I awoke before the sun had fully crested over the peaks beyond the Forbidden Forest, the early morning silence of the Ravenclaw dormitory wrapping itself around me like a thick ward. Today marked the beginning of our final examinations. Even as the castle slept, my mind was already sorting through Charms theory, reciting incantations under my breath, visualising wand movements, and reinforcing the mental structures of memory that had taken me the better part of the last term to craft. The fire of ambition had carried me through months of relentless self-study—January devoted entirely to Transfiguration, February to Charms, and March to Defence. Now it was time to let the results show.
I dressed quickly, ate sparingly in the Great Hall—toast, eggs, and a touch of pumpkin juice—and made my way to the Charms classroom, where Professor Herbert Beery, his spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose, waited with a clipboard and a twinkle of sharp interest in his eyes. We began with written theory: a grueling essay on the fundamental magical laws behind Switching Spells and the nuances between Summoning and Banishing Charms when cast on enchanted objects. The practical section followed. We were instructed to perform a sequence of spells flawlessly: the Hover Charm, the Bubble-Head Charm, a particularly tricky Silence Hex, and finally, a charm of my choice for extra credits which was in my case the Patronus.
When it was my turn, I stepped forward, centering myself, wand at the ready. "Expecto Patronum," I called, not once but three times, each time summoning forth a faint shimmer before it bloomed—fully formed at last—into a radiant silver shape: a phoenix, its wings slicing the air as it circled above me. Professor Beery smiled softly and made a note on his parchment.
Later that day, I found myself beside Eleanor, Edgar, Henry, and Elizabeth on a stone bench near the courtyard, the sunlight filtering through the ivy as we compared notes.
"That essay on magical equivalencies in Summoning nearly killed me," Edgar muttered, flicking his quill at a passing ant.
"You're not the only one," Eleanor added. "My hand's still cramping."
Henry gave me a look. "You barely wrote anything. Got through it in half the time."
"Not quite," I said, smiling. "Just… prepared."
Elizabeth leaned forward. "You're always prepared, Marcus. You might as well start teaching next year."
"I'd rather not," I replied wryly. "Not yet, at least."
The next morning brought Transfiguration with Professor Dumbledore. The written component involved transfiguration matrices and conversion equations, as well as theoretical applications of inanimate-to-animate transformations. I poured every inch of my month-long preparation into those parchments. When it came time for the practicals, the room buzzed with tension.
"Today," Dumbledore said with his signature flourish, "we shall transfigure wood into working musical instruments, animate teacups into functioning crickets, and, if you're particularly clever, reverse the process in sequence."
The wandwork came naturally. My transformations held steady, my reversals smooth and precise. Dumbledore watched with the faintest lift of one brow when I managed to animate a quill into a miniature hawk—likely an unconscious echo of my Patronus—before turning it back into ink-stained feather.
After the exam, Eleanor and I walked along the lake, the wind stirring the water into soft ripples.
"You're going to get top marks again, aren't you?" she asked, teasing lightly.
"I just want to understand," I replied, watching the Giant Squid breach in the distance. "Everything. Not for grades. Not even for recognition. I want to be prepared for what's coming."
She tilted her head. "Still thinking about the war?"
"Always," I answered, my voice quieter now.
Potions came next under Professor Slughorn's affable, ever-jovial gaze. Despite the man's rotund frame and occasionally indulgent personality, his exams were no joke. The written test delved deep into antidotal theory and ingredient properties. The practical required us to brew a Calming Draught followed by a non-standard variation of the Draught of Living Death.
I measured with precision, stirred with practiced grace, and added crushed valerian root with a timing honed by hours spent brewing quietly in the evenings after classes. Slughorn peered into my cauldron as the finished potion shimmered darkly.
"Impeccable, my boy!" he said, beaming. "If you're ever interested in joining the Slug Club again, I dare say you'll always have a seat."
I offered a modest nod, then left to find Henry and Elizabeth seated under a willow tree near the greenhouses.
"Slughorn's a soft touch if you know what he likes," Henry said, twirling a blade of grass. "Bet he marked you top already."
Elizabeth laughed. "If Marcus doesn't get top in Potions, then I'm a Fluberworm."
