Chapter 39: The Acting Professor
Once all the students were seated, Dumbledore rose to his feet. "I have some unfortunate news," he began. "Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Mr. Quirinus Quirrell, has had a mishap in a magical experiment and has sustained a serious injury. He will need to take a leave of absence for at least six months to recover."
The news was met with a flurry of whispers. "How awful! Magical experiments are so dangerous!"
"The Headmaster said it himself! That means it has nothing to do with Ryan!"
"Of course it doesn't! I knew he wasn't involved!"
Harry clapped his hands in relief. With Dumbledore's official explanation, surely Ron would finally drop his ridiculous conspiracy theories.
He was wrong.
Ron was staring intently at the head table, his expression unreadable.
Just then, the doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Professor Quirrell himself staggered in. He took a few unsteady steps and stopped beside Harry. "H-Headmaster… I… I have something… to… say!"
The Great Hall fell silent. Could there be a twist? A delicious thrill of anticipation ran through the crowd. Could Professor Quirrell be about to expose Ryan's true nature? Ron was practically vibrating with excitement.
Could Quirrell actually believe he was fit to continue teaching? Ryan was morbidly fascinated.
Could Quirrell be about to recommend me for the DADA position? Snape was positively giddy.
The only one who wasn't surprised was Dumbledore. "Quirinus, is there something you wish to say?"
"I… want to… recommend… the next… professor," Quirrell gasped, each word a struggle.
This is it, Snape thought, his dour expression finally lifting. He sat up straight, steepling his fingers, ready to rise and accept the accolades.
He's never even been to one of my classes, so he's definitely not recommending me. I'm in the clear, Ryan thought, taking off his sunglasses and setting down his cane. He was ready to offer his congratulations to the new professor, along with a humble speech about his own unworthiness and his hopes to one day be deserving of such an honor.
"Of course, of course," Dumbledore said. "As the current Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, your recommendation is of the utmost importance. Who would you like to recommend?"
"I… want… to recommend… cough, cough, cough," Quirrell dissolved into a violent coughing fit.
Snape stood up. "Thank you," he said with a smug, self-satisfied air.
Ryan also stood, a look of beatific relief on his face. "Though I am disappointed, I trust Professor Quirrell's judgment. Congratulations, Professor Snape. I hope to learn from you, and to one day be worthy of a teaching position at Hogwarts."
After the two of them had finished their speeches, Quirrell finally recovered from his coughing fit. He stared at the two standing figures at the head table and forced out the last few words.
"Mr.… Ryan… Welles."
"Oh," Dumbledore said, a barely suppressed chuckle in his voice. "I trust your judgment, Quirinus."
"Just… a suggestion… I hope it's… helpful. I'm… going back now…" Quirrell turned and shuffled out of the Great Hall.
Ron's face was a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions, a hideous mixture of shock, disappointment, and confusion. He let out a long, defeated sigh.
But his expression was nothing compared to the scene at the head table. Three figures—one old, one middle-aged, one young—were all still on their feet.
The old man, as if just noticing the other two, asked, "Severus? Ryan? Is there something you need?"
All eyes turned to them. Even with Snape's years of practice at maintaining a stony expression, he could not ignore the stares of the entire student body.
Ryan's mind raced. Damage control, he thought. Get out of the spotlight. He needed an excuse, and he needed it now. "Headmaster," he began, his voice full of a sudden, manufactured urgency, "Professor Snape promised to help me brew a batch of Felix Felicis six months ago. We've just realized that it should be finished tonight! We were so worried we might have missed the crucial moment."
"If you'll permit us, I would like to go with Professor Snape to check on it immediately."
Snape, catching on instantly, nodded. "Indeed. The matter is urgent."
"Felix Felicis, you say?" Dumbledore said, not missing a beat. "A most precious and delicate potion. Of course, you are both excused."
The two of them offered their thanks and apologies and then strode out of the Great Hall, their every movement a carefully calibrated performance of calm urgency. They were so convincing that most of the students actually believed them.
"What a pity," Dumbledore said to the now half-empty head table. "Hogwarts' youngest-ever acting professor has been called away on private business and cannot receive our congratulations."
"I now officially announce," he declared, his voice ringing through the hall, "that Mr. Ryan Welles will be serving as the acting professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts!"
A thunderous roar of applause and cheering filled the Great Hall.
At the head table, the remaining professors, now free of "private business," were chatting happily.
"Albus," Professor McGonagall said, a note of concern in her voice, "while I do respect Ryan, I am still a bit worried. He is, after all, still a child." But even as she said it, her voice trailed off. She had never met a child who acted with such fearless, unrestrained audacity.
Just then, a loud, angry voice cut through the celebration. "Letting a fifth-year be a professor! Ha! And an orphan, at that!"
Every head in the Great Hall, without a single exception, turned to look at the Slytherin table.
The Slytherin prefect, Marcus Flint, was now the center of attention. Perhaps it was his trollish ancestry, but Mr. Flint had a natural talent for drawing a crowd. His sheer bulk and distinctive features were… memorable.
"What are you all staring at?" he demanded, noticing that his friends, who had been loudly agreeing with him a moment ago, were now silent. They were all trying to warn him with their eyes, to get him to look around. "What are you afraid of? He's just an orphan. You think I'm scared of him? The Flint family could crush him!" He finally looked up and met the gazes of the professors at the head table. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. This had never happened before. When he had thrown his weight around in the past, citing his prefect status, his position as Quidditch captain, and his family name, the professors had, at most, deducted a few points and given him a stern lecture.
But now, even the normally cheerful Professor Sprout was glaring at him with open disgust. He couldn't understand why the professors were reacting so strongly to a simple student conflict. A wave of panic washed over him.
"Do you understand the situation, Draco?"
"Vaisey, I believe Flint has managed to offend everyone. His words are not in line with the current… consensus."
"And?"
And what? Malfoy knew Vaisey was trying to teach him, to train his ability to read a situation and identify his own best interests, but he was at a loss.
"To understand a situation," Vaisey explained, "you must first identify the true seat of power. You have overlooked the professors. They are the most powerful people in this castle."
The professors? Malfoy was still confused. His student mindset was preventing him from seeing the bigger picture. Why should the professors be a factor in a conflict between students?
"In my second year," Vaisey said, "Ryan shared a piece of ancient wisdom with me: 'He who does not consider the whole cannot command a part; he who does not consider the future cannot command the present.' I've never known why he's so fond of those old Eastern sayings, but I have never forgotten his words. At Hogwarts, the professors are 'the whole.' Do you understand, Malfoy? The professors can act or not act as they see fit. A cunning Slytherin should never place their hopes in the inaction of others. Besides," Vaisey said with a proud, genuine smile, "Ryan is a professor now. Marcus is threatening a Hogwarts professor."
Malfoy heard the pride in Vaisey's voice. As a member of the Adventurers' Club, he felt it too. "I understand, Vaisey," he said quietly. "Thank you for the lesson." He then sneered. "When I first arrived, I thought the Slytherin prefect was some kind of big shot. He even said he'd 'look out' for me. But now…"
Goyle and Crabbe, sitting on either side of Malfoy, were still stuffing their faces, only grunting in vague agreement before returning to their all-important battle against food waste.
"Are you still eating?!" Malfoy snapped. "I'm talking here! You two are becoming just as bad as Flint!"
Goyle and Crabbe paused for a moment, and seeing that Malfoy had nothing more to say, they grunted again and went back to their meal, one hand shoveling in mashed potatoes and pork knuckle, the other scooping up creamy pea soup.
Malfoy's vision went black.
~~~
Get early access to 20+ advanced chapters on Patreon!
https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Hollowborn