For most students, Ancient Runes hit like a sleeping draught—far worse than the soporific drone of History of Magic. At least Binns' lectures could be endured with diligent note-taking and rote memorization. But Ancient Runes? Fall behind, and it might as well be Muggle calculus: utterly baffling.
In their first lesson, nearly everyone stared blankly at the chalkboard. The few who grasped it, like Pansy Parkinson, hailed from old pure-blood families with private tutors and dusty libraries.
Argus had prepped for this, grinding through ancient tongues like Norse to rack up house points and unlock forgotten spells. The material was straightforward for him, earning a nod of approval from Professor Babbling and five points for Slytherin.
As class wrapped, Argus checked his Time-Turner. "Good—plenty of buffer to hit the first floor."
He slipped out of the third-floor west tower classroom, navigating the castle's winding paths toward the ground-floor lavatory. Descending the stairs, he nearly collided with Draco and his cronies, hustling up for Potions.
Draco blinked in shock. "Argus? Weren't you off on some errand the other way? How'd you beat us here?"
Argus hadn't anticipated this. But with Potions looming—and the group likely cutting through from the Forbidden Forest—it made sense. Before he could improvise, Professor Flitwick emerged from a nearby door.
Hogwarts professors rarely overstayed class, respecting the brief windows of freedom. Flitwick spotted Argus, then Draco's confused gawking. He caught on instantly.
"Out of the way, young wizards! Your Charms professor can't squeeze past this blockade."
Draco and the others snapped to attention—their Head of House awaited. They bolted for the dungeons without a backward glance.
Once the corridor cleared, Argus turned to Flitwick. "Thanks for the save, Professor."
The tiny professor sighed. "Mr. Grindelwald, first time with a Time-Turner, I take it? Mr. Weasley in Gryffindor, Miss Granger in Ravenclaw... and now you."
Argus nodded. "Snape warned me about the risks, but I didn't count on the timing clash."
No need to probe how Flitwick knew—Hogwarts staff weren't daft. With electives overlapping, top students juggling full loads weren't unheard of, though rare. A sudden double appearance screamed Time-Turner, and professors turned a blind eye to shield the users.
Flitwick reached up to clap Argus's shoulder but fell short, settling for a firm nod. "You're the most gifted student these halls have seen, Argus. Use it wisely—don't get swept into time's undercurrents."
Unlike Granger, who relied on raw intellect, Argus could weave spells for cover if needed. Flitwick, Ravenclaw's shrewd Head of House, wasn't one for blind rule-mongering. Self-preservation, so long as it harmed no one, earned his quiet approval.
"I get it, Professor. No meddling with the past."
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "Precisely. History's fixed—your moves are fated accidents. Now, off with you. Buffer time's a gift; don't squander it."
Argus bowed his thanks and hurried to the first-floor boys' lavatory. As the Time-Turner's chain chimed zero, he pushed through the door.
Click-click-click.
His ethereal duplicate faded into mist. The loop was done—no disasters, just a close call.
"Whew. How Hermione pulled this off daily in the books without a slip-up? Future Minister material, that one."
Time check confirmed, Argus headed to the Potions dungeon. He slid into his seat as Draco sidled over. "Where'd you pop from? You lapped us!"
"Because you lot were dawdling with your chit-chat," Argus shot back casually.
No Harry or Ron meant a milder class—Gryffindor only dropped three points when Seamus botched his brew. The blast was minor, the sludge harmless; a quick Scourgify sufficed for the splattered students.
Snape sneered through a few barbs before dismissing them. But he crooked a finger at Argus. "You—office. Materials await."
Trailing Snape, Argus eyed the mess: heaps of ingredients on the floor, a cauldron simmering on the desk. He braced for the grind, but Snape waved him off.
"Forget that. You're assisting me today."
Snape hiked his sleeves, snatching aconite roots and dumping them into a pestle. He shoved it toward Argus. "Mash to paste."
"Yes, sir."
Magic could've handled it, but spells risked pulverizing the lot unevenly—wasted batch. Argus pounded steadily as Snape sorted through stock, stacking the choicest bits on the table. Right in front of him.
Arm aching, Argus glanced up. Aconite, fluxweed, knotgrass... this was Wolfsbane Potion setup.
Bloody hell. Snape's "help" wasn't charity. These were premium scraps—the dregs barely fit for swill. But drinkable? That was the bare minimum Snape demanded.
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