Margaret studying for her O.W.Ls ❤️ There are doodles in her notebook lol

Lofi girl Picrew link will be on the message board.

through the air in the side section of the library.

1945... 1944... 1943... 1942... 1941...

"1940," she murmurs, crouching so that she was eye-level with the shelf.

The newspapers were divided into twelve piles for twelve months, each pile containing every Daily Prophet of the date. The piles became a deeper shade of brown the further she went down the aisle.

She immediately found the newspaper she was looking for.

The headlines and articles were the same:

But there was one headline that stands out among the rest:

Margaret exhaled slowly.

Holding the newspaper was like holding an object she had seen in a dream. Finding it partly confirmed that whatever it was that Toujours Pur was showing her was likely real... And Margaret was not sure how she felt about that.

Taking the newspaper, she quickly made her way to the table on the side where she had put her things and sat down. The sweet-and-pungent smell of the old newspaper made her nose scrunch up and she tried to inhale it as less as possible as she read it.

As Gellert Grindelwald's halt increases over Europe by the day, the beginnings of another Great War brew in the global Muggle World. Many theorists related to MACUSA - The Magical Congress of United States of America - suggest that Grindelwald's forces are catalysing the muggle war:

"Grindelwald does not like the No-Maj," said Head Editor of The New York Ghost, E. L. Filhus, backing up the theories. "His actions have only proved so thus far. Several times he has tried to break the International Statute of Secrecy and continues to do so with his fanatics attacking No-Maj, killing them in cold blood. A war would only benefit him further."

Whilst the British Ministry of Magic denies any such premise:

"Gellert Grindelwald has always shown himself to be a dictator," said the Head of Auror Office, Theseus Scamander, "and one cannot dictate without the masses. The next Great War had been inevitable with or without his involvement. Our focus is on capturing him rather than making up chitchats."

When asked about why the Aurors of all European Ministries combined have been unsuccessful at capturing Grindelwald, Auror Theseus Scamander gave no comments.

Margaret sighed slightly at the lack of information it gave her. She turned the page and continued scanning the newspaper anyway, her mind wandering.

Margaret sighed slightly at the lack of information it gave her. Meanwhile, her mind wandered.

Hogwarts had been curious lately.

Fred and George had made sure that nobody would forget them very soon. They had not left instructions on how to remove the swamp that now filled the corridor on the fifth floor of the east wing. Professors McGonagall or Flitwick could undoubtedly remove it; however, they seemed to prefer to watch Umbridge suffer.

Eventually, the area was roped off and Filch, his shrivelled face purple with rage, was given the task of punting students across it to their classrooms.

Meanwhile, Dungbombs and Stinkpellets were dropped so frequently in the corridors that it became the new fashion for students to perform Bubble-Head Charms on themselves before leaving lessons, which ensured them a supply of fresh clean air, even though it gave them all the peculiar appearance of wearing upside-down fishbowls on their heads.

Margaret partook in the mischief as well (as if she would miss a chance to make Umbridge's life hell.) Margaret and Lee, who were tasked with looking after Fred and George's hair-snouted and chubby little nifflers, snuck one into Umbridge's office through her open window. The niffler, called Pumpernickel, promptly tore the place apart in its search for shiny objects, and, when Umbridge re-entered after another chaotic day, it leapt at her and tried to gnaw the rings off her stubby fingers.

Legends say her screams still echo in the office...

Moreover, the daily reports Margaret had to submit on Harry were getting increasingly ridiculous. Harry and Ron had the time of their lives making up random stuff that Harry did, but no one was as creative as Luna Lovegood.

"What you mean Potter has wackspurts in his hair?" asks Umbridge, voice high-pitched with frustration after dealing with another day full of mayhem.

"Lots of wackspurts, Professor," says Margaret conspiringly. "Thought you ought to know."

"I ought to know where Albus Dumbledore is! Not that Potter has an infestation of an imaginary creature in his hair!" Umbridge exclaims. She takes a deep breath to calm herself, then snaps, "And what about Sirius Black?!"

Margaret hummed, knowing she was about to sound properly insane. "No, I don't think Sirius Black has wackspurts. I reckon he takes good care of-"

"I DO NOT CARE!"

Thanks to Margaret's apparent insanity, now Draco Malfoy was tasked with collecting daily reports from her.

"One would dare assume you'd want to prove you're not mad," mutters Draco after reading a twelve-inch parchment about Harry's apparent obsession with eating chocolate according to the colours of the wrappers - red before a Quidditch match, blue when he wanted to pass a test, yellow when he wasn't having a good day, and green - well, he chucked those out because they reminded him of Slytherin.

Margaret was trying very hard to suppress her laughter.

"By the way," she says, sniggering, "congratulations on completing sixteen rounds around the sun-"

She burst out laughing at the utterly flabbergasted look Draco gave her before he took ten points from Gryffindor.

Oh the other hand, it became clear just how many Skiving Snackboxes Fred and George had managed to sell before leaving Hogwarts.

