Erwin couldn't help but shiver. When would Snape escape this morbid aura of dread? It was downright unnerving. No wonder everyone pegged him as the villain—partly because he was as slippery as a snake, and partly because he exuded such sinister vibes.
In truth, Erwin couldn't fathom why Professor Snape insisted on living like a hermit, barricading himself away every day. As he pondered this, a voice rasped from inside the office.
"Aren't you coming in?"
"Coming! Coming!" Erwin called back hastily.
Stepping inside, he found Snape's domain a stark contrast to Professor McGonagall's cozy quarters. If hers resembled a warm sitting room, his evoked a deranged alchemist's lair. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with strange artifacts, while jars of potion ingredients floated in murky solutions. The air hung heavy with the acrid tang of brewing elixirs—not foul, but far from inviting.
Snape hunched over a bubbling cauldron, his face illuminated by the greenish glow. Erwin stood quietly to the side, not daring to interrupt. Soon, the furious bubbling eased. Snape snatched a vial from the workbench, uncorked the cauldron, and let a single drop of pink liquid splash into it. He exhaled sharply, stoppered the vial, and set it aside with reverence.
This caught Erwin's eye. Whatever that potion was, it seemed extraordinarily valuable.
"What are you gawking at?" Snape snapped. "Come here and help with the ingredients."
Erwin nodded eagerly and joined him at the bench. Under Snape's watchful gaze, Erwin processed the herbs with precision, drawing on techniques he'd gleaned from his textbooks. A flicker of approval crossed Snape's sallow features before vanishing. Fortunately, the task wasn't overly complex—likely a test of basic competence.
Satisfied, Snape turned to his own work. Erwin hesitated, then ventured, "Er, Professor?"
Snape paused. "What?"
"I've been wondering... is there a potion that could grant magic to someone without it?"
Snape's lip curled in disdain. "No. If such a thing existed, it would be outlawed on sight. Why do you ask?"
"Just curiosity," Erwin replied, shaking his head.
"Imparting magic to a Squib—or worse, a Muggle—is beyond potions," Snape said curtly. "Legends from Merlin's era speak of ancient wizards bartering with otherworldly forces through prayer or pacts. Some supposedly gained power that way. But that's hearsay."
"Merlin's time? Sounds like myth," Erwin murmured.
"Perhaps," Snape allowed. "Though whispers persist that Grindelwald once bestowed magic on a Muggle friend in his youth. Who knows if it's true."
Erwin's eyes narrowed slightly. Grindelwald? He'd posed the question with the Selwyn family in mind. Their loyalty was already secured through blood allegiance. If he aimed to reshape the wizarding world, starting with a devoted pure-blood house like theirs made perfect sense.
Snape's gaze sharpened. "Don't even entertain such notions. These are depths you can't plumb—and if they exist, they're forbidden. Want a one-way ticket to Azkaban? Drop it."
Erwin nodded vigorously and refocused on the ingredients, slicing and stirring with renewed concentration.
Snape watched him sidelong, a shadow of memory clouding his eyes. Once, he'd shared this very bench with the previous Selwyn patriarch, brewing potions side by side. Those rare moments of camaraderie had been Snape's brightest. But everything had unraveled. The family's foes were too powerful—even Dumbledore's influence had only shielded Erwin from direct harm.
No one could steer this cursed fate. Not Dumbledore, not Snape. The thought twisted like a knife in his gut. Yet now, the boy had reentered the magical world, reigniting the cycle. Snape's jaw tightened. This time, he'd guard Erwin with his life, come what may. For a long-buried promise. For a friendship worth dying for. Even if it meant flying straight into the flames.
Erwin felt the intensity of that stare and glanced up. "Is something wrong, Professor? Did I muck up the prep?"
Snape averted his eyes. "No. It's adequate. You should go—it's late."
Erwin peeled off his gloves. "Can I return tomorrow, Professor?"
Snape inclined his head. "If you must. But your form is sloppy. Take this." He thrust a slim book into Erwin's hands. "Study it. I expect better tomorrow. I won't have my brews ruined by amateurish hands."
Erwin accepted it with a grin, bid Snape goodnight, and slipped out. In the corridor, he flipped it open under a conjured light.
Sure enough—the Half-Blood Prince's Potions Textbook.
Brilliant. In one evening, he'd gleaned expertise from both mentors. If that didn't set him ahead, what would?
Back in the Slytherin common room, the other young witches and wizards had retired. Erwin retreated to his dormitory, settling at the desk to pore over his new acquisition. Sleep could wait; the professors' efforts demanded his full attention. He was a diligent sort at heart.
Hours slipped by in a haze of notes and diagrams. Then, a sharp tapping rattled the windowpane. Erwin looked up to see an owl pecking insistently.
He cracked the window, tossed it a handful of owl treats, and untied the parchment. It was from Tom, the old butler at the Selwyn estate. As instructed, he'd acquired a shop in Diagon Alley. What were Erwin's next orders?
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