Erwin nodded. "Understood, Professor."
Snape paused, then asked, "You hold a grudge against Marcus Flint, the fifth-year?"
"It's not a grudge exactly," Erwin replied. "He's just rude. And ugly as sin."
Snape spent a few minutes puzzling over that last bit. He wondered if age was dulling his grasp on the younger generation's mindset.
"Don't go overboard," Snape warned. "In a duel between prefect candidates, excess won't serve you well."
Erwin grinned. "Of course not. Don't worry—I'm easygoing by nature. I prefer talking things out over fighting. But if someone won't listen to reason, a firm hand might be necessary. After all, isn't power meant to make others pay attention?"
Snape had never heard it put quite that way. It felt off, yet oddly logical. He waved Erwin off. "Fine. Get some rest. Don't be late for afternoon classes, or Slytherin loses points—you know the penalty."
"Got it, Professor," Erwin said with a shrug. He turned to leave.
"Erwin," Snape called after him. "If you can claim this prefect spot, do it. Trust me, the rewards will surpass your expectations. Slytherin's system is intricate—far more than a mere title."
Erwin halted, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "No worries. If Slytherin needs a shadow prefect, it'll be Cavendish."
He pushed open the door and strode out.
Snape watched him go, a flicker of unease stirring. So similar—uncannily so. Eleven years ago, another Cavendish had left his office just like that: brimming with confidence and vitality. But that one never returned.
Erwin headed straight for the Slytherin common room. Mercy? Not a chance. He'd make an example of Flint, one the brute wouldn't forget.
Erwin didn't see himself as vengeful, but he valued fairness. Treat him well, and he'd return the favor. Cross him, and he'd ensure the lesson stuck. That was balance.
After years of Muggle schooling, he'd picked up a handy principle: the carrot and the stick. Kindness alone bred familiarity; pair it with authority, and you earned respect laced with fear. True loyalty followed.
Flint would serve as the perfect demonstration. Poor sod with his gnarled teeth.
Back in the common room, a cluster of students buzzed with excitement over Erwin's latest duel—their sole topic of gossip these days. How dull their lives must be.
The door swung open. Erwin entered, and silence fell like a curtain.
Those lounging on the sofas spotted him and shot to their feet, clearing a path.
Erwin didn't hesitate. He sank into a chair and waved them down. "At ease, everyone. I'm not here to bite. Books ready? Class in an hour—might as well relax."
The first-years, who'd been eyeing him warily, relaxed a fraction.
"Prefect, we're set," one said boldly.
"We won't embarrass Slytherin like those Gryffindor fools!"
Erwin chuckled, chatting with them briefly. Approachable as ever. On the way to History of Magic, he mentally patted himself on the back. Powerful *and* personable—truly the mark of a leader.
But then, a chime echoed in his mind.
Erwin froze.
[Detected: Host's reputation in Slytherin aligns perfectly with the Dark Lord's archetype. Title awarded: Dark Lord Heir! Equip to boost prestige by 20% and Dark Arts potency by 20%.]
[My lord, strive to ascend fully. Hogwarts shall bow to you!]
Erwin's expression soured. Slanderous rubbish. Dark Lord? Everything he'd done was above board, even if strategic. Was a little charisma a crime now?
He tested the waters. "Equip the title."
It clicked into place—not an admission, just curiosity. No harm in that.
The first-years trailing him blinked. Something had shifted; Erwin seemed... grander. They averted their eyes, even proud Draco Malfoy—the daddy's boy and platinum-blond heir—dropping his gaze under Erwin's steady stare.
Erwin nodded to himself. Dubious fit or not, the effect was undeniable. The System could be forgiven this once.
He prodded mentally for upgrade details, but it left him to figure it out. Typical—stingy as ever. Always rushing ahead, like it'd take on Voldemort tomorrow. Pathetic; Erwin hadn't even glimpsed the man. What a letdown for a transmigrator.