Thursday, the twentieth of June. In some respects this was a significant day — the beginning of the first practical O.W.L. exams for us fifth-years, and simultaneously the start of a hellishly tense stretch for the seventh-years, since immediately after breakfast the members of the Ministry's examining board filed into the Great Hall. Under the direction of one of the professors, they would be proceeding to the appropriate rooms to begin administering the N.E.W.T.s.
Among the board members were witches and wizards of genuinely venerable age — clearly older than Dumbledore. I will admit that this was the first time in this life that I had seen human wizards who had lived to such years in person. Technically speaking, being a wizard — or given a sufficient level of technical development — living to a hundred and fifty without any particular alteration to one's genes is not especially difficult. One need only disable the cellular ageing mechanism at the level of telomeres, or compensate for the age-related decline in stem cell production...
My thoughts were running off in entirely the wrong direction. Among other things, I kept finding myself mulling over what Dumbledore would do, what the Dark Lord would do, how the Ministry would respond, and so on. I needed to put those thoughts aside and concentrate on the exams.
Together with my housemates and classmates, we set off for the first examination — Transfiguration.
The classroom used for it was the usual one, so no one felt any particular discomfort. The only thing that unsettled a number of people was that students were called in groups of five. McGonagall moved through each group fairly briskly, then summoned the next.
From what I understood through my prefect duties, fifth-years were examined first simply to get us out of the way and free up time for years one through four and the sixth-years — whose theory and practical components were assessed simultaneously, required more time, and all the rest of it.
I walked into the familiar classroom — bright and spacious — with the second group of students. Greengrass, Granger, Granger, Goldstein, Goyle. Behind the teacher's desk sat a stern McGonagall in her invariable pointed witch's hat and emerald robes with elaborate raised embroidery, peering at us over her neat spectacles.
There were no desks or chairs, nothing superfluous — only what hung on the walls or stood in the cupboards: diagrams, instructions, and the other fixtures of the classroom — the tall candelabras, for instance, which had never served any discernible purpose and were not about to start now.
— "Young people," — McGonagall spoke. — "Come to the desk and draw a card."
Nothing is new in this world, and there is no point in changing a system that works. On the professor's desk, alongside various documents and writing implements, lay two dozen small sheets of thin parchment — enchanted parchment, at that. I suspected this was a precaution against magical methods of reading the contents without turning the card over. And probably something else besides — perhaps when a student selected a card, its number and task were automatically recorded somewhere. Why not? This was, after all, an official and very important examination.
Without hesitation, Hermione and I stepped up to the desk first. Daphne followed a moment later. Goldstein came up after that — the boy had the look of a man who had accepted his fate, and this was somehow legible even in his fair curls. Goyle, clearly not greatly invested in the outcome of the examination, saw no reason to rush to the desk and had the illusion of choice in selecting his card.
— "Mr Granger?" — McGonagall was evidently waiting for me to read out my two tasks.
— "Living from non-living," — I read out the first. — "A goblet into a cockatoo."
— "Not the most demanding of spells — you've had some luck," — McGonagall allowed herself the faintest trace of a smile, bearing in mind my inevitable performances in Transfiguration. — "The second?"
— "Vanish a casket and cause it to appear elsewhere."
— "Time to consider?"
— "No need."
McGonagall nodded, flicked her wand to summon a tall round pedestal on a single leg, and with another flick called a gilded crystal goblet down from one of the cupboards. The gold was not real, naturally — but that was beside the point.
The other students clearly intended to make use of the spare minute or two to read their tasks more carefully, take them in, and form a plan. There was an element of luck involved, after all — one might draw a simple task that delivered a high mark practically on a silver platter, or one might draw something like my second.
Beyond the possible difficulty of the task, there were several criteria by which the practical component was assessed. Time of execution, for instance. Or quality of result. But there was one further significant element: academic correctness of execution. In Charms, for example, one could cast a Stupefy extremely quickly by reducing the wand movements or casting silently. Impressive? Certainly. Minus one point. What was required was precise academic execution. Yes, one's skill would be acknowledged — but that was not what was being tested. It was rather like school: one might be talented enough to solve a quadratic equation mentally in an instant, but in an examination the working had to be shown.
