The next morning, Amoria woke to find breakfast laid out on her desk once again. She barely spared it a glance, instead heading straight for the bathroom. Draco would expect her to train again this morning, but this time, she was determined to be prepared—despite the knot of dread tightening in her chest.
The soreness from the previous day still clung to her, despite the copious amount of Wiggenweld she had consumed, and even the simplest movements brought a twinge of pain. She wasn't sure how many more days her body could endure Draco's 'training.' For a moment, she considered feigning illness, but she knew he'd see right through the lie.
After dressing, she took a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders as she made her way toward the greenhouse.
When she opened the door, her chin lifted in defiance. Draco was leaning casually against the glass walls, watching her approach with an unreadable expression.
"Alright, today we're actually dueling," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "We'll be using hexes and curses—nothing too fancy. And we really need to figure out how to control that magic of yours. The Dark Lord's expecting results by the end of the week, so let's start making some progress. Tell me, though—how did you accidentally unleash it last time?"
Amoria rolled her eyes at his few found interest in the assignment. Must've been rather amusing to practice on someone he knew wouldn't actually try to kill him. "Isn't Severus supposed to be handling that? I thought you were here to teach me how not to get killed in battle."
Draco smirked, "As much as I enjoy watching you struggle, I have my own task to complete. The sooner you figure out how to control your magic, the better—for both of us."
She hesitated her response, unsure if she should let him attempt helping her, but at this point she was desperate.
"I don't know how I did it," she said, frustration lacing her voice. "It always seems to come out when I'm upset—angry, scared. If I knew how to control it, trust me, I'd have done something far more efficient to shut you up than just blasting you across the lawn."
Draco arched a brow, his sharp gaze scrutinizing her as if searching for any trace of dishonesty. After a tense pause, he let out a resigned sigh.
"Fine. If you don't know, you don't know. But I suggest you make that your priority." His expression hardened as he stepped back. "Now, get into position. I want to see what you're really capable of."
Amoria positioned herself, silently going over curses and hexes in her head as she watched Draco's every movement. She was determined to make the first move. If he wanted to see what she was capable of, she'd make sure he saw it. After a moment's pause, she flicked her wand sharply and cast Expulso toward him. He blocked it effortlessly with a shield charm, but didn't retaliate. Instead, he stood there, silent, waiting for her next move.
Why wasn't he fighting back? He was supposed to be teaching her, not turning this into some twisted game for his own amusement. If he wasn't going to give her anything useful, then fine—she'd take matters into her own hands.
Amoria drew a deep breath, her eyes narrowing with steely resolve. Hex after hex flew from her wand, but her frustration only grew as he deflected or dodged each one with maddening ease. And still, he didn't fight back. Didn't he say he wanted a real duel? She didn't know much about dueling, but she was certain this wasn't it.
The smug look on his face, the ease with which he evaded her, only fueled her irritation. It was infuriating how natural this all seemed to him, while she struggled to find her footing. Her anger simmered just beneath the surface. She didn't have time to waste on his games.
Her anger surged, bubbling over with each passing second. If he wasn't going to fight, she'd force him to. She began casting more powerful curses, the familiar heat rushing through her veins as her focus sharpened. She didn't care what she hurled at him—anything to provoke him, to make him engage. But Draco just kept dodging, his movements smooth and calculated, his arrogant expression never faltering. Not once did he lift his wand to strike back.
Frustration boiled into fury, her composure cracking with every failed attempt. Enough was enough. Gritting her teeth, she cast again, her spells growing wilder and more reckless. She didn't care what they did anymore—she just wanted him to move, to stop toying with her, to meet her the way she needed him to. But he didn't. He just stood there, calm and unmoved, as if none of it mattered.
Her anger snapped like a breaking string. "Is this a fucking game to you?" she spat, "Because it's certainly not to me."
Draco stared at her, his eyebrows raised, as if her outburst was unwarranted by his complete lack of engagement. His response was maddeningly calm, and it only stoked the fire of her anger. She cast more curses, some unfamiliar ones—spells she'd seen in Dark Arts books, ones she didn't fully understand nor cared to. She needed him to fight back, to do something. But he stood there, motionless, only shielding himself or taking exaggerated, almost mocking side steps. His gaze never left hers.
