Erwin quickened his pace, his mind racing. The wizard in the sky clearly knew how to wield those wards—powerful ones, too. But why linger outside when revenge was obviously on the menu? He wasn't daft enough to play the hero. These attackers commanded lightning like it was an extension of their wands. Was it even part of the wizarding world's magic? Erwin racked his brain through every spell in the Harry Potter books, but nothing matched this.
Even if he could win—and that was a big if—he wouldn't bother. A smart wizard didn't stand under a falling wall. Hogwarts was a fortress, with Dumbledore at its heart. Anyone bold enough to storm it had to be formidable. Look at Voldemort: even at his peak, when the wizarding world crumbled, he waited until Albus Dumbledore was gone before daring to strike. Why? That old wizard was a force of nature.
Erwin glanced up at Dumbledore hovering in the air, his wand spitting flames like a dragon's breath. The sky had shifted from noon to dusk under the barrage, yet the Headmaster showed no signs of weakening. Old? Declining? Hardly. Even if Dumbledore ditched his wand and halved his power, Erwin figured he could still crush Voldemort.
As for the books' plot—Dumbledore's "death" at Draco Malfoy's hand? A masterful ruse. The Headmaster sacrificed himself to manipulate the Elder Wand's allegiance. It passed to Malfoy without a fight, then to Harry when he disarmed the boy. Voldemort later unearthed it from Dumbledore's grave, but it never truly obeyed him. He slew Snape, thinking him the master, only to unravel his own forces. The Malfoys, desperate to save Draco, fed him false leads. In the end, the wand betrayed Voldemort in his duel with Harry, sealing his doom.
Erwin had to admire the sheer cunning. Dumbledore couldn't erase Voldemort outright—not with those Horcruxes—but he orchestrated everything so Harry, the final piece, could finish it. Bold didn't begin to cover it. The man was a legend.
By the time Erwin and Snape herded the last Slytherins into the castle, the aerial standoff had collapsed. Dumbledore's words hadn't swayed the intruders. The black-robed figures slammed their wands down, and a shimmering blue barrier snapped into place around the Headmaster, trapping him like a fly in amber.
Erwin's stomach dropped. Protego Horribilis—it had to be. The air hummed with raw power, straight out of some ancient defensive ward. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. "You fools think this can hold me? You're outmatched. Leave now, and I'll let it go. As long as I'm here, you won't touch him."
One of the robed men sneered. "This alone? No, Headmaster. Our fight's never been with you."
Dumbledore's face twisted in alarm. His gaze shot downward to Erwin and Snape, just steps from the castle doors. In a blur, a black-robed assailant appeared behind them, lunging straight for Erwin.
Instinct screamed danger. Erwin tensed—but before he could draw his wand, Snape shoved him aside. The Potions Master whirled, his wand materializing in a flick of his sleeve. Silent spells erupted in rapid succession: vines burst from the ground, coiling to block the attacker's path.
Then, three curses streaked forward in a deadly arc. "Sectumsempra! Protego! Expelliarmus!"
Erwin gaped. Snape's casting was a storm—his wand a blur, firing spells like a barrage from a M134 Minigun. Multicolored beams lanced toward the intruder, who barely dodged in time.
"Inside the castle—now!" Snape barked, his voice edged with urgency.
Erwin didn't hesitate. He bolted through the doors, heart pounding. The situation had spiraled faster than he'd expected. Brushing past a cluster of professors in the entrance hall—McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout—Erwin skidded to a halt.
"Erwin!" McGonagall snapped, her tartan robes swirling. "Get to the common room and keep the students calm. We'll sort this outside."
He nodded sharply, a spark of awe igniting in his chest as the three Heads of House charged past. The defense of Hogwarts was underway, the final battle kicking off years early.