Professor McGonagall had recommended Erwin for the Order of Merlin, Second Class, convinced he had earned it through his ingenuity and valor. Approaching her now would only undermine that endorsement, suggesting he doubted his worth or her discernment. Erwin wasn't about to make such a blunder.
Back in his dormitory, he pulled up his profile.
[Name: Erwin Cavendish]
[Age: Eleven!]
[Magic Level: Third Class!]
[Identity: Current Head of the Selwyn Family, First-Year Student at Hogwarts! First-Year Prefect of Slytherin!]
[Title: First Appearance of the Fourth Dark Lord! (Increases majesty by 25%, Dark Arts power by 25%!)]
[Talents:]
Transfiguration Talent: 6/10!
Common Spells Talent: 6/10!
Talent in the Dark Arts: 10/10!
Potion Mastery Talent: 7/10!
Ancient Magic Talent: ?/10! (Unlocked, requires special unlocking methods!)
[Pets: None!]
[Special Skill Cards: Magical Reserve (Gold)! Magical Creature Affinity (Gold)! Precision Casting (Gold)!]
[Spell Mastery: Folded!]
[Magic Proficiency: 2100!]
[Items: Grindelwald's Puppet x1! Invisibility Cloak x1! Enchanted Egg x1 (25/100)! Acacia Wand! Extended Ring x1! Enchanted Brewing Station x1!]
[Current Wizarding Acclaim: 135,000!]
With so many spells under his belt, the System had collapsed them into a single entry for brevity. Erwin's eyes lit on his Wizarding Acclaim, a grin spreading across his face. Stirring the pot was clearly the path to prosperity.
His focus shifted to tomorrow's clash with Draco. The seventh-year was an enigma, layered in ways Erwin couldn't fully unravel. Raw magical power? No contest—Erwin held the edge. But Draco's complexity gnawed at him. Slytherin had never wanted for prodigies, and Draco had worn the unofficial prefect badge since his first year, a role he still commanded. Erwin had watched the older students, all formidable in their own right, yet they deferred to Draco without question. In Slytherin, respect wasn't earned through charm; it was seized through strength. Draco's standing spoke volumes.
If push came to shove, Erwin could simply overpower him—magic-boosting potions were a lost art in this age, capping even a talent like Draco at a modest surge beyond a typical seventh-year's reserves. Age had its limits. But Erwin craved a decisive victory, one that turned heads and silenced doubters. He wanted to shine.
Draco's allies had gathered the intel: tomorrow's duel was the talk of the wizarding elite. Invitations had gone out to every prominent pure-blood house, drawing Slytherin alumni like moths to a flame. The Quidditch pitch was packed to capacity; otherwise, the crowd would have swelled even larger.
Erwin stretched out on his bed beneath the Ravenclaw's Diadem. His thoughts sharpened instantly, the artifact's subtle magic organizing his mind like an open library. Knowledge slotted into place, ripe for review and reinforcement. He'd been drilling this way for days now, honing his edge.
The afternoon's lessons wrapped up as they always did on Fridays—with Potions in the dim dungeon classroom. Cauldrons hissed and bubbled, filling the air with acrid steam. Gryffindor shared the session with Slytherin, and the gap was stark. Under Erwin's guidance, the young Slytherins had transformed from fumbling novices to precise brewers. He distilled complex theory into straightforward, almost scientific steps, cramming it into their heads without mercy.
The Gryffindors, by contrast, muddled through with their usual caution, their potions often curdling into disasters. Watching the Slytherins glide effortlessly through the brew, the lions shot resentful glares at Ron—or rather, where Ron should have been. The redhead could have slunk back to Hogwarts weeks ago, after Dumbledore's gentle nudge via owl to his father. But Ron had dug in his heels, firing off refusals from the Burrow. He wasn't stepping foot in the castle, not now.
The Weasley twins had leaked that tidbit, and Erwin had shrugged it off. Ron was a blunt instrument, best saved for next term when the timing suited. Overuse blunted the blade.
As class wound down, Erwin's cauldron yielded a flawless potion. Snape swept over, inspected it with a critical eye, and nodded curtly. "Ten points to Slytherin," he drawled, a rare glint of approval in his gaze.
Pansy finished second, her cauldron simmering perfectly. Ever since she'd ditched reliance on family pull for genuine study, she'd blossomed into a standout. Draco couldn't keep pace anymore; Pansy was nipping at Erwin's heels as the top first-year. Draco, meanwhile, was knee-deep in escapades with Harry Potter and Hermione, the new trio unearthing secrets left and right. Verification was pending, but progress was swift.
Erwin figured Lucius Malfoy owed him a fat purse of Galleons. He'd orchestrated the shake-up—ejecting Ron from the group—and watched Draco sharpen overnight. The boy's seldom-used wits had ignited; Hermione had confided that Draco was piecing together clues on his own, his insights razor-edged.
By the time the Slytherins packed away their gear, only one Gryffindor had succeeded: Seamus Finnigan, whom Erwin privately dubbed the Star Pupil. The house brimmed with raw talent, rivaling Slytherin's best—they just lacked a guide like him.
The young witches and wizards spilled out into the evening, buzzing with weekend fever. But the real thrill was tomorrow's duel. Quidditch fixtures had been shoved aside, and chatter filled the corridors all day: who would triumph, Erwin or Draco?
After supper and study hall, Erwin lingered by his dormitory window, gazing at the Black Lake's glassy surface under the emerging stars. Moonlight filtered in as the Ravenclaw's Diadem materialized beside him, its presence a soft shimmer.
"You seem a touch on edge, little one," it observed, its ethereal voice laced with gentle curiosity.
...
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