The House of Control

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.