Once my friends had left the Room of Requirement, I stayed behind. The room reshaped itself automatically, providing a more open area for experimentation—clear of obstacles, with floating spell-targets suspended midair, and shelves of magical implements nearby.
I raised my wand and focused. Supreme Magic Control thrummed beneath my skin, every spark of energy perfectly aligned. I began with advanced spells I had been studying in Dumbledore's notes and my own experimentation, practicing the precise shaping of magic in the air.
"Protego layers, now with energy feedback loops," I muttered, casting spell after spell. Shields blossomed, expanded, shrank, twisted, and rotated in the air as I refined their forms. The power flowed like liquid, responding perfectly to my intent.
Satisfied, I moved on to something far more dangerous. Fiendfyre.
The system chime whispered a warning:
[Caution: Fiendfyre is highly unstable. Only attempt with full control.]
I smirked. Control is my specialty now.
Raising my wand, I drew the complex incantation in the air. Flames ignited in a small, contained patch before me. Unlike the wild, chaotic fire that terrified most wizards, my Fiendfyre shimmered with a faint intelligence, responding almost as if it could understand my thoughts.
I began shaping it. Concentrating on every particle, every flicker, I pushed the flames into a snake. The fire twisted and curved in midair, scales forming in flickering patterns, head and eyes taking shape. The snake slithered along an invisible plane, coiling elegantly around a floating target.
I adjusted the magical flow, refining the movement. With a thought, the snake lunged, striking a target perfectly. I withdrew it and reshaped it into a coiling spiral, then into a thin whip-like serpent that danced through the air with precision.
This… is the difference.
Other wizards might cast Fiendfyre recklessly, letting it rage, destroying everything in its path. But I was bending it with intent, shaping the chaos into art. Every flick of my wand was deliberate; every pulse of magic flowed exactly as I willed it.
I experimented further: a wolf, a dragon's head, a miniature phoenix. Each form held for several seconds, moving fluidly as if alive. I could feel the raw heat without fear, the energy entirely under my control.
"Control," I whispered to myself, "is everything."
I paused and let the flames shrink back into a controlled ember before disappearing entirely. My chest rose and fell steadily, sweat trickling down my temple. Even with Supreme Magic Control, Fiendfyre demanded complete attention. One lapse, one careless thought, and it would be catastrophic.
Yet I couldn't help but smile. The power—my power—flowed freely. Spells bent to my will, raw magical essence dancing in perfect harmony with my mind.
Tonight, I realized fully why Dumbledore had relied on Transfiguration and mastery of magic to suppress the Dark Lords of the past. With precise control, the most dangerous spells became tools—extensions of intellect and strategy rather than chaos.
I extinguished the last flicker of Fiendfyre and stepped back. The room had absorbed none of the heat, the shelves intact, the targets untouched. My control was absolute.
And as I watched the empty space before me, I knew one thing with certainty: the next generation of magic wouldn't just be learned—it would be shaped.
And I would be the one to shape it.