After Snape stormed out, Dumbledore absently dunked the pile of Cockroach Clusters on his desk into a glass of milk.
"Albus, perhaps Snape has a point," murmured one of the portraits. "Grindelwald's only a third-year. We've got years to shape him."
"Absolutely not—"
"Quiet! He's Grindelwald! Do you grasp what that name entails?!"
The portraits of former headmasters erupted into rare chaos. They clashed fiercely over Argus.
The Black family portrait championed pure-blood supremacy and held warm regard for Argus, a fellow pure-blood. In stark contrast, Dumbledore's predecessor, Headmaster Dippet—who had lived through the acolytes' golden era—dreaded Grindelwald with a bone-deep fear.
It wasn't disdain for talent; he'd once admired Voldemort as much as Slughorn did. Even when Voldemort sought a post at Hogwarts, Dippet had stalled him for two years. Voldemort and Grindelwald both chilled him to the core.
"I'll mull over Argus's situation," Dumbledore said, hesitating before steering the conversation elsewhere. "As for the Dementors..."
"We demand answers from the Ministry!" another portrait barked.
"Precisely. Hogwarts is a school of magic—no place for those filthy, shadowy beasts!"
"The Dementors have prowled our grounds long enough, and we've cooperated. But to swarm and attack a student? That's beyond the pale!"
"Headmaster Black, they're after your kin. Any insights?"
"It's been centuries—how should I know his schemes?"
Dumbledore sifted through the uproar, forming a clear consensus: the Dementors had overstepped. The train incident might have allowed wiggle room, but not this. They couldn't claim Sirius soared into the sky only for Dementors to snatch him mid-flight, could they?
He'd noted Fudge's recent streak of luck at the Ministry, ascending to its most influential seat. Leveraging the Dementors to curb his momentum and bend him to heel? It wasn't a terrible strategy.
...
Argus slipped back into the classroom and enlisted the Weasley twins to summon Percy. Together, they rallied nearly half the school into a boisterous march toward the spacious auditorium in the west tower.
The hall dwarfed any classroom, leaving ample room despite the crowd. Argus set up a practice area and launched into the lesson.
"The Patronus Charm stands among the most renowned defensive spells," he began.
"Not just for its power, but its notorious difficulty."
"Countless wizards toil for years, summoning only wisps of silver mist."
Even Percy, who had already conjured a full Patronus, nodded in agreement. Many had grasped the basics a year or two prior, stuck at that misty first stage, with no corporeal form in sight. That's why they'd flocked to Argus—for his insights and advanced tips.
He held nothing back. These were his future acolytes in the making.
He'd half-expected Dumbledore to intervene, perhaps dispatching a professor to oversee. But it had gone off without a hitch.
If the headmaster dared loosen the reins, Argus would seize the chance to mold them his way.
Rather than air his ambitions, he dove into the Patronus Charm.
"This ancient incantation endures to this day, still under active study. Mastery falls into three stages. The first: basic silver mist, achievable for most who've learned the spell.
"The second: a corporeal Patronus you can direct simply. Here, it gains real offensive punch.
"The third: true mastery. Your Patronus takes solid form, capable of scouting, relaying messages, even speaking."
The students hung on his words, eyes alight as they relived the Quidditch pitch spectacle. Excitement rippled through them.
"That's brilliant!"
"Yeah! Dumbledore's is a phoenix, McGonagall's a cat—what's mine?"
"I can't wait to meet my Patronus!"
Once the buzz died down, Argus pressed on.
"Now, the incantation: Expecto Patronum."
"Keep a safe distance. We'll need space to practice."
Wands drawn, the group awaited his cue.
"Focus on your happiest memory. Channel joy into the spell—Expecto Patronum."
He guided the novices first, then turned to Percy, Cedric, and the more advanced students for their insights.
Their queries cut deeper, befitting their skill.
"Argus, I use the same memory, but why does my Patronus feel stronger now?" one asked.
"It's your emotional state. The memory hits differently after a year. Pour in what stirs you deepest."
"I've known the charm forever, but no corporeal form," another confessed.
"Your Patronus mirrors your soul. Face what's holding it back—confront your inner self."
"Argus..."
Lunchtime crept up unnoticed. Argus wove through the throng, tailoring advice to each wizard's hurdles.
A few he'd coached earlier now coaxed faint silver mist from their wands. Basic as it was, they beamed with pride. Envy flickered in the others' eyes.
"You won't master this overnight," Argus warned. "This hall is now your dedicated practice space. I'll secure tools from the headmaster."
Cheers erupted anew
A voice piped up from the crowd: "Argus, will you teach us again?"
Silence fell; all eyes fixed on him.
He smiled. "Of course. Though schedules vary—other clubs have sessions too.
"That's it for today. I'll announce the next one soon."
---
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