The Art of Control
Three days had passed since Harry had arrived at The House, and he felt himself changing in subtle, unsettling ways. Under Master Callun's strict guidance, he'd spent hours in training, learning to control his magic with new techniques, to focus it without words or a wand, and to command it with the kind of authority he'd never quite mastered before. His days had been full, intense, and... oddly satisfying.
But this morning, things were different. When he arrived in the main hall for his daily training, he found Mistress Eleanor waiting instead of Master Callun. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze piercing as she looked him over.
"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she said smoothly, her voice cool and detached. "Master Callun has taught you much, I understand. But there is more to being a master than power alone."
Harry inclined his head respectfully, trying to match her calm composure. "What will we be working on, Mistress Eleanor?"
She gave a faint, approving smile. "Etiquette, poise, influence. A master of The House must have grace as well as strength. Power that isn't wielded with precision is wasted. Today, I will teach you how to move, how to speak, and even how to sit—every detail is significant here."
Harry nodded, keeping his curiosity in check. It was strange to imagine training in things like sitting and speaking, but he'd learned quickly that nothing at The House was taught without purpose.
Mistress Eleanor led him to a large, richly furnished room lined with ornate mirrors, cushioned chairs, and low tables set with silver trays. She gestured for him to sit, and he carefully took his place on the edge of one of the chairs. Immediately, she frowned and shook her head.
"Too rigid," she corrected, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Relax your posture, but keep a sense of command. You should look as if you belong in the chair, as if it's here for you and you alone."
Harry tried to adjust, loosening his shoulders but maintaining an upright position. She stepped back, watching him closely, then nodded with the faintest hint of approval.
"Better," she said. "But remember, it is not just about where you sit, but how you sit. Every movement, every glance, sends a message. Now, let's work on your speaking."
Over the next hour, she guided him through conversations, coaching him on how to adjust his tone, how to phrase words for maximum effect, and how to carry authority in his voice without sounding forceful.
"When you speak," she instructed, "it should be as if you are allowing the other person to listen, rather than simply filling the air with words. Every word must be deliberate, chosen as if it is the only thing worth saying."
They practiced mock conversations, Mistress Eleanor adopting various roles as Harry adjusted his tone and approach to match. He fumbled at first, trying to find the right balance between confidence and restraint, but with each attempt, he felt a shift. There was an art to this—a power he hadn't quite considered before.
By mid-afternoon, she led him to another room where a grand piano gleamed in the center, surrounded by other instruments—a guitar, a set of drums, and a violin, each polished to perfection.
"A master must also have a cultured skill," she explained. "Something that elevates them above the common ranks. Music, Mr. Potter, is a language that speaks to the soul. Today, you will find your instrument."
She guided him to the piano first. Harry placed his hands on the keys and pressed down, producing a simple, uneven chord. Mistress Eleanor watched as he played a few tentative notes, guiding him as he tried a simple melody. He managed decently well, but felt no spark, no particular connection to the instrument.
They moved to the guitar next. Harry strummed it, wincing as the chords came out rough and clumsy. No matter how many times he tried, his fingers stumbled across the strings, unable to find the rhythm. After a few attempts, Mistress Eleanor gently took the guitar from him.
"The guitar," she said simply, "is not for you."
They tried the drums next, but Harry's rhythm was as inconsistent as his patience. He couldn't get the timing right, his hands moving out of sync, clattering against the drums in an awkward attempt at a beat. Mistress Eleanor shook her head, unperturbed.
"Perhaps this isn't the one either."
Finally, she handed him the violin. Harry took it hesitantly, feeling its weight settle in his hands. He placed the bow to the strings, unsure of what to expect, and drew it down in a smooth, careful motion.
The sound that resonated was clear, rich, almost haunting. He adjusted his grip, experimenting with the bow, and played a few simple notes. They came easily, naturally, as if he'd held the instrument before. Each note felt deliberate, powerful. He could sense something deep, something resonant in the music, almost as if the violin were an extension of himself.
Mistress Eleanor watched him closely, her gaze softened by a hint of approval. "Interesting," she murmured, almost to herself. "You have a natural aptitude. Keep practicing, and you may find that this instrument has more to teach you than you realize."
Harry played for a little longer, savoring the feeling. For the first time in days, he felt something like calm—a moment of reflection, clarity in the resonance of each note.
As evening approached, Mistress Eleanor finally brought their lesson to a close. She regarded him with a quiet, unreadable expression, her eyes lingering on him for a moment.
"You are learning quickly, Mr. Potter," she said. "Keep this up, and you may indeed prove yourself worthy of The House."
They walked in silence to the family dining hall, where the other members were already gathered. The room glowed softly with candlelight, casting a warm, golden hue over the table set with silverware and crystal glasses. Harry took his seat next to Master Callun, who gave him a curt nod of acknowledgment.
Dinner proceeded in its usual fashion, each family member recounting their day. Harry listened carefully, watching how each of them spoke with that same air of control and precision he was beginning to recognize as an essential part of life here.
Mistress Eleanor raised a glass in his direction. "Our young Mr. Potter began his etiquette training today," she announced with a faint smile. "And he shows some promise."
Master Alaric, seated across from Harry, gave him a curious glance. "Etiquette, is it? And how did you find our young apprentice, Eleanor?"
"Eager and attentive," Mistress Eleanor replied, her gaze sharp. "He has a natural sense for power and restraint. I imagine he will serve The House well."
Harry straightened slightly at the approval, feeling an unexpected thrill. He wasn't sure why, but earning the respect of these masters, these people who held power and authority so effortlessly, felt strangely rewarding.
"So, Potter," Master Alaric said, turning to him, "I hear you've found your instrument. Tell us, what was it?"
Harry met his gaze, his voice steady. "The violin, sir."
Master Alaric's eyes gleamed with faint interest. "Ah. A fine choice. Requires both control and subtlety—a balance not everyone finds easy to master."
Dinner continued, the conversation drifting to other topics, with each family member adding their perspective and experience. Harry listened intently, picking up on their patterns, noting how they framed their words, how they commanded attention even with the simplest phrases.
When the meal finally ended, Harry followed Master Callun back to the family wing. The hallways were quiet, illuminated only by a few flickering lanterns casting long shadows across the walls.
"Today was another step," Callun said as they reached Harry's quarters. "You're adapting well. But remember, mastery is not simply about learning skills. It is about control—over yourself, over your surroundings, and over others. Discipline and patience will take you far here."
Harry nodded, absorbing Callun's words. He could feel himself changing, each lesson molding him into something more refined, something stronger.
"Thank you, sir," he replied, his voice steady.
Master Callun gave a final nod. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we will test what you've learned so far."
With that, Callun left, and Harry stepped into his room, closing the door behind him. As he sat on the edge of his bed, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction, as though he was finally discovering parts of himself he hadn't known were there.
His thoughts drifted back to the violin, to the soft, haunting notes that still lingered in his mind. For the first time since he'd arrived, he felt a connection—to the instrument, to the training, and even, perhaps, to The House itself.
And as he lay down to sleep, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was only just beginning to understand what he was capable of.