The spring of 1938 rushed by in a blur of frantic revision and mounting tension, both academic and existential. The news from the continent grew steadily more dire, each edition of the Daily Prophet painting a grim picture of Grindelwald's expanding dominion and the ICW's increasingly desperate, yet futile, attempts at negotiation. Within Hogwarts, the atmosphere was thick with apprehension, a heavy cloak draped over the usual end-of-year excitement. For me, however, the external turmoil served only to sharpen my focus, to hone my resolve. My unseen hand operations within the school continued, a silent war fought against the insidious spread of Grindelwald's rhetoric, a constant undercurrent to my demanding academic schedule. The two apprenticeships, now firmly agreed upon, were powerful motivators. Perfect N.E.W.T.s in Transfiguration and Potions were not just academic goals; they were essential steps on a far more crucial path.
June 21st, 1938. The day dawned clear and bright, but the air was charged with nervous energy. This was it. The N.E.W.T.s. The culmination of seven years of magical education, held not within the familiar walls of Hogwarts, but in the Ministry of Magic's Education Department's exam hall. My year-mates and I gathered in the bustling Atrium, a sea of anxious faces, murmuring last-minute spell incantations and quizzing each other on obscure potion ingredients. The Ministry building itself seemed to hum with a different kind of magic than Hogwarts – a dry, bureaucratic hum, laced with the nervous anticipation of hundreds of young wizards and witches.
My first exam was Transfiguration. The written paper was exactly as I expected: complex, nuanced questions delving into the very philosophical underpinnings of transformation, the A'kren of an object, the ethical considerations of altering sentient beings, the limitations of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. I found myself answering with an almost effortless flow, my mind drawing not just on textbook knowledge, but on the deeper, Draconic understanding I had cultivated. Each question felt like an extension of Dumbledore's own demanding lectures, and my responses felt less like regurgitation and more like a true conversation with the material.
After the written exam, we moved to the practical hall. It was a vast, open space, partitioned by shimmering, semi-transparent magical screens, each booth containing a simple wooden desk and a single, innocuous-looking wooden box. An examiner, a stern-faced witch from the Transfiguration Department, sat at the front, observing silently. My heart quickened, not with nerves, but with a keen sense of challenge. This was where I would prove myself.
My instructions were concise: transform the given box into a variety of objects, living and non-living, inanimate and animated, showcasing precision and control. I nodded, took a deep breath, and focused. My wand remained tucked in my robes. I would do this silently, showing a mastery that went beyond mere incantation and wand movement. This was about pure Untethered Will, the A'kren of magic responding directly to my intent.
I fixed my gaze on the humble wooden box. Its A'kren was simple: solid, static, inanimate. I began.
First, I envisioned a steel bird statue. My Will flowed, shaping the wood, compressing its essence, altering its material structure. The transformation was swift, silent, fluid. The wood rippled, shimmered, and solidified into gleaming, cold steel, sculpted perfectly into the form of a majestic eagle mid-flight. The examiner made a small, impressed sound.
Next, I shifted the steel. I wanted to show fluidity, a command over material and form. The steel bird softened, elongated, its hard edges blurring. It flowed like mercury, then solidified into a sleek, black raven, its feathers ruffled as if caught in a breeze, perched elegantly on the desk. Still inanimate, but with an implied motion.
Then, the true challenge: life. I focused, drawing on my deep understanding of the fundamental energies that animated living beings. This was not simple conjuration; it was the re-creation of life from inanimate matter, a perilous and demanding feat. The raven statue vibrated, its black form darkening further, taking on the subtle imperfections and nuances of true organic matter. A faint breath escaped its beak. Its obsidian eyes blinked. With a soft caw, the raven stirred, ruffled its genuine feathers, and hopped lightly on the desk, a living, breathing creature. The examiner's eyes widened, her quill momentarily forgotten. This was beyond 'Outstanding'. This was a demonstration of a power rarely seen.
