Meanwhile, after slipping out of Dumbledore's office, Erwin checked his watch. Evening study was out of the question—he was too knackered to bother. Instead, he headed to Snape's office to tackle the day's backlog.
He settled into his usual chair and got to work on the potions. A while later, Snape swept in, saying nothing. Erwin kept quiet too. He knew Snape had been in Dumbledore's office, watching over him. The Potions Master didn't fully trust the Headmaster, and sure enough, he'd been ready to step in if things went south.
What caught Erwin off guard was Snape holding back during Dumbledore's Legilimency probe. He'd felt the surge of Snape's magic, poised to strike, but it never did. Clearly, Snape recognized Erwin's Occlumency skills.
By the end of the long shift, Erwin dragged himself out, yawning deeply. Exhaustion weighed on him like a lead cloak, but rest would have to wait. Professor Quirrell had summoned him.
Erwin felt like a beast of burden, plodding on without end. As he trudged to Quirrell's office, he couldn't shake the image of some poor sod who'd planned a holiday break but ended up chained to his desk anyway—utterly played for a fool.
Quirrell welcomed him with his typical eager grin. Erwin returned a polite nod, ready to ease into their routine chat.
But Voldemort's voice cut through sharply: "Enough chit-chat, Quirrell! No time for that today. Hand over your robes—have the boy change. We're off to the Forbidden Forest!"
Erwin's pulse quickened. He knew this was coming. Voldemort's strength was fading; he needed unicorn blood to sustain himself and cheat death a little longer.
Unicorns, those pure and sacred beasts, carried a heavy curse—any who spilled their blood invited calamity. It was a karmic curse, wrapped in ancient mystery. Voldemort, of course, shrugged it off: Quirrell would drink the blood, not him. What harm to Tom Riddle?
The Dark Lord had gamed the system brilliantly this time. Poor Quirrell, though—Erwin shot him a glance and spotted the flicker of resentment in his eyes.
Quirrell fetched a black robe from a hook and passed it over. "Here, Erwin. It'll hide your face."
Erwin nodded, accepting it. But the instant he held it, he shrank it into his enchanted ring. No telling who had worn that thing before or what lurked in its folds. Instead, his transfigured robe shifted seamlessly into an identical black cloak.
Voldemort rasped on: "Erwin, my apprentice. My power's too weak to brand you with the Dark Mark yet, so no flying with the Death Eaters' shadows. But you know brooms well enough. There's one in the corner—mount up. I'll meet you deep in the Forbidden Forest. Don't dawdle."
Erwin dipped his head in a mock bow. "Of course, Master. I'll be there in a flash."
Satisfied, Voldemort seized control of Quirrell's body. In a swirl, he dissolved into a veil of black mist, slipping through the window toward the trees.
Erwin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. That misty form blended perfectly with the night—far stealthier than his own purple Apparition swirl. But why skulk like a thief? Only cowards hid.
His gaze flicked to the broom in the corner. He snorted. Even a kneazle wouldn't touch that relic. How dim was Voldemort? Erwin's Apparition skills were no secret; half the castle knew he could zip about without a stick.
He drew his wand and perched on Quirrell's desk. With three precise taps in a coded rhythm, Dobby popped into view beside him.
"Master Erwin called?" the elf squeaked.
Erwin nodded. "Yeah, I'm starving. Whip up some soup—quickly. I've got to run."
Dobby bobbed his head. "Right away, sir!" A snap of his fingers, and he vanished.
Erwin eyed the empty space, a pang of envy hitting him. That elf magic was a godsend—conjuring feasts from thin air, like some legendary alchemist snapping his fingers to summon gold. No fuss, no spells.
He pressed his wand to the loyalty mark on his arm, murmuring under his breath. A faint glow pulsed, then faded. He pocketed the wand with a sly grin. "Enjoy the surprise, my dear teacher. A little gift from your devoted pupil."
Moments later, Dobby reappeared, balancing a steaming bowl. "Soup's ready, Master Erwin! I added chili oil—it's proper spicy. Sorry if it's hasty; couldn't hunt down fresh herbs in time."
Erwin waved it off. "Looks brilliant. Pull up a spot—wait while I eat."
Dobby wrung his ears. "Oh no, sir! This is the professor's office. Elves don't sit in such places!"
"Fine, the floor then," Erwin said with a shrug. "Just stay put."
Dobby perched gingerly by Erwin's feet and began buffing his shoes to a shine. Erwin let him; old wizarding ways had drilled that deference deep. House-elves like Dobby were bound tighter than a Devil's Snare.
"Working late again, Master Erwin?" Dobby asked softly.
Erwin slurped a spoonful. "Yep. Professor's orders."
"You're a wonder, sir! Been at Hogwarts ages, and no one's half as dedicated."
Dobby clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. "Bad Dobby! Talking ill of the young witches and wizards—punishment time!"
Erwin swallowed his last bite and cut in before the elf could self-flagellate. "Easy there. Clear the bowl—I've got business."
Dobby nodded eagerly, scooping it up and popping away.
Erwin stretched, a wicked smile forming. Time for the real fun. The Bowtruckle ought to be primed by now. He couldn't wait to watch the chaos unfold.
Deep in the Forbidden Forest's edge, Voldemort lurked among the shadows. The post-Halloween chill nipped at him. Too feeble to waste magic on a Warming Charm, he huddled closer, shivering—and seething with rage.
...
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