secured her in place, allowing movement only of her head. Clarisse stared at him in shock as Harry casually caught her wand and tucked it into his belt.
"You weren't the only one with a strategy," he said, walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps. His earlier playfulness had been replaced with something more predatory, and Clarisse felt her breath catch in her throat.
He began to circle her like a wolf sizing up its prey, his eyes never leaving hers. "You thought you could distract me with veela magic and a few strategic... adjustments." He gestured to her outfit. "I'll admit, it was a valiant effort."
"I don't know what you mean," she attempted, but even to her own ears, the denial sounded weak.
Harry laughed softly, coming to stand behind her where she couldn't see him. "Let's not play games, Clarisse. Not after this morning in the kitchen." His voice lowered to a near whisper. "Not after I heard you listening outside my door last night."
She felt his fingers brush lightly against the nape of her neck, where a few strands of hair had escaped her ponytail. The simple touch sent shivers cascading down her spine, enhanced by the subtle pulse of magic he allowed to flow through the contact.
"You've been trying to regain control since I left you in that kitchen," he continued, circling back to face her. His voice dropped lower, taking on a quality that seemed to resonate directly with her veela core. "It must be frustrating for a veela, accustomed to having men wrapped around her finger, to find someone... resistant."
The last word lingered in the air between them, laden with implications. His eyes held hers, unblinking and intense, reflecting the magical energies still swirling in the room. There was knowledge in that gaze—an understanding of exactly what was happening to her, what her veela nature was experiencing in his presence.
His hand lifted to trace along her jawline, barely making contact but leaving a trail of tingling awareness in its wake. This time, the magic he channeled through the touch was more intentional—a taste of the power she'd witnessed him wielding earlier.
Clarisse couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped her lips. As a veela, she was naturally attuned to magical energy, and the controlled flow of his power against her skin was overwhelming—like being touched with lightning that somehow didn't burn.
"Interesting reaction," Harry murmured, his eyes darkening as he noted her response. "Your veela nature recognizes power, doesn't it? Responds to it on a level you can't control."
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Is that why you were watching me train? Did you feel my magic from down the hall? Did it call to you?"
Clarisse tried to maintain her composure, but her ragged breathing betrayed her. Each point where the ropes pressed against her body felt hypersensitive, and Harry's proximity was making it impossible to think clearly.
"What are your intentions here, Clarisse?" Harry asked, his voice deceptively casual as he resumed his circling. "Was this simply revenge for the kitchen, or is there more to it?"
"I—" she began, then faltered as he traced a finger down her arm, another pulse of magic following the touch.
"The truth," he prompted, coming to stand before her again. "I think we're past games now, don't you?"
She looked up at him, finding it impossible to lie with his magic still tingling across her skin. "Yes, it started as revenge," she admitted. "But then I saw you in there, wielding magic I've never even heard of, and—" She broke off, embarrassed by the breathlessness in her voice.
"And?" he prompted, his eyes intent on hers.
"And everything changed," she finished quietly. "You have no idea what it's like for someone like me to feel magic like yours. It's... intoxicating."
Harry studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I figured as much. You underestimated me rather severely, didn't you?"
To his surprise, Clarisse laughed softly. "I realized that the moment you arrived," she admitted. "Your magical power, your mental resilience—they're off the charts. I knew my little plan would never truly work on you."
Her eyes held his, admiration clear in their depths. "The magic you were doing in here... I've never seen anything like it. Boundary magic? Elemental transformation without transitional states? That's master-level work. Beyond master-level."
Harry chuckled, watching how she looked up at him with undisguised fascination. He wondered briefly if all veela responded this way to magical power of sufficient strength, but pushed the thought aside.
He leaned close again, close enough to feel her quickened breath against his face. "So tell me, Clarisse," he said, his voice low and teasing, "what do you want now that your little plan has fallen apart?"
Her eyes met his without wavering. "The plan may be done," she said, her voice gaining strength despite her bound state, "but that doesn't mean I want to back down from carrying it out."
Harry straightened, regarding her thoughtfully. He took in her determined expression, the challenge in her eyes that remained despite her compromised position. With a casual wave of his hand, the ropes binding her vanished.
Before Clarisse could react, she felt a gentle magical pressure guiding her down until she was kneeling before him. She looked up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of surprise and anticipation.
"You're free to try," Harry said simply, his expression one of amused expectation.
A slow, excited grin spread across Clarisse's face as she gazed up at him. "With pleasure, Monsieur Peverell," she whispered, her gaze trailing down until she reached his groin. She gulped involuntarily, her throat bobbing, and the grin was still in place as she purred, "With pleasure."
TBC.
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