Chapter 45: School Trial (3)

The Great Hall doors opened again.

Professor Sprout appeared, walking briskly, her robes billowing behind her. Her face was red with indignation, cheeks puffed as if she’d been holding back words all the way from the Hufflepuff common room. She wasn’t alone. She didn’t bring Eliza.

She brought a piece of parchment.

A parchment written in trembling ink.

She walked straight toward Dumbledore, without glancing at the rest of the staff or the students. She handed him the parchment with a mixture of respect and restrained anger.

“Eliza refused to leave her common room, Headmaster. She’s frightened. She cried while we spoke. But she gave me her statement. She confirmed everything. Every word. And she handed me the broken quill she bought with her entire allowance.”

Sprout’s voice, usually warm, now carried an unfamiliar edge. The veins in her neck stood out, her expression rigid. The anger was visible. Not from outrage, but from protection. A badger mother defending one of her own.

Dumbledore read the statement in silence, his eyes gliding precisely over each line.

When Ryan heard that Eliza had cried, he didn’t find it entirely illogical. But it didn’t fit with the image he’d formed of her. When he’d defeated Mulciber and Rosier, the girl had seemed shocked, yes, but also grateful, holding back tears. And when he returned her quill, she had been happy, relieved even. Her mood had lifted when he and Lily escorted her back to the Hufflepuff common room. She had looked at him like a hero, someone who had saved her.

But clearly, afterward, something inside her broke. The fear, the humiliation, the anguish she had held in finally caught up to her once she was alone.

Sprout, still standing firm before Dumbledore, added clearly:

“She also mentioned that Mr. Ollivander gave her a new enchanted quill as a gift.”

Then she looked directly at Ryan, for the first time since arriving.

“Thank you for that gesture,” she said. And though her face remained stern, her voice softened slightly. “I understand why you didn’t mention it yourself.”

Ryan met her gaze without drama. He simply nodded once. Because being a hero had never been part of the plan.

His goal was simple: expose the cowards. Unmask them. Humiliate them, if possible.

And he had succeeded. Mulciber and Rosier had made an unforgivable mistake, accusing him of attacking them unprovoked and stealing their wands.

A clumsy, improvised lie. One that gave Ryan the perfect justification to stage a public trial, to turn the Great Hall into a courtroom, and use it as no one ever had before.

“Utter fools. They handed me everything on a silver platter,” Ryan thought.

None of the professors spoke. McGonagall’s brow was furrowed, but for the first time that night, she didn’t look angry at Ryan, perhaps because of what he had done, or perhaps because of what he hadn’t said.

Finally, Dumbledore folded the parchment in half and placed it carefully on the table before him. Then he looked up.

But this time, there was no twinkle in his eyes. No amusement at Ryan’s eloquence. No spark of admiration as if he were witnessing a rising orator.

No, what remained now was absolute seriousness. A headmaster fully aware that a clear act of harassment had taken place. A deliberate, cowardly, premeditated attack against a defenseless student.

And had it not been for another student’s intervention, it likely would have gone the way so many others had before, unseen.

Because Hogwarts, for all its prestige, its towers and its history, held over five hundred students. The teachers couldn’t watch everything. The castle was vast, full of dark corners and unmonitored moments.

And far too many students, like Eliza, stayed silent. Out of fear. Out of shame.

The Great Hall remained in utter silence.

Until Ryan stepped forward. Then he looked around the room, unhurried, as if reading a legal report.

“First, intimidation of a first-year girl, eleven years old, who can barely cast a Wingardium Leviosa without trembling.”

“Second, pushing her, surrounding her, and calling her a Mudblood. Not once. Several times.”

“Third, breaking her only magical quill, the one she bought with her savings. Destroying it with disdain. As if it were trash.”

“And fourth, filing a false accusation, claiming that I, Ryan Ollivander, attacked them without provocation and stole their wands.”

He paused. Just once. Then turned his head toward the staff table.

“And now?” he asked coldly. “What’s the verdict?”

A silence followed, denser than before.

And then it began.

First, the Hufflepuff table.

Fists lightly striking the wood. Muffled shouts of indignation.

“This can’t be allowed!”

“A first-year girl!”

“Unacceptable!”

“Have you no shame!?”

Then, Gryffindor.

Louder strikes. Firmer voices.

“Punishment now!”

“They can’t get away with it!”

