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Gwen had completely forgotten that she was in the middle of an exam.
Her focus had entirely wandered off on its own accord, mindless to any sort of instructions or tips Slughorn had been offering to her. She knew the basis of the exam was to craft a Draught of Living Death with absolutely no notes, she knew she had an hour to do so, and she knew she needed to pass the exam in order to proceed into Advanced Potion Making for Seventh Years.
But she had no idea how to draft the Living Death potion. Or rather, if she did, the useless information had long ago been replaced by more important bits and pieces, like the room number her mum was in at St. Mungo's, or how long it'd been since she'd heard from her dad—both four. Fourth floor, room number four; four days since her father's last letter had come in. Four days too long, four floors too high, four worlds too far away. Four, four, four four four—
"Miss Graham." Slughorn's voice was gentle, yet prodded her back into reality, sucking her out of her own mind and back to the Potions classroom wherein she was stood behind a bubbling cauldron of nothing. Slughorn didn't look pleased, either. He raised his eyebrows. "It's been forty-six minutes. You haven't touched the ingredients."
She blinked. No response came from her, and she again looked away from Slughorn, back down to the empty cauldron. Round and full up of nothing. Waiting patiently to be used, practically begging Gwen to pick up the first ingredient of a Draught of Living Death and get to work already.
But Gwen's mind had abandoned her, and she knew not even the first thing about making a Living Death potion. So, after fifty-two minutes of nothing, Slughorn released her from his classroom—though not after mumbling something to himself and making a mark on the lower end of his parchment.
Professor Merrythought's Defense Against the Dark Arts exam came immediately following. Two exams back-to-back would have been harsh enough, but topped with both subjects being N.E.W.T. level and Gwen's lack of headspace, the double-block absolutely kicked her arse.
"It's an easy enough task," Merrythought explained jovially, her Irish accent dancing across the empty Defense classroom, bouncing off the edges of the desks that she'd pushed to line the perimeter of the room. In the center sat a large wardrobe, toddling around, its doors and drawers wobbling within itself.
"Boggart," Gwen guessed, her throat dry. She'd faced one in third year; only a wee Acromantulan creature had come out to terrorize her—but Circe knew what would challenge her now.
"Righty-o," Merrythought said. She nodded to the wardrobe. "You've got to Ridikulus it back to its cage, but to get a passing mark, it must be Nonverbal. Evans's just managed to do so without her wand, even."
Gwen swallowed, nodding slowly. A Boggart. An easy spell. Plus she'd already managed Nonverbals, long ago.
But that was before. Before the attack, before her mum, before everything went horribly. Before Gwen had lost touch with reality. It felt like a lifetime ago.
