The more Professor McGonagall searched, the darker her expression became. A fresh pile of cheating contraptions had just been confiscated, and her patience was hanging by a thread.
"I will repeat this one last time," she said coldly. "Any form of cheating during your exams will result in serious consequences, including expulsion. This is your final warning—don't say I didn't give you one!"
Rustle, rustle.
Rustle, rustle.
Robes lifted everywhere. Even Waughn felt his worldview expanding as more and more students revealed their secret stash of illicit exam tools.
Behind him, Harry and Ron stared in disbelief.
"Where did they get all this stuff?"
"Why did no one tell us?"
Ahead of them, Seamus Finnigan reluctantly fished out a suspicious, unlabelled vial. "You two spend all day with Granger. Who would dare tell you? Look—she's about to explode!"
Indeed, Hermione was furious. She despised underhanded tricks—and to her horror, Gryffindor had supplied the highest number of cheating tools.
Professor McGonagall wasn't any happier.
The only one who appeared entertained was Waughn. The tiny contraptions and bizarre magical gadgets the first-years had concocted had his eyes sparkling. He truly had no idea where these little maniacs found such things.
Unfortunately for them, none of it ever reached the exam hall.
Because so many students were caught with contraband, the first exam began several minutes late. Still, everything proceeded smoothly enough.
At 9:15 a.m., the first- and second-years were shepherded into the Great Hall, now sealed and repurposed as a testing chamber. The air felt thick—humid from the early-summer heat and suffocating from nerves.
Unlike the upper years with electives, the first- and second-years had only seven compulsory subjects.
Morning: Charms.
Afternoon: Transfiguration.
Both had written and practical portions—the written fixed at one hour, the practical judged on whether one could cast the assigned spell correctly.
Once Waughn received his anti-cheating quill and parchment, he ignored everyone else and calmly completed his exam.
Professor Flitwick, overseeing the written portion, skimmed Waughn's parchment and lit up with delight.
"Mr. Weasley, I'm very pleased to see you haven't neglected your studies. Excellent explanations—your grasp of this year's charms is remarkably mature. I'm impressed. And now, for your practical. I'm sure you'll pass, but rules are rules—onward!"
He winked, handed monitoring duties to McGonagall, and personally took Waughn to the next room.
Inside sat one lonely pineapple.
The task: use charms to make the pineapple tap-dance across a desk.
Flitwick did not increase the difficulty, even though Waughn's skill far exceeded his age. As he said, "There's no need."
"All the professors know your ability is far beyond your year. If you weren't only a first-year, we would be petitioning for your grade acceleration."
"Hogwarts allows that?"
"Rarely—but yes, in the distant past. It's complicated and against regulation… However, forcing you to slow down would be unfair to you and everyone else." He beamed. "But that's a matter for next year. For now—your exam."
Waughn lifted his wand.
The pineapple danced exquisitely.
For extra flair, he even transfigured a pair of miniature shoes from its leaves. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoed crisply.
Flitwick was enchanted—literally applauding.
Full marks.
Harry's Brain Melts
Harry wasn't sure how he walked out of the testing hall.
His head felt hollow, as if he'd attempted Occlumency for hours with no success.
Charms and Transfiguration had drained him; the next morning's Herbology wasn't much better.
Only Defence Against the Dark Arts had been easy—because the professor was "missing."
Temporary examiner Professor Kettleburn had simply dumped a few Flobberworms on the table and told everyone to subdue them.
A magical creature rated only X by the Ministry—so harmless it could be defeated with a gentle poke. Or a fist.
But whatever lucky stars Harry had during Defence burnt out immediately.
Because that afternoon was Potions.
And Professor Snape stood behind Harry the entire time.
So close Harry could feel Snape's breath on the back of his neck.
The sniping.
The sarcasm.
The criticism.
The cold, silky voice whispering doom.
Harry survived, but barely.
By the time they finished History of Magic, the final exam, Harry felt like a wrung-out rag.
The question about "the invention of the self-stirring cauldron" nearly broke him.
When he finally stepped out of the exam hall—it was over.
A full week of freedom lay ahead.
The problem was… no one had the energy to enjoy it.
Harry found Ron slumped against a corridor window, looking as if his soul had been drained by a Dementor.
"Hey… Harry."
"Hey… Ron."
They stared blankly at their equally lifeless classmates drifting down the hall.
A while later, Hermione finally appeared—laughing, arms linked with Waughn, animatedly chattering:
"…It was much easier than expected! I thought W.A.C.'s founding would make them include a question on the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct and its effects on modern policy, but they didn't!"
"Professor Binns is very old," Waughn said kindly. "His grasp of current events isn't exactly sharp."
"If that question had appeared, I would have—"
The two walked right past Harry and Ron, still discussing exam material.
And of course—ignoring them completely.
Harry: "…"
Ron clutched his head. "Merlin's beard. Those two deserve each other. Who goes on a date and voluntarily makes up extra exam questions?!"
"…Maybe that's why they get top marks," Harry muttered. "Should we… study?"
"No! If you say one more word about studying I'll be sick."
So the duo wandered aimlessly until Filch drove everyone out to prepare the Hall for the fifth-years' O.W.L.s.
They drifted out to the courtyard, then to the Black Lake, where the giant squid was lazily stirring up ripples. The summer breeze finally loosened the knot in Ron's chest.
"At last, freedom! Cheer up, Harry—we've got an entire week of doing nothing! No textbooks! No essays! Just—fun!"
"…Fun?" Harry asked weakly. "Where?"
Ron opened his mouth—and froze.
