Snape's gaze locked onto Argus, his usually impassive eyes reddening with barely contained rage.
"What did you just say?!"
Argus smirked, unfazed by the murderous intent radiating from the professor. "Looks like I've hit a nerve, Professor."
"Mr. Filch!" Snape's voice dropped to an icy whisper. "I've warned you before. Don't mention her name in my presence!"
In a blur of motion, Snape's wand slashed through the air. An invisible curse streaked toward Argus—Sectumsempra, one of Snape's deadliest signatures, rivaling the Unforgivable Curses in lethality without a counter.
Argus had anticipated the outburst. Snape wasn't the forgiving type, no matter his silver Patronus or Hogwarts tenure. Those who dwelled in shadows trusted extracted memories over words.
A chill grazed Argus's right arm. Glancing down, he saw his robe torn open, the fabric shredded as if by an unseen blade. Any higher, and he'd have lost the limb.
No panic gripped him. Instead, a spark of excitement flickered. This cramped office limited them both—Snape wouldn't risk outright murder here. Why waste a perfect, no-cost sparring partner?
Argus drew his wand, stance relaxed but ready. Snape sneered and flicked his own: "Expelliarmus!"
A thick red beam lanced out, full force.
"Accio chair!" Argus summoned a nearby seat to intercept the spell, the impact shattering it into splinters. "Depulso!"
The debris hurtled toward Snape like a hail of bullets.
"Decent combo," Snape drawled, raising his wand. A shimmering white Protego shield bloomed effortlessly, deflecting the assault. As Argus advanced, the floor beneath him liquefied into thick mud, sucking his foot in deep.
Before he could react, Snape struck again—silently, no incantation uttered.
Argus gritted his teeth. Third-year magic reserves and green combat instincts were no match for a seasoned potions master. Without the Elder Wand or Philosopher's Stone, this was a mismatch. Snape wasn't the strongest headmaster, but far from weak. With time, power, and experience, Argus could close the gap.
Surprisingly, Snape's eyes betrayed a glint of respect. Argus had weathered the barrage without crumbling. Even elite Aurors might falter under such pressure. Beating him outright would take effort.
Argus, meanwhile, savored the grind. No Galleon could buy a whetstone like Snape.
...
Elsewhere, Lupin paced his office, the promised Wolfsbane Potion nowhere in sight. After the opening feast's barbs, what was one more clash? Better Snape's sarcasm than a rampage under the full moon.
Steeling himself, he trudged to Snape's door and knocked. No answer.
Lupin's disdain for Snape ran deep, etched from schooldays despite their shared staff robes. He pushed the door open.
Chaos greeted him: spells crisscrossing the room, furniture splintered, air crackling with magic. Argus—his ally, Sirius's potential savior—clashed with Snape, the man whose past screamed suspicion.
Lupin didn't hesitate. "Expelliarmus!"
The bolt caught Snape mid-cast, but the professor's reflexes turned it aside. In the books, Snape had floored Flitwick from afar and held his own in the final fray, while Lupin fell to a lesser Death Eater. The chasm in skill was vast; a surprise attack barely scratched it.
Snape's eyes lit with dark glee, visible even across the room. Argus paused his duel, redirecting his spells at Lupin in a sudden alliance. Betrayal hit like a Bludger.
Lupin reeled, shields buckling under the onslaught. He fired desperate defenses—Protego after Protego—but curses slipped through. His robes singed, skin stung.
The professor's composure shattered. Flashes of old torments fueled his casts, power surging. Lupin's defenses crumbled; he looked less like a teacher and more like the ragged werewolf haunting Knockturn Alley.
Snape's wand trembled, a green glow building—Avada Kedavra on the brink.
Argus intervened sharply. "Expelliarmus!"
The red light wrenched Snape's wand away. Argus advanced, voice steady. "Enough, Professor. Playtime's over. Let's get to business."
---
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