It was an old Hogwarts truth, whispered nervously by students year after year: once Easter had passed, the final exams were already breathing down your neck. The reality of this prophecy arrived in mid-June.
The heat was immediate and punishing, trapped beneath the castle's thick, ancient stone. With every student crammed into examination rooms, the air grew thick and still, turning the experience into a sweaty, suffocating ordeal.
The Written Exam for Charms, held first at the customary time of 9:30 a.m., was overseen by Professor McGonagall. Students were seated at individual desks, meticulously arranged, each supplied with pristine parchment, a fresh quill, and an inkwell.
These materials were supposedly treated with powerful anti-cheating charms, a fact Albert Anderson found mildly amusing. As arguably the most prepared, and certainly the most strategically inclined, student in the room, he knew those charms were trivial roadblocks at best.
As Professor McGonagall ceremoniously inverted a large, silver hourglass to start the two-hour clock, Albert's inner screen flashed:
Quest Update:
You are a recognized genius among this year's freshmen. As such, you must demonstrate results commensurate with your talent. Achieve Excellent results on all your exams and prove that this standardized testing is beneath your exceptional abilities.
Reward: 1400 experience points.
Albert pursed his lips. A rather egotistical task, he mused, glancing casually to his right at Katrina Carrow, seated four rows over. She was already reading the questions, her brow furrowed in concentration, the tip of her quill hovering impatiently.
He turned to his own paper. The questions were, as expected, straightforward applications of first-year theory:
a) Write the incantation for the Levitation Charm and briefly explain its magical principle;
b) Detail the proper wand movement required to successfully cast the charm.
"Hmm. Even simpler than anticipated," he muttered softly.
It took Albert just over thirty minutes to flawlessly transcribe every answer onto the parchment. He then spent five minutes meticulously reviewing his work, ensuring every flourish and detail was correct—an Outstanding was guaranteed.
With ninety minutes still left on the clock, Albert gently placed his quill on the desk, flipped his parchment face-down, and leaned back, resting his head on his crossed arms.
He slept.
The Gryffindor at the desk behind him, an easily distracted boy named Perkins, was initially shocked, then deeply envious. He had heard the stories about Albert Anderson—the youngest genius, the Quidditch prodigy who sealed the cup, the one who constantly caused Snape headaches.
But actually seeing him take a nap during the most important exam of the year was a different level of audacity entirely. Did he really finish? Is his exam different from ours? the student wondered, nervously comparing his own slow, labored writing to the profound stillness of the boy in front of him.
After about fifteen minutes of this serene slumber, Professor McGonagall glided silently toward Albert's desk, her lips pressed into a thin, displeased line. The sight of a student sleeping during a final exam was a transgression of decorum, genius or not.
Albert, sensing the subtle shift in the room's atmosphere, raised his head just as she reached him. Without a word, he simply pointed at the inverted parchment on his desk. McGonagall hesitated, then picked up the sheet. Her eyes, sharper than anyone in the room, scanned the dense, precise script and the technically perfect diagrams.
She immediately recognized the work of a master student. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she placed the parchment back down, face-down, and gave Albert an infinitesimally small nod of permission.
Albert accepted the concession, sinking back into his nap. Early departure was strictly forbidden to avoid distracting others, but clearly, McGonagall had decided that allowing Albert to sleep quietly for the remainder of the session was the lesser of two evils compared to keeping him awake and restless.
When the final buzzer sounded, Fred and George Weasley, along with Lee Jordan, descended on Albert, their faces mixtures of exhausted despair and disbelief.
"You actually slept for an entire hour and a half!" Fred griped, shaking Albert slightly.
"Are the exams for the certified geniuses different?" George asked, still rubbing his wrist from the furious writing.
Albert, feeling entirely refreshed, merely handed George the rolled-up parchment. "Have a look. It was quite simple."
Lee Jordan groaned weakly. "Simple? Albert, I think I failed the second half of the question on the Lumos Solem incantation entirely!"
"As long as you paid consistent attention in class, took thorough notes, and reviewed the material more than twice, an Outstanding grade should have been well within reach," Albert observed, his expression radiating mild disappointment in their lack of focus.