I continued, transitioning from the animate to the inanimate, from complex forms to simple ones, with seamless precision. The raven melted, not into a messy puddle, but into a pile of sparkling, raw diamonds, each facet catching the light, perfectly cut. The diamonds then shimmered, reforming into a crystal goblet, delicate and translucent. The goblet then flowed, shifting its essence, becoming a burst of pure, contained light, hovering above the desk like a tiny, self-sustaining star, before condensing back into a single, perfect rose, its petals unfurling in slow motion, dew drops glistening on its velvet surface. Every transformation was silent, executed with an almost unnerving calm, a testament to my absolute precision of intent.
I concluded by returning the rose to its original form: the simple wooden box, appearing precisely as it had at the start, no trace of the elaborate magic it had just undergone. I straightened up, my gaze meeting the examiner's. She was staring at me, her mouth slightly agape, her pen motionless on her clipboard. She eventually cleared her throat, a faint tremor in her voice. "Remarkable, Mr. Starborn. Truly... remarkable." She made a series of rapid, vigorous ticks on her parchment. I knew then that my perfect score was confirmed. Dumbledore would have his apprentice.
June 22nd. Potions day. The written exam was a demanding one, requiring not just theoretical knowledge but an intuitive understanding of ingredient interactions, catalytic agents, and the subtle magical flows within a cauldron. I felt confident, my answers flowing with a clarity born from both rigorous study and practical experience.
The practical exam was the true test. We were tasked with brewing a Polyjuice Potion. A notoriously complex and time-consuming concoction, it demanded absolute precision, exact timing, and an intimate understanding of the properties of individual ingredients, particularly the Lacewing Flies and Fluxweed. The standard time was two hours.
I approached my cauldron, a sense of quiet exhilaration humming within me. This was Slughorn's challenge, and I would not just meet it, but surpass it. I laid out my ingredients with meticulous care, my hands moving with an almost preternatural speed and precision. My magical resonance sensing extended to each ingredient, allowing me to perceive their unique A'kren, their raw magical potential, and how they would interact. I didn't just follow the recipe; I felt the recipe, understanding the inherent Nahl (flow) of the potion as it progressed.
Instead of the standard stirring, heating, and adding, I employed my Untethered Will to directly influence the potion at a fundamental level. My stirrings were not just physical; they were currents of magical energy, guiding the ingredients into perfect cohesion. My heating charms were not just about temperature; they subtly accelerated the magical reactions within the brew, optimizing the fusion of disparate essences. I made what seemed like minor, almost imperceptible adjustments to the recipe, based on my understanding of the A'kren of the specific batch of ingredients provided, optimizing their interactions, reducing inert byproducts, enhancing potency. The recipe was improved, transformed, perfected in real-time.
Within an hour – half the standard time – my Polyjuice Potion simmered, a perfectly golden, bubbling liquid, emitting a faint, wholesome aroma. It wasn't just clear; it was translucent, shimmering with a vibrant magical energy, a depth of clarity that spoke of flawless execution. The examiners, two Potions Masters from the Ministry, approached my station. They peered into my cauldron, their expressions moving from skepticism to astonished disbelief. They took a sample, performed their tests, and then exchanged wide-eyed glances. One of them, a grizzled old wizard with a perpetually sour expression, actually cracked a small smile. "Flawless, Mr. Starborn," he grunted, a rare compliment. "And in half the time. Extraordinary."
I knew then that Slughorn, too, would have his apprentice.
June 23rd. Charms day. The written exam was rigorous, testing our knowledge of charm theory, counter-charms, and the ethical considerations of magical influence. I found it challenging but exhilarating, the interplay of magical theory and practical application deeply engaging.
The practical portion was often the most nerve-wracking for students, requiring immense concentration and emotional fortitude. One of the key practical challenges was to produce a fully corporeal Patronus. The hall was filled with the faint, ethereal shapes of shimmering shields and wispy, non-corporeal silvery mists as students struggled to conjure the defensive charm.
I stepped into my designated booth, the air cool and expectant. The examiner, a young but highly skilled Charms Master, gave me the instruction: "Corporeal Patronus, Mr. Starborn. A clear form, sustained for no less than thirty seconds."
I took a deep breath. My Untethered Will was focused, calm. I thought of a powerful memory, one that encapsulated profound joy and a deep sense of purpose: the quiet satisfaction of seeing my subtle counter-charms take root in the Slytherin common room, countering Grindelwald's poison. The image of the students, unknowingly freed from insidious influence, filled me with a deep, resolute warmth.
