It seemed the so-called savior had been thoroughly swayed by Ron's influence. Argus didn't break stride as he pressed deeper into the train cars.
In the original tale, Harry could be impulsive, but he never craved the spotlight like this. Betting on an arrogant boy playing hero against Voldemort? Fat chance.
Daphne Greengrass, freshly appointed prefect, trailed behind Argus alongside a male prefect from their year.
A short way ahead, a gaunt middle-aged man snagged Argus's eye. His robes were tidy enough to pass muster, but they couldn't hide his frail build. Sunken eyes spoke of chronic undernourishment, and faint scars etched his exposed palms.
Lupin? So he's the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this term. Argus had once considered pulling him into the acolytes, but Dumbledore had beaten him to it with one of his classic deceptions.
If memory served, Lupin was already thick as thieves with Sirius Black. Soon, they'd team up to hunt down Peter Pettigrew.
Argus noted Lupin wasn't truly asleep—just dozing with eyes shut. He skipped the pleasantries, motioning Daphne and the other prefect onward.
"Is that... the new professor?" Daphne whispered, brow furrowed. "Care of Magical Creatures?"
Lupin's haggard look did evoke someone who wrestled beasts for a living.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Argus murmured.
"How could you tell, Argus?" Daphne shot back, intrigued.
"Take a closer look at his hands and face."
With the answer already in mind, Argus pieced it together effortlessly. "A magizoologist spends half their life in the wild, tangling with creatures. Wind, sun, claws—they leave rough skin, old cuts, scratches everywhere. Hands especially, from all that close contact."
"But this one..." Daphne stole another glance and let out a quiet breath. "No scars. Nothing like Mr. Scamander's."
As they chatted, Lupin eavesdropped, ears attuned. Argus's breakdown left him inwardly stunned. No surprise he'd nearly topped the school in his first year— that sharp eye wasn't standard issue for students.
If Harry weren't the prophecy's chosen one... well. Being in the same year might be a gift or a curse. Poor kid; hope the weight doesn't crush him.
By now, they'd passed Harry's compartment. The trio's patrol drew stares from inside.
"Oh, great—Slytherin's poster boy strikes again," Ron grumbled whenever Argus appeared. Only this bluster let him feign Gryffindor grit and pure disdain.
Harry, true to form, played peacemaker—neither endorsing nor denying.
The compartment's other occupants scowled at Ron's barbs. "Argus has bailed out Gryffindor plenty," one shot back. "Last year, he saved one of our own!"
"Yeah, and he subbed our Defense lessons. Without him, Lockhart would've been a disaster."
"He's just stirring trouble! All Slytherins are dark wizards at heart!"
Ron's face reddened, spoiling for a fight with his housemates. Harry smoothed it over, as always.
...
Argus guided the prefects through the Slytherin cars, ordering doors shut tight. As they neared Hermione, Ginny, and the Weasley twins' compartment, he rapped once and slipped in with a few pointed words.
His advice cut straight—no sugarcoating—but with younger students watching, it landed as a timely heads-up. With the chill settling in, sealed doors made sense for warmth anyway.
Hermione and Ginny pressed him to join them, but Argus begged off, duty calling. He bowed out graciously.
Outside, the sky had soured from clear to overcast. Rain drummed against the windows, leaching heat from the cars. Twilight deepened, dimming the lights within.
The twins, buried in overdue essays, flicked their wands for a Lumos to keep reading.
"Dementors," Argus muttered as shadows thickened, a prickle of unease sharpening his senses.
"Daphne, check on the second-years and firsties. Prep them to change—now."
She could handle a gaggle of juniors, Guardian Charm or no. The pair nodded crisply and headed aft.
Moments later, frost spiderwebbed the windows at an unnatural pace. The overhead lamps hummed, stuttered, then died, plunging the train into pitch black.
Chaos erupted—shouts, whimpers, scraping chairs.
"What the—why'd the lights go?"
"Ice on the glass! It's freezing in here!"
"Something's hovering outside! Bloody terrifying!"
Panic rippled through the cars. Then, cloaked silhouettes glided into view, seeping through doorways like smoke. Bony, gray fingers latched onto frames.
"Back off, you rotting scum!" Argus snarled.
The lead Dementor flinched but pressed on. It sensed he wasn't their mark—yet it refused to retreat, hood dipping as it slithered inside.
...
In Harry's compartment, the horror unfolded the same. The floating wraiths outside screamed menace, even if unnamed.
"Shut the door! Don't let 'em in!" Ron yelped, voice cracking with dread.
His housemates smirked despite the fear—big talk from the loudmouth, now cowering like the rest.
They dawdled just long enough to watch him squirm. That hesitation cracked the door wide.
A skeletal hand—pale as death—wrenched it open. No eyes under that hood, but Harry swore it fixed on him, icy malice boring in.
Dread crashed over him, raw and suffocating. The Dementor lunged, hand outstretched.
Harry creamed as happiness drained away, a silver mist sucked from his core. Ron dove under the seat.
The creature paused, sniffing something of Sirius Black on the boy. It inhaled deeper, feasting.
Harry's limbs turned leaden, agony pinning him down. Darkness swallowed everything, and he slumped, out cold.
---
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