Dobby's face crumpled in sorrow at once.
"Dobby is useless," he wailed. "Dobby is the most useless house-elf! The noble wizard won't even tell Dobby what he wants! Dobby must punish himself!"
With that, he reared back to slam his head against the table.
Even Erwin was taken aback. How had wizards bred such deep-seated subservience into house-elves? Was this more potent than any Muggle mind games? Perhaps some wizards dabbled in psychology after all.
Erwin's interest in wizarding history piqued. As Dobby hurtled toward the table, Erwin barked, "Stop! Dobby! I didn't order self-punishment. You shouldn't have assumed!"
He knew house-elves thrived under strict command—their nature demanded it, much like certain unruly creatures that only respected a firm hand. Kindness alone wouldn't do.
Dobby froze mid-motion, his head bowed so low it nearly touched the floor. "I'm sorry, sir! So sorry, Prefect Erwin! Dobby was wrong!"
Erwin waved him off. "Fine. Since you're so eager, I want bacon, eggs, and toast. Can you manage that?"
Dobby hesitated, then looked up—the first direct eye contact since he'd appeared. "Sir, Dobby can do it!"
Erwin raised an eyebrow. "You can? Conjure some up, then. I'll see if it's any good."
Dobby nodded eagerly, snapped his fingers, and vanished.
He reappeared moments later, setting a plate of sizzling bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and buttered toast before Erwin, along with a steaming cup of tea.
Erwin eyed the golden eggs and crispy bacon. Perfect—no odd Muggle shortcuts here. Beside the plate sat a fork and knife, polished to a shine.
He speared a bite. Spot on—the rich, savory flavor hit just right.
Dobby watched with wide, hopeful eyes.
Erwin swallowed. "You make a mean breakfast. Do all house-elves know this?"
Dobby shook his head vigorously. "No, sir! Dobby once served a wizarding family from abroad—they taught Dobby proper cooking. Kind masters, they were. Polite and patient, sharing recipes without a fuss."
But his enthusiasm faded. "Dobby's a bad elf! Dobby shouldn't speak of old masters!"
Spotting another self-flagellation brewing, Erwin cut in. "Enough! No dramatics while I eat. Ask your question, and I'll answer."
Dobby nodded, subdued.
"Why'd you leave that family?" Erwin asked between bites.
"They're gone now, sir—back to their homeland. No place for bound house-elves there. They use free help, like polite attendants. No restrictions on thinking folk, their master said. Taking Dobby would've broken the rules."
Erwin had never heard such tales of distant wizarding customs. Sounded enlightened, almost too good to be true. He polished off the plate and tea, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Dobby, got any other specialties? Wizarding roasts, perhaps?"
Dobby beamed. "Dobby can, sir! Not full yet? Dobby makes the best pumpkin pasties!"
Erwin chuckled. "Satisfied for now. But from here on, handle my meals—add some flair if you like."
"Right away, sir! Dobby will!"
Erwin grinned as Dobby bowed, cleared the dishes, and popped away.
What a stroke of luck. A personal chef in the castle kitchens? Priceless.
Sated, Erwin lingered in the Great Hall. He needed to escort the Slytherin first-years to class soon. With time to kill, he pulled out Professor McGonagall's notebook and dove in.
His ongoing Transfiguration project demanded focus—a paper to draft and submit. He'd have her share it; no sense wasting the acclaim.
Students trickled in, the hall filling steadily. Slytherins passed Erwin in hushed silence, not daring to disturb. After toppling the second-year shadow prefect the day before, Erwin effectively held sway over first- and second-year shadows. The former holder, now played second fiddle.
Awe kept the younger ones mute. Older students, sensing the mood, left him be.
The result? The Slytherin table fell eerily quiet, a ripple effect spreading to other houses. New arrivals, caught in the stillness, lowered their voices without question. People followed the crowd's lead.
By the time professors entered, the entire hall resembled a library—whispers absent, even forks clinking softly.
They blinked in unison. What sorcery had befallen Hogwarts? The Great Hall, quieter than a Charms lecture? Unheard of.
Erwin, lost in McGonagall's meticulous notes on form shifts and wand precision, noticed nothing. Her insights were gold—a true Transfiguration virtuoso. He absorbed every line, ideas sparking for his essay.
Up on the dais, the staff savored the rare peace. No boisterous chatter, just calm eating.
Erwin had single-handedly turned the Great Hall into a study hall.
McGonagall spotted him first, recognizing her own handwriting. Pride swelled in her chest. Such a bright, diligent pupil—talented beyond his years. She adored him.
He belonged in Gryffindor, her pride and protégé.
With that thought, she shot a glance at Snape and huffed, displeasure plain.
Snape stared, baffled. What had he done to irk the old Animagus now?