“This is Hogwarts, not a dark alley!”

And finally, even from Ravenclaw, usually so composed, voices rose. Quieter, but resolute.

Only one table remained silent.

Slytherin.

But not out of pride.

For the first time in years, they had no defense.

Lucius stared down at his plate.

Bellatrix clenched her jaw.

Evan and Mulciber didn’t raise their eyes, not from guilt, but because they already knew what was coming.

Dumbledore’s eyes, so often filled with compassion, humor, that wise gleam of one who has seen everything, were now grave. Completely grave.

He rose slightly from his seat, with a calm that did not calm. His gaze shifted from Arcturus Mulciber to Evan Rosier.

“Students Rosier and Mulciber,” he said firmly, “do you have anything to say?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Rosier’s jaw was tight, but he didn’t look up.

Mulciber stared at some point on the tablecloth, speechless.

Dumbledore nodded once, as if he had expected their wordless reply.

“Very well,” he said, raising his voice just enough for all to hear.

“For the charges of intimidation, repeated verbal abuse, destruction of another’s property, and false accusation against a fellow student, I rule as follows…”

He paused.

“One hundred points deducted from Slytherin. Fifty each.”

“Evan Rosier and Arcturus Mulciber will serve one full month of detention. No privileges. No special permissions. All extracurricular activities, if they have any, are hereby suspended.”

The murmur of the Great Hall exploded.

From the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables came applause, cheers, even cries of relief and triumph.

Ravenclaw remained more restrained, but not indifferent, several students nodded silently in approval.

At the Slytherin table, however, not a single breath was heard.

Dumbledore, his tone unwavering, concluded:

“I trust this will serve as a lesson. True strength lies not in bloodline, nor in the fear one inspires, but in the respect one earns.”

Then, without warning, the enchanted hourglass of the House Points, embedded between the pillars of the Great Hall, began to shift.

A cascade of emerald gems burst violently from Slytherin’s tall glass, falling to the base with a deep metallic clang.

The number beneath dropped from 110 to 60, then 30, and finally…

10 points.

A collective gasp filled the hall.

Gryffindor, with 105 points, now stood in first place.

Ravenclaw, second.

Hufflepuff third.

Slytherin, for the first time in years, last. Very last.

Dumbledore waited for the silence to return.

Then he turned his head to Ryan. “And, on the other hand,” he said, his voice now calmer but still serious, “I wish to acknowledge Mr. Ollivander’s conduct. For not standing idly by in the face of injustice. For helping the student Eliza for calming her, accompanying her, and gifting her an enchanted quill which, as I understand, is not exactly inexpensive. Twenty points for Gryffindor,” declared Dumbledore.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Ryan said in a brief tone, without arrogance or false modesty.

This time the red gems rose with a soft glow, marking the final number:

125 points.

The outburst of cheers was immediate. The Gryffindor table roared. Hufflepuff applauded as well, especially those nearest Eliza.

“Good job, Ryan!” shouted Callum.

“Redemption!” yelled Jamie.

Fifty-five points gained by Ryan in just over a month of classes. He had already more than made up the 35 points he lost last year.

Ryan took a couple of steps toward his table. He adjusted his tie slowly, like a lawyer after his closing argument, and said aloud, clear and bright, as if he were closing a trial in the Wizengamot:

“The trash has been punished.”

Laughter, more applause, some “that’s how it’s done!” from Gryffindor. Fabian clapped his brother so hard he nearly knocked him over. Dorcas, who was drinking pumpkin juice, spat and splashed Celeste.

But before Ryan reached his table, the sharp voice of the Deputy Headmistress cut him off abruptly:

“Mr. Ollivander.”

Ryan stopped with half a smile, not turning around yet. All eyes were now on McGonagall.

“The wands,” she continued, stern, “remain the legal property of the students. No matter how reprehensible their behavior, it is still your obligation to return them.”

Ryan then turned slowly, raising his eyebrows theatrically. “Oh, right! That small detail,” he said with a mock-innocent smile. “I got distracted by the public trial and it slipped my mind… returning the evidence.”

McGonagall glared at him.

“The wands are fine. If I broke them, my grandfather who made them with his own hands would give me a beating if he found out,” Ryan added immediately, lifting a hand as if to calm an unfolding scandal. A general laugh burst through the Great Hall.

