Chapter 130: Grindelwald: Do You Think My Sister Will Mourn You? {3}

"Alright, now that you've all learned how to deal with an Inferius." Professor Lockhart paused briefly before continuing, "Next, it's time to learn various fire-based spells—though, as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I must say that’s not exactly within my teaching scope. So, for fire-related spells, you'll have to wait until the Charms class progresses further and learn from Filius instead." As he spoke, Lockhart winked at the class and flashed his dazzling smile. The students applauded him in unison, impressed by his exceptional teaching. After this rather unconventional Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, many of them had changed their opinion of him. Quite a few even abandoned the notion that he was a complete fraud and instead became firm supporters. After class, the students left the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, chatting and laughing. Well—most of them were happy, except for Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. After all, they were the direct victims of the "eyeball incident." Harry, however, was asked to stay behind by Lockhart. "Harry," Professor Lockhart said with a beaming smile, "I need a little favor from you." "What kind of favor, Professor?" Harry asked curiously, having no idea what Lockhart wanted. "I need you to help me respond to some letters—fan mail, to be precise," Lockhart said cheerfully. "I happen to know that you’re free after your classes tomorrow afternoon, so I was wondering if you could lend me a hand?" "Sorry, Professor, but—why me?" Harry asked, puzzled. "Because you’re the Boy Who Lived, the Savior!" Lockhart grinned. "And besides, I’ve been quite busy lately—preparing teaching materials, crafting lesson plans—oh, what an adventure teaching students is, don’t you think?" Harry thought he was being dramatic—he could link  to an "adventure," as if he needed to constantly prove himself as some kind of grand adventurer. But, he had to admit, Lockhart had a point—teaching someone real skills was, in fact, quite difficult. Just then, Colin Creevey came rushing over, clutching his camera. "Harry, can I take a picture of you?" he asked in rapid-fire speech. "I'd love to have an autographed photo to send to my dad—you know, he's a milkman..." Harry didn't catch the rest of it. Colin spoke so fast, it was like listening to an old war film’s MG42 machine gun firing nonstop. "Looks like you have your own  fan," Lockhart chuckled. "But don’t worry—I think we should take a picture together. The great Boy Who Lived and his famous writer-professor… Come on, Mr. Creevey, take a photo of us together!" Then, in a lower voice, Lockhart added, "I’ll teach you how to handle overzealous fans. What do you say—interested?" Well, when he put it like that, Harry couldn’t help but be intrigued. Merlin knew how annoying Colin was—this kid seemed to have memorized Harry’s entire class schedule and would wait for him along every possible route. For Colin, the most thrilling thing in the world seemed to be greeting Harry six or seven times a day with an enthusiastic  and hearing Harry respond with —no matter how weary or exasperated Harry’s tone was. Harry considered himself a patient person, but he was someone who responded better to direct confrontation than endless persistence—if Colin had acted like Draco and picked a fight from the start, Harry would’ve socked him ages ago. But no—Colin was annoyingly , leaving Harry utterly helpless. And he knew the power of public opinion—one wrong move, and the newspapers would twist the story into something ridiculous. Colin, thrilled by Lockhart’s suggestion, didn’t even check if Harry was on board before lifting his camera and snapping away. Lockhart, of course, posed enthusiastically, striking various dramatic stances. Harry had to admit—there  a reason the man was so famous. At the very least, when it came to dealing with obsessive fans, he had a patience that put Harry to shame. Finally shaking off Colin, Harry let out a deep sigh of relief, like a survivor of a harrowing ordeal. Even as he walked all the way to the Great Hall, Harry still felt a lingering unease—half-expecting Colin to pop out from some corner with his camera, eager for yet another "You okay?" Hermione asked, concerned. "You don’t look happy. Did someone upset you?" "I’d say it’s Colin Creevey," Ron announced