Today was the final day. No more morning exams—this one was scheduled for the afternoon.
Once this subject was over, everyone would finally be free.
Results would be delivered by owl to each examinee in July.
John stepped into the examination hall, taking the same seat as before. His eyes landed on the back of Goyle's head.
Marchbanks flipped the hourglass over, signaling the start of the exam.
As the students turned over their papers, quills began scratching softly against the parchment.
Everyone just wanted to finish as soon as possible—so they could collapse into a good, long sleep.
The stifling summer heat, combined with the dizzying exam questions, made a bead of sweat drip from a student's nose.
He fumbled to wipe it away.
John didn't rush to start answering.
Instead, he looked around the room with what almost seemed like reluctant affection. He saw Goyle scratching his head, completely stumped.
Malfoy was raking his fingers through his hair, as if he could shake the answers loose from his scalp.
Hermione was seriously and meticulously measuring the spacing between her words and lines with a ruler.
Harry seemed spaced out—probably because a large bumblebee outside the window kept banging its head against the glass, making a constant thudding noise.
Ron was different—there was a kind of calm surrender in him, as if he were leaving all the answers to fate regardless of whether they were right or wrong.
John couldn't quite explain how Ron managed to wear an expression that was both confident and guilty, lucky and uncertain, all at once.
Daphne dipped the quill John had given her into ink and focused on writing her answers on the parchment.
As top students, both Hermione and Daphne only paused occasionally to think.
The others, however, racked their brains for answers that wouldn't come, eventually giving up and resorting to guesswork.
John took it all in—every different face, every reaction.
Then he began to write.
His pace was slower than usual. After every few lines, a cough escaped his lips.
It wasn't loud, but in the quiet Great Hall, it echoed.
Marchbanks shifted her gaze to John. She had already found herself impressed by this boy more than once during her invigilation.
"Maybe just a mild flu," she thought.
Even though it wasn't flu season, Marchbanks didn't dwell on it.
John's coughing wasn't disturbing anyone else, so she let it be.
Minute by minute, time passed. An hour later, John put down his quill.
His eyes scanned over the questions and answers one by one.
Did wand legislation help facilitate or merely allow for better control over the goblin rebellion of the eighteenth century?
In what ways was the Statute of Secrecy violated in 1749, and what measures were taken afterward to prevent similar incidents?
Please elaborate the...
...
He looked at the answers below each question as if admiring a work of art.
Neatly written in flowing round script on the parchment, the dried ink gave the page a unique elegance, like a poet's verse rather than an exam sheet.
Placing his quill beside the parchment, he let his thoughts go blank.
The soft scratching of quills across parchment actually had a lulling effect.
For those with weaker willpower, it could be incredibly draining.
John closed his eyes and let the sensation wash over him for a moment, then slowly raised his hand.
At that instant, every examiner in the hall turned their gaze toward him.
The closest was Professor Tofty. His eyes moved to John, and his voice rang out, firm and full of authority, "Wick, what's the matter?"
Tofty's voice brought the rustling of quills to a halt. Students looked up and turned their heads toward John.
John answered honestly, "I'm feeling a bit unwell."
"If it's just a little discomfort, you'd best tough it out," Tofty advised. "The exam's nearly over."
He thought John would obediently sit back down, but John had no such intention.
"I think I need to head to the hospital wing, Professor."
John's response left Tofty somewhat disappointed—he felt the student didn't even have that much patience.
Even though John had demonstrated a level of talent during the exam that had astonished him, at this moment, Tofty's expression darkened.
"Fine, fine. I hope it's really because you're unwell, and not because you're trying to sneak off to the hospital wing to find a hidden copy of A History of Magic. Students have tried that trick before," Tofty said grumpily.
John looked at him, a smile tugging at his lips as he chuckled softly. "You don't have to worry about that."
Tofty was about to walk over and collect his parchment, his footsteps heavy—but suddenly he stopped in his tracks.
