Harry sighed as he found himself back in Professor Flitwick's office. The familiar scent of parchment and lemon polish did little to ground him. His hands were steady, but only because he was forcing them to be.
Watching Voldemort fight—no, dismantle—those Aurors had stripped away any illusion Harry might've had about his growing strength. It wasn't just power. It was precision. Control. The way Voldemort moved, like every motion had already been rehearsed a hundred times in his mind. Like he didn't doubt, didn't hesitate. And he had enjoyed it.
Harry swallowed hard.
He still had a long way to go.
"Are you all right, Harry?" Professor Flitwick asked gently.
Harry nodded once. "Yes, Professor."
Flitwick studied him for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, voice soft but curious. "What did you think of that memory, Harry?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He stared into the Pensieve's still surface, his reflection warped by the silvery mist.
"Voldemort was toying with them," he said finally, his voice low. "He could've killed them all before any of them even saw him properly. But he didn't. He was enjoying it—in his own twisted way."
He looked up. "What struck me most was… he never moved. Not once. From the moment he appeared, he just stood there. Everyone else was dodging spells, diving for cover, fighting for their lives—and he just stood still."
Harry swallowed. "It was like… he saw the fight itself as beneath him. Moving would've meant exerting effort. Taking it seriously. And he didn't. He used magic like it was second nature—like breathing—and they weren't even worth him stepping forward."
Flitwick didn't speak for a moment. He regarded Harry with a look that held both approval and gravity.
"You're right," he said quietly. "He didn't move because, in his mind, he didn't need to. Voldemort doesn't see combat as risk. He sees it as performance. He wanted them to see how helpless they were—how little he had to try."
He leaned back, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of his chair.
"And, Harry…" His voice lowered, more serious now. "That wasn't even him being serious."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"That was him… playing. Polishing his own inventions. Not one spell he cast required his full attention. Not one of those Aurors forced him to exert himself. What you saw tonight was Voldemort holding back—still devastating, yes, but not driven. Not angry. Not afraid. He was experimenting."
Harry felt something cold settle in his chest. "If that was him playing…"
Flitwick nodded. "Then imagine what he's like when he's fighting for something he actually wants."
But Harry didn't flinch.
He nodded slowly. Not with fear. But with understanding.
And beneath that—something else.
Determination.
"We have seen how Voldemort dominates magic but to understand and create your own fighting style you also have to see the opposite of it. "
He placed another vial on the table.
"We've seen how Lord Voldemort dominates magic," Flitwick said, his voice thoughtful. "But to understand and eventually create your own fighting style, Harry, you must also witness the opposite of it."
He reached into the drawer beside him and retrieved another small crystal vial. The memory inside shimmered softly, the light within it pulsing like a heartbeat.
"This," he said, placing it gently on the table beside the Pensieve, "is a memory of Professor Dumbledore. It was during a coordinated Death Eater assault on Hogsmeade—an ambush that should have ended in devastation."
He glanced at Harry.
"It didn't."
Harry leaned forward slightly, gaze fixed on the vial.
"Dumbledore doesn't dominate the way Voldemort does," Flitwick continued. "He doesn't need to. He guides. Weaves. Redirects. His magic isn't about overpowering—it's about mastery in the truest sense."
He paused, then added more softly, "Watch closely. You'll see the difference between fear and respect. Between a tyrant and a master."
Flitwick uncorked the vial and poured the silvery memory into the Pensieve. The surface rippled, then steadied, glowing faintly in the candlelight.
"When you're ready," he said.
Harry inhaled deeply, steeling himself once more, and leaned forward into the swirling silver.
Harry landed on snow-dusted cobblestones.
Night draped Hogsmeade in shadow. The street was scarred—glass shattered across the stone, rooftops broken, signs blown apart. Smoke drifted lazily from the upper window of Zonko's, mixing with the falling snow.
Albus Dumbledore stood alone in the center of the road.
Six Death Eaters flanked him, half-circling. Wands drawn. Ready.
He did not raise his wand.
"You need not do this," Dumbledore said, voice calm, clear, and without fear. "There are no civilians left. No one else to harm. Whatever you came for… it ends here. Lay down your wands, and no harm will come to you."
The Death Eaters hesitated for a moment.
Then someone laughed.
