Ten o'clock at night.
The end-of-term feast had been going strong for nearly three hours, with no sign of winding down.
Delicious dishes filled everyone's stomachs, and now it was time for dessert.
Hermione held a slice of strawberry avalanche cake, slowly scraping off a layer of jam and cream with her spoon. She popped it into her mouth, eyes squinting with satisfaction.
Next to her, Harry and Ron slumped against the bench, bellies bulging, eyes glazed over as if their brains were stuffed with the roast chicken legs they'd devoured. Their plates were piled high with clean-picked bones.
Seeing most students were done eating, Melvin glanced at Professor McGonagall, raising an eyebrow in question.
McGonagall pressed her lips together and gave a slight nod.
Ding!
Melvin tapped his silver spoon against a goblet, the sharp, trembling chime drawing every eye in the Great Hall. The room fell silent.
He didn't speak right away, letting the quiet stretch across the hall. A few lively young witches and wizards opened their mouths to crack a joke but froze under the professors' stern gazes.
At the center of the staff table, Dumbledore nibbled on a caramel pudding, his bright blue eyes twinkling as he watched the young professor, clearly amused.
"The Hogwarts Express is waiting outside, ready to take you home once you've packed your trunks," Melvin said, his voice echoing through the hall. "Some things need saying before you head off for the holidays."
His gaze swept over the four house tables, pausing for a moment. "Do you know your Defense Against the Dark Arts practical exam results?"
Hermione's heart skipped, a bad feeling creeping in.
Professor Levent's slow, deliberate words, combined with the odd vibe from that exam day, led her to a grim conclusion: her first-year exam results at a magical school were probably dismal.
Other students shared her unease. The professor's serious expression and grave tone screamed bad news.
"Of the seven years at Hogwarts, five took the exam," Melvin said. "And all five years failed."
Hermione's breath caught, disbelief washing over her.
"Look at you all," Melvin continued, his voice steady. "Prefects, Quidditch captains, Student Council presidents—many of you are professors' trusted helpers, shining stars in your parents' eyes. And now, you've all failed."
"The professors worked hard to set up the exam, entrusted it to you, and this is what you made of it."
His tone was calm, almost flat, but to the students, it carried a weight of anguished disappointment. "As the one who designed the exam, I'm starting to think it's my fault. I feel I've let down the school, the headmaster, the other professors. I might as well give myself a failing grade, too."
"Professor…" Hermione's mood sank, her grip tightening on her silver spoon.
Nearby, Angelina and Alicia sat quietly, and at the Hufflepuff table, Cedric was silent. Hearing the usually friendly professor speak like this, those who took Muggle Studies felt the weight of his words.
Ahem.
McGonagall cleared her throat from the staff table, shooting Melvin a look that said, Don't overdo it. Get to the point.
Melvin, sensing a slight surge in his magical energy, pretended not to notice and continued in his slow, steady tone.
"Let's start with the first task: a dark, unknown cave. Not one of you thought to scout it out. Professor Flitwick taught you dozens of detection spells—Lumos, Revealing Charms, Flame Spells… Did any of you even toss a rock to test the path?
"You got lucky. Professor Sprout's Devil's Snare was tame and slow-moving. It didn't attack when you barged into its nest. But what if it had been Venomous Tentacula? A Whomping Willow? A viper?
"Remember the red sap on your clothes?
"If that had been venom, you'd all be dead by now.
"The entire school—wiped out!"
Melvin's voice remained calm, but his words stung. "And you still think you're ready to stand against You-Know-Who?"
"…"
Though they'd braced for bad news, hearing the professor's quiet, measured questions made the students' faces burn. They couldn't meet his eyes.
They'd been so caught up in showing off, in mimicking the heroes' adventure, that they hadn't considered the right approach.
Percy buried his head, ashamed. As a Gryffindor prefect, he'd failed to set an example, too focused on outdoing his brother Ron.
"Now, the second task: the Transfiguration chessboard," Melvin went on. "Not a single student noticed the walkway around it—wide enough for you to stroll through side by side. You didn't need to fight the pieces or make any grand sacrifices!"
"…"
A prickling sensation ran across the students' scalps, followed by Melvin's sharp rebuke.
"You thought you were heroic?
"Thought you were noble?
"All I saw was foolishness!
"Even if you insisted on playing the game, why charge in physically? Lower years might struggle with attack spells and have to solve the puzzle, but what about the upper years? Don't you know magic? Transfiguration? Or, as Professor Snape might say, are your brains clogged with Wizard's Chess pieces?"
The students and staff didn't doubt it—those were exactly the kind of biting words Snape would use.
"…"
Snape's face stiffened.
What was that? Pinning crude insults on him?
"The final task disappointed me the most," Melvin said, shaking his head slightly. "Faced with a table of unknown potions, you didn't trust the Potions knowledge you've been taught. Instead, you relied on a flimsy scrap of parchment.
"What if it had been poison? Venom?"
Sensing the students were growing numb from his magical feedback, Melvin paused, then asked in a low, eerie tone, "What if it had been sewer sludge?"
"!!!"
Eyes widened, faces paled, and disbelief rippled through the hall.
Some students reached for their drinks to calm their nerves, but the moment their lips touched their goblets, Melvin's words echoed—sewer sludge—and their stomachs churned.
Snape's eye twitched. This guy was worse than he was.
"I've heard Hogwarts is the oldest magical school, with students of exceptional quality, valued even abroad after graduation," Melvin said. "Looking at your exam performance, do you think you live up to that reputation?"
He sighed, his tone softening. "Think about it."
"…"
Silence blanketed Hogwarts that night.
McGonagall's expression was conflicted.
The students were still young—the oldest, sixth-years, were only seventeen. The wizarding world had been peaceful for years, with no wars or major dark wizard threats. With Defense Against the Dark Arts professors changing constantly, the subject lacked consistent teaching. Facing an exam like this and getting a collective failing grade—would it crush them?
She felt a pang of sympathy for the students.