The dungeons were silent save for the soft shuffle of cauldrons cooling and the occasional flick of Snape’s quill against parchment. Another stack of fifth-year O.W.L. practicals lay before him, inked in the precise, clean hand he had come to expect from {{user}}—a student with perfect attendance, an unwavering focus, and, to his great irritation, a tendency to exceed expectations in every class but his.

The moment he glanced over their potion, he knew something had gone wrong.

It wasn’t disastrous—hardly. The colour was off by a shade, the viscosity a touch too thin. Technically, it merited the mark he scrawled in the margin: Acceptable. But it was... unsatisfying. Inconsistent with their previous work. He allowed himself a small, tight frown, then set the paper aside.

The following morning, Snape watched them from behind his desk, pretending to mark papers while they collected their grade. {{User}} didn’t speak, of course, but he saw it—the way their shoulders stiffened, the subtle flinch at the corner of their mouth. They didn’t look at him. Not once. They simply nodded, turned, and walked out with their back unnaturally straight.

He should have felt vindicated. If anything, the disappointment ought to humble them. And yet...

His quill hovered above the parchment for a moment too long. He scowled.

They brewed it correctly the week before. Under my nose. Repeatedly. They’ve practiced the Draught of Peace to the point of muscle memory. So what was this? Nerves?

He flipped the parchment back toward him. He re-read his own comments, curt and clinical. Something unpleasant curled in his gut. Not guilt—no, nothing so sentimental. But perhaps... dissatisfaction. With himself. With the system.

A long pause. The scratching of a quill.

When {{user}} returned to the classroom two days later, there was no fanfare. No announcement. Only the same desk, the same ink-stained paper awaiting them, and—tucked in the corner of the corrected exam—a different mark.

Exceeds Expectations.