The training sessions with Draco had gone as well as they could—meaning she was still alive, and he had yet to hex her out of frustration. Her casting had grown more confident, her spells sharper, and though Draco remained as insufferable as ever, she couldn't deny that she had learned from him. But no matter how much she improved with traditional magic, the power lurking beneath her skin remained just out of reach.
She could feel it—a warmth pulsing through her veins, sharpening her senses, anchoring her to her wand—but whenever she tried to summon it in battle, it slipped away like smoke through her fingers. Draco had little patience for her failures. He insisted she lacked conviction, as if she weren't already pushing herself to exhaustion trying to control something she barely understood. Their duels grew more tense with each failed attempt, their frustration feeding off one another like fire and tinder.
And now, she was running out of time.
The Dark Lord was expecting progress. The thought of facing him that evening made her stomach twist, her pulse quickening with the same terror she'd felt during their first encounter. She knew disappointment would not be tolerated—not from him, and not from herself. But she couldn't allow fear to cloud her focus. If there was anyone who might help her unlock the truth of her power, it was Severus Snape. Her first lesson with him was that afternoon, and she could only hope he held the answers that had so far eluded her.
She met him in the library, where he was already waiting by the door. As she stepped inside, the heavy wooden doors shut sharply behind her with a flick of his wand. He wordlessly gestured to one of the chairs near a long, candlelit table. Amoria hesitated only briefly before sitting. She hadn't spoken with Severus before now, but Draco had always spoken of him with a certain admiration. Once the Potions Master at Hogwarts and later the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Severus had been both Draco's favorite teacher and, in some ways, a mentor.
Yet as she sat before him now, there was little warmth in his demeanor. He radiated an icy authority, reminding her—uncomfortably—of her father. As he moved through the towering shelves, books began lifting themselves from their places, floating toward the table in a slow, deliberate procession. One by one, they landed before her, their worn leather bindings releasing a faint scent of aged parchment. The titles were ominous, each one dedicated to the Dark Arts. Some looked centuries old.
By the time Severus returned to his seat across from her, the stack had grown to at least ten books high. She recognized one or two from her previous tutoring, but the rest were utterly foreign. She glanced up at him, his greasy hair partially veiling his face as he studied her with an unreadable expression.
"I presume Draco has acquainted you with the rudiments of the Dark Arts," Snape began, his voice cold and deliberate. "Yet I've been informed that you remain incapable of mastering control over your… particular abilities. Would that be an accurate observation?"
Amoria swallowed her frustration and gave a curt nod. Admitting defeat stung, but there was no point in lying. "I can feel it—like it's right there, just out of reach," she said, her voice tight. "The first time it happened, it was… euphoric. The power surged through me, like it belonged to something far greater than myself. It was overwhelming, but I didn't care. I only felt my anger." Her fingers curled slightly against the table. "But now, it's just this heat in my veins, a darkness clouding my vision, and then—an unrelenting focus on my target. That's all."
Snape's dark eyes narrowed. "That is because you are attempting to wield it without understanding it," he said coolly. "This magic is not a spell to be learned. It is bound to you—your emotions, your thoughts, your will." He leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "Anger may have sparked it, but it cannot control it."
Her chest tightened. She had no choice but to learn, no matter how impossible it seemed. She barely understood this power, yet the Dark Lord expected her to master it.
"And if I can't?" Amoria asked, her voice quieter now, the weight of the question pressing against her ribs.
"Then you fail," Snape said without hesitation. His gaze was unyielding, his words like ice. "And failure is not an option. There will come a time when you must wield your magic despite your emotions—when you must push beyond them. Your mother did it. You will be expected to do the same."
She swallowed hard, the lingering memory of her frail mother stuck in her mind.
Trying to shift the conversation, she reached for one of the older, more battered books. "What are these for?"
Snape's lips curled slightly, more disdain than amusement, as his fingers skimmed the worn covers. "These," he said, his tone clinical, "are for your education. The theory behind the Dark Arts is just as important as practice. To wield them, one must be deliberate—intentional with every action. Magic of this nature is not simply about power; it is about control. Its strength lies in the exchange between the wielder and the force they command."
Amoria nodded, but skepticism crept in. Studying the Dark Arts in theory didn't seem like it would help—not in the way she needed. She had already done her studying, spent years poring over books and texts. If this was the kind of help Snape was offering, a glorified review session, she doubted it would take her any further than she had already gone. At least with Draco, she had been learning something useful—painful, but useful. He was forcing her to fight, to react, to survive. But if Severus was as brilliant as Draco had claimed, perhaps it was worth trusting him. He knew better than anyone what the Dark Lord expected of her. And no matter how much she resented these elementary lessons, she didn't exactly have the luxury of choice.
With a quiet exhale, she opened the first book.
They moved through the chapters slowly, piecing together a lesson plan for the coming weeks. Snape, unsurprisingly methodical, insisted she start with the most basic yet crucial step—connecting with her magic.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she gripped her wand tightly in her right hand and closed her eyes.
"Clear your mind," Snape instructed, his voice smooth and measured. "Let all other senses fade. Focus only on the connection between you and your wand. Make your intentions clear."
She inhaled deeply, willing her anxieties to quiet. The familiar tingling stirred in her veins, the faint burn simmering beneath her skin. Her heartbeat quickened, but still—nothing. She exhaled slowly and tried again, reaching for the sensation, searching for something solid to grasp. But the power remained just out of reach, slipping further every time she thought she was close.
"Focus," Snape said, his tone calm but edged with impatience.
