"Then, sir," Erwin said, "what should I do?"
Voldemort sneered inwardly. Sure enough, he's taken the bait.
The Dark Lord pondered for a moment. "You need to find a more powerful wizard to learn from."
Erwin nodded eagerly. "You're right! You mean I should go find Professor Dumbledore?"
Voldemort paused, caught off guard. That wasn't how the script was supposed to play out. Wasn't Erwin supposed to beg him to be his apprentice? Then Voldemort could exploit the boy's thirst for power and bind him close. Why leap straight to Dumbledore?
Were all young wizards these days so thick-headed?
Still, he couldn't let that meddlesome old fool steal the prize. "It's a good choice," Voldemort said smoothly, "but Erwin, you need to know Dumbledore's got a soft spot for Gryffindor. Even if he denies it, he's prejudiced against Slytherin. You won't learn any real spells from him—just the sort of prissy charms that keep his conscience clean."
Erwin feigned distress, rubbing his chin. "Then what should I do? Oh, right—I could ask Professor Snape! He's brilliant. Or Professor McGonagall; she's no slouch either. Professor Flitwick could work too. Any of them might give me pointers."
Voldemort's ethereal form flickered with frustration. What's wrong with this boy? A master like me is right here, and he's blind to it?
His soul power waning, the Dark Lord had no patience left for games. "If you're willing, I can teach you myself. I'm better than any of them. You need powerful magic right now, and I can deliver it."
Erwin's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Really? But you don't seem to be in the best shape!"
"It's nothing," Voldemort replied, forcing warmth into his voice. "For the descendant of my dearest friend, I can manage. Consider it my last gift to him."
"Thank you for your generosity, sir!" Erwin said, bowing slightly.
"You should call me Master now."
"Yes, Master!"
Voldemort's face twisted into a satisfied smirk. "It's late. Go rest. Return tomorrow night, and I'll show you real power."
Erwin rose and inclined his head. "Thank you, Master. Rest well—I'll be here on time." He turned as Voldemort's visage faded. Professor Quirrell spun around, wrapping his scarf tightly over his turban, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
Erwin pressed a finger to his lips, silencing any protest. Quirrell's pupils shrank.
"Professor, I'll head back now," Erwin said casually.
Quirrell nodded stiffly. "Right, Erwin. I'll see you in my office tomorrow."
Erwin slipped out and didn't relax until he'd put a good distance between himself and the door. He pocketed his wand with a grin. Interesting—Voldemort wanted him as an apprentice. Of course, it was all a ploy; the talk of "dearest friends" was utter rubbish. The Dark Lord's real aim was control, plain and simple.
But Erwin had his own reasons for playing along. Voldemort's knowledge was unmatched—few wizards could claim legendary status, but he was one. Why pass up a personal tutor like that? As for what the Dark Lord hoped to gain... well, that remained to be seen. Who was using whom?
Erwin knew the plot inside out, every twist and turn. He'd planned for this, tweaking details to his advantage. Beating Voldemort at his own game? Child's play compared to the foreknowledge he wielded. The key was squeezing every drop of benefit from the monster—starting with those "lessons." Being known as Voldemort's apprentice? Thrilling, in a twisted way.
The next morning, Erwin stirred just after nine, washed up, and mulled over his next move. Time to lay groundwork for bigger plans in the wizarding world. He Apparated straight to the Leaky Cauldron's entrance.
The drain on his magic reserves hit hard—too far for comfort, even with the backup from the System's rewards. Most wizards couldn't manage it without Dumbledore's raw power. Still, he made it, though depleted.
A Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement linked to Borgin and Burkes, if memory served. Handy for shortcuts. He'd check it out later; cracking its secrets would make trips to Diagon Alley a breeze. Knockturn Alley was no threat to him, anyway.
Pushing open the pub door, Erwin stepped into the dim, near-empty space. Tom dozed at the counter, roused by the chime.
The barkeep blinked up, spotting the glint of silver hair. "Eh? Young wizard? You're Erwin Cavendish, aren't you?"
Erwin smiled. "Spot on. Hello—it's been ages."
Tom chuckled. "Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts? What's brought you to the Leaky Cauldron?"
"Heading to Diagon Alley," Erwin replied lightly.
Tom didn't pry further, assuming some school outing—no first-year sneaking off alone would faze him after decades behind the bar. "Right, then. Through the back, you know the drill."
Erwin nodded and approached the brick wall, tapping the right bricks. The archway shimmered open, revealing bustling Diagon Alley.
He made a beeline for his shop. Luck had favored the location: Ollivander's on one side, a bookstore on the other, and a sweet shop opposite. Foot traffic was constant.
Inside, Tom was arranging herbs and creature parts on shelves. The bell tinkled; without turning, he called, "Browse away, customer!"
"Tom."
The old elf jolted, spinning around. "Master Erwin?"
—