Chapter 223: The Girl’s White Silk

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Harry was a bit disappointed. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say his expectations had been too high earlier?

In the first duel, Arthur Phoenix—a competitor hailing from some "small place"—had brought Harry some amusement. Though Arthur's mastery of spells left much to be desired, it was hardly surprising. After all, outside the three major wizarding schools, the magical institutions across Europe were underfunded and lacked strong faculty. Small nations' Ministries of Magic held limited resources and rarely allocated substantial budgets. Even Hogwarts didn't receive specialized education funding from the English Ministry of Magic—what hope was there for other schools?

However, Arthur's proficiency in Transfiguration had momentarily caught Harry's attention. To be honest, Harry saw a glimmer of a master in him. Of course, Arthur couldn't compare to Professor McGonagall. Her mastery of spellwork was leagues ahead. If she were to duel Harry using Transfiguration, he had once briefly entertained the thought of it—but after witnessing her effortlessly summon an army of animated objects, he wisely abandoned the notion. He didn't fancy being pummeled into a pulp.

Has anyone seen a magical world's equivalent of a Gundam? Sure, Transfiguration could only create low-spec, budget versions. But when the cost was negligible—merely a small expenditure of magic—it became a force to reckon with. These fully armed, cannon-fodder magical mechs didn't just explode dramatically upon destruction, using up all their remaining magic in a devastating self-detonation. No carbon-based lifeform would want to experience the intimacy of a thermobaric explosion. Thousands of degrees in an instant? That would incinerate any flesh and blood.

What's that? You've prepared fire-resistant spells in advance? Well, how would you deal with four to five minutes of oxygen-deprivation or shockwaves exceeding 2,500 meters per second? Those magically crafted golems with highly realistic intelligence weren't comparable to the wooden dummies Harry had just obliterated. Real animated Transfiguration constructs were divided into long-range, mid-range, and close-range units, functioning as a disciplined, fearless suicide squad.

Even so, Arthur—immature and unable to last three serious seconds against Harry—was the most impressive competitor Harry had encountered in the tournament so far.

Harry, full of complaints he couldn't voice, ended the match feeling thoroughly annoyed.

After seeing his opponent's first set of spells, Harry could already gauge their skill level. Standing still and barely moving, he casually dodged the incoming spells and returned the favor with a dismissive Stunning Spell using his ebony wand. The opponent's basic Shield Charms—standard fare for the first round—failed to form fully and were effortlessly pierced by the wand's innate spell-penetration. His opponents never even understood how they'd suddenly passed out.

Some even accused Harry of cheating, rallying a group of disgruntled spectators who couldn't stand his arrogance. However, neither Harry nor the tournament committee paid any attention to their noisy protests.

"You can't even block a single spell of mine. You lot aren't even worthy of me showing off," Harry muttered, utterly uninterested in their futile complaints.

Completely unconcerned with the furious, defeated losers who looked like they wanted to devour him, Harry strolled out of the enormous dueling arena with his hands in his pockets. He'd already collected his ticket to the next round from the committee.

Professor Flitwick had granted everyone a day off, and Austria offered plenty of sights to see. For many Hogwarts students, this was their first time leaving England. Although Austria's magical community was smaller, it still boasted several interesting landmarks worth visiting.

Take, for instance, the dancers of Vienna. Each one had an enchanting grace. The music taverns here were particularly famous. Order a three-Galleon glass of St. Laurent craft brew, and the charming dancers would gather around you. If you were generous enough to pay the ten-Galleon fee for a private room, well, good things might follow.

However, Harry wasn't interested in dancers. Walking straight to Vienna's finest and most renowned Goblin's Bitter Tavern, he only wanted to try the highly praised white wine.

"'The Girl's White Silk'?"

"Are you sure that's the name of the wine? It doesn't sound very… respectable."

After chatting briefly with the tavern's waiter, Harry began to question the establishment's reputation. This was, after all, a tavern recommended by Professor Flitwick—one that didn't serve the three-Galleon St. Laurent craft brew.

"Yes, sir. We run an entirely respectable establishment."

The waiter answering Harry's question might have had some goblin blood, though he was taller than Professor Flitwick and lacked the distinctive pointed ears. Perhaps the goblin lineage was distant, as he looked more like an ordinary boy of twelve or thirteen. Being an actual twelve- or thirteen-year-old himself, Harry had to look up at him.

"Does that mean you also have 'The Girl's Black Silk,' 'Pink Silk,' or maybe 'The Girl's Balenciaga' and 'The Girl's Fugu?'"

"It seems you're a connoisseur with excellent taste, sir," the boyish waiter said with a slight bow, "but, unfortunately, we don't have any of those."

Harry: "..."

Feeling like he'd just been made a fool of, Harry went silent for a moment before pulling out a pile of gleaming gold Galleons. He didn't bother counting them, but there were probably three to five hundred coins in the stack.

"Bring me a barrel of 'The Girl's Fugu.'"

"But we only have 'The Girl's White Silk,' not Fugu," the waiter replied with a pitiful look, clearly regretting not recognizing such a generous patron sooner.

"Fugu can have white silk. Yes, I'm very sure of that." Harry recalled quite clearly how, during his trip to Switzerland with Fleur, she'd worn Fugu-brand white silk stockings. They were wonderfully easy to tear.

"This... well..." The waiter's eyes gleamed as he stared at the dazzling Galleons. With a deep breath and a moment of inner turmoil, he made a decision that likely went against his family's values. "No problem. One barrel of 'The Girl's Fugu,' coming up."

"I'll just switch out the sign with the wrong name, but where should we deliver this barrel to, sir?"

Changing the name of a wine? That was a small price to pay. Even if his father found out, at most, he'd get a beating with a rattan stick. Compared to this shining pile of gold, that was hardly worth worrying about.

"No delivery. It's just enough to wet my whistle. Bring it out here."

Without hesitation, the waiter loaded the heavy stack of gold onto a tray and bowed deeply before retreating. As he left, he didn't forget to wave his hand, magically changing the sign from "The Girl's White Silk" to "The Girl's Fugu."

As Harry snacked on small treats, listening to the music and watching the dancers sway their graceful hips, the tavern's wooden door creaked open. A familiar figure stepped inside—it was Arthur Phoenix. Harry hadn't seen him since their duel, but Arthur had managed to advance in the competition despite his earlier defeat. One loss wasn't enough to overshadow his talent.

Harry waved him over, curious about the interesting Transfiguration techniques Arthur had used. After all, he was the only opponent so far that Harry found even remotely worth his attention.

(End of Chapter)