Erwin didn't hurry back to his dormitory after reaching the Slytherin common room. Instead, he sank into the sofa by the fireplace, replaying Snape's words in his mind. Since arriving at Hogwarts, everything had grown increasingly odd—Snape's unexpected warmth, Dumbledore's subtle watchfulness.
Dumbledore's behavior made sense enough, based on what Erwin knew of the man. The headmaster had a soft spot for Harry Potter, practically playing the role of guardian. But factoring in Snape? That muddied the waters.
Only one explanation fit: his parents weren't ordinary Muggles. Perhaps they—or their forebears—had been wizards themselves. How else to account for his own Sorting into Slytherin, or Snape's inexplicable kindness?
Yet if they were wizards, why abandon the magical world? From what Erwin understood, life after Hogwarts wasn't always enchanted. Not every graduate stayed; job prospects were limited. Top students might land spots at the Ministry—as Aurors or desk-bound officials—but for most, the wizarding economy offered slim pickings.
Plenty ended up scraping by, too attached to their wands to let go. They'd haunt places like Knockturn Alley, dodging poverty's bite. Others snapped their wands, registered with the Ministry, and vanished into the Muggle world as ordinary laborers, spells forever forbidden.
Don't dismiss the quiet ones, then. That unassuming clerk at the bank? Could've once hurled hexes with the best of them.
His parents must've chosen exile like that—though not from desperation. The Cavendish fortune alone could've sustained them, swapping Muggle wealth for Galleons without lifting a finger. No one bought Erwin's tale of bootstrapping the family name; the old money ran deep. Without it, he couldn't have built what he had in mere years.
But that left a glaring puzzle. Erwin was certain magical hands had engineered his parents' deaths. Wizarding code was clear: once a wand broke, old scores stayed buried. Wizards scorned Muggles on principle, viewing them as beneath notice. No self-respecting witch or wizard would stoop to vengeance against the non-magical.
So why target his family? The contradiction gnawed at him, and with no one to confide in, answers stayed elusive. Dumbledore and Snape knew something, no doubt—but if they'd meant to share, they would've by now.
It was part of why Erwin had opened shop on Diagon Alley: information was power, and he craved the full picture.
He leaned back, rubbing his temples as a headache bloomed. He'd landed in what should've been a lighthearted tale of young witches and wizards, yet it twisted into something far murkier, like a web of courtly betrayals. Unsettling. He loathed the unknown.
"Oi, Erwin! What're you doing skulking about?"
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. Cassius sauntered over.
Erwin managed a wry smile. "Not asleep yet, Prefect? It's late."
Cassius dropped onto the facing sofa. "Says the one wide awake. Just finished rounds—thought you'd turned in. Didn't spot you in the dorms."
"Couldn't sleep," Erwin replied with a shrug. "I needed a breather. Not like some first-years moping over crushes."
Cassius chuckled. "Fair point. Seen my share of that nonsense."
Erwin tilted his head. "By the way, you're Selwyn, right?"
Cassius nodded. "Yeah. Surprised you know the name."
"I've heard of the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Erwin said lightly.
Cassius snorted, waving it off. "Ancient history, mostly. Barely a whisper left. Take us Selwyns—I'm the last of the line this generation. We've got two shops limping along, that's it."
A bitter edge crept into his tone, and Erwin raised an eyebrow. The heir apparent, scorning his own bloodline? Intriguing.
It tracked, though. The Sacred Twenty-Eight clung to faded glory. A handful still thrived—wealthy holdouts with real enterprises. The rest? Teetering.
Abbott came to mind: Hannah, the current successor, sorted into Hufflepuff. Already half-blood by blood status. The Blacks? Finished after Sirius's fall. Only Malfoys, Yaxleys, and a scant few others carried real weight now.
Less than eight families retained their old prestige. Malfoys even snagged a Hogwarts governorship. Yet they strutted like kings of an empire in ruins. Pride without foundation—baffling.
Cassius leaned forward. "Enough about that. What's your story, first-year? Surname?"
"Cavendish," Erwin said.
Cassius frowned. "Never heard of it. Checked the records—no Cavendishes in wizarding history. Not even among Hogwarts alumni."
Erwin laughed. "Maybe the Sorting Hat slipped up. Stranger things happen."
"You've joked about that before," Cassius said, eyes narrowing. "Hat doesn't err. Fine, keep your secrets. It's late—I'm off to bed. You should too. Defense Against the Dark Arts tomorrow. Trust me, it'll stick with you."
As Cassius vanished up the stairs, Erwin stretched, a spark of anticipation cutting through the fog. Defense Against the Dark Arts? Voldemort—well, that ought to be enlightening.