Argus couldn't help but wonder just how deeply Snape despised Lupin. The man had barely caught his breath after returning to teach, and already Snape was scheming to broadcast his secret—werewolf—to the entire school.
Their eyes met as Argus glanced up, and a memory stirred: Snape's subtle hint at the start of term. He'd brushed it off then, pretending not to notice.
"Mr. Grindelwald," Snape continued smoothly, "as one of Professor McGonagall's star pupils, you must grasp the key distinction."
Unfazed on the surface, Snape's tone carried a flicker of irritation to Argus's ear—familiar as they were. And something else... expectation?
"Animagus transformation is an advanced form of Transfiguration, where a wizard willingly shifts into an animal form. They vary widely."
"Werewolves are the tragic inverse: cursed to become wolves every full moon, with no say in the matter. They lose themselves to feral instincts, even turning on loved ones. In wolf form, they heed only their pack."
"Mr. Grindelwald, knowledge belongs in practice, not just rote memorization." Snape's voice stayed even. "Sit. Slytherin earns five points."
"It's him again! Snape always picks on his own house to show off!"
Ron's mutter under his breath made it sound like Argus was the one grandstanding. The redhead's face twisted in resentment. He leaned toward Harry, whispering something that immediately snagged Snape's attention.
"Mr. Weasley... and Mr. Potter."
Snape's drawl sliced through the room. "I've reminded you repeatedly: no unauthorized discussions in my class."
"Do you lack discipline? Or do you fancy yourself a hero, gossiping about professors and peers?"
Harry blinked, utterly lost. What had he even said? He'd only asked where Professor Lupin had been—not exactly backstabbing.
Reasonable? With Snape? Fat chance.
Ron shrank into his seat, head down, praying to vanish.
"For disrupting the lesson and slandering classmates and staff, Gryffindor loses five points."
Snape flicked his robes and strode back to the front. "Why aren't your quills moving? Write!"
The scratch of feathers on parchment filled the air.
"To remedy your ignorance, submit two rolls of parchment on werewolves by Monday. Focus on identification methods."
His gaze locked on Argus. "Clear, Mr. Grin—"
"Professor, there's a Quidditch match tomorrow!" Harry blurted. As Gryffindor's new Chaser, he couldn't let homework derail their shot at house pride.
Snape's face hardened, his ploy interrupted. He loomed over Harry's desk, eyes boring into the boy's.
"Then mind you don't get injured, Mr. Potter." Even if you're short an arm or leg, no excuses.
"Page 394. Now."
Snape turned to the blackboard, lecturing on werewolf lore: origins, transmission through bites or curses, the agony of the change. It was the most thorough Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson Argus had ever heard from him—deeper even than Potions.
Snape tossed in practical tips from experience: spotting wolfsbane residue, the telltale scars. Attentive students could transcribe the notes and call the essay done.
After class, Argus slipped to the first-floor bathroom and twisted his Time-Turner. Half a month in, it was his private haven for time magic—far quicker than trekking to the eighth-floor Room of Requirement, which demanded elaborate setup and stayed reserved for spell practice.
...
Rain pattered relentlessly from the gray sky. Sirius Black's recent sighting in Hogsmeade had canceled most school outings, leaving only Quidditch to break the monotony.
The chill wind and stinging drops made Argus hesitate, but Draco dragged him along. "Come on! Prefects need rest, not rain exposure. To the pitch—we're keeping Slytherin in line!"
"Order or just spectating?" Argus grumbled.
Unswayed, Draco hauled him to the Quidditch pitch. Argus had zero interest in the sport; his job was wrangling rowdy Slytherins.
The stands buzzed already, cloaks and rain-repelling robes a luxury few first-years could afford. Most huddled in sodden raincoats or wool blankets, undeterred.
Argus and Draco, in premium Twilfitt and Tatting's gear charmed against weather, stayed dry amid the cheers.
"Now, welcome the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor teams!"
Lee Jordan's amplified voice boomed over the downpour via Sonorus.
The players burst from the locker rooms, mounting brooms and rocketing skyward.
Familiar faces dotted the lineups: Wood barking orders, the Weasley twins grinning wickedly, Harry scanning for the Snitch.
Madam Hooch released the Quaffle with a whistle. Chaos erupted—bludgers whizzing, chasers dodging.
The crowd roared, house loyalties fueling the frenzy.
"Go, Harry! Catch it!"
"Wood, smash 'em! Brilliant!"
"Don't let Hufflepuff steal this!"
Thunder rumbled as lightning forked the sky—a Muggle's nightmare, but wizards shrugged it off. Players darted through the storm, occasional shocks singeing broom tails, yet they pressed on.
Hufflepuff's Seeker spotted the Golden Snitch first. With a sharp dive, he streaked upward; Harry glued to his tail.
They cut through the torrent like silver darts, climbing relentlessly. Lightning cracked closer, bolts grazing robes and hair.
Neither yielded, pushing higher into the tempest.
Crack!
A blinding flash illuminated two silhouettes—one struck, plummeting like a stone.
---
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