Erwin's move was straight out of Voldemort's playbook in the films, but it proved surprisingly effective. The surrounding young witches and wizards stared in stunned silence.
"Blimey, that's terrifying," one whispered. "Is this really Erwin's true power?"
"Can a student even wield magic like that?" another murmured.
A sharp glint flickered in Charlotte's eyes, her thoughts unreadable. Draco's expression tightened—this spell was formidable, but he didn't rule out a real duel with Erwin. After all, a wizard's prowess wasn't just about raw power.
Marcus's face drained of color, genuine fear etching his features as the gap in their strengths hit home. He couldn't even twitch a finger under that pressure.
Surprise flashed across Erwin's face. Was Marcus really that resilient? He half-expected the boy to crumple and bow. This was his first time unleashing such overwhelming magical pressure, and he'd misjudged the intensity.
It wasn't defiance holding Marcus back—he simply couldn't move. Then came the sharp crack of bone, his leg fracturing under the unrelenting aura. The sound echoed softly, audible to nearly everyone.
Pain twisted Marcus's features, but the oppressive force choked back any cry. He was utterly silenced.
Erwin blinked in shock. Marcus's bones were tougher than he'd imagined—not at all like the minor characters in the books. Slytherins had grit, even the bit players. A grudging respect stirred in him. The lad was made of stern stuff. Impressive.
With a subtle shift, Erwin eased off the pressure. The next instant, Marcus's agonized scream shattered the quiet.
"My leg! My leg! I yield—I yield! Get me to Madam Pomfrey! Please, I'll never cross you again! I surrender!"
The abrupt turnaround left Erwin reeling, nearly throwing out his back. He stood frozen, piecing it together after a long moment. So, the poor sod had been too terrified to speak?
Disappointment settled in. Erwin had pegged him wrong. Marcus, sensing the silence, panicked harder. Erwin's gaze suggested no mercy, and that chilled him to the core.
"P-Prefect Erwin, I was wrong! Dead wrong! Spare me—I'll swear loyalty! Please, let me live!"
The onlookers eyed Erwin with a mix of awe and wariness. Marcus's mates hovered nearby, desperate to drag him to the Hospital Wing, but none dared approach. They just watched, fidgeting.
Erwin sighed, his voice heavy with feigned regret. "You've let me down, Marcus. I thought you had real potential. But you buckled under a bit of magical pressure? What claim do you have to my loyalty—or Slytherin's? We need elites in our ranks. You're too weak for me to bother with again. Use this as your wake-up call. Prove yourself someday, catch up to me, and maybe I'll consider you."
He turned away, shoulders slumping like a mentor grieving a promising student's fall from grace. To the young witches and wizards, Erwin loomed larger than life, a figure of quiet authority.
Marcus gaped at his retreating back, shame flooding him. He really was pathetic—too feeble to even endure the pressure, unworthy of his pure-blood name. Erwin had offered a fight, a chance, and he'd blown it. No wonder he couldn't join the prefect's inner circle.
Erwin flicked his wand dismissively. "Take him to Madam Pomfrey."
Marcus's friends surged forward at last, hoisting him up and preparing to hustle him away. But Marcus called out, voice strained. "Wait!"
He craned his neck toward Erwin's figure. "I'm sorry! My strength failed me. But I'll never forget your words. One day, I'll match your pace. Thank you for holding back—and for calling out my arrogance!"
Erwin didn't look back, just raised a hand in a casual wave. A soft sigh carried on the wind, lingering for all to hear.
In the Ravenclaw group, Hermione watched Erwin's solitary silhouette with a sudden ache in her chest. Had he carried this burden alone for so long? The weight of his family, survival, and now Hogwarts—scouting rivals, forging stronger allies, all for Slytherin's honor. He'd shouldered too much.
A resolve sparked in her. She had to excel, become indispensable. Not out of obligation, but to lighten his load, even just a fraction. If she could ease his weariness, that would be enough.
Erwin lingered by the Black Lake's edge, staring at the dark waters, unease gnawing at him. Was his act convincing? No ripples of reaction yet. Should he glance back? No—that would shatter the image he'd built.
What now? He pondered, mind racing.
Footsteps approached from behind. A sidelong glance revealed a cluster of Slytherins—first-years to fifth-years, all serpentine in their unity. They drew up and bowed deeply.
Charlotte stepped forward, her voice steady. "Prefect, come back and rest."
A subtle smile tugged at Erwin's lips. It worked. Voldemort's brute force and Grindelwald's iron fist were mistakes. True influence came from balanced authority—dominance tempered with mercy. That forged loyalty, built a legend.
Not that he was some Dark Lord. He just wanted order at Hogwarts, a solid future for Slytherins post-graduation. What was wrong with self-sacrifice for the greater good? He was noble, really.
[The host's actions align perfectly with Dark Lord traits. Adoration from over 70% of young Slytherin witches and wizards acquired! Title upgraded: The Fourth Dark Lord Emerges! Bonus increased by 5%!]