Erwin Apparated straight to the eighth-floor corridor.
He couldn't help but appreciate the convenience of Apparition. Skipping the long walks felt liberating, much like the freedom Dumbledore enjoyed, coming and going without a care.
Erwin scanned the corridor for the tapestry depicting trolls clubbing Barnabas the Barmy into oblivion. It was absurdly distinctive—Hogwarts rarely dabbled in such outright bizarre artwork. He spotted it quickly.
Standing before it, Erwin pursed his lips. Ugly as sin. He had no clue who'd unearthed that monstrosity, but it made him question the entire wizarding world's sense of taste. Baffling.
Focusing on his needs, he paced in front of the blank wall three times, murmuring silently: I need a room for practicing spells—one that can handle even Fiendfyre!
He stopped, eyeing the unchanged stone. Scratching his head, Erwin wondered if he'd botched it. Wrong spot? Faulty method? He racked his brain for details from the books—though years had blurred the edges, the Room of Requirement stuck with him like no other secret.
Stroking his chin, he reconsidered. My demands might be too steep. The room wasn't omnipotent. Fiendfyre burned Horcruxes; no enchantment could fully defy it. Plus, asking for a Dark Arts practice space at Hogwarts? That screamed trouble from the start.
Adjusting, he tried again: I need a room for practicing spells. Pacing thrice more, a sleek door materialized on the wall. Erwin's eyes lit up. Success.
He pushed inside. The door vanished behind him, leaving no trace.
At the corridor's end, Professor Snape melted from the shadows, brow furrowed. "How does he know about the Room of Requirement? Dumbledore's doing?"
Shaking his head, Snape resumed his patrol.
Inside, Erwin surveyed the space. Impressive. Practice dummies stood ready on the floor, flanked by benches for breaks. Windows lined the walls, debunking his old assumption that it hid within Hogwarts' structure. More like Platform 9¾—some spatial fold or pocket dimension?
Fascinating. Unlike the Muggle-Repelling Charms on pure-blood estates, which merely obscured locations in shared space (rain still fell indoors), this was different. He'd entered Platform 9¾ under clear skies, only to find drizzle on the other side. Separate realms entirely.
As far as he knew, Hogwarts alone wielded this trick. The Sacred Twenty-Eight families hadn't a clue, nor Durmstrang. If he could master it, imagine the secure hideaways. A pipe dream, but dreams kept life from slacking into boredom.
Erwin stretched. Time to work. With a wand flick at a dummy, he cast Bombarda. The figure shattered in a thunderous blast, only to reform instantly.
His practice session began in earnest.
Meanwhile, in Professor Quirrell's office, the Defense professor stammered to the parasitic presence on the back of his head, face twisted in desperation.
"Master! It simply won't do!"
Voldemort's rasping voice hissed back: "You dare defy me, Quirrell? Don't forget—your life is mine!"
"I... I know, Master!" Quirrell pleaded. "But not Erwin! Please, reconsider. He's earned my respect here. Spare him!"
Voldemort paused, genuinely puzzled. He'd only suggested approaching Erwin for a chat, yet Quirrell resisted—for the first time since their unholy bond.
"Quirrell, you'll die for this insolence!"
"No, Master, I beg you! Why him? Whatever you seek, I'll fetch it myself. Anything!"
Voldemort seethed, tempted to end the fool then and there. But Quirrell remained his sharpest tool—too valuable to discard yet. Suppressing his rage, he wheedled: "I mean him no harm, Quirrell. Just a meeting. You don't grasp the Cavendish name's weight. Erwin's grandfather was my classmate—an old ally. I only wish to see the boy."