The next morning, Harry was up before the sun.
The air in the Gryffindor dormitory was crisp with early autumn chill, the windows still dark as he slipped out of bed and quietly changed into his workout clothes. No magic, no shortcuts. Just muscle, breath, and discipline.
Ten kilometers around the lake. A hundred push-ups. A hundred sit-ups. A hundred squats. It wasn't glamorous, but it grounded him. Magic had limits—his body, too, needed to be sharpened like a blade. His breaths turned to mist as he ran along the dew-slick path, thoughts distant, blood pumping, focus absolute.
By the time breakfast began, he was already refreshed and sharp-eyed. His food vanished quickly—he needed the energy, not the conversation. Hermione was saying something about Ancient Runes, and Ron was mumbling about a Defense essay. Harry simply nodded and let the routine wash over him.
Classes passed in a blur.
Transfiguration? Easy. Turning a goblet into a raven was supposed to be difficult—Harry had it soaring in less than a minute. Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She knew he was ahead.
History of Magic? Tedious. Binns hadn't updated his lecture notes since the Goblin Rebellions actually happened. Harry half-listened, eyes drifting to the window, thoughts spinning faster than the ghost's monotone.
Then Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Professor Lupin had them working in pairs on shield charms against moving hexes—training reflex and control under pressure. Harry enjoyed it, even if the dummy spells lacked real malice. He caught himself deflecting every hex with increasing precision, but the thrill was missing.
This isn't enough.
The thought gnawed at him as he left the classroom. He had been pushing his body. He had been studying obsessively. But dueling was more than reacting to practice spells or fighting illusions. He needed unpredictability. Strategy. Danger.
And that meant going to the best.
That afternoon, after dropping his books in the dorm, Harry made his way to the Charms corridor. Professor Flitwick's office was tucked between two alcoves, lit by enchanted lanterns that floated midair.
He knocked.
"Come in!" came the high, cheerful voice.
Professor Flitwick looked up from a stack of parchment, spectacles perched low on his nose. "Mr. Potter! To what do I owe this surprise?"
Harry hesitated just a moment, then stepped forward. "Sir… I want to get better at dueling. Real dueling. Not just classroom spells or dummy targets. I want to be pushed. And I thought… if anyone could teach me…"
Professor Flitwick blinked, then smiled broadly. "Ah, now that's a request I haven't heard in quite some time. Most students are quite happy to settle for classroom drills."
Harry gave a sheepish shrug. "I don't want to be most students."
"No," Flitwick said, sliding off his chair with surprising agility. "You're not. And it would be a shame to let that talent go unsharpened."
He picked up his wand—oak, unusually long for someone of his stature—and motioned for Harry to follow. "Come with me, Mr. Potter. Let's see what level you're at."
They walked in silence through the winding halls. Lanterns sparked to life as they passed, casting long shadows. Harry's pulse quickened—not with nerves, but with anticipation.
They arrived at the dueling chamber. It was empty, save for a few mannequins lining the walls and a small raised platform where students typically sparred. The room had a certain gravity to it like echoes of old spells still clung to the stone.
Professor Flitwick stood at the far end of the hall, wand tucked lightly in one hand, his expression unreadable.
Harry stepped into the center, adjusting his stance with practiced ease. His wand hand was loose, shoulders relaxed—but his magic thrummed just beneath the surface, coiled and ready.
"I won't go easy," Flitwick said mildly.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Neither will I."
The Charms Master gave a small nod. "Then bow, Mr. Potter."
They did.
The silence stretched—then shattered as Harry flicked his wand.
"Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse shrieked through the air, followed instantly by a sharp "Stupefy!" fired just behind it. One-two layered like a trap.
Flitwick didn't flinch. With a subtle twist of his wrist, he redirected the explosive curse upward, the second vanishing into a shimmering shield.
Harry's eyes didn't flicker. He expected that.
He surged forward and slashed.
With a whispered word, the table at the side of the room twisted, stretched—and lunged. A panther, sleek and dark, leaped at Flitwick with a guttural snarl.
Flitwick's eyes lit up with amusement.
"Clever," he murmured—and sent a slicing arc of wind that dispersed the conjuration into motes of smoke.
But it was already too late—Harry's wand was up. "Stupefy!"
Red light lanced toward Flitwick's shoulder.
A translucent shield spun into place like a disc of glass, catching it with a hum.
"Not bad," Flitwick said—and flicked his wand once.
That flick brought an avalanche.
Bolts of pure force slammed toward Harry like battering rams. He barely managed to twist his wand in time. "Protego!"
The shield shimmered—but buckled under the weight of Flitwick's follow-up. Arcs of kinetic pressure cracked the air, and Harry felt his heels skid across the stone.
Too strong—
He dropped the failing shield and conjured a wall of conjured steel. It rang out as Flitwick's next barrage struck, leaving deep dents in the silver surface.