She couldn't take it anymore. If this was how he intended to teach her, she'd be better off going it alone. She had no time to indulge his arrogance any longer. With a sharp exhale, she lowered her wand and began to turn toward the door.
But before she could even reach the threshold, a blast hit her square in the back, sending her crashing toward the floor. The pain was immediate—sharp and breath-stealing—but she managed to catch herself, dropping to her knees. She fought to stay upright, using every ounce of strength to keep from collapsing face-first onto the tile. Draco walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate.
"In real battle, there are no rules," he said coldly, his voice flat. "Fighting dirty is the only way to stay alive. Don't ever assume your enemy will graciously announce when they're about to strike."
Before she could respond, he whipped his arm back, and a flash of red light shot from his wand, aimed at her as she sat. Reflexes took over. With no time to think, Amoria cast a protective charm, deflecting the curse back toward him. The curse bounced off his shield charm, but before he could cast again, she followed up with another spell. This one landed, sending him stumbling backward
Amoria pushed herself to her feet, her legs trembling as she tried to find her balance. They were back at it, trading curses in rapid succession. Harsh hexes crackled through the air, their wands snapping with bursts of light. Though she managed to block or dodge most of his attacks, Draco's movements remained unnervingly composed. His control over the duel was absolute—his every step calculated, effortless. Meanwhile, her own movements grew more erratic, desperate.
She could feel her energy slipping away with each passing moment. Her spells weakened, her reactions slower, her body protesting against the relentless onslaught. Draco's curses were landing more frequently now, cutting into her skin, the blood staining her clothes, and the pain fueling her exhaustion. Each impact sent her stumbling, her limbs growing heavier. The walls around her seemed to close in. She was close to breaking.
Finally, with her back against the wall, her strength completely spent, she raised her hand weakly in surrender.
"Okay, okay, I'm done. You win," she gasped, her voice hoarse with frustration and defeat.
Draco lowered his wand, but instead of looking satisfied, his expression darkened, almost offended by her surrender. His steps were slow, deliberate, as he closed the distance between them. His face remained cold, unreadable, and when he stopped just inches from her, the air between them grew stifling.
Despite the warmth radiating from him, a shiver crawled down her spine. His scent—clean, sharp, laced with something musky—wrapped around her senses, making it impossible to ignore just how close he was.
Then, without warning, the tip of his wand pressed beneath her chin, forcing her head back. Her breath caught as her gaze locked with his.
Amoria had never feared Draco before—his usual attempts at intimidation were more irritating than anything else: his normal taunting's or cold sneers. But now, with his silver eyes fixed on her, something twisted deep inside her.
Fear, she told herself. The knot in her throat, the quickening of her pulse, the way her skin prickled beneath his touch—it was fear. And yet… it wasn't just that.
His body brushed against hers, not enough to be deliberate, but enough to make her nerves spark. The sharp bite of his wand against her skin sent a shudder through her, but it was the way he leaned in, slow and unrelenting, that made her breath turn shallow.
"There's no giving up in war, Amoria," he murmured, his voice low and edged with something dangerous. "Only defeat. You fight, or you die. That's it. If you're caught alive, you'll be begging for the cold mercy of Avada by the time they're done with you."
Her throat tightened, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't.
Because despite the warning in his words, despite the chill of his presence, her body betrayed her. And she hated it.
Her breath hitched, her pulse hammering in her ears, but she refused to look away. Even as her lips trembled, she held his gaze, steady, unwavering. She would not let him see fear in her—not more than he already had.
Draco studied her for a beat longer, his silver eyes lingering, unreadable. Then, just as quickly, he withdrew.
With a flick of his wand, he sent a small spray of blood splattering onto the floor. Amoria flinched, the sharp sound of it cutting through the thick silence.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his boots echoing against the cold stone.
She stood frozen, listening as his footsteps faded into the distance. The silence pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating. Only when she was sure he was gone did a small, choked sob escape her lips.
