The dueling chamber hummed with silence, its tall arching windows letting in slants of morning sun. Dust floated in the air like sparks waiting to be ignited. Harry stood in the center of the room, wand in hand, breathing steady.
Professor Flitwick didn't speak right away. He observed Harry quietly, arms folded, eyes thoughtful.
"You came back," he finally said, voice soft but pleased. "I take it that means you're ready to begin training in earnest?"
Harry nodded. "I've been thinking a lot. About what you said yesterday. About how I fight."
Flitwick gave a small smile. "Good. Self-awareness is rare in young duelists. Most simply want to be faster, stronger, louder. You—you're asking how to be better."
He waved his wand and conjured a shimmering diagram in midair, a glowing ring that pulsed with energy. Lines branched out from the center like the spokes of a wheel, each labeled in old runes and modern English: Transfiguration, Charms, Curses, Elemental Magic, Spellcraft, Illusion, Runes.
"This," Flitwick said, gesturing to the structure, "is what I call the spellcaster's circle. Every field of magic intersects here—but in battle, most wizards master only one or two elements of this whole."
Harry studied it. "Because spreading too wide means you don't get deep enough?"
"Precisely. Every great duelist chose their battlefield carefully." Flitwick tapped the diagram, and images began to form.
"Dumbledore," he said, and the circle shifted. Two branches lit up: Transfiguration and Elemental Magic, the latter glimmering with Water and Fire. "He was brilliant with Transfiguration—not just the basics, mind you, but abstract applications. Changing not only form, but function. Turning air into solid barriers, reshaping the ground mid-duel, turning a single stone into a swarm of razors."
Harry's eyes widened.
"And he used water like a sculptor—controlled, elegant. Fire, when he had to. Rarely lightning, never wind. He also incorporated illusion—subtle visual and spatial disorientation. You never quite knew where he was on the field."
"Grindelwald?" Harry asked.
Flitwick's brow furrowed with reluctant admiration. "The most versatile of the three. A master of three branches—Elemental Magic, Illusion, and Spellcraft. He could construct new spells mid-battle. Light refracted unnaturally around him. He fought like a storm of distractions—fire drawing your eye, lightning striking where you least expected, then a spell you'd never seen before finishing the job. His duels were chaos—choreographed chaos."
Professor Flitwick gestured again, and the diagram shifted. A new section glowed: Dark Magic, pulsing ominously, overlapping Elemental Fire and Wind.
"And then there was Voldemort," he said, voice quieter now. "The most dangerous duelist of his era—not because of his technique, but because of his intensity."
Harry's jaw tensed.
"He wielded fire like a hammer, wind like a whip. But what truly defined him," Flitwick said, tapping the dark section, "was Dark Magic. Curses designed not just to harm, but to torment. He didn't waste time with illusions or subtlety. Every movement was aggressive, calculated, and meant to end the duel quickly and decisively."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "So he relied on pain. Fear."
"Yes," Flitwick said grimly. "He conjured serpents from shadows, firestorms that fed on fear. He was a master of control through chaos. And his use of wind—fast-moving hexes, slashing force, rapid repositioning—made it hard to even catch your breath."
He paused. "He could transfigure, use charms, even illusions when he chose. But in combat, he defaulted to destruction."
"Because he didn't need elegance," Harry muttered. "Just results."
"Exactly. And that made him terrifying. But also… predictable."
Harry was quiet. "So... all of them knew a lot. But they chose their weapons."
"Exactly." Flitwick turned to him. "What about you, Mr. Potter?"
Harry took a breath. "I've started working with fire. I don't just want to throw it—I want to shape it. Control it."
Flitwick raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous choice. Fire is life, but also destruction. It requires discipline to wield—not just will."
"I can manage that," Harry said. "I've been working on it. Building control. Trying to make the flame respond, not just burn."
The professor nodded slowly. "Good. Fire will teach you focus. One misstep, and it takes more than you give."
"I'm also reading Dumbledore's Transfiguration notes," Harry continued. "He wrote about changing magical properties—turning solid matter into enchanted constructs. Defensive formations. Tools mid-combat. That's what I want to learn."
"Then you're aiming for a dual core," Flitwick murmured, "Transfiguration and Elemental Fire. A strong foundation—strategic and explosive. And you mentioned Spellcraft?"
Harry nodded. "Not inventing spells yet. But I'm trying to modify existing ones. Understand what makes them work."
"Spellcraft," Flitwick said, his tone turning reverent, "is what separates a skilled wizard from an unpredictable one. When you can twist a spell in-flight, make a stunning hex curve behind a shield, or detonate midair into smaller bursts… that's when you begin to shape magic."
Harry looked at the diagram again. "And runes?"
"Ah." Flitwick tapped the rune section and it glowed softly. "Runes are another language of battle. They require time, patience, and forethought. Used right, they let you prepare a battlefield. Create traps. Amplify spells. But they're not for casual use. One error, and you might as well cast your wand into the sea."
Harry nodded slowly. "Then I'll leave runes for later."
"A wise decision," Flitwick said. "Master your fire first. Hone your Transfiguration. Let your spellcraft support them. You don't need breadth—you need a blade that cuts true."
Harry's gaze hardened. "That's what I'm going to build."
Flitwick smiled faintly. "Then let's begin."
As they moved to the center of the dueling platform, Flitwick clapped his hands.
"Now, all that theory won't help if you can't stay on your feet," he said lightly. "We begin with footwork."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Not spells?"
