Chapter 125. The Dueling Tournament — Lockhart
In truth, even for the seasoned Adrian Wesson, the duelling tournament Professor Flitwick had entered him in was a challenge.
It was a private international event, and this year the host happened to be Britain.
As a duelling master renowned across the wizarding world, Professor Flitwick had, of course, received an invitation.
Only, he passed the opportunity on to Wesson.
By his own account, he was getting on in years, and his physical condition and reaction speed no longer matched those of the young.
Over the course of the tournament, Wesson faced many opponents from around the world.
America, Britain, France…
After seven consecutive victories,
Wesson met his opponent in the final: a wizard from Africa.
The African wizard was tall, with dark skin and intricately braided hair, each braid tipped with a glittering gem.
Even the wand he used was inlaid with stones of many colours,
and the man himself practically glittered.
He could even dance as he cast spells during the duel—presumably some sort of mysterious ritual.
Of course, those spells packed a terrifying punch, enough to go toe-to-toe with Wesson's magic after he applied "energy amplification".
In the end, though, Wesson still had the edge.
Catching the African wizard in a beat between dance steps, Wesson ended the match with a precise Incarcerous.
The champion's prize for the tournament was a small cup made of solid gold.
Though there were no other rewards, no one entered this sort of duelling tournament for the prizes.
Most of them had the same goal as Wesson—to hone their combat skills.
Wesson hadn't enjoyed a duel this thoroughly in a long time.
After all, these were not wartime days, and there were few chances to duel.
When the last match concluded, he still felt a touch unsatisfied.
While Wesson was busy competing, Harry had been staying at the Burrow.
Even so, Wesson had sent over his summer schedule, telling him to train according to the plan.
Harry, naturally, had no objections; he knew the training was very useful.
Most obvious of all, he could now manage a barely passable Expelliarmus.
On a Wednesday in mid-August,
the day after Wesson finished the duelling tournament,
he decided to go to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions in Diagon Alley to buy a new set of robes—self-repairing robes.
As the name suggested, it was a type of robe that could mend itself.
As Wesson walked along Diagon Alley, he suddenly noticed the streets were far more crowded than usual.
It wasn't until he passed Flourish and Blotts that he understood why.
There was a huge banner on the upper floor of the bookshop: Gilderoy Lockhart signing copies of his autobiography Magical Me, today 12:30–4:30 p.m.
Wesson glanced at his pocket-watch.
Hmm… just right—the signing must have only just begun.
However, the entrance to the bookshop was already packed to the rafters with fervent fans.
The majority were middle-aged witches.
It seemed Lockhart was truly popular with witches of that age.
Wesson could scarcely see inside the shop; excited fans were waving Lockhart's books and photographs, shrieks rising and falling in waves.
Meanwhile, an exhausted shop assistant was making a futile attempt to maintain order.
Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about the frenzied fans.
In the end, he slunk off to one side and started chatting with a short boy.
Wesson dimly caught snatches of their conversation: "Today is absolutely mad… Hey, you're that kid from before… Thanks again for helping me find those Invisible Books of Invisibility, but sadly, they've gone missing again…"
Only when he drew closer did he realise the short boy talking to the assistant was Harry.
Ron and Hermione were standing beside him.
But before Wesson could greet them, the three had already burrowed into the press of bodies and vanished from sight.
Wesson shrugged and moved towards the crowd.
Trying to advance inside a rabid crowd was difficult. "Don't shove me, you git!"
When Wesson pushed past one man, the fellow turned around impatiently, looking as though he had more to say.
However, the moment he met Wesson's eagle-sharp gaze, the words died in his throat.
The keen edge of battle hadn't yet faded from Wesson's eyes.
Cold sweat broke out on the man at once; he felt as if every weakness in his body had been laid bare before Wesson.
He instinctively took half a step back and gave a dry laugh. "Er… sorry. After you."
Only then did Wesson realise he hadn't yet adjusted out of tournament mode.
He let his expression soften slightly and gave the man a polite nod. "Thank you."
At last, Wesson squeezed his way to Harry's side at the front.
Harry was staring at Lockhart, who was sitting behind a table, surrounded by moving photographs of himself—winking and smiling at the crowd.
In one of the pictures, Lockhart was even holding a bottle of his own-brand Occamy egg shampoo.
"What do you make of Lockhart, Harry?"
"I don't know…" Harry jerked round and, spotting Wesson, his eyes lit up. "Professor! When did you get here?"
"Just now," Wesson shrugged, then said, "While you were chatting with that shop assistant."
The crowd surged again. Ron and Hermione had vanished, and only Harry, under Wesson's protection, was not swallowed by the throng.
Lockhart suddenly looked up in the direction of Wesson and Harry.
When he noticed Harry, his eyes lit up and he sprang from his chair.
"Look!" Lockhart cried theatrically, his voice carrying over the hubbub. "Isn't this Harry Potter?"
Harry froze on the spot; he hadn't expected this.
A path opened in the crowd at once, and everyone began whispering.
Lockhart dashed forward, seized Harry by the arm, and proclaimed, "Ladies and gentlemen! Look who's graced my signing!"
Flashbulbs flared in a blinding storm as reporters hammered their shutters.
Harry stared wide-eyed like a startled deer and shot Wesson a pleading look.
Only then did Lockhart notice Wesson standing to one side.
He flashed Wesson a smile. "And this is…?"
"Adrian Wesson. I'm Harry's professor," Wesson replied, calm and succinct.
On hearing Wesson's answer, Lockhart's eyes brightened; he reached out to shake hands, all enthusiasm. "Ah, an educator! Most admirable! Do I need to introduce myself by name?"
A ripple of low laughter moved through the crowd, as if answering Lockhart's little joke—who didn't know who he was?
Wesson gave his hand a polite shake, then let go at once.
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