In half an hour, it would be curfew, but the old Charms classroom looked as if the walls themselves were straining to hear how the meeting would end. Dusty desks were pushed against the walls, and about a dozen spectators crowded along them — a couple of Slytherins and a few curious students from other houses. Everyone understood: first-year duels were formally forbidden. But that was precisely what made them interesting. The older years had the Dueling Club for such things — boring, formal, and supervised. But we had the night, an empty corridor, and a complete lack of supervision… well, that was usually the case, but sometimes the older students did as we did.
By dueling etiquette, it all started correctly: a short bow, slightly clumsy, but executed nonetheless. The witnesses exchanged glances — protocol was observed. Then, they stepped apart, and the duel began.
"Flipendo!" Marvin shouted, and a bolt of energy shot from his wand.
"Protego!" Dexter instantly retorted, and a shield flared before him, deflecting the spell.
Without waiting, he went on the offensive:
"Stupefy!"
Burke took the spell on his Protego. Gritting his teeth, he raised his wand high:
"Fulgora!" Bright, buzzing arcs erupted from the tip, crackling through the air and forcing his opponent to cover himself. The sub-type of binding charms shattered uselessly against the wall.
Blackmore didn't falter: a step forward, a flick of the wrist.
"Flipendo!"
Marvin was thrown backward, barely keeping his feet, but he immediately fired back:
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The beam shot past, close, but Dexter dodged, sliding to the side, and almost without pause struck back:
"Stupefy!"
The spell found its mark. Marvin was thrown back a couple of meters and fell, stunned.
Reid helped his friend up, but he was still unsteady. Burke was grim, his face twisted with anger, and he seemed concussed. No wonder Stupefy was called a stunning spell.
"Rematch!" he rasped, raising his wand. "A rematch, you hear?!"
And it was at that very moment that my curse took effect. Burke's eyes rolled back, he staggered, and collapsed unconscious onto the cold stone floor.
Seconds of silence stretched, and then someone shouted:
"Twice! Blackmore put Burke to sleep twice!"
The crowd erupted, picking up the chant, and the corridor filled with a buzz of excitement. Several Slytherins clapped, Ravenclaws exchanged looks of respect, even disbelief: first-years — and the fight was almost like the older students'.
Dexter stood, not raising his arms in a victory gesture, but his gaze slid towards me. A slight nod and a short smile — sincere gratitude. And for me, that was worth more than any words. It took a while… I'll collect with interest.
He was silent the whole way back. Only at the very entrance to the dormitory did he stop and, after a slight hesitation, say:
"You… are cunning, Malfoy. Cunning, but strong. I thought you only knew words and tricks, but now I see — no."
I smirked, slowly adjusting my robes:
"Believe me, I know the value of strength as well as the value of a word. But strength without a mind is a toy. You are the winner now, Dexter. Congratulations!"
He nodded.
His gaze held exactly what I had been aiming for: respect, mixed with gratitude and a shadow of fear. And that was enough. My future "soldier" had taken his first step.
Yes, we weren't friends yet. But a bond had already formed between us, far stronger than simple liking. Now, if problems arose, he would come to me first.
We agreed to continue dueling in the evenings — exactly three times a week. On the other days, I resumed my own training, which had been pushed aside for Occlumency and then for getting closer to Blackmore. My mind now required less time, and that only meant the Slytherin had his snake back.
***
With the return of flights, Quidditch training for the school teams also resumed, and with it — matches. In the final, the Gryffindor team, to whom we had lost back in October, faced Ravenclaw and emerged victorious. Almost the entire school gathered in the stands: they chattered, argued… argued with shouts and swearing — well, what can you say, fans never change.
Our house was gloomier than usual. Graham grumbled that the referee was favoring Gryffindor, and Simon insisted the match was fixed. I listened to them with a smirk and nodded, although I understood a simple truth: sometimes you have to know how to lose. But in our common room, conversations and vows of "revenge" next year dragged on for a long time.
However, our logic was simple: Slytherins would cheer for anyone, just not Gryffindor. Especially for Ravenclaw. We had the most shared classes with them, and we interacted more closely than with other houses. And their cool-headed directness was much easier for us to get along with than the constant bravado of the Lions.
And so, amidst conversations, flights, lazy summer evenings, and the feeling that the first year at Hogwarts was inexorably coming to an end, June arrived — the month of exams.
An exhausting heat had set in. The air in the castle hung motionless and was thick like honey. Even the stone walls seemed to have warmed up and were now radiating heat back. Clothes stuck to bodies, and only our native dungeons resisted the heat — a slight coolness provided relief, but it was still a bit stuffy, like in a cellar where all the cracks had been sealed.
