Snape was never one for mercy. A flicker of cold intent crossed his mind as he eyed Erwin. But the boy remained unfazed—in fact, he seemed almost eager.
Erwin knew exactly why his plate was empty. He could already imagine sinking his teeth into the stir-fried greens he'd been craving. Sure enough, the table before him transformed in an instant. Dish after savory dish materialized: four mains, a soup, and a steaming bowl of rice alongside a set of chopsticks. A proper Asian meal, vibrant and aromatic.
The young witches and wizards around him gaped in stunned silence. Even Snape's eyes widened slightly. After years at Hogwarts, he'd never suspected the house-elves were capable of such finesse. It was blatant favoritism, no doubt—but who could argue with results?
Dumbledore glanced at Erwin's spread and let out a warm chuckle. "It seems our Mr. Erwin has charmed even the house-elves!"
The other professors exchanged amused smiles. Hogwarts rewarded excellence with privileges, after all. If you proved yourself worthy, the castle bent to your will.
Asian cuisine was all about balance: color, scent, and bold flavors. Though the nearby students couldn't sample it, the mouthwatering aroma alone set stomachs rumbling.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron's face flushed green with envy. "Those sneaky Slytherins—now they've got the house-elves in on it! It's not fair!"
Harry nodded fiercely. "Yeah, that's unfair. I want that kind of unfairness!"
Harry had his share of admirers since entering the wizarding world—people whispered of him as the Boy Who Lived. He'd pictured himself shining at the Sorting Ceremony, standing out as someone special. But reality had bitten hard. In just two days, he'd already docked Gryffindor points from the House Cup. Meanwhile, Erwin glided through like the real hero of the hour.
Staring at his own plate—usually a feast in its own right—Harry felt a pang. What had seemed lavish now paled in comparison.
Erwin inhaled deeply. Authentic, right down to the spices. House-elves pulling off stir-fried greens? Impressive. He speared a piece and popped it in his mouth.
Blimey—the recipe must have slipped out somehow. This was spot-on.
The Slytherin first-years nearby licked their lips, eyes glued to his plate. One bold one stepped up. "Prefect Erwin! What's all this?"
Erwin grinned. "Asian cuisine. Fancy a bite?"
The boy's face lit up. "Really? Don't mind if I do!"
Before Erwin could respond, the kid forked a chunk of sweet-and-sour pork straight off his plate. Erwin blinked. So much for asking permission.
That sweet-tangy glaze, the crispy coating, the juicy bite—it was a revelation for these uninitiated palates. Pure bliss.
The boy squinted in delight. "It's brilliant!"
Erwin had to admit, those Muggle cooking shows weren't exaggerating. Some folks did tear up over a good meal. Poor kids—they'd been missing out.
The rest of the Slytherins crowded closer, gazes hungry. Erwin sighed. Fine. "Anyone else? Dig in—but queue up properly."
They surged forward like a green wave. Erwin scowled. "Manners, you lot! Act like you've been raised in a barn? Or are you Gryffindors now?"
The Gryffindor table bristled, faces darkening. Erwin had a knack for lumping them all together, especially the lions.
Up on the dais, Professor McGonagall stifled an eye-roll. Harsh words, sure—but glancing at her own house, she couldn't deny the truth. Comparison was a cruel teacher.
If it had been anyone else slinging barbs, she'd have snapped back. But Erwin? Her star pupil? He'd get a pass. Double standards? Absolutely. And if that ruffled feathers, tough luck.
Slytherin was packed, though, and one plate of sweet-and-sour pork vanished fast. The pure-blood heirs kept it civil—no shoving—but they weren't shy. Malfoy snagged a piece on the sly, while his oafish sidekicks Goyle and... well, the other one... stabbed at two chunks with one fork. Utterly shameless.
By the time Erwin looked down, everything was gone—even the soup. Dozens of hopeful eyes turned his way from the queue.
He sighed again. "Alright, hold your horses."
Erwin drew his wand and tapped the table twice. A small figure popped into existence with a crack.
"Greetings, Prefect Erwin! Dobby is here to serve!"
"Prepare more stir-fried greens and set them out," Erwin instructed. "You saw what happened—they polished off my lunch before I got a bite!"
Dobby bobbed his head eagerly. "Right away, sir! Just a moment for the esteemed witches and wizards!"
With another pop, he vanished. Students at the other tables watched, wide-eyed. Could the tables really summon food like that?
Ron, at Gryffindor, was first to test it. "I want a chicken leg—a massive one!" He jabbed his wand at the wood.
Nothing. Seconds ticked by. Minutes. Ron's cheeks burned crimson. He pounded harder. "Come on! Out with it!"
Onlookers from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff smirked. The Weasleys shifted uncomfortably—even the twins looked pained.
Then a sharp voice cut in. "Your wand's about to poke someone's eye out. And you're not Erwin."
Ron whipped around, fuming. The speaker was Hermione.
"Mind your own business, you know-it-all!"