With his preparations complete, Erwin felt a surge of security. Armed with those gadgets and Apparition at his disposal, his confidence swelled. He sensed the magic stirring within him—thirty percent restored, enough for four or five more jumps if needed. That would suffice.
Time to face Mr. Voldemort.
Erwin adjusted his Protean Battle Robes, which dulled incoming spells by thirty percent on contact. The upper hand was his. He didn't Apparate straight to the office; the walk would let him recover a bit more magic. Waiting for a full recharge? No point—Voldemort's intentions were still a mystery, and delaying might raise suspicions. A professor summoning a student demanded prompt obedience.
Minutes later, Erwin stood before Professor Quirrell's office door. With a subtle flick, he summoned his wand and tucked it up his sleeve beneath his robe. He knocked.
"Professor Quirrell? It's Erwin."
The door creaked open almost immediately. Quirrell himself peered out, his eyes lighting up with unguarded delight.
"Erwin, you've come!"
Erwin nodded, stepping inside—but something felt off. Quirrell wasn't stuttering.
"Professor? Are you... all right?"
Quirrell blinked, then chuckled. "No idea what happened. The stutter just... vanished."
Erwin forced a smile. "Well, congratulations, Professor. Sounds like a win."
"Thank you, Erwin. Come in, sit down." Quirrell shut the door behind them. "What did you need me for?" Erwin asked, settling into a chair.
Quirrell hesitated, lips parting—then a cold voice cut from the shadows behind him. "Enough. Let me take over. I suspect young Mr. Cavendish already knows I'm here."
Quirrell nodded obediently and turned to Erwin. "Don't be afraid. Someone just wants a word. No harm intended."
Erwin kept his expression neutral, unsurprised. Voldemort's slip had given him away. Dealing with minds like his was a nightmare—centuries of cunning outmatched raw intellect every time.
Quirrell unwound the turban from his head and pivoted slowly. A grotesque, pallid face emerged from the wrappings, serpentine and malformed. Erwin's stomach turned; he couldn't hide a faint grimace.
"Hideous, isn't it?" the face rasped with a wry chuckle. "Believe me, this wasn't my first choice."
Erwin gripped his hidden wand tighter. "It's... off-putting. No denying that."
Voldemort's lipless mouth twisted into what might have been a smile. "Honest to a fault. I'm intrigued—how did you spot me?"
"Everyone's got secrets," Erwin replied coolly. "Don't they?"
"Quite right. You're a lot like Pearson, you know."
Erwin's hand stilled. Pearson Cavendish—his grandfather.
"You knew him?" he asked.
"Knew him? We were rivals. I challenged the prefects back in my day, just like you. Your grandfather was the hidden prefect in fourth year. He trounced me—my first real defeat. I'll never forget how effortlessly he wielded those spells. Terrifying precision."
Erwin's vigilance sharpened. Was this grudge playing out across generations? Petty, if so.
Voldemort's eyes gleamed. "Relax. Any tighter on that wand, and you'll snap it under your robe."
Erwin's pulse spiked. How—?
"Don't look so shocked," Voldemort continued smoothly. "Secrets, remember? I mean you no harm."
If anything, that only heightened Erwin's wariness. The more assurances of goodwill, the deeper the likely trap—like those online scams from his old life, promising riches while picking your pockets.
"So, what do you want?" Erwin pressed.
"Nothing grand. Just catching up with an old acquaintance. Your grandfather and I were close once—real friends. Shame he abandoned the wizarding world. He was a genius, you know. Could've been legendary."
Erwin inclined his head. "High praise, sir. He'd have appreciated it."
He had no clue what Voldemort was after, but if the Dark Lord wanted to reminisce, fine. Erwin wasn't in a rush, and stalling might force the truth. Voldemort's weakened state couldn't sustain endless chatter; fatigue would crack him eventually.
Voldemort sighed theatrically. "Erwin, you're in real danger. Pearson was a dear friend—I'd protect you myself if I could. But look at me. Stay sharp from here on out."
Erwin blinked, feigning bewilderment. Concern from Voldemort? The detached soul of a Horcrux-user? It rang false, a classic ploy from the unhinged.
Playing along, he leaned forward. "That's... kind of you, sir. I've always respected your reputation. But Hogwarts feels safe enough for now."
"You don't get it," Voldemort hissed. "The enemies closing in—they're beyond what you imagine. The castle's wards won't hold forever."
Panic flickered across Erwin's face, genuine enough to sell. "What do I do? I don't want to end up like—"
"Child," Voldemort soothed, "you must grow stronger. Fast."
"I've been trying," Erwin said, voice edged with frustration. "But how? School's all I've got."
Voldemort shook his head. "Pathetic. Classroom charms won't cut it. You need real power—curses, forbidden spells. The kind that crushes foes."
Enlightenment dawned. This was recruitment, plain and simple. Voldemort, sensing a kindred spirit or useful pawn, aimed to pull him into the fold.