A woman with a jagged scar across her mask shouted, "Kill him!"
Spells flew.
Dumbledore moved calmly.
He drew a line in the air.
The cobblestones between them reshaped instantly, rising up as a wave of polished obsidian that caught the first barrage of curses and dispersed them in harmless sparks. As it dropped, he stepped aside and pointed.
A barrel beside him collapsed into coils of thick rope, which darted like snakes toward the nearest attacker, binding their arms and legs before they could cast again. They fell to the ground, bound, unconscious.
Another spell shot toward him—orange, jagged, loud.
Dumbledore transformed the snow at his feet into a curtain of blue glass, which absorbed the impact and shattered outward into harmless petals. They drifted to the ground, tinkling softly.
Two more Death Eaters charged forward together, shouting overlapping incantations.
He sighed.
The broken pub sign above him reshaped into a spiraling iron gate mid-fall, crashing between them like a portcullis and pinning one against the wall. The other cast again—too slow. Dumbledore's wand flicked, and the man's cloak turned to stone. He collapsed under its weight, stunned.
Four down.
He turned toward the remaining two.
"I will ask again," he said, still not raising his voice. "Surrender now. There is no need for further violence."
They didn't listen.
One shouted a curse.
The wooden crate behind Dumbledore sprang upward into a swirl of silk scarves mid-flight, catching the spell and wrapping around the caster's wand hand, tightening instantly. The scarf transformed into golden chains, locking her arms in place. She toppled.
The last tried to Disapparate.
Dumbledore's wand drew a wide circle in the air. The space shimmered and bent. The man reappeared mid-turn, frozen in place.
The nearest shop's broken sign twisted upward, growing into a cage of thorny vines and locking around him in seconds. Not a scratch. Not a cry.
Just stillness.
Six enemies. Six different, seamless acts of transfiguration. Not one harmed beyond necessity. Not one dead.
Dumbledore stood still, wand now lowered. The wind brushed the hem of his robes.
He looked not like a warrior who had won.
But like a man who had done what he must.
The snow continued to fall.
Then the memory faded.
Flitwick watched him steadily as the last ripples of the memory stilled in the Pensieve's basin.
"What will you say for that, Harry?" he asked gently.
Harry's voice came slowly—measured. "Professor Dumbledore… wasn't even fazed. Not once. He didn't overpower them—he guided magic. Shaped everything around him like it was an extension of his will. The street, the snow, the stone, the light."
Flitwick gave a small, proud nod. "Yes. Precisely."
He stood from his chair, hands clasped behind his back as he paced slowly around the table, his voice quiet but layered with meaning.
"That is what I wanted to show you. There are many ways to use magic. You've seen two tonight—two of the greatest duelists of our time. Both powerful. Both brilliant. But entirely opposite in how they approach the art."
He turned, meeting Harry's eyes. "Voldemort uses magic to control. To crush. He sees opponents as obstacles to erase. Every spell is an assertion of dominance—loud, final, brutal. It works."
He paused.
"Dumbledore is different. He doesn't force magic—he invites it. He partners with it. He listens to the world around him and bends it gently, without breaking it. His power isn't in how much he can destroy, but in how little he needs to."
Flitwick's voice softened, but there was steel beneath it.
"You must understand this, Harry: raw power is not what makes a great wizard. Control does. Intent does. Magic responds to your emotions, your instincts, your beliefs. Voldemort believes in domination—so his magic becomes a hammer. Dumbledore believes in protection—so his magic becomes a shield, a net, a guiding hand."
He walked back around the table and rested a hand lightly on the Pensieve's edge.
"You'll learn spells. Dozens. Hundreds, if you continue as you are. But learning the form of a spell is not the same as mastering it. You must ask yourself: what do you want your magic to do? What does it serve? Fear? Anger? Mercy? Justice?"
Flitwick's eyes narrowed slightly—not harshly, but with the quiet intensity of a teacher asking the question that matters most.
"Who are you, Harry Potter, when you raise your wand?"
There was silence again, thick and expectant.
Then he smiled, just a little. "You don't have to answer yet. But you will. One day. And when you do, you'll understand why this matters more than any incantation or wand movement I can ever teach you."
He stepped back and folded his hands neatly.
"For now, reflect. Watch others. Learn. Then—begin to shape your own path."