Chapter 43: Special Training and Late-Night Dictation
"Well, it seems you haven't forgotten everything you learned after graduating," Professor Sprout said dryly. "Though I'd prefer it if you remembered more than just which things can be eaten."
She folded her arms and gave Douglas a sharp look.
"Now then—what exactly did you want to discuss?"
Douglas glanced around first to make sure no one else was nearby. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Professor, I'd like to sponsor a set of Nimbus 2001s for Hufflepuff's Quidditch team."
Professor Sprout stared at him.
"You want to sponsor seven Nimbus 2001s for the House?"
Her expression turned even stranger.
"Douglas, since when have you cared about Hufflepuff's Quidditch team?"
Then she narrowed her eyes.
"And why are you whispering like some sort of criminal?"
Douglas blinked innocently.
"Well, naturally we have to keep it confidential. What if the other Houses find out we've got such advanced equipment and try to copy us?"
Professor Sprout gave him a look of pure disdain.
"You think I don't know what this is about?"
She clicked her tongue.
"Cedric already came to tell me this afternoon that Slytherin had prepared some 'secret weapon.' And, what a surprise, it happens to be Nimbus 2001s."
Then she looked him up and down.
"More importantly, do you even have that much money in the wizarding world? I heard you've been living mostly in Muggle areas, and Gringotts is very strict about large exchanges from Muggle currency."
Douglas nodded quickly.
"I have enough wizarding funds to cover it."
That part, at least, was true.
Gringotts had always been extremely strict about exchanging Muggle currency into wizarding money. Not just anyone could walk in and swap pounds for Galleons. Muggles weren't allowed to do it at all. Hogwarts students from Muggle families could only exchange a limited amount each year. Adult witches and wizards had to provide proof that their Muggle income came from legitimate work, and even then there was a firm annual limit. Gringotts had its own magic for verifying contracts and tracing the source of money. It was one of the reasons the Muggle economy had never been allowed to simply overwhelm the wizarding one.
And the truth was, most witches and wizards would never choose to start over in the Muggle world anyway. Seven years at Hogwarts meant very little there unless one was willing to relearn everything from the beginning and abandon the advantages of magic entirely.
Professor Sprout studied him for a moment, then seemed to relax.
"Fine. We'll do it your way."
She waved a hand dismissively.
"Consider it compensation for that old matter."
"Have the brooms sent to my office. I'll arrange the rest."
Then she pointed firmly toward the door.
"And if you've got nothing else to do, leave."
"Don't come near my greenhouse unless it's necessary."
"You're a professor now. Try acting like one instead of behaving exactly as you did when you were a student."
With that, she turned and walked back inside, leaving Douglas standing there with the strange feeling that something had gone wrong.
That was it?
Compensation?
No commendation? No formal thanks? No honorary alumnus recognition?
He was still trying to understand what had happened when Professor Sprout's voice sounded again from inside.
"Wait."
Douglas brightened at once.
At last—some proper reward.
A moment later she emerged carrying a basket.
"Madam Pomfrey won't need all the cranberries," she said. "You can take these."
She handed the basket over.
"Call it thanks for your contribution to Hufflepuff. And if you truly like eating them that much, I'll have some planted in the orchard as well."
Then she turned and went right back inside.
Douglas stood there holding the basket, still baffled.
No medal.
No honor.
No recognition.
No wonder so few graduates ever sponsored the school.
As he walked back toward the castle, it finally struck him why Professor Sprout had used the word compensation instead of sponsorship.
Hogwarts ran on money approved and supplied through the Board of Governors. If a Muggle-born wizard suddenly started funding expensive school equipment out of nowhere, it would be like putting a hand directly into the pie reserved for the twelve governors. If she had openly described it as a donation, some parents would probably have written furious letters the next day. If enough pressure built up, they might even force the Headmaster to get rid of him.
The Board did not hire and fire teachers directly—but it did have the power to appoint and suspend the Headmaster, and the Headmaster appointed the staff.
The more Douglas thought about it, the more frightened he became.
If he got dismissed over something like this after working so hard, it would be absurd.
Back in his office, the first thing he did was pour himself a cup of tea to settle his nerves.
Not long afterward, Professor McGonagall came by and invited him to afternoon tea at the Three Broomsticks the next day. Several professors who had been away were due back at the castle, and she thought it would be a good chance for everyone to sit together.
Douglas agreed at once.
After she left, he couldn't help thinking of Madam Rosmerta.
Who had never had dreams in youth? Who had never had a soft spot for beauty when they were young?
He was still lost in those thoughts when the seventh-years arrived.
Finding that there weren't enough chairs in the room, Douglas casually pulled a few books from the shelf and Transfigured them into seats, then motioned for everyone to sit.
As he prepared tea, he asked, "Well? After observing this week, what do you think?"
The students who had entered looking ready to speak all seemed to change their minds at once.
Finally, one Ravenclaw girl gathered her courage.
