As final exams loomed, Hogwarts buzzed with the frenetic energy of exam prep. Fifth- and seventh-year students were the most stressed, their voices reciting notes and spells filling the Great Hall during meals. The constant chatter made younger students jittery too.
In this hectic, stifling atmosphere, the Hogsmeade weekend was a rare chance to unwind. Third-years and above returned from the village with a lighter mood, the oppressive exam stress lifting slightly. At dinner, the Great Hall swapped tense recitations for laughter and chatter.
George leaned across the Gryffindor table, swiping a golden-brown chicken leg from Ron's plate right in front of him. Ignoring Ron's glare, he said casually, "I helped Madam Rosmerta watch the bar for two hours today. She gave me a poster. Anyone want it?"
"A poster?" Ron's head snapped up.
"A Chudley Cannons poster—summer league promo. The Seeker's front and center, and everyone on it moves!" George's voice dripped with temptation.
"My dearest brother!" Ron perked up, instantly switching to his sweetest tone. "You can have all my chicken legs. Is that enough? I'll grab more if it's not!"
"Oh, this was hard-earned, filled with Madam Rosmerta's gratitude and the team's spirit. I'm reluctant to part with it," George said, clearly pleased with Ron's enthusiasm. "It's leftover promo material, sure, but it's well-made, a real collector's item. You'd pay at least seven Sickles for it at Quality Quidditch Supplies."
"You want me to pay for it?" Ron's eyes widened in disbelief, especially since George was still munching on his chicken leg.
"We're brothers—would I charge you full price?" Fred stood up, snagging the last few drumsticks from Ron's plate with a grin. "Just five Sickles."
"Go eat troll dung!" Ron snapped, furious at his brothers' greed.
George and Fred exchanged a smirk, unbothered, and raised their voices just enough for Ron to hear their mock regret. "Guess this deal's off. Such a shame—it's a limited-edition poster, only given to pub owners for summer league promo. Practically a rare treasure."
"Don't forget," Fred added, "it's got the championship trophy in the background, a victory broom too. A true work of art, perfect for a die-hard Chudley Cannons fan."
"Think about it, Fred. If someone waved this poster at a match, which player could resist signing it?"
"Not a single one—not even Charlie!"
"Fine!" Ron slammed his hand on the table, pulling out five silver coins. "Five Sickles, and the poster's mine."
"Nope, now it's seven Sickles. We just realized its true value," George said, channeling his inner shady merchant. "Only a real fan deserves this poster. Five Sickles insults it—and the Chudley Cannons' name. You agree, don't you, dear Ronnie?"
"You… you…" Ron's face flushed red. "You read Mum's letter! Seven Sickles is all my pocket money!"
With summer break approaching, there'd be no pocket money at home. Those Sickles were supposed to last him months, and his brothers were trying to bleed him dry.
George and Fred grinned at each other. "Alright, business is about haggling."
"We'll meet you halfway—four Sickles, plus two months of your chores over the summer."
Ron wavered. He'd get the poster and keep three Sickles. He'd have to do chores at home anyway, and taking on his brothers' share didn't seem too bad.
Just as the deal was about to close, another redhead stood up. Ginny, who'd overheard everything, shot the twins a glare. "That's enough, you two! Give him the poster—no price, no chores. Or I'll tell Mum you're scamming people with an old poster you peeled off a pub wall."
"Scamming? That's harsh," George muttered.
"We worked for it. We deserve something," Fred added.
Grumbling, they handed Ron the poster. Sure enough, it was torn from a wall—edges stained with ale, bits of glue still stuck to the back.
Ron glared, trying to guilt-trip them with his stare, but when the players on the poster waved at him, he couldn't help grinning.
Couldn't he at least curse them out a bit?
Ginny sighed, shaking her head. Hopeless.
"How'd you know they ripped it off a wall?" Harry asked, sidling up to whisper in her ear.
Ginny glanced at him, a blush creeping from her neck to her cheeks. "Just… Lee Jordan and the others mentioned it," she mumbled.
"Ron's always saying George and Fred pick on him. Is it like this at home too?"
"Sometimes," Ginny said, a bit dazed, answering whatever he asked. "They think pranking Ron gets the best reactions. They'd scare him at the staircase corner a few times, and he'd tiptoe up the stairs for months. Once, they turned his teddy bear into a giant spider, and he's been terrified of them ever since."
She paused, then added, "But after they tried tricking him into an Unbreakable Vow and Mum gave them a proper scolding, they eased up. Now it's mostly just swindling his pocket money."
"Poor Ron. Good thing he's got you to stick up for him," Harry said softly. "You're great, Ginny."
Ginny kept her head down, hiding her expression as she poked at her vegetable salad. "It's nothing. Just what I should do," she muttered.
Her voice was so quiet that Harry, distracted by Ron pulling him to admire the poster, didn't catch her last words. Ginny felt her burning cheeks cool, a mix of disappointment and relief washing over her.
She fiddled with her salad, the clink of her knife and fork reminding her of dinners at the Burrow. Her first year at Hogwarts was almost over, and it felt surreal.
At the farewell dinner before term started, Mum always made an extra lavish spread. Sometimes they'd discuss things at the table:
"Have you seen the Hogwarts supply list? The textbooks and materials are so expensive, and we've got five kids in school."
"I was going to buy them secondhand books, have Ginny wear robes from the thrift shop, use an old cauldron… Thank goodness Ron earned some money for the family."
