[Third Person Pov]
The exam that followed Charms with Professor Flitwick was, of course, none other than Potions with Professor Snape.
If Charms had been stressful for some, then Potions was outright nerve-wracking.
The task itself was relatively simple—at least by Arthur's standards. Each student was required to brew a Forgetfulness Potion, a concoction most of them had practiced several times before. The ingredients were familiar, the steps clearly outlined, and the margin for success should have been generous. Unfortunately, the real challenge of the exam had nothing to do with the potion itself.
Snape.
He prowled the dungeon like a vulture, black robes billowing softly as he stalked the exam takers, breathing down students' necks and scrutinizing every movement. He took note of every cut that was a fraction too thick, every stir that was slightly off-rhythm, and every temperature fluctuation that lasted a second too long. His presence alone was enough to make hands tremble and minds go blank.
Concentrating under such oppressive scrutiny proved nearly impossible for many students. More often than not, nerves led to careless mistakes, which in turn resulted in sharp remarks and points being deducted without mercy.
Gwyneth stood at her station, shoulders tense, desperately trying to focus on her work. Snape's unimpressed stare lingered on her far longer than she would have liked, making doubt creep into her thoughts. For a brief moment, she completely forgot the next step of the process.
Her hands faltered, and she ended up cutting a piece of valerian root just a bit too large.
Snape stopped beside her station. He merely hummed—a low, disapproving sound—and scribbled something down on a floating piece of parchment hovering obediently at his side.
That was enough.
"Would you please stop staring at me like that?" Gwyneth cried out, tears welling in her eyes. "You're making me nervous!"
"No talking," Snape replied in his usual slow drawl, not even sparing her a glance. "This is a test, Miss Ardene, not a social gathering."
Gwyneth whimpered softly, utterly defeated, and turned her attention back to the cauldron with renewed desperation. When she finally finished, she bottled her potion neatly, even tying a small bow around the glass before stepping forward. She held it out with trembling hands and looked up at him timidly.
"Subpar. Next," Snape said flatly, already turning away without inspecting it.
Her shoulders sagged. Gwyneth lowered her head and shuffled toward the exit, dragging her feet as she muttered insults under her breath.
"Your face is subpar… that greasy hair and nose are subpar. Your entire life is subpar…" she continued grumbling as she pushed the heavy door open and left the dungeon.
When it was Lance's turn, Snape's demeanor shifted—only slightly, but noticeably. As a Slytherin, Lance was afforded a marginally more agreeable reception, though Snape's standards remained as unforgiving as ever.
It helped that Lance was among the top first-year students. He possessed both skill and discipline, qualities Snape admired. Still, in the professor's eyes, Lance represented wasted potential—largely due to the company he chose to keep.
Lance completed his potion in a timely and orderly manner, presenting it with deliberate care. He bowed his head respectfully as he spoke.
"Professor."
"Hm," Snape hummed in response before finally examining the potion. "Not bad. Better than most so far."
"Thank you for your praise, Professor," Lance replied humbly.
When it was Arthur's turn, the treatment he received could not have been more different.
Snape greeted him with open hostility, his dark eyes narrowing the moment Arthur stepped up to his station. The professor became excessively meticulous—borderline obsessive—in his analysis, clearly searching for anything, no matter how insignificant, that could justify deducting points from Arthur's examination.
What infuriated Snape most was the simple fact that this proved to be an exceptionally difficult task.
Arthur's handling of his ingredients was flawless. Every motion was deliberate, controlled, and precise. His knife work was immaculate, each slice measured with care and consistency. When he finished using the blade, he placed it exactly where it belonged, blade facing away from himself, positioned precisely as it had been when he first picked it up.
His measurements were perfect down to the decimal. His timing was impeccable—when to stir, when to heat, and when to reduce the flame. Arthur did not rush a single step, nor did he hesitate. Not a second was wasted, and not a single moment was off.
Snape circled him repeatedly, parchment hovering at his side, quill poised and ready.
And yet… nothing.
By the time Arthur finished bottling his Forgetfulness Potion, Snape realized—much to his mounting irritation—that he had failed to record a single fault throughout the entire process. The potion was textbook perfection.
Full marks.
Arthur noticed immediately.
A smug smile slowly crept across his face, subtle at first, then spreading wider as realization set in. That smug, infuriating, shit-eating grin pressed every last one of Snape's buttons.
"So," Arthur asked casually, barely suppressing the laugh threatening to escape his throat, "how did I do, Professor?"
"Abysmal," Snape replied flatly, without hesitation—and without honesty.
Arthur chuckled. "You can dislike me all you want, Professor," he said confidently, "but you can never hate me for being incompetent."
That did it.
A vein bulged violently at Snape's temple.
"I may not be able to deduct points from your examination," Snape snarled through clenched teeth, "but I can deduct five points from Gryffindor for your insolence."
"If that'll quench your unrelenting hatred toward Gryffindor," Arthur replied cheerfully as he turned to leave, fist raised in mock solidarity, "then all the power to you, Professor."
"Ten points!" Snape snapped.
Arthur pushed the door open. "Can we make it twenty?" he called back, voice ringing like an overexcited auctioneer.
"Fifty points!"
"Can I get an amen!" Arthur exclaimed, throwing his hands upward theatrically just as the door slammed shut behind him.
Arthur chuckled to himself in the hallway, nearly feeling bad for whoever had the misfortune of entering after him. Snape would undoubtedly be in a foul mood.
"It's my turn next," Neville said nervously. "Wish me luck."
Arthur froze.
Horror struck him like a Bludger to the chest.
Oh no… what have I done?
"Neville…" Arthur called out hesitantly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"What?" Neville asked, glancing down at the hand in confusion.
What unsettled him more was the look on Arthur's face—pitiful, mournful, tears brimming in his eyes as though this were the last time they would ever see one another.
"I'm so sorry, my friend," Arthur said solemnly, hand covering his mouth as he struggled to hold back tears. "Please forgive me."
"Huh? For what?" Neville asked, now thoroughly confused.
Arthur suddenly pulled him into a tight hug. "You were one of the good ones, Neville," he whispered dramatically. "I will miss you very dearly."
"Arthur… you're honestly scaring me," Neville said with a weak, uneasy chuckle.
"I'm sorry, I can't do this!" Arthur cried before abruptly turning and running down the hall, sobbing into his hand.
"What was that all about?" Neville muttered, half-laughing as he pushed open the dungeon door.
When it finally reopened, a pale, hollow-eyed Neville emerged. He quietly shut the door behind him and leaned against it, trembling. He tried to walk along the wall for support, but his knees gave out, collapsing beneath him.
Arthur rushed to his side immediately, cradling him as though he were holding a desecrated corpse.
"NEVILLE!!" Arthur wailed dramatically, as if starring in a tragic soap opera and mourning the loss of a dear friend, "CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME?!"
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