Erwin had no clue what was going through Ron's head, and even if he did, he wouldn't have given it a second thought. To him, Ron was little more than dead weight. The boy's talent was mediocre at best—far below even Harry's middling skills or Hermione's sharp intellect. Sure, Ron had his moments, like a knack for turning spells into accidental fireworks or fumbling potions into something dangerously potent, much like Neville. But who didn't have some quirky strength? It hardly made Ron stand out.
Erwin had dismissed him from the start, focusing instead on the rest of the Weasley clan, who brimmed with real potential. Mr. Weasley could cobble together enchantments to build a flying car from scraps. Mrs. Weasley wielded household spells like shields against the deadliest curses. Percy embodied Gryffindor's ruthless ambition as a prefect, while the twins' wild creativity promised endless innovations. And Ginny, set to join next year, outshone them all with her raw talent—the kind that caught a seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle's eye. The master opens the door, but practice makes the wizard. If the chance arose, Erwin wouldn't mind guiding the family, though their loyalty to Dumbledore meant patience and subtlety were key. Luckily, he had plenty of both. Good planning, he'd learned young, turned wishes into reality.
From his seat at the front of the classroom, Erwin leafed through the Half-Blood Prince's Potions Textbook. The anonymous author's notes were gold—concise tips that had sharpened his brewing skills overnight. He wasn't whipping up Felix Felicis yet, but most standard potions now came easily. The textbook lacked that elusive recipe anyway; advanced brews like it demanded a master's direct tutelage. And danger lurked in every cauldron—Hogwarts classes weren't the safe havens they seemed. Astronomy was the lone exception: just stargazing, unless a rogue meteor decided otherwise. Survive that? Buy a lottery ticket.
As he read, students began drifting over, first the first-years with basic queries, then second-years, and soon even sixth- and seventh-years seeking his insight. The Slytherins watched in awe once more—Erwin's knowledge seemed bottomless, covering spells, potions, and theory with effortless precision.
Harry, meanwhile, fidgeted at his desk, book in hand, debating whether to approach. Hermione caught his hesitation and set down her own tome. "If you want Erwin's help, drop the pride and just ask," she said briskly. "His expertise floors everyone—imagine what it could do for a first-year like you."
Harry flushed. "It's not pride! I'm just... worried he might not want to bother with me."
"You give yourself too much credit and him too little," Hermione replied. "He brought you here himself—that means he sees potential. Erwin's the helpful sort, always ready with a kind word or a clever solution. Go on; ask away. He'll sort you out."
With that, she gathered her book and headed to the podium, firing off a question about potion stabilization. Erwin explained patiently, his voice clear and encouraging. Hermione beamed, nodding as she scribbled notes, then returned to her seat.
Harry steeled himself and stepped forward. Erwin glanced up with a welcoming smile. "Something on your mind, Harry? A tricky bit in the text?"
Harry nodded, flipping open his book. "Yeah, Mr. Erwin—it's this heat control in the potion. How do you know when it's right?"
"Simple enough," Erwin said. "Watch the liquid's color after adding the herbs. It shifts from pale green to deep emerald when ready. Give it a go in class; a few attempts, and you'll spot the pattern yourself."
Harry jotted it down eagerly. "Got it. Thanks!"
"Any more?" Erwin asked, still smiling.
Harry shook his head. "Not right now. Really appreciate it, Mr. Erwin."
Erwin waved it off. "No thanks needed—Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to lend a hand. Truth be told, I'd have done it anyway. You're a big name, Harry, and I reckon you've got real promise. The wizarding world's counting on you, and so am I. That stunt with the Philosopher's Stone? Saved lives—you're a hero already."
Harry stared at the floor. "But I'm rubbish compared to you or Hermione. Even Malfoy's got me beat in some ways. I feel... outmatched. Can't put it right."
Erwin clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I get it—you're saying the fame's heavier than your skills right now, yeah?"
Harry looked up, nodding fiercely. Finally, someone who understood.
"Exactly," Erwin continued. "That's why this is your chance to catch up. You've got greatness in you, Harry—I believe it. Shame the Sorting Hat didn't nudge you toward Slytherin; you'd have thrived there, ambitions and all."