That annoyed expression on his face turned into one of horror.
"I think you might have to escort me there, Professor," John said, as black veins spread across his face and black blood began to seep from his eyes.
It was like something out of a horror film.
He smiled calmly. "If you could hurry, that would be great."
Black blood poured from his mouth, not a trace of red in sight.
"Get him to the hospital wing, now!"
Tofty let out a terrified shout. "Hang in there, kid!"
The ink on Daphne's quill dripped onto the parchment, but she didn't react.
Malfoy stared blankly in that direction, his brain seemingly frozen.
The Great Hall was deathly silent, the only sound was the panicked footsteps of Tofty and a few other examiners rushing out with John.
"Sit down and continue the exam!" Marchbanks, with her wealth of experience, finally stepped up to command the room, urging the other students to resume the test.
But after that incident, most were clearly distracted.
Daphne tried several times to pick up her fallen quill, but no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't manage it.
A wave of panic had seized her entire body.
Then came the sound of a chair crashing over—it was Malfoy.
He didn't care about the exam anymore and bolted after the group.
And he wasn't alone. Nearly all the Slytherin students stood up as well.
"Sit down!"
Daphne knew—this was the moment she had to uphold her promise.
With a sharp command, the Slytherin students froze in place.
Daphne forced herself to stay calm. "Keep going with the exam. John's fine—this kind of thing is nothing to him."
The Slytherin students recalled all the things John had done in the past. One by one, they sat back down.
All except Malfoy—he couldn't hear anyone at that point.
Marchbanks waved her wand and collected two exam papers.
When she saw John's, she couldn't help but sigh—it looked like a work of art.
Malfoy's, on the other hand, was only half-finished.
...
Harry's mind was a mess. He had been trying to think of the answer to question ten.
He'd just remembered that the first Confederation meeting was held in France.
But then, he heard John request to go to the hospital wing.
And after that—his face veined with black, the black blood—it all left Harry completely shaken.
He wanted to say, That's John Wick—how could something be wrong with him?
But… but that scene kept replaying in his mind like a film.
Even if it had been just a regular student—if it had been Malfoy, even—it would've been impossible to forget.
Harry forced himself to focus on the exam again. The soft scratching of quills filled the Great Hall once more.
The sand in the hourglass kept trickling down, and Harry silently counted the grains.
Gradually, something began to change in the hourglass.
The endlessly falling sand formed a dim, cool corridor.
The Department of Mysteries!
Harry found himself walking through it, his steps firm and resolute.
He seemed to be in a rather good mood, even breaking into a light jog now and then.
The black door opened just like it had the last few times, and he stood once again in that circular room filled with many doorways.
Without hesitation, he strode across the stone floor.
He passed through the second door.
Patches of light flickered, just like the ones reflected from the Pensieve onto Snape's office walls.
Strange ticking and beeping sounds echoed in the room, but he didn't stop to investigate.
There wasn't time.
He passed through the third door.
A room full of shelves and glass spheres appeared—just like the last time he'd entered. It looked like a vast cathedral.
He walked steadily between the shelves, stopping in front of Row Ninety-Seven.
Then he turned left.
He continued deeper.
At the end of the aisle, something animal-like was writhing.
The dim lighting in the room made it impossible to clearly see what it was.
And then, as the protagonist of the dream, Harry spoke in a cold, shrill voice.
He couldn't believe that voice had come from him—there wasn't a trace of human kindness in it.
"Go fetch it for me. Now!"
"Take it down. I can't touch it—but you can."
He ordered the dark figure on the floor, and when it didn't move, he cruelly pulled out a wand.
That pale, slender hand raised the wand and mercilessly uttered a spell known for its agony.
"Crucio!"
The creature let out a scream of pain and collapsed, writhing.
"The Dark Lord is waiting."
The man on the floor trembled violently, clearly in agony.
And when he lifted his head, he revealed a face Harry knew all too well.
Sirius Black.
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