HP:Rise

[A/N] - After hearing some complaints and questions, I want to clarify how Harry's memory works in this story.

To be clear: Harry remembers the events of his past life and the books, with one major exception: all specific knowledge about the Horcruxes has been blocked. He doesn't know what they are or where to find them.

This is not a plot hole or a convenience. There is a deliberate, in-story reason for this block, and it's a crucial part of the plot that will be revealed later. Thanks for reading!

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The silence of the library's restricted section was heavy. Outside, the last of the April showers streaked down the tall, gothic windows, but here, the only sound was the soft rustle of parchment. Harry sat at a table buried under a mountain of forgotten lore, a single witchlight casting a pale, trembling glow over his work.

His frustration was a physical thing, a tight knot in his chest. He knew the ring was a Horcrux. He knew, from the symbol etched on its black stone, that it was the Resurrection Stone—a Peverell heirloom, one of the three Hallows. The connection was clear. The Gaunts were direct descendants of the Peverells and Salazar Slytherin. He had traced the lineage through dusty, sprawling family trees in the Black Library, the lines of succession a tangled web of pride and squalor.

But there, the trail went cold.

The Gaunts had vanished from public record decades ago. The last mention of them in the Daily Prophet archives was a brief, sneering article from 1943 detailing Morfin Gaunt's arrest for hexing a Muggle. After that, nothing. They had faded into the impoverished obscurity from which they had never truly escaped. He knew who they were, but he had no idea where they had lived. The ring could be anywhere.

All the power he was accumulating felt worthless when faced with a simple lack of information. With a low groan, he pushed a heavy volume on Slytherin's lineage away from him and slammed it shut, the sound echoing unnaturally in the quiet.

"A rather late night for study, Mr. Potter."

Harry jumped, his hand instinctively going for his wand. Professor Flitwick stood at the end of the aisle, smiling, his eyes twinkling. "Forgive me for startling you. I was just returning a book on goblin-wrought silver."

"It's fine, Professor," Harry said, rubbing his tired eyes. "Just some… extra reading."

Flitwick's gaze swept over the chaotic pile of books. "So I see. Your dedication is admirable. In fact, it's why I had planned to speak with you tomorrow—but as they say, no time like the present."

He bustled closer, his expression shifting from casual to serious. "Your progress in our sessions has been, without exaggeration, extraordinary. Your control and creative spellwork surpass that of any student I have ever taught."

Harry waited, a sense of anticipation cutting through his fatigue.

"There is an event," Flitwick continued, his voice low and conspiratorial. "The International Junior Dueling Circuit. A prestigious tournament for the most promising young duelists under the age of twenty. This year, the European Invitational is being held in France." He paused, letting the words sink in. "With your level of skill, you would not merely be a competitor; you would be a contender. I'd like to formally sponsor you, Harry. Both as a champion representing Hogwarts, and as my personal student."

Harry stared at him, stunned—not by the offer, but by its immediate, brilliant utility. A tournament. Fame. Trophies. He no longer saw such things as distractions or burdens. They were tools. Fame was a weapon of influence, a way to shape public perception. Trophies were more than metal—they were proof. A clear, undeniable statement of power.

And an international stage… it was perfect. A justification for his relentless training. A way to test himself against real opponents. To study new styles of magic. To see how far he had come—and how far he still had to go.

"I'll do it," Harry said, his voice firm with a sense of purpose and anticipation.

Flitwick beamed, his small face alight with pride. "I am delighted to hear that. On that note, for your lesson tomorrow, please go to the Headmaster's office at our usual time. He has... graciously offered to take your session himself."

Dumbledore's POV

Albus Dumbledore set his quill down, the last signature on a tedious piece of Ministry correspondence swirling into place with a flourish. The quiet hum of the various silver instruments in his office was a familiar, comforting chorus. He glanced at the grandfather clock near the door; it was nearly time.

His thoughts, as they so often did these days, drifted to Harry.

He remembered the boy who had first walked into this office, small for his age but with eyes that held a fire Dumbledore had not seen in half a century. A boy of immense bravery and instinct, but whose magic was a wild, untamed thing, bursting forth in moments of desperation rather than command.

He contrasted that image with the reports Filius Flitwick now delivered with breathless excitement after each dueling session. A duelist of remarkable power, Filius had called him. One whose creativity in transfiguration and raw command of elemental fire was beyond anything he had ever witnessed in a student.

A deep sense of pride swelled in Dumbledore's chest, warm and bright. But beneath it, as always, lay a familiar, somber ache. The ambition, the secrecy, the frightening pace of his growth—they were all echoes from a dark chapter in his own past. He saw the shadow of another brilliant, orphaned boy in Harry's progress, and it was a shadow he could never fully escape.

He pushed the thought away. Harry was not Tom. Where Tom's heart had held a cold, grasping void, Harry's was full of a fierce, protective love. That, Dumbledore knew, was the fundamental difference. It was everything.

