Although Ted had acquired an intriguing magical cookbook, he had no time to sneak into the Hogwarts kitchens and experiment.
The final exams had begun, and every waking moment was dedicated to studying—or, for some, panicking.
Ted arrived at the usual classroom with his quill and parchment in hand.
Behind him, Hermione was radiating confidence, ready to obliterate the tests.
Harley, on the other hand, glanced around, looking for any possible distraction.
Meanwhile, Ron, Jerry, and Neville shuffled in nervously, each carrying their own brand of exam-related dread.
Ron and Jerry had always relied on last-minute cramming and the occasional "borrowing" of homework answers.
They were decent at practical magic, but their theoretical knowledge? Barely above average.
Neville, despite his relentless effort, struggled. Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts were his strengths, but everything else?
A roll of the dice.
Since reading "Braveheart"—a book Ted had written to inspire courage—he had improved a lot. But confidence in learning took more than just a few motivational quotes.
The tension in the exam hall was suffocating. Students held their breath as the first test began.
First up? Transfiguration. And with it, Professor McGonagall's sharp, no-nonsense gaze.
----------------------------------------------------
Ding! Task triggered:
[Final Exam (Blue)]
This is your first Hogwarts final exam, a culmination of your year's learning. Give it your all—no regrets!
Objective: Achieve outstanding grades in all subjects.
Reward: 350 experience, random card.
----------------------------------------------------
Ted smirked. He knew it. Of course, the system would turn this into a challenge.
"Excellent in all subjects? Easy."
The Transfiguration exam had two parts: a written test and a practical demonstration.
The written portion required students to explain core principles, taboos, and their own insights into the art of transformation.
Ted filled two parchments effortlessly. Hermione, as expected, filled three.
Meanwhile, Ron glanced over at them in horror.
He had been stretching his letters to take up more space, but even then, he barely had one full page.
After half an hour, McGonagall ordered everyone to put down their quills. Now, for the real challenge.
The practical test was simple in theory: transform a mouse into a snuffbox.
First-year Transfiguration was mostly about two things—turning objects into other objects and turning living creatures into objects.
Easy enough on paper. In practice? A nightmare for most students.
Turning a matchstick into a needle was manageable. But an actual living creature into a perfectly solid object?
That required precision, intent, and a deep understanding of magic.
McGonagall's expression darkened as the students performed their spells. The results were... mixed.
Ron's snuffbox had a beard. Neville's still had a tail. Jerry's was the worst—it had sprouted four tiny legs and sprinted across the floor, forcing Jerry to dive after it.
Seamus, ever the master of the art of explosion, managed to make his mouse explode in a puff of smoke.
It smacked against the ceiling, half-cooked. The stench of burnt fur filled the room.
Jerry cringed in irony. "Rest in peace, little guy."
Most students struggled, their snuffboxes ending up misshapen, twitching, or slightly breathing.
In the end, only six students managed a complete transformation.
Ted and Hermione's were the most flawless—not only fully transformed but beautifully crafted.
Ted's snuffbox had elegant gold inlays, while Hermione's had intricate embossed designs. They looked like actual pieces of fine wizarding craftsmanship.
McGonagall, who had spent the last hour watching students butcher their transfigurations, finally smiled.
The kind of smile a farmer gives when their crops actually survive the season.
"Well done! Excellent work!" she praised, something nearly unheard of from the strict professor.
Transfiguration was a demanding subject, and having two exceptionally talented students in one year was a rare occurrence.
The exam had drained the first-years.
By lunchtime, the Great Hall was filled with exhausted, defeated students pushing food around their plates.
The older students, however, looked positively gleeful.
The upper years always relished this time of year. Watching the younger students suffer through their first finals was an annual tradition.
But if they thought the morning was bad, the afternoon was even worse.
Because next up—Snape's Potions exam.
The dungeon classroom was as cold and foreboding as ever. Snape stood motionless at the front, his black robes making him look like a statue carved from darkness.
The dim light from the wall torches cast eerie shadows across his face, making him look even more terrifying.
Snape's expression alone was enough to send shivers down the spine of any student.
His pale, sallow face was as emotionless as a stone gargoyle, his black robes billowing slightly as he folded his arms.
In his hand, his wand rested with quiet menace, as if ready to strike down any student foolish enough to attempt cheating.
The moment the students stepped into the dungeon classroom, an invisible weight seemed to settle over them.
It was like crossing into a cursed realm where hope was drained from their very souls.
Snape was, in essence, a humanoid Dementor.
With a sharp flick of his wand, a series of words burned into existence on the blackboard: Brew a Forgetfulness Potion. Time limit: 60 minutes.
Neville paled instantly.
His heart thudded against his ribs. The Forgetfulness Potion was one of the trickiest brews they had covered all year—far beyond the usual boil-this, stir-that simplicity of beginner potions.
Every step had to be precise, from ingredient preparation to magical infusion. A single mistake and the whole cauldron was ruined.
Snape was setting them up to fail.
But while most of the class collectively groaned in dread, Ted and his friends shared a quick, knowing look.
A subtle smirk tugged at the corners of their mouths.
Ted had called this. He had predicted Snape's move, and they had spent extra time preparing for this exact potion.
This wasn't luck—it was strategy.
The pressure lifted—just a little.
Snape, however, wasn't so easily fooled. Years of playing double agent had honed his ability to notice even the smallest details.
His sharp eyes flickered toward Harley, and he spotted something unusual—Harley has a flicker of amusement on her face.
Snape's thoughts were,
'Did Harley inherit Lily's talent for potions? She's competent, but she lacks consistency...'
The brewing process was as tedious as ever. Even the first step—distilling purified water—required meticulous care.
The 60-minute limit was just enough if everything was done perfectly. There would be no second chances. A single mistake meant failure.
The steps were exacting:
1. Pour the distilled water.
2. Use a silver knife to cut valerian into precise 3-4 cm sections.
3. Add the valerian, heat for 20 seconds, stir clockwise three times.
4. Crush and filter two mistletoe berries, add the juice, stir counterclockwise five times.
5. Boil for five minutes, infuse with magic, repeat three cycles.
6. Let cool.
If everything went smoothly, a skilled student could finish in 45 minutes. The average student would barely make it in 60. Any mistake? Game over.
Snape wouldn't tolerate wasted ingredients.
Ted and Hermione, unsurprisingly, finished first.
Ted's potion was textbook-perfect.
Hermione, naturally, completed hers two minutes faster than him. When it came to potions, her skill was undeniable.
Snape barely glanced at their work before scoffing and moving on. He wasn't about to hand out praise so easily.
Instead, he loomed over the other students, his presence alone enough to send weaker-willed students into a panic.
But something caught his attention—Neville was unshaken.
Even as Snape stood behind him for a full minute, Neville didn't flinch.
Sweat dripped down his forehead, but his hands remained steady, focused entirely on his potion.
No mistakes. Not yet.
When the exam finally ended, the students all but fled from the dungeon, gasping for breath as if they had just escaped Azkaban.
"Snape was practically shoving his hooked nose into Harley's cauldron," Ron groaned.
"And he told me my potion smelled so strong only a troll would drink it!" Jerry fumed.
To be fair, Jerry's potion was a disaster. The mistletoe berries hadn't been crushed properly, and his filtering had been sloppy. The potion worked—barely—but it wasn't pretty. Still, it was enough for a passing grade.
Barely.
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Word count: 1446
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