Time flew by in the castle's endless rhythm. Afternoon classes wrapped up, evening study hall followed, and before long, Erwin headed to Snape's office for his private lesson.
As always, the session involved meticulous potion work. Erwin finished processing the herbs, peeled off his dragon-skin gloves, and glanced up. "Godfather, I need two batches of Vitality Potion."
Snape's brow furrowed. "Vitality Potion? For you, or someone else?"
"For someone else," Erwin replied.
Snape nodded curtly. "Your skills are advanced enough to brew it yourself. You're asking me because you want modifications?"
Erwin grinned. "As expected, you're sharp. I'd like to slip in a latent toxin—something dormant under normal conditions, but activatable by a specific trigger. Possible?"
Snape paused, considering. "Tricky. We'd have to source rare activators, which complicates things. Pick them up tomorrow; I'll handle the brewing tonight."
Erwin's admiration swelled. A true Potions Master.
The hidden safeguard wasn't born of distrust in Quirrell—entirely. Erwin's brushes with death had drilled caution into him. Quirrell had shown loyalty, allying against Voldemort for now. But habits died hard.
Snape was different. His protection was unwavering: the corridor incident, the subtle guidance—all proof of selfless care. Quirrell? Unproven. A backup couldn't hurt. If the professor stayed true, the poison would never stir.
Erwin ventured, "Aren't you curious who it's for?"
Snape shook his head. "Your schemes are your own. If you need it, it's yours. The rest is irrelevant."
Touched, Erwin rose. "Thanks for the potion, Godfather. I'll head out."
Snape waved him off, and Erwin slipped from the office.
Alone now, Snape decanted the half-finished brew from the cauldron. From a cabinet, he retrieved exotic herbs and creature parts. After a thoughtful pause, he set to work in the flickering lamplight, the only sounds the scrape of knife on stone and the bubble of simmering liquid.
Meanwhile, Erwin made straight for the seventh floor, the stretch before the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He'd navigated this before. "I need a place to stash valuables," he murmured three times.
The door materialized. Erwin entered, the space shifting to a dim storage chamber cluttered with forgotten oddities.
He zeroed in on Ravenclaw's Diadem, perched innocently on a bust amid dusty relics. The books claimed Voldemort hadn't tampered with it beyond his soul fragment, but Erwin trusted nothing blindly.
No risks. He flicked his wrist, summoning his enchanted ring. With a casual toss, the Diadem vanished inside, settling beside two Muggle grenades without a trace of resistance.
Peering into the ring's void with his mind's eye, Erwin noted the Diadem's faint magical hum—gone. Severed clean. Astonishing.
In a ethereal starry expanse, Rowena Ravenclaw's spectral form flickered into view, brow creased. "The link to my Diadem... broken? Has it changed hands? Impossible."
Perplexed, she faded back into the ether.
Across the castle, in Quirrell's cramped office, the professor jolted mid-read as Voldemort's soul fragment pulsed erratically. Heart pounding, Quirrell braced for the Dark Lord's stirrings.
Seconds dragged. Nothing. He exhaled sharply. "Bloody Dark Lord—even asleep, you're trouble. Erwin will end you soon enough."
Refocusing on his tome, Quirrell steeled himself. His power lagged; to aid Erwin properly, he needed leverage. While Voldemort slumbered, he'd build it. When the fiend roused, Quirrell would play the part, staying invisible.
Unaware his ring had neutralized the Horcrux bond, Erwin inspected the Diadem. No anomalies. Relief washed over him. He'd fretted it might count as "alive," rejecting storage. Clearly, soul fragments bent rules.
A whimsical notion struck: What if all Horcruxes ended up in here? Resurrection required them intact. But rings barred life. Would it glitch the process—or snuff Voldemort outright? A loophole worth testing?
Erwin chuckled darkly at the irony—now fretting over his "teacher's" fate. Perverse, but tempting.
He didn't linger on Ravenclaw Tower. Instead, he prowled the Room of Requirement, hoping for overlooked gems.
The search yielded slim pickings. Makes sense, Erwin mused. Older students or Voldemort would've stripped anything worthwhile. The sole find: a plain notebook, brimming with herb cultivation tips—meticulous, practical. Likely a Hufflepuff's legacy.
Pocketing it with a smile, Erwin deemed the night a win.