"First of all, Professor, do you really believe that ridiculous excuse about adding garlic to the turban?"
Douglas Holmes leaned forward, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Our third-year Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook covers this topic—I don't recall vampires actually being afraid of garlic. In fact, I once met a vampire in Mexico who loved the stuff! So, maybe, just maybe, Quirinus was sending out a distress signal?"
Dumbledore gave him an approving look, then shook his head gently.
"The garlic scent was always just speculation on our part. Personally, I suspect it was some sort of potion."
Douglas nodded sagely—of course, the headmaster was always right. But curiosity got the better of him. He looked at Dumbledore with a glint of challenge.
"Headmaster, with your abilities, could you have seen Voldemort on the back of Quirinus's head without lifting the turban?"
He remembered, vaguely, that in the original story Dumbledore could see through Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak. If he could see through a cloak, surely a turban wasn't much of a barrier... right?
Dumbledore seemed to catch the odd train of thought running through Douglas's mind.
"Ahem! I'm glad you can say Voldemort's name outright, rather than hiding behind euphemisms. As for your question, in certain—shall we say, urgent—situations, I can see through some things. But such powers aren't to be used lightly... Perhaps, as an old man, I deserve a bit of trust!
In truth, under ordinary circumstances, I never noticed anything peculiar beneath Quirinus's turban."
Seeing Douglas's increasingly skeptical expression, Dumbledore quickly steered the conversation back on course.
Douglas straightened, growing serious.
"That would mean Voldemort could hide himself within Quirinus at any time, not just as a face on the back of his head. Otherwise, with your skills, you'd have spotted him much sooner.
And even without Voldemort, someone as competent as Quirinus—if he truly wanted to kill Harry Potter—wouldn't have chosen to use a slow, obvious curse in front of a crowd. It was the sort of spell anyone could interrupt."
He nearly quipped that, after watching over a thousand episodes of Detective Conan in his Muggle days, he could have done a cleaner job than Professor Quirrell—but thought better of it. After all, the headmaster was still half-convinced he might be a secret agent for Voldemort.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts post had become something of a running joke in the magical world. If not for Dumbledore's reputation and connections, it would have been impossible to keep it filled at all. Few dared to apply—except, perhaps, a certain Potions Master.
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully at Douglas's analysis.
"Yes, it was rather crude. So, do you think this was also Quirinus's way of warning us?"
His gaze, behind those half-moon spectacles, softened. The fact that Douglas could say "Voldemort" without flinching told Dumbledore all he needed to know: here was someone fit to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. Someone who faced darkness head-on, rather than running from it. Such a person could never be Voldemort's pawn.
Of course, there was also the possibility Dumbledore simply wanted to keep this mysterious, pseudonymous writer close by for observation—after all, the last student to reinvent himself after graduation had been Tom Riddle...
Feeling Dumbledore's gaze linger, Douglas grew uneasy—especially when he remembered certain rumors about the headmaster's preferences. Maybe, he thought, he should run the moment his system activated.
Sensing Douglas's discomfort, Dumbledore reconsidered his approach. After a moment, he reached into a stack of documents, pulled out a sheet of parchment, and, with a flick of his wand, erased and rewrote several lines.
As he worked, he spoke:
"Merlin's socks, Douglas, I should tell you—originally, I'd planned for another rather famous writer to take the Defence Against the Dark Arts post..."
Douglas's brow furrowed. So he wasn't the first choice after all.
Dumbledore smiled, gesturing to a box of sweets on the desk.
"If you find this news bitter, I recommend a Fizzing Whizzbee. A little sugar always helps when you're listening to an old man ramble on."
Douglas obliged, popping a sweet into his mouth as Dumbledore finished his edits and set down his quill.
Folding his hands atop the desk, Dumbledore continued,
"Perhaps I overestimated my own influence. The other writer didn't even bother to respond to my invitation.
I'd even planned to visit him personally...
But then Minerva reminded me that you'd already written to Hogwarts several months ago, applying for this position.
So I thought—why not invite another writer to try? Even if he does hide behind a pen name..."
He winked, a mischievous glint in his eye, and handed the parchment across the desk.
"This is your letter of appointment as Acting Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, along with your job description. Take a look."
