A spark of excitement lit Percy's eyes. He'd long heard whispers about the ties between the acolytes and Minister Fudge. When the acolytes' shop opened in Diagon Alley, Fudge had shown up personally to offer congratulations. Their alliance in later years was no secret.
If Argus was truly willing to put in a good word with Fudge...
"Argus, you'd really speak to the Minister on my behalf?" Percy asked, hope edging his voice.
"It's just a word in the right ear," Argus replied with a faint smile. "But Percy, you know a recommendation from me won't land you a top spot overnight. Fudge would likely start you under Director Mitchell or Umbridge first."
"That's fine! Absolutely fine!" Percy said, waving off the concern.
He couldn't afford to quibble. On his own, it might take years to catch the eye of the right people. This was a shortcut to the top—why risk letting it pass? He'd guard Fudge's door with a grin if that's what it took, Mitchell or Umbridge be damned.
"Excellent," Argus said, his expression as mild as ever. "I'll write to Minister Fudge today. Expect a contact from his office soon."
"Thank you, Argus!" Percy's smile beamed, bordering on fawning.
"It's no trouble—a minor favor." Argus's thoughts turned inward. "Gold always shines," he mused, echoing an old family saying. But he had plans for Percy too.
In the original tale, Percy's first superior had been Barty Crouch Sr., though the man barely remembered his name. That respect hadn't wavered, even after Crouch's downfall—betrayed by his son, then snubbed by Bones. Interference from Allen had hobbled the International Magical Cooperation Department. His second post under Umbridge had soured at Hogwarts, yet Percy still climbed to directorship.
Talent like that? No sense handing it off. Better to keep it close. No need to loop in Fudge; a quiet word to Alan Mitchell would transfer Percy straight to his team. As deputy director of International Cooperation and head of the Gaurol Department, Argus could pull strings easily.
Without those roadblocks, Percy's rise might accelerate. Who knew what surprises it could yield?
…
Time flew, and soon it was the eve of the holidays—the day the House Cup results dropped.
Slytherin, under Argus's lead, claimed victory in a rout. The only disappointment? They fell short of shattering their own score record.
Gryffindor limped into fourth, a dismal showing they hadn't endured in ages. Heads hung low in the common room, the holiday buzz failing to lift the pall. Fingers pointed squarely at Harry; without his endless deductions, they'd have fared better. Some older students winced, recalling their cheers when the Sorting Hat placed him in Gryffindor.
Slytherin reveled in the contrast. This was their tenth straight House Cup—a Hogwarts record for dominance. With Argus alive and scheming, more loomed on the horizon.
The other houses eyed Argus at the Slytherin table's head with open envy. Why hadn't the Hat sent him their way? He embodied traits for every house—ambition, cunning, bravery, wit. Slytherin had hogged the prize.
[Congratulations, host, for securing the Third-Year House Cup! Achievement: House Cup (Third Year).]
[Reward: 100 Achievement Points.]
[Current total: 500.]
The system chimed in Argus's mind as Dumbledore wrapped his lengthy end-of-term address. The feast kicked off, stretching into the wee hours.
Upperclassmen smuggled sweets and firewhisky back to the lounges for after-parties. Slytherin turned out in force, the mood electric. Flush with galleons and fresh off another Cup win, they had every reason to celebrate. Argus didn't curb the fun, just tasked Alexia with oversight—no all-nighters, no drunken antics.
He retreated to his dorm for a long-overdue draw.
"System, lottery time."
Card packs swirled around him, identical at a glance but packed with surprises. Argus couldn't peek inside, of course. He tapped the five nearest.
A sunny vista blurred past, then a wisp of black smoke unfurled.
"Black? That's new," Argus muttered, brow furrowing. "Dark Arts?"
He'd pulled plenty, but never a shadowy one.
[Congratulations, host: Grinning Mouth (Level 2), Guardian Charm (Level 1), Exorcism Weapon (Level 2), Armor Protection (Level 3).]
[Congratulations, host: Resurrection Spell (Level 4).]
[Remaining points: 0.]
"Resurrection Spell? Never heard of it in the wizarding world."
Puzzlement grew as more alerts pinged.
"Detected host mastery of compatible spells. Fuse?"
"Fuse."
A sharp twinge pierced his scalp, knowledge flooding in like puzzle pieces snapping together.
[Exceptional talent detected: Super-Magical Comprehension unlocked.]
[Armor Protection (Level 5), Grinning and Roaring (Level 4).]
Only then did the spell's essence crystallize."Your father's bone, given unwittingly, to resurrect the son... The flesh of your servant, yielded willingly, to revive the master... The blood of your foe, taken by force, to restore your enemy..."
Voldemort's ritual—the one that would bring him back next year, barring mishaps.
With this, Argus could dissect its weaknesses, sabotage the ceremony. Targeting materials had been the plan anyway, but the incantation made intervention simpler, swifter.
"I wonder where Peter's hiding, if he's linked up with the Dark Lord yet. Little Barty Crouch Jr., get moving. This world's been too quiet. Time to stir the pot—trouble's where the real gains hide..."
Sleep claimed him before he knew it.
Dawn broke, and they boarded the Hogwarts Express, bound for Rosier Manor.
---
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