HP: Too Late, System! I’m Already the DADA Professor

When Douglas and Ron tumbled out of the fireplace at The Leaky Cauldron, the pub's owner, Tom, greeted them with a gap-toothed grin.

"Oi, Professor Holmes! Fancy a free tankard of mead, on the house? And look, you've brought along a little Weasley!"

Douglas shrugged with theatrical regret. "You know how it is, Tom. Professor McGonagall only gave me an hour's leave. If I'm late because I stopped for a drink, who knows what she'll do to me!"

Old, toothless Tom cackled. "Heh! A professor now, but still scared of Minerva McGonagall. Coward!"

Douglas snorted, but bit back a retort—especially with a sharp-eared young Gryffindor at his side. He leaned down to Ron and said quietly,

"Hold on to my sleeve, and don't wander off."

Ron took a deep breath and pointed at himself, incredulous.

"Don't doubt it—it's you. I don't fancy explaining to your mother how I lost you in Diagon Alley. And if you don't listen, I've got a rather creative rope-binding charm you might like to try out!"

At that, Ron finally understood why Douglas and Bill were such good friends. Sometimes, the things they did just didn't fit in—though, to be fair, maybe that made them cool.

The pair hurried through the winding streets, making straight for Ollivanders.

Douglas wasn't the least bit worried about bumping into his dear senior or the ever-demanding editor, Mr. Slane—it was Saturday, after all.

But as they passed Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, he caught sight of Slane himself, hand-in-hand with a little girl of about seven or eight, ordering ice cream. Douglas recognized the girl immediately—Slane's daughter.

He quickened his pace. Ever since graduation, that editor had become less and less lovable.

Ollivanders stood out among the shops of Diagon Alley for being both small and shabby, its golden sign faded and peeling: "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."

Unlike the summer rush, the shop was nearly deserted.

As the bell chimed, Ollivander appeared behind the counter, gliding in with his usual air of mystery.

Ron, who'd never set foot in a wand shop before, gaped at the towering stacks of boxes. He tugged at Douglas's sleeve and whispered,

"Professor, are all those boxes wands?"

A gentle voice floated from behind the counter.

"Indeed, they are. Good afternoon, Professor Holmes—vine wood, eleven inches, phoenix feather core. I always knew you were destined for great things—lofty ambitions, vision, the sort that would shock friends who thought they knew you. No one expected you'd end up as Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. Of course, ever since you brought me that lightning-struck elder wood, pulsing with life, and paired it with a thunderbird feather, I suspected you'd find your way to this post. After all, a wand that can't cast dark magic is rather fitting for the job…"

Douglas gave a cold chuckle.

"Well, well. I never thought the legendary wandmaker Ollivander would stoop to false advertising."

Ollivander bristled, eyes flashing.

"Douglas Holmes, don't think that being a Hogwarts Professor gives you license to slander me. Every wand I've ever made and sold is flawless. The Ollivander family has been making wands since 382 B.C.—never a hint of false advertising!"

Douglas arched an eyebrow and tilted his chin.

"Oh?"

That one word nearly made Ollivander vault the counter for a duel.

Instead, Douglas just grinned and drew his lightning-struck elder wand, holding it up with a flourish.

"Didn't you say this wand was every bit the equal of the Elder Wand—except it can't cast dark magic? Then why, when I tried to fix a broken wand with it, did the thing shatter into splinters?"

Ollivander looked scandalized.

"Mr. Holmes, who told you a broken wand could be mended with magic? Not even the Elder Wand can do that. Every wand—even if made from identical materials—turns out differently, shaped by the wandmaker's intent and a hundred subtle factors. And the longer a wand is with its owner, the more their magic entwines… In short, what you're describing simply isn't possible."

Douglas frowned.

"But I heard someone once used the Elder Wand to repair a wand broken in two."

Ollivander snorted.

"I've never heard of such a thing, and I'd wager no wandmaker in the world has, either. You haven't been taken in by fairy tales, have you?"

In truth, Ollivander knew the Elder Wand had last been in the possession of Gregorovitch, another master wandmaker. If such a miracle were possible, the news would have spread like wildfire in their circles.

