Voldemort was genuinely a little surprised.
Although he was confident that his magical power was already astonishing, with no one alive except Dumbledore his equal, he did indeed like to overpower people in battle.
That much was clear from his favorite spell, Avada Kedavra. It was a spell that required immense magical power to support it, and Voldemort's fondness for it highlighted one thing: his confidence in his magical power.
But anyone who thought Voldemort was a simpleton with nothing but magical power would be sorely mistaken.
Voldemort lacked nothing in his use of magic, his scheming, or his techniques. It was just that, as he grew stronger by the day, fewer and fewer opponents were worth the mental effort.
There was no enemy one Avada Kedavra could not solve. If there was, he would simply use another.
That was how Voldemort had once been.
Then, on that night fourteen years ago, he had crashed and burned. So spectacularly that his whole mental state had practically fallen apart.
And so, after his rebirth, Voldemort had regained the caution and meticulousness of his youth. For instance, even though he had recovered most of his strength since his resurrection, he still had not appeared in public.
And after making contact with that force from the north, he had begun training his followers as well. He had taught things he had previously refused to teach anyone to those loyal Death Eaters who had spent over a decade in Azkaban because of him and still had not betrayed him.
The same had been true just now.
Voldemort was somewhat surprised to see that Harry could use Fiendfyre at such a young age. For that instant, he had even felt a tiny bit jealous, because even he had only mastered that powerful piece of dark