From his knowledge of the books and films, Erwin figured Dumbledore would summon him soon—either to recruit him or probe his loyalties. He'd even prepared a response. But the old wizard ignored him entirely.
That left Erwin second-guessing everything. People were odd like that. Spending all day braced for trouble only to realize it was a false alarm could drive anyone mad. And that's exactly where he found himself.
They'd dressed him up a bit too sharply for his liking, though.
In the Slytherin common room, Erwin lounged back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. The fireplace crackled warmly—that was one perk of the place. Underwater as it was, in the depths of the Black Lake, you lost all track of time. Day or night? No clue unless you stepped out. Want sunlight? Head to the dorms upstairs, where the top level broke the surface just enough to let in some rays. That floor belonged to the prefects, naturally.
At least Slytherin offered a glimpse of the world above. Otherwise, Erwin would have no spot to air out his robes properly. Folks from brighter lands might not get the pull of a good breeze now and then.
He was just shutting his eyes for a quick rest before class when a shadow crept closer. Erwin didn't budge, didn't even peek.
"Malfoy," he drawled without looking. "Planning to hex me in the back, are you?"
Draco froze, caught off guard.
"Out with it, then," Erwin pressed.
"I've... come to apologize," Draco muttered.
Erwin perked up, sitting straight. "Oh? Do tell."
Draco shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have scrapped with Ron and the others. It brought shame on Slytherin."
Erwin nodded approvingly. "Good—you've given it some thought. But you're off the mark on one thing. You think I'm furious about the fight itself?"
Draco blinked. "Well... isn't that why?"
Erwin glanced around the common room. A handful of young witches and wizards lingered, including some of Draco's brawling crew.
"Since you're here," Erwin said, "let me set you straight. The fight wasn't the problem. What gets under my skin is that you outnumbered those thick-headed Gryffindors, and still, some of you ended up dinged up. Worse, you let Professor McGonagall haul you off like naughty first-years!"
Draco scratched his head sheepishly. "Those Gryffindors—they're tougher than they look."
"Exactly," Erwin shot back. "They're scrappy because they've had to be. No silver spoons for them; they've built their strength from the ground up. You lot? Spoiled from the cradle, so your fitness lags behind. And you charge in blind to it, playing to their strengths while ignoring yours. Malfoy, have you got rocks for brains?"
Draco hung his head, the realization dawning. He'd been a right fool.
Erwin pressed on. "We're Slytherin, remember? Noble. Cunning. Outsiders call us ruthless, but we're just efficient—always eyeing the smoothest path to victory. One goal, endless routes. We don't slog through the muck like those hotheaded lions. Our road's wide and clear from the start. So when trouble hits, think! Your wits will dull from disuse otherwise. And picking brawls with muscle-brained Gryffindors? That's the real idiocy—pure-bloods wasting talent on fists."
The group around them shrank back, heads bowed in shame. Even older students nearby looked chastened.
"But we hardly know any spells," Draco protested. "Our repertoire's rubbish."
Erwin hid a grin. Smart lad—straight to the point. At least his lecture wasn't falling on deaf ears.
"Everyone's got a copy of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)," Erwin countered. "Can't you crack it open yourselves? This comes down to effort—or lack of it. You think I mastered these charms overnight, without sweat? Our edge, our nobility—it's earned through power. Want to uphold Slytherin's name? Build your own. Glory's no birthright if you can't back it up. Look at the Sacred Twenty-Eight—how many cling to their status now? History's full of warnings."
Silence fell, gripping not just the first-years but the seniors too.
Erwin sensed the moment. He rose, voice steady. "I'm not tearing you down. Landing in Slytherin is my greatest honor, and I'd defend it with my life. I want you all to feel the same. Show the world our throne's forged in steel—through strength we claim it ourselves!"
A spark ignited. Fists clenched around the room as blood surged hot in their veins. Someone—Erwin couldn't tell who—shouted first.
"For Slytherin!"
The cry erupted, fists pumping high from every corner.
"For Slytherin!"
Erwin hadn't anticipated the firestorm. He got it now, that pull of words—like a silver-tongued prefect rallying the troops. He raised his own fist to his chest.
"Friends, for Slytherin, we grow stronger! Guarding our honor—that's our charge!"
Chests thumped in unison. A few Slytherins who'd been dozing upstairs trickled down, drawn by the roar, and joined the fervor. Fists to hearts, they bellowed "Slytherin!" until the lake walls seemed to echo.
Good thing the common room sat deep under the Black Lake. Up top, even Erwin figured Dumbledore might pop in to investigate the racket.
The uproar startled Erwin as much as anyone. He lifted a hand, quieting the din.
"My skills are modest," he admitted, "but for Slytherin, I'm here. Got a question? Ask away. If I can't help, try a prefect; if they falter, the professors will. It's my bit for the house. I dream of Slytherins shining in every class, scooping every house point. Of us claiming the House Cup as Hogwarts' unchallenged force. That's our legacy—seize it!"
The room hung on his words, resolve hardening in their eyes. Erwin felt the weight of it all, a first-year unexpectedly at the helm. But in that moment, Slytherin felt unbreakable.