"It's not that I didn't want to," Rita said pitifully.
"They're just very careful. Anything related to the Dark Lord, they guard far more tightly than this tabloid stuff."
"Even when meeting Death Eaters, their homes are covered with layers of protective enchantments."
She gritted her teeth.
Even fooling around wasn't done this cautiously!
"They know you're an Animagus beetle," Harry glanced at her, then down at the photos. "Seems they're guarding against you."
Rita looked even more aggrieved.
"These few photos are still useful," Harry picked some out. "So it wasn't all wasted."
Dumbledore leaned over to look.
The pictures Harry held were of pure-blood families caught in candid moments meeting with Death Eaters.
"Take these to Scrimgeour and discuss it with him," Harry said softly.
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
Rita took the photos.
"As for the rest…" Harry narrowed his eyes, about to pull out his wand.
Rita quickly beat him to it, flicked her wand, and scooped up the remaining photos. "Mr. Potter, I might still use these... maybe as little surprises later."
Harry said nothing.
She cautiously stowed the pictures. Seeing neither of them object, she swiftly tucked them away.
"Looks like after the summer holidays, we'll have to personally collect our debts," Harry said, shaking his head as he stood.
Dumbledore nodded. "How much do they owe you?"
Harry paused, frowned, and shrugged. "I've forgotten, but it's a lot."
The royalties from the Potter-brand shampoo must be piling up. He'd never bothered to calculate, but Hermione might've kept track. He'd ask her later.
They both looked at Rita.
She nodded quickly, mumbling, "I understand. I'll mention it to Mr. Scrimgeour too."
She left the office with a sigh.
A tiny beetle fluttered through the warm spring air, grumbling to herself: how had the most famous tabloid reporter in Britain been reduced to a gofer?
—
End of term approached.
With no interference from anyone or anything, the Quidditch Cup took place as scheduled. Gryffindor won decisively. Across all matches, they allowed fewer than 100 points total—and only barely scraped past 500 themselves.
Harry, as usual, ended games far too quickly for much scoring.
But as fifth-years, they had more than Quidditch to worry about—the dreaded OWLs.
Professors stopped assigning homework and instead tried to console students daily.
Sirius even suggested hosting a surfing competition on the Black Lake. With Harry's magic, they could conjure any wave they wanted.
McGonagall scolded him fiercely.
She had thought he was finally maturing, and now he wanted to stage nonsense like this—why not wait until exams were over?
All of Hogwarts felt the tension.
Except Gryffindor.
Or rather, they were already used to Hermione's high-pressure study routines. The looming OWLs felt no different from normal study life. Sure, they were anxious—but it wasn't overwhelming. In fact, they just wished "Mommy Hermione" would give them more revision sessions.
Better than Ravenclaw, anyway.
That lot was losing their minds.
One student even jumped from the Ravenclaw Tower in the middle of the night—luckily, the castle's enchantments saved him, and a house-elf spotted him quickly. He only broke his arm and was sent to the hospital wing muttering, "Heehee, I'm a happy little eagle, a happy little eagle!"
Madam Pomfrey diagnosed it as side effects from too much Brain-Bright Potion.
His entire sense of self had been warped.
In Hufflepuff, a student was found crouched by the greenhouse in a wide-brimmed hat chanting, "I'm a little mushroom, I'm a little mushroom."
When someone pointed out he wasn't little…
He promptly switched to, "I'm a big mushroom, I'm a big mushroom."
Professor Sprout wasn't fazed.
She correctly diagnosed that this wasn't from potions abuse like Ravenclaw—it was a stress-induced breakdown. Happens every year. Her solution?
Treat him like a mushroom.
She buried him in dragon dung for an hour. He recovered quickly—because no sane person wants to be buried in manure.
As the exam that determined a young wizard's first steps in life, OWLs would span two weeks: theory in the morning, practicals in the afternoon. Even Astronomy, normally treated as an excuse for midnight dates, was included.
Hermione wasn't nervous.
She dragged Harry, Ron, and all of Gryffindor's fifth years through a comprehensive review—from the basics to advanced applications. Everyone had to attend—except Harry, though he still had to sit next to her to give her peace of mind.
In the days leading up to exams, it rained heavily—appropriately gloomy.
Monday: Charms Exam
All five years' worth of theory—fairly basic stuff. Most questions were like "What is this spell?" or "Describe the wand motion."
Still, it threw many students into a panic.
They could cast the spells—but couldn't write about them. Not every House had a Hermione to force them into studying writing and theory.
The practical was even easier.
Floating Charms, Color-Changing Charms, Growth Charms.
Professor Toffeedee, overseeing the exam, liked Harry so much he added extra challenges—some spells weren't even taught until seventh year.
Finally, he asked Harry to cast his Patronus.
"A beautiful hippogriff," Toffeedee marveled, standing up and trying to touch it—only to be hissed at. Unbothered, he circled it. "Exactly like a real hippogriff, only the color's different. Most corporeal Patronuses aren't this detailed."
"I'm over two hundred years old," he said, gazing at Harry, "and I've seen many Patronuses. Aside from Albus's and Grindelwald's, none compare to yours."
He smiled at Harry.
"To witness a wizard with talent greater than Albus grow up—it's an honor."
"To witness the third legend in my lifetime…"
"Filius, I wish I could return to Hogwarts to teach again. Being Harry Potter's professor must be a privilege."
Flitwick chuckled. "Oh, it is."
"Shame he's not a Ravenclaw—clever, curious, diligent. He's perfect for us."
Toffeedee shook his head. "No. Gryffindor is the finest House. Albus was a Gryffindor. So is Mr. Potter. That's exactly as it should be."
Flitwick pouted—he forgot the old man was a Gryffindor too.
"How about I come back and teach for two more years?" Toffeedee asked earnestly.
Flitwick replied, "Perhaps… next year's Defense Against the Dark Arts post?"
The cursed job.
Toffeedee didn't immediately refuse. He lowered his head in thought—was teaching Harry worth the risk?
After Charms came Transfiguration.
Theory was far harder than Charms. Complex rules, spell models.
Many spells people thought were "Charms" were actually Transfiguration—for example, the Vanishing Spell.
The practical was even worse.
Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff turned a ferret into a flock of flamingos. The exam paused for ten minutes.
A Ravenclaw tried a Vanishing Spell. Too nervous, instead of vanishing the ferret, it exploded into a puff of oversized fur and smoke. The exam room descended into chaos.
The Ravenclaw fled in tears to the hospital wing.
Harry, of course, was excellent.
The examiner urged him to study Animagus magic—it's often underestimated, but it greatly helps Transfiguration.
Harry smiled and agreed.
Wednesday: Herbology
Theory was long—two hours longer than the other exams. Even Harry only finished an hour before time was up. Most students groaned about how something as fun as Herbology could have such a torturous exam.
Even Hermione wasn't as breezy as usual—she only barely finished before time and had no time to review. She dragged Harry to go over answers afterward.
Neville joined in the discussion for once.
That depressed Hermione more.
After a few questions, she realized she'd made three mistakes. No full marks. Maybe not even an "O."
The practical was much easier.
Every student had enough experience tending magical plants. Professor Sprout was exceptional—at least in practice, she never let any student fall behind.
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates