A sheet of yellowed parchment lay open on the desk. At the top, neat block letters spelled out the title:
Care of Magical Creatures Field Report: Porlock
Hermione's quill flew across the page, sketching the creature in quick, precise strokes while adding tidy notes underneath. Care of Magical Creatures had just let out, and she'd claimed her usual seat by the window in the Muggle Studies classroom—sunlight pouring in, April green stretching outside like a postcard. She was knocking out the homework early, head down, completely focused.
A cluster of familiar faces hovered around her desk, chattering like they'd just survived a war.
Ron was in full storyteller mode, chin up, voice pumped. "You guys missed it—Hannah, Justin—it was insane. I'm still shaking thinking about it."
Hannah Abbott (top of the Sorting line back in first year) eyed him, half skeptical, half thrilled. Zero actual fear on her face.
Justin Finch-Fletchley leaned in, impatient. "Quit dragging it out—what the hell does an angry Porlock even look like?"
Ron soaked up the attention, shaking his head like a pro. "So the Gryffindors had already made nice with the little guy. Then it was the Slytherins' turn—you know how those pure-bloods are, always looking down their noses…"
"Mate, you're pure-blood too," Harry reminded him helpfully.
"We're pure-blood traitors!" Ron grinned, proud as hell. "Anyway, the first few went fine—even Malfoy behaved for once. But when it got to the pure-blood girls… boom."
He paused for dramatic effect, eyes sparkling as everyone leaned closer.
"Pansy Parkinson grabs a fistful of grass and marches straight at it like she owns the thing. Hagrid's yelling 'be gentle, touch the hooves first, offer the grass, then maybe the mane—but don't linger!' She ignores every word, shoves the grass in its face, then yanks a handful of mane like she's trying to rip it off."
Hermione's quill kept scratching:
When threatened, a Porlock's soft coat and mane stiffen and bristle as a warning. All four limbs can deliver kicks powerful enough to shatter ribs or rupture internal organs—comparable to a full-force strike from an enraged wild horse.
The violet-scented ink smelled sharp in the warm sunlight slanting across her parchment, lighting up her pale face.
"So what happened to Parkinson?" Justin demanded.
"Lucky for her, Hermione caught the mood shift before the mane went full porcupine," Ron said, still wide-eyed. "She yanked Pansy back just in time. Two seconds later that little fluff-ball turned the fence Hagrid nailed together into toothpicks."
"Would've turned a person into ground meat," Seamus added, and Dean nodded like a bobblehead.
"Hermione's a legend," Neville said, not shy with the praise. "The Porlock hadn't even changed color yet—Hagrid missed it completely. Only she picked up on the vibe."
Every head swiveled toward her. Hermione kept writing, ears turning pink.
When is that damn bell going to ring? Where's Professor Levent…? she thought, cheeks burning. She hated being the center of attention.
"Don't get cocky, Granger," a sharp voice cut through the chatter.
Hermione looked up. Pansy Parkinson stood at the edge of her desk in full school robes, cheeks flushed, and dropped a delicate gold pendant onto the wood. Emeralds shaped like snake eyes glittered—pricey as hell.
The whole third-year class (Muggle Studies was mandatory) turned to watch. Every flavor of stare hit them at once.
Hermione calmly slid the pendant back. "No need for a thank-you gift. Hogwarts rules are clear—if a classmate's in danger, everyone's obligated to help."
"Parkinson witches don't give a damn about rules," Pansy snapped, looking down her nose even while her eyes darted away from Hermione's steady gaze. "You saved my life. I owe you a life-debt. That means I pay with something valuable. Wizard custom."
Hermione thought for a second. "If you really want to settle it… drop any complaint against Hagrid. He didn't do anything wrong using the Porlock for class."
"He nearly got me killed!"
"You ignored every safety step, provoked it, and almost got other students hurt," Hermione said evenly.
"You… fine! Then I don't owe you anything!" Pansy hissed, but everyone could hear the bluff.
The bell rang right on cue. Students scattered. Professor Levent walked in exactly on time, stack of papers under his arm and an easy smile on his face.
"Afternoon, everyone. Starting today we're in full end-of-year review mode…"
A collective groan rippled through the room. When the papers hit their desks, the groan turned into full-on dread.
Hermione—raised Muggle, top of the class—had treated Muggle Studies like easy常识 until now. She told herself it was just a normal quiz and flipped the sheet over.
Senior professors like McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout had decades of consistent style. Melvin's tests? Pure chaos.
First question jumped out: Select all that apply. Missing, extra, or wrong choices = zero points.
Which of the following subjects do NOT fit the Muggle concept of "natural science"?
A. Alchemy B. Potions C. Muggle Studies D. Herbology E. Astronomy F. Arithmancy
Hermione froze, quill hovering.
Half the room looked just as lost—the smart kids who actually understood the Muggle side but couldn't map it onto wizard stuff. Two completely different ways of thinking were slamming into each other inside their skulls. Pens got chewed. Nails got bitten. Brains melted.
The bottom-of-the-class crew just picked whatever felt right and breezed through.
Their fun lasted until the next class when they had to stand up and explain their answers out loud.
Rote memorization, homework, tests—school settled back into its usual grind.
Summer rolled in anyway.
