The castle had a strange sort of quiet to it during exam week. Not the usual hush of midnight corridors or library silence, but the electric stillness of minds turning inward, of parchment scratched raw, and nerves thrumming like wandstrings pulled taut. I'd grown to like it, oddly enough. It felt like a test not just of knowledge, but of discipline—of holding the line between fear and focus.
The first exam was Potions.
Professor Slughorn beamed behind his gilded cauldron, the tips of his mustache twitching with delight as we filed into the dungeon classroom. The room smelled of dried monkshood, spiced root, and faint traces of singed bat spleen—familiar and oddly comforting. "Second-years!" he cried, clapping his pudgy hands. "Today, we'll be brewing the Draught of Dreamless Sleep! No mistakes—this one's subtle, delicate, and far less forgiving than last year's forgetfulness potion."
The ingredients were neatly laid out at our stations. I took a breath, cleared my mind, and began. My hands moved automatically—crushing the Valerian root with slow, even pressure, letting it steep just as Slughorn had shown us months ago. The real challenge came with timing the asphodel infusion while stirring counterclockwise, a rhythm that required complete focus. One moment too soon, the brew would curdle. Too late, and it would become syrupy and inert.
I watched the liquid shift from gray to lilac to a smoky midnight blue—just as it should. Slughorn passed behind me, sniffing approvingly. "Excellent control, Mr. Starborn. You're developing a fine instinct."
I inclined my head. Praise from Slughorn was rare when it wasn't followed by recruitment into his Slug Club, but I preferred it that way. I didn't want favors—I wanted mastery.
Next came Charms.
Professor Beery stood beneath a glittering chandelier in the Charms classroom, his long blue robes embroidered with fluttering script that shimmered faintly as he moved. "Good morning, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors," he said, voice warm but expectant. "Today's charm practical will test your dexterity, precision, and magical theory. You will levitate a series of glass spheres, guide them through a moving obstacle course, and return them to their pedestals—without breaking them."
The spheres hummed softly with enchantment as we stepped forward. I drew my wand with a flick, took a steadying breath, and muttered, *"Wingardium Leviosa."* The orb lifted gently, the glow at its center pulsing in time with my intent. Guiding it through the arching hoops and shifting rings required more than power—it required harmony. Beery had taught us that magic wasn't just force—it was art.
I finished with the sphere nestled on its pedestal, completely intact. A few students had cracked theirs. Some looked green with embarrassment. Beery gave me a subtle nod and made a note. "Precision, control, and exceptional finesse. Very well done."
Then came Transfiguration.
Professor Dumbledore's exams were always… odd. Not difficult in the traditional sense—though certainly that too—but unpredictable. He liked to challenge the mind and the imagination.
"Your task," he said, sweeping his wand in a slow arc that conjured a dozen hedgehogs into the room, "is to transfigure your hedgehog into a music box that plays a distinct tune. Extra marks for creativity, sound clarity, and a seamless transformation."
The hedgehog eyed me grumpily. I crouched low, wand loose in my fingers, and whispered the incantation while visualizing the final form—a sleek silver box etched with constellations, a melody that echoed the old lullabies my mother once hummed. The magic surged through me, slow and steady.
The hedgehog shimmered, shifted, shrank—and there it was. The music box clicked open. Soft notes spilled out, faintly melancholic, unmistakably personal. Dumbledore raised one brow. "Ah. Memory and melody. A powerful pairing. Very nicely done, Mr. Starborn."
Last came Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Professor Fairburn—always the sternest of our instructors—watched us silently as we entered the dueling chamber. Her robes were plain, her wand ever ready, her eyes as sharp as a hawk's. "You'll be demonstrating defensive spell chains, counter-curses, and shielding maneuvers against conjured threats. Begin when your name is called."
When mine was announced, I stepped forward and bowed to the illusionary threat conjured by Fairburn—a swirling, shadowy mass of boggart-energy designed to mimic panic and aggression. It lunged. I raised my wand, executing a tight chain: *Protego*, *Expelliarmus*, a downward slice for *Periculum* to distract, then *Incarcerous*. The form staggered and buckled under my spellwork.
Fairburn's nod was minute but unmistakable. "Your spell transitions are nearly flawless. You think on your feet. Controlled magic under pressure. Good work."
When the last bell rang, I was spent. Not exhausted, but emptied. Like I had poured everything I was into the wand and parchment, and now had only silence left in me. It wasn't unpleasant. It felt… complete.
I wandered to the edge of the Black Lake that evening, the last golden streaks of sunlight glinting off its surface. Exams were behind me, but something more meaningful lingered in my thoughts.
I thought of Eleanor, who had studied with me long into the night before our Transfiguration practical, her notes filled with diagrams and careful annotations. Of Edgar, who could turn any concept into a game, whose laughter made even the driest theory bearable. Of Henry, whose stubborn confidence had gotten us through more duels than I could count. Of Elizabeth, quick-witted and loyal, who always stood up when someone was hurting, even if it wasn't her fight.
They weren't just friends. They were *constants*—anchors in a world that shifted too quickly.
I didn't say it aloud, but I felt it in my chest as the wind rustled the reeds: whatever came next, whatever trials or shadows, I would face it stronger because of them. Because of what we'd shared, and what we'd learned—not just in classrooms, but in quiet conversations, shared meals, late-night wonderings beneath starlit ceilings.
Second year was ending. But something deeper had only just begun.