Erwin jolted awake, springing from the bed with ragged breaths. His face was ashen, hair matted with sweat. He glanced around the dimly lit Slytherin common room, the familiar green glow from the lake windows confirming he hadn't strayed far. Relief washed over him.
What was that? Magic? Lightning? Tom Riddle?
He shook his head, dismissing the stray thought. Just a dream? It had felt too real—the sharp sting of electricity prickling his skin lingered like a fresh burn.
Erwin splashed cold water on his face from the basin nearby, steadying his nerves. For a heartbeat, death had seemed inevitable. Terrifying.
The common room was silent, the other Slytherins still lost in sleep. He slipped out into the corridor, craving fresh air. The castle's moving staircases hummed faintly as he descended, the chill of recent rain seeping through the stone walls. Inhaling deeply, he felt the crisp morning revive him.
"Erwin! You ought to be asleep. What are you doing wandering about?"
He didn't need to turn to recognize the silky drawl. Snape, of course. The man had a knack for materializing like a shadow.
Erwin pivoted with a polite smile. "Professor. Good morning."
Snape's dark eyes narrowed. "You're far too young for insomnia."
"Just woke up early, sir. Couldn't drift off again."
Snape studied him, lips thinning. "Your emotions feel... unsettled. Something wrong?"
Erwin hesitated, then ventured, "Professor, if a wizard has a dream that's vivid and complete—like it's really happening—what could that mean?"
Snape's brow furrowed. "Prophetic talent, perhaps. Seers glimpse fragments of the future, but they're hazy visions, not... realism. A clear dream like that? It suggests interference—Legilimency, a potion, or some artifact forcing a glimpse of events elsewhere. But your Occlumency is solid; that shouldn't be possible."
Erwin nodded slowly. "So no natural prophet would dream so sharply?"
Snape opened his mouth to confirm, then paused, his expression shifting. "What exactly did you see?"
Erwin recounted the nightmare: the cloaked figure with the scepter-like wand topped by a crystal orb, hurling lightning from the shadows.
Snape's face hardened. "You're certain of the wand? Like a scepter with a crystal?"
"Crystal clear, Professor. Why? Is it significant?"
"Drop it," Snape snapped. "Focus on your studies at Hogwarts. Improve yourself. That's all that matters now."
Erwin met his gaze steadily. "Professor, do you know something? About my parents. Were they wizards?"
Snape paused, eyes flickering. "Yes. Exceptional ones."
"Then why did they return to the Muggle world? Why were they attacked? Who killed them?"
Snape sighed, staring at Erwin's silver hair and determined face. For a moment, it seemed he might unburden the truth.
"Not so fast, Severus."
The voice slithered from the gloom behind them. Dumbledore, his half-moon spectacles glinting as he approached.
Snape straightened, composure snapping back. Dumbledore smiled benignly. "The wake-up bell will chime soon. Best prepare."
With a final, lingering glance at Erwin, Snape swept away.
Erwin's jaw tightened. "Professor Dumbledore, you're keeping him from telling me."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Am I? I just arrived—haven't a clue what you mean."
Erwin didn't smile this time. His voice was steel. "I respect you, sir, but this is my life. I deserve the truth about my parents."
The headmaster's amusement faded. "And what good would it do? You're strong for your age, Erwin, but barely able to defend yourself. Knowledge like that invites danger. Your parents were my students—I'd never harm them, or you."
"Danger? Even here at Hogwarts?"
Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "Hogwarts is safe because I'm here. But even I can't match them all."
Erwin's breath caught. "You can't?"
The old wizard chuckled dryly. "The world is far more tangled than you know. Your parents never wanted this life for you—they sealed your magic to keep you hidden, preventing any surges. It was meant to be gentle, but it broke. Hogwarts noticed, sent your letter. Fate, perhaps. All you can do now is grow stronger. Only then will the full truth be safe for you—or your survival."
Dumbledore stifled a yawn. "I'm too old for early mornings. If sleep eludes you, head to the Great Hall. The house-elves have a way of surprising the first arrival."
He turned and shuffled off, leaving Erwin staring after him, brow creased. Could he trust the man? On the surface, Dumbledore was the kindly headmaster, all lemon drops and wisdom. But Erwin knew better from the books—the man was a master manipulator, always three steps ahead.
Take Lily Evans, Harry's mother. Muggle-born, utterly clueless until her letter arrived. Yet she'd conjured a sacrificial protection so potent it repelled Voldemort—a charm unprecedented before her. Where had she learned it? The implications twisted in Erwin's mind like a riddle unsolved.