I raised my hand, no wand needed. Expecto Patronum. The words were merely a whisper in my mind, a focal point for my intent. My Will flowed outward, shaping the silvery mist into a majestic, vibrant form. It wasn't a trickle; it was a powerful surge, born from the very depths of my core. Before the examiner's astonished eyes, a magnificent, shimmering phoenix burst forth from my hand. Its fiery plumage glowed with an inner light, its long, elegant tail feathers fanning out, its intelligent eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom. It circled my booth once, its ethereal wings beating silently, filling the space with a comforting warmth, before perching gracefully on my shoulder, its head tilted as if in silent acknowledgement. It was fully corporeal, perfectly formed, and utterly silent. It remained there, pulsing with unwavering light, far beyond the thirty-second requirement.
The examiner, a seasoned Charms Master, simply stared, her jaw slack. She had never seen such a Patronus, not in an N.E.W.T. exam, perhaps not ever. The sheer power, the silent casting, the perfect form – it spoke of a mastery that transcended the curriculum. She eventually marked her parchment, a reverent silence in her booth. I knew then that my performance would speak for itself.
June 25th. Defence Against the Dark Arts day. The written exam delved into the history of dark magic, the counter-strategies, and the psychological impact of various curses. I answered with a chilling precision, my recent experiences with the locket and the internal ideological battle lending a grim authenticity to my responses.
The practical exam was a series of simulated duels against powerful Ministry Aurors disguised as target dummies, testing our ability to defend against various dark spells and to employ effective counter-curses. Many students struggled, their shields faltering under the relentless assault of simulated Blasting Curses and Stunners.
My turn came. I entered the training chamber, which shifted and shimmered, taking on the appearance of a grim, abandoned alleyway. The first 'Auror' dummy appeared, its wand raised. I didn't wait. My magical resonance sensing immediately registered the magical signature of its impending spell. I fluidly moved, not just dodging, but anticipating, creating an optimal defensive position.
My casting was a silent symphony of controlled power. I showcased a range of casting techniques that went far beyond the standard curriculum. Against a rapid barrage of Reductors, I employed a deflection charm that twisted the incoming energy away harmlessly, dissipating it into the environment rather than simply blocking it. Against a simulated Body-Bind Curse, I didn't just counter it; I applied a reverse-flow charm that caused the curse to briefly rebound onto the dummy itself, momentarily paralyzing it. I demonstrated layered shield charms, each interweaving with the last to create an impenetrable, yet flexible, defense. I showed subtle misdirection charms that caused the dummy's aim to subtly waver, and precision disarming spells that were almost impossible to block. My defensive spells were not just textbook incantations; they were adaptations, innovations, born from my deep understanding of the A'kren of defensive magic and my Untethered Will.
The Auror examiner, a grizzled veteran with a scarred face, watched with growing astonishment. He had clearly expected a competent performance, but not this. My movements were fluid, my reactions instantaneous, and my spells executed with a silent, devastating precision. My defense was unbreachable, my counter-attacks swift and effective. He took extensive notes, his hand moving furiously. When the simulation ended, he simply nodded, a look of profound respect in his eyes. "Mr. Starborn," he rasped, his voice rough. "That was... quite possibly the most comprehensive display of defensive magic I have witnessed from a student. Outstanding. Truly outstanding."
June 26th. Ancient Runes day. The written exam required a meticulous understanding of various runic alphabets, their historical contexts, and their individual magical properties. The practical exam was designed to test our ability to create and activate complex runic schemes. We were given a vast, magically enlarged space within the exam hall, a barren, open area, and tasked with designing a runic system for terrain control.
I approached my section, a vast empty space humming faintly with raw magic. I began to draw, not with chalk, but with concentrated surges of Untethered Will, shaping luminous runes directly onto the ground. My chosen scheme was ambitious: a complex mixture of Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Anglo-Saxon, and Norse runes, each carefully chosen for its specific properties relating to elemental manipulation, stabilization, concealment, and localized environmental control. I envisioned a protective system that could alter the very ground beneath an enemy's feet, creating illusions of impassable terrain, or generating localized magical effects that would disorient and deter.
