Erwin hesitated. "But the Killing Curse is an Unforgivable Curse. Is it really right for me to learn it?"
Voldemort's voice slithered through the shadows. "Only cowards balk at power. What I'm offering are tools to keep you alive. To survive, you must be more ruthless than your enemies, Erwin. Understand this: the so-called Unforgivable Curses are labeled as such only because lesser wizards fear their might. Tell me—do you want to cower like the rest? Or lack even the grit to seize true strength?"
Erwin straightened, his resolve hardening. "No, Master. I'm no coward. I want power—I'll fear nothing to get it. Teach me."
Voldemort's satisfaction was palpable, a faint hiss of approval echoing in the dim room. "Excellent, my apprentice. You've chosen wisely. Now, witness real power."
Erwin inclined his head. "Thank you, Master. I'll learn everything you have to teach."
Each nursed their hidden agendas. Voldemort aimed to bind Erwin through his hunger for dominance. But Erwin? He was thrilled to tap into a genuine expert on the Unforgivable Curses.
"Then tell me, Erwin," Voldemort continued, "what do you know of the Killing Curse?"
"It's an Unforgivable Curse," Erwin replied steadily. "It demands a true intent to kill—no half-measures. Overuse twists the caster with dark impulses, turning them into little more than a murderer. That's why it's unforgivable."
"Precisely." Voldemort's tone held a rare note of approval. "You've done your reading. Dark Arts at their core are just spells, but they demand negative intent: the Killing Curse for death, Fiendfyre to consume all in flame, the Cruciatus Curse for agony. That very restriction makes them unmatched in power. Before we proceed, have you ever killed?"
Erwin's gaze flickered, his expression a mask of wide-eyed unease—like a boy glimpsing his own shadow for the first time. "In the corridor, that was my first. It... it shook me. I was scared out of my wits."
Voldemort studied him closely. "Fear is natural, boy. I felt it too, my first time. But reframe it: if you hadn't struck, you'd be the one in the dirt. You acted in self-defense. I see ambition in you—the kind that could make you Slytherin's top Prefect, a title even I never claimed. To rise, to claim what's yours, killing becomes just another step. No guilt needed. It's the law of the wild: eat or be eaten."
A spark lit Erwin's eyes, hidden beneath his feigned vulnerability. Brainwashing? Voldemort was playing right into his hands. The Dark Lord might eclipse him in raw malice, but manipulation? Erwin had weathered worse storms in his old life—years of survival sharpening his edge against charlatans like this. A wizarding has-been, trapped in his own delusions, couldn't touch the cunning of someone who'd clawed through real hardship.
"Master, you're spot on," Erwin said earnestly. "Your wisdom leaves me in awe. Becoming your student is the smartest move I've made."
Voldemort nodded, smugly content. At last, this Cavendish boy was his to mold.
"Very good. You've grown already. Now, to the lesson."
For the next hour, Voldemort lectured with unnerving precision, dissecting the Killing Curse's mechanics, intent, and nuances. Objectively, he was a brilliant instructor—patient, thorough, almost inspiring. No wonder he'd craved the Defense Against the Dark Arts post; the man thrived on imparting forbidden knowledge.
As the session wound down, Voldemort straightened. "That's enough for now. Mull it over and return next weekend. We'll practice for real then—away from prying eyes."
Erwin rose, injecting a touch of genuine worry into his voice. "Take care of yourself, Master."
It wasn't entirely an act. The chime still echoed in his mind: [Instruction from Dark Lord Voldemort detected. Killing Curse proficiency increased! Current: 4360/10000.]
Before entering Quirrell's office, his progress had stalled at zero. One hour with Voldemort, and he'd surged ahead by over four thousand points. The man was a walking goldmine for experience.
The Killing Curse wasn't like other spells—its one-shot finality made practice a nightmare. No safe dummies here; it demanded live risks, which Erwin had planned to test against pure-blood holdouts over the holidays. But Voldemort? He'd handed him a shortcut on a silver platter.
And the insights were gold. The System granted spells at set levels, but mastery came from refinement—technique, control, the subtle tweaks that turned raw magic into a weapon. Dumbledore's spells hit like thunder because of decades honing those edges. Erwin lacked that depth, but now? Voldemort filled the gap, his explanations slotting perfectly into Erwin's framework.
What a gift. Erwin could almost hug the old snake. Love you, old snake.
As he slipped from the office, the castle's chill corridors felt a touch warmer. Power was within reach—and he'd claim it all.
...
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