His mind, still poisoned by exams, produced nothing but spell theory and exam questions.
"…If only we were like Fred and George," he groaned.
Harry glanced at the twins—poking the squid with a stick—and his eyes slowly widened.
Ron noticed at once. "What? Why are you looking like you've seen a ghost?"
"Ron… Fred and George have been editing that Muggle project nonstop, right?"
"Yeah."
"And before this morning, they left every exam early to continue working."
"Yeah."
Harry swallowed. "…Then why are they suddenly… relaxed?"
Ron blinked. "Maybe they finished?"
Harry shook his head. "Ron. They don't relax until they succeed. Something's wrong."
Ron stared at the twins.
"…We're doomed, aren't we?"
The Next Morning – Disaster
Barely awake from exam-induced sleep cycles, the students shuffled toward breakfast—
—and stopped dead.
At the end of each House table stood a massive silver screen.
Floating in midair were bizarre Muggle machines: generators, cameras, coils of tape, and at the centre, a projector shining onto the screen.
Pure-bloods were baffled.
Muggle-borns were electrified.
"That's a cinema screen!" Dean Thomas shouted.
Justin Finch-Fletchley exclaimed, "A generator! A camera! A projector! I thought I'd never see one again!"
"Fred, George!" he called. "Are you showing a film?"
The twins bowed theatrically.
"Excellent question!"
"We are pleased—no, honoured—to present…"
"Produced by Weasley Productions…"
"Starring Harry Potter and Ron Weasley…"
"THE FIRST FILM IN WIZARDING HISTORY—
'Harry Potter and the Painted World'!"
With a dramatic sweep of their wands, the machines roared to life.
The screen brightened—
And there appeared… a soot-covered, bespectacled Harry Potter, standing on a stone bridge opposite Professor Quirrell.
Gasps filled the hall.
"Is that—Quirrell?"
"The Dark Lord?!"
"Mum! Dad!"
Then the scene CUT—to a dragon's nest.
"FRED! CHANGE THE PHOTO!"
"It's not a photo, it's a film! That's called a scene transition—montage—"
"I don't care! Show Harry and You-Know-Who!"
A dragon roared.
The hall trembled.
"Ron said he fought a dragon…"
"I thought it was dragon dung…!"
Harry felt his arm seized in a death grip.
Ron's face was crimson.
"Harry. We need to go. NOW."
Harry smirked. "But I want to admire the mighty dragon-slayer."
"Please!" Ron begged.
Harry took pity and dragged him out.
As soon as they were gone—
"Ewwwwwww!"
—echoed through the Great Hall.
Ron ran faster than Harry had ever seen.
Later – Dumbledore's Office
The silver glow faded from Dumbledore's eyes as he lowered his monitoring charm.
"Poor Ronald," he sighed. "Being the younger brother of Fred and George… truly a lifelong misfortune."
Waughn, reading by the bookcase, didn't look up.
"You approved the screening. Don't try to wash your hands now."
"I didn't approve," Dumbledore said serenely. "I merely… refrained from objecting."
"Tch."
They moved to business.
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Many Muggle-born students think it's simply a fictional film. That works to our advantage. The wizarding world isn't ready for the whole truth."
"Exactly," said Waughn. "Reveal everything too fast, and there'll be panic. Let them accept it slowly."
Dumbledore sighed. "Poor Ron, though. His sacrifice is considerable."
"You underestimate Ronald," Waughn replied.
And indeed—
By evening, Ron had reinvented himself.
Standing proudly in the courtyard, he declared to a crowd:
"Yes, I suffered… indignities. But only because the danger I faced was beyond any student's ability to solve! Tell me—you there! If you met a dragon, what would you do?"
His dramatic speech left upper-years stunned.
Little first-years stared at him with admiration.
Even Neville.
From afar, Harry's jaw hung loose.
Even Dumbledore admitted later, "I didn't realize Mr. Weasley was so… adaptable."
"He's used to psychological pressure," Waughn said. "Growing up with Fred and George does that."
Dumbledore wisely changed the topic.
"Josiah Potter from Ilvermorny has formally invited you to North America on August 1st."
"Convenient," Waughn murmured. "W.A.C. meets July's end. He must suspect I'm running for President."
They discussed politics—
Waughn confirming his terms, including helping Isabella Rosier, currently stranded in North America.
Then, as Waughn rose to leave, he paused.
"Headmaster. Want to make another trade?"
"Oh?" Dumbledore asked lightly.
Waughn's gold-brown eyes darkened.
"Let's resurrect Tom."
The sherbet lemon dropped from Dumbledore's fingers.
A flick of his wand sent the portraits into enchanted sleep.
Because he understood exactly what Waughn meant—
To kill Voldemort, one had to first make him mortal again.
And to make him mortal—
One had to bring him back.
Waughn continued:
"You hesitated last summer. You borrowed the Philosopher's Stone, planning to use it to force Tom's revival—but you couldn't do it. Not until you understood why he survived death."
Dumbledore remained silent.
Because it was true.
He had searched every text, even dark magic—but nothing could destroy a disembodied soul.
He had found traces of Voldemort in Albania, parasitizing vermin, hiding like a wounded beast.
And he had realized:
Voldemort would never risk exposing himself.
Not even to his own followers.
Waughn spoke quietly:
"You can't kill what's already dead. Unless you make it alive again."
Last year's events echoed—the same kind of night, the same kind of conversation, when Waughn had first said:
"Let's make a deal."
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ Read 70 chapters ahead on P@treon → patreon.com/FinalArcHero789