When the laughter died down Ryan continued, “But I thought of something more educational than simply returning them.”

He put his hand into the inner pocket of his robe and took out his famous griffin quill. Silence rolled back like a wave, no one expected the show to continue.

Calmly, he raised the quill, twirled it between his fingers, and began to write in the air. Golden letters appeared, floating, magically suspended before everyone.

"Only one who knows where the sun falls in autumn,

and understands which door the key will not open,

will find the box that has no name,

no lock, no owner, no key."

Ryan finished writing, turned to Mulciber and Rosier, who watched him with expressions somewhere between anger and humiliation, and said with a quiet smile:

“Solve it. Your wands are waiting… though if you take too long, they may suffer a few amusing little modifications. But nothing permanent, I swear.”

Murmurs grew at every table. McGonagall blinked as if she could not believe what she was seeing.

Dumbledore, for his part, narrowed his eyes as he read the floating riddle. His smile was barely perceptible, and it seemed he had already solved it, but had no intention of saying so.

“Well…” he said in a calm tone, “Student Ollivander, I’m afraid that this educational treasure hunt still counts as concealment of another’s property.”

“I accept the punishment with dignity,” Ryan replied, clasping his hands behind his back as if awaiting an honorary title.

“Five days of work in the caretaker’s office after classes,” Dumbledore decreed without raising his voice. “One hour per day. And no magic.”

Ryan sighed but said nothing. In truth, it was a fairly light punishment, he hadn’t lost any points. Likely some office work: sorting objects, papers, that sort of thing.

Then Lily’s voice rang out clearly from her seat at the Gryffindor table:

“I helped with the riddle too!”

A new silence fell over the hall. Everyone turned toward her.

Mary stared at her, mouth open, unable to believe what her friend had just said.

Sirius let out a low chuckle. “Evans, you’re not supposed to expose yourself when you’re pulling mischief,” he murmured, amused.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised. “You collaborated in writing the riddle?”

“Yes.”

Dumbledore smiled.

“Then, Miss Evans, I’m afraid you’ll share the punishment, with Mr. Ollivander. Same place. Same time.”

Lily nodded and sat back down.

Ryan, meanwhile, slowly pocketed his griffin quill. Then, with deliberate theatricality, he drew from his robes a pair of dark sunglasses, despite it being night and indoors. He put them on with a lazy, casual gesture. The lenses completely hid his eyes, but not the smile forming on his face.

“My work here is done,” he said with mock solemnity. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meal waiting.”

And with that, he calmly began walking toward the Gryffindor table, as if this had been just another ordinary Tuesday on his schedule.

Behind him, the golden letters of the riddle still floated in the air. They would remain there for eight full hours, just long enough for the entire school to read them.

And for Mulciber and Rosier to spend that same amount of time searching for them.

When Ryan reached the Gryffindor table, a new wave of applause erupted. Pats on the back, cheers, and whispered remarks exchanged through grins and knowing looks.

“That was brilliant!” exclaimed Fabian, giving him a friendly shove on the shoulder.

“You didn’t just humiliate them,” added Gideon with a laugh, “you stripped them bare and hung their trousers from the Astronomy Tower!”

Marlene raised her goblet with a wide, amused smile, one that carried a spark she hadn’t shown in a while.

“Not bad for someone who used to be late to everything,” she said, laughing, eyes still fixed on Ryan.

Dorcas looked at him in surprise.

“You’re not a greedy merchant, Ryan! You gave an enchanted quill to a first-year girl! That was beautiful!” she said, patting his shoulder warmly.

Alice nodded, giving him a knowing look as if she had expected nothing less.

“What, you all think that because I’m a rich inventor I must be some soulless miser?” Ryan asked with mock indignation.

“Yes,” said Fabian and Gideon in unison, laughing.

Sirius, with his feet propped on the bench and his chair dangerously tilted back, pointed with a biscuit.

“I always thought of him as a merchant with style. Turns out he’s got… values. I’ve been living a lie.”

“It’s called empathy, Black,” Remus interjected without looking up from his plate. “I can draw you a diagram later.”

Ryan lifted his goblet and toasted to everyone.

“To justice, and, of course, the loss of a hundred points for those purists!” he declared, his tone dripping with disdain at the end.

More than a hundred glasses rose at the Gryffindor table, followed by a unified chorus of:

“Cheers!”