Erwin's heart skipped a beat. "Professor, that's not fair! I was only thinking of the house's best interests. What could I possibly be scheming?"
Snape fixed him with a piercing stare. "You're a true Slytherin, Erwin. Selflessness isn't in our nature, whatever your motives. But mark my words: this is Dumbledore's Hogwarts. Don't push your luck."
With that, Snape turned and glided away—yes, glided, like some spectral figure.
Erwin blinked in disbelief. Was there no professor at this school who could just walk in like a normal person? Some phased through walls, others levitated, a few transformed into animals, and one even tumbled like a enchanted hoop.
Sorry, Professor Sprout—he hadn't meant that as an insult.
Once Snape had vanished, Erwin let out a long breath. Even in the man's presence, the air had thickened, pressing down like an invisible weight.
He whistled softly as he packed up, scrubbing the cauldron spotless. It had cost good money, after all—a badge of thrift in these lean times. The leftover potion would have eaten through the metal otherwise. What a shame to waste it.
Everything tidied, Erwin shut the classroom door behind him. A model student, through and through.
By now, nearly half an hour had slipped by. The young witches and wizards were probably finishing dinner. He wondered if Dobby had saved him a plate.
But the moment he stepped into the Great Hall, Erwin froze. Every eye in the place turned to him—first-years, older students, the lot. Confusion clouded some faces, fear etched others, and a few burned with outright hostility.
What in Merlin's name?
He headed to the Slytherin table, where Charlotte scooted closer, eyeing him up and down like he was a peculiar potion ingredient.
Erwin rapped the table, summoning a spread of dishes. He grabbed a napkin, wiped his cutlery clean, and asked lightly, "What's with the stare? Do I have potion on my face?"
Charlotte smirked. "Nothing. Just wanted a look at the devil's spawn."
Erwin paused mid-bite. "My father's got some dark secret?"
She chuckled. "The whole school's buzzing about it now. No one sane suggests morning and evening study halls. How'd you dream up something so diabolical?"
Ah, that explained it. Word spread like Fiendfyre among these kids.
"Don't tell me you don't see the value in structured study time," Erwin replied.
Charlotte shrugged. "Speak for yourself. Though Ravenclaw seems thrilled—they live for that sort of thing."
He glanced over at the Ravenclaw table. Sure enough, Hermione beamed with enthusiasm, her housemates chattering animatedly beside her.
"See? It's brilliant," Erwin said.
She just shook her head, lost for words.
He speared a piece of roast pork. "Where's Malfoy and the rest? The table's half-empty. Fewer first-years than usual."
Charlotte hesitated. "They skipped the Hall altogether. Aren't you overseeing the Slytherin first-years? I thought you assigned them extra duties."
Erwin nearly choked. "I did no such thing."
His gaze flicked to the Gryffindor table. A few of their first-years were missing too.
A cold dread settled in his gut. This couldn't end well.
Right on cue, Professor McGonagall stormed into the hall, her face thunderous, fury radiating like heat from a wand tip. Trailing behind her were two lines of disheveled first-years: one row of Slytherins, led by a battered Malfoy, his face a patchwork of bruises and swelling. The Gryffindors followed, with Harry Potter at the front—glasses cracked, but otherwise intact. Ron Weasley brought up the rear, his features so puffed up he resembled a grotesque caricature. Without that telltale red hair, Erwin might not have recognized him. The others sported various cuts and scrapes.
The hall plunged into silence.
McGonagall's voice cut like a Severing Charm. "These students dared to brawl—with their fists, no less! In all my years, I've never seen such barbarity. Hogwarts has stood for centuries without this nonsense!"
Erwin's jaw dropped. A proper scrap? And they hadn't dragged him in? He'd missed the fun entirely.
To vent his frustration, he shoveled a hasty forkful of rice.
Dumbledore's serene expression faltered. Group fights among first-years? Unprecedented. He set down his fork—sweet and sour pork half-eaten—and turned to Snape. "Severus, your thoughts?"
Snape's features were carved from ice. "Erwin!"
The call snapped Erwin from his daze. Him?
He shot to his feet. "Yes, Professor?"
"This is your year group," Snape said flatly.
Erwin reeled. How was this his fault? Snape had dismissed them himself, then held him back. Why the scapegoat routine now?
But one glare from those obsidian eyes silenced any protest. "I'm sorry, Professor. I'll deal with it."
Snape merely sniffed.
McGonagall shot Erwin a sharp look before rounding on the culprits. "For this disgrace, Slytherin and Gryffindor will each lose one hundred house points!"
Gasps rippled through the hall. Malfoy blurted, "Professor, no! They started it!"
"Quiet, Malfoy! Haven't you humiliated yourself enough? Where's your pure-blood decorum?"
Erwin snapped, his voice laced with irritation.
Malfoy clamped his mouth shut, cheeks flushing.
McGonagall flicked her wand. The Slytherin and Gryffindor hourglasses shuddered, gems plummeting. Slytherin's dipped low but held a remnant; Gryffindor's emptied clean, barren as a Bludger's path.
With another wave, she dismissed the troublemakers. Harry and his friends slunk back to their table, heads low. The Slytherins shuffled to Erwin's side, standing rigid and silent, eyes glued to the floor. No one dared sit.
Erwin ignored them, polishing off the meal with deliberate calm. When the last bite vanished, he belched softly and set down his cutlery.