Snape fell silent, and Erwin grasped the unspoken weight of his words. His parents had been slain by a Muggle wielding a powerful wand—one of their own kind's weapons, no less. It was sheer bad luck. They'd rushed to shield Lily Potter from harm, drawing the Solent family's ire in the process. The attackers had overwhelmed Snape and his allies; there was no way they could have intervened.
"It's my fault," Snape admitted, his voice rough. "If I'd protected your parents better, they might still be alive."
Erwin waved him off. "Godfather, it's not on you. No one saw a Muggle daring to strike like that. If you'd been there, wand or no wand, you might have ended up dead too—with three graves instead of two."
Snape's dark eyes searched Erwin's face. "You truly don't hold it against me?"
Erwin shook his head firmly. How could he? This tragedy had nothing to do with Snape. It was just cruel fate at work. All Erwin cared about now was hunting down the true culprits.
Yet Snape's account sparked a nagging suspicion. The Selwyns' move, timed so perfectly with Voldemort's chaos—too neat to be coincidence. "Godfather," Erwin pressed, "is there anything else you can share?"
Snape paused, considering. "I know precious little myself, but Dumbledore and Grindelwald? They've got deeper insights at their level. And if you get the chance, speak to Lucius Malfoy—Draco's father. He and your dad were close back in the day. Lucius even traveled with him to one of the ancient pure-blood families. He might have clues, though he's probably gone by now to keep your identity under wraps. Those old houses have tentacles everywhere; half the pure-bloods in our world are in their pockets. Watch your back around them."
Erwin's brow furrowed. "The Yaxley family?"
Snape nodded curtly. "Loyal as hounds to the Selwyns. Their current head owes his position to them outright."
Erwin got the picture. He'd found his scapegoat to warn the others—a clear target among the underlings. These tangled plots exhausted him. Better to strike fear directly. With their interests clashing, the enemy wouldn't relent. So he'd sharpen his edge, starting by picking off their pawns one by one.
"I've told you all I can, Erwin," Snape said. "Just... be cautious. These foes aren't amateurs."
"I know, Godfather," Erwin replied, nodding.
Snape inclined his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. He ached to do more, but his intel was thin—likely because Erwin's father had kept him in the dark to shield him from reprisal. Unraveling this web would take time.
Shifting gears, Snape asked, "Now that you've got the Slytherin Heir's Ring—the legacy passed down—any progress?"
Erwin nodded. "Some. When I claimed it, I sensed a hidden chamber deep in the Slytherin common room, holding the full inheritance. But I've scoured the place and found nothing. That's the riddle."
Snape's lips thinned. "Hogwarts holds secrets in its stones. If the ring points the way, trust it and dig deeper. You might uncover surprises. The Slytherin legacy? It's shrouded—even I don't know its shape, and precious few do."
"I'll check it out soon," Erwin promised.
"Then you'd best see Professor McGonagall," Snape advised. "That Daily Prophet hack's waiting for your interview."
Erwin stood, thanked him, and slipped out of the office. He made his way to McGonagall's quarters, knocking briskly. She opened the door at once, her stern expression softening slightly.
"Erwin, right on time—well, nearly."
"Sorry, Professor. I was with Snape; got held up."
His gaze shifted to the woman beside her: long brown curls, sharp eyes. Rita Skeeter? The notorious busybody from the books? She rose with a predatory smile.
"Mr. Cavendish! Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet. Thrilled to finally meet the boy wonder. Ready for our little chat?"
Erwin managed a polite nod. "Ms. Skeeter. Fire away."
She glanced at McGonagall. "Privacy, if you please, Professor?"
McGonagall assented but leaned close to Erwin as she passed. "Stay sharp, lad. She's no Rita Skeeter, thank Merlin—just answer truthfully. Wouldn't want that wretched beetle buzzing about."
Erwin suppressed a smirk. McGonagall's disdain for the real Skeeter was legendary, especially after her hatchet job on Ron and Hogwarts last term. No wonder she'd wrangled a stand-in.
The questions flowed easily enough. Skeeter—posing as "Ridgard Margaret"—stuck to safe ground: Erwin's Transfiguration innovations, his take on the Head Boy role. No prying into scandals or family skeletons. It threw him off.
Had he misjudged? Was the Prophet playing nice for once?
Then he spotted it: a beetle perched on his chair arm, blending seamlessly with the wood. Suspicion ignited. Ah—McGonagall's ploy. She'd swapped reporters to dodge the real pest, forcing Skeeter to skulk in Animagus form for her scoop. Clever.
The session wrapped swiftly. "Many thanks, Mr. Cavendish," Skeeter said, gathering her notes. "Your insights were brilliant—top marks on that duel today."
"Appreciated," Erwin replied evenly.
As she turned to go, the beetle buzzed toward her satchel. In a blur, Erwin flicked his wrist, sending it tumbling dazed to the floor. Skeeter paused, eyebrow arched. "Everything all right?"
"Fine," he said with a shrug. She eyed him curiously but left without another word.
The door clicked shut. Erwin drew an enchanted ring from his pocket—a simple glass vial—and scooped up the stunned insect. "Got you, you gossipy double."