Erwin could stand tall and declare he'd done it all for the good of Hogwarts' students. His own growth was just a side benefit—his real aim was to help his classmates thrive.
That was the mark of true selflessness.
Erwin imagined himself in a nobler light now, even if it brought a wry smile to his face.
He bowed slightly to Professor McGonagall. "Professor, it's my duty. As a Hogwarts student—and a Slytherin—I feel obligated to help my peers improve. I want every graduate to become their very best."
Tears glistened in Professor McGonagall's eyes. This was the ideal pupil: dedicated, thoughtful, utterly reliable. If only they all followed his lead, her job would be a breeze.
"I've taken note of your thoughtful proposal, Erwin," she said warmly. "You're easily the finest student I've encountered. I'll raise it with the other professors, and we'll discuss implementation."
Erwin nodded. "I'm sure they'll agree—it's for the house's benefit."
"Of course they will. Now, it's nearly time for your next lesson. Potions, if I'm not mistaken. The students are waiting."
Erwin glanced back at the classroom. It was filling with young witches and wizards, not just Slytherins but Gryffindors too. Yet they stared at him with wide, fearful eyes—they'd overheard his suggestion for mandatory morning and evening study sessions.
The idea alone chilled them. No one had ever imposed such a grueling routine on them before. In their eyes, Erwin's features seemed to blur and pale, his silhouette twisting into something sinister, like a figure from a nightmare.
He ignored their stares. Adjustment would take time, especially for those unused to such discipline from their Muggle schooling. But he'd guide them—and if needed, enforce it.
After bidding McGonagall farewell, Erwin led his Slytherin classmates toward the dungeons. The group walked in uneasy silence, eyes fixed on his back. To them, he now embodied cold authority, the architect of their impending misery.
This unnatural hush carried over to Potions. The dungeon classroom was always tense under Snape's watchful gaze, but today it was oppressively still. Even the Gryffindors, rattled by Erwin's proposal, kept their heads down.
Snape noticed immediately, his lip curling in faint approval. No disruptions meant fewer headaches.
Quiet, however, didn't guarantee success. Neville Longbottom's cauldron soon bubbled over with a foul, corrosive sludge, splashing Harry and Ron nearby. They grimaced as their robes singed.
Erwin knew no counter-spells like Finite Incantatem, so he stayed put. Besides, a little hardship would toughen the Gryffindors. He'd already paid dearly for his own growth—and he wasn't about to undermine it by playing savior.
The lesson proceeded without further incident. Gryffindor's mishaps were par for the course, drawing no real surprise. Erwin, meanwhile, earned another thirty house points for his flawless brew, a routine now expected of him. If he ever failed to shine, that would be the shock.
Snape's bias was blatant, awarding points with lavish praise that even made Erwin flush. Flitwick might split favors evenly, but Snape didn't bother with pretense. After critiquing the class, he simply nodded at Erwin's cauldron and added the points—efficient, if shameless.
Glancing at his System interface, where his wizarding acclaim ticked up to 2,700, Erwin felt a surge of pride. His success stemmed from effort, not handouts.
As the bell rang, Erwin packed his ingredients. A long shadow fell over his desk—Snape, looming as usual.
Erwin flashed a disarming smile. "Something on your mind, Professor?"
Snape's eyes swept the room. The remaining students paused, sensing drama.
"Still dawdling?" Snape drawled, his voice like ice. "Has that Gryffindor dimness infected you all? Or are my instructions too complex for your feeble minds? Clean those cauldrons properly—or do you prefer detention?"
Hands flew into action, scraping residue with frantic haste. Snape's gaze locked on Harry.
"Mr. Potter. Is your wand hand stricken? I distinctly recall emphasizing thorough scrubbing. Clearly, you were too busy daydreaming. Five points from Gryffindor."
Harry's face drained of color, anger flaring in his eyes. It was blatant unfairness—the others' cauldrons were no cleaner. Malfoy smirked from across the room, but Harry, burned by past outbursts, bit his tongue.
The classroom emptied quickly. Snape turned to Erwin, his expression unreadable.
"What was that Transfiguration class about?"
Erwin hesitated, surprised by the directness. He recounted his conversation with McGonagall, outlining the study sessions.
Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And what game are you playing now, Mr. Cavendish?"