Flitwick sat down and gestured for Harry to do the same. "You rely far too much on your sword," he began.
"Your tactics are clever and do have some impact, but as you've seen, the result doesn't change."
"I didn't even have to think. I didn't need to guess what you'd do next."
"All I had to do was ensure you couldn't get close to me."
Harry nodded in agreement.
True, despite his age, he hadn't used any potions or worn any magic-resistant armor…
But even in his thirties, he would have found it difficult to defeat Flitwick.
Wizards were far trickier opponents than Witchers. Their spells were unpredictable, their casting speed was swift, and their layered combinations of spells made it hard for Harry to even take the first step—closing the gap, as Flitwick had pointed out.
"This isn't necessarily a bad thing," Flitwick continued. "Many wizards have no close combat skills at all—not even Dumbledore."
"If someone gets close, we might as well be lambs to the slaughter."
Harry's face remained expressionless. "Then I should look forward to Professor Snape shoving a few dungbombs into your faces."
"Snape might be capable of it," Flitwick said with a chuckle, joining in the joke, "but he certainly wouldn't do it for your sake."
"So, Harry, do you know what you need to do now?"
Harry lowered his gaze to the sword in his hand. "I need to get familiar with how wizards fight."
Flitwick clapped his hands. "Exactly!"
"You actually have an advantage over us."
"We wizards have to seize fleeting opportunities during chaotic battles, using a single spell to turn the tide."
"But for you, if you can get close to your opponent, it's game over."
Harry stood up. "Let's go, Professor!"
Flitwick hesitated. "Don't you want to rest for a moment?"
"I'm already rested." Harry's expression was serious.
Flitwick sighed and stood as well. "Alright then, let's continue. This time, we'll practice wizard combat."
This time, Harry lasted even less time than before.
A single Transfiguration spell summoned a stone statue that restrained him completely.
Five minutes later.
"Professor, again!"
Another five minutes later.
"Professor, one more time!"
"Just one more!"
"I've rested enough. Let's go again."
By the time night fell, Harry was still brimming with energy and enthusiasm. He had made noticeable progress—he could now last more than twenty minutes against Flitwick. At their closest, his fist had even grazed the professor's nose.
Flitwick, however, was utterly exhausted.
He looked at Harry, baffled by the boy's seemingly endless stamina. He's only twelve—where does all this energy come from?
"Professor, one last time. Just one more," Harry said eagerly, his eyes gleaming with determination.
Flitwick weakly waved his hand. "Harry, it's already dark. Let's call it a day."
It was the seventh time Harry had said, "Just one more," and Flitwick was beyond caring. He simply couldn't go on.
Harry sighed, disappointed but acquiescent. "Alright then."
Seeing Harry relent, Flitwick breathed a sigh of relief. "Good… I mean, you're only twelve. You need to take care of your body—growth is important for young wizards."
"I think I'll grow to at least six feet," Harry replied thoughtfully.
Flitwick immediately kicked him in the shin. "Cheeky brat! What are you looking at?"
Harry shook his head. "I didn't mean anything by it."
Flitwick grumbled, delivering another light kick. "From now on, we'll only spar once a week. The rest of the time, I'll teach you spells."
"Once a week? Can't we do it twice?" Harry asked. "At least once every two days."
Flitwick refused without hesitation. "No. Once a week is final."
"Twice a week, and I'd fall apart."
Flitwick had initially planned for twice-weekly sessions—after all, every great duelist honed their skills through constant practice.
But he hadn't anticipated Harry's relentless intensity.
He simply couldn't keep up.
Harry reluctantly agreed.
Outside of combat training, Flitwick was far more approachable and endearing, unlike the stern Professor McGonagall. His teaching style was unorthodox, not strictly following the second- and third-year curriculum.
Often, he would teach a single spell and then follow it up with a related set of spells. For instance, alongside Aguamenti, he would introduce Freezing Charms, Fire-Making Charms, and other complementary spells, creating an entire tactical repertoire.
Flitwick didn't just teach spells—he passed on his dueling experience.
Harry soaked up the knowledge like a sponge, greedily absorbing everything. He grew more confident by the day, while Flitwick grew visibly more haggard.
By August 1st, a letter arrived from Hogwarts.
The same as always: term starts September 1st, along with the second-year booklist.
Harry's primary concern was Defense Against the Dark Arts—he knew firsthand how much a competent teacher could elevate his skills.
