Ron lifted his head, defiance blazing in his eyes. "Why? I'm your son! Did I say something wrong? Isn't he a Mudblood? Why's everyone blaming me? What did I do wrong?!"
Mrs. Weasley heard this and slapped him across the face. Her eyes brimmed with disappointment. "Why have you turned out like this? How dare you call him a Mudblood? No one has a purer bloodline than Erwin—not even the Sacred Twenty-Eight can match it in heritage alone! Ron, you feel like a stranger to me now. Are you even my son anymore?"
Tears welled in Ron's eyes. He clenched his jaw, stubbornly holding them back. "I did nothing wrong! Why do you all think I did? He's an evil Slytherin, a dark wizard! I did nothing wrong!"
Mrs. Weasley went numb. She couldn't fathom the malice Ron harbored toward Erwin. She raised her hand, then let it drop. Shaking her head, she said, "Ron, I'm taking you home. You're no longer fit to study at Hogwarts. I can't discipline you anymore."
With that, she turned and headed back to Professor McGonagall's office.
Ron panicked. "No, Mum! I was wrong—please don't make me drop out! I can't!"
This time, he was truly desperate. He could already picture the consequences: his wand snapped, forever exiled from the wizarding world.
Mrs. Weasley shook her head and ignored him. Utter disappointment crushed him.
In the office, the three adults fell silent. Time dragged on.
Meanwhile, Erwin was cheerfully attending Charms class. Today, the diminutive Professor Flitwick was demonstrating the Levitation Charm to the joint Slytherin-Gryffindor group.
Out of sheer caution, Erwin kept a safe distance from Seamus, Harry Potter, and Neville. Safety first—those three had a knack for mishaps, and who knew if one might backfire his way?
Sure enough, the prodigy shone once more. While Harry's face smudged with soot from a botched spell, Erwin shuddered in relief. Thank goodness he'd played it smart.
Even Flitwick jumped at the explosion, his eyes widening curiously at Seamus's feather. The professor scratched his head, baffled. With all his expertise, he couldn't fathom why it had detonated.
Under Erwin's guidance, every Slytherin levitated their feather flawlessly—even Malfoy's bumbling cronies managed it. Flitwick beamed, awarding twenty points to Slytherin collectively.
Erwin scribbled the score on a scrap of parchment for the ledger, then grew bored. Propping his chin on his hand, he flicked his wand idly, making his feather pirouette in a choppy waltz across the desk.
Lost in thought, he didn't notice Flitwick approach until the professor loomed over him. The class gaped at the dancing feather.
"Remarkable spellwork!" Flitwick exclaimed. "Erwin, I'm endlessly curious about your practice methods!"
Erwin swiftly dispersed the charm. "Sorry, Professor—I got distracted."
Flitwick waved it off. "No harm done, lad. I saw the commotion in the Great Hall. It wasn't your doing. That Weasley boy went too far. His parents are splendid folk, and his brothers are top-notch."
Erwin nodded. "I know, sir. I don't hold it against him. My bloodline's a gift from my parents—I've never resented it."
"You're a magnanimous soul, Erwin," Flitwick replied warmly. "Such qualities pave the way for greatness. If you're feeling low, pop by my office tonight. I've got some fine southern black tea. Tell me what's on your mind—I'm all ears."
"Thank you, Professor," Erwin said, inclining his head.
Flitwick grinned. "And for that display, Slytherin earns ten more points."
Erwin bowed slightly. "Your generosity is appreciated, sir."
"This is your due," Flitwick insisted.
The Slytherins shot Erwin pitying glances. Their usually sharp prefect had zoned out—must be the heartbreak from Ron's barbs. Their disdain for the Gryffindor deepened. Even some Gryffindor boys stirred with sympathy for Erwin and revulsion toward Ron.
Unbeknownst to them, Erwin was merely plotting how to turn the incident to his advantage. He was oblivious to his father's longstanding ties with the Weasleys, which could have opened even more angles. Dumbledore's vagueness had thrown a real wrench in things.
The bell rang, ending class. Erwin gathered his books to leave when Harry Potter hurried over.
"Prefect Erwin! Hold on!"
Malfoy stepped in front. "What do you want, Potter? Clear off—Weasley's mate is Slytherin's enemy!"
Harry hung his head, silent.
Erwin snapped, "Malfoy, stand aside."
"But, Prefect—he's that ginger Weasley's pal!"
"Don't lash out at the innocent," Erwin chided. "I taught you better—remember?"
Malfoy grumbled but moved. Erwin gestured. "Come on, Harry. What is it?"
As Harry approached, Malfoy muttered, "Watch it, Potter. Harm our Prefect again, and I'll duel you to the end."
Harry ignored him and faced Erwin. "I'm sorry, sir. I apologize for Ron."
Erwin waved it away. "This isn't on you, Harry."
"No, it is," Harry insisted, voice low. "It's because of me. Ron badmouthed you, I argued back, and it escalated into a fight. That's why he insulted you—my fault entirely. I'm sorry, Prefect. I've let you down."
Harry looked utterly dejected.