Despicable Moves

"Expelliarmus."

"Expelliarmus."

"Expelliarmus."

In the classroom occupied by only two people, Harry cast Expelliarmus three times, panting heavily, yet every attempt was blocked by Dewey's "Protego." Sweat drenched his head, stinging his eyes so badly he could barely keep them open.

Dewey moved with agility, not even bothering to wave his wand.

"No, this won't do! You're doing it all wrong!"

Dewey roared sternly. Harry was already nearing exhaustion, but Dewey had only just begun.

"Now, imagine the person in front of you—me—is a werewolf. How did I warn you during class? Don't let a werewolf get close! In their human form, they are tall, sturdy, and bloodthirsty! Once they transform, their claws become their primary weapon. Against a wizard, you might use a Disarming Charm, but the Disarming Charm isn't a cure-all, understand, Harry? Don't be foolish enough to keep using 'Expelliarmus.' I have no weapon; what do you intend to disarm? My claws? Read the situation, boy! Don't be dogmatic. When facing someone with only claws and no wand, how do you disarm them? Or tell me, boy, what is a weapon? What about 'Impedimenta'? What about 'Stupefy'? Is 'Expelliarmus' the only trick you have, Harry?"

As he spoke, Dewey dodged another "Expelliarmus" from Harry, closed the distance, and slapped the wand right out of his hand. Harry let out a cry of pain as his wand clattered to the floor.

Dewey picked up the wand.

A physical version of "Expelliarmus."

Harry was terrified. He clutched his hand, staring at the professor as he scrambled backward.

Only then did Dewey say, "Alright, the first training session is over. Harry, you have significant problems."

He tossed the wand back to Harry and continued, "Impedimenta, Locomotor Mortis—you've learned these spells, yet you can't use them at all. When facing a werewolf, we must first restrict the enemy's movement, don't we? You don't have to hurt the enemy, but you cannot allow yourself to be hurt by them, understand? You need to develop your own dueling style. Even if you only know two spells, if you cast them well, you can handle an enemy, rather than just foolishly spamming 'Expelliarmus' like you are now."

Dewey spoke with severity.

Looking at the serious professor, Harry felt a twinge of fear and nodded.

Dewey looked at Harry and realized he was just a thirteen-year-old boy. This was a reason for Dewey to forgive him, but it would not be a reason for the Death Eaters to spare him.

The enemy would not spare you because of your age.

Sighing, Dewey fully leaned into his role and patted Harry on the head.

Seeing the gentle "Professor Lupin," Harry visibly relaxed.

He nearly collapsed to the floor.

Several white cards lay scattered on the ground. Dewey ignored them; he guessed they were mostly "Expelliarmus" or "Lumos." These weren't the cards he wanted; he wanted the purple cards.

He wanted the purple card: Expecto Patronum.

He needed to teach Harry the purple card, and then, he could farm cards infinitely. Before long, he would be able to do just that.

"How are you feeling, Harry?"

Dewey asked. Harry Potter gasped for air. It felt surreal. The last time he had dueled anyone was at the Duelling Club hosted by Lockhart. Unfortunately, Lockhart was a fraud who lacked the ability to actually run a club. He had only sparred with Malfoy once—a pathetic display of two amateurs pecking at each other.

The Duelling Club hadn't yielded any real results.

Lockhart ended up in the hospital, and the club fizzled out. Looking at Harry's magical dueling skills, Dewey saw that he was flustered even in a regulated duel. If he were to encounter a no-holds-barred death match, it would be an absolute disaster!

Harry wasn't even proficient at using spells to move tables and chairs around the room.

What did that mean?

It meant his control over his own magic was also deeply flawed.

He was full of holes.

Dewey looked at Harry and patted his shoulder. "That's enough for tonight, Harry. Organize your schedule properly. When you don't have training at night, you can come find me in the Staff Room or my bedroom. I hear you're quite the athlete? Hmm? A Quidditch Seeker? Brilliant, Harry. I mean it—you are just like your father. You are both exceptional people."

Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead. His throat burned as if it were on fire, his lungs felt like they were about to explode, and his head throbbed.

He had never cast so many spells in one go, nor had he ever considered combining them. He hadn't realized that a magical duel required not just spellcasting, but footwork and timing—all of which demanded brains, courage, and experience.

