677Chapter 47: Training Retreat
I do not own Harry Potter
A/Ns:
1. Here we go again. I am anout half way through the duelling scenes, but its just been taking too long, mostly because of a lack of time and me trying to avoid monotonous battles.
2. Enjoy!
| Black Highlands Retreat | Somewhere in Scotland | July 7th 1994 |
Harry finished his sprint and skidded to a stop beside Flitwic and Remus, his grey-and-red tracksuit clinging slightly to his sweat-dampened skin. He bent slightly at the waist, hands resting on his knees as he caught his breath.
"That's enough for today, my boy," Flitwick declared, nodding, "Come down to the dueling room."
Harry straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Are you sure? I've been running more than this every day—why cut back now?"
Remus smiled, already anticipating the question. "It's called tapering," he explained, descending from the platform and falling into step with Harry. "Before a major event, you reduce the intensity of training so your body is at peak performance when it matters most. Too much right before the tournament, and you risk burning yourself out."
The boy frowned slightly, still feeling like he should be doing more, but he trusted Remus when it came to preparation.
"Alright," he relented, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his tracksuit. "Let's head down, then."
The moment Flitwick's countdown reached one, Harry moved, sending a burst of silver light hurtling toward Remus with a flick of his wrist—a Melofors Jinx, aimed cleanly at the older wizard's head.
Across from him, the werewolf reacted instantly, his wand cutting a sharp arc through the air as he fired off a bright red Stunner in response.
But his former pupil didn't stop moving. He was already gliding sideways, weight shifting seamlessly as he avoided the bolt of red light.
Meanwhile, Lupin, rather than blocking, merely tilted his head to one side, allowing the jinx to sail harmlessly past his ear.
Flitwick, observing from the sidelines, gave an approving nod. "Quick start," he murmured.
It was one of the strategies they had been drilling into Harry. Spells like Melofors—simple jinxes with minimal wand movement—were fast. Faster than most people expected. Against a well-trained opponent, it was unlikely to land, but that wasn't the point. The slight speed advantage meant Harry could keep pressing the attack before his opponent settled into rhythm.
That fraction of a second could be all the difference in a real duel.
Before his feet had even fully settled, the raven-haired boy fired again—this time, a Bludgeoner Charm, his wand thrusting forward in a sharp jab.
Remus saw it coming and smoothly stepped back, twisting his body away from the impact zone. But as he did, his own wand slashed diagonally, sending a Cutter Charm zipping toward Harry's midsection.
The boy twisted mid-motion, feeling the heat of the spell rush past his ribs. In retaliation, he flicked his wrist downward, conjuring a line of crackling blue electricity that surged toward Remus in a zigzagging arc—a modified version of the Electroshock Hex.
The werewolf's eyes gleamed with approval as he deflected it with a short, sharp shield, the energy dispersing with a snap. But he didn't let the exchange pause for a second. Even as the spell faded, he turned his shield into a projectile, shattering it in Harry's direction with a blasting charm, who barely had time to react. Instead of conjuring his own shield, he dropped to the ground, rolling cleanly under the concussive wave before snapping his wand upwards mid-motion—
A thin silver rope shot from his wand tip, lashing out like a whip aimed straight at Remus' ankle. If he could pull him off balance…
But the Marauder saw it. With a swift hop, he avoided the rope entirely and retaliated with a fluid, almost lazy flick of his wrist, sending a rope snaking through the air.
A binding hex. Fast, precise. Difficult to shake off once it landed.
Harry spun away, slicing his wand in a downward crescent. A controlled burst of flame erupted between them, not quite strong enough to burn, but enough to force distance—just what he needed.
He landed on his feet, breath even, eyes sharp.
The tempo of the duel shifted in an instant. Gone were the quick, probing jinxes—Harry now moved with deadly intent, his wand slashing through the air as he conjured a searing arc of flame.
A fire whip cracked toward the werewolf with a sharp hiss, but Remus was already moving, twisting to the side as he slashed his wand downward. A jet of blue light cut through the flame, dispersing it in a burst of harmless embers.
The Gryffindor didn't pause. His footwork was sharp, precise, as he skidded across the smooth floor, launching an Exploding Hex directly at his opponent's feet.
