Chapter 67
Time seemed to race forward with the chorus of cicadas, the air turning thick and heavy with summer heat. The sun claimed the sky, bathing the world in bright, unfiltered light.
End-of-year exams arrived right on schedule. Students entered the classrooms with pounding hearts and nervous anticipation, yet once they sat down and faced the questions, a strange calm settled over them. Some even turned to gaze out at the distant blue sky, daydreaming about the summer holidays ahead.
Gray felt the same—though nerves were not part of it for him.
The History of Magic exam felt the most like the ones he remembered from his previous life. They were shut inside a stifling classroom, armed with identical anti-cheating quills. Desks were spaced far apart; no talking, no glances—Professor Binns forbade even eye contact.
For a moment, Gray almost believed he was back sitting his college entrance exams.
But the questions on the parchment quickly grounded him. No Muggle exam would ever ask for the name and founding date of the Magical Empire, or the reasons for its decline and fall.
Other topics included the founding date and core principles of the Werewolf Council, attitudes of medieval wizards toward Muggles, and the causes of the goblin rebellions.
None of these posed any difficulty for Gray. He answered steadily. The only question that gave him pause was one:
''What is the true nature of the magical world, and what are the underlying principles by which magic operates? (10 marks)''
The question went far too deep for a first-year to answer properly. There was almost certainly no official correct response.
In all the books Gray had read over the past year, the matter was only ever approached indirectly—never with a firm conclusion.
He suspected this was one of those mark-damping, observational questions: the professors probably didn't expect a real answer. They just wanted to see what students would attempt. Even the staff might not have a definitive theory themselves.
Gray considered it for a moment, sighed, and began to write whatever came to mind.
He did have some ideas, but there was no need to show off too much. No one else would get it right either, and this single question wouldn't affect anyone's final grade.
The Charms exam was practical. Professor Flitwick called students in one by one and asked them to perform the spells they had learned that year. Marks were awarded based on the quality and ease of execution.
The main scoring came from Wingardium Leviosa, Incendio, and the Softening Charm. The more effortlessly and precisely these were cast, the higher the mark—at least an O (Outstanding) if done well. The remaining points came from spells like Alohomora and Colloportus.
Gray earned full marks, naturally. When he cast each one non-verbally—controlling the magic as precisely as moving his own fingers—Professor Flitwick's eyes widened, his mouth falling open in astonishment.
"You will receive full marks, I assure you," Flitwick said warmly, scribbling 100 on the grading parchment. "You have more than lived up to Professor Dumbledore's expectations. And I can see, my boy, how much effort you have put in."
"Thank you, Professor Flitwick," Gray replied. A small cluster of light points appeared, hovering politely in front of the professor.
"You deserve it. I am very proud of you, child," Flitwick said.
"That's all for you. Would you mind sending in Mr Weasley as you leave?"
Gray nodded, stepped out, gave an encouraging nod to the anxious trio, and gestured for Ron to go in.
Ron shuffled inside looking miserable. A short while later he emerged looking even worse.
"Messed it up," he muttered. "The pineapple just danced in place, then when I tried to soften the floor to catch it, the charm failed and it smashed. And Incendio was barely a few sparks."
"Oh, Ron, don't worry," Harry said. "It'll be fine. Everyone's doing badly. Professor Flitwick will probably go easy on us."
"Yeah, well, hope you're still saying that when it's your turn," Ron replied. "You're next, Harry."
Harry's face paled. He walked in stiffly, limbs rigid with nerves.
Gray exchanged a glance with Hermione and shrugged.
The two of them were the least worried. Hermione had started out a little tense, but seeing Gray's calm composure helped her relax.
"Well, I did my absolute best," Hermione said when she finally came out, her expression a mix of disappointment and relief. "But I only got ninety."
She had expected at least ninety-five—every charm had been cast accurately, without a single mistake.
Apparently Professor Flitwick had other ideas.
The Transfiguration exam followed a similar practical format: turn a mouse into a snuffbox. Gray completed the task flawlessly.
Though his main focus had been on Charms, he had practised Transfiguration regularly too. It simply wasn't his current priority, so he hadn't pushed it as hard.
Potions required brewing a Forgetfulness Potion.
The first-years looked as though they had already drunk it—especially Harry and Ron. Under Snape's icy, piercing stare, their minds went completely blank; everything they had memorised vanished.
Fortunately, Snape didn't linger over them. When Gray raised his hand to indicate he had finished, Snape moved away from the pair and came to stand beside Gray's cauldron.
"Very… very good," Snape murmured, inspecting the smooth grey-green liquid. Not a single impurity floated within; the proportions were perfect, the timing and technique impeccable.
For once, genuine admiration coloured his voice. He met Gray's dark eyes—eyes so like his own—and said, "A truly exceptional talent. If you were to devote yourself to Potions, the honours you would win would rival even Dumbledore's."
"Thank you very much, Professor Snape," Gray replied neutrally, without committing.
"I hope you consider it seriously. You are intelligent—not like certain idiots." Snape whipped around, his gaze cold and contemptuous as it fixed on Harry and Ron.
Cold sweat prickled down their backs. Whatever memories had briefly returned were wiped away again. Their potions were only half-finished.
But they couldn't stop now. They gritted their teeth, dumped in whatever ingredients remained, and completed the brews.
The potions gave off a foul odour and turned a nauseating, unnatural colour—but they were finished.
Snape strode over, peered into their cauldrons, and sneered.
"If either of you were willing to drink your concoctions, I might consider awarding full marks," he said, staring at Ron until the boy dropped his gaze in shame.
Snape turned to Harry. For a moment, something flickered in his expression as he looked into those vivid green eyes.
"But of course you wouldn't dare. A pity. Sixty marks each. Likely the lowest score in the first year—but entirely fitting."
He walked away without another word, moving on to the next finished cauldron.
Harry and Ron stared at each other in disbelief.
They had passed!
If they hadn't still been in the classroom, they might have hugged and cheered.
"Miss Granger—ninety-five. Acceptable," Snape announced from across the room.
The temperature in the dungeon seemed to drop several degrees, yet everyone's spirits rose like the steady blue flame of an alcohol lamp.
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