…
June hit fast.
Bright sunshine was the new normal. Finals had snuck up on everyone, but a lot of students had already flipped the mental switch: Too late to cram now—might as well enjoy the ride. Summer's right around the corner.
Hogwarts exams split into two chunks: regular end-of-year tests run by the professors, plus the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s for fifth- and seventh-years, proctored by the Wizarding Examinations Authority. Those stretched from the last week of May into the second week of June.
Melvin's regular exams went smooth as butter.
After months of his brutal practice tests, the third-years showed serious grit. From a quick patrol of the hall, even the lazy Hufflepuffs were pulling solid "Exceeds Expectations." Over half the class earned straight "Outstandings."
The tiny handful who scraped "Acceptable" got their names quietly noted in his little black book—extra attention next year.
The real show was the two big exam blocks for the seventh-years.
Kids like Percy treated every question like life or death—staying up all night, agonizing over wording, terrified a comma might cost them points.
After each paper they looked like they'd just survived a full-contact duel.
Then there were the Oliver Wood types. Thanks to the Mirror Club broadcasts, scouts from every pro Quidditch team knew their names. Wood had already signed as reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United. The starting Keeper was retiring to coaching—Wood was basically guaranteed a fast track to starter. Grades? Whatever.
What they actually cared about was the upcoming House Cup final.
"Nice one, big guy!"
Professor Tofty from the Examinations Authority clapped Oliver on the shoulder, half-moon glasses perched low on his nose so he had to tilt his head to look up. "Oliver Wood—yes, Mr. Wood. No need to stress over that Banishing Charm question. If you want an Outstanding, give me something more convincing."
This was the N.E.W.T. practical for Defense Against the Dark Arts. The Great Hall had been turned into multiple testing stations; seventh-years queued up.
Wood's half-hearted performance earned a middle-of-the-road mark—solid fundamentals, nothing flashy.
"Like what?" Wood asked, bending down politely. He didn't care that much, but free house points were free house points.
"I've been hearing rumors from the Hogsmeade pubs—something about mass Patronus training at Hogwarts. Care to show me where you lot are at?"
Wood's grin turned cocky. In his year he'd conjured a full corporeal Patronus before even Percy. He knew exactly what he wanted to protect, and Gryffindor had racked up plenty of happy memories winning the Cup year after year.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Silver mist exploded from his wand tip. A sleek, athletic retriever burst out, shook itself, and tore across the entire Hall like it owned the place.
The whole room went dead quiet. Every examiner stared. When the dog looped back and dissolved into glittering fog, old Professor Tofty's face flushed crimson. He clapped with both wrinkled hands like a kid at a fireworks show.
"Brilliant! Absolutely outstanding!"
That one demonstration cracked the dam. Suddenly the Hall filled with excited voices and silver light. Not everyone managed a full animal, but thick, shimmering mist and half-formed shapes were more than enough for bonus points. Students were happy to pad their certificates; the old examiners grinned like proud grandparents watching the next generation show off.
Melvin leaned against the doorway of the side chamber, arms crossed, watching the light show. Beside him, Madam Marchbanks looked even smaller than usual—silver hair gone pure white, face a web of wrinkles, back hunched so she seemed tiny. Her voice, though, still carried like a foghorn.
"They all deserve an O, don't you think, Melvin?"
Because she was half-deaf she practically shouted, but the smile on her face was impossible to miss.
Melvin chuckled and flicked his wand, throwing up a silent Bubble-Head Charm so their conversation stayed private. "We brought in some special teaching aids this year. Come back next spring—you'll see even more kids pulling full corporeal Patronuses."
"Special aids?"
"Classified for now."
Marchbanks laughed softly. "From the day you first walked into the Ministry I knew you'd shake things up. I just didn't expect it to happen this fast—Muggle Studies, Hogwarts, now the whole damn wizarding world."
Melvin listened quietly.
"It's not just wizards anymore. The Ministry-Muggle cooperation has every magical being watching. Last week the Goblin High Council showed up at Gringotts in Diagon Alley and filed a formal protest—wizard gold is flowing somewhere else, and some wizards have started using Muggle currency outright."
She dropped the latest gossip like it was yesterday's Prophet. "Gringotts no longer controls the exchange rate. Half the shops in Diagon and Knockturn will swap Galleons for pounds on the spot, no limit. Pay in raw gold and they'll even give you a discount."
"What's the rate looking like?" Melvin asked.
"No fixed rate yet—they're still using gold as the anchor. They charge a small fee, but gold prices and Muggle currency values fluctuate between countries. A few shopkeepers are already talking about arbitrage."
Marchbanks tilted her head, curious. "Can they actually make money off that?"
Melvin's smile grew slow and sharp. "Takes serious starting capital… and a nose for market swings. That's the birth of real finance."
"Sounds like a job for Seers and Diviners."
"Funny thing about fate," Melvin said. "The second they peek at the future and try to profit, they become part of the market. The future shifts."
Marchbanks shook her head—she didn't quite follow—but her cloudy old eyes sparkled with pure delight.
"That thick wall between our worlds just got its first real crack. Greed will drag wizards into Muggle society faster than any law ever could. This… this is going to be a revolution."
She grinned, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"A bloody magnificent revolution."