The next morning came with no sunlight—just the dim, perpetual gray that hung over Academia Nocturna like a shroud. The air smelled faintly of ash and ink, thick with magic and secrets. Harry's lips still tingled from the night before, Lucian's taste lingering like a phantom he couldn't shake.
What the hell was that?
A mistake? A power play?
Or something else entirely?
But there was no time to dwell. A new summons had been slipped under his door: "Compulsory Attendance: Ritual Magic - Lower Atrium." No explanation. Just a time and a place.
Harry arrived to find a circular chamber carved deep into the earth, lit only by braziers filled with black flames. The walls were etched with runes that pulsed faintly, like veins beneath skin. In the center, a large stone slab—an altar, unmistakably ancient—streaked with stains that weren't just from candle wax.
Students formed a loose circle around the slab, their expressions a mix of anticipation and fear. Lucian was already there, lounging against the far wall, his silver eyes locking onto Harry's with that infuriating, knowing smirk. Harry looked away, heat prickling at the back of his neck.
Professor Selene Veyra entered, her scarlet robes trailing behind her like liquid flame. Without preamble, she spoke.
"Magic is not a gift. It is a hunger."
Her voice echoed, filling the space like a spell itself.
"Light magic fools you into thinking it comes from kindness, from willpower. But true power?" She tapped the altar. "It demands sacrifice. Blood. Pain. Desire."
She scanned the room, her gaze lingering on Harry just long enough to make his skin crawl.
"Today, you will learn not how to cast magic… but how to feel it."
With a flick of her wand, the flames roared higher, bathing the room in red and gold. She pointed at Harry.
"You. Step forward."
The circle parted. Harry's heart raced—not with fear, but with something darker. Anticipation.
"Lie down."
The stone was cold against his back, the runes beneath him thrumming faintly, syncing with his heartbeat. Veyra leaned over him, her wand tracing slow lines down his chest, over his ribs, stopping just above his heart.
"Magic responds to emotion," she whispered, her voice like velvet over a blade. "But the most powerful spells are born from pleasure and pain intertwined. Can you handle that, Potter?"
Harry didn't answer. He didn't have to. His body was tense, but not from fear. His pulse roared in his ears.
She nodded slightly, then turned to the class.
"Lucian," she called.
Harry's breath hitched as Lucian stepped forward, casual and predatory, like a lion circling prey. He stopped beside the altar, his gaze dropping to Harry with a spark of something dark—curiosity, hunger, maybe both.
"Your task is simple," Veyra said to Lucian. "Break his focus. Make him feel everything."
Lucian's smirk was slow, dangerous. "With pleasure."
Literally.
Lucian's hands were warm as they slid under Harry's shirt, fingers tracing over scars, mapping the history etched into his skin. His touch was deliberate—not gentle, but not cruel either. His magic thrummed beneath his fingertips, electric and intoxicating.
Harry's body reacted before his mind caught up. Every nerve felt exposed, raw. His heart raced not from fear but from the way Lucian's fingers lingered, how his breath ghosted over Harry's neck, how his lips finally pressed against skin—not with softness, but with intent.
"Focus," Veyra's voice cut through the haze, sharp and cold. "Channel the magic. Feel it rise, even as your control slips."
But slip it did.
Lucian's hand slid lower, fingers pressing into places Harry had never been touched like this—not like this. A shudder ripped through him, unbidden, unstoppable. The runes beneath the stone flared bright crimson, responding to his pulse, his desire, his inability to separate pain from pleasure, control from surrender.
And then—pain.
A sharp prick at his ribs—Lucian's wand, carving a shallow, precise line just over his heart. Blood welled up, mingling with sweat. The sting sent another jolt through Harry, his magic surging like wildfire.
"Good," Veyra whispered. "Now hold onto it."
But he couldn't. Not when Lucian leaned down, lips brushing Harry's ear, whispering, "You like this more than you think, don't you?"
Harry's magic exploded.
Not in control. Not channeled. Just raw, untamed energy bursting out of him like a storm. The braziers extinguished instantly, plunging the room into darkness as a shockwave of force knocked Lucian back, scattered students to the floor, and cracked the altar beneath him.
When the dust settled, Harry sat up, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his temple. Lucian lay sprawled a few feet away, laughing softly, blood trickling from a split lip, looking like he'd just won.
Veyra's expression was unreadable, but her eyes gleamed with dark approval.
"Well," she murmured, stepping over the cracked stone. "Looks like the Boy Who Lived is finally starting to understand."
Later That Night…
Harry couldn't sleep. Again.
His skin still tingled, his chest ached, and his mind replayed everything—Lucian's hands, the sting of the blade, the rush of uncontrolled magic. It wasn't fear keeping him awake. It was the memory of how good it had felt.
A knock at his door.
Soft. Familiar.
He opened it without thinking. Lucian stood there, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, a fresh cut on his lip.
"You owe me," Lucian said simply, stepping inside without waiting for permission.
"For what?" Harry snapped, heart racing.
Lucian didn't answer. He just grabbed Harry by the collar, pulled him in, and kissed him. Hard.
No pretense this time. No games. Just raw, unspoken tension exploding between them. Harry didn't fight it. He couldn't.
And as clothes hit the floor, as teeth grazed skin and nails left marks, Harry realized he wasn't crossing lines anymore.
He was erasing them.
End of Chapter 3