Professor McGonagall's eyes sparkled with genuine delight. "Horace, it seems I could learn a thing or two from your club's innovative teaching methods."
She'd just tallied the results: Hogwarts' overall grades had surged by a third compared to previous years. Pass rates were up across the board, and the number of Outstandings had shattered records. Even Defense Against the Dark Arts matched the top subjects—impressive, given they'd crammed a year's curriculum into two months.
Slughorn beamed, his cheeks rosy. "Ask Argus about that. He's the one who orchestrated it all. I just delivered the lectures."
"You've kept Mr. Grindelwald cooped up in your office daily!" McGonagall teased, her mood buoyant. "If you don't ease up, I won't get a chance to consult him."
"Hogwarts hasn't seen talent like this in ages. And the other houses have standouts too—Mr. Diggory from Hufflepuff, Miss Granger from Ravenclaw, even your Gryffindor prefect, Mr. Percy Weasley."
McGonagall knew what Slughorn left unsaid. Those students were promising, but none matched Argus's brilliance. Reluctantly, she agreed: he'd seen no one quite like Argus in her career.
"Minerva, let me know when you're done with Grindelwald," Professor Sprout chimed in. "His exam strategies worked wonders for Herbology too. It's all about memorizing shapes and safety first before hands-on work."
Slughorn chuckled. "You've all monopolized Argus's time—who's left to share tea with me now? Don't suggest Albus; he wouldn't appreciate the blend!"
The deans and professors shared rare, relaxed smiles. Even Snape's perpetual scowl softened slightly. The buoyant mood rippled through the castle. Fifth- and seventh-years raided their stashes of sweets and drinks, toasting in the common rooms. The staff turned a blind eye—after a tense year, with holidays looming, a little levity was harmless.
The Weasley twins, now flush with Argus's funding, capitalized on the cheer. Their latest prank gadgets—fireworks that mimicked exploding Snap cards and self-stirring butterbeer—flew off the shelves, lining their pockets.
...
But joy faded fast. The next day, the Hogwarts Express whistle pierced Hogsmeade Station, signaling the end of term.
While most students buzzed with holiday excitement, seventh-years felt a quiet ache. Graduation meant leaving the castle—and entering the wizarding world for good.
Gemma Farley stood before Argus, the departing Slytherins arrayed behind her. With a heavy heart, she unpinned her prefect badge and offered it to him.
"Argus, this is Slytherin's prefect armband," she said, voice thick with mixed emotions.
Unlike other prefects, she'd been unseated by a junior—a Slytherin first. Yet she felt privileged, bearing witness to a legend. Though too young for the role, Argus was Slytherin's heart and leader, carrying the house's legacy.
Gemma clapped his shoulder, words of caution flooding her mind, but they distilled to one plea: "Slytherin's glory is yours now. Don't let us down."
The seventh-years watched intently, awaiting his vow.
Argus accepted the badge, a subtle smile curving his lips, though his gaze burned with resolve. "Glory never dies."
Gemma froze, then grinned. She drew her wand, bowing deeply. "Glory never dies!"
"Glory never dies!" the others echoed, wands raised to their chests in salute—the formal gesture for addressing a prefect.
Argus, who'd never demanded such honors before, returned the bow with his own wand. It felt like a pact sealed.
Satisfied, they stowed their wands and boarded the train. Steam billowed as it carried them away, but soon, new first-years would arrive. Generations turned, legacies endured—Hogwarts' timeless strength.
...
Elsewhere in Hogsmeade, two figures lurked amid the holiday bustle.
"Hey, Moony," Sirius whispered, eyeing the milling students from the shadows. "Hogwarts is emptying out. Why not head to the Burrow and corner Peter before he bolts?"
Lupin shook his head. "Too exposed—the Burrow's out in the open. We'd be spotted miles away. And we can't just storm in; the Weasleys would never forgive us."
"Then what? We couldn't grab him at school, and now holidays tie our hands. Wait until that Weasley boy finishes school?"
Sirius's impatience simmered; his meaning was clear—if Lupin stalled, he'd act alone.
Lupin knew rash moves spelled disaster, but ideas eluded him. "Fine. We'll scout the Burrow's surroundings first. Stay hidden—no slips, especially around Peter."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright! When did you get so cautious?" He shifted into his Animagus form—a shaggy black dog—and loped toward the village edge, Lupin trailing warily behind.