Erwin considered himself quite the adventurer. But he also knew when to prioritize his safety. A wise wizard didn't linger under a collapsing wall, after all—and to him, Malfoy, wand raised and spell at the ready, looked exactly like one.
So Erwin kept his distance. He had no desire to get splattered with the fallout. No, that wasn't fair to his... entertaining little project. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he took two more steps back.
Malfoy stared at him, utterly baffled. The boy came from one of the oldest pure-blood families, after all, but even that pedigree didn't prepare him for the perils of overchanneling magic. It was a rare mishap—unless you counted poor Seamus Finnigan, who seemed to attract explosions like a magnet.
Malfoy gripped his wand, cleared his throat, and waved it with grave seriousness, his face alight with anticipation. The incantation slipped out smoothly.
Then came the bang.
The match erupted in a puff of smoke and sparks, leaving Malfoy's face smeared in a layer of soot-gray grime that dulled his platinum hair to a ridiculous charcoal shade. Erwin stifled a grin. He'd judged the safe distance perfectly—most wouldn't have the foresight.
Malfoy's expression darkened further, whether from the blast or his own frustration. "Cavendish!" he roared, lunging forward in a blind fury. "How dare you trick me like this?"
He'd clearly forgotten the gulf in their skills. Erwin drew his wand in a fluid motion, leveling it at the boy. "Stand still. One speck of that muck on my robes, and I swear I'll flush you down the toilet to rinse that thick skull of yours."
The sight of Erwin's silver wand—poised and steady—snapped Malfoy back to reality. There was power in holding the upper hand, and Erwin wielded it now.
"Trick you?" Erwin scoffed. "I'm not in the business of fooling idiots. When you pour too much magic into a spell, it overloads and blows up. Haven't you covered that in class? Start small—increase the power gradually, test it bit by bit."
Malfoy blinked, stunned. Was that right? Had he missed a lesson? Or had the professors been giving private tips while he wasn't looking?
Erwin pressed on, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I handed you the fix on a silver platter, and you still botched it. Dumping all your magic at once? Malfoy, you truly are a letdown."
His face took on the weary look of a mentor betrayed by a promising student's folly—frustration mingled with a sigh of untapped potential.
Panic flashed in Malfoy's eyes. "No, wait! That's not—I mean, I'm sorry, Prefect! I must've zoned out. Please, just one more chance. I can get it right!"
Erwin waved him off. "Fine, try again. Learn quickly—we're Slytherins, after all, and I expect better from my favorites."
Something ignited in Malfoy at those words—a rush of motivation he couldn't quite name. He nodded fiercely. "Yes! I won't let you down!"
He snatched another match and set to work, determination etched on his sooty features.
Erwin's lips twitched into a satisfied smile. Hogwarts was full of these pliable young witches and wizards. A dash of guidance, a sprinkle of praise, and even the haughty Malfoy fell in line. He'd picked up the trick from those endless scrolls of moving images—proof that idle browsing had its uses. Learning never stopped, as the old saying went.
With his innate talent and Erwin's pointers, Malfoy progressed swiftly. By eleven o'clock, his final burst of magic did the trick. The match shimmered and elongated into a delicate silver needle, etched with intricate patterns that gleamed under the dormitory light.
"I did it!" Malfoy whooped, pumping his fist. "I actually did it!"
Erwin nodded approvingly. "Impressive. I knew you had it in you, Malfoy. You'll shine in Transfiguration tomorrow—Slytherin will be proud."
Gratitude shone in Malfoy's eyes, washing away any lingering resentment. At that moment, the scuffle and the soot meant nothing; all he felt was the thrill of success, thanks to Erwin's help.
Malfoy crossed his arms in a dramatic salute. "Prefect Erwin, Draco Malfoy at your service—thank you!"
Erwin chuckled. "Glad you caught on. I'm knackered—heading to bed." He paused at the stairwell, glancing back. "Draco, make us proud in class tomorrow. Slytherin honors you."
With that, he turned and vanished up the stairs, catching Malfoy's eager grin from the corner of his eye. The performance was flawless—a curtain call worthy of the stage. If there were awards for deception, Erwin would sweep them.
Back in his room, he stripped the bedsheets as usual and collapsed into slumber, determined for once to rest undisturbed. No schemes, no midnight wanders—just the deep, restorative sleep of youth.
Meanwhile, Malfoy burst into his own dormitory, buzzing with triumph. He'd mastered it at last. Tomorrow, Professor McGonagall would see, and he'd lord it over Harry Potter—strutting with just the right smugness. The rivalry burned bright in his mind; Potter was the golden boy, after all, with half the school orbiting him. But in wizarding Britain, who knew what twists fate had in store?
Erwin slept like the dead, dreamless and undisturbed—no shadowy chases or lurking threats. Pure bliss.
The morning chime roused him. He stretched, splashed water on his face, and dressed for the day, already anticipating the chaos. Hogwarts' true entertainment lay in moments like these. What spectacle would Draco unleash in Transfiguration?