As the feast ended, everyone returned to their dormitories.
Hermione lay in her four-poster bed, hands resting on the edge of her quilt. She heard Lavender yawn, followed by a contented sigh, her breathing soon settling into a steady rhythm. Parvati's bed rustled as she fidgeted, always taking a while to find the perfect sleeping position.
This night felt no different from the three hundred or so before it. They'd drift off under the starlight of the Scottish Highlands. But Hermione couldn't sleep, unsure if it was Professor Lewent's scolding in the Great Hall or the fact that the school year was ending.
Soon, she'd return to Hampstead Garden in suburban London, unable to cast magic for two and a half months.
Parvati, in the next bed, wasn't asleep either, her breathing uneven.
"Hermione… Hermione…"
Her hushed voice broke the quiet. "I heard you got full marks on all your other exams but failed the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical. Is that true?"
"Yeah."
The final grades had been released. The young witch topped her year by a wide margin. Harry and Ron also passed with high marks, while Neville barely scraped by, his Potions score slightly offset by his knack for Herbology.
"Don't worry about it. I bet Professor Lewent rigged it to mess with us. Even Aurors would've failed that one."
Hermione didn't reply in the darkness. If it had been Professor McGonagall or Flitwick running the exam, the whole school wouldn't have flunked in such a ridiculous farce. But with Professor Lewent, somehow, it didn't feel surprising.
She curled deeper into her blankets, catching a glimpse of starlight through the window, like frost against the deep teal night sky.
The young witch began to reflect on her misguided thoughts, agreeing with her roommate. Failing this exam wasn't entirely her fault.
It was all Professor Lewent's doing.
---
At dawn, by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the groundskeeper and his dog stirred. In the faint morning light, Hagrid brushed his teeth while Fang scampered around the hut, occasionally barking but mostly letting out low whines.
Hagrid pulled a packet of pest repellent from the woodpile in his yard and sprinkled it over his pumpkin patch. He cleared vines from the fence, checked everything was in order, locked the door, and headed toward the castle.
Fang, clutching Hagrid's pink umbrella in his mouth, trotted after him, nudging Hagrid's legs with his head.
Hagrid wiped the drool off the umbrella on his coat and ruffled Fang's head. "I've sorted it with Ronan and the others. You'll hunt with them over the summer. They'll share the roasted meat and stew—plenty to keep you stuffed. If you get bored of centaur food, head to the castle. Mr. Filch won't let you starve, and the kitchen house-elves will fix you something."
"Woof…"
Fang wagged his tail, short legs scampering down the path into the depths of the Forbidden Forest, his barks high-pitched.
Not a moment was spared mourning his master's departure—the next two months were a joyful holiday of hunting and feasting.
---
The Great Hall still sported Gryffindor's colors, but breakfast was far quieter than the previous night's feast, filled only with the clink of plates and cups.
The four Heads of House handed out holiday notices to each student. In the blink of an eye, the young witches and wizards packed their trunks, sorted their bookbags, and followed Hagrid out the gates to board the red train waiting at the platform.
Toot! Toot!
The whistle startled the countryside. The wheels began to turn, rolling over the morning dew on the tracks. The Hogwarts Express slowly set off, heading toward the Muggle world.
On the grassy banks of the Black Lake, Melvin watched the white steam dissipate, blending into the sky's clouds.
"Time for us to set off too," Professor Kettleburn said with a chuckle, giving the tall winged horses beside him a light tap with a hemp-woven whip.
The three chestnut-maned horses snorted in protest, lowering their heads to nudge him, prompting a few laughing curses. "You daft beasts! I got up at dawn to feed you Romanian hay and Three Broomsticks mead, and now you're full and still kicking back when I give you a tap?"
Melvin studied the sturdy winged horses.
Before Floo Networks and Portkeys became common, winged horse carriages were the main mode of wizard transport, and they hadn't entirely vanished.
There were many breeds, each with unique traits. Hogwarts kept Thestrals, Beauxbatons had Abraxans, Ilvermorny's mountains housed Granians, and these three were Kettleburn's personal stock—Ethanan breed. Their reddish-brown manes and robust builds resembled the legendary sweat-blood horses, rumored to carry dragon blood. They ate only fresh grass grown in dragon dung and loved fruit brandy.
Since today's journey was long, Kettleburn had fed them mead instead, which seemed to leave the horses a bit grumpy.
As Kettleburn hitched the harness and ropes, he said, "I'm telling you, Melvin, we're only using the Ethanan carriage because you're stopping in Budapest. When I go to Romania alone, I just use a Portkey. Been there so many times, I don't even need entry papers."
