"School's a straightforward place," Erwin declared from the podium in the Slytherin common room. "As long as your grades outshine the rest, you've earned the right to look down on them. So tell me—do you want to be the sort who coasts on family wealth? The kind people mention only as 'so-and-so's kid' or 'the heir to whatever fortune,' dismissing your own talents? Are you willing to settle for that?"
The Slytherins shouted back in unison, "No! We're not!"
Erwin pressed a hand downward, silencing the echo. "Good. I heard you loud and clear. Only you lot deserve to carry Slytherin's name. Only you qualify to uphold its legacy. Better yourselves! I want the day to come when you stride through the wizarding world—Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, everywhere wizards gather—and they point and whisper, 'Look at him! He made the Daily Prophet. He's a brilliant wizard. He lifted his family higher than ever, matching their ancestors' feats.'"
Fists clenched around the room, eyes gleaming with fervor. The students stared up at Erwin, already envisioning their triumphs atop the wizarding elite.
Erwin raised his voice. "As Prefect, I, Erwin Cavendish, hereby issue my first decree: Starting today, Slytherin adopts a points system! You'll earn points for contributions to the house—tallied at the end of each year. The top scorer claims the title of Slytherin's Glory, and I'll carve their badge myself. It'll be your badge of honor. So, who agrees? Who objects?"
Blaise Zabini shot to his feet first. "Second-years agree!"
The other prefects exchanged quick glances before rising. "We agree too!"
Finally, Grodia stood. "Seventh-years agree as well!"
Erwin flashed Grodia a knowing smile, which the older boy returned. No words needed.
"Excellent," Erwin continued. "Each prefect will track their students' points. I'll install a bulletin board in the common room displaying everyone's totals—a constant spur to excel. And to keep things interesting, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter are in the mix too. I'll have their scores recorded. If you don't want outsiders snatching Slytherin's badge, you'd best work for it."
Hostile glares turned toward Hermione and Harry. This was Slytherin's prize—no way it'd go to outsiders without a fight.
Erwin savored the competitive fire in their eyes. The harder they pushed, the more he'd gain from their edge. He placed a hand over his heart. "For Slytherin!"
"For Slytherin!" they roared back.
Hermione watched Erwin, momentarily spellbound. Was this his pull—the effortless command that drew everyone in?
Harry, amid the thunderous cheers, suddenly saw Erwin as larger than life. He itched to join the chant, fist raised high. But he was a Gryffindor. For the thousandth time, he regretted ignoring the Sorting Hat's plea. The old artifact had been spot on, and it probably never dreamed it'd earn such praise from him.
Clenching his jaw, Harry eyed the Slytherins. That badge? He'd claim it somehow, prove his worth—even from afar.
Erwin noted every reaction, the raw passion electrifying the air. With a casual wave, he dialed it back. "Right, enough rallying. Time to study. Hermione, Harry—grab a seat."
They nodded and slipped into chairs while Erwin settled on the podium's edge. Marcus Flint, books in hand, headed to the adjacent Charms practice room—a plan they'd hashed out. Erwin would keep order here, his authority unchallenged. Flint would nip any reckless spellcasting in the bud next door.
The common room buzzed with energy, the noise spilling into neighboring houses. The Heads of House perked up at the chants filtering through the walls, a pang of envy hitting them anew for Snape.
Snape, snoring peacefully in his quarters, remained blissfully oblivious.
In the Gryffindor common room, a cluster of first-years muttered under their breath. The Weasley twins, as usual, led the chatter.
"Blimey, those Slytherins are intense," Fred whispered. "Stirring up a storm during study hour?"
"I spotted Erwin yesterday," George added. "Got to say, he's got real charisma. I actually like the bloke."
The others nodded. "Yeah—powerful, dead confident. Hard not to admire him."
They didn't notice Ron Weasley, slouched nearby, glowering. He loathed Erwin. The empty seat beside him—Harry's old spot—stung like a fresh wound. No one else dared sit there anymore. Ron's blunders had cost Gryffindor points, and without Harry's shield of fame, the disdain showed plainly.
Whispers from the groups felt like taunts to Ron: mocking the loser ditched by the Chosen One. Rage boiled in his chest. He hated Erwin for upending everything. And Harry, too—that backstabbing "friend" who'd abandoned him.
Ron never paused to think Erwin had never cared about him in the first place, or that Harry's drive to improve was hardly a crime. From the start, he'd despised Slytherin. Erwin had only sharpened that edge, dragging Harry into his grudge too.