loudly—loud enough for half of Gryffindor Tower to hear. "Merlin, that kid has  sense of boundaries—he just follows Harry …" "Alright, Ron," Harry cut in, knowing Ron was trying to be the bad guy on his behalf—but he didn’t want Ron to take the fall for him. "You should come up with a plan," Seamus suggested. "Or I could hit him with a Blasting Curse—guaranteed to land him in Madam Pomfrey’s hospital wing for a few days…" "That’s a bit much," Neville murmured. "But honestly, I don’t have a better idea… Sigh." Even someone as mild-mannered as Neville seemed fed up with Colin’s antics. S~eaʀᴄh the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "My advice? Just ignore him," Hermione said lightly. "I think if you let him pester you for a while, he’ll get bored eventually." The common room fell into silence. It seemed  believed her. "Think about Filch’s cat," Ron muttered. "It’s been petrified since last term—that’s, what, half a year now? Sometimes I wonder… if only Colin could get petrified, too—then we’d be rid of  problems at once." "Two?" Hermione frowned. "What’s the second problem?" "One problem is how to deal with Colin Creevey," Ron shrugged. "The other problem  Colin Creevey." At that, everyone burst into laughter. When it came to sarcasm, Ron truly had a gift. During lunch, Harry saw Hedwig gliding into the Great Hall. He thought she was delivering something routine—until he noticed the letter was from Mr. Flamel. Trailing behind Hedwig were three more owls, each carrying a large sack in their talons. Hedwig swooped down, practically dive-bombing the letter right onto Harry’s plate before crash-landing into his arms. The fluffy little owl nuzzled him affectionately, letting out a soft, spoiled . The other three owls deposited the heavy sacks beside him before flapping away, their job done. Harry looked down and saw that the large bag was filled with bundles of British pounds. He opened the letter, which read: "Dear Sir, How have you been recently? It should be the start of the school term now—I imagine life at Hogwarts must be quite exciting. Miss Sweeting's health is recovering well, and she is expected to return to Hogwarts by the end of the month. P.S. I really like the gift you sent me. Perenelle and I both find the game 'Sid Meier's Civilization I' to be very entertaining. It has brought much joy back into our lives, making our days far less monotonous. I've enclosed a bag of British pounds with this letter. When convenient, please help me purchase a few more computers. I wish to modify them during my free time to make them more suitable for wizards. Yours sincerely, Nicolas Flamel September 2, 1992." Harry put away the letter and looked back at the bag full of cash. "Merlin's beard, what is this?!" Hermione gasped. "Look at this." Harry pulled out a bundle of fifty-pound notes—denominations not commonly used in everyday transactions. "Is this... British pounds?" Hermione asked in a hushed voice, staring in disbelief at the bulging bag, which was nearly half her size. "So much money... Harry, just how rich is this friend of yours?" Seamus leaned in as well. Being a half-blood wizard, he knew full well the purchasing power of British currency. Merlin only knew how many years of hard work his father would need to accumulate this much money. "I don’t know how rich he is, but he's definitely richer than me," Harry said honestly. No matter how much he tried to puff himself up, there was no way he could compete financially with an alchemist who had lived for over six centuries. Merlin only knew how much wealth Nicolas Flamel had amassed over the years. But... the letter also mentioned that Flamel wanted him to buy more computers? And that he planned to modify them to be more suitable for wizards? Hmm... Harry found the idea intriguing. Perhaps he should let Flamel give it a try. "So this is Muggle money?" Ron leaned in, scrutinizing the bundles of notes. "Just these little scraps of paper—how much could they possibly be worth?" Wizards living in the magical world didn't understand the Muggle world, just as Muggles had no concept of the wizarding world. Ron clearly had no sense of the value of British pounds. "See this?" Hermione pulled out a single bill and waved it in front of Ron. "One of these is fifty pounds. You do realize the exchange rate at Gringotts is five pounds to a Galleon? Just think about how much money is in this bag!" Ron's brain went