Sweet, naive Rookwood. While a less frantic Ben would acknowledge that the possibility of him actually failing all his examinations was very slim, the notion that his prefect’s badge would somehow guarantee him success—either by magic or by the virtues that had earned it for him in the first place—was optimistic at best.

“Sure they do,” he pointed out sensibly. “Anyone can fail. You don’t honestly think Kristoffer Lestrange is academically gifted, do you?”

Typically, Ben knew, it was not wholly done to speak ill of other prefects—or anyone, given his own station. Tonight, though, stress could overrule decorum, and after all, they were in the eagle’s nest; all ears present were friendly enough.