Erwin felt like he might actually die today. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he'd completely lost his cool.
He'd told Professor McGonagall he had to go. Now, Erwin bolted from the Transfiguration classroom on the seventh floor, heart pounding as he raced toward the Potions dungeon on the first. Glancing at his watch, he cursed under his breath. This called for desperate measures.
Drawing his wand, Erwin jabbed it at the nearest moving staircase. "Give me a path to the Potions classroom—now!"
The stairs twisted obligingly, forming a steep, straight slide. Erwin leaped onto the banister and whooshed downward, wind whipping his robes. Portraits along the wall gaped in shock.
"Merlin's beard! What in the world is that boy doing?"
"Looks thrilling! Someone fetch an artist—I want one just like it!"
Erwin rolled his eyes. Thrilling? More like suicidal. As the ground rushed up, he braced for impact—and snapped his fingers. His body lifted into the air on a cushion of magic, leaving a shimmering purple lotus in his wake. He dissolved into a trail of violet smoke, reappearing lightly on the flagstones below with a satisfied grin.
Hogwarts banned Apparition for students, of course—only registered wizards like Dumbledore could manage it. But the flight extension of a modified Phantom Shift? That was fair game.
Shaking off the thrill, Erwin sprinted the final stretch to the dungeon door. But he was still late.
He shoved it open, and every head in the room swiveled toward him. Snape's dark eyes narrowed from the front of the class.
"Sorry, Professor—I'm late!" Erwin blurted, stomach twisting. The man was terrifying, like a bat straight out of a nightmare.
To his surprise, Snape's scowl eased almost imperceptibly. "Enter. And mind the time of the next lesson."
Erwin blinked, slipping into a seat. That was... easy? He half-wondered if his surname had been Snape all along. Erwin Snape? It had a certain ring.
The other first-years exchanged baffled glances. They'd only been in class a few minutes, but Snape's aura alone had the room on edge—his face a mask of perpetual frost that chilled the air.
In the back corner, Ron muttered hotly to Harry, who was doodling absentmindedly on parchment. "Why's Snape going easy on Erwin?"
Harry shrugged, blowing gently on his fresh ink. "He's Head of Slytherin, isn't he? And Erwin's their shadow prefect. Plus McGonagall's soft on him too."
Ron opened his mouth to retort—just as a furious hiss cut through the dungeon. A shadowy figure glided silently toward them, robes billowing like a storm cloud.
Erwin stared. Snape wasn't walking; he was floating, predatory and silent. Had the man invented some precursor to a hoverboard? Impressive—and unnerving.
Snape loomed over the Gryffindors, his voice a venomous whisper. "Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter—and our famous savior, no less. Care to share your little chat?"
Ron paled, stammering, "W-we weren't saying anything, sir!"
Snape's lip curled. "Oh? Then I must have imagined it. Or did I?" He turned his gaze on Harry, who met it steadily with those vivid green eyes.
For a split second, Snape's expression flickered—something like nostalgia softening the edges. But as his eyes drifted to the boy's messy hair and lightning scar, disgust flooded his features.
"Evidently, you've absorbed all the lesson requires," Snape drawled. "Enough spare time for gossip. Tell me, Potter—what happens if I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze, mind blank. Asphodel? Wormwood? He shook his head helplessly.
Snape's smile was pure malice. "Nothing? Then try this: Where would you look for a bezoar?"
Another shake of the head.
The mockery deepened. "Final chance: What's the difference between wolfsbane and aconite?"
"I don't know, Professor," Harry admitted, cheeks burning.
Snape's voice dropped to arctic levels. "Fame clearly isn't wisdom, Potter—especially when it outstrips talent. What emboldens you to ignore my class?"
Draco Malfoy, lounging nearby, barely stifled a snicker. Erwin sighed inwardly. This tangled mess of history was only getting started. Poor Harry.
Ron, spotting his friend's humiliation, piped up defiantly. "You're just picking on him, sir! We haven't covered that yet—how's he supposed to know?"
Snape whirled, eyes glittering. "For your impertinence, Gryffindor loses five points." He jabbed a finger at Erwin. "You—enlighten them."
Erwin stood reluctantly. "Powdered root of asphodel added to an infusion of wormwood produces the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is found in a goat's stomach. And wolfsbane and aconite? No difference—they're the same plant, just different names."
He sat back down amid murmurs. Snape nodded curtly. "Correct. At least one student bothers to prepare. Far too many fools in this room. Slytherin, ten points—for not wasting my time."