Her hand trembled as she reached up, fingers brushing over the tender spot where his wand had dug into her skin. A sharp sting met her touch, and when she pulled her hand away, her fingertips were smeared with red.
She stared at the blood, her breath unsteady. She had underestimated him, and just how cruel he really could be.
And worse—she had underestimated the way he made her feel.
This wasn't the kind of training she had imagined. Though, if she was being honest with herself, she wasn't sure what she had expected. Certainly not this.
There was no kindness in Draco's approach—no encouragement, no reassurance. He didn't teach with patience or understanding. Instead, he pushed her to her breaking point, forcing every lesson into a battle for survival. His version of training wasn't about lifting her up; it was about tearing her down, stripping her of weakness until she had no choice but to stand on her own, no matter the cost.
She should have expected it. Should have known. But the sheer brutality of it still caught her off guard. Draco wasn't just following orders. He wanted her to feel every curse, every wound, every drop of pain.
But why?
The question pulsed through her aching skull, tangled in the weariness of her body, in the sting of blood at her neck, in the lingering ghost of his touch. Her thoughts were a blur of exhaustion and confusion, but no matter how she tried to make sense of it, no answer came.
A sharp exhale left her body, shoving the thoughts aside. There was no use dwelling on them. Not now.
She couldn't go back to her room—not to bury herself under covers and wallow in failure, not to drown the night away in potions or firewhisky.
She needed a place where she could be alone, somewhere quiet to process everything—somewhere that didn't feel so suffocating, even if just for a moment.
Stepping out of the greenhouse, the cool air brushing against her skin, and paused. The vast expanse of the estate lay before her, the meticulously tended paths leading off into the gardens. She had walked these paths countless times as a child, but now, they seemed to offer a fleeting sense of freedom—a chance to escape.
Without much thought, she began at the left side of the garden, her feet carrying her away from the familiar stone walls of the greenhouse. The garden's winding trails led her toward the hedge maze at the back, and she followed them, her movements slow, lingering. As a child, the hedges had seemed so tall, so imposing. Now, as an adult, they towered over her just the same, though their imposing size only deepened the sense of awe they had always stirred within her.
She ran her hand along the thick branches, the leaves brushing against her fingertips as she wandered through the maze at a leisurely pace. Getting lost didn't concern her—not now, when the world inside the maze felt far more manageable than the chaos inside her mind. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant hum of nature provided the calm she needed. Her breath steadied, and her mind became more attuned to the maze, each step drawing her further from the turmoil that awaited her beyond.
Every few steps, she passed flower beds, their vibrant colors almost mocking her with their beauty. But it was a soothing mockery, one that allowed her to breathe more deeply, releasing the tension that had built up inside. The breeze carried the earthy scents of the garden, mingling with the faint smell of blood still lingering on her neck. The dried blood on her skin itched, but she ignored it—too tired, too numb, to care.
The toll of just three days here had already drained her. Her body ached, her mind felt fragile, and the little hope she had clung to when she first arrived was slipping away. But as she wandered deeper into the maze, she focused on the stillness around her. The war, the training, the weight of everything pressing down on her—it all seemed so distant in this moment. For a while, she allowed herself to escape, to become the bright-eyed child who once wandered aimlessly for hours, rather than the bloodied, beaten-down witch she had become.
Amoria longed to see her father, to talk to him, even if it meant enduring his reprimands. But his absence had only deepened the isolation she felt since arriving. She realized, as the thought crossed her mind, that she didn't even know where his quarters were. Neither he nor Narcissa had told her, and the omission felt strangely deliberate, attempting to keep her at a distance.
The maze twisted and turned, leading her in circles before finally guiding her to its center. There, a grand fountain rose high, its pale grey marble surface gleaming in the sunlight. She stepped closer, drawn to its intricate design: Thestrals and dragons entwined, their forms slowly spinning as water poured gently from their spouts. Four benches, carved from the same cool stone, surrounded the fountain, each placed perfectly to offer a serene view. Amoria didn't remember this fountain being here before, but the calming sounds of the water soothed something deep inside her.