All three roommates lunged, attempting to stifle his cruel, effortless superiority. "Shut up! Don't mention studying again until the results are posted!" Lee growled, wrestling with Albert.
The afternoon brought the Practical Charms Exam. Professor Flitwick conducted the tests one student at a time, in alphabetical order, meaning Albert was once again the first subject.
The challenge was a delicate and complex task designed to test focus under distraction: successfully casting the Jinx-Deflection Charm on a pineapple while simultaneously tap-dancing on a large, mahogany desk.
It was a rigorous assessment of controlled movement, verbal precision, and magical concentration. Albert, leveraging his previous life's experience with physical coordination and his complete mastery of the spell, executed the entire sequence flawlessly, concluding with a precise tap-step that earned a delighted squeal from the little professor.
The next day, the Transfiguration Exam presented a written paper, which Albert dispatched in his usual manner, followed by the practical assessment: transfiguring a live mouse into an elegant, silver snuffbox. The scoring was subjective but clear: perfection meant a smooth, polished box, ideally bearing the Hogwarts crest.
Any remaining sign of the mouse—a twitching tail, faint whiskers, or a squeak—meant deductions. Albert's final creation was a brilliant, shimmering silver box, pristine and cold to the touch, which earned a silent nod from McGonagall, who, after witnessing his charm work, didn't even bother to comment on his early completion of the written paper.
Fred, naturally, lamented later that his snuffbox had lost five points because, as he put it, "the edges still smelt faintly of cheese."
The most dreaded practical exam, however, was Potions. The task was to brew a Forgetfulness Potion within a two-hour window. This potion itself was not inherently difficult; the syllabus had only covered a handful of brews all year. The difficulty lay entirely in the invigilator: Severus Snape.
Snape patrolled the dungeon with the relentless scrutiny of a vulture, his black robes billowing, his soft, dangerous voice occasionally hissing a critique or a warning.
When he stopped right behind a student, that student immediately suffered a negative "Buff": their heart rate surged, their hands shook, their focus fractured, and inevitably, a crucial ingredient would be minced incorrectly or added too soon. The environment was engineered to induce failure.
Albert, however, maintained a serene, almost meditative focus. He followed the recipe with mechanical precision, his internal clock managing the stirring intervals and heat regulation. When Snape approached, Albert simply moved with an even greater economy of motion, denying the professor any opportunity to inject doubt.
The resulting potion was a clear, shimmering lilac liquid—perfectly brewed. Even Snape, after a minute of intense, silent inspection, could only glide away without comment, unable to find a single, deductible error.
The final exam was, thankfully, the famously tedious History of Magic taught by the ghost Professor Binns. Albert had memorized all the key dates and political treaties. When Binns's faint, droning voice finally instructed the class to put down their quills and roll up their parchment, a massive, collective cheer of relief erupted—the end of the first-year exams had officially arrived.
A week of blessed, unscheduled freedom stretched ahead before the results would be announced at the end-of-year feast.
"Come on, lads, my treat," Albert announced, eager to get outside before the library crowd spilled out. "Butterbeer, for everyone. Consider it a pre-victory celebration."
"Hogsmeade?" Lee Jordan whispered conspiratorially, scanning the hallway for prefects.
"Unnecessary. I placed a special order via Owl Post," Albert replied, just as a familiar, slightly ruffled owl swooped down from the rafters and dropped a bulky package onto Albert's waiting hands.
"What is it?" Fred asked, already tearing at the packaging paper with George.
"Definitely a book," George asserted confidently, recognizing the shape and the plain, thick wrapping.
Albert accepted the card attached to the package. The book was titled The Complete Guide to Elementary Runes, and the inscription on the card indicated it was a gift from Mr. McDougal, Katrina's father, presumably sent as a continuation of their previous conversation about runic theory.
With exams behind them, the four friends spent their days enjoying the early summer. They often found themselves by the Black Lake where the breeze was cool, poking fun at the giant squid basking lazily in the shallows. They mostly discussed plans for a massive, spectacular prank they would unleash on Filch and the Slytherin House after the House Cup was secured.