Umbridge barely entered her classroom when the students in there began to faint, vomit, develop dangerous fevers, or spout blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and frustration she attempted to trace the mysterious source of the symptoms, but the students told her stubbornly they were suffering from Umbridge-itis.

But not even all this could compete with the master of chaos, Peeves, who seemed to have taken Fred's parting words deeply to heart.

Cackling madly, he soared through the school, toppling over tables, bursting out of blackboards, and crashing statues and vases. He flooded the second floor when he pulled off all the taps in the bathrooms, dropped a bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall and, whenever he fancied a break, spent hours at a time floating after Umbridge and blowing loud raspberries every time she spoke.

The teachers, however much they try to hide it, were helping Peeves.

Rumour had it, Professor Sprout was the reason behind poltergeist's newfound product of entertainment - Stinksap capsules, which he pelted down at Filch and Mrs Norris every time he saw them. Professor Flitwick had been known to have charmed a small hand pistol for the capsules to get a good range. And Professor McGonagall, of course, who was likely the reason behind several well-transfigured toads over the swamp in the East Wing; each ribbet-ing rather loudly in a way that distinctly sounded like 'Umbridge' as though calling for an old friend.

Finally, the Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw match had been yesterday. Fortunately, Gryffindor won, thanks to Ron's sudden self-confidence at his ability to not do any worse than he had already. Unfortunately, Harry and Hermione were missing for the entirety of the game; having disappeared with Hagrid.

The pair of them had told Margaret about Grawp the next morning, while she revealed to them sheepishly that she had known all along. Harry and Hermione seemed startled for a second and then sighed like they should have guessed that at this point.

Telling Ron about Grawp was a whole different case. He was so euphoric about the Gryffindor win that he could not seem to settle to anything. But Harry and Hermione had managed to tell him about the giant in the Forbidden Forest when they had gone out to the grounds to study.

Margaret, on the other hand, often retreated to her room with the excuse of studying alone. It seemed that the closer June came, the more she wished to distance herself from everyone, beginning to feel overwhelmed with the increasing magnitude of stress...

It was currently the evening of the last Sunday of May '96, and June was almost upon them. At any rate, she had to keep her focus on her rapidly approaching exams.

"Are you going to talk or are you going to keep staring at that until it sets itself on fire?"

The sharp voice snapped her out of her prolonged reverie, bringing her back to the library. She looked up at Draco, cursing under her breath. She had forgotten he was there...

"It's mostly useless," she tells him quietly, clearing her throat as she closed the old paper and began packing her things.

Toujours Pur: La Terre had not been very exciting. All it contained was her incomplete family tree, Latin garbage about Seers and summaries of Arthurian legends in Runic alphabets. Not that she had read it herself, that was Draco had been translating lately.

However, with all that was going on in her head, she felt as though she was better off without the complication of trying to figure out any hidden meanings behind the text of that book. So she planned on erasing Draco's memories relating to it soon.

Whether that book had anything important or not, she could deal with it after the next month passed...

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. "Where d'you think you're going?"

"Well, there's nothing in the newspaper, you can see for yourself," Margaret repeats, pushing it across the table to him. "We're done translating the last bit of Latin which only talks about Seers - none of which I can confirm. Now, you can take a look into that thing and ask me about it later; if there's nothing, you return it and the other copies to me so that we can go our separate ways."

"I'll stop you right there," Draco interjects, clearly irked that she was telling him what to do. "There are still things this book claims you are. I need you to answer some questions."

Margaret ignored this and stood up, feeling irritation bubbling up. "Not now. I have Transfiguration to revise."

"Wouldn't our resident Seer already know what's going to be in the exam?" he mocks.

"First of all, I'm not a Seer. Secondly, you can't choose what you see about the future," she blurts out.

Draco smirked. "So you can see the future, eh?"

"Putting words in my mouth isn't going to prove your point," she grits out, hitching her bag further up her shoulder.

"Well, it's not about how much you know anyway," Draco shrugs but speaks with a tone of importance, his nose stuck in the air, "it's about who you know. Now, Father's been friendly with the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority for years - old Griselda Marchbanks - we've had her round for dinner and everything."

Margaret scoffed, slightly amused. Maybe it was a popular Slytherin thing to take every chance to show off their influence, even if it meant pretending you do not work hard for grades, but she knew the truth.

"Yes, of course, Griselda Marchbanks would be the reason behind your perfect O.W.L score," she says, raising a brow, "not because you got Umbridge's permission to use the library every single night after hours like a dork."

Draco looked like he had been kicked in the face. How in Merlin's name did she know?

She answered without him asking, "You do remember that I can get in and out of anywhere despite the time?"

"Will you stop reading my mind?" he snaps, scowling.

Smirking slightly, Margaret turned around, saying over her shoulder, "I don't need to; you're predictable."

"I am not predictable!"

But it was pointless, she was already gone.

Draco exhaled in irritation. Margaret Xenakis drove him up the wall on a daily basis. If it had not been for the fact that he was doing this to gain the Dark Lord's favour, he would never willingly interact with her...

Little did she know, in the time she spent neglecting him, Draco had found out more about who Alfréd Xenakis could be.

