Snape's hand paused mid-stir. He watched Erwin's retreating figure disappear down the corridor, his mind drifting into a rare moment of reverie. With a casual flick of his wrist, a dusty mirror flew from a forgotten corner straight to his face.
He stared at his reflection, murmuring, "Under the sunlight?"
Snape couldn't remember the last time he'd truly laughed. Not since Lily's death, nor since Erwin's parents had fallen. The last genuine smile had come years earlier, during a long talk with Erwin's father amid the chaos of war. Even then, in turbulent times, he'd laughed freely—that had been his happiest day. But it was gone, lost forever.
He snapped his fingers. The mirror shattered into glittering shards.
"Under the sunlight, I have no chance," he whispered fiercely. "But your son will stand there, in full view of everyone. I promise you that—even if it costs me my life."
His face hardened back to its usual mask of severity. Snape turned to the bubbling potion on his workbench and resumed his task.
Outside the office door, Erwin leaned against the cold stone wall, ears catching the faint crash of breaking glass. He sighed softly.
In the sunlight? Did he even deserve that? If the world ever glimpsed his true self—the blood on his hands, the ruthless drive fueling him—there'd be no refuge, not even in the shadows.
He glanced at his palms, already stained by choices he couldn't wash away. How could someone like him bask in the light?
Yet regret was a foreign word to Erwin. Every action served survival, keeping the Cavendish family one step ahead. If that meant scorn from the light and exile from the dark, so be it. As for Snape's hope? If sunlight ever touched him, he'd ensure Snape stood beside him in it—a silent vow of gratitude.
The professor had been more than kind since Erwin arrived at Hogwarts; he'd been a quiet guardian. Straightening his robes, Erwin summoned his habitual smile. Unlike Snape's rare warmth, Erwin's was a tool, worn like a well-fitted cloak. It wasn't always sincere, but it disarmed suspicion, drew people in. Even a killer could pass for a saint with the right expression.
Adhering to that philosophy, he set off for his next lesson.
"Professor Quirrell, it's me," he called, approaching the dimly lit corridor where a silver streak of hair gleamed under the faint torchlight.
Erwin knocked on the office door. Footsteps hurried inside, and Quirrell opened it with a welcoming grin.
"Erwin! Come in."
"Good evening, Professor," Erwin replied, dipping his head politely before stepping inside. His robes hid the pistol at his waist and the wand in his sleeve.
"Have a seat. Tea?" Quirrell offered, gesturing to a worn armchair.
"Just water, thanks. Tea might keep me up all night."
Quirrell chuckled. "Smart thinking—I didn't consider that."
As he turned to pour, a rasping, elderly voice cut in. "Enough. I'll handle it."
Quirrell stiffened. "Master, please, let me—"
"I said, I'll do it," the voice snapped coldly.
Erwin moved to Quirrell's side, gently taking the glass. "It's fine, Professor. You relax. Teacher, come on out."
Quirrell nodded and unwound the turban from his head. Voldemort's pallid, serpentine face emerged, twisted and unsettling.
"My student," Voldemort hissed. "Are you well?"
Erwin bowed. "Better than ever, Teacher. You look stronger already—splendid news."
Voldemort's lipless mouth curled. "I know my own state. At my level, flattery rings hollow."
Erwin kept his expression neutral, though inwardly he scoffed. What level? Half-ghost, half-man?
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "No flattery intended—just the truth as I see it."
Voldemort seemed mollified, his red eyes narrowing appraisingly. "Spare me the pleasantries. What do you seek from me? The Dark Arts? Or perhaps Defense Against them? If not for that meddling old fool Dumbledore, I'd be the finest Defense professor Hogwarts ever saw."
Erwin suppressed a smirk. Voldemort's grudge ran deep; the Dark Lord genuinely yearned to teach, to shape young minds. Imagine him in the classroom—lessons starting with the Killing Curse? Hogwarts would rack up a grim death toll before term's end. Dumbledore had been wise to deny him the post; otherwise, "defense" would be a cruel joke.
"Teacher, your knowledge is unmatched," Erwin replied. "I'd learn anything from you. But if I may, I'd prefer offensive spells. The best defense is a strong attack, after all."
Voldemort laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Well reasoned. Given your talents, I'll share my specialty: the Killing Curse. Dare you to learn it?"
Erwin's eyes sharpened, though his face remained calm. As expected, Voldemort was scheming. Teaching the Unforgivable would bind him—master it, and Azkaban loomed as leverage. The Dark Lord thrived on such manipulations.
But Erwin accepted. As the only wizard in Britain who could cast the Killing Curse wandlessly and silently, he stood to gain real insight from the master. Whatever Voldemort plotted, Erwin would turn it to his advantage.