The moment Pomfrey cleared me to leave the Hospital Wing, I could feel the castle buzzing. Not literally—though I wouldn't put it past Hogwarts to vibrate with gossip like a living social network. No, this was the human kind of buzzing: whispers, glances, the smell of conspiracy and incorrectly-quoted hearsay drifting down the halls like incense in a drama club.
Gryffindor Tower was the epicenter of it all.
The portrait hole hadn't even closed behind me before the noise hit—loud and chaotic, like a stampede of overcaffeinated Cornish pixies.
"He's here!" someone hissed.
"No way, that's not him—he's way shorter in the stories!"
"Is that the one who launched the... the sofa?"
"I heard he rode a flaming bookshelf into battle!"
"I heard he was the bookshelf."
Dean Thomas was the first to reach me, holding something up like it was the next sacred relic.
It was a T-shirt.
In large block letters, it read:
"I SURVIVED FINAL EXAMS AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS INFERNO."
He beamed. "Custom design. I made one for Harry too, but his is selling out."
"You're monetizing rumors? and we still have months till Exam time." I said.
"Economics, mate. It's beautiful."
Huh, Deans a fast learner.
The room had gone nearly silent. Every eye had drifted from Harry's group to me.
Ah.
The other boy who had allegedly done... something.
They didn't know what. That was clear. There were too many theories, none of them even remotely accurate. I caught snippets as I moved deeper into the room:
"—he single-handedly held off a troll with a chair leg and a prayer—"
"—I heard he summoned a thousand pillows that sang war chants—"
"—he caught a magical fireball with his teeth, like a Snitch!"
A third-year girl whispered loudly, "He's probably not even human. You can see it in the eyes."
Someone behind her added, "Don't look too long, he might reverse your memory."
I considered responding.
Instead, I gave them all a slow, theatrical wave. Then I found the comfiest armchair and sat like I owned the room.
Seamus Finnigan, bold from distance, shouted, "Oi, Kingston! What really happened?"
I folded my hands. "That's a complicated question. What is reality? Are we all not just illusions wrapped in chaos?"
Lavender Brown blinked. "...So did the dragon happen or not?"
"No comment," I said, sipping from a mug I'd summoned via coat pocket. Possibly still holding soup.
At that moment, Harry caught my eye from across the room. He gave me a look that said: You better not say a word.
I gave him a look that said: Don't worry, I'm fluent in nonsense.
The energy in the room shifted again—someone stood on a table and shouted, "To Harry Potter, Hero of the Final Corridor!"
Cheers erupted. A standing ovation began. The walls vibrated.
Harry's face flushed redder than Ron's hair. He was immediately buried under slaps on the back, toast, streamers, and a Weasley who shouted something about "eternal glory!"
I remained where I was—entirely untouched by ovation.
Which suited me perfectly.
The truth didn't need a spotlight.
It just needed distance, perspective, and a good chair.
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The weeks following the common room chaos mellowed into an unexpected stretch of calm.
Not dull, exactly. Hogwarts was never dull. But the sort of calm that made you suspicious. No trolls, no cursed mirrors, no flaming furniture flying down hallways. Just class, chatter, and the occasional moving staircase that seemed determined to ruin everyone's sense of direction.
Most students returned to the rhythm of ordinary school life, blissfully unaware of how close they'd been to something irreversible. And those of us who had been in the thick of it? Well, we became excellent at dodging questions with dramatic shrugs or cryptic winks.
The real difference was what Hermione and I were doing quietly behind the scenes: preparing for early advancement exams. Ministry-verified, professor-endorsed, full-curriculum placement tests. The kind of thing that made Hermione light up and made me feel like I was willingly entering a dragon's nest with nothing but a sarcastic remark and a stick of chalk.
"You know," I said, flipping through a booklet titled 'Third-Year Charms: A Theory of Controlled Convergences', "I always wanted to learn something that sounded this much like an actual spell for internal bleeding."
Hermione, cross-legged on the floor of the common room, didn't look up. "It's not internal bleeding. It's advanced levitation threading with sustained incantation overlay. Obviously."
"I still think it sounds like a fancy curse."
She smiled faintly. "And I think you're stalling."
"No. I'm evaluating the absurdity of my choices."
We studied for weeks. Quizzes, wandwork trials, written exams, and two separate potions assessments that required a level of patience I usually reserved for line-waiting at Flourish and Blotts.
When the results finally came in, McGonagall called us to her office with her usual calm severity.
"You've both passed," she said, steepling her fingers. "Quite thoroughly. As of next year, you'll be granted access to select third-year courses—starting with Charms."
Hermione beamed. I blinked twice, nodded once, and then left the office trying very hard not to let my legs give out.
As we walked back toward the Tower, she bumped my shoulder lightly. "Admit it," she said. "You're glad we did it."
"I will admit no such thing," I said. "I am a wizard of mystery and untold suffering."
"Uh-huh."
"And I suffer mostly from that Advanced Arithmancy exam. Was that a number system or an existential threat?"
She laughed. "Next year, you're going to be unbearable."
"Thank you. I've been practicing."
Life settled again. Books, classes, quiet evenings. Nothing exploded for at least three weeks, which had to be some sort of record.
It was almost... normal.
Almost.