Erwin reacted in an instant.
"Protego!"
With a sharp flick of his wand, the intruder's spell shattered harmlessly against his Shield Charm. The attacker's wand flew from her hand, clattering to the floor.
"Charlotte? What in Merlin's name are you doing?"
She jumped, her hand flying to her chest. "Prefect? You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Erwin glanced around the dimly lit room, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint potion fumes confirming his suspicions. "This is my dormitory. Why are you lurking in here?"
Charlotte darted to the side, scooping up her wand and sliding it back into the holster at her waist. "I came to find you, but you weren't around, so I thought I'd wait. Figured you'd show up eventually."
Erwin crossed his arms. "And your brilliant plan was to hex me the second I appeared?"
She winced, but a grin tugged at her lips. "Don't blame me! You popped out of nowhere—I just reacted on instinct."
He rolled his eyes. "If I weren't quick on my feet, you'd have had me. What if I'd fired back without looking?"
Charlotte laughed lightly. "Lucky for me, you didn't. Besides, I knew it was you... eventually."
Erwin sighed. "Fine, what's this about? Why track me down?"
"Lunchtime! Everyone's been waiting in the common room, but you've been ghosting us for ages. I came to check if you'd slept through it."
"You lot could start without me," he pointed out. "It's not like I need a map to the Great Hall."
She shrugged, unrepentant. "Couldn't be helped. The others insisted on going as a group—said it feels more proper with you leading the way."
Erwin shook his head. Perks of being the unofficial ringleader, he supposed. "All right, let's head down then."
Charlotte nodded eagerly and opened the door with a mock flourish, dipping into a slight bow. "After you, Prefect."
As he brushed past her on the spiral staircase, Erwin caught her eye for a split second, his mind racing. That spell she'd fired—it had nearly cracked his Protego. Far stronger than the restrained power she'd shown during their last scrap. This enigmatic prefect, the only one outside the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families, was holding back. Deliberately.
Who was she, really?
Curiosity prickled at him. Her approach felt calculated, her hidden strength a puzzle. Yet, oddly, he sensed no malice—just an inexplicable familiarity, like a half-remembered dream. If his family history weren't crystal clear, he'd wonder if they were connected by blood.
He pushed the thought aside. Secrets had a way of unraveling in time, and Erwin was patient.
The Slytherin group fell in step behind them as they descended to the common room, a sea of green-trimmed robes and sharp glances. The usual chatter died the moment they entered the Great Hall, the vast chamber falling into an expectant hush. The Slytherins straightened, chins lifted with quiet arrogance, as if the room belonged to them.
Erwin slid onto the bench at the Slytherin table, waving for the others to join. They sat in neat rows, a far cry from the boisterous clatter at the other houses. No idle gossip, no silverware scraping—just focused, measured bites.
His gaze drifted to the staff table. Dumbledore's chair sat empty, as expected for these midday meals. But Snape's spot was vacant too? Odd—their resident Potions Master rarely missed a chance to brood over his plate.
Erwin shrugged it off and dug in. He'd instilled this discipline in his housemates: eat properly, speak sparingly. It showed in their poise, the way they savored each course without a whisper.
Once sated, he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and rose to leave. A lanky figure stepped into his path.
"Senior? Something on your mind?"
Erwin eyed the blocker: George Greengrass, Slytherin's elusive sixth-year prefect—the shadow leader who'd stayed out of the recent power plays.
George rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks reddening under Erwin's scrutiny. He was the shy type, more comfortable with books than bravado. "Hey, Prefect Erwin. When are you going to take me on?"
Erwin blinked. Someone volunteering to get trounced?
Noticing the odd look, George hurried on. "Not that I'm eager to lose or anything! It's the younger years—they're buzzing about all the challenges, dying to jump in. But without beating the sixth-years first, they reckon it wouldn't count."
A wry smile cracked the prefect's face. Erwin got it now. The lower years were chomping at the bit, and the sixth-years? They seemed perfectly fine throwing their leader to the wolves.
"How about now?" Erwin suggested.
George's face lit up. "Brilliant! I know the drill—Black Lake, yeah? I'll be there."
He spun on his heel and bolted, the cluster of sixth-years trailing him with barely contained glee. Erwin even spotted one clutching a half-eaten chicken leg as he dashed off.
Erwin pinched the bridge of his nose. What was it with Slytherins and craving a firm hand?
Cassius sidled up, platinum hair gleaming under the enchanted ceiling. "Don't keep me waiting too long, junior. I can't wait to see a united Slytherin in action—after today, it'll just be us sixth-years holding out."
Erwin smirked. "That confident I'll drop George?"
Cassius snorted. "He's no match. Even Charlotte held her own better than him that day, and she's no you. I've sparred with George plenty—he's solid, but not unbreakable. When you challenge me, it'll be legendary. I'm itching for it already."
"Fair enough," Erwin replied. "That duel won't be long in coming. Looking forward to testing you myself."
Cassius nodded sharply. "Black Lake it is, then. Make it count—my last hurrah deserves a show."
He strode off, shoulders squared. The hall's eyes locked on Erwin as he stood.
"Right, let's move," he said simply.
The Slytherins rose as one, a green tide flowing from the hall. Moments later, the other houses' students trailed behind, whispers buzzing about the impending clash.
By the Black Lake's misty shore, a crowd had already gathered—dozens of students ringed the clearing, wands at the ready for dueling wards. George waited on one side, expression calm but determined. Erwin took his position opposite, the cool wind off the water ruffling their robes.
The formalities were quick: wands raised, rules recited by a neutral seventh-year. No dark curses, yield or disarm ends it.
The duel erupted in flashes of light. George's Opening Charm whistled past Erwin's ear, met by a swift Expelliarmus that nearly caught him off-guard. But Erwin was faster, his Shield Charm absorbing a Stunning Spell before countering with a Levicorpus that hoisted George upside down mid-air.
The sixth-year twisted free with a muttered Finite Incantatem, firing a Rictusempra that Erwin dodged with a casual sidestep. Laughter echoed from the crowd as Erwin retaliated—a precise Incarcerous that bound George's legs, toppling him into the grass.
"Yield?" Erwin asked, wand steady.
George, tangled but grinning, raised his hands. "Yield. Clean win."
No groans of defeat, just nods of approval rippling through the Slytherins. The sixth-years surged forward, clapping George on the back—not in pity, but pride. Erwin had done it: another step toward house unity, and the younger students' eyes shone with eagerness to join the fold.
As the crowd dispersed, murmuring about the next challenge, Erwin felt the weight of their loyalty settle like a well-forged alliance. Slytherin was changing, one duel at a time.