LIFE IS ON

“How do we conduct the exams these days, Professor?” Headmaster Flamel asked Professor Binns, who had been teaching at Hogwarts for generations. Binns, a ghost, drifted slowly as he taught History of Magic. “The system of exams has become a little lenient lately,” Professor Binns replied. “Defence Against the Dark Arts is conducted as a written test so students don’t hurt themselves performing spells. It’s the same for Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, and History.” “What about Herbology and Astronomy?” Flamel asked. “Er… Herbology and Astronomy exams are not conducted,” Binns answered hesitantly. The Headmaster’s expression stiffened. “Why not? They’re crucial parts of the curriculum, aren’t they?” “You’re right, Headmaster,” Binns said, “but the Ministry doesn’t consider these subjects particularly useful. Students tend to pursue them as hobbies after school, so official exams… well, they’re not held.” Flamel raised an eyebrow. “What about students with particular interests? I’ve kno...

Fictus Nativitas Peter found the spell in the diary. He murmured the description and usage of the spell slowly, making sure no one in the library could hear him. “Think of the object you wish to mimic—think closely—and then repeat clearly and precisely: Fictus Nativitas.” Peter knew exactly what he needed to mimic, what he needed to create. He practiced the spell under his breath all the way back to the dormitory. Later, sitting upright on his bed after his roommates had fallen asleep, Peter took out the diary once more. He reread the instructions, closed his eyes, and envisioned the wonderful moment he longed for: tomorrow’s match, the Golden Snitch clutched in his hand, his face glowing with triumph as the crowd roared. Peter could almost feel the victory. Slowly, he opened his eyes and raised his wand.  “Fictus Nativitas,” he whispered.                                ...

Edward slowly stepped out from behind the tree, revealing himself to Peter. He had Professor Flamel pinned by the throat, his wand pressed inches from the old man’s face. “Peter… you don’t understand,” Edward said, advancing. “This is necessary. I have to do this.” Peter backed away, wand raised, heart hammering. “I trusted you,” he choked out. “I thought so highly of you, Professor. How did you even get back into Hogwarts? Who helped you? Tell me!” Edward’s grip on Flamel tightened. “I will tell you everything, Peter. I promise. But let me finish this. I must kill him. Fifteen years I’ve waited—fifteen years for this moment!” “Expelliarmus!” Peter shouted, sending a jet of red light through the air—but Edward snapped his wand and blocked it with ease. “Sectumsempra!” Edward roared. The curse flew at Peter like a black blade. His reflexes kicked in; he dove sideways, but not fast enough. His right cheek tore open, his arm split with a deep gash, and he crashed onto the ground, screamin...

Peter stepped into the headmaster’s office, scanning the room in wonder. The chamber was a large hollow sphere, decorated with paintings and portraits of all the previous headmasters of Hogwarts. In the center stood the Headmaster’s desk, behind which a tall window overlooked the lake, shimmering under moonlight and starlight, with the magnificent silhouette of Hogwarts rising from its edge. On the desk lay his round spectacles, a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard , and a letter marked with the seal of Azkaban. Peter glanced around to check if anyone else was present. Seeing no one, he leaned forward, trying to peek at the letter. Dear Professor Alexander Flamel, I, Steven Rick, the Guardian of Azkaban, am writing to inform you that a grave danger has set its sights on the halls of Hogwarts. It pains me to report that Edward Black has escaped from Azkaban. This morning, when we discovered his cell empty, panic spread through the fortress. The only trace he left was a sin...