Snape caught up to Erwin in the corridor, falling into step beside him.
"Don't let their words get to you," he said calmly.
Erwin glanced at him in surprise. Snape, showing concern? He smiled. "Don't worry, Professor. 'Mudblood' doesn't faze me much. I grew up in the Muggle world—if I hadn't learned about it here, I wouldn't even know the term. How could it bother me?"
Snape nodded. "And what now? You're just going to let him off?"
Erwin shook his head. "The word itself doesn't touch me, but I won't let it slide. The Weasleys' youngest son is getting too bold for his own good."
Snape's expression hardened. "Do what you must. I'm with you."
Erwin grinned. "Thanks, Professor. Off to class now."
Snape inclined his head and watched him go.
In the History of Magic classroom, the Slytherins sat in heavy silence. Even the Hufflepuff students sharing the lesson with them held their tongues. The air crackled with tension, every face etched with barely contained fury.
To them, Erwin's humiliation wasn't just personal—it struck at the heart of Slytherin pride.
Pansy Parkinson, ever the sharp-tongued pure-blood from a prominent family, slammed her fist on the desk. In the original tales, she'd been Malfoy's loudest cheerleader, but Erwin's arrival had reshaped her. She still carried that arrogant edge, but she'd learned restraint. Now, she hung on his every word like gospel.
"Damn that Weasley!" she spat. "I'll owl my family. How dare he insult our king?"
Malfoy hesitated. "Erwin said we shouldn't drag the families into every little thing."
Pansy shot back, "I follow him on everything—except this. He deserves justice. No one insults Erwin. No one insults Slytherin. The Weasleys will pay. Besides, he told us true Slytherins use every resource. He never said no to family help for something serious."
Malfoy paused, then nodded. "You're right. I'll write Father."
He clenched his fist, the fire of resolve burning in his eyes. The daddy's boys of Slytherin were gearing up to call in their connections—and not just one or two.
Ron had no clue the storm he'd unleashed. He couldn't grasp what Erwin's name truly signified among the snakes. Sure, Erwin had upended Hogwarts, but his wizarding roots ran deeper. His parents were Slytherin alumni, intertwined with the old pure-blood networks. The Cavendish family might have faded from the spotlight, but their heirs had once mingled with what could have been twenty-nine elite houses in the wizarding world.
More than that, Erwin was Slytherin's first real shot at a standout prefect in generations—a dream for every ambitious graduate. Unbeknownst to him, he carried weighty backing he hadn't yet tapped. Fresh from the Muggle world, he'd had no time to forge those ties.
Ron had kicked a hornet's nest. Calling anyone a Mudblood was nasty, but targeting Erwin? It was personal, explosive. As Erwin had warned, this was only the beginning. From the moment the Slytherins vowed to unleash their full arsenal, events spiraled in unexpected directions.
On his way to class, Erwin touched the Communication Rune on his arm. Old Tom's voice echoed in his mind at once.
"Master Erwin."
"We move ahead of schedule," Erwin replied. "I've got a sharp tool ready—one that'll yield massive gains."
"Yes, Master Erwin. I'll handle it right away."
Erwin severed the link, a sly smile curving his lips. It was like finding a feather pillow just as sleep called—perfect timing. The Weasleys' fool of a son was their curse, but his blunder handed Erwin a golden opportunity. He'd barely asked for leverage, and it had wandered right to him.
Whistling softly, he reached the classroom door. He smoothed his robes, summoned his usual charming grin, and softened his eyes with practiced melancholy. Time to shine.
He stepped inside. Every gaze snapped to him. The Slytherins leaped up. "Prefect!"
Erwin nodded calmly. "Professor not here yet?"
Malfoy checked his watch. "A few minutes early."
"Sit, everyone. Prepare for lesson."
They obeyed, but their eyes brimmed with concern. Erwin's smile was in place, yet a flicker of sorrow lingered in his gaze—subtle, but enough to pierce their hearts.
Pansy whispered fiercely, "Look at him. Smiling through the pain. That Weasley bastard."
Malfoy and the others seethed, their anger rippling outward. Even the Hufflepuffs caught it. They weren't blind; they saw the hurt Erwin masked so well. Disgust for Ron swelled among them. His careless slur had lumped everyone together, but ironically, Slytherin housed fewer Muggle-borns than any other house.
...
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