Our final core subject exam, Defence Against the Dark Arts, came the following day. Professor Sally Fairburn's standards were uncompromising, and her exams were designed to break through bravado and expose gaps in discipline.
The theory paper challenged our understanding of curse classifications, magical creature protections, and ethical engagement with dark artifacts. The practical test included counter-hexes, defensive spells, and rapid threat identification. When it came time for the practical duel portion, I found myself facing off against a magically conjured boggart-disguised threat.
I forced calm into my limbs, responded with a Shield Charm which caused it some confusion about which form to take before counter-hexing it with a Ridickulous spell, turning it into a joker on tricycle. Professor Fairburn, her expression usually unreadable, gave a firm nod.
"Efficient. Controlled. Keep training."
Afterward, Edgar caught up with me near the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy.
"I still can't believe you handled that creature so cleanly," he said, wide-eyed. "I nearly tripped over my own robes."
"Defensive magic is more muscle memory now," I admitted. "Repetition breeds instinct."
"More like obsession breeds brilliance," he countered.
That evening, we sat together by the fireplace in the Ravenclaw common room. I listened as Eleanor spoke animatedly about her Runes exam, which we'd all taken the day before. It had involved decoding ancient Norse sequences and casting a minor inscription charm on rune-etched parchment. The arithmancy test—logical but mentally taxing—had followed immediately after, with soul-weighing equations and magical probability structures that left Edgar nearly comatose by the end.
When our discussion died down, I looked around at them—Edgar, Eleanor, Henry, and Elizabeth—my friends, my allies, my anchors.
"I'm glad we made it through this year," I said softly.
Eleanor smiled. "We've still got more to come."
"Yes," I murmured. "And I intend to be ready."
The late spring air clung warm against my skin as I walked towards the familiar ruin near the edge of the Forbidden Forest—the place where, for nearly three terms now, Dumbledore had tested the limits of my resolve, knowledge, and magic. The grass was tinged with gold from the lowering sun, and somewhere in the distance, a breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and moss. It was beautiful. Serene. Deceptively so, considering the firestorm that was about to erupt here.
I arrived first, as usual. My boots pressed against the cracked stone of the old foundation, its geometry weathered by time but pulsing faintly with residual magical energy. I took a deep breath, focusing, grounding myself. Over the past months, I'd pushed myself to the edge of magical exhaustion—mastering Transfiguration through sleepless January nights and conquering complex Charms throughout February. Now, I stood on the cusp of integrating everything I'd learned, blending my knowledge into seamless combat.
A rustle of robes behind me—then the ever-comforting voice. "Good evening, Marcus."
I turned. There stood Albus Dumbledore—still decades from his future renown, but already formidable. His auburn hair and beard shimmered in the evening light, and behind his half-moon spectacles, his eyes sparkled with that usual mix of challenge and kindness. He wore his dueling robes today—deep midnight blue, embroidered subtly with runic symbols. A wand in hand, he inclined his head in greeting.
"I trust you're prepared for this evening's bout?" he asked, stepping onto the dueling circle drawn in the stone.
I gave a respectful nod. "I am, Professor."
A warm smile spread across his face. "Excellent. Standard terms. We duel until one yields, is disarmed, or until I deem the session complete. Only Transfiguration and Charms. No Patronus today, yes?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then let us begin."
The first spell he cast was a standard Disarming Charm—deceptively simple, but fast and precise. I whipped my wand in an arc and conjured a *Protego* that absorbed the force with a satisfying sizzle.
I retaliated instantly with *Oppugno*, directing a flurry of conjured stones at him. With a flick of his wand, he transfigured the missiles into harmless butterflies that scattered on the wind.
I didn't stop. A moment later, I transfigured the butterflies into a snarling wolf mid-leap—its form sleek and solid—but he banished it with a silent, casual flick. He was testing me, I realized. Feeling my rhythm.
So I changed it.
*Glacius!* I roared internally, releasing a freezing burst toward the ground at his feet. The stone rim of the ruin glazed over with ice. Dumbledore slipped—but not quite. He used the momentum to spin, conjuring a burst of wind that shattered the ice and sent shards spiraling toward me.
*Protego Maxima!* I countered, a dome forming around me as the shards bounced harmlessly away.
