Snape was growing tired of humiliating the Marauders.
There was a dullness to it now. Under Flitwick's watchful eye, there wasn't much he could do to Sirius that would be truly satisfying. And besides… for Harry's sake, he was willing to offer the godfather a sliver of dignity.
So—why not change tactics?
Of course, the fury in Sirius's storm-grey eyes made one thing abundantly clear: even if Snape bowed and begged, Sirius would never walk away peacefully from this match.
Snape turned to Professor Flitwick, who was currently reinforcing the stage's magical wards with extra precision.
"Professor, a small request," Snape said coolly. "Before the duel begins, may I have a brief word with Black?"
"We have nothing to say to each other," Sirius said, voice like steel.
"No, no, I think we do." Snape's tone was pleasant, but his eyes glittered. "Miss this chance, Padfoot, and I promise—you'll regret it."
At the sound of that nickname, Sirius flinched, just barely. A flicker of panic crossed his face.
James had warned them the Marauder's Map was missing, but Sirius hadn't realized Snape had deciphered the nicknames. And worse—used them.
He stared at Snape a moment longer, jaw clenched. Then, stiffly, he nodded.
The two stepped into the corner of the Great Hall.
A quick Muffliato from Snape sealed the space in silence.
"Tell me, Sirius," Snape began, his tone almost conversational, "James means a great deal to you, doesn't he?"
Sirius bristled instantly, wand twitching toward Snape's chest. "If you're going to threaten him—"
"Easy," Snape said, taking a half-step back and raising his hands in mock surrender, his expression still infuriatingly calm. "I only meant to say—he's the most important person in the world to you, isn't he?"
"So what if he is?" Sirius snapped. "Spit it out, Snivellus."
"Good," Snape said, his smile widening just slightly. "Then you wouldn't want the Ministry to find out that Prongs is an unregistered Animagus, now would you?"
The smile was not kind.
Sirius froze.
His face drained of all color, like he'd just swallowed a handful of dung-flavored Bertie Bott's Beans.
"You—what are you—" He inhaled sharply, struggling to stay composed.
Arms folded across his chest, Snape went on, slow and deliberate. "Under Clause Five, Subsection Two of the Animagus Registration and Regulation Act—revised 1842—all Animagi must register with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within ten days of their first transformation."
Sirius's eyes darted to the floor and back to Snape. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "And if we haven't?"
"Then, technically, you're breaking the law." Snape gave a gentle cough and paused for dramatic effect. "And knowingly harboring an unregistered Animagus is—well—punishable by Azkaban."
"Clause Twenty-One, Subsection Three: any individual found practising Animagus transformations without proper registration shall, upon conviction by the Wizengamot, be sentenced to a minimum of five years in Azkaban, or life imprisonment."
Sirius's face twisted. He hissed under his breath, voice strained and shaking, "What do you want, Snivellus?! If you breathe a word—"
"Spare me the dramatics," Snape interrupted coolly, tapping a single finger to Sirius's chest. "I won't tell a soul… as long as you forfeit the match."
Sirius glared at him, eyes flashing with defiance, but his voice trembled when he spoke. "If I say I surrender, you promise you'll keep this secret?"
"That depends on your future behaviour, Padfoot." Snape's voice grew syrupy, the kind of false sweetness that curdled the air. "After all… Prongs isn't the only illegal Animagus among you, is he?"
They returned to the duelling platform. Snape was calm, expression unreadable. Sirius looked like a caged beast forced into submission, his silver eyes burning with rage and reluctant defeat.
With a clenched jaw and colour draining from his face, Sirius turned to Professor Flitwick and said flatly, "Professor, I'm no match for Snape. I forfeit."
There was a pause.
"You're certain, Mr. Black?" Flitwick asked, visibly taken aback.
"Certain," Sirius said without inflection, then turned and strode out of the Great Hall, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner of disgrace.
"Severus Snape…" Flitwick's voice was low, almost regretful, "wins the sixth-year duelling championship."
The rest of the evening's matches were suspended. The next day would bring the inter-year challenges between the champions.
When the tournament resumed, the Hufflepuff first-year girl—bright yellow headband bobbing in her hair—used a rapid-fire Tickling Charm to make her Ravenclaw second-year opponent collapse in helpless laughter. Humiliated and disoriented, he withdrew from any further challenge.
Snape was quietly impressed. The girl had enough sense not to push her luck. Starting in third year, students began learning truly practical combat and defence spells. Continuing would've been suicide.
The third-year champion didn't stand a chance against young Barty Crouch Jr., who overwhelmed him within moments.
Then Crouch defeated Dirk Cresswell, the fifth-year Hufflepuff known for his mastery of Shield Charms and Disarming Spells.
Only Snape remained.
After a long moment of hesitation, Crouch stared at him across the room, jaw tight, and finally stepped forward to request a challenge from Professor Flitwick.
He was tall, with a lean build and striking features—handsome in a gaunt, almost fragile way. His brown eyes were deep and unreadable, his pale face dusted with freckles, and his light blond hair fell in messy locks across his forehead.
Snape narrowed his eyes. Something about Barty's expression—nervous, almost meek—didn't sit right. And yet, he knew what the boy was truly capable of.
Their magic was nearly equal. Snape knew it. He'd watched the duels carefully. Barty's reflexes were unnervingly sharp, his spellwork precise. He never wasted energy—each movement was calculated. Efficient. Cold.
And Snape knew better than anyone else in the room just how dangerous Barty Crouch Jr. would one day become.
He'd managed to deceive Alastor Moody, impersonate him for an entire year, and would have succeeded in delivering Harry to Voldemort's hands had he not been tripped up by his own arrogance.
Had he stayed quiet… calm… he might've remained hidden indefinitely. Even Dumbledore hadn't known.
Snape respected that. Feared it.
In truth, if there was anyone among the Death Eaters more dangerous than the Dark Lord himself, it was this boy—this clever, cold-eyed fanatic, smiling behind the mask of obedience.
Snape almost smiled at the thought: what if he could turn this one? Pull him away from Tom? That would be the coup of the decade.
The magical wards flared briefly, indicating the duelling stage was once again reinforced.
Snape slowly drew his wand.