Erwin settled into a chair in Dumbledore's office, glancing at the empty portrait frames lining the walls.
"Aren't the other headmasters around?" he asked.
Phineas Nigellus Black's painted eyes gleamed from his frame. "They are, but it's dreadfully dull cooped up in these portraits. They slip out for a wander now and then. You'll get it when you're on this side—stuck in a frame day after day, it's utterly pointless."
Erwin's expression soured. What was with this old coot? Wishing death on him already? A bit of optimism wouldn't hurt.
Phineas chuckled at the boy's darkening face. "Touchy about mortality, eh? Can't say I blame you."
Erwin shrugged. "Who wouldn't be? I'm only eleven—death feels a long way off. I'd rather stick around if I can."
Phineas nodded sagely. "I felt the same once. Anyway, enough gloom. I hear you're pushing for some morning and evening study sessions?"
Erwin grinned. "Spot on. School's meant to be enjoyable, right? They say knowledge brings joy. Adding self-study slots would make the young witches and wizards even keener."
Phineas rolled his eyes dramatically. "If we'd been at Hogwarts together, I'd have hexed you on the spot."
"Lucky for me, we missed each other," Erwin shot back with a laugh.
Phineas studied him intently. "If—and I mean if—you pull off a win in the Prefect Challenge, you'll earn more than you bargain for. Slytherin's future lies with your generation. I want to see history unfold, even from this dusty canvas."
Erwin's face grew serious. "Count on it, Headmaster. If Slytherin needs a prefect, it'll be me."
Phineas barked a laugh. "That's the spirit! I like your fire. When the day comes, I'll step out of this frame to shake your hand myself."
Erwin inclined his head. "You'll witness it."
He'd taken an unexpected liking to this so-called least popular headmaster. The Black family's reputation suffered because no other former Slytherin head had followed Phineas into the role. Slytherin had always carried a shadow—tolerated, perhaps, but disliked by most. Ask any student their least favorite house, and Slytherin topped the list without fail.
That was before Erwin arrived. Without even trying, he'd shifted the winds. The once-rowdy pure-blood brats who picked fights for sport now comported themselves like proper gentlemen, at least in public. They grumbled inwardly, but to spare Slytherin further scorn, they played along. Erwin's brief time at Hogwarts had already left its mark.
As Erwin and Phineas bantered, a flutter of wings echoed from the window. Fawkes soared in, flames erupting from his tail feathers. The fire swirled to the floor, and Dumbledore materialized amid the embers, brushing ash from his robes.
Erwin's eyes widened. "Professor, that was brilliant!"
Phineas snorted. "Always the showman, Dumbledore."
Unfazed, Dumbledore flicked his wand. A gray cloth draped over Phineas's portrait, muffling an immediate torrent of indignant curses: "You meddlesome fool! If not for my spineless kin—"
Dumbledore turned to Erwin with a warm chuckle. "The portraits do love a drama. Fancy bonding with a phoenix? You might manage it one day."
Erwin waved off the offer hastily. "No thanks, Headmaster. I'll head out now."
He knew full well what a phoenix loyalty pact entailed—Dumbledore's family heirloom, binding more than just bird and wizard. Even if he could forge the link, it'd saddle him with a debt to the old man. Tempting as Fawkes's power was, it clashed with Erwin's independent streak.
Dumbledore didn't press, striding to his desk instead. He fished two Sherbet lemons from a drawer, popping one into his mouth before offering the other. "Care for one?"
Erwin shook his head. "Pass, Professor. Dentist bills aren't my idea of fun."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. "Sweetness—the pinnacle of delight. Pity you can't indulge."
"In the Muggle world, science backs it up," Erwin replied. "Sugar triggers dopamine, lifts the mood, sharpens the mind. Eaters get a clever edge."
Dumbledore's brows rose. "Fascinating. Muggles advance at a gallop—their ingenuity rivals magic. Speaking of which, Mr. Cavendish, those Muggle weapons you wielded in the corridor and Forbidden Forest... equalizers, weren't they?"
Erwin wasn't startled. Of course Dumbledore knew about the M134 Minigun. The man missed nothing. His grip on Hogwarts outstripped even the founders', who had divided the castle's secrets among themselves. No successor had matched it—until Dumbledore. He mapped every hidden passage, every nook, down to the fish in the Black Lake. Sneaking about under his nose was a fool's errand.
"Just defending myself," Erwin said evenly.
Light flickered in Dumbledore's glasses. "Self-defense doesn't quite cover pilfering Acromantula venom. Those weapons are far too perilous, Erwin."