Erwin's gaze lingered with genuine concern, and Voldemort felt a rare stir of emotion. The Dark Lord's voice softened. "Don't worry, child. I'm fine. You can head back now."
Erwin nodded. "Alright, Master. See you next week." He slipped out of the office, leaving Voldemort to watch his retreating figure.
An unexpected thought flickered in the Dark Lord's mind: having a disciple wasn't so bad after all. Especially one with Erwin's raw talent and sincere loyalty. For a soul adrift in emptiness, it was a balm. Horcruxes, he mused wryly, had a way of sharpening sentimentality. If Erwin stayed true upon his return, the boy could become his most trusted ally.
Yet Voldemort sensed his soul's power waning. "Quirrell!" he rasped. "Watch over him. We're heading to the Forbidden Forest next week—my strength is fading fast."
Quirrell stammered, "Y-yes, Master!" The spectral face vanished, and Quirrell tugged his scarf back into place, glancing at the door. A faint smile tugged at his lips. No surprise there—Erwin had even earned the Dark Lord's regard. Quirrell would protect him regardless; the boy was the first in years to treat him with real respect.
But worry gnawed at him. He knew Voldemort's games too well. Erwin was treading dangerous ground. He'd wanted to warn the boy, but with the Dark Lord listening, it was impossible. Still, Erwin's subtle maneuvers suggested he was playing his own angle—whatever it was, Quirrell couldn't quite pin it down. Shaking his head, he pushed the thought aside.
Meanwhile, Erwin wandered the corridors, a nagging sense of forgetfulness tugging at him. What was it? Then it hit: his promise to Dumbledore. He was supposed to invite Harry Potter to Slytherin for private tutoring. The past couple of days had slipped his mind entirely.
A glance at his watch showed nearly midnight. Harry might be asleep, but did it matter? Erwin was only delivering the message—it was a vow to the Headmaster, and he always kept his word.
Pivoting, he headed for Gryffindor Tower. The route was familiar enough, and soon he stood before the portrait entrance. The Fat Lady lounged in her frame, sipping red wine from a goblet that raised more questions than it answered.
She eyed him curiously. "A Slytherin, at this hour? What brings you to Gryffindor Tower?"
Erwin offered a slight bow. "Good evening, Madam. I'm looking for Harry Potter. Might I trouble you to fetch him?"
She chuckled, swirling her drink. "No password, no entry, dear. Rules are rules."
Erwin flashed a warm smile. "Fair enough. But perhaps, in the spirit of your renowned grace and hospitality, you'd summon a Gryffindor for me instead? It'd mean the world to a weary traveler like myself."
The Fat Lady's cheeks flushed faintly. "Flatterer! Such a charming young man. Very well—give me a moment." Her image shimmered and faded from the frame.
Erwin's mouth quirked. Sweet words worked wonders, even on painted portraits. Did they see through the charm, or not? He wasn't sure it mattered.
Moments later, the door swung open a crack. A redheaded figure peered out. "Well, if it isn't Gryffindor's favorite serpent—Slytherin's star Prefect, Erwin Cavendish!"
Erwin grinned. "George or Fred?"
"George Weasley, at your service. The Fat Lady said you wanted Harry?"
"Spot on. Mind calling him down?"
George smirked. "Why not come in yourself? Dying to see the lion's den, aren't you?"
Erwin shrugged. "I reckon most Gryffindors wouldn't roll out the welcome mat for a Slytherin snake."
George laughed. "Blimey, you have no idea. Our witches? Half of 'em fancy you rotten—house rivalry be dashed. Makes a bloke green with envy sometimes."
Erwin raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Really? I'm flattered."
"Come off it—trust me, you'll love the vibe. Nothing like your dungeons." George waved him inside.
Erwin followed, pausing to call back to the portrait. "Many thanks, Madam. You've been a lifesaver. If there's ever a favor I can return, just say the word."
The Fat Lady fluttered her fan coyly. "Such a dear! I rather like you, you cheeky imp. Here—Gryffindor's password. You might need it someday." She whispered it softly.
George's eyes bulged. "Fat Lady! He's Slytherin! You can't just—"
"Hush, boy," she snapped. "Don't let house nonsense cloud your judgment. He's a fine young wizard, through and through. And if you keep prattling, I'll lock you out tomorrow—see how you like that!"
George grumbled but fell silent. The Fat Lady had form when it came to grudges.
The heavy door thudded shut behind them, sealing in the warm glow of the Gryffindor common room. Crimson tapestries draped the walls, and a roaring fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over squashy armchairs and scattered chessboards. The air smelled of polished wood and faintly of treacle—cozy, boisterous, a far cry from Slytherin's chill elegance.
George whistled. "Outrageous, innit? How do you do it, Erwin? Even the Fat Lady's smitten. Teach me your ways!"
Erwin chuckled. "No clue. But you don't need lessons—the Weasley twins are legends. Everyone loves a good prankster."
George beamed. "Merlin's beard, that's why you're so popular. I'm starting to see it—and liking you more by the second!"
Erwin smiled, glancing around the empty space. It was late; the room had cleared out, leaving only the fire's soft pops. "Lead on, then. Harry's dormitory?"
"Right you are. Follow me—this way."