Such heat was a rarity for Hogwarts. I had grown accustomed to rain in any weather, to eternal dampness, to the fact that the sun here didn't stop the rain from pouring as if possessed. And especially to overcast days when it rained buckets. But not this time. The day seemed specially chosen to hinder concentration. After all, no matter how scary frost is, it's harder to think in the heat.
The painfully familiar classrooms where we had studied all year were transformed at the end of the semester. Charts and hints disappeared from the walls, portraits and notes were gone, all desks were moved far apart to prevent cheating, and the lights burned a little brighter, apparently so no one would make a mistake from failing to see a couple of letters.
Exams at Hogwarts were like a long-awaited storm: you know the clouds are gathering, the air is getting heavier, but you still hope it will pass you by. It didn't.
And this was just for us first-years. What it was like for the fifth and seventh years was terrifying to imagine: the poor guys had almost forgotten what it meant to live — they had been studying relentlessly all last semester, if not the entire year. Levicorpus to them…
It should be explained: unlike ordinary British schools, Hogwarts was divided into two semesters, not three. After the winter holidays, we had a long semester which ended with the annual exams.
The annual exams were mandatory for everyone who wanted to progress to the next year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. One exam had to be taken for each subject. The exams consisted of two parts: a theoretical section and a practical one.
The theoretical part for Charms was easy. But the practical was multi-staged. For an 'Acceptable', you needed to demonstrate half of the 12 mandatory course spells. For 'Exceeds Expectations' — all 12. And for 'Outstanding'… you also had to complete an additional improvisation task.
"So, Mr. Malfoy," Flitwick smiled and bounced quite energetically, as if the heat didn't affect him at all. "Make it dance."
I looked at the pineapple. Making an object move isn't difficult. But making it dance means imbuing the spell with rhythm, a form of movement, almost changing its shape… it sounded complicated.
Many were stumped, but not me. Firstly, I knew "Tarantallegra" — it's taught in the second year, the spell makes people dance. Of course, it wouldn't work on a fruit… but the attempt itself was a step in the right direction.
Yes, I agree — the task looked idiotic. But the point wasn't the fruit. The point was that ready-made charms didn't work here: the student was required to use imagination, the ability to apply known magic in a new way, not just repeat a learned wand movement.
"Tarantallegra," I pronounced clearly, with a slight pause on each vowel.
The pineapple jerked, as if convulsing, began to tremble, then sway from side to side, but after a few seconds the effect faded, and it froze again as if nothing had happened. It looked more pathetic than impressive.
I grimaced and, unwilling to give up, repeated the spell again, and then levitated the fruit with Levicorpus. The pineapple obediently soared into the air, and I made it sway left and right, in a rhythm, as if it were lazily rocking from side to side. I wasn't capable of more yet, but this was better than nothing.
"Excellent!" Professor Flitwick exclaimed shrilly, and his eyes shone. As always, he jumped for joy and even clapped his hands. "Splendid resourcefulness, Mr. Malfoy. That is exactly what I wanted to see: to test how clever students handle a non-standard task. Many can memorize, but not many can think."
His praise sounded pleasant, even too much so. Although I clearly understood: the fruit never truly danced. But, no matter how you look at it, the point of the task was fulfilled — I showed I could think beyond the curriculum… I hope.
In the end, I had perfect scores in both the theoretical and practical exams. Result: Outstanding.
And then it was Snape's turn.
The heat gave way to the slight cool of the dungeons. It smelled of potions and the hundreds of ingredients lining the shelves, and of the hundreds of potions brewed in recent weeks. The Potions exam was always about endurance, not just knowledge.
"Today you will brew a Potion of Temporary Forgetfulness," Snape said in an icy tone. "Let us see who is capable of thinking, and not merely repeating."
The class tensed up. Even the most confident shifted uncomfortably, trying to remember where in the recipe to add calamus infusion and where the digitalis tincture went. A mistake — and instead of a potion, you'd get something like a weak poison.
I concentrated. I knew the formulas: I'd read the theory even before the holidays. But practice is always different. I weighed the ingredients, this time not relying on estimation but pedantically, gram for gram. The fire — even, without surges. Stirring — clockwise, then twice counter-clockwise.
It had been a long time since I'd brewed myself; good thing Amanda usually handled all this, but I'd been foolish not to switch places sometimes and gain proper experience.
I could feel the tension rising: the heat and stuffiness, someone's spoons clinking against copper cauldrons, Snape moving between the rows like a shadow.
At one point, it seemed to me that Snape lingered behind my back longer than others'. As if specifically checking if my hand would tremble, if I would mix up the order. I deliberately slowed down, maintaining pauses between steps. Let him see I was confident.