The House Cup itself remained the castle's central obsession. The final Quidditch victory for Gryffindor had been a massive boost, but the point totals were still agonizingly close. Slytherin had managed to defeat Hufflepuff in a final, ruthless display of play, but the loss of the Cup to Gryffindor—thanks largely to a certain first-year Seeker—still stung.
Now, just days before the grand End-of-Year Feast, Gryffindor held a lead of a mere fifteen points. The tension was unbearable; Snape had practically locked his students in the dungeon, and every Gryffindor moved with the fear of an immediate, catastrophic point deduction hanging over them.
Albert was engrossed in his new book under the oak tree when Katrina appeared, her expression a mix of steely focus and barely concealed excitement.
"I'm ready," she announced. "I have compiled an exhaustive list of common Ravenclaw riddles and their common variants."
"Already done with your preparations?" Albert asked, closing the Elementary Runes text. "I expected you to be studying for another week."
"I don't procrastinate," she stated curtly. "Shall we go to Ravenclaw Tower now?"
"Why the sudden rush?" Albert asked, stretching lazily. "It's such a beautiful afternoon." He nodded toward the water. "I prefer it here. My friends are doing a much better job of killing time than your studious crew."
Katrina frowned. "I have friends too, Anderson. They're just not as juvenile as those three poking the squid."
Just as Albert was about to agree to head for the Ravenclaw common room, his gaze sharpened. Across the lawn, approaching them from the direction of the castle, were four Slytherin upperclassmen—all towering fourth and fifth years.
Their pace was quick, their shoulders were squared, and their faces were set in expressions of icy malice. Albert immediately recognized the look of targeted aggression.
"You appear to be about to have an immensely unpleasant encounter," Katrina observed, noticing the subtle change in Albert's posture and following his gaze.
"Unpleasant? I detect no problem at all," Albert replied with an unnervingly casual air.
As the four Slytherins closed the distance, their leader, a stocky fifth-year with a perpetually sneering mouth, spoke: "Well, look what the cat dragged in. The infamous Albert Anderson. We've been meaning to have a chat about that Quidditch match."
Albert stood up slowly, placing his book carefully on the tree root. "I wouldn't cause trouble right now," he said, pointing not behind them, but in the direction of the Ancient Runes classroom tower, which overlooked the lake.
"What kind of idiotic distraction is that? Do you think we're fools?" a second Slytherin sneered, clenching his fists.
"He's stalling," the leader growled. "Let's teach this little upstart some manners before he ruins the House Cup entirely."
"That would be even stupider," Albert murmured, loud enough for Katrina to hear. "I advise you all to put those wands away and walk back to the castle. Immediately."
The Slytherins ignored him. One of the fourth-years lunged, attempting to use his size to simply tackle and pin the much smaller first-year.
Albert, however, was already moving. He sidestepped the charge with lightning speed, hooking his foot behind the lunging boy's ankle and sending the Slytherin sprawling onto the grass.
At the same instant, the third Slytherin raised his wand, attempting a simple Disarming Charm. Albert was faster. With a snap of his wrist and a silent incantation, he hit the boy's hand with a precise, invisible counter-jinx. The wand flew high into the air, spiraling end over end, before Albert reached up and snatched it cleanly out of the sky.
"I told you I was trained; I can handle any of you barehanded," Albert said, spinning the captured wand between his fingers. "And, as I also warned you, I am not alone." He gestured to Katrina. "Miss Carrow, please step back. This might get messy."
Katrina, however, was utterly fixed on the scene. She had seen the flash of movement toward the Ancient Runes Tower Albert had referenced—a subtle signal of warning—and suddenly, the entire sequence of events clicked into place.
He deliberately provoked them! she realized with a cold, intellectual shock. He positioned himself here, right beneath the classroom tower, and baited them into an aggressive physical confrontation so that a professor would see the four senior Slytherins attempting to bully a lone Gryffindor first-year!
The potential point deduction was catastrophic. Katrina stared at Albert, an expression of mingled disgust and immense respect on her face. His genius was not just academic; it was ruthlessly strategic.
