If you want to read ahead, you can check out my Patreón @
[ https://www.patreón.com/fictiononlyreader ]
The link is also in the synopsis.
.
-*-*-*-*-*-
.
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.
.
-*-*-*-*-*-
.
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.
.
-*-*-*-*-*-
.
If you have any ideas regarding the magic you want to see in this fiction or want to offer some ideas regarding the progression. Move onto the DISCORD Server and blast those ideas.
The link is in the synopsis!
Just like always,
Review, comment, add to the library, and share this fic.
Thx
https://discord.gg/w5dJ82SfMr
If you want to read ahead, you can check out my Patreón @
[ https://www.patreón.com/fictiononlyreader ]
The link is also in the synopsis.
.
-*-*-*-*-*-
.
The evening moon rose in the blue sky, ushering in the time of night, tugging the cover off from over the arrays of stars, revealing all the constellations that peered down on the mortals of the world. But in a clearing by the woods, away from the excitement of the city — bright flashing lightbulbs strobing all around like a disco ball in an eighties nightclub, ushering a different sort of zest and zeal.
A gigantic multi-colored sign lined with bulky tinted lightbulbs hung on two beams under which people walked past from a put-up stall with bored attendants talking to each other while stamping tickets to a cityside carnival.
People with families, friends, or their lovers on dates entered the beat-down grounds, occasionally housing the visiting carnivals and concerts. The music climbed louder, recorded clown laughter cackled through speakers, and the melodies of children's joy as some ran around with carnival food in hand while others rode on the chugging motor powering the rides.
Outside the raucous circus establishment, near a growth of trees that cast ghastly shadows under the weightless moonlight, space itself twisted and turned like being sucked through a tube before the one by one, the fabric of space spat out people dressed in black robes with air popping loudly, but only to be drowned out by the loud circus music.
In a few seconds, twenty people stood blending in the shadows, all looking at the inviting put-together fairgrounds of wood and metal with life thrumming with vigor.
"I can almost taste it," said the woman with thick, shining dark hair, long eyelashes, and heavily hooded eyes, "the joy, the delight, ah, it's almost palpitating," she stuck out tongue as if wanting to taste the emotions.
Bellatrix Lestrange's companions turned their eyes hidden beneath their masked faces to the woman, many wondering how the woman could descend further into madness; she had been twisted as writhing horrors behind her once great beauty — but that was Azkaban for you, it never failed to leave its taint on its guests, and Bellatrix had stayed long enough to call it her home.
She cackled, her body shivered, and her shoulder involuntary twitched as she turned to a robed matchstick figure standing in the middle of the groups, a hood covering the bowed head that sat upon a slouched back.
"Rivers!" Bellatrix called as she hopped to him like a schoolgirl. "So what do you have planned today? Tell meee~! I. Am. So. Looking. To. Having. Some. Fun. Tonight!"
Rivers looked at the crazy woman swaying her waist in front of him as her curls bounced from shoulder to shoulder. How had it come to this? How was he roped into this?
.
- (Scene Break: Flashback) -
.
Rivers had heard tales about Azkaban and its notorious jailers, but never could he have realized that hallowed eyes and depressed voices couldn't even scratch the surface of the realities of the most harrowing prison on living lands.
Being imprisoned in a shoddy excuse of a room — something that even by the most losest of the standards couldn't be called a jail room. Floors and walls seeping with moisture from the surrounding sea kept the cell uncomfortably wet all around the year; the days and days he had spent trapped not being able to find a dry spot to rest with the crazy screams, crying, and the woman's laughter ringing in his ears had driven him longing for the simple bed back home — he would even beg for the cold wood floor, or anything as long as it was dry.
Then there was the chilling abrasive air coming from the barred window that scraped the skin, leaving it cold and raw. He and the prisoners were given an old matty blanket with a thick weave that did a poor job of keeping anyone warm — but that was a negligible problem when the only cover he had gotten wet like everything else.
The food was always cold mush that had left his teeth without exercise for years, and the water was limited, hastily thrown down their gullet by the Aurors who were always in a hurry to get out of the Dementor's sight that always stared at them from under their robes as if the Aurors were fresh, juicy prey.
No one talked in Azkaban. There was plenty of screaming, crying (and the woman's laughter) but never any talking.
