250 The End-Of-Year Examinations

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The winters began to wane, with the warm days rising and the young year turning older by the months, entering the spring of its time. On another splendid day, the Ravenclaw Trio sat under a pre-bloom beech tree on the edge of the lake, where they sat under the warm sun to study for the incoming end-of-the-year examinations, where they stood less chance of being disturbed by others wanting to gain help from Quinn.

The castle grounds were gleaming in the sunlight as though freshly painted; the cloudless sky smiled at itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green lawns occasionally rippled in a gentle breeze. They spread their books out in the shade of the tree and sat down while Quinn talked Eddie and Marcus through concepts that they wanted clarification on.

"Ugh," Eddie tossed his notes down before leaning back onto the grass, "I don't suppose Hogwarts is going to hit by a meteoroid, and the examinations get cancelled."

Quinn chuckled as he solved a problem for Marcus, "I can safely guess that's not going to be the case, and why are you complaining," he passed the notebook to Marcus, "you scored pretty good on my mock test — that just means you're going to do better than that on the real ones."

Eddie waved his tucked-up legs left and right impatiently. He didn't want the exams to cancel just to arrive sooner so that he could blaze through them. It was stressful for him (and any Ravenclaw) to spend time in the tense Ravenclaw dorms where everyone had developed an irritating habit of interrogating people about their study habits.

'Just flipping study and stop annoying me!' he had thought.

"You should write more," Marcus said, turning a page of Advanced Transfiguration Pt. 1 and peering at a series of diagrams showing an owl turning into a pair of opera glasses. "If your dad doesn't think your scores are enough, he might not allow you to go to the summer camp — so try to improve your writing speed, you wouldn't want to lose marks because you couldn't write an answer you knew."

Eddie groaned as he pulled his torso up back from the ground. He placed a hardback book on his lap, slammed a parchment on it, and sent his quill running. If he didn't score good (for a Ravenclaw), his Pops wasn't going to let him attend a Quidditch camp that he had been invited to in the coming summer.

With the end-of-the-year examination just on the horizon, their teachers were no longer setting them homework; lessons were devoted to reviewing those topics their teachers thought most likely to come up in the exams.

"Griselda Marchbanks is going to be making rounds this time," Quinn said, quoting information from his contacts in the Head of Magical Education Department. "She's ancient — she took my grandfather's NEWTs, and I believe that she was there for Dumbledore's testing as well."

"Now that's one old witch," said Eddie.

"I heard that she's really strict," said Marcus, "apparently if you try to waddle your way through a question in the practicals, she gives a straight zero — either you know it or you don't."

"Nothing to do with us," Edie shrugged, making a wireframe of the steps required to brew a skin re-growth potion, "she's not going to be taking ours — poor fifth and seventh-year chumps," he cackled.

Marcus looked up from his notes to Quinn. "You're going to be busy for a while now. You volunteered what? For the entire two-week OWL process."

Quinn nodded, "I don't have much going, so it's fine." The vault was over, and it wasn't like he needed to study for exams, so when Flitwick asked him to volunteer, he agreed and was now in charge of directing the OWL students to their practicals.

The weeks leading to the OWLs were like a volcano threatening to burst with people trying to cram more stuff in their minds, trying to find resources on the prevailing black market for miraculous remedies to keep up at night, concentration, rote abilities, and the myriads that the con artists (mostly Ravenclaws) were trying to sell to the rest of the school.

When the time finally arrived, the examination season was spread across two weeks like it usually was every year, with the theory exams in the morning and practicals in the afternoons.

Because of his responsibilities, Quinn gave his practicals earlier in the morning, before he sat for his theoretical papers with the rest of his peers and classmates so that he could be free for the two-week OWL process.

Quinn stood in a corridor with a clipboard in hand — there were four panels of examiners in four different rooms who would first take up would take up OWL aspirants just after lunch while the NEWT students would go before dinner.

