Vinda rolled her eyes. Frankly, if she hadn't pledged her unwavering loyalty to Grindelwald, she'd have turned on her heel and walked out. Who in her family could grasp this daily farce—playing jailer to her own husband? He'd moan about not wanting followers in prison one moment, then summon her for dinner the next. And she had to order everything just so: medium-rare steak, no exceptions. Following him was exhausting.
She forced a smile. "Of course, sir. You're absolutely right, but whatever path you choose, I know it's the correct one."
Grindelwald shook his head. "No, Vinda, you're mistaken. Our history proves we were wrong—otherwise, we wouldn't have lost."
Vinda bit back her frustration. Merlin's sake, couldn't he see this was her oath of loyalty? And failure? If he hadn't ordered the Acolytes to stand down, they could've overrun Dumbledore's forces. With their skills evenly matched, it would've been a slaughter.
"Fine, sir," she said evenly. "You're right. Shall I track down the one who cast the Fire Shield?"
He nodded. "Yes, go. Remember, Britain's wizarding world is Dumbledore's domain—tread carefully. Oh, and fix my dinner first. A fine steak needs a fine red wine."
She bowed. "As you command."
Grindelwald adjusted his robes, then huddled in the corner, smearing dirt on his prison garb to look the part of a broken inmate. He nodded at his reflection. "There. That's more like it."
Vinda averted her eyes, appalled. What had turned her once-vital husband into this? Age, perhaps? She was no spring chicken herself, but she hadn't cracked yet. Shaking her head, she Disapparated from the tower cell.
She reappeared outside, smoothing her gown. Now, how to hunt this spellcaster? Protego Diabolica wasn't child's play—something major must've unfolded in Britain. A Daily Prophet would reveal the details. Once she had answers, she'd return to tend her "imprisoned" lord.
Meanwhile, on Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch, the Prefect's ring gleamed on Erwin's finger, sealing his victory in Slytherin's brutal challenge.
Snape descended from the stands. "I declare the Slytherin Prefect Challenge concluded! From this day, until another surpasses him, Erwin holds the title of Slytherin's Head Prefect. Should anyone claim the challenge anew, they may face him."
Everyone knew the truth: no one in Slytherin could touch Erwin now. Even next year's first-years wouldn't stand a chance. Barring catastrophe, he'd rule for all seven years—the first in house history to do so unchallenged. Slytherin's trials were legendary for their ferocity.
Cheers erupted, even from the other houses. Erwin's dominance—and that blazing Protego Diabolica—had earned their respect.
Snape fixed Erwin with a stern gaze. "With me. Now."
Erwin nodded, releasing the Slytherins to celebrate. He followed Snape to the dungeons.
The door clicked shut behind them. Snape's face was thunderous. "You fool! Do you grasp what Protego Diabolica signifies? Your stunt today could paint you as the next Dark Lord. Pure-blood oaths of loyalty—that's a privilege only He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has claimed!"
Erwin met his godfather's fury without flinching, waiting for the storm to break.
Snape pressed on. "Speak! You're never short of words—why the silence?"
"I'm sorry, Godfather," Erwin replied calmly. "I was letting you vent. I know it all."
Snape's scowl deepened. "Then why cast it? That spell's a hallmark of Grindelwald—the only wizard known to wield it. You've just handed your enemies ammunition to call you his protégé!"
Erwin raised an eyebrow. "And you don't think I am?"
"That's not the point!" Snape snapped. "Even if you were the Dark Lord's heir, I'd trust your word without question. But you must learn subtlety, boy. You're brilliant—I know that—but today's recklessness could ruin you."
Erwin blinked. Snape knew about Voldemort? No—it had to be a slip. He poured a glass of water. "Here, Godfather. Breathe. I'll explain."
Snape slumped into his chair. "Out with it."
Erwin sighed at the man's infamous temper. "What does being Slytherin's Head Prefect truly mean to you?"
"I said explain, not quiz me!"
Erwin suppressed a twitch of amusement—Snape's interrogations always dragged like this, but they built rapport. "Fine. It's more than a badge. The Head Prefect is Slytherin's king. One voice, absolute obedience. The house bows to strength, and I've proven mine beyond doubt."
Snape's expression softened slightly, though he wouldn't admit it. He knew the traditions all too well: Slytherins revered power, and Erwin embodied it. His word now carried more weight than Snape's own in the common room. With that ring, alliances would form, rivals would scatter, and the house's future bent to his will.
Yet Snape's concern lingered. "Power like yours draws eyes, Erwin. Grindelwald's old guard won't ignore this."
Erwin leaned forward. "Let them watch. I've chosen my path."
...
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