Snape's biting sarcasm showed no signs of letting up. He shot a glare at Harry Potter. "Some people get so full of themselves over a scrap of fame that they think they can skip classes without consequence. How utterly pathetic."
Erwin marveled at Snape's grudge-holding skills. James Potter must have been a real piece of work to earn such enduring enmity. Debts like that always came due eventually—and right now, Harry was paying the price.
Harry's face flushed with anger, but he bit his tongue, especially under the smirks from the surrounding students. Already plagued by insecurities, he ducked his head even lower.
To his relief, Harry stayed silent, robbing Snape of his sport. With a disdainful flick of his robes, the professor drifted back to the podium and launched into the lesson.
Erwin pulled out his Potions textbook, his interest piqued. In the wizarding world, potions meant money—pure and simple. In Erwin's view, Hogwarts boasted two genuine tycoons. First was Snape himself. As Potions Master, he didn't just brew for the school; wealthier wizards shelled out fortunes annually for his custom elixirs. Then there was Hagrid, the Forbidden Forest's gamekeeper. No one knew the true bounty of magical creatures lurking in those woods, but Hagrid's daily rambles unearthed rarities worth a king's ransom—items impossible to find elsewhere.
Unlike Transfiguration's flashy wandwork, Potions began with theory. Successful brewing demanded far more than dumping ingredients into a cauldron and stirring. Timing, temperatures, and interactions all hinged on deep knowledge. Every master brewer was an academic prodigy at heart, and Snape stood at the pinnacle.
He wasted no time exploiting the Gryffindors' misery. Throughout the class, his sharp tongue lashed out relentlessly. Harry, predictably, became Snape's prime target, fielding question after question. Truth be told, Harry had only himself to blame; he'd tuned out from the start, leaving himself wide open.
When Harry floundered, Snape turned to Erwin with a question. Erwin answered flawlessly, earning five points for Slytherin while Gryffindor dropped five. The pattern repeated, looping through the young witches and wizards' minds like a curse. In a single lesson, the "old bat" awarded Slytherin thirty points—a blatant abuse of authority that had Erwin grinning inwardly. No skin off his back; he was profiting handsomely.
The Gryffindors endured it all in grim silence, while the Slytherins stifled laughs. When Snape finally dismissed them, the lions bolted from the dungeon like hounds after a fox. The snakes filed out more leisurely, buzzing with triumph.
Once the room cleared, Erwin approached the podium. Snape was stowing his materials. Spotting him, the professor raised an eyebrow. "Erwin? Something on your mind?"
Erwin nodded. "I wanted to explain why I was late this morning."
Snape snorted. "Professor McGonagall already filled me in. You've got a gift for Transfiguration—and you uncovered something remarkable."
Erwin blinked in surprise. McGonagall had gossiped? When? Had they formed some professors' chat circle? Shaking it off, he replied, "Thank you, Professor."
Snape waved dismissively. "If that's all, head to the Great Hall. You've got afternoon classes."
Erwin paused, gauging the man's mood. Emboldened, he ventured, "I'm keen on Potions, sir. If I have questions, could I consult you sometime?"
Snape stilled, his dark eyes assessing. Erwin's pulse quickened. Potions tied directly into his long-term ambitions; Snape's mentorship could be a game-changer. The man was a genius in the field, prejudices aside.
After a beat, Snape finished packing. "Dragon's blood."
Erwin frowned. "Pardon? I didn't catch that."
"My office password," Snape clarified curtly. "Dragon's blood. Come by after dinner. You can assist with some basic brews."
With that, he swept from the room. Erwin's face split into a grin. A private tutor—make that two in one morning, counting McGonagall. Jackpot.
Whistling, Erwin gathered his things and headed for lunch. At the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, he piled his plate high, digging in with gusto. He missed home cooking; the British fare at Hogwarts left him cold. Back home, he'd employed private chefs for familiar flavors, but perhaps it was time to chat with the house-elves. If they could whip up some hearty recipes, even better—he was craving spicy sausages right now.
Sated and rubbing his full stomach, Erwin eyed the table. A good meal called for some excitement to burn it off. Why not kick off the prefect challenges today?
His gaze settled on the second-years' end of the bench. Barton, the shadow prefect for their year, was holding court with his peers. Suddenly, a prickle ran down Barton's spine. He turned, locking eyes with Erwin.
Draco's stomach twisted. Was this nutter about to call him out?
Erwin rose and strode over. "Evening, Barton. Erwin Cavendish, unofficial first-year prefect here. I challenge you for the position."
Barton managed a tight smile. Of course. Erwin's reputation had spread like Fiendfyre: the flawless Expelliarmus on the train, the silent Scourgify on the Sorting Hat, and that eerie magical surge last night. All of it painted him as a force. As a mere second-year shadow prefect, Draco felt outmatched—but rules were rules. He couldn't refuse.
Standing, he inclined his head. "Challenge accepted."
The exchange rippled through the Slytherin table, drawing stares from the other houses. For bored young witches and wizards, this was prime entertainment—no Quidditch or Exploding Snap could top a live duel.
Up on the staff dais, heads turned. Professor McGonagall scowled. "I've said it before: Slytherin's prefect challenges need scrapping. Far too reckless!"
Snape remained silent, lips twitching faintly.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Ah, but isn't this the spark of youth? Slytherin's spirit is unmatched. Shall we observe?"