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( 000 ━ ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVELS )

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"WELL DONE, MISS LOVEAGE," declared a squat, red-faced Ministry wizard, sporting a delighted smile as he gazed at an array of work laid out on the table in front of him. "Very well done, indeed!"

He glanced across the table, where a young witch sat on the bench facing him, her expression eager but anxious. At his compliment, the girl, "Miss Loveage", beamed proudly, and rather relievedly. Her freckled face relaxed and a satisfied smile spread over her features.

"Thank you, Professor Thorpe."

The red-faced wizard nodded, reviewing a scroll of parchment in his hand against the assortment of items arranged between them. They were ingredients; potion ingredients, to be more exact, an odd medley of shimmering powders, shriveled roots and leaves, and phials of various liquids that shifted color when stirred—some glowing faintly, others giving off the faintest curls of smoke or the occasional, suspicious hiss. Miss Loveage had been identifying these things for close to a quarter of an hour; every time she distinguished one correctly, the Ministry wizard would wave his wand and something else would appear in its place. Powdered asphodel was replaced by dried clusters of shrivelfig, the valerian root was transformed into boomslang skin, and vials of dark, viscous dragon blood swirled and thinned until they turned the toxic-blue shade of syrup of Hellebore. Another correct guess lead her to a brown, shell-like object about the size of a large walnut. The young witch picked it up and rolled it gingerly between her fingers.

"This is a Chizpurfle carapace," she said, glancing up at the Ministry wizard. "They're used in antidotes to more uncommon poisons. Quite hard to crack open too."

She handed the shell back to the Professor Thorpe and he smiled grandly. "Correct again!" He commended, marking something else down hastily with his quill. "Now tell me: how might one go about splitting open a carapace? They are particularly tough, as you said."

"If I remember correctly, the Venomous Tentacula should do the trick," she answered, after a moment of thought. "Feed a Chizpurfle to one and the plant should be able to bite through the shell."

Professor Thorpe gave her approving remark, to which the girl flushed a shade nearly as crimson as his own, embarrassed but pleased.

"Marvelous. Quite impressive, Miss Loveage. I thought I had stumped you for sure with that Clabbert pustule earlier, but I was clearly mistaken..." he said. He glanced at a watch on his wrist, then peered to the tables on either side of himself, before he continued speaking. "Well, now that would conclude the identification portion of your exam, but seeing as we have a little extra time due to your quick responses, I thought we might endeavor in a little challenge. Perhaps allow your peers catch up some?"

The witch followed his gaze over her shoulder, where the long, narrow tables of the four Hogwarts houses had previously been (having been moved after lunch), now replaced by several smaller tables and benches that seated other testing fifth year students. There, a Ministry witch or wizard supervised their examinations, just as Professor Thorpe was doing for her. Every so often, a stern-looking woman in emerald-green robes, Professor McGonagall, would usher in a new group of students into the Great Hall by last name. She had been herded in under the name Loveage, Isla.

Isla peered at her neighbor, a dark haired boy by the name of Roger Davies, whose face was screwed up tightly as he tried to differentiate two different phials of some sort of light-colored liquid. Past him, as far as she could see, other fifth years were at varying levels of their exams, some just starting, while others were corking brews of their potions to hand over to the examiners. Every so often, there was a small disturbance as a potion or two went awry: the occasional explosion as one combusted, or the panicked muttering that ensued as someone's cauldron turned to sludge and melted through the table.
Professor Marchbanks, a short and rather elderly witch, could be heard ordering people about, her loud voice carrying across the Great Hall.

"Please step away from your cauldron, Mr. Pucey, you've done enough."

"Miss Spinnet—Miss Spinnet, do be careful, please...

"Mr. and Mr. Weasley, I would implore you to take this seriously—it is an examination, after all..."

All was fixed with the wave of a wand, but some people left the hall with miserable expressions, likely thinking about the poor marks they were bound to receive. Isla twitched nervously in her seat. Despite Professor Thorpe's insistence that she was making good time, Isla couldn't help but feel a sliver of anxiety about avoiding the same. However, much to her relief, a girl in Gryffindor robes who she had entered with, was still identifying ingredients, so Isla turned her face upon Professor Thorpe once again and nodded.

"What's the challenge, sir?" She asked.

Professor Thorpe grinned, and with a flick of his wand, the potion ingredients disappeared in a puff of smoke; when Isla waved it off, three jewel-toned bottles remained in front of her. Curiously, she picked one up. She couldn't see what the contents were through the tinted glass and when she uncorked the bottles, she found that all three had similar looking liquid inside.