Back then, Ginny had kept her head down too, dreading the embarrassment of sitting in class with worn robes, a used cauldron, and tattered books.
She remembered her parents' voices, like the wind howling outside on a rainy night. Every time the ghoul upstairs banged the pipes, it made her wonder if something was broken, keeping her up all night with worry.
Since then, she'd been especially grateful to Ron—and to Professor Lupin—for sparing her that humiliation, letting her sit in class like any other student, perfectly ordinary.
---
June, finals approaching.
Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, teaching core subjects, were swamped preparing exams for five year groups and coordinating with the Wizarding Examinations Authority. Elective professors like Melvin, who only taught higher years, had a lighter load.
Over the past two weeks, Melvin had finalized the Muggle Studies curriculum and exam outlines, passing them to Madam Marchbanks. To avoid bias, he didn't contribute to the questions. As for second-year Defense Against the Dark Arts, after last year's mass failure fiasco, McGonagall didn't let him touch the exams either.
With only a few classes left in the term…
"In the preface to The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, Quentin Trimble writes that the world isn't just humans—it's filled with countless magical creatures, each with unique traits and lifestyles. Some have powerful, destructive magic, and wizards need the right methods and spells to handle them.
"That's the core of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"As for what Professor Gaunt mentioned—learning dark magic, countering it, defeating dark wizards—that's not something you should worry about at your age.
"For this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts final, Professors Flitwick and Sprout will set the theory paper, and Professor McGonagall will set and supervise the practical exam. Let's review this year's material."
The last Defense Against the Dark Arts class before exams had little new content, focusing on easing pre-exam nerves.
Melvin didn't bring in Riddle, instead recapping the year concisely but effectively: from Lockhart's tenure to handling yetis and trolls, surviving jungles and snowy mountains. It was like highlighting the key points for the exam.
The classroom was silent except for the scratch of quills on notebooks. Students absorbed the review, knowledge flowing like a cool stream through their minds—refreshing, even pleasant.
But then they realized they hadn't retained much, gasping as if hit with a Memory Charm.
When Hermione chased after the professor as he left the classroom, her question caught in her throat. Her brain, stuffed with revision and her side investigation into Horcruxes, felt foggy. She followed him silently, sorting her thoughts.
At his office door, Melvin ushered the young witch inside to sit while he set down his books and prepared tea and snacks.
"Professor Lupin," Hermione said, looking up, her face pale and serious. "You said Professor Gaunt was getting close to Harry. What's he after?"
The girl was juggling classes, revision, and her Horcrux research—her mind was a mess.
"What else?" Melvin sipped his tea, chuckling. "Getting close, gathering intel—obviously to harm Harry."
"But… Professor, you…" Hermione's mouth fell open, her words stuck.
"You're wondering why I let him teach if I know he's after Harry?" Melvin finished for her, answering his own question. "What else can I do? He's just a memory in a shadow, no physical form. We don't even know if the real him is alive. Can't lock him up, can't interrogate him. Should we destroy the cup he's tied to?"
Hermione almost nodded, but then Melvin added softly, "That's Hufflepuff's Cup, you know."
"It's really Hufflepuff's Cup?" Hermione asked, incredulous.
Relics of Hogwarts' founders held unimaginable magic, lost for centuries, practically sacred. Yet here was one in Professor Lupin's hands, harboring an evil spirit plotting against a student.
Melvin grinned at her. "Didn't you already guess?"
"I thought it was a craftsman's replica."
"Sorry to disappoint—it's the real deal. And the Gaunt inside is a dark wizard."
Melvin's tone was far from regretful, almost casual as he sipped his tea. "So, what now? Destroy a thousand-year-old founder's relic? Have the Ministry issue a warrant based on a decades-old portrait, searching all of Britain—or the world—for a wizard who might be dead?"
Hermione mumbled, "We can't just do nothing, can we?"
"That's what I thought, so I let him teach."
Melvin looked at the indignant witch, shrugging with a smile. "Hermione, your curiosity for knowledge and truth is a gift, but not every question needs an answer, and not every situation needs the perfect solution. Sometimes we have to see clearly and choose what we truly need."
He pulled out a course selection form, every box checked. "Like your electives. Professor McGonagall asked me to urge you to think carefully about what you really need."
His tone lacked conviction. Without McGonagall's request, he wouldn't have bothered—he was curious about the Time-Turner.
"After all that, this is about my electives?" Hermione muttered, eyeing him. "Professor McGonagall already promised to sort it out."
She glanced up, holding back another thought. His explanation felt like a dodge, brushing off the cup and Gaunt issue.
But with finals looming, if he wanted to treat her like a kid, so be it.
---
"Oh, Merlin."
"They're here!"
"Who? The examiners, of course!"
Amid the buzz of voices, fifth- and seventh-years whipped around to stare at the Great Hall's entrance.
A small group of elderly wizards approached, led by an ancient witch, older than Dumbledore, hunched and thin, her wrinkles like a spider's web.
Madam Marchbanks spoke closely with Professor McGonagall, her voice so loud from deafness that everyone nearby could hear.
"Where's Melvin? As an Authority consultant, is he avoiding us old folks?"
At the high table, Melvin felt the weight of countless stares, sighed helplessly, and rose to greet them.
And so, the students knew: exam week of 1993 had arrived.
The school year was over.