Holding a professorship at a wizarding school is an extraordinary achievement—far more prestigious than being a professor in the Muggle world.
Muggle universities may be countless, but in the magical world, typically a country has only one wizarding school. Some magical societies don't even have the capacity to run their own schools, forcing young wizards to study abroad or rely on traditional home education, which is far less efficient.
Each school trains wizards over different spans of time. Hogwarts, for example, runs from age eleven to eighteen, while in Japan, students start at seven. Regardless, these years are formative for young wizards. This means that any professor inherently wields influence over the future wizard population of an entire nation.
That is a terrifying kind of power. Voldemort, as his forces grew, tried to interfere with this influence—but Dumbledore refused. While part of this was to prevent Voldemort's ideology from corrupting the next generation, it also highlights the extremely high standards expected of professors—and the exceptional caliber they must possess.
Even the most lackadaisical Defense Against the Dark Arts professor hired by Dumbledore was still a high-level wizard. Take Gilderoy Lockhart—his fame aside, his unique Memory Charm could incapacitate even accomplished wizards. Hagrid, often criticized as a poor Care of Magical Creatures instructor, may have had questionable teaching quality, but even Horace Slughorn, who trained prodigies like Voldemort, was astonished by his skill in magical creature handling.
Then there's the seemingly "plot-convenient" re-hired old professor who contributed little besides greed and personal relationships—yet one-third of Voldemort's achievements relied on him. Though he denied it, where did Voldemort gain knowledge of Horcruxes? From this professor. How did Voldemort return? Through a potion-based dark magic. And what did this professor teach? Potions. Voldemort's praise may have seemed opportunistic, but anyone deemed worthy of his praise had to be formidable.
Even the Divination professor, often considered useless, could at crucial moments make accurate predictions—even true prophecies—though in day-to-day life, he remained largely ineffectual.
Without a doubt, Hogwarts is like this; other schools are no different. The selection of professors is taken with utmost care.
The magical knowledge accumulated by these wizards over a lifetime is invaluable and is never shared casually. Yet in class, Allen had accessed this knowledge. Were it not for the professor genuinely benefiting from prior discussion, he might have even considered a Memory Charm on the students—and likely succeeded.
Even if the professor wiped all stored data, anyone paying attention still gained immensely. Those who were initially distracted, however, felt utterly bereft—having missed the early discussion, they couldn't understand the mid-section, and the later material was like reading an incomprehensible magical text.
Despite this, they didn't wail. They relied on their fragmented memory to piece together the earlier content, attempting to salvage understanding.
For a time, the usually noisy classroom became deathly silent, students frowning in concentration. Even a pin dropping could be heard clearly.
But there are limits to thought. After a while, those who gained the least left quietly, not daring to make a sound. They had reached their mental limits—staying longer would yield nothing and disturbing others could invoke wrath, even dueling, and damage reputations. Gradually, nearly two-thirds of the class departed. The remainder waited for companions, for exchange of ideas was forbidden—the professor's research was his private property, and misuse would violate wizarding ethics.
Unexpectedly, as many still pondered, Allen opened his eyes, a look of joy on his face—clearly he had benefited greatly.
This confused everyone. Wait, you were just fully immersed in conversation with the professor—how are you out of deep thought faster than everyone else? Most could grasp one or two layers of the discussion; some might reach three layers. As the discussion leader, Allen would normally need a week in seclusion!
Yet Allen was equally stunned—how did so many people suddenly appear around him while he was thinking?
Seeing Allen awaken, one student couldn't resist asking: "Allen… did you remember all of that?"
The knowledge was so profound that no one dared claim full comprehension. Many of those who left rushed to write down what they remembered. For a student of Allen's talent, however, retaining all this was not impossible. Young wizards can have wildly varied gifts; memory talent is just one example.
This isn't hard to understand. The twins' inventive abilities were naturally high, further enhanced by personal effort. Neville, while diligent, showed his talent slowly; it only became apparent in moments of extreme danger—like learning to fly after nearly dying before enrollment, or defeating a Horcrux only at the last moment. Before these crises, his talent remained dormant.
Hermione could read extensively and perform magic unassisted even before entering Hogwarts, showcasing her rapid-learning talent. Harry, capable of making even thick glass walls vanish with a thought, could have achieved much more if he focused on magical studies—but Hogwarts' collective education system, spanning seven grades, left professors unable to craft personalized plans. This was the inherent flaw of academy-based education.
Even Neville was lucky. Some of the lowest-talent students—like Filch or Mrs. Figg—were essentially ineffective. They knew of magic's wonders but could never find a way in.
This is the cruel reality of the wizarding world.