Remus flicked his wand upward. "Contego." A shimmering barrier formed just in time—the spell collided against it with a sharp boom, sending a shockwave rippling through the room. Even as the force dissipated, Remus retaliated, his movements practiced and fluid.
"Pulsus!"
A shimmering shockwave erupted from his wand, forcing Harry to throw himself into a roll to avoid being blasted back. The Gryffindor barely regained his footing before another spell came barreling toward him—this time, a vicious Diffindo aimed at his shoulder.
Harry pivoted sharply, letting the slashing hex graze harmlessly past him before retaliating with a Blasting Curse.
"Confringo!"
The spell detonated on impact just as Remus conjured a second shield, the explosion sending cracks skittering across the protective magic. The former professor narrowed his eyes.
"Better," he admitted. "But predictable."
The Gryffindor didn't answer. He pressed forward, flicking his wand in a tight, circular motion.
"Flagrante Lorum!"
A twin set of fire whips erupted from thin air, twisting like living serpents as they lashed toward Remus from opposite sides.
The Marauder smirked. Instead of dodging, he thrust his wand down and cast—
"Aguamenti!"
A surge of water exploded from his wand tip, colliding with the fiery tendrils. The two elements clashed violently before extinguishing into a cloud of hot steam, shrouding both duelists in a thick mist.
Harry didn't wait for it to clear. He had seconds—maybe less—before Remus struck again.
He closed his eyes, focused. Listened.
A faint shuffle—barely audible—sounded to his right.
His wand snapped up. "Percussum!"
A jet of shimmering force shot through the fog, slicing cleanly toward its mark. A split-second later, a grunt of surprise cut through the mist, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone stumbling back a step.
Harry didn't let himself celebrate. He forced himself into a defensive stance, prepared for retaliation.
But it never came.
Instead, Flitwick's sharp voice rang out. "Enough!"
The mist dissipated with a flick of the Charms Master's wand, revealing Remus standing a few feet away—his posture steady but his left arm slightly raised, rubbing at his ribs where the spell had landed.
There was a brief silence before the werewolf huffed a quiet laugh. "Well done."
The Gryffindor, still catching his breath, blinked in surprise. "I actually got you?"
"Looks that way," his former Professor admitted, rolling out his shoulder with a wry smile.
Flitwick beamed, hopping down from his perch. "Excellent work, both of you! That was a well-placed strike, Harry. Quick thinking, excellent timing." He turned to the Marauder, grinning. "And rare to see you take a hit, Lupin."
Remus gave his old student an appraising look. "You really are getting faster."
Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead, still absorbing the fact that he'd actually landed a hit. "Guess that's progress, then."
"Percussum!"
The spell cracked through the air. Harry pivoted, wand swinging out to meet it—too slow. The force slammed into his tricep, knocking him down hard onto the stone floor.
He hit with a grunt, hand snapping to the stinging muscle.
"Again," Flitwick called, as neutral as ever.
His trainee pulled himself up, breathing sharp, no complaints. Remus waited a beat, then cast again.
Another Percussum.
Harry moved faster this time, tried to deflect it with a sharper angle—but it punched into his side and sent him staggering.
"Again."
He reset his stance. Raised his wand.
Spell three came faster. Clean arc. Sharp aim. Harry read it, moved—but his block was off by inches. The spell struck his shoulder with a heavy jolt.
He winced, stumbled.
"Again."
Harry stood crouched, his wand planted into the floor at an angle, both hands gripping it tight. A translucent dome of raw magical force shimmered around him, trembling with pressure. Sweat ran down his temple. His arms strained as though he were holding up a wall.
Then the barrier buckled.
With a sharp crack, energy blasted outward, flinging him backwards like a rag doll. He hit the ground hard, rolled once, then lay still for a second, chest heaving.
"Fourteen seconds," Flitwick said, calmly checking a stopwatch pinned to his robes. "Personal best."
Harry groaned as he pushed himself to sit up.
"So you're in a race against time," Remus said, walking over, hands in his pockets. "What do you do with these fourteen seconds before you inevitably get thrown?"
Harry wiped his face with his sleeve, frowning. "I'm already using everything I have just to hold it off. There's nothing else I can do."
"A lot can be done in fourteen seconds," Flitwick replied without looking up.
