Harry Potter: I became Snape

Severus Snape was growing somewhat weary of outwitting the Marauders.

On one hand, under Professor Flitwick's watchful gaze, there was little he could do to push Sirius Black too far without consequences. On the other, for Harry's sake, he was inclined to grant the godfather a shred of dignity.

So, why not try a different approach?

Of course, seeing the barely concealed fury in Sirius's eyes, Snape knew that even if he softened his stance now, Sirius would never let the matter rest.

Turning to Professor Flitwick, who was reinforcing the magical barriers around the dueling platform, Snape asked, "Professor, I have a small request. Before the match, may I have a word with Sirius?"

"There's nothing to talk about," Sirius said coldly.

"Oh, I assure you," Snape said, locking eyes with Sirius, a cryptic smile curling his lips, "miss this chance, Padfoot, and you'll regret it."

At the mention of "Padfoot," a flicker of panic flashed through Sirius's silver-gray eyes.

Though James had already told them about the loss of the Marauders' Map, Sirius had no idea how Snape had connected the nickname to him.

Sirius glared at Snape for a moment, his throat bobbing, before giving a stiff nod.

The two retreated to a corner of the Great Hall.

Under the cover of a Muffliato charm, Snape began, "Sirius, James means a great deal to you, doesn't he?"

"What are you playing at, Snivellus?" Sirius growled, his wand nearly jabbing into Snape's chest. "Spit it out."

"Mind your manners, Sirius," Snape said calmly, stepping back half a pace, his smile disarmingly genial. "What I mean is, to you, James must be the most important person, yes?"

"So what if he is?" Sirius's patience was fraying. "Stop wasting time. Let's get to the platform."

"Excellent," Snape said, his face breaking into what he believed was his most amicable smile. "Padfoot, you wouldn't want the Ministry to know that Prongs is an unregistered Animagus, would you?"

Sirius clearly didn't find Snape's smile the least bit friendly.

At those words, Sirius's face drained of color. His expression was as if he'd been forced to swallow a bag of Bogey-flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

"What do you want…" Sirius gasped, his voice trembling.

Snape crossed his arms, speaking deliberately. "According to the Animagus Registration and Regulation Act of 1842, Revised Edition, Article Five, Section Two, all Animagi are required to submit a registration application to the Animagus Registry Office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within ten days of their first transformation."

"And?" Sirius shot Snape a guilty glance, his voice hoarse and low.

"No need to rush," Snape said, clearing his throat with a theatrical pause. "Per Chapter Twenty-One, Section Three of the same Act, any individual who engages in Animagus activities without proper registration, upon trial by the Wizengamot's High Wizard Court, shall face imprisonment in Azkaban for a term of no less than five years, up to life."

"What do you want?" Sirius hissed, his voice barely above a growl. "If you dare breathe a word, I'll—"

"Empty threats," Snape interrupted, tapping Sirius lightly on the chest. "I won't tell a soul—provided you inform Professor Flitwick that you concede."

"If I concede," Sirius said, still glaring, his voice thick with resentment, "you swear you won't spill this?"

"That depends on your future behavior," Snape said, his smile widening into a tone so saccharine it almost sickened him. "After all, Prongs isn't the only unregistered Animagus, is he, Padfoot?"

They returned to the dueling platform. Snape maintained his air of indifference, while Sirius looked like a tamed beast, his eyes brimming with reluctance and resignation.

Sirius's face was ashen as he addressed Professor Flitwick tonelessly. "Professor, I'm no match for Snape. I concede."

Flitwick blinked, stunned. "Are you certain, Black?"

"Certain," Sirius said with a mechanical nod, turning on his heel and striding out of the Great Hall.

"Severus Snape…" Flitwick announced weakly, "is the champion of the sixth-year dueling tournament…"

The evening's matches concluded, with the next day set for cross-year challenges among the champions.

The following day, a first-year Hufflepuff girl with a bright yellow ribbon in her hair faced off against a second-year Ravenclaw boy. With nimble casting, she used a Tickling Charm to reduce him to helpless laughter, forcing his surrender. Devastated, the boy withdrew from challenging the third-year champion.

What Snape particularly admired was her prudence—she stopped there, wisely avoiding further challenges. After all, from third year onward, professors began teaching critical offensive and defensive spells in class.

The third-year champion, pitted against Barty Crouch Jr., stood no chance and was swiftly defeated.

Having bested Derek Cresswell, Barty Crouch Jr. hesitated, eyeing Snape for a long moment before gritting his teeth and requesting a challenge against him from Professor Flitwick.

Barty was still a lanky boy, strikingly handsome with deep brown eyes, freckled skin pale as parchment, and a mop of tousled blonde hair falling over his forehead.

As Snape studied Barty's pale, striking face, a wariness stirred within him.

Though Barty's demeanor carried a hint of timidity, and he was only in his fourth year, his magical prowess was nearly on par with Snape's.

From Barty's dueling performance over the past few days, Snape privately doubted he could defeat him with absolute certainty.

More crucially, Snape regarded this boy—who could disguise himself as Moody, a seasoned Order of the Phoenix member, right under Dumbledore's nose, and might have continued his flawless deception or even eliminated Harry had he not been so hasty and talkative—as a Death Eater more dangerous than Voldemort himself.

What a coup it would be, Snape mused, to sway such a formidable figure from Tom's side to his own.

The magical barriers around the dueling platform were reinforced once more, and Snape slowly drew his wand.

————

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