Professor McGonagall flicked her wrist, and her wand appeared in her hand. With a gentle wave, a soft breeze swirled around the Sorting Hat, drying it in seconds.
Erwin eyed the spell appreciatively—it was far more efficient than any Muggle dryer.
"Now, Mr. Cavendish," McGonagall said briskly, "shall we proceed with the sorting?"
Erwin inclined his head. "Of course, Professor. My apologies for the delay."
She nodded. "Take a seat, then."
He settled into the chair as she placed the Sorting Hat on his head.
The hat's brim twitched. "What cheek! The rudest young wizard I've sorted in ages. Let's see what's rattling around in that head of yours!"
The instant it touched him, silence fell. Erwin waited, intrigued. He'd long pondered the hat's mechanics. Was it Legilimency, sifting through thoughts and memories? But how did it detect blood status? What if memories were unreliable—like Voldemort's, who only learned of his pure-blood heritage later? Yet the hat had placed him in Slytherin without hesitation.
It proved the hat delved deeper than surface recollections.
A whisper broke the quiet. "Young man... such formidable Occlumency! I can barely glimpse fragments. The full picture eludes me."
Erwin smirked inwardly. "So that's your trick for assigning houses? Looks like you're no help to me, then."
"Don't sell me short," the hat murmured. A faint thread of magic slipped from it, probing into Erwin's mind.
His pulse quickened. He summoned his own magical energy to repel it—but instead of clashing, the two forces intertwined seamlessly.
Before he could question it, the hat exclaimed, "Ah, I see now! No wonder... Slytherin!"
Erwin froze. Slytherin? As a pure-blood? Were his parents wizards? Or did the Cavendish line hide wizarding roots?
McGonagall whisked the hat away before he could probe further. "Well done, Mr. Cavendish. Join your housemates at the Slytherin table. Dinner's starting."
Suppressing his questions, Erwin made his way to the green-and-silver benches amid polite applause from the Slytherins.
The sorting wrapped up soon after. As Erwin took his seat, curious stares followed him from every table—especially his own.
A blonde girl with a sharp gaze sidled closer. "Heard you're from some fancy Muggle family. So how'd you end up a pure-blood?"
Erwin shrugged. "Maybe the hat slipped up."
She stifled a laugh. "First time anyone's dared say that! The Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes."
"Even magical artifacts glitch sometimes," he replied lightly.
She paused, as if his words struck a chord. Truth was, Erwin was as baffled as anyone. Slytherin suited him—ambitious, cunning, focused on power—but he'd expected Ravenclaw or even Gryffindor. Pure-blood status was the snag. Officially, it meant wizard parents on both sides, but Erwin dismissed the notion as nonsense. Bloodlines mixed constantly; Hermione's future kids with Ron would be "pure-bloods" by that logic. What a farce.
Hogwarts feasts were legendary, and this one lived up to the hype: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, treacle tart steaming on platters. The house-elves outdid themselves, their magic making chores effortless—no wands needed, just a snap to summon perfection. Erwin wondered how such capable creatures had ever been subjugated.
Slytherins dined with restraint, voices low and conversations measured, unlike the boisterous chatter from the other tables. No spills or shouts here; it was civilized, which suited Erwin fine. Pure-bloods might be arrogant, but their emphasis on decorum spared him the chaos of rowdier houses—like the difference between a polished dinner party and a playground brawl.
Sated, the first-years rose as prefects herded them to their common rooms. Slytherin's lay deep in the dungeons, once cells for dark wizards and creatures, now a dimly lit haven of green lamps and leather armchairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Black Lake, its inky depths occasionally rippling with shadowy shapes that set nerves on edge.
In the common room, the first-years clustered as Prefect Marcus Flint clapped for attention. "Listen up, new blood. Time for Slytherin's tradition: selecting a Hidden Prefect. It's how we keep our edge—discreet leadership from the shadows."
Meanwhile, outside Dumbledore's office, a black-robed figure swept in like a storm.
"Dumbledore," Snape snarled, "I need an explanation!"
...
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—MrGrim.