In the original timeline, Hogwarts had canceled its end-of-year exams due to the Chamber of Secrets crisis. But under Argus's influence, the Ministry of Magic had dispatched Aurors to secure the school, preventing further petrifications. Then came the diary's discovery, which nipped the basilisk threat in the bud long before it escalated.
The school hadn't even closed its doors. With no crisis to celebrate, the exams proceeded as planned. Students buckled down harder than ever, especially for Defense Against the Dark Arts—the class hit hardest by the turmoil.
"By the way, Harry," Ron whispered, eyeing the empty podium, "Lockhart's gone. Who's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts now?"
"They wouldn't stick us with Snape, would they?" Harry replied, his voice tight. "He's been gunning for that post forever."
Ron's unease mirrored Harry's deep-seated dread of the Potions Master. "I hope not," Harry muttered. "The wizarding world is full of big names. Finding a decent professor shouldn't be hard."
Ron's earlier outburst in the Great Hall had cleared a wide berth around them—no one wanted to sit near the Gryffindor who'd maligned a hero. Their hushed talk went unheard.
Spotting Argus's empty seat, Ron smirked. "Look, Harry—that slimy Slytherin isn't here. Usually he's front and center, lording it over everyone. Bet the professors and Ministry hauled him off for questioning after what I said."
He practically glowed with satisfaction, convinced his words had gotten Argus in hot water. "A dark wizard like him belongs in Azkaban!"
Harry stayed silent, though he shared Ron's resentment over Argus claiming the spotlight for the diary's recovery. Ron's excitement built, his voice rising just enough to irk Parvati Patil, seated nearby.
"If you two want to gossip, take it to the hospital wing," she snapped, her tone sharp. "Some of us are here to learn."
At that hormone-charged age, both boys nursed secret crushes on the pretty Gryffindor. They flashed awkward grins and dialed back to murmurs.
"So, who d'you reckon the new professor is?" Ron pressed. "An Auror, maybe? A retired one teaching us real defense—that'd be brilliant!"
Harry brightened. "Like that Auror captain who kept checking on you in the hospital wing? He seemed tough. Think he'd take the job?"
Ron shook his head. "Nah, he's Ministry now. No way he'd drop everything to teach us third-years."
"True," Harry conceded. "Whoever it is, it'll be someone famous—top-notch skills and all. No worries."
Ron's confidence was infectious as they chatted. Then the door to the office behind the podium creaked open.
A figure emerged that left Harry and Ron gaping in disbelief: Argus.
What was he doing there?
"Where's the professor?" Ron hissed. "Why's he not out yet?"
"Something must've delayed him," Harry guessed. "Why else call Argus in?"
"But other teachers drag him around sometimes," Ron pointed out.
They watched the door, but no one else appeared. A chilling possibility hit Harry.
"You don't think... Argus is the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?"
"Impossible!" Ron exploded under his breath. "Him? What makes him qualified? Hogwarts professors are legends!"
In Ron's mind, no self-respecting wizard would let a Slytherin upstart like Argus lecture them. And after Ron's glowing praise for the "ideal" teacher? This was a slap in the face.
Argus wasted no time on dramatics. He grabbed a textbook and addressed the class: "Turn to page 127. Today, we'll cover the Petrification Curse."
The room filled with the rustle of pages and eager scratching of quills. Ron's stomach twisted as classmates leaned in, hanging on every word.
Jealousy surged through him, hot and bitter, mingling with fury and revulsion. He itched to yell, 'Who do you think you are? What gives you the right?'
But the classroom stayed hushed, save for Argus's steady voice and the flurry of notes. Ron recalled the Great Hall backlash—his rash words had only isolated him further.
He wasn't dumb enough to repeat that mistake. No one would back him; it'd just draw more scorn. Catching Harry's eye, Ron dropped his gaze.
Just you wait, you Slytherin snake, he seethed inwardly. 'I'll unmask you one day. And I'll be the one slamming the Azkaban door on you.'
---
In Hogsmeade Village, Lupin and Sirius shared a meager lunch of black bread—their only meal that day.
Lupin could barely afford to feed himself, let alone brew Wolfsbane Potion for his monthly affliction while sheltering his old friend. 'If only days had forty-eight hours,' he thought wearily.
Sirius had shown up just after the last full moon; the next loomed in days. Both looked gaunt, exhaustion etched deep.
"Harry's back at Hogwarts today," Sirius said, voice hoarse but eyes alight.
"What's our move?"
"Sneak in via the secret passages? I know a few."
Lupin's face was ashen, his fatigue bone-deep. "Holiday's almost over. Our window's bigger then."
He paused, chewing slowly. "Peter might sense trouble and bolt. You know my Animagus form—he'd spot the Grim and vanish."
Sirius eyed the last crust longingly but shoved it in his mouth before Lupin could protest. 'One meal a day, and he thinks he can nick mine? Try real hunger sometime.'
"No," Lupin said firmly. "Wait for Harry's holiday. Outside Hogwarts' wards, Peter's easier prey."
"And this full moon?" Sirius pressed, concern sharpening his gaze.
"Bad spot to transform here—someone could get hurt, and we'd have a mess."
Lupin considered. "The Shrieking Shack. We enter from the Hogwarts tunnel. It's in Hogsmeade proper, far from the castle. Peter won't sniff it out."