Douglas glanced at the two-foot-long parchment, covered in dense script.
[...Appointed as Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor (Temporary)...]
He pointed at the document, puzzled.
"Professor, what does this mean...?"
Dumbledore looked as if he'd been expecting the question.
"Oh, it's exactly what it says, Mr. Holmes. While the headmaster does have the authority to appoint professors, your age is... well, let's just say, unusual.
If I recall, the last person to be made a professor at twenty-one was Severus. But he was already a prodigy in Potions, and when Horace—Horace Slughorn, you know—retired, he recommended Severus as Head of Slytherin.
As for you, aside from your anonymous publications and an excellent academic record, you're still a bit of a mystery.
But there's no need to worry. This is just a probationary period, to smooth over any minor friction with your colleagues.
If you finish the school year and earn the respect of your students and peers, the appointment will become permanent."
Douglas resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Minor friction with colleagues"? Among the staff, there was only one person who truly didn't want him at Hogwarts—and only he could have persuaded Dumbledore to make things difficult.
Still, he didn't mind the temporary appointment. A probationary period made sense.
Seeing how quickly Douglas agreed, Dumbledore was momentarily taken aback. He'd prepared a whole speech to encourage the spirited young man, but it seemed unnecessary—especially since, even as a student, Douglas had hardly been a rule-follower.
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and added, almost offhandedly,
"In fact, I have another suggestion. I could still try to persuade that other writer to join you as co-professor this year. Writers, after all, often have much to discuss... But of course, the final decision is yours."
Competitive hiring? Last one out gets the sack? Corporate wolf culture? Douglas felt a chill run down his spine. He'd crossed worlds, fled East for West, left the Muggle world for the magical one—and still, he couldn't escape the shadow of modern workplace anxiety.
He leapt to his feet, chest out and voice ringing with mock heroism.
"Rest assured, Headmaster Comrade! I'm confident I alone can handle all of Hogwarts' Defence Against the Dark Arts!"
With a flourish, he signed his name at the bottom of the parchment.
No regrets.
The moment his quill left the page, a voice echoed in his mind.
[Scholar Development System activated...]
Douglas let out a long, relieved breath. The last time the system had spoken to him, it had given only one line:
[Activation requirement: Join a school. Countdown: two years.]
As a seasoned transmigrator, he knew exactly what that meant. He'd raged at the heavens for two hours back then, but deep down, he was secretly thrilled. There was a world of difference between a transmigrator with a system and one without.
Better late than never—even if the "two years" countdown still grated on his nerves.
He'd learned something else, too:
"Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain."
So, at first, he'd tried to block the system with Occlumency. If he'd had more resources, he might have tried soul magic. But, in the end, staring at that relentless countdown, he'd given in.
With a bit of money, he'd enrolled at a London university. But even after a semester, the system's message woke him every morning, still counting down, never activating.
Until one day, his Muggle professor said,
"Dear Holmes, I'd like to train you as my research assistant..."
That was when inspiration struck. Maybe the system's name was meant literally. "Development" could mean developing others, not just himself.
Given how out of touch he'd become with the Muggle world, he'd decided to apply to Hogwarts. If that didn't work out, he'd become a primary school teacher. He was sure Director George, his old guardian, wouldn't care about a missing teaching certificate.
...
Seeing how relaxed Douglas looked after signing, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with amusement behind his spectacles. He raised his wand and gave a gentle flick.
A phoenix, conjured by the Patronus Charm, spiraled through the air before vanishing. In the corner, the real Fawkes let out a melodious cry.
Dumbledore smiled.
"Fawkes is asking why you didn't bring him a gift.
Ever since that incident, I've forbidden him from sampling the inferno-level chili sauce you taught the kitchens to make.
He's developed quite the addiction, you know.
So, Mr. Holmes, during your time here, please refrain from feeding him anything too... unusual!"
He rubbed his brow, as if suddenly regretting his decision to bring Douglas back to Hogwarts.
Douglas remembered the day he'd nearly triggered Fawkes's premature rebirth, and couldn't help a sly smile.
"Don't worry, Professor!"
Who says you lose your youthful spirit after thirty? Even if, by then, Douglas's soul was already well past forty.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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