Drawing my wand, I traced an immaculate flourish with its tip towards the crystal goblet, holding in mind the correct formulas and mental images corresponding to the parameters of the starting material and the intended end result.
— "Feravartum," — I enunciated clearly and precisely, fitting each syllable exactly to the appropriate phase of the wand movement.
The goblet seemed to flow — as though in the hands of a skilled glassblower — taking the shape of a parrot, and only then becoming, in truth, a large white parrot. The behavioural matrix I had held in mind activated immediately: the bird spread its wings, ruffled the feathers on its head into a crest, and began bobbing vigorously on the pedestal, nodding its head and fanning its wings.
— "AAAAA!" — the parrot screamed, with the abandon of a dedicated metalhead, conducting itself with every nuance of behaviour one might expect from that particular breed of deranged bird.
— "Excellent work," — McGonagall nodded with satisfaction, making notes in her documents without stating anything aloud.
Having finished her notes, McGonagall flicked her wand to return the cockatoo to its goblet form and levitated it back to the cupboard. Another flick, and in its place on the pedestal beside me appeared a small carved casket of pale wood. It was open, and one could see without difficulty the velvet lining glued firmly inside. The lid hinges looked equally well-seated. Hm. Understandable why — so that the entire casket read as a single object rather than several.
The second task was considerably more demanding — in some respects it went beyond the fifth-year syllabus, and even a seventh-year attempting to solve it quickly off the cuff might falter somewhat. Not fail, of course, but they might not meet the examination's time standard.
The challenge was genuinely non-trivial. It required a cascade of three Transfiguration spells, combined deftly into a single system — not only at the level of mental images and formulas, but consolidated into a single continuous sequence of wand movements as well. I could, naturally, accomplish this without wand, words, or gestures at all, working purely through control and imagination — but what would be the point of studying anything, in that case?
Having quickly assembled the necessary schema of images in my mind, chained the formulas together, and matched them to the appropriate movements and incantations, I began a smooth wand motion directed at the casket.
— "Evanesco," — once again I placed each sound precisely as required, and with the final gesture transitioned smoothly into the next, drawing the wand in a spiral. — "Enarmovenis."
The casket vanished, but a thin trail of what appeared to be distorted air stretched towards a clear expanse of the teacher's desk. And the final gesture —
— "Inanimatus Conjurus."
The casket appeared on the desk. Perfectly unchanged, in the same position, open to precisely the same degree, the velvet lining, hinges, and decorative elements looking absolutely identical.
— "Excellent work, Mr Granger. You may go."
McGonagall was already writing in her documents, and I made my way out of the classroom to a number of approving glances.
Stepping out and closing the door behind me, I found the gazes of the remaining classmates — still quite a number of them — directed my way.
— "So, what's it like in there?" — Ernie enquired immediately, and several students from other houses showed equal interest.
— "Nothing out of the ordinary," — I shrugged. — "You draw a card, it has tasks on it. Two. One of mine was straightforward enough, the second was a bit more involved — actually had to think for a moment. But I'll say this: the theory was harder."
— "Was it? Even for you the theory was harder?" — Ernie didn't look convinced.
— "Well, we've spent ages practising the spells on the syllabus and a bit beyond — going deeper and broader. Don't worry. Ours will all pass — you included."
"Ours" was somewhat reduced in number, incidentally — Hannah and Susan had been in the first group and had already departed on their own business. Possibly gone to the next classroom to prepare for the next examination — they were arriving in rapid succession. I wasn't joking when I talked about a marathon.
I waited for Hermione to finish — she took no longer than I had — and then for Daphne, who appeared a minute or two later. I exchanged a few words with both girls; they shared their impressions of the first practical O.W.L. exam. We talked, and then set off for the next examination at the other end of the castle — Flitwick's Charms.
There the situation repeated itself entirely, only with different players, different surroundings, while everything else — the essence of the exam — was exactly the same. Groups were called in, we entered, drew cards, and if ready to cast immediately, got straight to it. If not, that was no one's concern but one's own, and there was time while the others worked.
So the day went on. Despite there not being a great many fifth-years as such — simply a large year group, one might say — each examination stretched on for quite some time. After Charms came the lunch break, and then...
Then Potions. That examination ran truly long — all the way until evening. At the sight of me and Daphne, Snape gave a short hm.
— "You don't imagine that your status exempts you from sitting O.W.L.s?"
