The Person Who Waited Half a Month (Seeking Follow-up Reads)

Flitwick sat down and beckoned Harry over. "You are too reliant on your sword."

"Your tactics are cleverly arranged and have had some effect, but... you have seen the result."

"I don't even need to use my brain or think about what you might do."

"I only need to ensure you cannot get close to me."

Harry sat down as well, nodding in agreement.

Although he hadn't taken any potions or worn any magic-dampening armor, aside from his age...

Even if he were his thirty-something-year-old self, he feared it would be difficult to deal with Flitwick.

As fellow magic users, wizards were far more troublesome than sorcerers; their erratic casting abilities, lightning-fast casting speeds, and combinations of multiple spells made it hard for him to take the first step in battle—which was, as Flitwick put it, getting close to him.

"This is not a bad thing," Flitwick continued. "Many wizards lack the ability to fight at close quarters, including Dumbledore."

"If we are closed in upon, we are nothing but lambs waiting to be slaughtered to you."

Harry remained expressionless. "Then I should really look forward to Professor Snape stuffing a few Bezoars into your heads."

"Snape might actually do it," Flitwick joked in return, "but he certainly wouldn't help you."

"So, Harry, do you know what you should be doing now?"

Harry looked down at the sword in his hand. "I should familiarize myself with the wizarding way of fighting."

Flitwick clapped his hands. "Exactly!"

"You have an advantage over us."

"We need to seize that fleeting opportunity in the midst of a complex battle to land a decisive blow with a single spell!"

"But you are different; as long as you can get close to your opponent, you have already won."

Harry stood up. "Come on, Professor!"

Flitwick was taken aback. "Don't you need a rest?"

"I am already rested," Harry said with a serious expression.

Flitwick stood up as well. "Very well, then let us continue. This time, let us try a wizard's style of combat."

This time, Harry lasted even less time than the first.

A single Transfiguration spell conjured a stone statue that held him firmly in place.

Five minutes later.

"Professor, again!"

Another five minutes later.

"Professor, once more!"

"Again!"

"I am rested, again."

This continued until nightfall.

Harry remained high-spirited and full of energy, and his progress was clear; he could now hold his own against Flitwick for over twenty minutes, and at their closest, his fist had even grazed the tip of Flitwick's nose.

Flitwick was exhausted to the point of collapse.

He looked at Harry, his mind full of confusion—how could a mere twelve-year-old wizard have such boundless stamina?

"Professor, let's go one more time, the very last time." Harry, having summarized the experience he just gained, looked at Flitwick, eager to try again. "Truly the last time."

Flitwick waved his hand wearily. "Harry, it is already dark. Rest."

This was the seventh time he had heard Harry say "the last time," and he had become numb to it.

He really couldn't go on.

Harry agreed, sounding disappointed. "Oh, alright."

Seeing Harry agree, Flitwick breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good, I mean... you are only twelve, you must take care of your body; young wizards need to grow."

"Professor, I think I can grow to at least six feet," Harry replied.

Flitwick immediately kicked out at him. "You brat, where are you looking?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Flitwick, still indignant, kicked him again. "From now on, we will have this kind of practical combat lesson once a week. For the rest of the time, I will teach you some spells."

"Only once a week?" Harry asked. "Can we have more? At least once every two days."

Flitwick refused decisively. "No, once a week."

"If it were once every two days, I would fall apart."

He had originally shared Harry's plan of having a practical lesson every two days—every dueling master improved their level through countless practices.

But he had severely underestimated Harry's wolf-like intensity.

I can't take it, I really can't take it anymore.

Harry agreed with regret.

Unlike Professor Flitwick in the classroom, he was much more endearing in private and not nearly as staid; he didn't follow the second-year or third-year curriculum like Professor McGonagall.

His teaching style seemed rather whimsical.

Often, one spell would lead into a whole chain of others.

For instance, Aguamenti would be accompanied by a series of freezing charms, fire spells, and others that could form a complete tactical set.

Flitwick was not just teaching spells; he was imparting dueling experience.

Harry was like a sponge, greedily thirsting for this knowledge. He became increasingly fulfilled, while Professor Flitwick became increasingly haggard.

The first day of August arrived.

A letter arrived from Hogwarts.

The content was the same as always: school would begin on September 1st, accompanied by the book list for the second year.

What Harry cared about most was Defense Against the Dark Arts; he had long since realized how much growth an excellent professor could bring him.

Please, let it not be someone like Quirrell...

He opened the book list.

Seeing the textbooks required for Defense Against the Dark Arts, he couldn't help but freeze—seven books, a full seven books, and all by the same author.

Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Lockhart?" Harry frowned. "Who is he?"

"A flamboyant, arrogant, windbag who only knows how to talk big. I wish I could dump him into Gryffindor," Flitwick said through gritted teeth, gripping his fork and stabbing it fiercely into the sausage on his plate.

