Barton hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.
"I don't have ambitions that grand," he muttered.
Erwin's lips curved into a sly grin, giving him the look of a mischievous imp with horns peeking from his forehead. "Is it a lack of ambition, or are you too scared to even dream that big?"
Barton felt exposed, as if Erwin had peeled back every layer of his defenses. After a tense pause, he admitted, "I don't dare dream it. I just want them to accept me."
Erwin laughed, a warm, encouraging sound. "Ambition's a fine thing. If you've got it, why not let it soar? Trust me—you'll get everything you desire. Because I say so."
Barton stared at him. "The Yaxleys are an ancient pure-blood family. You can't just..."
"What, too timid to roll the dice?" Erwin pressed. "If you haven't even the guts for a gamble, that's your ceiling right there."
Erwin's piercing gaze struck at Barton's insecurities. The boy clenched his fist, knuckles whitening. "No. I've never lacked courage."
Erwin's smile widened. There it was—the fire in a young wizard's eyes, raw and fervent. Heartwarming, really.
"The Cavendish family doesn't make idle vows," Erwin said firmly. "Stand with me, and I'll deliver what you crave. Not words—results. When the smoke clears, it'll all be yours."
Barton's fist tightened, then relaxed, only to clench again. Erwin waited patiently. At this age, passion burned hot in young witches and wizards, but so did fear—especially for bastards like Barton, long overshadowed by his kin.
At last, Barton dropped to one knee, grasping the hem of Erwin's robe. "I pledge my loyalty to you."
Erwin beamed, genuinely pleased. Barton was a boon, not for his skills, but his lineage. An insider from a pure-blood house, illegitimate or not, gave Erwin the perfect pretext to move against the old families.
He placed a hand on Barton's head. "I accept. Now, extend your arm."
Barton complied without question, though puzzlement crossed his face. Erwin drew his wand and tapped the boy's forearm. A binding mark unfurled like a blooming lotus.
Barton's eyes widened in shock.
Erwin explained its purpose: a symbol of allegiance, unbreakable without mutual consent—nothing sinister like the Dark Mark.
Barton blinked, a flicker of doubt crossing his features, but it was too late to back out. The pact was sealed.
Erwin raised a hand, and Barton rose. "Go on ahead. I'll catch up."
Barton nodded and slipped away.
Erwin lingered by the Black Lake, gazing out. Slytherin suited him perfectly—ambitious, cunning, unyielding. The Yaxleys, with their potion empire, swam in galleons. But toppling a pure-blood house required finesse, not brute force. No convenient accidents; he needed leverage, a plan that stuck.
He pocketed his wand and headed back to the castle. Barely into the corridor, a barrage of sneering voices echoed ahead.
Erwin frowned. Malfoy's lot—unmistakable.
He rounded the corner to find Draco Malfoy and his cronies clustered around a hulking figure, jabbing fingers and jeering. The target? Hagrid, obliviously trimming the overgrown hedges with massive shears, ignoring the barbs as if they were summer gnats.
"Enjoying the show, are we?" Erwin called out, his voice cool and cutting.
Malfoy whirled, face paling at the sight of him. Memories of the train—and more recently, Barton's utter defeat at Erwin's hands—flashed in his eyes. He swallowed hard, muttered something to his friends, and they scattered like startled birds.
Erwin approached Hagrid. "Sorry about that. My apologies for the idiocy of some Slytherins."
Hagrid set down his shears, cheeks flushing under his wild beard. He wasn't used to this—defenders stepping in. Years of jibes over his size had toughened him; he and old Filch the Squib often swapped stories of such nonsense over tea.
"No need," Hagrid rumbled, waving a ham-sized hand. "It's nothin'."
Erwin chuckled. "They're young and foolish. Hope you won't hold it against the house. I'm Erwin Cavendish, by the way. Pleased to meet you."
Hagrid paused. "Cavendish?"
Erwin nodded. "That's right. Something amiss? You look surprised."
Hagrid scratched his head. "Back in London, a Muggle family bailed me out of a spot of bother. Said they were Cavendishes—their lad was off to Hogwarts. That you?"
Erwin grinned. "Sounds like fate's handiwork. Only one Cavendish in London worth mentioning, and that's me."
Hagrid's face lit up. "Well, I owe your lot a proper thanks, then!"
Erwin waved it off. "No need. Just glad you're not sore at my housemates."
"Nah, you oughta be thankin' me! Fancy a visit to my hut? I've got rock cakes that'll stick to your ribs—promise you'll love 'em."
Hagrid's tone held a hint of nerves. He could sense Erwin's stature, and a Slytherin to boot.
"I'd be delighted," Erwin replied. "But class calls now. Rain check? Those rock cakes sound intriguing."
Hagrid beamed. "Aye, off you go, then. My place is down by the Forbidden Forest—can't miss it."
Erwin nodded farewell and strode off, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Contact with Hagrid: established. Supplier secured.
The rock cakes? He wasn't holding his breath. Most folk chipped teeth on those.
Hogwarts exceeded expectations—every piece falling into place just as planned. Smooth as silk.
He veered toward the flying pitch. Next up: brooms. Wizards on sticks? Bizarre. Wouldn't it leave a chap sore in all the wrong places?