"Mr. Grindelwald, have you finished the homework I assigned?"
As soon as Argus stepped into the potions classroom, Snape's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Argus froze. The assignment had been given yesterday, with Monday as the deadline. Why the rush now?
Then it hit him—Snape wasn't after the essay on Wolfsbane Potion variants. This was a prod to uncover Lupin's secret and boot him from Hogwarts.
Trouble was, Lupin still served a purpose. It wasn't time to act yet.
Feigning confusion, Argus replied, "Nearly done, Professor. If you need it urgently, I can deliver it tomorrow morning."
Snape slammed down a vial of shrivelfig, his dark eyes narrowing in frustration at the boy's apparent laziness. No drive, no fire—nothing like the sharp mind from last year.
"The point of homework isn't rote memorization," Snape hissed. "It's understanding—applying it in real life. Do you get that?"
He was seething, on the verge of naming Lupin outright. How had Argus missed the hints? Had his subtlety fallen flat?
Before Snape could unleash more venom, Argus cut in with his own request. "Professor, a Slytherin asked me to teach the Patronus Charm today. With so many interested, I'd like to book a classroom."
Snape's lips curled in a sneer. "So, our Mr. Grindelwald finds the teaching assistant role beneath him. Craving the professor's chair again? Know your place as a student."
"You mean help you expose Lupin," Argus thought bitterly.
Snape's barbs stung less than usual. Deep down, he owed the boy for the Quidditch save. Without Argus, Dementors might have turned the match into a bloodbath—Dumbledore be damned.
He sealed the simmering cauldron and approached Argus. "How many students?"
"Numbers are tallied, but no time set—depends on the room."
"I'll clear it with Dumbledore. But prepare to handle all four houses at once." Snape's tone dripped mockery. "After all, Mr. Grindelwald, you certainly stirred the pot today."
...
In the hospital wing, chaos reigned. Beds overflowed with Dementor victims, lightning-struck players, broom-tumblers, and rain-soaked sniffle-sufferers. Madam Pomfrey darted between them, oblivious to one more stirring awake.
"Water..."
Harry, out cold for hours, croaked the universal plea.
Ron shot up, grinning wildly. "Harry! You're back! Slept the day away, mate."
"I... water, Ron."
"Right, coming up!"
Ron thrust a goblet at him. Harry drained it, the coolness easing his parched throat.
He pushed himself upright, wincing.
"The match... did we win?"
The Hufflepuff in the next bed scoffed, rolling away without a glance. Harry's confusion deepened.
Ron bristled—they'd clashed repeatedly while Harry dozed. "They lost! Admit it already!"
"Losing and still yapping," the boy muttered.
"Won't even save your own teammate for a win," Ron snapped. "That's the savior? Compares to Argus? Please."
Hufflepuffs weren't cutthroat, but loyalty ran deep. Last year, they'd stuck by Harry through the whispers. Today? He'd ignored their plummeting Seeker, fixated on the Snitch.
No outright blame, but the warmth had chilled. Ron, ever the Gryffindor loyalist, saw it as sour grapes from the weak.
"Tough luck on the injuries."
"That show-off Slytherin's all flash anyway," Ron grumbled. "Oh, Harry—your broom. After you blacked out, it veered into the Whomping Willow... got smashed."
He fished out a bundle of splintered twigs from under the bed. "Upgrade now? Nimbus 2001's top-shelf, or snag a Firebolt."
Harry wasn't broke—Black's vault ensured that. Ron eyed the premium models enviously; a test ride would be brilliant.
But Harry just traced the shattered handle, reluctance flickering in his green eyes. Not for the gold, but the memories. This Nimbus had carried him through triumphs and scrapes.
"Let's see if it can be fixed first. I'm used to it—switching mid-season might jinx things."
Madam Pomfrey finally spotted him, shooing away a wailing first-year before bustling over.
"Mr. Potter, how do you feel?"
"Dizzy, a bit queasy. Otherwise, alright."
"Standard after Dementors. Drink these." She plunked two murky vials into his hands—guaranteed foul-tasting.
"Madam Pomfrey, I'm fine, really—"
"Drink!" She whirled on Ron, who shrank back. "You—out. Patients need rest, and you're cluttering the place."
Ron bobbed his head, shooting Harry a wave, but Harry stopped him.
"Ron, find Professor Lupin for me after. And... grab Snape's homework?"
Snape would dock points for unfinished work, injury or not. Better to grind it out here than face classroom sneers.
The reminder jolted Ron—he hadn't cracked his own Defense Against the Dark Arts essay. Face paling, he bolted for the Gryffindor tower without a word.
---
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