"I remember now," Flitwick said, his eyes twinkling with recollection. "There's a charm called the Whispering Charm. It has quite a few limitations, though, and it wasn't as reliable as owls for long-distance messages. Wizards eventually phased it out."
Erwin's eyes lit up. He hadn't expected an actual spell like that to exist.
"Professor," he said, "could you tell me more about it?"
Flitwick chuckled. "I only glimpsed it in an old tome. The details escape me at the moment, but I'll dig it up tonight and fill you in during our next lesson!"
Erwin nodded. "Thanks for the trouble, Professor."
A thrill of anticipation stirred in him. If he could integrate something like a direct link into his Communication Rune, it would simplify so many things. As for those limitations Flitwick mentioned? Erwin figured he'd cross that bridge when he got there—overcome them outright or hack around them if needed.
And owls? Honestly, these wizards and their lack of innovation. If Erwin cracked this and made it viable, he could launch a rival owl service and shake up the whole communication racket. Monopolies were ripe for disruption, after all.
Class ended, and Erwin packed his bag, heading toward the Great Hall for dinner.
That's when the platinum-blond heir, the eternal daddy's boy Draco Malfoy, slunk over to his table.
Erwin's brow furrowed. With a subtle flick of his wrist, his wand slipped into his hand.
Malfoy flinched, eyes darting as memories of that disastrous train ride flooded back. "Prefect, I come in peace!"
Spotting Erwin's skeptical expression, he added hastily, "No insults intended, I swear!"
"Out with it," Erwin said curtly.
Malfoy exhaled in relief. "Look, I... I need your help."
Erwin nearly dropped his wand. Was he hearing things? Or still dreaming in class?
The haughty Malfoy, admitting he needed aid—and asking him, of all people? It had to be a trap. The Malfoy scion didn't beg; he lorded. Surely this was some ploy to save face for the family name.
Malfoy caught the doubt in Erwin's stare and flushed crimson. "If you're not interested, fine—I'll ask someone else."
He turned to go.
"Hold up," Erwin called. "Spill it. I'm listening."
Curiosity burned through him like Fiendfyre. Whatever it was, it must eclipse their mutual grudge for Malfoy to swallow his pride like this.
"It's Professor McGonagall's homework," Malfoy muttered. "Turning a match into a needle. I've been at it for hours—nothing. So..."
Erwin got it. Malfoy wanted a few pointers.
The Slytherin prince, hitting the books? Something smelled off. Then it clicked: Transfiguration tomorrow, joint class with Gryffindor. Malfoy aimed to show up that scar-headed git, Harry Potter.
Classic. The two were locked in an eternal rivalry, thick as thieves in their disdain. Erwin almost smirked—they were made for each other, really. If push came to shove, he'd brew a love potion himself to seal the deal.
Malfoy squirmed under Erwin's appraising gaze, edging toward the door.
"Hang on till tonight," Erwin said. "Meet me in the common room after I wrap up with Professor Snape. I'll walk you through it."
Malfoy blinked. "You mean it? You'll actually teach me?"
Erwin grinned. "What, you think I'd pass up the fun? Come on—dinner's starting. Let's head to the Hall."
He didn't voice the real kicker: Erwin lived for this sort of drama. Picturing Malfoy lording it over Potter tomorrow? Pure gold. Hogwarts days dragged without a spark of mischief, so why not stoke the fire?
(Though if word got out, someone might accuse him of bootlicking Malfoy. The thought made him snort.)
In the Great Hall, Erwin savored the evening spread—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, and treacle tart—a far cry from the bland Muggle fare he'd known before. Tonight, the tables groaned under an especially lavish selection, courtesy of the house-elves' whims.
He spotted Dumbledore's plate: something suspiciously like his favorite, perhaps a special request. The old wizard knew how to treat himself. Erwin made a mental note to angle for the same tomorrow.
After dinner, he headed to Snape's office for his usual potion-brewing stint. Skimming the professor's notes had honed his technique to near-perfection, but mastery demanded repetition. Snape nodded approval without a word—his stern facade intact, as always.
Work done, Erwin slipped back into the Slytherin common room. A clumsy incantation echoed from the sofas: "Transfiguratio!"
He glanced over. Malfoy hunched there, staring at a mangled match on the table—half silver needle, half splintered wood.
Pathetic. But the bond between these rivals? It ran deeper than grudges, touching on something almost poetic.
Erwin dabbed at his eye, fighting a yawn. (Not that he'd admit to being moved, of course.)
Malfoy jumped up as he approached.
"Sit," Erwin said, waving him down. "Show me your casting."
Malfoy nodded eagerly and raised his wand. The tip tapped the match, and a faint shimmer rippled through it—one end gleaming metallic, the other stubbornly wooden.
Erwin shook his head. "Incantation and motion are spot on. It's your magical energy—you're skimping. Not channeling enough."
Malfoy perked up. "So if I pour in more—"
"No," Erwin cut in flatly.
Malfoy's face fell. Was this a joke? Did his pride even matter anymore?
Erwin pressed on. "You're missing proficiency. Deep down, you know a surge could shatter the match, so you're holding back. Start small, ramp up gradually until you hit the sweet spot. It's trial and error—practice builds the feel."
He'd pored over McGonagall's lesson notes; spotting the flaw was child's play. Malfoy was just too timid, playing it safe. Take Hermione—she'd blast through attempts, explosions be damned, but at least she pushed boundaries.
Malfoy absorbed it, eyes narrowing in focus. He lifted his wand to try again.
"Hold on," Erwin said, backing away a few paces. "Now go for it."