Hermione let out a soft oh, her mind replaying their conversation before entering the private compartment. Had they talked? She couldn't recall, but it didn't matter much.
She pressed on. "Did you grow up in the wizarding world? Are your parents wizards too?"
Erwin sighed inwardly. No chance of sleep now, not with all the chatter echoing through the train. And they were nearly at Hogwarts anyway. "No," he replied. "I'm Erwin Cavendish. If you live in London, you've probably heard of me."
Hermione paused, then her eyes widened. "Cavendish? You mean the Cavendish family?"
Erwin's interest piqued. A chance to impress—or intimidate—her into silence? Perfect. He nodded. "That's right. The one and only."
What followed caught him off guard. Hermione's face lit up with genuine admiration. "I've heard about your family from my dad. They put an end to the dark forces running rampant in London and brought a new order. Things got safer after you took over—much safer!"
Erwin blinked, caught flat-footed. Had the Cavendish name really gained that kind of shine? He'd grown up in peacetime, steering clear of the shadier dealings. When he inherited the family, he'd shut down the worst operations and cleaned up the gray areas, making them less ruthless. More humane, even. No wonder the old-timers in those trades sang his praises.
Hermione, undeterred by his silence, barreled on. "Dad says you're the youngest godfather in history—a living legend! How on earth did you pull it off so young?"
"Your dad talks about me?" Erwin asked, intrigued. "Sounds like he's a fan."
She nodded eagerly. "He respects you immensely. Before the Cavendishes stepped in, London was a mess. Dad's a dentist, you know—he dealt with thugs shaking him down for protection money, sometimes four or five gangs a day. But once your family rose up, they set rules: one management fee per month, no more harassment. He's been grateful ever since."
It clicked for Erwin. With support like that, he could probably run for mayor and win in a landslide. Not a bad reputation to have.
Hermione kept chattering. "Anyway, do you have a favorite house? I read Hogwarts has four houses. You're awfully quiet—don't know much about them? I can explain! First, there's—"
Erwin raised a hand to cut her off. Such a well-meaning girl. "I know the houses, Miss Granger. No introduction needed."
Her shoulders slumped slightly, like she'd missed her big moment to shine. Then she perked up. "Which one are you hoping for? I'd love Gryffindor. The books say all the greatest wizards come from there—like the Headmaster himself. And Professor McGonagall, who took me to Diagon Alley? She's the head of Gryffindor. I admire her so much—strong, refined. I want to be just like her!"
Erwin gave her a thumbs-up. "Smart choice. Not everyone could handle turning into an old Animagus like her someday."
In the original story, Hermione's path led her to Minister of Magic anyway—close enough to her dream.
"But don't take the books as gospel," Erwin said. "Is Gryffindor really the best? Sure, they've got brave souls, but other houses produce powerhouses too. Hogwarts' four houses each shine in their own way—what fits you matters most. For you, I'd say Ravenclaw. It's for sharp minds and scholars. Gryffindors are bold lions, but they charge in recklessly, and their grades? Not always top-notch. You need the right environment to thrive."
Hermione furrowed her brow, mulling it over seriously. Erwin smirked. Just testing if the golden trio could be split up—for the fun of it.
He didn't dispute Gryffindor's track record for talent. Slytherin had Voldemort, after all, though no textbook would admit it. The reason was straightforward: the Sorting Hat, named after Godric Gryffindor himself. Erwin had no idea how the old relic worked exactly, but he suspected the founders' biases—Gryffindor's especially—steered the brightest straight to his house. Talented first-years funneled in, and voilà, a legacy of stars.
It was just a theory, of course.
"You're spot on," Hermione admitted. "But I still don't get how the Sorting Hat works—it's not in any book! What if I end up somewhere else? The thought's got me anxious."
Erwin chuckled at her furrowed expression. Only a bookworm like her would fret over this at her age. "It's simple—a hat with a mind of its own. It goes on your head and announces your house."
"A hat?" She gaped. "Can it really be that precise? This decides your whole school life!"
"Think of it as your great-great-grandfather's antique—older than anyone in your family tree. And it considers what you want. If Ravenclaw's your pick, tell it. Might just happen."
Hermione's eyes sparkled. "A thinking hat? Blimey, I've got so much to learn about this world!"