"Oh, Merlin's beard!"
Head of House Sprout let out a startled gasp, her mouth slightly agape.
All the professors were stunned. They never expected Lockhart to pull off such an outrageous move—knocking himself out with his own spell. It was an embarrassment of the highest order.
How could someone this ridiculous become a professor?
The professors looked at one another in disbelief, then all turned their eyes to Dumbledore, clearly expecting some sort of explanation.
"You all know how hard it is to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore shrugged helplessly, palms up.
"And he volunteered himself."
The expressions of the professors immediately shifted.
Everyone knew that the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was cursed. No one ever lasted more than a year—many left due to bizarre accidents, and some even lost their lives.
The position had become like a disposable role, and Dumbledore agonized every year over who could possibly fill it.
So when Lockhart volunteered, he had indeed saved Dumbledore quite a bit of trouble.
That said, even Dumbledore hadn't expected him to be this incompetent.
Naturally, the commotion at the faculty table had caught the attention of the students.
The professors certainly didn't want anyone to know that Lockhart had been knocked out by his own spell. That would be too humiliating for the faculty.
They quickly took action, scrambling to cover up the incident.
Professor Sprout cast a silent Levitation Charm, quietly lifting Lockhart away from the dining hall.
Wes watched the scene with concern—worried about the quality of Defense Against the Dark Arts classes this year. After all, he was the only one who knew Lockhart was a fraud.
He could already imagine what students would end up learning:
How to flash the perfect smile.
A hundred hair-care techniques…
And other such nonsense.
The thought made Wes sigh in pity for the students.
Soon it was time for bed, and the students slowly dispersed.
Just as Wes was about to return to his quarters, Dumbledore called out to him.
"Wes, may I have a word with you?"
"Of course," Wes replied without hesitation.
The two made their way to the Headmaster's office together.
As soon as they sat down, Dumbledore spoke first.
"Wes, I must say—your growth over the summer has truly surprised me."
"I only worked a bit harder than most people,"
Wes answered calmly, his eyes steady as he looked at Dumbledore.
"This isn't something mere hard work can accomplish,"
Dumbledore replied thoughtfully.
"There are always a select few in the world who can achieve in months what others can't in a lifetime. We call them geniuses. And Wes, even among geniuses—you're special."
There was both curiosity and admiration in Dumbledore's voice as he spoke.
'Even someone like myself—or Voldemort—hadn't reached this level at Wes's age.'
Wes remained composed on the surface, but internally he thought:
'Becoming a Level 4 wizard was mainly due to my own effort. Sure, the panel system helped a little, but that's just part of my talent too. Why shouldn't I be considered a genius?
"Headmaster, I assume you didn't ask me here just to flatter me, did you?"
Wes raised an eyebrow slightly, a playful edge to his voice.
"Is that not allowed?"
Dumbledore chuckled.
Wes pretended to stand and leave.
"Alright, alright—I do have something to discuss with you," Dumbledore muttered, sighing. "Young people these days, not a shred of patience."
His expression turned serious.
"Wes, Voldemort is going to return."
"So what?" Wes didn't look surprised at all by the Dark Lord's comeback. "I'm not afraid of him."
"Of course not—you gave him quite a beating last year. But from what I know, Voldemort isn't exactly the forgiving type."
Dumbledore frowned slightly, recalling the battle between Wes and Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest last term.
"He's just a stray dog with no home," Wes said with disdain. He clearly didn't see Voldemort or his Death Eaters as a real threat.
"You're underestimating him too much." Dumbledore pulled a parchment from a drawer—a long list densely packed with names.
"And these are?" Wes glanced at the document, already getting a headache from the sheer number of names.
"Voldemort's supporters," Dumbledore explained gravely.
"All of them Death Eaters?" Wes asked.
"Not all. Some of them support him from the shadows."
Wes finally took the list from Dumbledore and examined it more closely. The longer he looked, the more a cold smile crept onto his face. He set the list down and said:
"All pure-blood families."
"The theory of blood purity is utter nonsense—completely fabricated. Yet some families cling to it as if it's gospel."
Dumbledore shook his head helplessly. There was little he could do to change such deep-rooted beliefs.
"Voldemort is one of the strongest advocates of pure-blood supremacy. He even went so far as to discard the name he had as a Muggle-born."
"A man who abandons his past doesn't deserve a future," Wes said bluntly.
Dumbledore blinked in surprise. "That's… surprisingly insightful coming from you."
"It's a quote from a Muggle, actually," Wes replied casually. "I just borrowed it."
"Muggles aren't lacking in wisdom. They simply chose a different path from us…"
Dumbledore started to go off on a tangent, until Wes pulled him back.
"Headmaster, what were we talking about again?"
Dumbledore seemed momentarily lost. "Ah… yes. Voldemort."
"Right."
Dumbledore sank into thought. "Back in school, he was the perfect student. Headmaster Dippet adored him."
At that moment, the portrait of former Headmaster Armando Dippet on the wall suddenly spoke up:
"Dumbledore, must you bring this up? Are you trying to humiliate me?"
"Not at all. You were under his spell like everyone else," Dumbledore replied quickly, looking slightly apologetic.
The portrait huffed and closed its eyes, refusing to speak further.
Wes, however, had grown impatient.
"Headmaster, you've wasted so much breath—what do you really want from me?"
"I'm old now."
Dumbledore gazed at his long, white beard. He looked tired—none of the energy he had shown earlier that day remained.
"I no longer have the strength to deal with a resurrected Voldemort."
Wes already knew where this was going. He raised his voice deliberately.
"You want to recruit me?"
"Yes."
"I charge a high fee," Wes said, a sly smirk appearing on his lips.
"Don't young people today have any sense of responsibility?"
"Don't try to guilt me into this. You're asking me to take on the most feared dark wizard in the British wizarding world."
"It's certainly dangerous… let me think."
Dumbledore turned away and began to ponder.
Then his eyes lit up. "I have just the thing."
He pulled a book off one of his shelves.
"This is something I stumbled upon during my younger years while exploring a pharaoh's tomb in Egypt."
"The Egyptian Book of the Dead?"
"Don't be misled by the name. It's actually a collection of ancient liturgies, chants, and incantations created by scribes for the dead."
Dumbledore explained, "It contains many powerful and mysterious spells."
"And you trust me with something that valuable?"
"I've studied it for decades and still haven't fully grasped it. I doubt I'll finish in my remaining years—and I have no intention of taking it to the grave with me."
This was both a bribe and a genuine gesture of trust.
After all, Wes had already reached a level of mastery equal to Dumbledore's at such a young age. Perhaps this was Dumbledore's way of passing the torch.
The Egyptian Book of the Dead was a priceless relic, considered the origin of Egyptian magic. This reward far exceeded Wes's expectations.