Professor Quirrell hesitated. "Is it really just a brief meeting?"
Voldemort snapped with irritation. "I'm just going to see him! The rest is none of your business. I won't hurt him—I could even train him myself! You don't understand what the Cavendish name means. You don't know what's behind it."
"Master," Quirrell pleaded, "I can call him over for you, but please don't hurt him. I felt a long-lost respect from him—even if it's just his manners and upbringing. I'm grateful for that."
Voldemort sighed in exasperation. What was this? Erwin hadn't spent much time with Quirrell. How could he turn such a loyal servant against him? How dare Quirrell contradict him now?
But Voldemort pushed the annoyance aside. Cavendish—he was finally going to see Cavendish again. If only he'd uncovered the secret sooner. Once he did, he'd wanted to track down the Cavendish family. Erwin's parents had vanished from the wizarding world under heavy protection; even he couldn't touch them.
Then, unexpectedly, fate intervened with the attack on Hogwarts. Amid his awe at Dumbledore's raw power, he'd learned this generation's Cavendish was a student there. No wonder the name had nagged at him before—he just hadn't connected the dots until the assault unearthed a long-buried memory.
Quirrell left the office and headed to the Slytherin common room. At the entrance, he bumped into Malfoy, fresh from the library with an armful of books. The boy had thrown himself into his studies lately, a surprising shift for someone from a pure-blood line like his.
Under the Malfoy elders' influence, Draco prized family honor above all. Erwin's words had sparked something in most first-years, planting seeds of inspiration that bordered on subtle indoctrination. But they hit hardest for pure-bloods like Malfoy, whose families among the Sacred Twenty-Eight were dwindling. These children clung to their legacy fiercely, making them ripe for Erwin's brand of motivation.
Spotting Quirrell, Malfoy frowned, his instinct to dodge warring with a recent lesson. True nobility didn't show in sneers or picking on the weak. Real refinement set nobles apart, forming the bedrock of their status.
Steeling himself, Malfoy stepped forward. "Hello, Professor Quirrell. How can I help?"
Quirrell froze. It had been years since anyone spoke to him with such courtesy—Erwin aside. His eyes misted over, regret surging anew. He never should have allied with Voldemort.
Malfoy got no reply and tilted his head, puzzled. "Professor? Are you all right?"
Quirrell blinked back to the moment. "I'm fine. I need to find Erwin. Is he here?"
Malfoy shrugged. "Not sure. The prefect might be resting. Shall I fetch him? You could come in and wait."
"No need," Quirrell said, waving him off. "Just tell him I want to see him in my office. I'll wait there. If he's out, pass the message when he returns."
Malfoy nodded. "Take care, Professor."
Quirrell shuffled away. Malfoy slipped into the common room with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind.
"Did you notice?" Malfoy said. "Quirrell didn't stutter once."
Crabbe grunted. "Yeah, you're right. Weird."
Malfoy paused. "All right, I'll check on the prefect. You two hit the books."
They nodded obediently. Both were hopeless at academics before, but Erwin's strict regimen had turned the Slytherin first-years into a pack of swots. Even Crabbe and Goyle cracked open texts now, discovering they actually enjoyed it. Their marks shot up fast.
Truth be told, the pair weren't dim—they just looked it. In the final Hogwarts battle, when Harry, Ron, and Hermione faced the Malfoy trio in the Room of Requirement over Ravenclaw's diadem, the fights were dead even. Harry had Dumbledore's enhancements; Hermione was a prodigy; Ron... well, he held his own. Yet Crabbe unleashed Fiendfyre, scorching everything in sight. That wasn't beginner's luck—Fiendfyre was no simple spell. For all their brawny simplicity, these two had real talent.
Lately, the Malfoy trio had emerged as unofficial leaders among the first-years, second only to Erwin. It stunned everyone, Erwin included.
Upstairs, Malfoy returned empty-handed. Goyle looked up. "Well, Mr. Malfoy? Did you tell the prefect?"
Malfoy shook his head. "He's not here—must've slipped out while we were at the library. I'll relay the message later."
Crabbe and Goyle shrugged and returned to their reading, no further questions.
Meanwhile, Erwin had no idea Voldemort was circling him. He was deep in the Room of Requirement, his wand slicing the air with relentless whooshes. To maximize efficiency, he'd summoned four practice dummies, drilling all his core spells at once. No more pausing to Reparo a single target—though his arm burned from the strain.
Wandwork was grueling physical labor, and he'd drained his magic reserves dry. The backup kicked in seamlessly, drawing on his deeper stores.
Time blurred as he pushed on, oblivious to the hours. A crisp chime finally broke through.
[Congratulations—your Confringo Barrage has reached Level 3!]
Erwin collapsed into a chair, massaging his aching arms. He probed his core: nearly every drop of magic spent. Even Apparition was beyond him now.
Still, the gains were massive. Besides the elite spells from Grindelwald's gift pack, everything else hovered at Level 3 or above. Worth every exhausting second.
...
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