Hogwarts' Golden Glory

"This fugitive said my teaching methods are 'medieval remnants'!" Snape's voice sounded like it was being squeezed out from between his teeth.

"This cellar bat says my combat philosophy is 'Troll Intelligence'!" Sirius wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.

Professor McGonagall took a deep breath: "So you're using duels...to discuss teaching philosophies?"

"It's a live demonstration," Sirius corrected.

"It's a corrective measure to demonstrate errors," Snape said at the same time.

Lockhart suddenly clapped his hands: "Hahaha! Two idiots!"

Everyone looked at him.

Lockhart shrank back and began to examine the buttons on his hospital gown.

Lockhart's assessment of him as a "fool" caused a momentary pause in the office. Professor McGonagall's temple throbbed, but Dumbledore merely smiled gently.

"Giddon, I think you need to rest in the hospital wing for a while longer." Dumbledore gestured to the house-elf at the door. "Blink, please take Professor Lockhart back."

As Lockhart was being led away, he was still muttering, "I really do have magic now... Yesterday, even the spoon turned into a rabbit..."

After the door closed, Dumbledore turned to the two professors who were still confronting each other.

"Getting back to the point," the old headmaster said, his fingers interlacing, "Sirius's performance as a teaching assistant over the past half-semester has been remarkable. The students love his classes, the practical training has been very effective, and most importantly—" he looked at Snape, "he is dedicated to protecting the students."

Snape's lips twitched. "Using his 'bite when in danger' tactic?"

"As long as it works," Sirius replied.

"So my suggestion is," Dumbledore continued, "that Sirius Black officially take over as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. A one-month transition period, after which—"

"I object." Snape's voice was as cold as the stone walls of a cellar.

"reason?"

Dumbledore's gentle gaze fell on Snape's face, waiting for a reason.

The firelight from the fireplace danced in the Potions Professor's dark eyes, but beyond the usual coldness, something deeper and more complex surged within them.

"Reasons?" Snape's lips pressed into a pale line. "Black's teaching is built on impulsiveness and luck. The first thing he teaches his students is not how to defend themselves, but how to 'bravely charge forward'—which will kill more people than they will survive."

Sirius scoffed, "It's better than hiding behind a crucible and teaching students how to brew beauty potions."

"At least my students survive to graduate." Snape's voice suddenly rose, his black robes trembling slightly with suppressed emotion. "But the students you teach think they can show off in front of Dementors, or pull off tricks on werewolves! What do you think dark magic is? Your game?!"

There was a moment of silence in the office. Professor McGonagall looked at Snape in surprise—he rarely showed such emotion.

Sirius Black stopped his mockery, his gray eyes sharpening: "What do you mean, you snotty-nosed brat?"

“I mean,” Snape stepped forward, each word like shards of ice squeezed from between his teeth, “a professor who’s been in Azkaban for eleven years? A professor who can’t even handle a second-year student?”

Sirius's expression changed.

"Kane Malfoy," Snape's voice was low, almost inaudible, "...the other day, I think I disarmed you during our duel!"

Professor McGonagall placed her hand on her chest.

"That...that was an accident." Sirius's voice was a little dry. "I didn't expect the student council—"

"You never 'expected' anything," Snape interrupted him, suppressed rage burning in his dark eyes. "You never expected Peter Pettigrew to betray you, you never expected the Potters to die, you never expected to spend eleven years in Azkaban—and now you expect to use this logic of 'never expected' to teach your students how to deal with dark wizards?"

That's a very harsh statement.

It was so heavy that even Dumbledore sat up slightly.

Sirius's fists clenched so tightly they cracked, and all the color drained from his face.

For a fleeting moment, Professor McGonagall thought he would pounce on him—but he didn't.

He simply stood there, like a stone statue that had suddenly weathered away, all his sharpness and arrogance stripped away.

This is his most painful spot!

"Severus," Dumbledore's voice was soft, but carried undeniable weight, "enough."

Snape's jaw tightened, but he kept his mouth shut.

The body beneath the black robe was still trembling slightly—not from anger.

Professor McGonagall suddenly realized that it was something deeper, something almost terrifying that she had never seen in Snape before.

Dumbledore stood up and walked between the two men.

He first looked at Sirius: "I still believe in Black's abilities. It's normal for him to be disarmed by Kane. Young people are always full of energy."

Then he turned to Snape, his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles as deep as the night sky: "And you, Severus, don't be afraid of what has happened in the past, after all, people change."

Snape looked up abruptly.

The office was eerily quiet. Even the flames in the fireplace seemed to have held their breath.

After a long while, Snape slowly lowered his eyes, all his outward emotions receding like the tide, refreezing back into that familiar, unbreakable ice shell.

"Whatever you like." His voice returned to its flat tone. "You're the principal."

"One month," the old headmaster said. "Sirius, you have four weeks to prove yourself. I will schedule a teaching evaluation every week, with evaluators including myself, Minerva, Felius, and..." He paused, "...Severus."

Snape raised his eyebrows slightly.

"If you pass four assessments," Dumbledore continued, "the position is yours. If not..." He looked at Snape, "we'll discuss other options."

This is a compromise, but also an opportunity.

Sirius took a deep breath and stood up straight: "I accept."

"Severus?" Dumbledore asked.

The Potions Professor's gaze swept over Sirius Black, over the silver-blue hourglass, and finally settled on the deep night outside the window. His lips moved, but he uttered only two words:

"I will supervise."

There was no agreement, no blessing, just a statement of facts!

He would stare, like a gargoyle in a cellar!

Keep an eye on every possible mistake, every hidden danger.

He will spy on him forever!

"Then it's settled." Dumbledore clapped his hands. "Minerva, please prepare the official appointment documents. Sirius, your first lesson is tomorrow morning—good luck."