For the first day of the exams, the fifth-year students were scheduled for Charms on the first Monday morning. The OWL students were sorted randomly into four classrooms working as waiting areas — a waiting classroom per panel.

"Alright," Quinn tapped a pen on the sheets on the clipboard, "everything seems to be in order. . . and we're good to go."

He walked to the other end of the corridor, pushed open the first examiner's panel door, and came across an amusing conversation.

"Little Albus. . ." Quinn's ears perked up — Little Albus? Not something he or anyone in this school would expect to hear in a million ears. The woman to call the 100+-year-old headmaster with the 'little' prefix was Griselda Marchbanks, the Head of Magical Education Department and an ancient woman of over 200 years of age — it made sense that she would call Albus Dumbledore as Little Albus.

She was a tiny, stooped woman with a face so lined it looked as though it had been draped in cobwebs, but she spoke louder than most loud people did despite a slight tremble in her aged voice.

". . . I thought Cornelius would not stop before kicking you out of Hogwarts; he was never smart — I remember talking to him during his NEWTs; all he did was blabber on and on without doing what I asked him. You should thank your stars that Dolores went ahead and threw her brain into the garbage — not that it would help, it was pitifully tiny to begin with, it would not have helped her even if she used it.

Good thing they sent her of to Azkaban — good riddance!"

The woman didn't mince her words.

"Let the past be the past," said Dumbledore, his tone the usual, not at all reflecting the fact that the Minister was about to be voted out of his position and a prominent Ministry executive was shipped to Azkaban in a massive scandal. "It's time for the younger generation to take the stage — us old fellows can only look from the side and see them bask in the glory and be happy in the fact that we might have something to do with it."

Old Marchbanks turned up her nose and huffed, "Who are you calling old? Your joints must have turned rusty, but I am still quite spry."

"Of course," Dumbledore could only smile.

Quinn cleared his throat, making his presence known to the other two. "Madam Marchbanks, if you're ready, everything from our side is ready, and we can start sending the students in."

"Who are you?" said Marchbanks, loudly.

"My name's Quinn West."

"Mr. West, here is a sixth-year Prefect," said Dumbledore, "he has volunteered today to be a liaison for the students and the examiners."

Quinn stepped into the empty classroom and walked to Marchbanks' table. "I'll be sending in the students when you're ready," he took a sheet from the clipboard and laid it on the table, and with a tap of his fake wand, the single sheet turned into a stack.

"The top page is the list of students you'll be seeing today," he pushed the sheet aside, revealing a marking schematics with Abbot, Hannah written in the names' field. "You are to fill your gradings and remarks on these—"

"Yes, yes, I know, I know, I have done it a countless number of times," Marchbanks waved impatiently. She narrowed her eyes at Quinn, her wrinkles deepening. "West. . . West. . . West. . . Hmm, Quinn West! Yes, I remember you from last year! Your scores were excellent; I had a pleasure reading your papers — a pity I couldn't be here to take your practicals."

"Thank you, Madam Marchbanks," said Quinn, giving a short, polite bow.

"Well then, I won't take up any more of your time; you have a long day ahead of you," Dumbledore said.

"Can you not sit beside me while I go through this? We could catch up," asked Marchbanks.

"While I'd love to do that, I don't think the students would want to have their headmaster in the room as they give their practicals," said Dumbledore.

"You are no fun," Marchbanks said before pulling up the list.

"Please take care of Madam Marchbanks," Dumbledore said to Quinn, who nodded.

"Alright, send in the cavalry," said Marchbanks, pulling out a flask from her purse and setting it next to a cup and saucer before pouring herself a steaming serving of tea.

"Yes, first is Hannah Abbot," said Quinn, took out another sheet from his clipboard, and set it in front of her.

Marchbanks put down her cup before it reached her lips and picked up the sheet. "What is this?" she asked. The sheet had three names on it — Hannab Abbot, Susan Bones, and Terry Boot — and under every name was a list of charms.