The Seeker looked between them, confused. "You're telling me to fight something off and attack at the same time? While it's already tearing through me? That doesn't make sense."
"Who said anything about overpowering it?"
Harry strained beneath a levitating weight bar, his face set in grim focus. The bar wasn't held by any charm—it pushed down with calibrated force, adjusted to test his limits.
"Five more,"
His arms trembled. His chest burned. He gritted his teeth and forced the bar back up—once, twice more—then let it drop into its floating lock with a ragged breath.
In the corner, the half-goblin stood beside a set of enchanted resistance bands, watching closely. "Take ten, then switch to the vertical press."
Later, he ran uphill sprints against magical drag fields. After that, a cold soak in a conjured pool of biting water.
He was standing again, wand in hand, focused.
Remus fired off a sharp Percussum.
Harry's counter was a split-second too slow. The curse slammed into his left side. He dropped to a knee with a wince, arm cradling his ribs.
"Again," Flitwick called from behind, unmoved.
Percussum.
This time Harry got his wand up, but too wide—his block cracked under pressure and the beam crashed into his thigh.
He stumbled, caught himself, and tried again.
Again.
Another hit.
The sting of failure burned hotter than the bruises.
The field was flat, dry stone. The kind used for dueling floors or war tables.
Remus knelt and scribed something quickly with a charmed chisel—an activation rune, etched in silver.
He stood and gestured. "You'll see this kind of thing in the tournament. Battlefield tricks. Enchantment traps. Not everything's a wand duel."
Harry studied the rune. It glowed faintly, pulsing with latent magic.
"So I just blast it?"
"You could, theoretically. These are built to resist brute force. The right approach is disruption or dismantling."
The boy crouched, wand gripped low, studying the runes like a puzzle. He traced the lines with his eyes—identifying keystone sigils, choke points, layering. There were amplifier nodes drawn in small spirals. A secondary weave along the outer edge.
He didn't move yet.
Flitwick nodded in approval. "You see the outer sequence. That's good. Begin with the containment glyph."
The Gryffindor slowly flicked his wand, casting Finite Incantatem in a narrow stream over the upper quadrant. The outer shimmer dulled.
He waited. Nothing flared.
Revelio.
Hidden reinforcing layers shimmered into view, tucked beneath the surface glyphs.
Harry frowned. "It's got an anchor on the underside."
"Correct," Flitwick murmured. "So?"
His student tapped his wand to the stone and whispered a disruption charm—Vibrilacerare. It caused the ground beneath the rune to subtly shake. A long moment passed before the bottom sigil cracked, visible only through the glowing shimmer. The entire design dimmed.
With care, the Seeker used a precision Incisio to slice through the rune's central spiral. No flare. No hum. The glow vanished entirely.
Flitwick clapped, once. "Exactly so. You understood the spell before you acted."
"Anyone can hit a problem with force." Lupin observed "Not everyone can dismantle it without setting the room on fire."
"So… that was real?"
The duelmaster gave a slight smile. "If it had gone wrong, this side of the room would've gone up. Best not to dwell."
"Good thing I didn't sneeze halfway through then."
Remus laughed. "It's back to batting curses next."
"Brute force isn't working," Flitwick added, tone level. "You keep trying to beat them back like a battering ram."
"The answer's already in front of you, Harry," the Marauder continued, arms folded. "Every single thing we've done over the last few days has been a piece of it. You just haven't put them together yet."
Flitwick, standing by the far wall, gave a subtle nod of agreement.
Harry only offered a small shrug. "I'll try."
"You'll do more than that," Remus said, not unkindly. "Think."
That night, a pensive Harry laid awake in his quarters. The estate was quiet, the kind of silence only places with thick stone walls and no neighbours for miles could offer.
Think.
Sheer force can overcome all sorts of trickery, protection, or distraction. That was what Salazar had taught him. And he believed it. But sheer force hadn't been enough. Not with this.
He couldn't bat the stronger spells away. Yet.
Fourteen seconds. That's how long he could hold the energy field before it blew back. Fourteen seconds before he was overwhelmed. What could he do in fourteen seconds?
The spell came fast.
The kind that had sent him crashing to the ground every single time this past week.