I dropped the shield and lunged forward, conjuring a cluster of thorned vines with a gesture, their tips snapping like whips. Dumbledore's counter was instantaneous—*Vermillious Tria*—the red sparks exploded midair, setting the vines ablaze, and I had to roll to the side as cinders rained down.
"Good improvisation," he called, then struck with *Molliare*, the softening charm, attempting to transfigure the stone beneath me into quicksand. I knew the counter. My wand twirled and I muttered *Duro*, restoring the rock to its hardened state.
I pressed on, animating the stone pillars around us into lumbering constructs. They were clumsy, but heavy and relentless. They bought me time to launch a barrage—*Expelliarmus*, *Incarcerous*, *Melofors*—he deflected each, though the last forced him to sidestep a conjured pumpkin aimed at his head.
"Creative," he noted, even as he sent a whip of animated rope back at me.
I slashed it in half with a *Diffindo*.
My breathing was becoming shallow. We had been at it for what felt like hours—but a quick glance at the enchanted watch I wore told me it had been just under eleven minutes.
I couldn't last much longer.
He seemed to sense it. "Push through, Marcus," he said, not unkindly. "You've more in you yet."
I snarled internally, digging deeper.
*Ardor Gladius!* A blazing sword conjured itself in midair and launched toward him—an advanced variant of conjuration I had nearly failed to master last week.
Dumbledore smiled faintly and stopped it in midair with a spell I didn't recognize. "And now—endgame," he said softly.
Before I could blink, a stunning charm buzzed past my ear—followed by another. I raised my shield again, but the force of the last impact knocked me down.
My wand clattered away.
He paused. Held his position.
I raised a hand. "Yield."
He nodded. "Very well fought, Marcus. Fifteen minutes exactly, four more minutes than the last year a very good progress."
I let myself sit in the dust, chest heaving. My arm ached. My eyes were dry from focus. But I smiled.
"I've lasted longer than ever."
"You have," he agreed, lowering his wand. "And your conjurations and transfigurations are becoming fluid. You think in the language of magic now."
I looked up at him. "I want to master it all."
He extended a hand to help me up. "Then you will."
We sat together on the old steps of the ruin, catching our breath. The light had faded, and the sky had turned lavender.
I stared out across the landscape, my thoughts drifting. I had a long road ahead—occlumency training, full mastery of charms and transfiguration, not to mention the runes I'd postponed and the ancient magicks whispering to me from the dark corners of the Chamber.
But for now… this felt like victory.
The whistle of the Hogwarts Express echoed like a final note across the valley, high and sharp in the mountain air. I stood just behind the small crowd at Hogsmeade Station, hands buried deep in the pockets of my school robes, watching the scarlet train chug to life with a sigh of steam and iron. Henry and Elizabeth were at one window, waving enthusiastically, while Eleanor and Edgar leaned slightly out of another, calling my name one last time before the train rolled forward.
I gave them all a final wave and a small, knowing smile. We didn't need words—three years of shared spells, laughter, secrets, and challenges were enough. I watched until the train had vanished around the bend, the echo of its whistle lingering like a ghost on the wind. Only then did I turn away, pulling my cloak tighter around me as I made my way down the familiar road toward the edge of Hogsmeade.
My house waited just past the line of low hedges and flickering lamp-posts that marked the end of the main village road. It was modest, a single floor surrounded by a neatly kept lawn of grass now touched with the early gold of summer. The wards shimmered faintly in my vision as I approached—layers of magical protections humming under my skin like threads of quiet thunder. I murmured the unlocking phrase and extended my hand, feeling the ancient, binding runes unwind around me with the distinct sensation of magic parting like water.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of parchment and time. My books were right where I'd left them, neatly arranged on the shelf beside the desk. The kitchen gleamed in the afternoon light, already stocked with ingredients I'd pre-arranged to be delivered by owl. A flick of my wand lit the hearth, and a sigh escaped me as I settled into the silence.
This house was mine—mine to live in, to study in, to think in. For the next two months, I would prepare in solitude, free from distractions, with the entire magical world stretched out before me like a parchment yet to be inked.
And as the fire cracked to life and shadows flickered across the walls, I began to plan how I would use every hour of this quiet, powerful summer.