"The charms under the names are what the student is good at."

Marchbanks squinted her eyes at the sheet. "But these charms aren't from the fifth-year curriculum."

"No they aren't. If a student performs the fifth-year charms well and you'd like to test them for bonus points, you can refer to that list. The students which I'll be providing you are the ones who told me about their out-of-curriculum specialties."

The students who Quinn listed were basically DA members that Quinn as a fellow member, was trying to get them better grades. He was confident that if Marchbanks took his offering, all DA members would gain bonus points because he had seen them cast the spells.

"Oh my, I see. . . certainly, if these children are able to perform their curriculum taught spells, then I will give them chances for bonus points."

"That's great. I'm sure they would be thrilled."

"Do you have these lists for other subjects too?"

"Yes, I do; I can provide you with the three casting subjects — Charms, Transfiguration, and DADA."

"Then I'll like to receive those as well."

"You got it."

Quinn then walked to the rest of the panel rooms and repeated the same conversation with the sweetest old people he had met — they weren't as old as Marchbanks, but they did match Dumbledore in age and were joyous about receiving the spell list.

After ensuring that the panelists were all ready, he walked into the waiting rooms, started calling students, and so began the practical portion of OWLs.

"Alright, let's see, who's next," Quinn said to himself after he entered the room. "Goldstein, Goyle, Granger, and Greengrass," he read before calling out, "Anthony Goldstein, Gregory Goyle, Hermione Granger, and Daphne Greengrass."

The four people stepped out from their respective groups and walked out of the room, their gait stiff and robotic. They looked at him like baby ducks, like they didn't know what to do.

"All of you realize that OWLs are the same as the rest of your examinations; the only difference is that the examiner is external," said Quinn as they walked to their respective panels.

"Are they strict? What are they asking? Do they have our theory papers? Are they, by chance, already graded? What are their moods like?" Hermione spouted questions like a locomotive train did smoke.

Quinn chuckled and stealthily cast calming magic. "It's fine; they are cozy and pleasant, so don't worry about their moods. Perform well, and they will give you a chance for bonus points."

He watched as all four gradually calmed down a level, his magic doing its work, though there was still some definite stiffness in their bodies.

One by one, he led them to different panel rooms — Anthony Goldstein went first, then Gregory Goyle, and then Hermione Granger.

"Will she be fine?" Daphne asked, looking at Hermione entering the room. She was rapid spouting chants under her breath.

"I think she'll be fine — she got a hundred and twelve percent on a test," said Quinn. He looked down at Daphne, and it seemed that his magic couldn't overcome the pre-exam jitters, so he turned to the only alternative he could think of.

Daphne felt a hand slip into hers, and it had its intended effects.

"You'll be fine," said Quinn, "we went over everything that could ever come up in that room. You have a fantastic theory base and extensive practical experience from DA. You'll breeze through it with flying colors."

"You think so?" she asked, leaning a bit.

"Absolutely."

They reached outside Marchbanks' door, and Quinn turned to face Daphne.

"What are the three attributes of focus?" he asked.

"Knowledge, Intent, and Emotion."

"You have all of it, and that's all you will ever need. Now go in and knock the old lady's dentures out."

Daphne smiled and giggled behind her hand. She nodded, straightened herself up, and knocked on the door before opening it.

"Daphne Greengrass?" Marchbanks' voice came from inside. "Are you Sophie's daughter? You are, aren't you? Yes, I can see it. Come in, come in, tell me, how is your mother doing these days? I have not seen her in a while. Do you want a biscuit?"

The end of the year had begun.

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Quinn West - MC - Perfect Prefect.

Daphne Greengrass - Nervous - Did well in her practicals.

Griselda Marchbanks - Magical Education Department - Oh, Albus! Look at you, gotten so old.

FictionOnlyReader - Author - 2022 is here, peeps. Let's make the most of it. Post your new-year resolutions here.

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