But this time, the boy didn't meet it head-on.
His grip relaxed, just slightly — and instead of a swing, it was a pivot. A subtle twist of the wrist, timed with the spell's approach. He angled the wand low, then sharply up, like catching the edge of a falling plate instead of the center.
The spell didn't crash. It skimmed. It broke contact for half a second, lost cohesion — and Harry rode the momentum, dragging his wand through the arc, shifting the force off to the side and guiding the spell into the training ward's wall, where it harmlessly splashed out.
Silence.
Remus lowered his wand, one brow raised.
Flitwick clapped once. Then again. "You didn't stop it. You unbalanced it."
The boy let out a breath, still tense. "I used the velocity," he said slowly, the idea still forming as he spoke. "Didn't resist it. Just… tipped it."
"That," the werewolf began, walking toward him now, "is exactly what you were meant to find. Think of spells like waves. A wall will break. A sailboat rides it."
Harry nodded, processing. "So it's not about power."
"It's about control."
"You won't always have the option to bat a spell away," Lupin began, his voice calm but deliberate. "Some curses—particularly the ones rooted in darker arts—can't be deflected without consequence. Others are simply too powerful. And a few, especially the ones triggered on contact, will punish even a glancing swipe."
The boy in the center of the room gave a slow nod, absorbing the words. His grip on his wand remained steady, but his eyes flicked up toward the taller man with a trace of caution.
"This isn't new to you," the former professor added, folding his arms. "You've seen this before. You know what to look for. So, tell me—what clues are you watching for when deciding whether to block, dodge, or counter?"
The black-haired duelist didn't answer immediately. He glanced at the floor, thinking.
"Well," he began, "first—the color. A lot of dangerous spells tend to have deep red, sickly green, or that purplish tinge—especially anything cursed."
Lupin nodded once. "Good. Next?"
"Shape of the beam," continued the young man. "If it's jagged, broken, or if there are tendrils around it, there's a good chance it's not just a simple stunner."
"Go on."
"Aura," he said quickly. "Sometimes I can feel it. That buzzing in the air, or the pressure on my skin. Stronger magic has a… presence."
The Marauder smiled faintly. "That's three."
"Speed," the student added. "How fast it's coming at me. Not always a rule, but the nastier ones tend to be quick. Or unnaturally slow, like they're meant to follow you."
"And the fifth?"
The boy hesitated, but only for a second. "Instinct," he said at last. "If something feels off—too quiet, too loud, too focused—I trust my gut."
Remus didn't respond immediately. Instead, he took a measured step forward, nodding with what looked like approval.
"Then let's start trusting it more often," the werewolf said quietly. "Because the ones you don't trust… are usually the ones that kill."
By now, the spellwork slowed to a stop, and the tension in the room ebbed. Flitwick, perched once more on his conjured platform, leaned forward with a slight frown of concentration. "You're progressing well," he began, voice light but firm, "but this is the N.E.W.T. category. That means you'll face spells far beyond classroom fare. Some of them… won't just knock you off your feet. They'll try to leave a mark."
Harry brushed his fringe back with his sleeve, nodding slowly. "I've picked up a few healing spells."
"Good," Remus said from his place by the chalkboard, "which means we can move straight to some of the advanced stuff."
There was a pause.
The werewolf's expression didn't shift, but the flicker in his eyes said more than words. Harry could tell him and Remus were thinking about the same thing—June. The wound from the Infernus, the one that burned too deep and refused to close, not until Ted had to treat it over multiple days.
Without a word, the black-haired teen sank into the chair Remus had silently summoned. The former professor waved his wand again, this time bringing up a vertical blackboard, its surface already etched with runic sigils and hex diagrams.
"Dark magic," Lupin said, wand tapping the board as a single word appeared in chalky script. "Most of it isn't designed to kill outright. It's meant to maim. Cripple. Slow you down, then finish you when you're weakened."
Harry didn't flinch, didn't interrupt. He simply watched as his mentor outlined classifications—corrosives, necrotics, binders, and the ones that ate through enchantments before touching flesh.
The discussion was clinical. Cold, even. Not because they didn't care, but because they did. Because they knew this wasn't about theory. This was about standing your ground in the arena.
And beyond.
That's all for now, see you all next time!