Isla glanced up at the examiner with furrowed brows. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Professor."

Professor Thorpe's smile widened, and he gestured to the bottles. "Ah, it's a simple enough task, Miss Loveage. You see, each one of these bottles contains the same potion—just a simple healing draught. However, one contains a lethal poison, which is sure to kill anyone who drinks it."

Isla blinked, glancing down at the bottles once more. Each one looked perfectly identical, their contents shimmering like a pool of liquid amber.

"Your task, Miss Loveage, is to identify which one is safe."

Professor Thorpe's eyes gleamed with an almost imperceptible challenge as he watched Isla's reaction. He said nothing more, only gave a slight nod, indicating she should proceed.

Unsure where to start, Isla picked up the first and shook it gently. Nothing happened. Just the faintest ripple in the liquid. Same with the second bottle, and again with the third. No change. No effect. No clues. So, she couldn't rely on any common signs—no foul odor or dramatic color shift—like she might in an ordinary potion exam.

She set them down again, each bottle aligned in front of her like three identical sentinels.

Thorpe had given her no more information than this. No potion-identifying methods, no divination of the contents. Just three bottles, one deadly, two harmless—though perhaps the idea of "harmless" was subjective here. They all might be dangerous. They could all be poisons in different forms, perhaps, but the lack of identity was what Thorpe was testing. By not knowing which one contained the poison and with no clear way to differentiate them, it made each potion equally as deadly. All were lethal because they were indistinguishable.

Finally, she straightened, looking up at Thorpe uncertainly. "It's a trick question, Professor. They're all dangerous."

Professor Thorpe beamed. "Very well done, Miss Loveage. An astute observation. All three bottles contain potions of varying lethality, but none of them can be trusted. A very fine response."

Isla frowned, dissatisfied by his answer. Partially because she felt she had answered incorrectly by some capacity, and partially because his response didn't make any sense; it was an explanation worthy of Professor Dumbledore.

"So...what's the right choice? None of them?"

"Yes. And no." Thorpe was beaming. "It's all about perception, my dear. There is no right or wrong answer. If you think about it, no potion is harmless if it is trusted too easily. Furthermore, even the simplest of draughts can do more harm than good if used with the wrong intent. Does that make sense?" he asked, looking at her expectantly. Isla nodded, but she didn't feel any more enlightened.

"Now, if you're ready, we can continue with the second portion of your exam."

She nodded again, quickly, glad to be moving on. Next to her, Roger, much to her consolation, was also proceeding onto the last part of his examination, although his sharp features remained doubtful over his previous distinction of the two vials. It put Isla's mind at ease knowing that she wasn't the only one who was second guessing themself.

When she looked back at her own table, she found that it had been neatly arranged with a small cauldron, a set of brass scales, and a cutting board and knife. The ingredients were off to the side, clearly marked this time, and only when Isla read their labels, did her excitement for the second task begin to fade. Unicorn hair, fairy wings, rose petals...they all had the makings of a moderate and rather boring potion. She tried not to be too disappointed, as surely this meant that she would make good marks on her exams, but she was still crestfallen at the idea that she was somehow being punished for answering the challenge question wrong.

"For the last part of your examination, you will be brewing a Beautification Potion," said Professor Thorpe, as he settled back in his chair. "You will have the remaining time to complete your potion. When the time is up, you will step back from your cauldron and cork your brew for me to evaluate. Do you have any questions?"

Isla shook her head. "No, sir."

"Very well. You may begin."

Isla looked down at her ingredients again, took a deep breath, and stood up to begin brewing. She started at once, grinding up the fairy wings with a mortar and pestle, plucking rose petals, stirring clockwise and counterclockwise, heating and cooling, until she was red in the face and there were beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. The potion bubbled and hissed with each new ingredient added, shifting from scarlet to a shimmering sapphire blue, then deepening into indigo before finally settling into a vibrant aquamarine. It didn't stay that way for long. As Isla added the last pinch of powdered ginger root, the potion sparkled like the surface of a bubble and rippled outward in rings of color—sky blue to violet to a dazzling, almost iridescent pink. Tiny, multi-colored bubbles began to rise from the surface, and soon, it was clear that the potion was nearly ready. Isla smiled to herself, transfixed. She could already envision the 'O' that would be printed in neat script beside Potions on her exam results.

She was so focused that she didn't notice the sudden sharp tang of smoke from further down the row, or hear Professor Marchbanks begin to raise her voice: "Mr. Weasley, that potion is far too hot—"

Isla reached into her robe pocket, pulling out her wand for the final step.