Letting out a long breath, she sank onto the bench in front of her, the overwhelming burden of everything settling over her. The release was immediate, like a floodgate opening, and she realized just how much tension she had been carrying. Her body felt heavier now, worn down from the duel, the emotional strain, and the endless questions she couldn't seem to answer. Though her wounds had stopped bleeding, they still stung where they rubbed against her sweat soaked clothes. The warm, golden sunlight bathed her skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, her thoughts softened.
Her fingers traced the smooth, polished surface of the bench, her touch following the delicate carvings that adorned it. But when her hand brushed a rougher patch on the far left side, she paused, intrigued. Leaning closer, she noticed a faint engraving: "LMNB," encased in a thin, uneven heart.
A small smile tugged at her lips, followed by a soft, breathy laugh. It felt almost impossible to think of them as anything other than the cold, distant figures she had always known. Yet here was proof—proof that once, they had been young and reckless, sneaking into the maze to steal moments away from prying eyes.
Most pureblood marriages were arranged, forged out of duty rather than love. But maybe theirs had been different. Or perhaps it had simply been convenient, their ambitions and interests aligning well enough to make it seem like choice.
She tried to recall any stories of their courtship, but none came to mind. She had always assumed their union had been like every other pureblood match—a carefully calculated arrangement meant to uphold tradition, to secure alliances, to produce an heir.
Even if the carvings were old, it was oddly comforting to think that love had once existed here, in this place now stripped of warmth and light.
As a child, Amoria had never witnessed much affection between Lucius and Narcissa. But maybe she simply hadn't been paying attention, too wrapped up in her own world to notice the subtleties—the fleeting touches, the quiet moments that spoke louder than words. It was difficult to picture them ever being in love, given what they had become. And yet, the engraving on the bench suggested otherwise.
Perhaps, once, there had been something more.
Her thoughts drifted to her own parents, their relationship a collection of fragmented memories, pieced together through passing conversations. They had met at Hogwarts—but not until their seventh year. Her mother, a studious Ravenclaw, had hardly noticed her father or his Slytherin circle before then. It had taken persistence, patience, and no small amount of charm before she finally agreed to a date.
From there, their bond had only deepened. They graduated, married within the year, and a few years later, Amoria was born.
She had never doubted the love they shared. She could still remember the way her father's voice softened when he spoke of her mother, the warmth that lingered even in the smallest recollections. And after her mother's death, that warmth turned to sorrow—an aching grief that never quite faded.
Over time, the stories grew rare. Eventually, they stopped altogether. Not because the love had lessened, but because remembering hurt too much. And so, silence took its place.
The sun had begun its descent, casting long, shifting shadows over the maze. Realizing she'd spent too much time lost in thought, Amoria pushed herself up from the bench, brushing away the lingering distractions. With a quiet exhale, she retraced her steps, though the maze proved less forgiving on the way back—twice, she found herself at a dead end before finally emerging into the open air.
By the time she reached the stairs leading to her room, the last warmth of the day had faded, replaced by the creeping chill of evening. She moved with purpose, heading straight for the bathroom, eager to tend to the cuts scattered across her body. They weren't life-threatening, but they were deep, her skin stinging with each movement.
Stripping off her clothes, she stepped beneath the shower's steady stream, sighing as warm water cascaded over her skin. Blood and grime swirled down the drain, but the sting of her wounds lingered, a dull throb beneath the soothing heat.
When she was finished, she stood before the mirror, wand in hand. With a quiet murmur, she cast a simple healing charm, wincing as the cuts pulled together. The magic would help, but scars were inevitable without proper care. Reaching for a small tin of ointment from her first aid kit, she spread the cool balm over the freshly closed wounds, her movements slow and deliberate.
Satisfied, she placed the tin on her bedside table, making a mental note to reapply it over the next few days.
With a weary sigh, she pulled on something soft and comfortable, then settled into the chair by the fire. The soft warmth of the flames wrapped around her, providing a rare moment of peace amid the chaos.