In Erwin's eyes, Dumbledore shared the same visionary spirit as Grindelwald. No surprise they'd once been so close. The real difference lay in their methods: Grindelwald's iron fist versus Dumbledore's gentle nudge. Both were dreamers at heart. But Dumbledore's vision won out, toppling his old friend and earning him the title of the greatest wizard, while Grindelwald faded into the shadows as a dark legend.
Had Grindelwald truly erred? Not in Erwin's mind. He'd only sought a bolder future for all wizards. In the end, though, victors wrote the history books. Erwin had seen that truth early on.
What caught him off guard was Snape voicing such thoughts aloud. It forced Erwin to reassess just how much he meant to the Potions Master. His parents, lost so young, must have forged a profound bond with Snape.
James? Lily?
Erwin shook his head sharply. Wrong train of thought.
Snape cleared his throat. "Enough. Let's brew. I trust you've committed the Wit-Sharpening Potion recipe to memory."
Erwin nodded. "I'll do my best, Professor."
He settled at the workbench, eager for this private tutoring from the master himself. Erwin fired up the cauldron and began the process with deliberate care. Snape hovered nearby, scrutinizing every step.
The Wit-Sharpening Potion wasn't overly complex, but it demanded precision—a true test of a brewer's finesse. Proportions had to be exact, timing impeccable for each herb. Call it basic, sure, but never easy. That's the rub. Hogwarts fifth-years often nailed their exams with a solid batch of this stuff.
As Erwin worked the potion-making apparatus, Snape offered pointed tips. He approved of the boy's focus, even if the motions were halting and slow. No mistakes, though—not a single one. A quiet pride swelled in Snape; his legacy was taking root.
With guidance, Erwin's pace quickened. Before long, the first cauldron bubbled to completion: a clear, shimmering Wit-Sharpening Potion.
Snape inclined his head. "Adequate. Brew two more. Apply the refinements I mentioned."
Erwin agreed silently. Potion masters guarded their secrets like gold—those subtle tweaks, like infusing mugwort essence during the ginger root purification for extra clarity. Classroom texts never covered such gems.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. It was well past midnight when Erwin finally staggered from Snape's office, bone-tired. Brewing drained the mind: constant vigilance over the cauldron's simmer, the heat's balance. Too much or too little, and it all went wrong. No wonder Potions experts were such solitary souls—endless staring into a pot could turn anyone reclusive.
Exhausted, Erwin barely managed words. Back in the Slytherin common room, a cluster of first-years lingered by the fireplace, buzzing with chatter.
They jumped up at his entrance. "Prefect, you're back!"
Erwin mustered a weary smile. "Shouldn't you lot be in bed?"
"It's the weekend tomorrow! Quidditch match—Slytherin versus Gryffindor. We're hyped!"
Erwin nodded. "Big game, then."
Draco piped up eagerly. "We've got this in the bag. Potter's their new Seeker somehow, but he'll eat dirt tomorrow—loose a few teeth, maybe."
Erwin rolled his eyes. Draco lit up like a firework at any mention of Harry Potter.
The boy leaned in, eyes wide. "You coming to watch, Prefect?"
Erwin paused. He'd probably show. The first match of the year, and a heated rivalry to boot—skipping it as a prefect would look off.
He yawned. "Yeah, I'll be there. Now, off to sleep, all of you. Rest up, or you'll snooze through the whole thing."
They nodded and scattered. Erwin waved them off, trudged upstairs, and collapsed into fresh sheets. Sleep claimed him swiftly.
In the haze of dreams, Erwin returned to that shadowy corridor from before. He blinked, stunned. Could a dream pick up right where it left off?
The passage stretched dark and foreboding ahead. He hesitated, then shrugged. You couldn't die in a dream, after all. What was there to fear from some dark figure in his own subconscious?
Curiosity burned. What did this place mean? Erwin steeled himself and plunged in.
Familiarity hit like a chill. As he advanced, torches flickered to life along the walls—eerie, but he pressed on, ignoring the glow.
He reached the corner from last time and peered around. Silence. No movement, no sounds. Heart pounding, he listened longer. Nothing.
Emboldened, Erwin stepped into the open and approached the row of cages. Up close, the scene inside turned his stomach. Each held a prisoner, curled in the corners like feral animals—filthy, ragged, hollow-eyed.
At the first cage, a ragged voice rasped out. "What fresh torment do you have for me today? Spare your breath. What's not yours stays out of reach—no matter your schemes, it's futile. Pipe dream!"
Erwin scratched his head, bewildered. "Who are you?"