Heavy Is The Crown (Harry Potter × Arthurian Legend)

[Third Person's PoV] 

"Twenty points taken from Gryffindor," Snape sneered, his cold black eyes narrowing as he turned his attention directly toward Arthur. There was a glint of satisfaction in his gaze, a clear expectation that the boy would pale, perhaps stammer an apology, or at least show some regret. Maybe even a flicker of embarrassment under the weight of his housemates' glares.

But instead, Arthur merely blinked.

He stared back at Snape, not in defiance, not in fear—but with a vague look of confusion, as though he didn't quite register what the big deal was. In truth, he didn't. Classes had only been in session for a week, and Arthur had single-handedly earned more house points than most of Gryffindor combined. Losing twenty was nothing. He could gain those back before lunch—easily during Charms if he felt like it, or in Transfiguration without breaking a sweat. Hell, with a little effort, he could earn them back in a single spell demonstration.

Still, the rest of the Gryffindors didn't quite share his nonchalance.

They were now openly glaring at him, their faces etched with varying degrees of irritation and disappointment. To them, house points mattered—a lot. They had been in the lead, and now thanks to Arthur's mouth, that lead was slipping, although they were only in the lead thanks to Arthur in the first place. 

Arthur, meanwhile, looked around at the angry faces and let out a silent sigh. The whole thing felt... childish. Petty. Almost laughably so.

'Seriously,' he thought, 'how pathetic… How Alan Rickman ever managed to make this man likeable is beyond me.' 

"Perhaps that will teach you to respect your professors, Mr. King," Snape said with a deliberate emphasis on the surname, his voice soaked in contempt.

Arthur didn't respond. He didn't need to. He simply returned the professor's gaze with a blank, unimpressed stare, expression unreadable. Sometimes silence was more powerful than words—a fact Snape, of all people, should understand. Arthur though did resist the strong temptation to roll his eyes.

Snape's lips twitched as if he wanted to say more, but instead, he cleared his throat and continued taking attendance. His voice slithered through the list of names until it reached one that instantly changed his tone.

"Harry Potter," he said slowly, drawing out the last name with unmistakable disdain. "Ah, yes… our other renowned celebrity."

The sneer was practically tangible.

From the back, Draco Malfoy snickered behind his hand, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle who guffawed with him like overgrown parrots. Harry's eye twitched slightly, a nervous edge creeping into his posture. He braced himself, expecting the same sharp exchange Arthur had endured.

But the moment passed.

Snape moved on, apparently satisfied with a single verbal jab. Harry exhaled slowly, a flicker of relief flashing across his face.

"You are here," Snape began, suddenly shifting to address the whole class, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

He spoke in little more than a whisper, yet the entire room was transfixed. Despite the contempt and cruelty lacing his tone earlier, Snape possessed the rare ability to command a room with nothing more than his voice—much like McGonagall, though with considerably more menace.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here," he continued, pacing slowly, "many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I do not expect most of you to truly comprehend the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron… with its shimmering fumes… the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…"

His dark eyes passed over them like a hawk scanning prey.

"I can teach you how to bottle fame… brew glory… even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the class, thick and stifling.

Harry and Ron exchanged uncertain glances, both eyebrows raised. Ron mouthed "Stopper death?" while Hermione Granger practically vibrated in her seat, her hand hovering near her quill. She looked desperate to prove that she was not, in fact, a dunderhead.

Lance meanwhile appeared lost—but not because of the content. He was baffled by the delivery. The melodrama. The barely veiled loathing.

Then, like a thunderclap in the quiet, Snape barked, "Potter!"

Harry jumped in his seat, heart skipping a beat. 'Oh no, here it comes…' 

"What would I get," Snape asked coldly, "if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Three hands shot up instantly—Hermione, Arthur, and Lance.

Harry glanced sideways, panic flickering in his eyes. "I... I don't know, sir," he admitted softly.

Snape's lip curled with satisfaction, though he hesitated upon noticing who had raised their hands. Three students. And one of them was from his house.

"Well, well… tut, tut. Clearly, fame isn't everything," he muttered before calling, "Lance?"

"Draught of the Living Death," Lance answered calmly, his voice steady despite the attention.