into overdrive. Merlin’s beard, one piece of paper was worth ten Galleons... and there were so many of them... Ron's breathing became a little unsteady. So many Galleons... Just imagine how many chicken legs that could buy!!! "I think I’ll need to make a trip out sometime soon," Harry said, folding the letter and tucking it into his robes. "But this really is too much money. After making the purchases, I should return the excess." Ron forced himself to tear his eyes away from the money and nodded in agreement. "You're right, Harry. We mustn’t be greedy for someone else’s wealth." At Ron’s words, Harry turned his head and exchanged a thumbs-up with his friends. Ron scratched his head and chuckled sheepishly. To avoid drawing attention, Harry quickly stuffed the bag of cash into his wallet. Fortunately, his friends had surrounded him just now, shielding the transaction from prying eyes, so no one else had noticed what was going on. Hmm… since Flamel was interested in research, he might as well buy him a few different models. Harry recalled that there were also laptop computers—perhaps he could get a few of those for Flamel as well. If Flamel could figure something out, well, let’s just say making money in the wizarding world would be a piece of cake. Harry wasn’t particularly interested in wealth, but considering how all of Veratia’s money had been taken by Gellert, he figured he should earn some to replenish her vault. "By the way, Harry," Hermione suddenly said. "Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff asked me to check with you—when is our dueling club starting?" "The night after tomorrow," Harry replied. "Tomorrow evening, I have to go see Professor Lockhart." "What for?" Hermione asked, puzzled. "Merlin, Harry, this is such an honor! You must seize the opportunity—" "Professor Lockhart asked me to help him write some replies to his fans," Harry said honestly. "He said he’s too busy preparing our lessons to handle them himself, so this is his way of responding to his admirers." Hearing that, Hermione clasped her hands to her chest. "Oh my, how thoughtful of him, isn’t it?" Ron made a gagging motion behind her back but was careful not to let her see it. If Hermione caught him, he’d never hear the end of it. Ron wasn’t stupid. "Professor Lockhart also said he’d teach me some techniques for dealing with overly enthusiastic fans," Harry added in a low voice. "Honestly, I didn’t want to go at first, but considering what he’s offering to teach, I decided it might be worth it. You guys know what I mean." Everyone nodded in understanding. They had all witnessed firsthand how annoying Colin Creevey could be. Merlin’s beard, if someone like Colin started tailing them every day at set times, it would be suffocating. They were classmates—beating him up wasn’t an option, and scolding him felt too mean… As Harry made his plans, in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, Gilderoy Lockhart transformed into an elegant older woman. Despite her apparent age, her poise and demeanor made it clear that in her youth, she had been an impeccable beauty. She was Vinda Rosier, one of Gellert Grindelwald’s most trusted lieutenants. Vinda unfurled a parchment on the desk and meticulously detailed her upcoming plans, particularly praising Gellert’s foresight in identifying Harry Potter as such a remarkable talent. She also took the time to commend Harry’s abilities—across multiple aspects. In her letter, she affirmed that Gellert’s strategy was correct: having her make the early moves to win over Dumbledore’s "Golden Boy." She even attached a photograph of herself with Harry—albeit in her Lockhart disguise. After finishing, Vinda tossed the letter into the fireplace. A burst of pale blue flame flared up, consuming the parchment in an instant. ... Austria, Nurmengard Castle. Holding the letter, Gellert Grindelwald’s expression darkened as he stared at the photograph, saying nothing. "Sir, is something wrong?" a concerned wizard behind him inquired. Gellert did not respond—he merely waved a hand dismissively. The wizards obediently withdrew, leaving Gellert alone in the room to contemplate. After a long silence, pale blue flames flickered in Gellert’s palm, reducing the photograph to scattered ashes. "Hah… scarhead vera…" "Do you really think… my sister would mourn for you?" --- Support me & read more advance & fast update chapter on my patreon: pat reon .com/windkaze