But before she could wave it over her potion, there was a commotion to her left: Professor Marchbanks was now shouting—"MR. WEASLEY!"—and a thunderous crack rang through the Great Hall. Something bright and flaming burst into the air like a firework. It spun and twisted high above the Great Hall in a blur of reds and oranges, trailing sparks behind it like a Catherine wheel.

"GET DOWN!" someone shouted, and Isla instinctively ducked as the fireball swooped toward the ground again, streaking past a row of startled students and knocking over several stations in it's wake. Someone else, perhaps a teacher, shot a spell at it with their wand, but it missed the firework by inches as it made it's final descent...directly in the center of her nearly-finished potion.

The firework disappeared into the cauldron and smoke billowed out from the brim as if the thing had been extinguished. There was a split second of stillness. Silence. Then—

The aquamarine liquid turned a furious shade of red, glowing like lit embers. The surface of the potion began to slosh violently, almost angrily, boiling over the side. A high-pitched whine started to build from the depths of the cauldron.

Isla scrambled to her feet just as the potion exploded with a deafening BOOM.

The blast sent a wave of potion across the workstation, splattering Isla and Professor Thorpe with burning liquid. Isla barely managed to shield her face with her arms, but her forearms, hands, and neck were instantly coated. Almost instantly, boils sprouted along the exposed skin. Only, they weren't normal blisters—they swelled up in the most garish shades of the rainbow, just like the potion itself.

Professor Thorpe, less fortunate, had taken the brunt of the splash full in the face. He staggered backward with a howl of agony, clutching at his cheeks and neck as the same angry boils began to erupt along his skin—large, disgustingly colorful blisters ballooning grotesquely over his nose, his ears, and the rest of his face.

Isla could barely breathe through the sting and the smell—burned petals, scorched wool, and something acrid and chemical. "Professor Thorpe—are you okay? I'm so sorry—I didn't—" she gasped, stumbling toward him.

But he was no longer listening. His eyes were watering, nearly swollen shut, and his skin underneath the boils had turned a mottled shade of plum. The Great Hall had gone deathly silent except for Thorpe's moans of pain.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Marchbanks came rushing over from opposite ends of the hall, their robes billowing, wands already raised.

"Stand back, Miss Loveage," said Professor McGonagall briskly, eyes flashing with alarm. She took hold of Thorpe's arm, steadying him. "Thaddeus, don't worry—we'll get you to the hospital wing at once."

"I—I didn't mean—" Isla stammered again.

Professor Thorpe, squinting down at her with one barely-open eye, managed to rasp, "I believe... that concludes your examination, Miss Loveage..." before McGonagall began ushering him out of the Great Hall, her wand flicking to cool the swelling on his face as they went.

"Wait—please—can I try again?" Isla called after him. "It wasn't my fault! Just let me redo it—I can—"

Thorpe didn't respond. He groaned as they crossed the threshold, and Isla swore she heard him mumble something about contacting her Head of House, but that was all. Then the doors swung shut behind them.

Professor Marchbanks turned slowly to face the remaining students, her expression thunderous. "Back to work!" she barked, her voice echoing off the enchanted ceiling. With a flick of her wand, Isla's exploded potion vanished, the scorch marks on the table erased, the cauldron reassembled as if nothing had happened—except for the lingering, acrid smell of singed hair and humiliation.

Isla stood frozen, trembling slightly, until she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

It was Professor Flitwick, his brow furrowed with concern. "Isla, dear, you should go to the infirmary as well," he squeaked. "You're burned."

"I—it wasn't my fault—" she whispered again, dumbly.

"I know," Flitwick said softly. Then, more firmly: "Miss Ketteridge, would you escort Miss Loveage to the hospital wing, please?"

Miss Ketteridge, another Ravenclaw girl with short hair and a smattering of freckles, nodded silently and stepped forward. She took Isla by the elbow and started to guide her towards the doors of the Great Hall.

But before Isla left, she turned back instinctively—toward the source of the firework. And there, near the far end of the row, she saw Fred Weasley.

His own potion was in ruins, half his table scorched, and Professor Marchbanks was already in the middle of an angry tirade. But Fred didn't seem to be listening. He was looking straight at Isla.

And grinning.

It wasn't cruel, exactly—not mockery. Just... impish satisfaction. Like he'd meant it. Like he'd enjoyed it.

Isla turned away quickly, her skin still stinging, her chest tight with anger and humiliation.

She didn't say a word the entire way to the infirmary, but the same, single thought
burned hotter than the boils on her arm: she absolutely, undeniably hated Fred Weasley.