The last O.W.L.s paper was History of Magic.
When the last grains in the great hourglass before Professor Marchbanks ran out, she rose and called, brisk and ringing, "Quills down, everyone. This examination is finished!"
Astoria set her quill aside and, unwilling to let go, gave her paper one final, lingering look.
That was it, then. Whatever lay on those pages was fixed now.
If she was honest, she didn't think she'd done well.
A fly had been droning against one of the high windows, a thin, maddening whine that snagged at her concentration. It took a small eternity to shut it out and lock onto the questions.
The paper itself had come harsher than she'd expected. Whole sections asked after things Professor Binns barely touched in lessons, while not a single one of her carefully revised "key points" had appeared.
Missing nearly half a year of classes probably had something to do with it.
And today, she just hadn't been at her best.
On the sixth fill‑in‑the‑blank—name five principal participants in the Giants' Wars—Astoria had racked her brains and managed only three: Bran the Bloodthirsty, Hengist of Upper Barnton, and Kukropos. Two blanks stayed stubbornly empty.
On the second essay—In your view, did the Wand Ordinance precipitate, or help better control, the eighteenth‑century goblin uprisings?—she hadn't found the words, skipped it to come back later, and then never did. She only remembered after the hourglass had emptied that one question was still blank.
And the final essay—Give a detailed account of Emeric the Evil's life and deeds—she had written in exhaustive detail. Only, thinking back now, she was fairly sure she'd mixed up Emeric the Evil with Uric the Oddball, and set down Uric's life by mistake.
"This is a disaster." Astoria tapped herself lightly on the temple, muttering, "Why couldn't I have thought of it sooner?"
Too late to change it. Professor Marchbanks was already moving down the rows, and Astoria watched as she lifted the parchment from before her.
Astoria sighed and looked round.
A few faces wore the same pinched worry she felt. Most of the room, though, had already begun to celebrate. At least until results arrived in late July, they could be perfectly, gloriously irresponsible for a month.
"Breathe, Greengrass." She fished a small mirror from her pocket and smiled at her own reflection. "What now… go find Jon."
…
Hogwarts, eighth floor, the Headmaster's Office.
It was midday, and Jon Hart did not appear to have had any time for lunch.
"Professor Merrythought says the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts post has been entirely resolved," announced one of the former Heads from his frame, measured and serene.
"That is excellent news." A genuine brightness lit Jon's face. "Bringing Professor Merrythought back was clearly the right call."
"And," the old head continued in the same steady tone, "Professor Merrythought asks me to tender her resignation. Her health will not stand continued high‑intensity teaching."
Jon's smile went out. He muttered, half to the frame, half to himself, "You might have led with that."
It was a tidy little problem. Four or five years ago it had already become difficult to lure a qualified Defence Against the Dark Arts professor to Hogwarts. Word of the curse on the post had gone round the British wizarding world ages ago. Respectable witches and wizards rarely accepted the invitation.
Still, with the examinations done, the year was effectively over. He had two or three months before the new term.
All the same, this time he needed someone with serious calibre and a solid hand. With the curse gone, the job was no longer a revolving door.
He finished drafting a recruitment notice in a clear hand and reached for Fawkes to set the seal when footsteps sounded on the spiral staircase.
Only Astoria could come up without the password.
He remembered, then, that the last O.W.L.s had been this morning.
The door opened with a soft creak, and Astoria slipped in.
Jon had just had Fawkes fix the office seal to the notice. While he folded the parchment into an envelope, ready to send by owl to the offices of The Daily Prophet, he glanced up and smiled at her.
"How did it go?"
The smile that had been hovering on Astoria's face fell at once. "Jon," she said quietly, "I wrote Emeric the Evil's life wrong."
"Emeric the Evil—who's that?" Jon blinked.
His blank look made her snort, despite herself.
"Oh—right." Jon caught up a beat later. "The medieval wizard who terrorised the south of England, nickname 'Emeric the Evil'."
As he spoke, his eyes flicked to the Elder Wand lying on his desk. If the records were sound, Emeric had once held it.
"You mixed Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball, didn't you?" Jon asked suddenly.
"How did you know?" Astoria stared, startled.
"Easy guess." Jon's mouth quirked. "When we did that bit in first year, Professor Binns mixed them up. I spent half an hour in the books sorting it properly."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Astoria pouted.
"I didn't know the O.W.L.s would ask for it." Jon spread his hands. "If I sat O.W.L.s, though, I can promise this much—History of Magic would be an O."
"Don't show off. I'm miserable."
"What for? You're not planning to take History of Magic for sixth year, are you?" Jon said mildly. "Even if you wanted to, Binns usually only asks for an A on the O.W.L.s to carry on. You're not going to fall below Acceptable."
That did seem to help. Some of the tightness went out of her shoulders.