Chapter 173. Do You Think I Am a Powerful Wizard?
That day, those dwarfs dressed up as Cupids threw Hogwarts into utter chaos.
Still, in a way, Lockhart really did dispel some of the unease lingering in the castle.
At least on Valentine's Day, no one was worrying about the petrifying monster lurking around some corner.
Or rather, they had no chance to worry.
Those dwarfs kept shuttling about the castle, delivering cards and spoken messages to students and professors alike.
Harry had thought he might be spared, but he was clearly too optimistic.
In the afternoon, as he was hurrying to Charms with the Gryffindors, a sullen-faced dwarf suddenly sought him out.
"Hey! You there, Harry Potter!"
The sullen-faced dwarf bellowed roughly, elbowing people aside as he shoved towards Harry.
Seeing this, Harry thought, oh no—this definitely wasn't going to be good.
He really didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of everyone.
So he immediately prepared to run.
However, the sullen-faced dwarf had already shoved the crowd aside and reached Harry.
"Stop! Stand still!" the dwarf said blankly, seizing Harry's arm. The dwarf's strength was clearly far greater than Harry had imagined; his arm felt clamped in an iron vice, impossible to wrench free.
This didn't look like a Valentine's Cupid at all—more like a common thug.
Harry cast a pleading glance around, only to find everyone wearing the expression of spectators at a show; even Ron stood off to the side with a hint of amusement.
Worse, he also spotted Wesson, arms folded against the wall, eyes narrowed as he watched.
"There's a musical message for Mr Harry Potter," the dwarf said tonelessly.
He sounded exactly like someone forced to work overtime.
"Can I refuse?" Harry asked the dwarf, a little desperately.
The dwarf ignored him, swung the harp off his back, set it on the floor, and began to pluck at it haphazardly.
The jarring noise made quite a few onlookers cover their ears.
Harry was sure the fellow couldn't play the harp.
"This is your Valentine's message with accompaniment," the dwarf announced, pausing deliberately. "For Harry Potter—his eyes are like pickled toads, his hair is black and dashing, he's the hero who conquered the Dark Lord..."
Though the dwarf's recitation was utterly flat, Harry still wanted to sink through the floor.
Laughter exploded through the corridor, loud enough to make even the portraits wipe tears from their eyes.
Harry's face went as red as Ron's hair. He muttered to Ron, "This has got to be Malfoy's doing!"
"Or maybe it's from some admirer of yours," Ron said, struggling to keep a straight face.
"One minute to the bell, children," Wesson called from the side. "Let's try not to be late."
The crowd scattered.
As Harry passed Wesson, he complained, "Sir, why didn't you help me?"
Of course, he was only joking; he wasn't truly blaming Wesson.
"Next time, definitely," Wesson said with a smile, giving Harry's shoulder a little push to hurry him along to class.
After Harry left, only the perpetually sullen-faced dwarf and Wesson remained.
Wesson had meant to leave at once, but the dwarf tugged at the hem of his robe.
"Something the matter?" Wesson asked, puzzled.
"You've got a letter and a parcel, Professor Wesson." The dwarf produced, from Merlin-knew-where, a pink envelope and a neatly wrapped little box with a dainty bow on top.
"?"
Looking bemused, Wesson took the envelope and box from the dwarf.
He honestly hadn't expected anyone to send him anything.
Still, it was just a letter—not another musical message.
He had no desire to hear a second round of the dwarf's harp.
Seeing Wesson accept the items, the dwarf nodded at once and left.
Time was tight and the task heavy—deliver the last two messages and he could clock off!
Wesson stared at the things in his hand, still looking perplexed.
Just as he was about to open the envelope, a loud wolf-whistle sounded from the corner of the corridor.
"Aha! Looks like our Care of Magical Creatures professor has an admirer as well!"
Lockhart appeared from who-knew-where, still wearing the same dazzling pink robes he'd had on that morning.
Perhaps because it was Valentine's Day, Lockhart seemed positively giddy; there was a confidence in his eyes he'd never shown before.
He looked almost exhilarated.
"Let me guess—" Lockhart's gaze fixed on the letter in Wesson's hand, and he dragged out his words theatrically. "A Valentine from a shy witch! Hm? No need to be so reserved, Professor Wesson—look at me, I've lost count of how many gifts I've received today."
"Let's hope not," Wesson said casually, shooting Lockhart a wary glance, and then opened the letter.
A moment later, Wesson folded it in silence and slipped it into his pocket.
The contents were unutterably saccharine—whole paragraphs of cloying declarations. The signature seemed to be from a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl. He had a vague impression of her but honestly couldn't recall her face.
Next, Wesson unwrapped the parcel; inside was a small box of biscuits.
He cautiously picked one up and sniffed it.
Pfft—the scent of a Love Potion.
Wesson couldn't help shaking his head. Girls these days…
Having identified the ingredients, Wesson put the biscuits away for later disposal.
"Love Potion, is it?" Lockhart said, edging closer. "I know those all too well."
He sniffed the air. "Oh, smells like a top-shelf variety."
"You're very familiar with them?" Wesson looked at him, genuinely puzzled.
"Ah, you do have a sense of humour," Lockhart said, lifting his brows with confidence. "In this castle, no one knows Love Potions better than I do."
Wesson nodded. "I suppose that's true."
In fact, for once Lockhart wasn't exaggerating.
As a bestselling author and darling of the British public,
He often received gifts from fans all over the world—and not a few were foods laced with all sorts of potions.
"Need an antidote?" Lockhart asked. "I've stocked up."
"No need." Wesson waved him off.
Clearly, Lockhart had come prepared.
But Wesson had no intention of eating the stuff.
They lingered in the corridor for a while.
"Professor Wesson," Lockhart said suddenly, "do you think I'm a powerful wizard?"
Wesson glanced at him in surprise.
Why was he asking that?
Still, to avoid unnecessary trouble, Wesson decided to leave Lockhart a little dignity.
"Of course, Professor Lockhart," Wesson said, choosing his words with care. "You are undoubtedly a successful adventurer and writer. After all, it takes extraordinary talent to produce so many bestsellers."
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