The corridors were quieter now, the castle half-empty as most students had already departed for the winter holidays. The torches on the walls flickered gently in their sconces, throwing long shadows against the ancient stone as Harry moved through the hallways with purpose. His footsteps were silent, measured—not because he was sneaking, but because he'd long trained himself to move like that. Magic didn't only come from a wand; it came from intent, from discipline.
The dueling chamber beneath the Charms corridor was empty when Harry arrived, the reinforced oak door swinging open with a low groan at the wave of his wand. The room smelled faintly of scorched stone and old magic—a scent he'd come to associate with focus. With control. The circular floor was marked with fading white lines, once pristine but worn now from generations of Hogwarts students hurling hexes and counter-charms in ritualized combat.
Professor Flitwick was already there, standing near the center of the dueling platform, his short frame casting a long shadow in the magically-lit space. He looked up as Harry entered, his expression unreadable beneath those sharp, intelligent eyes.
"Punctual, as always," Flitwick said, voice carrying easily despite his size.
Harry stepped into the center of the dueling circle, wand already warm in his fingers. The runes along the floor pulsed faintly, sealing the arena in shimmering wards. Professor Flitwick stood across from him—calm, composed, and very much ready.
Harry stood at one end, wand steady in his hand. Across from him, Professor Flitwick raised his own, expression calm, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—were fully alert.
"Begin."
Harry moved first. "Reducto!"
The spell boomed across the dueling chamber, a shockwave of light and pressure hurtling toward Professor Flitwick. The diminutive dueling master didn't so much as flinch. His wand flicked—"Protego!"—and the shield shimmered to life, absorbing the blast like it was nothing more than a breeze.
Even before the sparks faded, Harry was on the offensive again. "Expelliarmus!" then "Glacius!"—he chained the spells tightly, aiming to disarm and then freeze Flitwick's footing.
But Flitwick's counter was smooth, even playful. "Deflecto. Motus." The disarming charm veered away, the frost shattered under the professor's light-footed pivot.
Harry pivoted too. A textbook on a desk snapped into the air. "Avifors!"—and a sharp-beaked hawk dove for Flitwick's left side while a "Bombarda!" crashed in from the right.
Two angles. A classic misdirection.
Flitwick, however, handled both with practiced ease. "Avis Dispersus!"—the hawk vanished in a scatter of embers. "Scutum!"—a casual sweep of the wand turned the explosive blast into a harmless thud of displaced air.
Still, Harry pressed. His brain spun with tactics—smoke, silence, misdirection. "Fumos!" flooded the floor. "Incendio." Flames slithered through the mist like serpents, chasing Flitwick's legs.
For a moment, Harry thought he'd made an opening.
Then—"Ventus!"—and the flames were gone, smoke blown away like cobwebs in the wind.
Harry saw his chance.
"Depulso!"
The blast spell roared across the floor. Flitwick dodged, but not before it clipped the edge of his shielding charm. A flicker of instability. The first visible mark.
Harry felt the rush. He let it ride. The burn beneath his skin swelled.
"Confringo!"
"Diffindo!"
"Incendio Maxima!"
The Incendio Maxima crackled with unstable energy, leaping higher than intended. For a heartbeat, Harry flinched, feeling it scorch too close before he wrestled it back under control.
Flitwick's expression finally shifted—more alert now, focused. He raised his wand and muttered, "Ventus Maxima!"
A controlled hurricane ripped through the inferno, tearing flames apart and dispersing the heat. For the first time, the professor had to take a step back.
And for the first time, Harry thought he was closing the gap.
He wasn't.
He tried again. "Lacarnum Inflamarae." A whip of fire.
"Transmutare!" He conjured a flying stone beetle from debris—aimed at Flitwick's blindside.
"Obscuro." To mask his location.
"Silentio." A sound-dampening charm. Layers. Distractions.
His breath came faster now, magic buzzing under his skin like static. His wand hand shook slightly—not enough to betray weakness, but enough that Flitwick would notice.
Flitwick moved through them like a ghost through mist. The fire whip was parried, the beetle transfigured into sand midair, the shadow peered through with a simple revealing charm. His footwork didn't slow, and his wand didn't pause.
And then he advanced.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Stinghex!"
Harry blocked one, dodged another, but the hex burned across his ribs, numbing his left arm. He gritted his teeth, tried to raise a shield.
"Protego Totalum!" he shouted, layering every drop of his intent into it.
Flitwick broke through in three clean strikes—"Expulso." "Diffindo." "Expelliarmus!"—and Harry's wand was gone. Just like that.
He dropped to one knee, panting, heart pounding in his ears.
Silence.
Flitwick approached. His robes were rumpled, a few singes at the edges, and his expression… thoughtful.
"You've grown," he said calmly, offering Harry his wand. "That was more than just raw force. You tried to outmaneuver me."
Harry took his wand, silent, breathing hard. His magic still buzzed under his skin, restless.
"But," Flitwick continued, "you're still falling back on brute strength. Fire. Power. Speed. It's not always the answer." He glanced at a scorched wall, a faint smile twitching his lips.