Rivers hadn't minded it when he had newly arrived, but as the days passed by and the Dementors gathered around in his cell for a mint meal every day for weeks, he hoped someone would tell him that there was a way to escape the daily nightmare, but no one spoke a word — even after he called and cried for someone, anyone — no one spoke — not even an "It's no use," that he had read in the books.
Rivers had soon come to realize that in Azkaban, there was no hiding from the Dementors. As long one stayed in the fortress, they were nothing more than feeding beds for the hooded monstrosities.
As long as they stayed.
He couldn't lie if he hadn't thought of breaking out, but those mentations were squashed by his own hard logic. He wasn't a magical savant; neither he possessed a crew of minions for a breakout, nor could he assemble one — the people had long lost hope; he lacked leverage that would make the Aurors for him.
In short, there was no way out for him.
'Without help,' Rivers thought bitterly, 'I can't get out of here.'
Then the walls of hell broke open, and his face was hit by cold rain and windy gusts after years. He was so thirsty that he stuck out his tongue and let the raindrops hit his tongue — it felt heavenly.
It must be a dream, he had thought. But then he realized why the damned woman had been laughing for so long.
Before his mental faculties could catch up, he was dragged out of his cell. They, whoever they were, didn't technically drag him out; they didn't even touch him — magic lifted him off from the ground, and he was flown through what he inferred as corridors, he had only vaguely seen them only once when he was brought in, but at that time, he was taken by the sight of the doomed prisoners without light in their eyes.
Soon he was out of the fortress, just like that. He was out of the prison; he had spun his brain into hopelessness by thinking on how to escape — but here he was, seeing the moon without the rusted black iron bars in his way.
'It's raining,' he thought, but the shower wasn't falling on him — it was perfect.
"Rivers Lock."
For a second, there was no reaction from Rivers; it had after all been so long that he had been called by his name — he was always Prisoner — no guard had called him by his name, he doubted they even knew about it.
"Rivers Lock."
Rivers finally weakly lifted his thin neck up and fronted his gaunt face to the caller. In the weak light of the pouring and thundering rain, Rivers couldn't see the face; all he could see was a short and thin man dressed in heavy robes.
"It's nice to finally meet you after so long," said the man, "though I wished it would've been in better circumstances," Rivers could feel the man's eyes looking all over him, "hmm, your condition doesn't seem to be great," and he said it like it was surprising
How dare this man say that and have the nerve to be surprised, he thought. Rivers was sure this man was some sort of pampered imbecile who hadn't tasted a day of hardship.
Rivers growled at the man, but all that came out was a frail groan from his unused voice box, and his neck couldn't keep his head up, and it fell back down.
The man chuckled humourlessly, "It seems you have some vigor left in you. Good, that's good. Well, that aside, we are here to break out some friends, and I thought it would be appropriate if we took you with us, because without some help, there's no getting off this island without dying in the sea," there was a chuckle, "and it was sort of my fault that you ended up here."
Rivers painfully cranked his neck up: "What?"
"Hmm? You don't recognize me?" the man crouched down and pulled off his hood to reveal a thin but healthy face.
Rivers' blank eyes stared at the face; it took a few seconds for his muddled mind to pull up a memory. It was one of a half-torn, stained, wanted poster he had seen stuck on a pub wall, and on it was a chubby man, who sweated as his mugshot was captured.
The man in front of him was nothing like that, but his brain still brought up the memory, and even in his current state, Rivers trusted his mind, and another blink and look at the man's face, his pupils shrunk in recognition.
"You-you. . . are. . . P-Pettigrew. . . Peter Pettigrew!"
Peter flatly smiled, "Glad you recognized me. We have only conversed once through my sole letter to you, but that one time has led us to meet here again."
"You!" Rivers hoarse voice raged. "You are the reason I-I. . ." he fumed, anger fueling his weak body.
"That would be incorrect," said Peter, "I simply provided you information; it was your decision to act on it. Blaming me won't take away from your foolish choices. But let's put that behind us, cherish the present, and look forward to a bright present."
Peter's voice was so miserably flat that all his word sounded unmotivated and thus totally false. Rivers was left without words — there wasn't anything he could say; he was a man with a broken body, while Peter Pettigrew was a man who had seemingly just broken Azkaban.