Standing in between the shelves filled with old newspapers a few minutes after she was gone, he raised his wand. "Inveniet Xenakis."

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then suddenly five, ten, twenty, forty newspapers dated in between 1931 and 1944 flew from the shelves and set themselves upon the floor in front of him. He sorted through them quickly before Madam Pince or anyone else saw him. Unfortunately, there were far too many for him to have a look at each one, but he had gotten what he needed.

Taking them, he quickly charmed the newspapers to restack themselves in their appropriate shelves, grabbed his bag and left the library.

and details of the procedure in their next Transfiguration lesson.

The exams would be spread over two successive weeks; theory in the morning and practicals in the afternoon (with the exception of Astronomy, which would take place at midnight.)

Professor McGonagall warned them that objects such as Auto-answer Quills, Remembralls, and Self-Correcting Ink, were all banned from the examination hall, and Anti-Cheating Charms would be placed on their papers.

Their first exam, Theory of Charms, was scheduled for Monday morning, hence Sunday was packed with revision.

On the couch, Harry, who had agreed to test Hermione, looked like he never regretted anything so much in his life. She was so agitated that she kept snatching the book back from him to check that she had gotten the answer completely right, finally hitting him hard on the nose with the sharp edge of Achievements in Charming. Meanwhile, Ron was sitting by the window, reading two years worth of Charms notes with his fingers in his ears, his lips moving soundlessly.

Behind the couch, Seamus was lying flat on his back on the floor, reciting the definition of a Substantive Charm, while Dean checked it against The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5; and Parvati and Lavender, who were practising basic locomotion charms, were making their pencil cases race each other around the edge of the table.

On the table by the door to the boys' dormitaries, Margaret spent the day helping Neville revise using the flashcards she had made from her notes.

"Thanks for helping me, by the way," Neville tells her later that evening. "I appreciate it a lot... I'm just worried I might forget everything the second I see the paper..."

Poor Neville... His face had lost a lot of colour in the past few days as exams drew nearer and nearer.

"Don't worry, Neville," Margaret says, smiling reassuringly. "You've got it all in your head. You know the answers and they'll come to you when you see the questions."

Neville attempted to return her smile but failed.

"Are you sure you don't want to go get some draught of peace from Madam Pomfrey?" Margaret asks for the third time that day.

Like all the previous times, he shook his head, leaning forward to grab the flashcards from the coffee table.

"No, I'm fine," he mumbles, sounding anything but as he picked up his wand shakily. "Can we revise wand movements? I feel like I can't grasp them quite well..."

Margaret stared at him for a moment longer, slightly concerned, before nodding slowly. "Yeah, let's do that..."

Dinner was a downcast affair that night.

None of them talked much but ate with gusto, having studied hard all day. Harry and Ron seemed to be revising in their heads; whilst Hermione kept putting down her knife and fork and diving under the table for her bag, from which she seized a book to check some fact or figure. Ron was just telling her that she needed to eat well or she would not be able to sleep when Margaret spoke up.

"Guys," she whispers, her eyes on the doors of the Great Hall. "Look, it's them; the examiners."

Harry, Ron and Hermione whipped around on their bench. Through the doors to the Great Hall, they could see a rather nervous-looking Umbridge standing with a small group of ancient-looking witches and wizards.

"Oh my goodness," Hermione mumbles faintly.

"Shall we go and have a closer look?" offers Ron.

The four of them abandoned their nearly finished food and hastened toward the double doors into the entrance hall as discretely as possible. Among the group of examiners, a tiny and stooped witch with a very lined face, who they believed was Professor Griselda Marchbanks, seemed to be a little deaf. Had the students inside the Great Hall not yet noticed her, she announced her arrival in her thick Scottish accent as she shouted her answers at Umbridge.

"Journey was fine, journey was fine, we've made it plenty of times before!" she exclaims impatiently. "Now, I haven't heard from Dumbledore lately!" she adds, peering around the hall as though he might suddenly emerge from a broom cupboard. "No idea where he is, I suppose?!"

"None at all," Umbridge says, shooting a malevolent look at Harry, Ron, Hermione and Margaret who were now hovering around the foot of the stairs as Ron pretended to tie his shoelace. "But I daresay the Ministry of Magic will track him down soon enough..."

"I doubt it!" shouts the tiny witch, "Not if Dumbledore doesn't want to be found! I should know. Examined him personally in Transfiguration and Charms when he did N.E.W.Ts! Did things with a wand I'd never seen before!"

Margaret shot a bewildered glance over her shoulder. Marchbanks examined Dumbledore? He must have been, what, seventeen nearly a hundred years ago? How ancient was this woman...?!

None of the fifth and seventh years talked at breakfast the next day either, and once it was over, they milled around in the entrance hall while the other students went off to lessons.

Margaret was leaning back against the far corner, away from the crowd of her anxious peers, when a voice whispered in her ear rather tauntingly:

"Try not to make a fool of yourself and get kicked out, will you?"

Her eyes snapped open to meet familiar grey ones for a split second, before both of them looked away, pretending that they were talking to the walls and not each other.