Douglas could only sigh. He certainly couldn't admit he'd read about Harry Potter doing it in a book from the future.

Just then, Ollivander mused,

"Actually, what you describe is not entirely impossible. The Elder Wand is indeed powerful. If someone truly managed to repair a wand with it, it would mean the wielder understood the broken wand on a deep, intimate level…"

He finished with a meaningful look at Douglas.

Douglas recoiled from the old man's burning gaze.

"Don't tell me you want me to snap my original wand and try to fix it with my lightning-struck elder wand! You must be joking!"

Ollivander shrugged, a sly smile playing at his lips.

"Well, it's the only way to clear my name of false advertising…"

Douglas muttered inwardly—old fox.

He did, in fact, own two wands. The first he'd chosen here at eleven: vine wood, eleven inches, phoenix feather core. It had always felt perfectly attuned to him, like an extension of his own hand.

The second wand had a far more unusual origin. After graduating, he'd traveled to the forests of Arizona, in America's southwest. There, caught in a thunderstorm, he'd looked up to see a thunderbird soaring through the tempest—a once-in-a-lifetime sight.

While pondering how to approach the thunderbird (perhaps, like his fellow Hufflepuff Newt Scamander, he could make friends), a bolt of lightning struck the elder tree he was sheltering beneath. He bolted for cover.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans. In his previous life, Douglas had heard stories about the magic of lightning-struck wood, but to witness it firsthand was a marvel. He felt instantly that this treasure was meant for him.

Then, for reasons unknown, the thunderbird swooped toward him. For his own safety—and to keep the bird from destroying the precious elder tree—he drew his wand and fired off a barrage of spells. The thunderbird, sensing danger, veered away but not before Douglas clipped a tail feather.

With the thunderbird's mournful cry echoing overhead, Douglas harvested the lightning-struck elder wood and retrieved the fallen feather.

Back in England, he brought both to the renowned Ollivander. When the old wandmaker heard the tale, he declared it a stroke of destiny. For a custom fee of 100 Galleons, Ollivander promised to craft a truly exceptional wand.

When it was finished, Ollivander told him,

"Mr. Holmes, I daresay this wand rivals the legendary Elder Wand itself. You may not know, but the Elder Wand was made of elder wood and thestral tail hair. Many have tried to recreate it, but none succeeded. Your materials are even rarer—and, more importantly, perfectly matched."

What Ollivander didn't mention was that, through crafting this wand, he'd finally discovered why so many had failed to combine elder wood and thestral hair. Sadly, his theory would take decades to prove.

Douglas was instantly smitten with his new wand. Spells cast with it were noticeably stronger than with his old one.

But soon, he discovered a flaw: the wand simply refused to cast any dark magic. He was baffled—until, one day, he stumbled across a Taoist text from Hong Kong. Only then did he truly understand the power within lightning-struck wood.

Though not strictly the "orthodox" lightning-struck jujube wood of Chinese legend, his wand was still immensely powerful. From then on, he treated it as his trump card—his ace in the hole.

To better attune himself to the lightning-struck elder wand, he experimented with every thunder-related spell he could find. Unfortunately, most were mere weather charms, lacking real offensive power. So he turned to Eastern Taoist texts, adapting their lightning talismans into Western-style attack spells.

His experiments succeeded. The wand, he felt, was truly worthy of being compared to a Deathly Hallow.

Until he met Ron's wand…

Meanwhile, Ron stood awkwardly to the side, feeling all but forgotten. He wasn't the least bit interested in the two men's muttered debate.

Suddenly, he noticed a pair of silvery-white eyes fixed on him, making his skin crawl. He edged behind Douglas for cover.

The old wandmaker turned his gaze to Ron.

"Ah, a Weasley. Forgive me, but I don't recall selling you a wand? It's rare, but not unheard of."

Ron blushed, feeling like the only wizard in Britain who hadn't bought a wand from Ollivander. As far as he knew, only he and Neville Longbottom fell into that category.

"Hello, sir. I was using my brother Charlie's wand—Charlie Weasley's—but it broke. So…"

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