Snape's smile sharpened. "Correct. Ten points to Slytherin."

Harry winced slightly. Another loss for Gryffindor.

But Snape wasn't done.

"Potter!" he snapped again.

Harry almost groaned. 'What now?'

"If I asked you to find me a bezoar, where would you look?"

Harry gulped. "I… I don't know, sir."

Snape shook his head slowly, the disappointment in his eyes clearly forced and theatrical. "Thought you wouldn't open a book before arriving, eh, Potter?"

Again, three hands were in the air. Hermione's was trembling with urgency. Arthur raised his casually. Lance, again, sat with a relaxed posture, ready to answer.

"Lance?" Snape called again, deliberately ignoring the still-raised hands of Arthur and Hermione.

"In the stomach of a goat," Lance answered smoothly.

"Another ten points to Slytherin," Snape said with a satisfied sneer, his eyes glittering with smug approval.

Arthur's eyebrow twitched at that, and even Lance gave a wry smile, clearly aware that the favoritism was becoming blatant. At this point, it was bordering on parody.

Snape turned back to Harry with all the subtlety of a predator circling its prey.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry mentally groaned. 'Why literally me!? I didn't do anything wrong!' He hesitated for a moment, then muttered, "I don't know, sir… But Hermione does, though. Maybe ask her. Or Arthur. He's smart."

A ripple of laughter spread through the classroom. Even a few Slytherins chuckled quietly at Harry's sarcastic honesty. 

Hermione was practically bouncing in her seat, standing on her tiptoes and waving her hand in the air like her life depended on it.

Arthur blinked, surprised. He hadn't expected Harry to name-drop him like that—and certainly not in a complimentary way.

Snape, on the other hand, was not amused.

"Sit down!" he snapped at Hermione.

She jumped as if physically struck, her face falling as she slowly lowered her hand and sank back into her seat, eyes downcast.

Snape turned his attention to Lance again, narrowing his eyes. "And you? Why aren't you raising your hand this time, Mr. Demere? Do you perhaps not know the answer?"

"I do know the answer, sir…" Lance replied calmly with a small nod.

"Then why aren't you offering it?"

"I thought it might be more fair to let the others have a go," Lance said, his tone polite but genuine.

Snape's expression twitched ever so slightly, annoyed that he couldn't fault the answer. "Go on, then. Answer it, Mr. Demere."

Lance sighed softly, realizing there was no getting out of it. "They're the same plant, sir. Also known as aconite."

"Very good. Another ten points to Slytherin. And one more point for your thoughtful consideration of your peers. Minus one from Gryffindor, however—for cheek, from Potter."

Arthur exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. Across the table, Lance glanced at him with a baffled expression, his eyebrows raised and lips slightly parted in disbelief. The look was so unintentionally comedic that Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

Snape paced the front of the room, glaring at the class as he barked, "Well? Why haven't you all started taking notes? Do you need a personal invitation?"

The sound of frantic scribbling followed instantly as students scrambled to jot down what they could remember.

Then, Snape's eyes fell back on Lance.

"You seem to be very well educated, Mr. Demere," he said, his voice soft but with a sharp undertone. "I do hope you consider choosing your friends wisely."

He shot a pointed glance toward Arthur, who simply met the gaze with a subtle smirk and leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered.

Snape turned away at last, officially beginning the lesson in full.

A few minutes later, as the class worked through the steps of preparing their first potion, Lance leaned in slightly and whispered, "Why does he seem to have something against you?"

Arthur didn't even glance up as he sliced his ingredients with practiced ease. "He's probably intimidated by my charm," he said dryly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Lance snorted, nearly dropping a pinch of powdered root into the cauldron too early. His hands shook slightly as he tried to suppress his laughter. "Come on, I was being serious though," he muttered, shaking his head as he tried to compose himself.

"I am too," Arthur replied with mock offense. "But seriously? He probably thinks I'm one of Dumbledore's puppets. Like he said earlier. Why that would make him antagonize me so blatantly, though… I couldn't tell you."

Arthur shrugged, giving a wry smile. "Maybe he's just allergic to charisma."

Lance chuckled again, quieter this time, as he continued stirring the potion.

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