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

Just as Douglas was indulging in a bout of nostalgia, a group of seventh-year students arrived together, snapping him out of his reverie.

Noticing there weren't enough chairs in his office, Douglas casually plucked a few hefty tomes from the shelves and, with a flick of his wand, transformed them into serviceable chairs. He motioned for everyone to sit.

As he brewed tea, he asked,

"After a week of observation, what have you all learned?"

The seventh-years, who had seemed eager to speak, immediately zipped their lips.

A Ravenclaw girl was the first to muster her courage.

"Professor, I think our Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching has been really lacking. I don't mean you, of course—this week was just your assessment period. But because the teaching staff for this subject changes so often, most of us never got a systematic education in Defence Against the Dark Arts…"

Douglas listened attentively to each student's report, then collected their parchments and reviewed them on the spot, offering pointed feedback where needed.

He was actually quite pleased with this year's seventh-years. In fact, since the "annual professor" curse began, any student who'd managed to enter the N.E.W.T.-level Defence class with solid O.W.L. scores was already a cut above the rest.

Setting the finished parchments aside, Douglas surveyed the group, tapping the desk lightly.

"I know Defence Against the Dark Arts has always suffered from inconsistent teaching. Most of you chose this class because of strong family backgrounds or your own self-study skills… Oh, don't bother denying it—we've all been your age. But from what I've seen this week, it looks like some of you haven't even mastered a few sixth-year spells. That's a far cry from my day. Don't protest—how many of you can cast a proper Protego? What about nonverbal spells? Can you resist the Imperius Curse? Cast a Patronus? How many of you have even seen illegal Dark Magic, outside of your textbooks? Trust me—I know those books better than you do. Honestly, what on earth were you lot doing last term?"

At the mention of last term, Mario Nott of Slytherin couldn't help but sneer.

"Professor Holmes, you weren't at Hogwarts last year, so you don't know what it was like with Professor Quirrell. The bloke was nervous all the time—just read straight from the textbook. Sure, if someone asked a question, he'd answer, but with that stutter of his… We seriously doubted he could cast a full spell. Who'd have thought he'd end up getting taken down by three first-years?"

A ripple of derision passed through the seventh-years.

Douglas let out a cold chuckle.

"So that's what you all thought? You just tuned out Quirinus's lessons last year? And yet you still dream of becoming Aurors? Humility makes you better; pride leaves you behind, my friends! If he was really that useless, why would Headmaster Dumbledore have hired him? Or do you think you're more clever than Dumbledore himself?"

Someone muttered from the back,

"Well, it's not like anyone actually wants to teach this class anymore…"

Looking at their unconvinced faces, Douglas sighed.

"You all want to be Aurors, right? Didn't you ever question whether Quirinus was putting on an act?"

Seeing only blank looks, Douglas shrugged.

"Pity. You missed out on lessons from a true master of the Dark Arts."

He didn't elaborate further. After all, the only story that circulated at school was about "the three little heroes versus Quirrell"—almost no one knew the truth about Voldemort's involvement. But his tone and expression left the seventh-years with the distinct feeling they'd just missed out on a five-million-Galleon windfall.

"Back to business. This year, I don't want any of you settling for just an 'Acceptable' in Defence Against the Dark Arts on your N.E.W.T.s. No—every single one of you must achieve 'Outstanding.' That means you'll have to work hard and catch up on everything you missed in sixth year. This term, I'm introducing a new system—specialized training."

With a wave of his hand, a stack of parchment—each scroll a full six feet long—thudded down in front of them.

"This is my compilation of every written exam and spell from the Defence Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T.s over the past five years. You have one month to memorize all the written content and master every spell that's been tested. If you're stuck on the theory, go to the library—bring me any Restricted Section slips and I'll sign them. If you need help with spells, my door's always open. After one month, we'll move to weekly mock exams. That means every seventh-year Defence class will be a simulated N.E.W.T. exam. I'll pick spells and written papers at random. By the end of term, if anyone hasn't achieved 'Outstanding' in ten consecutive mocks, don't even bother with the real N.E.W.T.—I won't have you embarrassing me! Any questions?"

The students took their six-foot scrolls, brows knitted in dismay.

After a long pause, Nott drew a deep breath.

"Professor, there's just one thing—we probably won't have time to look after the practical classroom anymore. Not because of the weekly exams—we know maintaining the classroom's spells and creatures helps our Defence studies. It's just… well…"

He glanced around, but the others quickly buried their noses in their scrolls, pretending total absorption. Nott snorted inwardly—so much for solidarity.

He pressed on,

"Professor Holmes, before we came here, Professor Snape spoke with us. He wants us to take turns as teaching assistants in his classes. But we're already on a rota for the practical classroom. If we have to do both, there'll be conflicts, and sometimes we just won't be able to cover it. I did mention this to Professor Snape, but he said if you had any objections, you could take it up with him…"

Of course, Nott didn't dare repeat Snape's actual words:

"A man who only knows how to use a cauldron for hotpot has no idea of the wonders of Potions. Follow him, and you'll just end up waving your wand around like an idiot!"

After finishing, Nott instinctively shrank back.

Douglas realized he'd just shot himself in the foot. He'd forgotten that anyone hoping to become an Auror needed 'Outstanding' or 'Exceeds Expectations' in at least five N.E.W.T. subjects—especially Defence, Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. So nearly all his seventh-years were also taking Potions.

But he'd never intended for them to spend all their time babysitting the practical classroom.

"No worries. For the practical classroom, just have one person check it each day. Starting next week, it'll be closed to students on weekdays—only open for two hours on weekends. I'll announce in class that everyone can only go in once a week. Mr. Nott, you handle the rota."

Seeing Douglas yield, the other students finally relaxed, relief written all over their faces. They'd been dreading a professor showdown—knowing they'd be the ones to suffer.

Long live Professor Holmes!

But none of them could possibly imagine what kind of Pandora's box this man had just opened at Hogwarts…

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