Harry gave a lopsided grin, despite himself. "It felt like I was close."
"You were," Flitwick said gently. "But I wasn't fighting to win."
Harry blinked.
"I wanted to test you, not beat you. If I'd pressed from the beginning…" He let the thought hang.
It stung. A bit. But it made sense.
"Still," the professor added, "you forced me to raise my tempo. I haven't had to do that in a long time."
Harry stood, slower this time. His muscles ached. His chest burned. But somewhere in the exhaustion, he felt pride.
Not for winning.
For lasting.
Flitwick's voice was quieter now. "You're powerful, Harry. But power without control? That's just a storm."
Harry nodded. "Then I guess I've got a lot of weather to tame."
The professor chuckled. "You're getting there."
The door creaked shut behind Harry with a lingering hiss of ancient hinges, and silence returned to the chamber—thick and heavy, broken only by the soft crackle of residual magic still echoing in the wards.
From a shadowed alcove near the high stone arch of the rear wall, a figure emerged with quiet steps. Robes of deep midnight blue shimmered faintly in the fading magical light. Half-moon spectacles caught the glow, and the scent of lemon drops—faint, inexplicably—seemed to follow him.
Albus Dumbledore stepped fully into view.
"You singed the ceiling," he said mildly, inspecting the soot-streaked arch with a small, bemused frown. "Again."
Flitwick stood near the dueling circle, sweat still damp on his brow, though his breathing had returned to normal. He gave a short, tired laugh. "Better the ceiling than my beard. Barely avoided that when he launched the second Incendio Maxima."
Dumbledore chuckled, then fell quiet, surveying the damage. The dueling circle still pulsed faintly with residual heat. The wards shimmered as they slowly powered down. Scorch marks laced the flagstones, and an entire segment of the floor bore the melted impression of a fire-laced curse that had barely missed its mark.
"He's stronger than I expected," Dumbledore finally said, tone pensive. "More controlled in posture, but still… reckless underneath."
Flitwick nodded, wiping his wand clean before stowing it. "He's evolving. Testing limits. That's what this duel was for, wasn't it?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with something more somber than mirth. "I needed to see how he fights when he's pushed. Not just how he casts, but how he thinks."
"And?" Flitwick prompted.
"He doesn't trust himself yet," Dumbledore said softly. "He believes he needs power to protect. So he turns to it—instinctively. It's not arrogance. It's fear. Somewhere deep inside, he still believes that if he's not strong enough, he will die."
Flitwick folded his arms, gaze distant. "He's not wrong. He's seen what happens when he's not ready."
"No, he's not wrong," Dumbledore agreed. "But strength used as a crutch becomes a cage. And when he loses himself to it—as he nearly did tonight—it blinds him to everything else."
Flitwick sighed, stepping down from the dueling platform with a soft thud. "He's like a hammer, Albus. A beautifully crafted one, but still a hammer. And everything looks like a nail."
"Yes," Dumbledore murmured, his voice trailing with thought. "Though in time… he might become the smith instead."
The two professors stood in quiet contemplation. For a moment, the weight of decades hung between them—their own past duels, their own regrets, and the strange, dangerous boy walking a path none of them could truly predict.
"I held back," Flitwick admitted after a while. "Gave him space. Let him think he was gaining ground. I wanted to see what he'd do when he thought he was winning."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"He got creative. Tactical. Started layering spells—blinding charms, transfigured distractions, masking his position. He's got an instinct for misdirection."
"Like his father," Dumbledore mused.
"More than that," Flitwick said thoughtfully. "James never fought like this. He was brash, clever—but always in the open. Harry moves like someone who expects to be hunted. Like someone who doesn't trust anyone to shield his back."
Dumbledore's expression tightened. "He doesn't. Not really. He loves his friends, certainly. But trust? That's been… damaged."
Flitwick gave a short, weary nod. "It's why he goes overboard. He thinks if he falters even a little, no one will be there to pick up the slack."
"Then we must teach him otherwise," Dumbledore said firmly. "Before he begins relying on that fire in his chest more than the judgment in his mind."
Flitwick turned, watching the last sparks of Harry's magic dissolve into nothingness. "He'll get there. But only if he chooses to. I can show him paths. But I can't make him walk the one that doesn't end in fire."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the scorch marks. Then he turned, walking back toward the arch from which he'd emerged. "No. But you've reminded him there's more than one."
At the door, he paused. "Thank you, Filius. He'll need more duels like this."
Flitwick smiled wryly. "Next time, I'll bring a bucket of water and a wardstone."
Dumbledore chuckled, and his voice echoed faintly as he stepped through the threshold. "Just don't forget your eyebrows."
And with that, the chamber fell quiet once more.
Far away down the corridor, Harry walked alone—his steps slow now, thoughtful. Not defeated, but weighed down by questions that would not leave him.
He didn't know it yet, but tonight had been his first real lesson in what it truly meant to wield power—and what it might cost him if he didn't learn to let go.