On the lakeshore, Fred, George, and Lee had also realized what was happening. They had started toward the fight, wands drawn, but Lee, catching the deliberate positioning of Albert's body, suddenly grabbed his roommates.
"Wait! Hold your wands back! Hide them!" Lee hissed, a wide, wicked grin spreading across his face. "Watch this. Albert is playing a different game."
The two remaining Slytherins, enraged by the sight of their friends humiliated and their victim holding a captured wand, froze as a stentorian voice boomed across the lawn, vibrating with righteous fury.
"STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Professor Babbling, the stern, exacting professor of Ancient Runes, stood on the path just twenty yards away, having emerged from the castle, her arms crossed, her eyes blazing. She had seen the last twenty seconds of the exchange, starting with the failed disarming and the resulting disarmaments.
The two still-armed Slytherins lowered their wands instantly. "Professor… we were just passing by…" one stammered weakly.
"Do you take me for a fool?" Professor Babbling asked, her voice dangerously quiet. She surveyed the scene: two boys on the ground, a third disarmed, and Albert Anderson, the subject of so much recent gossip, holding the captured wand. She had seen enough. Bullying a first-year, after the exams, right outside the castle.
"Slytherin, twenty points deduction for attempting physical violence," Babbling announced, her voice hardening. "And another ten points each for drawing wands in a non-dueling environment. That is a deduction of eighty points in total. I shall be informing Professor Snape that I found four of his senior students shamelessly cornering and assaulting a younger student. You will report to the dungeons for detention immediately."
The faces of the four Slytherins instantly turned a mottled, unhealthy green. Eighty points. With Gryffindor only fifteen points ahead, this single, disastrous confrontation had just plunged their house into an unrecoverable deficit.
"Good afternoon, Professor Babbling," Albert said brightly, giving the Ancient Runes professor a charming, innocent smile.
Babbling, though still furious at the Slytherins, softened slightly at the sight of the boy who had so impressed her. "You probably didn't get my note earlier, Mr. Anderson. Come with me. I have something to discuss about your End-of-Year Rune project."
"Yes, Professor," Albert said obediently, shrugging helplessly at the four glowering Slytherins. "I told you, didn't I?"
Before leaving, Albert turned back to Katrina, who was still standing by the tree, speechless. "By the way, Katrina, let's definitively postpone that little riddle wager until next term! I think I've done enough competitive work for the year."
As Albert walked away with Professor Babbling, the disarmed Slytherin leader roared in impotent fury: "Give me back my wand, you little rat!"
"Oh dear, listen to that," Fred said loudly, emerging from the tree line with George and Lee, their faces split in identical, malicious grins. "I do believe that was the sound of Slytherin hitting rock bottom!"
Lee Jordan cackled, rubbing his hands together. "We should go back and announce the glorious news! Slytherin is mathematically eliminated!"
The news spread like Fiendfyre throughout the castle that afternoon. Students pouring into the foyer for dinner stopped dead, staring at the giant hourglasses. Slytherin House had dropped from a respectable second place all the way to last, their emeralds now sitting far beneath the rubies, the sapphires of Ravenclaw, and the cheerful canary yellow of Hufflepuff.
The four 'heroes' of Slytherin were instantly infamous. Their "brainless brutality" had not only failed to intimidate the intended target but had annihilated their house's last, desperate chance at the House Cup. They were scorned by their own peers and celebrated, loudly and joyously, by everyone else.
Professor Snape was reportedly apoplectic. To be told by a rival professor that four of his senior students had been caught in such a blatant, humiliating display of cowardice and bullying was a profound insult to the pride of Slytherin, and the point deduction itself was a disaster.
Albert, meanwhile, sat in Professor Babbling's office, discussing the potential for using rare Pictish Runes in modern spell synthesis, his first-year exams already a distant, trivial memory, and his Genius task almost certainly complete. He hadn't won the House Cup with spells or scholarship. He had won it with strategy and calculated baiting.
The Gryffindor Common Room was in utter pandemonium. They hadn't secured the Cup with a glorious final point addition; they had won it through Slytherin's self-destruction.