He lacked all of it.

In Dewey's eyes, Harry lacked both brains and experience.

Like the current Head of the Auror Office, he was a general who charged into the fray. He belonged in Gryffindor; he possessed courage and valued friendship.

It's just a lack of brains.

A tiny little defect.

Looking at Harry like this, for some reason, a voice echoed in Dewey's mind.

Harry, you are loyal and righteous, why must you be so brainless?

But does that matter?

Dewey didn't think it mattered.

You don't need a brain to deal with Voldemort.

After his resurrection, Voldemort had also discarded his brain, transforming from a dashing, charismatic arch-villain into a complete fool—an invincible idiot who knew nothing but how to cast Unforgivable Curses.

As Voldemort's opponent, Harry didn't need a brain either; wherever a brain was required, Dumbledore had already taken care of it for him.

What Harry had now was already enough.

Just by possessing the beautiful qualities of courage and a willingness to sacrifice, Harry already surpassed the vast majority of people. Dewey looked at him with pity, as if looking at a fattened pig waiting for the slaughter.

Harry then asked his first question.

That's right, the motivation Dewey used to get Harry to follow him for lessons was, on one hand, to tell him the world was dangerous and that he needed to "train" him, and on the other, that Harry could ask him one question after each lesson.

Godfather and godson alike were held firmly in the palm of Dewey's hand using the exact same trick.

Coughing violently, Dewey took out a potion right on cue and drank it. Harry didn't pay attention to the potion; he stared at Dewey with hopeful eyes and asked, "Professor, did you really know my parents? What kind of people were they?"

He stared intently at "Professor Lupin," waiting for an answer.

This question had been lodged in his heart for many years.

He couldn't get any information from his aunt and uncle, and everyone else refused to tell him.

He could only learn these things through "Professor Lupin."

Dewey looked at Harry, crouched down, and said, "Yes, I knew them. I was one of their best friends. As for what kind of people they were?

Harry, your mother, Lily Potter, was the kindest person I have ever met. She was brave, kind, and sincere. Although she had a few small flaws, but who doesn't, Harry?

As for your father, go look in a mirror. Your father was just like you, full of youthful vigor. You are very much like him; you both possess endless energy, you both have great friendships, and you are both well-liked. Of course, you are also shockingly similar in one other way.

Professor Severus Snape doesn't like either of you."

After Dewey finished speaking with a smile, he prepared to leave, but Harry called out to "Professor Lupin" from behind.

He asked his second question.

"Professor, why does Snape hate me? Is it really just because my dad didn't get along with him at school, and he's taking it out on me?"

Harry pursued the question from behind.

Dewey didn't look back, waving his hand nonchalantly. "That's the second question, Harry. You'll need to complete your second lesson with me before I can tell you that.

However, I must remind you, Harry, please call him Professor Snape. He is a good Potions master; we should show some respect to teachers, shouldn't we?"

Harry watched "Professor Lupin" walk away. Just as he was leaving, "Professor Lupin" seemed to remember something, turned abruptly, and tossed a piece of chocolate over.

Harry scrambled to catch it.

"Eat more chocolate, Harry. Your state when facing Dementors is all wrong. Stay away from those monsters."

He said to Harry, "Remember what Dumbledore said: don't go wandering around in front of Dementors with your Invisibility Cloak. That group of monsters is incapable of forgiveness by nature."

Harry just stared blankly at "Professor Lupin." So much had happened tonight—so much that his brain felt like it was about to explode, and he remained in a daze.

He hadn't guessed wrong; Professor Lupin was indeed a good friend of his parents, and one of his father's best friends at that.

Harry was full of questions, but they had agreed: one training session meant only one chance to ask. His chance for this time was over, and if he wanted to ask more, he would have to wait until next week.

But how could he wait until next week?

This was torture!

His questions hadn't vanished because of this inquiry; instead, they had only multiplied.

Harry felt a bit anxious. On his way back to the Gryffindor common room, a bold idea suddenly popped into his head.

If—he meant if—if he compressed his time, yes, if he compressed all his time, cut out Quidditch practice, cut out his rest time, and came here to train two or three times a week instead?

Could he get more information that way?

Why couldn't he do that?

Thinking of this, Harry felt as if he had opened the door to a new world.

To get the answers in his heart, what was wrong with that?