"Professor, I think our Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching has been very poor."
Then she added quickly, "I'm not talking about you. You said this week was only a baseline assessment. But because the teaching of this subject has been unstable for so many years, many of us—including ourselves—have never really built up our knowledge in a systematic way."
Douglas listened carefully while they reported their observations one after another. When they finished, he took the parchment they had brought, read through it in full, and commented on several points on the spot.
He was quite pleased with this group of seventh-years.
More accurately, ever since the school began filtering advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts students by O.W.L. results, the ones who reached this level were usually all strong candidates.
Once he finished reading, he set the parchment aside, looked around the room, and tapped the table lightly.
"I know the quality of Defense Against the Dark Arts has always been unstable."
He held up a hand as several students started to protest.
"No, don't deny it so quickly. You're all at that age. Choosing this subject usually says more about your family background or your ability to study independently than anything else."
Then his expression hardened.
"But from what I've seen this week, some of you haven't even mastered sixth-year spells yet. And that is far worse than what we had back then."
He looked directly at them.
"How many of you can cast a proper Shield Charm?"
"What about nonverbal magic?"
"How many can resist the Imperius Curse?"
"What about a Patronus?"
"And illegal Dark magic? How much have you actually seen?"
He gave a small, mocking laugh.
"Don't quote the textbook at me. I know the textbook better than you do. Honestly, I'm beginning to wonder what exactly you were doing last year."
Mario Nott of Slytherin curled his lip.
"Professor Holmes, you weren't at Hogwarts last year. You don't know what Professor Quirrell was like."
His tone dripped with contempt.
"He was nervous all the time. In class, he mostly just read from the textbook. If anyone asked him a question, he would answer—but with that stutter of his, we sometimes wondered if he could cast a complete spell at all."
A few of the others laughed bitterly.
"Who would've thought," Nott added, "that he'd end up losing to three first-years."
The other seventh-years all wore similarly dismissive expressions.
Douglas sneered.
"You all think the same, do you?"
He leaned back.
"So in other words, you never truly attended Quirinus's classes at all."
Several of them stiffened.
"And you still expect to become Aurors someday?"
He shook his head.
"Humility makes people improve. Pride makes them fall behind."
Then his voice turned colder.
"If he was really as worthless as you claim, why do you think Headmaster Dumbledore hired him in the first place?"
A student muttered under his breath, "Because almost no one is willing to teach this course now."
Douglas sighed when he saw the unconvinced looks around him.
"You're the ones dreaming of becoming Aurors. Didn't it ever occur to you to be suspicious of Quirinus's performance?"
Seeing their puzzled faces, he only shrugged.
"Well, unfortunately for you, you missed a year with a true master of the Dark Arts."
He did not explain further.
After all, the version of events circulating at school was still just the story of three first-years bringing down Quirrell. No one knew what had really been attached to the back of that man's head. Still, from Douglas's expression and tone, the seventh-years couldn't help feeling that they had somehow missed out on something extraordinary.
He didn't let them dwell on it for long.
"Back to the point. Over the coming year, I'm not going to be satisfied with seeing you scrape a decent grade in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
He tapped the table again.
"That is not the goal."
Then he corrected himself.
"No—the goal is obvious. Every one of you is getting an Outstanding."
That sentence hit like a curse.
"It means you will need to work very hard to make up for the material you failed to master in sixth year."
He waved a hand, and a stack of parchment six feet long landed in front of each of them.
"This," he said, "is my summary of all the written material and all the spells that have appeared in Defense Against the Dark Arts examinations over the past five years."
Several students looked faint.
"You have one month to memorize all the written content and learn every spell used in those exams. If you don't know something from the written section, go to the library. If you need restricted books, come to me for a signed note."
He gave them a thin smile.
"As for the spells, you may ask me at any time."
Then his smile vanished.
"One month from now, we begin weekly test mode."
A few of them visibly tensed.
"In other words, every seventh-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class from that point onward will be a mock examination."
"I will choose spells and written questions at random and test you on them."
He paused, then added with complete calm,
"And if anyone fails to produce ten consecutive mock examinations with Outstanding-level results before the end of the semester, then don't sit the N.E.W.T. at all. I'd rather not be embarrassed by you."
Silence.
Every student took the six-foot roll with a face like thunder.
Finally Nott inhaled slowly and raised another issue.
"Professor, there's one more problem. I'm afraid we won't have enough time to maintain the practical classrooms."
He lifted both hands quickly.
"It's not because we're trying to get out of anything. We know maintaining the traps, spells, and creatures helps our own learning as well."
His expression became more awkward.
"It's mainly…"
He glanced at the others.
The others very wisely lowered their heads and pretended to be deeply engrossed in the parchment in front of them.
Nott cursed them inwardly.
When they had discussed it beforehand, they had all agreed this would be raised as a group concern. Now he was the only one left holding it.
Douglas frowned.