"Now, I would like to meet my Master," said Peter. "I'm sure you had heard of him. . . he goes by the name. . ."
.
- (Scene Break) -
.
And that's how Rivers Lock ended up banking up with the Death Eaters. He went from the leader of Novellus Accionites to a lower-middle circle member of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters.
For the first time in his life, he had been bound, his freedom chained. He was below the upper and inner circle members, any of them could order him around, and he couldn't refuse — not if he wanted to face the wrath of some individuals who wouldn't think for a second before either torturing or straight out killing him.
Then there was the Dark Lord, who would talk to him for hours about his work with Novellus Accionites. Rivers hoped to smooth talk to the Dark Lord, hoping to get into the good graces, but that went nowhere. The Dark Lord would call him to ask questions, and if he tried to deviate to build some relationship, the Dark Lord would put the conversation right on track.
It didn't help that the man was a Master Legilemens, and there was nothing he could hide. Rivers wouldn't even know that his mind was being read without his knowledge, but he did doubt that such was the case.
Finally, there was Peter Pettigrew, his handler in the Death Eater organization. He served the Dark Lord under Peter and was essentially Peter's subordinate.
Subordinate, Rivers had scoffed in his mind. Rivers' was sure that in Peter's mind, he was just a tool for Peter to use. His life was in Peter's hands, and it was all but a law because Dark Lord had decreed it.
He had no way of running.
Rivers was brought out his thoughts by a snapping of fingers in front of his face.
"Rivers? Mr. Lock?" called Bellatrix, and Rivers looked blankly at her.
"There are reports," he started, "that there is a pair of Aurors present there in that carnival today," Dark Lord's Death Eaters had a reach that his Novellus Accionites could only dream of, "both of them are muggleborns, and from what it seems, are on a date."
Bellatrix giggled, twirling her wand in locks of her hair, "Oh my~! Maybe we will play with one while the other watches."
Rivers ignored the mad woman's ramblings and continued with his plans, "Our motive today is to gain the pair's attention," he looked around the other Death Eaters. "All Azkaban ten members are here and will be entering the carnival without any disguises."
He was also part of the escapees, but he wasn't of importance and wasn't publicized as the escapees, which he was glad about.
"All of you will enter the carnival and make it look like that you're meeting in a muggle carnival, away from the wizardkind's eyes, but you're going to purposefully make yourself seen by the Aurors, so they will contact their friends back at the DMLE, and —"
"Have a party!" said Bellatrix, and there was a light on the top of her wand, thrumming with magic as wanting to rip free.
"We are not to use magic unless it's not necessary," said Rivers, "we need to keep the arriving Aurors here as long as we can, so please situate yourself near the muggles, so the Aurors won't use magic as well." He turned to the remaining Death Eaters, "All of you'll wait for my signal before doing what you were ordered to do and put the plan into motion. Be careful because we are going to be working with the place brimming with Aurors, one mist—"
"You don't need to tell us that, kid," said Augustus Rookwood, ex-Unspeakable, and one of the Azkaban Ten. "You just make sure that your ends happen smoothly."
". . . I see," said Rivers, "well then, I have nothing more to say. It's time to start."
The twenty Death Eaters trained their eyes on the carnival, planning to set off the biggest event of the year and a starting point for a chain of events to come.
.
-*-*-*-*-*-
.
FictionOnlyReader - Author - I have no idea why, but I have gotten slow. I'm writing really slow, and the chapter content is going through a change I'm not liking. This is the second short chapter in a row. I'll try to figure it out by the new year. I'm not going to stop posting, so don't worry about it.
.
-*-*-*-*-*-
.
If you have any ideas regarding the magic you want to see in this fiction or want to offer some ideas regarding the progression. Move onto the DISCORD Server and blast those ideas.
The link is in the synopsis!
Just like always,
Review, comment, add to the library, and share this fic.
Thx
https://discord.gg/w5dJ82SfMr
bình luận đoạn văn
Tính năng bình luận đoạn văn hiện đã có trên Web! Di chuyển chuột qua bất kỳ đoạn nào và nhấp vào biểu tượng để thêm nhận xét của bạn.
Ngoài ra, bạn luôn có thể tắt / bật nó trong Cài đặt.
ĐÃ NHẬN ĐƯỢC