Chapter 180: The Squibs Arrive
A conversation that should have taken place at Mahoutokoro was instead happening in the gardens of the thousand-year-old academy, Beauxbatons.
Ryan, humiliated, agreed to the unequal treaty. He agreed that for the foreseeable future, he would fulfill the duties expected of Nicolas Flamel's student—which meant teaching an alchemy class at Beauxbatons.
Madame Maxime departed, satisfied, the opals on her robes clicking as she walked.
"How did I, a perfectly good Hogwarts student and acting Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, suddenly become a guest alchemy professor at Beauxbatons?" Ryan muttered, sounding very much like a double agent.
That evening, the summoned Squibs arrived at Beauxbatons. It had to be admitted that, under the weight of Nicolas Flamel's name, the French Ministry's efficiency had increased remarkably.
These middle-aged Squibs, dressed in clothes that showed no trace of wizarding influence, set foot on the grounds of Beauxbatons for the first time in their lives.
Just as Hogwarts was to England, Beauxbatons held a supreme, sacred status for anyone born into the French magical world. It was a paradise one only glimpsed in dreams. Unfortunately, this paradise did not belong to them, the unacknowledged Squibs. For them, even daring to dream of it was an extravagance.
"Madame Maxime, what is it that you and the Ministry require of us?" a middle-aged man with a limp, leaning on a cane, inquired. He was dressed in a well-tailored suit, sported a beer belly, and his hair was thinning. He had clearly made a successful life for himself in the Muggle world and was wealthy and comfortable.
Because of this, he was the only one in the assembled group who dared to speak, his words laced with a forced confidence he clearly employed in his daily life. He might look down on wizards struggling on the poverty line, but he would never dare to act superior in front of Madame Maxime, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons. Having navigated society for so many years, he knew exactly what to say and what not to say.
"Magic... Beauxbatons..." a barely audible whisper came from a young man standing next to him. This man was disheveled, his hair unkempt, his clothes wrinkled and stained at the cuffs and elbows, which shined as if polished with grime. He was the very picture of a broken man.
At the high table, Ryan spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, would any of you like to cast your own magic?"
"Cast magic? Us? A bunch of Squibs! I'll have you know, just because you have magic, it doesn't make you superior!" The middle-aged man in the suit slammed his cane on the floor, angrily reprimanding the boy on the stage whom he didn't recognize.
A child was, after all, just a child. As he saw it, this was just a kid who, privileged by his own magic and his connections to the magical elite, had gathered a group of Squibs to mock them. He was using their pain to highlight his own superiority! It was exactly the kind of thing a spoiled brat would do!
He said this partly because he truly resented the idea of a "magical trust fund baby" using Squibs to feel superior, and partly as a subtle warning to Madame Maxime that he, too, was a famous French entrepreneur and not someone to be trifled with.
Perfectly delivered, the balding man thought, pleased with his own eloquence. I should run for office.
"If you have an objection, sir, you are free to leave now," Ryan said, his tone casual. "My friends from the Ministry will escort you back to your home."
The man's face flushed red, then pale.
Ryan addressed the others. "It's a pleasure to meet you all. My name is Ryan, and I am currently an alchemy professor here at Beauxbatons. Madame Maxime has invited you here at my request. One of my current research projects involves Squibs casting magic."
He pulled out the one-meter-long iron staff and levitated it into the air, letting it float in front of them. "This is the result of a collaboration between myself and a master wandmaker. Using this special wand, all of you will be able to cast magic."
A commotion stirred among the Squibs. The boy on stage had claimed to be a professor, and Madame Maxime had not refuted him. The boy had claimed this iron rod could let Squibs cast magic, and again, Madame Maxime had not refuted him!
Although they lived in the Muggle world, they still believed the Ministry was the higher authority. But on a personal level, Madame Maxime's word was far more convincing than that of the current French Minister of Magic. This was the overwhelming power of true expertise.
"However," Ryan continued, making sure to be clear, "in my research, I've discovered that when a Squib casts magic for the first time, it's very easy to trigger an accidental overload, similar to a young child's. Since a Squib's magic has lain dormant for so long, this... could cause a certain amount of physical harm."
He didn't even get to the part about his safety precautions, or the fact that he couldn't guarantee a 100% painless or risk-free experience.
More than seventy percent of the Squibs were already surging forward, volunteering.
"What in life doesn't have risks!"
"As long as I can cast magic! A little damage is nothing!"
"The bigger the waves, the more valuable the fish!"
The Squibs were as excited as wage-earners hearing about a bonus, practically climbing over each other to shout at Ryan: "Pick me! Pick me!"
"Alright, settle down," Ryan said, holding up his hands. "While there is a risk, as long as you focus, there shouldn't be a problem. Furthermore, Madame Maxime, my professor, and his wife will all be here to ensure your safety." He felt he had to explain, suspecting that if he didn't, they might start drawing lots for who went first...
His explanation, which guaranteed their safety, had the opposite effect. The remaining thirty percent who had been hesitant now also rushed forward.
"Pick me! I'm in great shape!"
"Pick me! I can endure hardship!"
"Pick me! I don't even want to be paid—!"
The last person who spoke was immediately tackled and beaten by the others. This was, after all, the birthplace of the Paris Commune, a region with a rich revolutionary history. The locals held to their fine traditions and showed no mercy to scabs. They intended to teach this traitor the meaning of a "red fist."
Cries of pain filled the air.
The onlookers clapped and cheered.
Everyone present felt their spirits lift.
Ryan, very cooperatively, slipped on the sunglasses he had once worn in front of Dumbledore, tilted his head back, and stared blankly at the ceiling. I am a poor, helpless blind man. I see nothing.
Nicolas and Perenelle exchanged a look. Perenelle's earlier hypothesis had been correct. The Muggle social structure must have reached a truly oppressive state... someone was willing to work for no pay? That was just slavery! What year was this? 1000 BC?
~~~
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