Chapter 152. Duelling Club
After snatching away Lockhart's wand—
Adrian Wesson walked up to Lockhart, placed the wand back into his hand, and said evenly, "Professor Lockhart, that is clearly not any sort of healing magic. Leave treatment to Madam Pomfrey—she's the professional."
Lockhart opened his mouth at Wesson's words, as if he still wanted to say something.
But under Wesson's sharp gaze, he closed it at last.
Having one's wand taken is an unspeakable humiliation for a witch or wizard.
His face went ashen; he was plainly furious.
And yet, there was nothing he could do.
Lockhart could only straighten his back, force a smile at the students around them, and explain, "Ah, it seems Professor Wesson has had a slight misunderstanding—of course, I don't mind in the least. After all, who knows these little spells better than I do? This professor is simply over-concerned."
However, aside from Lockhart's diehard fans, anyone with eyes could tell his explanation was pure self-justification and utterly unconvincing.
Some students nearby were already shaking their heads.
Lockhart, naturally, noticed the shifting mood around him; his smile grew stiff.
In the end, he turned his gaze on Wesson, face darkening, fists clenching in secret.
Wesson didn't notice Lockhart's little gestures. He was far more concerned about Harry's injuries.
Fortunately, Harry wasn't badly hurt—in fact, it could be called a minor injury.
Well, it is Quidditch.
An arm snapped, a leg broken, a head bashed.
All perfectly normal.
So long as you're not killed on the spot, witches and wizards have a thousand ways to set things right.
When the match dispersed, Wesson returned to the castle with Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick.
On the way, Professor Flitwick, striding along at a brisk clip, suddenly let out a soft chuckle.
"That was a lovely Disarming Charm, Wesson," he said, a glint of approval in his eye. "Your control of force has improved a great deal since before."
Wesson accepted the praise with a smile. "I have done some practice."
In truth, ever since gaining the trait "Energy Amplification," he had never let up on practising spells—
Especially control.
He dared say that, compared with back then, his progress was immense.
Hearing Flitwick's commendation, Professor McGonagall gave a small nod, then turned to Wesson, her tone approving. "Professor Wesson, what you did today was entirely correct. Lockhart was just making a hash of things—I only hope he learns a little lesson…"
However, Wesson knew Lockhart's character all too well; he would certainly pull some new stunt.
He had never learned a lesson from anything.
At the same time, Lockhart had already returned to his office.
The moment he stepped in, he slammed the door hard.
"Damn it! That bastard!"
Face contorted with rage, he cursed Wesson in his heart—he'd even thought Wesson a man of taste who could appreciate his shampoo.
Who would have thought the fellow would humiliate him in public.
What Lockhart didn't know, in his fury, was that Wesson had already given him plenty of face—Lockhart had, after all, genuinely hurt Harry earlier.
Wesson was fiercely protective; he wouldn't have Harry harmed by Lockhart's meddling.
Lockhart had kept a shred of restraint out on the pitch, but here he could vent without scruple.
His anger all but wrapped his whole body; panting, he collapsed into his ornately decorated chair, on the verge of losing control.
The countless self-portraits on the walls—usually eternally self-assured and smug—now sensed that their real-world original was not himself.
Every painted Lockhart wore a look of bewilderment and dismay.
Lockhart snatched up a delicate teacup from the desk and hurled it at the wall.
Shards flew; a painting rattled and nearly fell.
The Lockhart in that frame rolled his eyes and fainted dead away.
After venting, Lockhart gradually calmed down.
Whatever else happened, he had to get his face back in front of the students.
He'd lost enough face already; he needed some way to overturn, in one stroke, the students' impression of him!
Only then could he restore his reputation among them.
If word of his performance at Hogwarts spread, it would surely harm the public image of Gilderoy Lockhart.
He couldn't possibly cast Memory Charms on everyone at Hogwarts.
Even with his vaunted mastery of memory magic, that was impossible.
With that thought, Lockhart yanked open a drawer, pulled out an ordinary-looking sheet of paper, took up the quill on his desk, and began to scribble.
Muttering as he wrote, "Duelling Club… Professor Wesson… just you wait…"
The days that followed were calm.
Whenever Wesson met Lockhart in the corridors, Lockhart's face was set, and he refused to speak to him.
Wesson thought that perfectly normal—he had, after all, made a fool of him.
Of course, he didn't care.
He preferred to focus his energy on finding the person who had released the Basilisk.
Yet, although Wesson prowled the castle every night, he didn't find so much as a shed snakeskin.
One weekend, Wesson accompanied Professor Flitwick for drinks at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade.
The weather outside had turned sharply cold, but inside the Three Broomsticks it was still warm and cosy.
Because it was a Hogsmeade visit day, there were many more students about, and the place was even more boisterous.
Wesson and Professor Flitwick sat in a corner to the left of the entrance.
In the midst of their chatting, Professor Flitwick mentioned Lockhart's recent doings.
"Lockhart's been organising something," Professor Flitwick said, taking a sip of Butterbeer so that the foam clung to his moustache. "A Duelling Club."
"He really can't keep still," Wesson said with a shake of his head.
In fact, he had already guessed Lockhart would do this—after all, in the original story, Lockhart had pulled this very stunt.
"I agree," said Professor Flitwick with a nod. "Just last night he formally submitted a proposal to Professor Dumbledore. After Professor Dumbledore approved it, he came to me, hoping I would serve as the supervising professor for that Duelling Club."
"Ah, Professor Dumbledore is right. Besides you, I can't think of anyone more suited to the post," Wesson said lightly.
"But I declined," Professor Flitwick replied.
At that, Wesson raised his brows in surprise.
In matters of duelling, hardly anyone could be said to have deeper expertise than Professor Flitwick, after all.
Like this story Leave a review ; it would really help me out a lot.
Want to Read Ahead in Advance?
Join my Patreon!
+75 Chapters
Support me in
Patreon.com/BestElysium