"If you have something to say, then say it plainly. Don't hover around it."
Nott coughed.
"Professor Holmes, before we came, Dean Snape spoke to us."
Douglas's brows lifted.
Nott continued cautiously.
"He wants us to rotate through his classes as teaching assistants. We're already rotating for the practical classrooms, so if we also rotate through Potions…"
He spread his hands.
"There are too many schedule conflicts. A lot of the time, no one will be free to look after the practical rooms."
He hesitated before adding, "I did explain this to Dean Snape. He said that if I had any questions, I could bring them to you."
What Nott absolutely did not repeat was the rest of what Snape had said.
Namely, that a man who only knew how to make hot pot in cauldrons clearly understood nothing about the beauty or discipline of potions, and that following Professor Holmes would only teach students to wave their wands foolishly.
When Nott finished, he unconsciously drew his shoulders in.
Douglas, hearing this, felt as though he had somehow managed to trap himself.
The problem was, he had forgotten something important when he suggested the assistant system.
Most students intending to become Aurors needed top marks in at least five N.E.W.T.-level subjects—especially Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions.
That meant a great many of the students taking his seventh-year class were also in Snape's advanced Potions course.
Still, Douglas had no intention of leaving seventh-years stationed in practical classrooms all week.
"It's fine," he said at last. "The practical classrooms only need a daily inspection rotation. Starting next week, the rooms will stay closed during the week and will only be open for two hours on weekends."
That made several heads lift at once.
"When I tell the lower years, I'll make it clear that each student may only challenge the room once per week."
Then he looked at Nott.
"Mr. Nott, you'll handle the adjustment of personnel."
At once, all the other students who had been pretending to study their exam packets let out the quietest collective sigh of relief.
They had genuinely been afraid that if two professors refused to compromise, they would be the ones crushed in the middle.
Long live Professor Holmes.
Though none of them yet understood what sort of Pandora's box this man had opened inside Hogwarts.
The seventh-years had barely left when the office door sounded again.
This time it was George, Fred, Harry, and Ron.
"Professor, we're here to recite!"
Douglas didn't even set down his teacup. He only waved his left hand lightly.
On the desk sat four notebooks and several unusually elegant-looking quills.
"George and Fred, continue with yesterday's dictation," he said. "Harry and Ron, the two blank notebooks are for you. The quills are enchanted. They'll mark any mistakes you make as you write, so don't worry about it."
The four boys thanked him and moved quickly to their places.
After George and Fred sat down, George adjusted the inkwell slightly, as though trying to line it up properly.
Once he was sure he could just see Douglas behind it, he winked at Fred.
Harry and Ron watched, puzzled at first.
Then words began appearing faintly on the cuffs of the twins' sleeves.
Ron's eyes widened.
He mouthed silently at Harry, Cheat-sheet sleeves.
Harry immediately glanced nervously at Douglas, who was still drinking tea and reading parchment as if he had noticed nothing at all.
The twins caught both boys looking.
George and Fred exchanged a look and then mouthed back, Two large dungbombs. Keep quiet.
Harry thought for a second, then lowered his head and said nothing. It was not that he wanted a dungbomb. He just had no desire to become the sort of student who tattled.
Ron, on the other hand, had ideas of his own. He mouthed back, Lend them to me next time or I'll tell Mum.
The twins looked at each other helplessly and nodded.
Ten minutes later, Harry rubbed his aching hand and glanced over at Ron.
Ron was sitting there with a tragic expression, staring blankly into his notebook. If anyone had looked over his shoulder, they would have seen that the pages were already thick with correction marks.
Harry had made plenty of mistakes as well, but he still remembered Hermione's advice from before they came—if there was something he genuinely couldn't remember, skip it for now. Once he had written it once, it would come more easily the next time.
At that moment, George and Fred nudged one another.
Finally Fred stood up, looking very put-upon, and carried his notebook to Douglas.
"Professor, I've written part of it. Could you have a look?"
Douglas didn't even raise his head.
"Not enough. Continue."
Fred went obediently back to his place.
Then he looked at George and winked again.
The cheating resumed at once.
Harry and Ron still didn't understand what the twins' real plan was, but Ron, deciding he might as well learn from someone, picked up his own notebook—which was already full of marks—and went over to Douglas.
"Professor, I've written part of it. Could you have a look?"
Douglas turned, glanced once at the notebook covered in correction marks, then at Ron's face. Without a word, he pulled out The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and handed it to him.
Then he said, not unkindly but with great weariness, "Don't try to memorize by brute force yet. You're only wasting ink."
He sighed.
"I honestly do not know how Miss Granger manages to tolerate you."
Ron went scarlet.
"First, take the textbook and memorize what you are actually about to write."
He ignored Ron's burning embarrassment and looked instead toward Harry, who had stiffened in his chair.
"Mr. Potter," Douglas said, "please don't hide over there. Bring me what you've written so far and let me have a look."
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