And when the potion finally paled, becoming light blue, without cloudiness or sediment — I carefully set the cauldron aside.
Snape leaned over, measured the contents with his gaze. No smile, but I caught an almost imperceptible nod.
"Tolerable."
From Snape, "tolerable" meant at least 'good'. The written test had questions on topics and potions we had covered, ranging from ordinary ones, like where to find a bezoar or what wormwood flower is for, to complex ones about the necessary ingredients for the Pepperup Potion, which we would study next year, but whose brewing method we had literally discussed just half a month ago.
In the end, I got 'Outstanding' on the theory and 'Exceeds Expectations' on the practical test. Total: Outstanding.
The next exam was Transfiguration. We were given a couple of days between each exam, which we mostly spent preparing… well, "we" — I mean those who study. There were children, especially among the younger years, who didn't care and just rested from the school year, but not me and not my group.
I prepared, despite all my words. The theory at least needed to be reviewed, and it was not in vain that I did it, especially before Transfiguration. McGonagall had done a good job and created an extensive and difficult test that truly checked knowledge of most of what we had covered.
***
Minerva came to the office early, for today was an important day. Professor McGonagall always prepared for the exam session in advance and very thoroughly. At times it seemed to her that in the whole school, only Professor Snape approached exams with the same seriousness. But the widespread success of Slytherin in his classes hinted that Severus pursued his own goals, and exams for him were merely a good opportunity to vex the students he disliked.
By a fortunate coincidence, in most cases these "unfortunates" turned out to be students from her own house, and Minerva stubbornly failed to understand why she didn't allow herself to return fire, since she treated the hostile house the same as the others! But these, of course, were just rare thoughts that visited her only during staff meetings, when Severus allowed himself to smugly savor the results of his poor teaching.
Stacking the notebooks on the desk and making sure the classroom was clean, Minerva took out her wand.
With the first short flick, she made a couple of wet rags clean the boards of writing. The second flick of her wand lit all the lamps along the walls, and the third opened the window shutters.
Primly straightening the folds of her robes, the witch took her place at the desk and began laying out the versions for the upcoming exam. Today was an important day, and everything had to go flawlessly.
***
Variant one. This was the variant I got, but my attention was drawn to the professor. McGonagall was radiant today, as befits an energy vampire, for there would be much negative energy today. The test was no more difficult than Snape's, even the advanced section was easy for me, but not for others.
The basic questions covered the easiest topics, like the ideal distance for transfiguration or the postulates of elementary transfiguration and their formulas, while the advanced block included questions that required thinking, remembering, and imagining.
For example, by which postulate the spell 'Foris Calix' was composed, and then a chain of spells using that formula.
This touched upon the topic of one of the extremely interesting Transfiguration lessons we had in the second semester.
Transfiguration is a serious matter. Not just "wave a wand — and it's done," but precise formulas, principles, and control. This was especially felt during the exam.
The practical part involved transforming inanimate objects into others as instructed by Professor McGonagall. First — simple exercises, like changing color or material, and then that very high-difficulty task from the end of the first-year textbook. Animate to inanimate: turning a mouse into a snuffbox.
It seemed like nothing special. But it's precisely on such tasks that you can immediately see who is working carelessly and who is capable of perfecting a transfiguration. The neater and more aesthetically pleasing the snuffbox, the higher the marks. The slightest bit of fur, whiskers, or a tail — and that's it, the grade wouldn't be an 'Outstanding', and I needed an 'Outstanding', for prestige and for internal self-affirmation.
I took a deep breath and gathered myself. The postulates of transfiguration surfaced in my mind: mass → form → function → completion. Everything had to be seamless, without jerks, otherwise the object would "run" and turn into something pitiful.
The wand traced a clear arc in the air, I channeled magic into the movement and uttered the formula.
The mouse quivered. Its body elongated, its fur retracted inward, its paws merged into the sides, its tail disappeared. Before me appeared a snuffbox made of ebony, with smooth silver swirls on the lid and a perfectly smooth surface.
For a moment, I held my gaze and allowed myself a small liberty — a barely noticeable Malfoy monogram appeared on the lid, visible only in good light. An extra touch, not for the grade, but for myself.
McGonagall approached. She picked up the snuffbox, examined it from all sides, let her gaze linger on the lid, even ran her finger over the silver swirls. Several long seconds of silence — and only then did she nod.
"Outstanding, Mr. Malfoy," she said dryly. But her voice held that rare intonation which, for her, meant she was very pleased with the result.
I merely inclined my head slightly, hiding my inner satisfaction.