Snape's eyes narrowed sharply. He'd been lost in the torment of Lily's death, blaming himself for his betrayal, but Argus's words forced him to confront something he'd overlooked entirely.
A prophecy of that magnitude—if it held even a shred of truth—should never have leaked. In his place, Snape would have sealed the Hog's Head tight the moment he sensed trouble, monitoring every ear that caught wind of it. Dumbledore could manage that effortlessly. Yet he'd merely had Aberforth intervene and chase the eavesdropper away. No warnings, no follow-up. It wasn't the mark of the cautious man Snape knew.
Having clawed his way out of the Death Eaters' ranks, Snape had stared down enough darkness to spot the rot in others. The night's events had always carried odd echoes, but grief and guilt had blinded him to them. Now Argus's nudge made it all too glaring.
"Professor, one more question," Argus said, choosing not to push harder. He'd planted the seed; more would only sound like an attack on Dumbledore, backfiring spectacularly.
Snape snapped back to the present, his gaze flicking to Argus. "Out with it."
Why had Voldemort targeted Harry over Neville Longbottom, who fit the prophecy just as well?
"We tried," Snape snapped, irritation flaring. "But we hit a wall. No one could locate the Potters' house. The raids focused on the Longbottoms instead—the Order of the Phoenix's core was there."
"Later, we suspected the Fidelius Charm had hidden them. The secret-keeper was thought to be Dumbledore or Sirius Black."
"I never imagined..."
"I see." Argus pieced it together, drawing on what he knew from the canon timeline. Dumbledore had let Snape overhear the prophecy deliberately. Simple strategy: he could beat Voldemort in a duel but struggled to track him. Refusing the Minister's post to avoid power's temptations left him reliant on the Order—a small force against a rising tide.
The prophecy was perfect bait. Voldemort's paranoia would drive him to hunt the child named, lowering his defenses just enough for a strike. Like faking his own death in the original tale to lure the snake out. True or false didn't matter; once whispered, Voldemort had to act to save face among his followers. A lie exposed a flaw; truth promised victory if the child survived to fulfill it.
Lily's "magic of love"—likely Dumbledore's subtle instruction to shield Harry—fit the pattern.
"You've got what you came for," Snape growled suddenly. "Now get out."
Before Argus could react, Snape shoved him toward the door and slammed it behind him.
The point was made; Snape's sharp mind would unravel the rest soon enough. Argus had toyed with revealing Harry's Horcrux link but held back—the timeline was off. No clear signs beyond Parseltongue yet, and verification would drag. Worse, Dumbledore might intervene to "protect" Harry, these ancient foxes ever guarding their secrets.
"You're out at last, Argus!" Lupin emerged from the shadows around the corner, relief washing over his battered face as he saw the boy unharmed. "Merlin's beard, I was worried sick."
"Professor Lupin?" Argus startled, then understood. No need to spell it out—Lupin's fear of Snape was palpable.
Forget their spat; when Snape learned Lupin had shielded Sirius, he'd nearly packed him off to Azkaban himself. Investigation be damned—Snape's vendetta came first. Lock Lupin up, then dig for dirt undisturbed.
"Professor, those injuries look rough," Argus said, sympathy tugging at him. Lupin had waited despite the swelling, the bloody nose, all for his sake. "We should see Madam Pomfrey."
"It's nothing—a scratch I'm used to," Lupin said, swiping at the blood with his sleeve. He caught his reflection in a nearby window and winced. "Though I'll have to skip dinner in the hall like this. Wouldn't want to scare the first-years."
"Head to your office first, Professor. I'll fetch some medicine and patch you up."
Argus flicked his wand with a quick Scourgify to neaten Lupin's robes, then dashed to his dorm. Rifling through his trunk, he grabbed a few healing potions—essences and salves that meant little to a well-off pure-blood like him, but a fortune to Lupin, freshly escaped from poverty's grip.
He hurried to Lupin's office, pressing the vials into the professor's hand. Lupin stared at them, hesitant, then shook his head.
"I can't take these, Argus. They're too valuable." He flushed, pride warring with need. He'd even regretted skipping Pomfrey's—her scolding would sting, but she'd understand the Snape feud without judgment. From a student? Unthinkable. A professor freeloading off a kid's supplies?
He fumbled for Galleons to pay full price, then patted empty pockets with an embarrassed chuckle. "I've taken worse in Knockturn Alley. No sense wasting this on a bruise. Take it back."
Argus ignored him, setting the potions on the desk. "Professor, do you want the other students seeing you roughed up by Snape? Tomorrow's classes will spotlight that face. Even Pomfrey's brews won't hide it fully."
Lupin's resolve cracked. Face mattered—even more with Harry's sake in mind, sparing the boy embarrassment. After a long pause, he pocketed the vials with a grateful nod.
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