Frustration bubbled inside her. Why wasn't anything happening? She could feel it—taunting her, just out of reach. Every time she tried to seize it, it slipped further away, like grasping at smoke. A bitter thought crept in. If only her mother had left something behind—some kind of clue, some insight into this power. Instead, she was fumbling in the dark, learning from those who didn't truly understand it either. They could only offer theories, guesses that might—or might not—work.
And if they didn't, she would be the one to suffer the consequences.
Then, suddenly, something shifted. A pulse of magic surged through her, latching onto her wand. Her eyes snapped open, and the familiar black glow flared to life, curling around her hand and the polished wood. Her breath hitched. She glanced at Severus, searching for instruction, but he remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on her with unwavering intensity.
Still seated on the floor, she flicked her wand upward on instinct. From the swirling black light, a dragon unfurled, its body twisting through the air like living shadow. It coiled around her in a mesmerizing display, its fiery glow flickering against the dim candlelight. A faint smile touched her lips as she watched it move—graceful, untamed, entirely hers.
But then, something shifted inside her. A hollowness bloomed in her chest, her mind clearing as an unsettling stillness settled over her. The smile faded. The dragon circled her once more, and without thinking, she flicked her wand again.
A shriek tore through the air as the dragon's body twisted violently, its form fracturing apart before vanishing into nothingness.
Her breath caught. She hadn't meant to do that—or had she?
Her wide eyes darted to Severus, but his expression remained unreadable. He didn't flinch, didn't react, simply watched.
It had been the first time she'd truly controlled it—and yet, the first thing she had done was destroy her own creation.
What unsettled her most was the strange, icy nothingness left inside.
Something about the dragon—about its existence resting entirely in her hands—had stirred something deep within her. A curiosity she hadn't expected.
She hadn't planned to see what would happen if she destroyed it.
But she hadn't stopped herself, either.
A sharp pang of guilt twisted in Amoria's chest, chased by a surge of fear. The dragon's agonized screech still echoed in her mind, an imprint of something she couldn't quite shake. It wasn't real, she told herself. Just a manifestation of power, nothing more. And yet, the guilt gnawed at her insides, stubborn and unrelenting.
Severus, however, remained unmoved. His expression betrayed nothing—no approval, no disappointment. Just quiet observation, as if waiting for her to process whatever had just happened. Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe it wasn't as serious as she feared. Just a momentary lapse. A flicker of something that didn't mean anything at all.
"Now, try to use it in your spellcasting." he instructed.
Amoria swallowed hard and rose to her feet, her hands still unsteady. With a flick of his wand, Severus transfigured an old vase into a mannequin.
She hesitated.
It felt almost absurd—after everything, after Draco hurling curses at her with lethal precision, she was expected to practice on a dummy? The contrast was almost laughable. But she said nothing, simply tightening her grip on her wand and facing her target.
The warmth still lingered beneath her skin, humming just beneath the surface. But now, doubt tangled with it.
She raised her wand, willing the magic forward.
Nothing.
A few weak sparks sputtered from the tip, barely more than a flicker. Her chest tightened. She flicked her wand again. And again. Each failure twisted the frustration inside her tighter, wound it into something sharp and unbearable. Why? She had felt it before—she had used it before—so why now?
Her breath came faster, her pulse pounding in her ears as frustration churned in her chest. Desperation gripped her, spiraling her thoughts into chaos. The harder she reached for the magic, the further it slipped away. She continued flicking her wand toward the mannequin, silently begging the power to materialize—anything, just to prove she could control it.
Still, nothing.
Severus, with a sharp flick of his wrist, summoned her wand from her hand. She blinked, startled, realizing she had completely lost track of him. His eyes were fixed on her, cold and calculating.
"Flicking your wand around like a madwoman is a sure way to kill us both," he said, his voice laced with contempt. "Don't do that again." He waved his wand again, and the stack of books they'd just examined floated back into place on the shelf.
"I think we should end the lesson here. The Dark Lord expects you back in the dining room at eight sharp to report on your... progress."
Amoria winced at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. A heavy wave of dread washed over her. She longed to keep practicing, to beg Severus to stay, to help her push through before she had to face him. But she knew better than to beg—it would only humiliate her more than she already felt.
She crossed the room quickly, snatching her wand from Severus's grasp, and left the library without a word. Only two hours remained before the meeting, and as she walked through the manor's hallways, her body seemed to move of its own accord, guiding her toward the veranda. She didn't know where else to go, but the quiet, open space called to her, offering a brief respite, even if only for a moment.
The evening air was thick and humid, clinging to her skin as soon as she stepped outside. Despite the discomfort, she found a chair tucked away at the side of the manor and sank into it, her eyes drifting toward the sunset. She tried to focus on the colors—vibrant oranges and pinks—anything to distract herself from the heavy dread pressing down on her. But even the usual beauty couldn't soothe her. She stood and began to pace the length of the veranda, her steps restless, her mind racing.
Her progress wouldn't be enough to satisfy him—she knew that much. She needed more practice, but with so little accomplished, she was certain he'd be disappointed. He wanted the war over now, and she was just another weapon in his eyes. But she was nowhere near ready. That much was undeniable.
Just as the weight of her anxieties started to ease, Draco appeared in the doorway. His hands were clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. Amoria froze, her heart slamming in her chest, her breaths shallow and unsteady.
"He wants to see you—now," Draco said, his voice flat and detached. The weight of his seriousness hit her like a cold slap, making her chest tighten, her heart thudding in her ears. A wave of nausea surged through her, curling in her stomach like a heavy stone.
She nodded, but the motion felt foreign, mechanical. Her throat was tight, the air thick with panic as her breath grew shallow and erratic. She could barely get the word out, her voice barely a whisper, "Of course."