Melvin grinned. "I thought you were the type other countries banned as a dangerous character."
"Haha! I'm not Newt Scamander."
"You're retiring next year, right, Professor?"
"How'd you know? Did Albus tell you?"
"Something like that."
"Gotta accept getting old. When I was young, I could lose an arm or leg and keep going. Now my bones are brittle, and I can barely keep up with those creatures in class."
"You may not wrangle magical beasts anymore, but you can still spot a shady dark wizard. I heard during the Christmas holidays you were onto Quirrell. Did you notice something off?"
Kettleburn teased the horses, grinning. "No hard proof, just a feeling. Spending years with magical creatures, you pick up on real emotions. Some beasts are wild but harmless—you can pet them no problem. Others seem tame but are ready to bite. Wizards are the same."
Melvin nodded slightly.
Professor Kettleburn's daredevil lifestyle—chasing magical creatures in the wild, dealing in contraband with dark wizards—relied on his sharp instincts to survive this long.
The Ethanans calmly let the harness be fitted, their dark eyes lively, as if plotting something.
"Melvin! Professor Kettleburn!"
Ripples spread across the calm lake, the ground trembling slightly as the towering half-giant jogged over, clutching a small bear plushie, his pink umbrella tucked into his belt, looking comically absurd.
After seeing the students off to the train, Hagrid rushed over, not out of fear of missing them but pure excitement. "I'm here! I'm here!"
Spotting the three winged horses, Hagrid's eyes widened. "These are Ethanans, right? Look at those muscles—gorgeous!"
He reached to touch their trapezius muscles, only to get a tail-whip in response. Unfazed, he grabbed the tail, cheekily stroking it, and promptly got a back-kick from a hoof.
A normal wizard would've been sent flying, but Hagrid's half-giant durability held up. It still hurt, though.
"Ow…"
Hissing in pain, he still tried to sidle closer to the horses.
"Adorable little guys!"
His shameless antics made Melvin laugh.
Kettleburn, finishing the harness, watched Hagrid's interaction with the horses and grinned with relief. "Alright, let's hit the road!"
The mahogany carriage was finely crafted, adorned with gold and silver inlays—though closer inspection revealed the "gold" was brass.
The carriage roof was shorter than Hagrid, but inside, it opened into a space nearly as large as the Great Hall. It was a bit messy, with hay-strewn carpets, feeding troughs, and tack piled up, leaving only a few chairs by the windows.
"Go!"
The iron-rimmed wooden wheels rolled over the damp grass. The carriage moved slowly at first, then lifted off, soaring over the Black Lake toward the distant mountains.
Back at the castle's eighth floor, a window was half-open. The silver-bearded headmaster and his phoenix leaned out, watching them go, a smile tugging at their lips.
In the office, the deputy headmistress diligently reported, "This year's work summary has been sent to the Board of Governors. Mr. Malfoy didn't say much, but he wants to meet Melvin and Severus. Melvin's schedule is tight, so I postponed it. Severus flat-out refused."
"…"
Dumbledore's smile widened at the news.
"No rush on the start-of-term preparations. The priority is the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Mr. Guffy wrote last week asking when the job posting will go out."
McGonagall spoke gravely, "Headmaster, you saw the mess Melvin caused. We can't keep posting last-minute ads for professors every year. We need a solution."
"I've got someone in mind."
Dumbledore pulled a beautifully bound book from the shelf—Magical Me. The wizard on the cover beamed brightly.
"Gilderoy Lockhart."
McGonagall's thick brows furrowed slightly. She'd heard of the bestselling author and wasn't fond of his flamboyance, but his books suggested he was qualified for the role.
Were those exploits really his, though?
"No other candidates?"
"I believe the students will learn a lot from Professor Lockhart—not just from books."
"…"
After McGonagall left, Dumbledore sat at his desk, pulling out a sapphire-encrusted diadem. His blue eyes reflected its enigmatic glow.
He'd learned some details about Voldemort's Horcrux creation process. It was unlikely Voldemort used a Founder's relic from the start. Digging deeper, the number of Horcruxes might exceed his estimates.
Even the simplest Horcrux required splitting the soul.
The soul was the root of a wizard's magic. For Voldemort to tear his soul multiple times yet retain consciousness, sanity, and even grow stronger was extraordinary.
According to Nicolas Flamel, Melvin might hold the key to unraveling this mystery.
Both seemed tied to Salazar Slytherin.
How much had that Founder left behind?
Dumbledore fell into quiet thought, his right hand resting on the chair's arm, tapping absently.
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