"Professor, Gryffindor doesn't welcome just anyone either." Harry waved a hand. "Is he that terrible?"

Flitwick sighed. "No, his personality is terrible."

"He was a student in Ravenclaw. You know, little eagles are usually quite sensible, but Lockhart was an exception."

"From his first year, he started using his face to trick third-year seniors into doing his homework for him."

"In his fifth year, I don't know what excuse he used to convince the prefect at the time, but he begged me to hand over the prefect position to Lockhart."

"He kept bragging about how brilliant he was, but in his O.W.L.s, he barely scraped an 'E' in Charms, and everything else was a 'P' or a 'D'."

"That was his true level! But everyone believed his nonsense about having a stomach ache and performing poorly."

"After he graduated, I thought he would only be able to work as an ordinary Ministry of Magic clerk, or find a job in the Muggle world—his Muggle Studies grade was an 'O', after all."

"But who would have thought that after graduation, it was as if he'd had an epiphany; he became a famous author, a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class—I don't even have one of those!"

"He became a superstar in the spotlight."

"That face of his is certainly suited for it..."

Flitwick rambled on, complaining incessantly.

"But Dumbledore invited him to be a professor." Harry traced his fingertip over the book list. "He must have some level of skill, right?"

"I've never seen him cast a spell," Flitwick offered cautiously. "If he truly has the abilities described in his novels, then he would indeed be qualified."

"Novels?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Flitwick nodded. "Yes, novels. Those seven books are all stinking, self-aggrandizing novels about how amazing he is. And Harry, you must be careful of him."

"Me?" Harry was surprised. "Another Quirrell?"

"Believe me, you would rather face Quirrell than have to deal with Lockhart." Flitwick spread his hands. "He is a flamboyant man."

"And you..."

"Are the most dazzling star in the entire wizarding world."

In Harry's mind.

The first person he thought of was Dandelion—a friend of Geralt, a bard who took him to see the world in a red-light tavern and incidentally swindled him out of sixty crowns. He was the biggest playboy in the city, perhaps even the entire country.

According to his own bragging, the number of his girlfriends was no less than Geralt's.

He had even tried to tell Harry about Geralt's love life—the stories of those dozens of girlfriends besides Triss and Yennefer.

He had been cut off when Geralt shoved his face into a wine cup.

"Perhaps such a person isn't bad." Harry shrugged; he actually quite liked Dandelion.

"Only perhaps." Flitwick looked at Harry with pity. "When do you plan to go buy your books?"

"In a few days, with Hermione," Harry replied.

Flitwick nodded.

He could finally rest for a day.

"So, I'll have to trouble the Professor to work a bit harder today and teach me more, to make up for that day," Harry added immediately.

Flitwick nodded with difficulty and agreed.

August 16th.

Diagon Alley.

Hermione was waiting for Harry in front of the ice cream parlor. When she saw him, she handed him a cup: "How was it at Professor Flitwick's? You said he was teaching you how to duel."

Hedwig flew off Harry's shoulder, landed on Hermione's head, and pecked at her hair.

"Oh, no, Hedwig, spare me, I'll buy you some treats in a bit," Hermione pleaded.

Hedwig stomped heavily on her head, tucked her body in, and settled down.

"I learned a lot of things." Harry took a lick of his ice cream; the chilly sensation spread throughout his entire body. "Some things are hard to explain in letters. We can discuss them once we're at school."

"That would be wonderful!" Hermione cheered, carefully shaking her head. "Let's go buy our books quickly. I already asked around while I was waiting for you."

"Today is the day of Professor Lockhart's book signing. You get a discount if you buy his books."

Harry paused: "A signing? What a coincidence."

"Don't worry, Professor Lockhart is definitely not Quirrell. He's been holding signings at Flourish and Blotts all month, right up until the end of the month. In fact, he's already been at it for half a month." Hermione spoke with conviction, vouching for Lockhart.

"Ever since the day we received our owls." Harry's premonition grew stronger.

Hermione froze, also sensing that something was off.

"Let's go. Perhaps he's waiting for me." Harry lifted his feet and walked toward the bookstore.

Hermione trailed behind him like a little shadow.

Lockhart was incredibly popular; a long line snaked out the door of the bookstore, and several reporters from the Daily Prophet were swarming around him, snapping photos incessantly.

Suddenly—

Harry felt two gazes lock onto him. There was no malice, only a sense of excitement.

They passed the news along to those around them, and the source of that transmission was Lockhart, who was signing books at the entrance.

The handsome wizard with sapphire-blue eyes immediately looked up, his tone brimming with excitement: "I sense the magnetic pull between two exceptional wizards!"

"Is that Harry Potter?"

"Harry Potter, are you here to attend my book signing as well?"

Thanks to bear living in the Antarctic for the tip!

Thanks to 寻找灵魂的躯壳, 巴别塔的小小恶灵, and the book friend ending in 2252 for the tips!

Bonus chapter progress: 4866/5000