Snape's voice was sharp. "Most families wouldn't interfere, but there's one that will. Write a letter—now."
Erwin blinked. "A letter? To whom?"
"Lucius Malfoy."
Erwin paused. "The head of the Malfoy family?"
Snape nodded curtly. "Precisely. The Malfoys are the most influential pure-blood family among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Lucius has his ways; their resources remain largely untouched. Only he could reach the dark wizard bold enough to target the dragon reserve team. And the Malfoys had the deepest ties to that Romanian dragon research facility."
Erwin leaned forward. "So, you're saying the Malfoys orchestrated the attack on the Weasleys?"
Snape shook his head. "Not quite. They were the instigators. The others followed orders, but the Malfoys led the charge. Their long-standing grudge against the Weasleys made it seem natural—no one batted an eye. In fact, it felt entirely justified to the rest."
Erwin frowned. "Why would the Malfoys help me? They're not the type to prioritize Slytherin prefects over their own interests."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Lucius knows who you are. The ties between your parents and the Malfoys run deeper than you realize. You'll learn the details when the time comes. For now, write the letter."
Erwin grabbed the quill from the desk. "How should I start?"
In truth, he had no idea where to begin.
"Just explain your situation," Snape instructed. "Ask for his assistance outright. He'll take care of the rest."
Erwin nodded and dipped the quill in ink. Moments later, the parchment was filled.
Snape scanned it, then approved with a nod. "I'll owl it to Lucius tomorrow."
Erwin looked puzzled. "Why wait?"
A cold gleam flickered in Snape's eyes. "The Weasleys need time to reflect on their mistakes. Besides, Dumbledore returns today—and he'll want a word with you."
Erwin froze. "You mean...?"
Snape's nod was grim. "The Headmaster can't act directly in many matters, so he'll turn to you. I trust I don't need to spell it out further."
Erwin swallowed. "Understood."
Snape dismissed him with a wave. "Get some rest. You've got classes this afternoon. If you're restless after evening study, come to my office—we'll brew potions. Better than prowling the castle at night like some fool your age."
Erwin's mouth twitched. Not exactly a social call. He wasn't a machine; exhaustion crept in eventually. But arguing with Snape was pointless.
"Got it," he said, heading for the door.
As he left the office, Erwin mulled over the conversation. The day's frustrations stemmed from blind spots in his knowledge. If he'd known about these family connections sooner, his strategy would have been straightforward—no second-guessing required.
Blame the old Bat for being so cryptic.
Still, the Weasleys and Malfoys as reluctant allies? Intriguing. He couldn't count on other families pulling their weight. Favors were one thing; enmities were another. Planning ahead remained essential.
At least now he held two solid cards: the Malfoys chief among them. Time to ease up on Draco—no more roughhousing the lad. Family ties and all that.
The afternoon classes dragged on in a haze of boredom. Erwin barely bothered with house points anymore; his influence made effort redundant. The students were evolving into model scholars, their progress nothing short of miraculous. Credit went to him—and to Hermione's relentless example.
In the Slytherin common room, a leaderboard tracked every student's contributions. Hermione clung to second place, just shy of Charlotte's lead. The pressure gnawed at the others; the thought of a Gryffindor claiming Slytherin's top honor was unbearable—a stain on their house pride.
Harry Potter surged ahead too, his savior's aura finally channeling into real potential. Free from Ron's distractions, he forged true alliances—study partners, not pranksters. Twentieth place might sound modest, but it was among all Slytherins. In academics, their house dominated, the competitive air fueling relentless drive. "Surround yourself with the right crowd," as the saying went.
That afternoon, Slytherins and Hufflepuffs shared two lessons. It felt like a Slytherin showcase: they racked up points with ruthless efficiency, leaving the Hufflepuffs scrambling and deflated.
As class ended, Erwin packed his bag leisurely. A cluster of Hufflepuff first-years watched him with poorly veiled envy. Wouldn't they kill for a tutor like him? For that effortless point haul?
Spotting their stares as he glanced up, Erwin startled. Their eyes burned with intensity—like they might devour him on the spot.
"Gentlemen," he said evenly, "something I can help with?"
The Hufflepuffs exchanged uneasy looks. A braver one stepped forward. "Er, Prefect Erwin—"
Pansy Parkinson burst from the Slytherin pack. "Oi! You don't get to call him that! Erwin's our Prefect!"
The boy faltered, rubbing his neck sheepishly, the picture of earnest confusion.
Erwin shot Pansy a warning glance. "Easy, Pansy. It's just a title—not Slytherin property. Manners, remember?"
She huffed, crossing her arms. "Fine."
Turning back to the Hufflepuff, Erwin smiled encouragingly. "Go on. Ignore her. Call me what you like."
The boy's eyes misted over. So kind, so disarmingly approachable. Was this truly Erwin? No wonder the Slytherins thrived under him—it must be bliss.