Hopefully, it won't be another Quirrell…
He opened the booklist.
Upon seeing the required texts for Defense Against the Dark Arts, he froze.
Seven books.
All written by the same author.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
"Lockhart?" Harry frowned. "Who's he?"
"A pompous, self-absorbed braggart," Flitwick grumbled, stabbing his sausage with a fork. "I wish I could throw him into Gryffindor."
"Professor, Gryffindor doesn't take just anyone," Harry retorted. "Is he that bad?"
Flitwick sighed. "No, his character is atrocious."
"He was a Ravenclaw, you know. Most of us little Eagles are well-behaved, but Lockhart was an exception."
"From his first year, he used his pretty face to con third-year girls into doing his homework."
"In fifth year, he somehow convinced the prefect to beg me to make him a prefect too."
"He always boasted about his skills, but in his O.W.L.s, he barely scraped an 'E' in Charms. The rest were all 'P's or 'D's."
"That's his real ability level! Yet everyone bought his excuses about being ill or having an off day."
"I thought he'd end up as a mediocre Ministry worker or in the Muggle world—his Muggle Studies grade was an 'O.'"
"But who could've guessed? After graduation, he suddenly 'blossomed.' He became a famous author, won the Order of Merlin, Third Class—I don't even have one of those!—and turned into a celebrity."
"That face of his is admittedly perfect for…"
Flitwick trailed off, ranting endlessly.
"Still, Dumbledore invited him to teach. That must mean he has some skills, right?" Harry ran a finger over the booklist.
"I've never seen him duel," Flitwick replied cautiously. "If he's even half as capable as his books claim, he'd be qualified."
"Books?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
Flitwick nodded. "Yes, books. Those seven you're supposed to buy? They're filled with exaggerated tales of his supposed exploits. Be careful, Harry."
"Me?" Harry was surprised. "Another Quirrell?"
"Trust me, you'd rather face Quirrell than deal with Lockhart," Flitwick said with a dramatic shrug. "He's a showboat."
"And you…"
"You're the most famous wizard in the magical world."
Harry's mind immediately went to Dandelion, Geralt's bard companion. A flamboyant womanizer and chronic storyteller, he once tricked Harry into paying for drinks at a brothel.
"Perhaps people like that aren't so bad," Harry mused, shrugging. He had always been fond of Dandelion.
"Perhaps," Flitwick said, giving Harry a pitying look. "When will you go to Diagon Alley for your books?"
"In a few days, with Hermione," Harry replied.
Flitwick nodded.
Finally, a day off!
"So today," Harry said, "could I trouble you to cover what we missed?"
Flitwick reluctantly agreed.
August 16th. Diagon Alley.
Hermione waited outside an ice cream shop. When she saw Harry, she handed him a cone.
"How's training with Professor Flitwick?" she asked.
Hedwig flew from Harry's shoulder and landed on Hermione's head, pecking at her hair.
"Oh no, Hedwig, please, I'll get you a treat later!" Hermione pleaded.
Hedwig stomped on her head before curling up to roost.
"I've learned a lot," Harry said after licking his ice cream. The chill spread through him. "Some things I couldn't
write about, but we'll talk at school."
"That's wonderful!" Hermione beamed, shaking her head carefully. "Let's go get your books. I already checked—there's a discount today."
"Really?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Yes, because Professor Lockhart is holding a signing event," Hermione said.
Harry froze. "A signing event? What luck."
"Don't worry. He's not another Quirrell. He's been at Flourish and Blotts all month," Hermione reassured him, sounding confident. "Since the day we got our letters."
Harry's unease deepened.
Hermione hesitated, catching on.
"Let's go," Harry said, heading toward the bookstore. "Maybe he's been waiting for me."
Hermione followed like a loyal shadow.
Lockhart was a huge draw. A long line of fans stretched out the door, while reporters from the Daily Prophet snapped photos.
Suddenly—
Harry felt two pairs of eyes lock onto him.
There was no malice, only excitement.
The news quickly spread. At its end stood Gilderoy Lockhart, signing books at the entrance.
The handsome wizard with striking blue eyes immediately looked up, his voice ringing with excitement:
"I can sense the magnetic pull of talent between us!"
"Is that Harry Potter?"
"Harry Potter! Have you come to attend my book signing too?"
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Powerstones?
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