Erwin's interest in trolls was genuine. In Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them , they were depicted as hulking brutes over twelve feet tall and weighing at least a ton—powerful, unpredictable, violent, and utterly dim-witted.
Early wizarding classifications had lumped all non-human life into "humans" and "beasts," with beasts being anything that crawled, flew, or walked on four legs. But goblins had cited the troll's boneheaded stupidity to challenge that divide, paving the way for the modern category of magical creatures. Even now, trolls straddled the line between beast and magical creature, their status ambiguous.
Erwin's curiosity had two intertwined reasons. First, he wanted to test his rare talent for Magical Creature Affinity on one. If it worked, the troll could become a loyal asset. Second, trolls were impulsive dimwits, easy to sway with brute force over brains—much like Ron Weasley, though Erwin wasn't mocking the boy. The parallel was just too stark: both favored muscle over mind, and they even shared a certain rugged, redheaded look.
Erwin shook off the uncharitable comparison and focused. A troll's low cunning made it ripe for manipulation. With his ambitions, Erwin intended to squeeze value from every resource. These lumbering fools might lack smarts, but they boasted immense strength, high resistance to magic, and devastating power—like living battering rams. Asking them to strategize was futile, but directed properly, they'd make formidable enforcers.
Picture it: a rampaging horde of trolls crashing through the gates of some arrogant pure-blood manor, swinging massive clubs. The image alone thrilled Erwin; even Rivers, his steadfast guard, might find kinship with their straightforward brawn. But first, Erwin needed to experiment, refine his approach. And this troll—Voldemort's diversion, loosed to sow chaos—would be the ideal subject.
He finished his bowl of seaweed and egg drop soup, rubbing his full stomach, and glanced toward the Great Hall doors. "Why so slow? Evening study hall's about to start." Quirrell's timing was rubbish.
As if summoned by the thought, Quirrell burst through the doors, drenched in blood. "Troll! In the underground classrooms! A troll!"
The hall plunged into silence. Professor McGonagall's face drained of color. If Erwin hadn't known the plot, Quirrell might have fooled him. Villains made the best performers—except this one, whose "evil" was just an act for a good cause.
Quirrell staggered, collapsing in a dramatic faint. Just before his eyes shut, he shot Erwin a subtle wink: Stay out of it.
Too late—Erwin had other plans. He scanned the staff table. The professors' expressions twisted in alarm. Snape's eyes gleamed with dark intent as he swept from the hall through a side door, robes billowing.
Pandemonium erupted. Young witches and wizards screamed in terror, chairs scraping as they bolted upright. The Slytherins, though, held steady. Their faces betrayed unease, but no one panicked or cried out. Instead, their eyes locked on Erwin, awaiting his lead.
He frowned at the din—the other houses were deafening. Professor McGonagall's voice cut through like a whip: "Quiet!"
The clamor died. "Evening study is canceled," she announced. "Prefects, lead your students back to the common rooms immediately. Professors, secure the entrances to each house!"
Under her command, order returned swiftly. The Slytherins lingered a moment longer, still watching Erwin for instructions.
"Draco," he said calmly, "take the first-years ahead. All you hidden prefects, cover the rear. No stragglers—get everyone to the common room safely."
Draco nodded sharply. "Right."
The group of Slytherins filed out, unnoticed amid the professors' hasty exodus. A troll loose in the castle posed little threat to seasoned wizards like them, but to first-years? It was a nightmare.
Once they were gone, Erwin snapped his fingers. In an instant, he Apparated to the underground corridor near the classrooms.
Recalling the plot, he oriented himself: the troll should be lurking by the girls' bathroom—a wandering brute drawn to the noise there, where Harry and the others would soon stumble upon it.
Erwin sniffed the air, probing for that telltale stench, and strode toward the bathroom. He circled the area, but nothing. No foul reek, no heavy footfalls.
Frowning, he paused. Had he Apparated off-course? Or arrived too early? The timeline didn't add up—the troll should already be shambling these halls, veering toward the bathroom when the trio arrived. But a thorough sweep confirmed: empty.
He decided to wait, leaning against the wall and idly prodding a jack-o'-lantern. Its carved grin flickered, casting erratic shadows.
Then his nose twitched. A wave of putrid odor rolled in—rotting meat and unwashed hide.
Erwin's hand froze mid-poke, eyes gleaming. That was it, straight from the books. Trolls never arrived without their signature stink.
A grin tugged at his lips. "Come on, you big oaf," he murmured. "Time for my little experiment."