Flitwick smiled. "Spells will come. But a duel is more than magic—it's movement, distance, timing. If you can't dodge, if you can't position… even the strongest spell means nothing."
Harry nodded and fell into stance.
As they began circling, Flitwick added, "I can teach you tactics. Openings. How to read your opponent. But the fighting itself—your style—that must be yours."
"You mean like… what I choose to rely on?" Harry asked, sidestepping a flash of light from Flitwick's wand.
"Exactly," Flitwick replied. "You've chosen Transfiguration and fire. That's a start. As you grow, you'll add more—perhaps lightning, illusions, silent casting. But your base must be strong. Fluid. Reflexive."
He flicked his wand again, and Harry ducked just in time.
"Build your foundation first," Flitwick said calmly. "Then shape the rest around it."
The rest of the morning was sweat, bruises, and movement.
"Again!" Flitwick barked, surprisingly fierce for his small frame.
Harry lunged, rolled, and came up into a crouch. Another streak of red light shot past his shoulder, searing the edge of his sleeve.
"You dropped your left heel. I could've hexed your entire side."
Harry grit his teeth and pushed off the floor. His breath was coming quicker now, shirt damp with sweat. No spells yet—just dodging, reacting, moving.
"Back to center. Feet wide, weight light."
They moved like that for nearly an hour—no incantations, no wand flashes—just raw movement. Flitwick would change his own posture, angle his body one way, then snap his wand in a feint, watching how Harry responded. Not every motion ended in a spell. Sometimes the older man simply observed, corrected, made Harry run the same movement again until it was no longer conscious.
"Every duel is a dance," Flitwick explained between drills. "You don't just move with your wand. You move with your body. Your hips, your knees, your balance—they all feed into the spell. Especially Transfiguration. It's not static—it flows from rhythm. Control the rhythm, and you control the pace of the fight."
By the time they took their first break, Harry's legs were burning. His wand hand trembled slightly from exertion, and there was a bruise forming on his shoulder from a particularly well-aimed hex Flitwick had let loose without warning.
The professor handed him a conjured flask of cool water. "You're athletic. Good. That helps. But you've got Gryffindor instincts—straight lines, fast strikes. That'll get you killed in a real duel."
Harry nodded, panting slightly. "Then I'll fix that."
Flitwick smiled faintly. "That's the spirit. Now—spells."
The second half of the session shifted to casting under pressure.
"Basic hexes only," Flitwick said. "Show me how fast you can go from defense to offense. Keep your shield up, counter, redirect. Movement and wandwork as one."
They began with a warmup of shield charms—tight, efficient, low-power—but quickly escalated. Flitwick layered attacks deliberately: a mild stunner followed by a silent disarming charm, then a trip jinx launched low to catch Harry off-balance. No attack was random. Everything was teaching.
Harry missed three counters in a row before managing to block the fourth and return a hastily redirected knockback charm that clipped Flitwick's sleeve.
"Well done," the professor said without missing a beat, already circling again. "You're reacting faster. But you're too reactive. Predict me. Anticipate. Don't just answer—ask your own questions."
Harry narrowed his eyes, heart pounding, and shifted his stance. When Flitwick moved again, Harry didn't wait. He stepped into the attack, wand slashing in a tight spiral.
"Ventus!"
The gust wasn't strong, but it disrupted the trajectory of Flitwick's hex just enough that it scattered into sparks. Harry ducked beneath it and flicked his wand again.
"Incendio!"
A short burst of flame shot forward—not uncontrolled, but curved slightly, hugging the path of the gust like it had been shaped by the air itself.
Flitwick deflected it easily but raised his brows.
"Now you're thinking," he said. "You blended wind and fire instinctively. Clever—but don't push beyond your comfort yet."
Harry's legs trembled beneath him, but his focus was sharp. "I want to learn faster."
"Good," Flitwick said. "But speed is nothing without direction."
He raised his wand one final time. "One last exercise."
It wasn't a duel.
Instead, he conjured five shimmering targets around the chamber—floating, shifting constantly in size and movement.
"Hit all five. No repeats. Use different spells for each. Think like a duelist, not a student."
Harry took a deep breath, nodded, and began.
A fire whip lashed out—one down. A transfigured stone from the floor arced into the next, turning into a blunted dart mid-flight—two. He ducked, twisted, and reshaped a nearby chair into a chain that lashed the third—three. A fourth was frozen mid-air, then shattered with a knockback. The last flitted behind a pillar. Harry didn't chase. He used wind to knock over a loose parchment on the floor—then lit it on fire. When the target emerged, it flew right into the rising flame.
All five down.
He stood, panting.
Flitwick gave an approving nod.
"Well done. You're not just throwing spells now. You're weaving them. That's the first step to real dueling."
Harry wiped his brow. "What's the second?"
"Making it second nature," Flitwick said. "And we'll do just that."
He flicked his wand, resetting the room.
"We'll meet once a week," he continued voice now back to its usual calm. "Same time. I'll assign drills. You'll train on your own, and when you return, I'll test your progress."
Harry straightened. "How will you test me?"
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "Before the winter holidays, you and I will duel again. Not as teacher and student, but as opponents. You'll show me what you've built."
Harry smiled faintly, a flicker of fire in his gaze. "I'll be ready."
Flitwick bowed slightly, formal and sincere. "Then until next week, Mr. Potter. And remember—dueling begins before the first spell is cast."