Still, power without wisdom was a dangerous thing. He had the strength, but he lacked the experience, the deep, quiet understanding of magic that came not from books, but from decades of living with its weight. Today's lesson was not about teaching Harry a new spell. It was about showing him the mountain he still had to climb.

A soft knock came at the door. "Come in, Harry."

The boy entered, his posture straight, his eyes sharp and alert. The timid uncertainty of his youth was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady confidence that seemed to radiate from him.

"Professor Flitwick said you wished to see me, Headmaster."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling over his half-moon spectacles as he rose from his desk. "Filius tells me you have become quite the duelist. I thought it was time I saw this progress for myself. Walk with me, Harry."

They left the office, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor.

"Filius has also informed me of your decision to enter the International Junior Dueling Circuit," Dumbledore said as they walked. "It is a fine opportunity."

"I thought so, sir," Harry replied, matching the Headmaster's steady pace.

"You should be prepared," Dumbledore continued, his tone practical. "The duelists you will face there are not like the students you know. They will come from different traditions, taught styles of magic you have never encountered. Some will be cunning strategists who use subtle misdirection rather than force. Others will be specialists, masters of a single branch of magic—be it illusions, charms, or curses—to a degree that can catch even a powerful opponent off guard."

He glanced at Harry, his gaze sharp. "Do not mistake a lack of overwhelming power for a lack of danger. Observe. Learn. Every duel, win or lose, is a lesson. This tournament is not merely a chance to prove your strength, but an opportunity to broaden your understanding of what magic can be. Use it as such."

They arrived at the door to one of the larger, disused classrooms that Flitwick often reserved for the dueling club. With a wave of Dumbledore's hand, the door swung open to reveal a wide, empty room with a raised dueling platform at its center.

Harry's expression sharpened with anticipation. He drew his wand, his stance shifting into one of perfect readiness as he stepped onto the platform.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Show me what you have learned."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He went on the offensive immediately, his first move a testament to his newfound power. A roaring wave of fire, far hotter and larger than any student should be able to conjure, erupted from his wand and surged across the platform.

Dumbledore's expression didn't change. With a casual, almost lazy flick of his own wand, he met the inferno. The flames did not disperse; they simply vanished, transformed mid-air into a shower of cool, clean water that sizzled into steam on the stone floor.

Undeterred, Harry shifted his attack. He gestured sharply at the stone of the platform itself. It groaned, twisting and grinding as it reshaped into a stampede of snarling, bestial forms—a lion, a badger, and a great, horned ram—all charging at Dumbledore.

It was impressive transfiguration, imbued with a clear, aggressive intent. Dumbledore, however, did not destroy them. He simply raised his wand again, and with another gentle, sweeping motion, the charging beasts dissolved. Their stone forms unraveled into a cloud of hundreds of brilliant blue butterflies that fluttered harmlessly around the room before vanishing into motes of light.

Harry pressed on, his wand now a blur. A rapid succession of spells flew from its tip—blasting curses, stunning spells, and complex binding jinxes woven together in a dizzying, relentless assault.

Dumbledore stood his ground, his movements a study in economy and grace. A slight twist of the wrist deflected a stunner. A small, circular motion unraveled a binding curse before it could even form. He moved no more than a single step, his ancient wand seeming to dance in his hand, dismantling Harry's ferocious offense with an air of serene effortlessness.

After a solid minute of Harry's relentless assault, Dumbledore decided the lesson had been learned. He let Harry's final blasting curse dissipate against a silent, shimmering shield. Then, before Harry could cast again, Dumbledore acted.

He did not speak a word. He did not make a grand gesture. He simply drew a small, intricate shape in the air with his wand.

The air around Harry solidified. A cage of pure, silent, silver light snapped into existence, trapping him completely. It was not violent. It was not painful. It was absolute. Harry stood frozen, his wand held uselessly at his side, unable to move a single muscle.

The duel was over.

With another soft wave, the silver cage dissolved. Dumbledore walked forward, his expression kind.

"Your immensely powerful for your age, Harry," he said softly. "And your creativity is a true gift. You have the makings of one of the most formidable duelists I have ever seen."

He paused, his blue eyes filled with a gentle, profound wisdom. "But you rely on overwhelming your opponent. You use force as a solution. True mastery, Harry, lies not in the strength of the spell, but in the wisdom of its application. It is the difference between a flood and a river. Both are powerful, but only one is guided."

He placed a hand gently on Harry's shoulder. "You have the power. Now, you must seek the wisdom. That is the longest, and most difficult, lesson of all."

Harry stood there. The effortless way Dumbledore had dismantled his every attack, the absolute finality of the silver cage… it wasn't a defeat; it was a lesson. A humbling, necessary one.

He looked at the Headmaster, his own fierce pride giving way to a new, deeper respect. "I think I get it, sir." he said, his voice quiet but clear.