Harry's eyes flared. He ducked around the edge of the shield and whispered, "Ignis avis."
A bird, burning and bright, formed at his side—wings of fire and coal—and launched itself at Flitwick in a blazing arc.
Simultaneously, Harry bent the broken pieces of the shield with a subtle transfiguration—reshaping the steel into a pair of hovering blades that spun like saws toward the professor's blind spot.
It was a bold, ruthless move.
Flitwick chuckled under his breath. "Oh, you're dangerous."
He banished the blades with a blast of compressed air, but the firebird was already on him.
It hit his hastily raised shield and exploded—not into feathers, but into a cascade of wildfire that roared through the hall.
The flames licked high, hot and searing.
Harry stood at the edge of the inferno, breathing hard, wand steady.
Flitwick appeared through the smoke, a dome of blue light humming around him. He snapped his wand upward. A gust of freezing wind spiraled from his wand tip, snuffing the fire like candles.
Then he was moving—fast.
Harry barely saw the Stunner coming. He twisted and raised a shield—too slow.
"Expelliarmus."
His wand tore from his fingers and clattered across the floor.
Harry froze, heart pounding, adrenaline thick in his blood. His knees dropped to a crouch, breathing hard.
The room fell still.
Flitwick stepped forward and offered a small, satisfied smile.
"You fight like someone who's lived through fire," he said. "Aggressive. Sharp. Inventive."
Harry exhaled, chest still heaving. "I lost."
"You learned," Flitwick said simply. "Which is better."
He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"You are one of the strongest students I've seen in my entire tenure at Hogwarts. Your raw power, reflexes, and creativity are exceptional—but your style…" Flitwick's voice turned quiet, almost wary. "You fight with reckless abandon. As though pain is irrelevant, the consequence is secondary. There's only been one other wizard I've seen fight like that."
Harry stilled.
Flitwick met his eyes. "Voldemort. He too fought as if every duel was life or death, with ferocity over finesse."
Harry froze.
"I don't say that lightly," Flitwick continued. "You are not him, Mr. Potter. But the power—the ferocity—is similar. If you learn to temper that power with control and discipline… there's no ceiling to what you might become."
Harry swallowed hard. Then nodded.
"I want to learn."
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "Then you'll be back tomorrow, same time. And bring a notebook. You'll need it."
fter parting ways with Professor Flitwick, Harry didn't head straight for the Common Room. His body ached from the duel, but his mind was sharper than ever—alive, humming, replaying every flick, every counter, every mistake.
He needed quiet. He needed clarity.
He walked the halls with intention, past wandering students and dim sconces, until he reached the seventh floor. His pace slowed in front of the blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Three times he passed, focusing with each step:
I need a place to train. I need a place to train. I need a place to train.
The door appeared—old, sturdy, familiar.
Harry slipped inside.
The Room had transformed into a replica of the dueling chamber—but colder, more intimate. Spell marks scorched the stone floor in echoes of his earlier battle. Torches flickered along the wall, casting long shadows that danced across his reflection in a tall, full-length mirror.
Harry walked toward it slowly, his steps echoing.
He stopped in front of his reflection. Sweaty, flushed, wand still clenched in a white-knuckled grip. There was a fire in his eyes. Not anger. Not pride.
Intensity.
And something else—an edge.
He stared at himself, brow furrowing.
"You fight like someone who's lived through fire," Flitwick had said. "There's only been one other wizard I've seen fight like that…"
Voldemort.
The word still echoed in his bones, like ice sliding down his spine.
But it wasn't fear that clenched his gut—it was recognition.
Not of evil.
Of truth.
The Blasting Curse was a mistake. Predictable. Obvious. Two spells in sequence only work if your opponent underestimates you. He didn't.
The panther? Decent. Fast enough to force a distraction, but conjured too close to him. Too linear. Should've come from the blind angle. I gave him time to see it form—telegraphed my intent.
The firebird was better. Unexpected. But uncontrolled. If that explosion had caught me instead of him… If it had spread…
He didn't flinch at the idea of danger. He never had. But reckless magic—magic without restraint—that wasn't power. That was noise. Chaos.
He sat down cross-legged in the center of the floor, wand across his knees, the mirror still reflecting his quiet intensity.
Flitwick wasn't just stronger. He was cleaner. Efficient. His spells bent like music. Mine crash like thunder. Loud, violent… and obvious.
Harry's fingers curled against the stone floor.
He remembered the feeling. That rush. The fire bursting across the room. The thrill of pressure forcing him to move faster than thought. That part of him—deep, buried—enjoyed it.
But it was also the part that scared him.
I don't want to win by brute force. I want to master it. I want to command my magic like a second voice—not scream it like a battle cry.
Precision. Timing. Flow. That's what I need.
He opened his eyes.
And discipline. Absolute, unshakable discipline. If my mind falters, my magic will too. If my body hesitates, someone could die.
I can't afford either.