Harry wasn't wearing the Invisibility Cloak yet, strolling openly with Ron through the snowy streets of Hogsmeade. The sight of Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, and—impossibly—Minister Fudge ahead made his stomach drop.
"How did they get here?" Ron whispered, eyes wide.
Panic surged through Harry. He yanked the Cloak over them both, vanishing just as McGonagall turned. She was too busy exchanging greetings with Fudge to notice.
"Professor McGonagall!" Hagrid boomed, halting the Ministry car where Alan and Fudge sat. He shook snow from his massive coat and waved them out.
"Thanks for the escort, Hagrid," Alan said, tipping his hat with a grin that left the gamekeeper blinking in confusion.
Fudge, meanwhile, spotted Madam Rosmerta outside the Three Broomsticks and called out cheerfully, "Rosmerta! Business treating you well, my dear?"
She crossed her arms, unimpressed. "It would be, if your Dementors weren't patrolling every other day, scaring off customers!"
"We've got a murderer on the loose," Fudge protested weakly.
"Oh, sure—a murderer! You've been combing Hogsmeade for over a month and turned up nothing. Hiding right under your noses, is he?"
Rosmerta's voice rose, heedless of Fudge's title. Harry, eavesdropping from beneath the Cloak, stifled a smirk.
"Harry Potter," Fudge murmured urgently in her ear.
"Harry Potter?" Rosmerta echoed, but Alan, Fudge, and McGonagall hustled her inside before she could say more, the door slamming shut behind them.
Ron, peeking from behind a nearby house, started to warn Harry—only to whirl around and find him gone. A trail of footprints vanished toward the pub. Gritting his teeth, Ron hesitated, then dashed after them.
A grotesque skull by the door rasped, "No underage wizards today!" Ron slammed it shut and backed away, cursing under his breath.
Harry slipped in alone, heart pounding, Cloak draped securely. The pub was nearly empty, a few patrons nursing drinks at scattered tables. He crept upstairs to a private room, where muffled voices confirmed his targets: McGonagall, Fudge, Alan, and now Rosmerta, barricaded inside.
"Now, out with it," Rosmerta demanded, locking the door. "What's Hogwarts and the Ministry playing at?"
"Patience, Rosmerta," McGonagall said. "Albus will join us shortly."
As if on cue, a knock sounded. Dumbledore entered, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the firelight. Harry's pulse raced. He'd snuck out hoping for scraps of info on Sirius Black, per Arthur Weasley's warning. Never dreamed it'd draw the Headmaster and the Minister.
Dumbledore nodded to Fudge, who fidgeted. Rosmerta tapped her foot. "Well? Spill it!"
McGonagall opened her mouth, but Alan cut in smoothly. "One moment, Madam Rosmerta. We have another guest—the Ministry's special consultant."
McGonagall frowned in confusion. Harry, tucked in the shadowed corner, felt the same bafflement. Who else commanded such deference from these titans?
The door creaked open. Argus stepped in, flashing an apologetic smile. "Sorry for the delay. Had to dodge a few prying eyes."
"Mr. Grindelwald," McGonagall said with a knowing shake of her head. "Should've known."
Only saints could make Fudge wait like this, Harry thought bitterly, his unease twisting into something sharper. Dumbledore just smiled faintly, as if unsurprised.
Fudge pumped Argus's hand enthusiastically, launching into small talk. Harry seethed. They were third-years, yet Argus bantered effortlessly with the Headmaster and Minister—meddling in secrets that left Harry in the dark.
Argus's sharp gaze swept the room on entry, lingering a beat too long in Harry's hiding spot. He'd tracked Harry's exit from Hogwarts, tailing him via the Weasley twins to ensure privacy. Dumbledore might suspect, but the Cloak—likely one of the rare Deathly Hallows—had fooled Snape and McGonagall so far.
As McGonagall launched into the explanation, Argus settled in. "Years ago, Harry's parents realized they were being hunted," she began. "You remember the Fidelius Charm?"
Rosmerta nodded. "Vividly. Not many knew their hideout."
"Precisely. Sirius Black was one—until he betrayed them to You-Know-Who." McGonagall's voice hardened. "That night, Black led him straight to the Potters' cottage. Killed their friend Peter Pettigrew in the process."
"Peter...?" Rosmerta trailed off.
"The pudgy tagalong with Black and James," Alan supplied.
"Oh, right! The Marauders—four inseparable mates. Wait, who was the fourth...?"
Unseen under the Cloak, Harry trembled, fists balled so tight his nails bit skin. Rage boiled, but he bit back any sound.
"Lupin," Argus interjected calmly. "Remus Lupin, now our Defense professor. And Sirius? Harry's godfather, if memory serves."
The words hit Harry like a Bludger. His vision blurred with fury, knuckles whitening to bone. Godfather? The man his parents trusted above all—a traitor?
"I have questions about that night," Argus continued, eyes flicking to Dumbledore and McGonagall. "James Potter, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin—they were thick as thieves. So where was Lupin when the Potters needed him most? Absent for the worst tragedy of their lives?"
Harry's head snapped toward them, questions mirroring Argus's. Lupin, the friendly professor—friend to his parents. Why hadn't he been there? Why the silence?
McGonagall shook her head, lips tight. All eyes turned to Dumbledore, who stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's... complicated. Best saved for later. For now, focus on Sirius. How do we catch him?"
A subtle smile tugged Argus's lips. He didn't need the full truth; doubt was the seed, and he'd planted it deep in Harry's mind—questioning Dumbledore, Lupin, the whole tangled web of loyalties long buried.
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