I wove the different runic traditions together seamlessly, creating a unified, multi-layered system. The Egyptian Ankh for life force and restoration, intertwined with Mesopotamian Lamashtu symbols for protective wards and subtle disorienting effects. The Anglo-Saxon Eihwaz for defense and resilience, combined with the Norse Algiz for protection and divine power. The schema was intricate, a testament to months of self-study and experimentation with advanced runic theory.
When I activated it, the runes glowed with a dazzling, synchronized light, pulsing with immense power. The magically enlarged space around me shimmered. Subtle changes occurred within the terrain. Patches of the ground rippled as if turning to quicksand, illusory brambles sprouted from nowhere, and faint, disorienting echoes of distant sounds whispered through the air. It wasn't an aggressive system, but a perfectly designed defensive and deceptive one, capable of subtly altering perception and movement within its boundaries. The examiner, a notoriously dry and academic expert in Runes, leaned forward, his spectacles glinting, his usual detached demeanor replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. He spent a long time examining my work, tracing the patterns with a reverent finger. He then simply nodded, making a series of urgent notes on his parchment. "A masterpiece, Mr. Starborn," he murmured, almost to himself. "A true masterpiece of runic engineering. The fusion of traditions... unparalleled."
June 28th. The final day. Arithmancy practical. This was less about direct spellcasting and more about the theoretical application of magical numbers and patterns to create new spells or analyze existing ones. We were tasked with designing an arithmetically precise spell.
I presented my work to the examiner, a precise, hawk-nosed wizard with an unnerving ability to spot the slightest mathematical error. My project was an arithmetically derived spell whose incantation was 'Solis Fervor'. I had meticulously calculated the precise numerical values, the inherent magical properties of each syllable, the harmonic resonance of the incantation, and its connection to the elemental properties of fire and light. It was a spell designed to harness ambient thermal and light energy, concentrating it through numerical precision to create a localized, self-sustaining source of intense illumination and heat.
I activated the spell in the center of the examination room. With a quiet hum, a miniature, incandescent orb of light appeared, hovering gently above the ground. It was no larger than a snitch, yet it glowed with an astonishing brilliance, radiating a palpable, comforting warmth, like a tiny, perfectly contained sun. It was pure, controlled energy, harnessed through the elegant precision of arithmancy.
The examiner, initially skeptical, leaned in close, his face illuminated by the miniature sun. He ran his wand over it, casting various diagnostic charms, his brow furrowed in concentration. He checked my calculations, cross-referenced my numerical theorems, and finally, after a long, silent moment, he looked up, his eyes wide with a mixture of profound understanding and almost reverence. "Mr. Starborn," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is... profound. Truly profound. An elemental spell of such purity and controlled power, derived solely from arithmancy... you have transcended the very boundaries of the field. This is not just a spell; it is an understanding." He made a single, definitive mark on his parchment, a silent confirmation of my absolute success.
The week of N.E.W.T. examinations concluded. I felt physically and mentally drained, yet profoundly satisfied. I had not merely passed; I had soared, pushed the boundaries of every subject, and fulfilled my promises to Dumbledore and Slughorn. As I left the Ministry building, the setting sun painting the London skyline in hues of orange and purple, a profound sense of achievement settled over me. I had proven my mastery, earned my apprenticeships, and laid the foundations for the next stage of my preparation.
Back in my quiet Hogsmeade cottage that evening, the familiar wards settling around me, I finally allowed myself to relax. I poured a glass of water, the cool liquid a welcome relief after a week of intense mental exertion. My Untethered Will hummed with quiet contentment. I had done it. Every exam, every practical, executed with a precision and depth that few, if any, could match.
As I prepared for bed, the anxieties of Grindelwald's war, of Switzerland's annexation, and the subtle ideological battles, resurfaced. But for tonight, they were background noise. I had met the challenges set before me. I was Marcus Starborn, Lord of an ancient house, and now, soon to be apprentice to two of the greatest wizards of our time. The path ahead was daunting, fraught with unseen