— "Not at all, sir," — I smiled.
— "Then take your places at the cauldrons."
Naturally, both Daphne and I managed our assigned Potions tasks without difficulty, in an hour and a half. The others seemed to be coping, but the expressions on their faces — before the exam, during it, and after — were dismally bleak. Potions was far from everyone's favourite subject, and the professor himself had played no small part in that.
After Potions — dinner.
Practically everyone from our year, and the seventh-years too, looked thoroughly spent. They ate without enthusiasm — more out of habit than any real appetite.
Nobody felt like doing anything in particular, so we simply settled in the common room.
— "We ought to practise before tomorrow," — Justin was fretting, and Zacharias and Susan weren't far behind him.
— "Give it a rest," — Hannah waved a languid hand. — "As the saying goes — you can't take a deep breath right before you die."
— "Agreed," — I nodded, settling more comfortably into my armchair and drawing a cup of tea towards me with a casual flick. — "We've gone over every spell and practical skill dozens of times. And Potions... is already done. You'll only tire yourselves out pointlessly before tomorrow."
Hannah's and my arguments carried the day; the others calmed down, and we spent the evening in a peaceable and even, in places, cheerful atmosphere.
Friday and Saturday passed in much the same vein — Saturday being a perfectly ordinary working day during the examination period.
Sunday's rest — trips to the library, walks outside in the warmth of the summer sun among the grass and shrubs and hills around Hogwarts — and then Monday arrived, and the examination marathon resumed, coming to an end only on Wednesday.
Naturally, no one had any idea what marks they had received — results were promised to be sent by owl within the week. It was sometimes the case, apparently, that marks were announced immediately after the examination. That was a rare event, however, and no one had ever identified any pattern governing when it occurred.
After dinner, a spontaneous celebration assembled itself in the common room — the seventh-years marking what amounted to the end of their schooling, their graduation. What I found remarkable was that all of this unfolded with a very modest amount of alcohol. There was no particular mayhem or anything of the sort. Though I had a feeling the seventh-years would still manage to get up to something before the night was out.
Towards midnight, the little spiders reported that Slytherins and Gryffindors — seventh-years exclusively — had got into a fairly minor scuffle involving some elementary magic. I was already considering whether to exercise my prefect authority — not my night to patrol, but still — when the noise drew the Aurors. The poor graduates. They caught it from the Aurors, though not severely, and then from one another, and then McGonagall showed up and saw fit to spend two hours of her precious sleeping time ensuring the graduating class would remember her parting words and her particular talent for grinding people down. Snape, moreover, joined her for the final hour, and together they gave the unfortunate offenders a thorough dressing-down. As well they should have, frankly.
When everyone had dispersed, I remained in my armchair. I simply sat facing the fire, sipping juice, eating fruit, and thinking.
Tomorrow there would be the end-of-year feast and the journey to London on the Hogwarts Express. And then what?
Nothing was visibly happening in the outside world, but the small signs were practically screaming — screaming of how ready every party to the potential conflict was to strike at their enemies. And it seemed to me that many of those parties would not be averse to catching a third party in the crossfire, because whatever anyone might say, the world is governed — if not by gold — then certainly by self-interest.
That said, I had no intention of wandering around England on my own in search of information. Whatever was going to happen would happen without my involvement. The one thing I felt I needed to do was fashion an arrowhead and forge Fiendfyre into it. If that was even possible. The trouble was that this fell into the category of conditionally forbidden Dark spells, and I had found no instructions for it anywhere in Hogwarts. Perhaps I needed to ask someone. Those peculiar women Mrs Malfoy had introduced me to, for instance. There was simply no one among my current acquaintances I wanted to burden with a question like that — information about Fiendfyre.
Why an arrowhead? I would forge it properly, with all the necessary charms and runes, and it would serve for killing powerful opponents. Simply as a precautionary measure. There might also be something relevant in the books at the Grimmauld Place house. I hadn't read them, though the curiosity was there — at Hogwarts I had preferred to spend my time on books from the library, since what was in my bag could be read at home.
Beyond that... Once I returned to London and spent a few days with my family, I needed to go and see Smethwyck — and get him to teach me the finer points of the local school of healing. Yes, that was what I would do. The foundation was there; it was time to start taking steps down that particular thorny road.
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