Ravenclaw's ghostly form faded into the ether.
Erwin touched the diadem on his head—it remained invisible, a secret crown for a secret victor. He sighed. Who could truly judge right from wrong in a place like Hogwarts?
Glancing at his watch, he noted it was nearly dinnertime in the Great Hall. He straightened his robes and stepped out of the Room of Requirement.
A lineup of Slytherin prefects waited at the door, including Pansy Parkinson, freshly appointed as a first-year prefect the day before. They bowed as one. "Head Prefect!"
Erwin nodded curtly and led them downstairs. In the common room below, a throng of Slytherins awaited. As he appeared on the stairs, they rose in unison, the chamber buzzing with young witches and wizards.
"Headmaster!" someone called out—likely a slip from the excitement.
Erwin smirked. "Right, let's head to dinner."
The Slytherins had taken to these group outings with fervor, a stark contrast to the solitary treks many loathed at Hogwarts. Even the seventh-years, on the cusp of graduation, vibrated with unusual energy; for once, they could join the fold without sneaking off alone.
Draco Malfoy's scowl deepened. The day before, he'd cowed those same upperclassmen into silence, only for his cronies to grumble about it later. It had nearly broken him.
The procession snaked toward the Great Hall. Fellow students parted without fanfare, their initial shock long worn off. Envy lingered in stolen glances, but that was all.
After a hearty meal, Erwin aimed for the library. Hogwarts had grown stiflingly dull; books were his only refuge from the monotony.
En route, a shrill alarm pierced his mind—the Hogwarts wards, shrieking in warning. He halted, brow furrowing. An attack? On the castle itself?
Across the grounds, Dumbledore, on the verge of departing, felt the same jolt. His face tightened. Without a word, he Apparated to the castle's edge.
Hogwarts' defenses funneled threats through a single chokepoint: the arched bridge spanning a roaring river below. In the old tales, it was where the Elder Wand had vanished into the depths.
On the far side stood Vinda, her wand drawn, poised like a shadow in an evening gown and top hat. At the bridge's mouth, a plain statue lay in rubble, its fragments marking her entry.
Two cracks split the air. Dumbledore and Erwin materialized side by side. Their eyes met briefly—Dumbledore's sharp, Erwin's wary. The headmaster stepped forward, positioning himself as a shield.
Then he faced her. Recognition hit like a hex; Dumbledore's pupils narrowed.
Vinda's gaze locked on him, a palpable wave of murderous intent rolling off her. "Albus Dumbledore. It's been ages."
A flicker of nostalgia crossed Dumbledore's features. "Vinda. Indeed it has."
Erwin's pulse quickened at the name. Vinda? The Vinda Rosier? He studied her: poised, thorny elegance radiating danger. The French Black Rose—Grindelwald's unyielding right hand, a vision of dark allure wrapped in fanatic loyalty. She was every bit the legend, as captivating as she was lethal.
Vinda's eyes slid to Erwin. "One of your students?"
Dumbledore's voice stayed even. "Every child here is my charge."
She sneered. "Still the sanctimonious old fool. Spare me the platitudes. I've come for Erwin Cavendish."
Erwin blinked. Him? What could she possibly want?
Dumbledore's expression didn't waver; he'd anticipated this. Word of Erwin's Diagon Alley duel had spread like Fiendfyre through wizarding circles, though the Prophet had buried it on inner pages—a small mercy. Vinda must have latched onto the rumors without seeing his face.
"I know," Dumbledore said calmly. "This is the one you seek: Erwin."
He stepped aside, exposing Erwin fully.
Erwin's jaw dropped. The old man had just thrown him to the wolves—without a second thought?
Vinda's brow arched. "Erwin Cavendish? Your protégé?"
Erwin recovered swiftly, raising his hands. "No, ma'am, you've got it wrong. I'm no disciple of the headmaster—just a run-of-the-mill Hogwarts first-year."
He had no clue why Vinda sought him, but her grudge against Dumbledore was infamous. The headmaster had sold him out; better to cut ties now. Aligning with the old bee could mean a quick end, courtesy of some "tragic accident" on Grindelwald's doorstep. Vinda could fabricate a killer in minutes and make it stick.
Sure enough, her demeanor softened fractionally. "I need a word with Mr. Cavendish. Privately, I suspect—nothing you'd care to overhear?"
Dumbledore shrugged, almost cheerful. "Quite right. I have pressing matters elsewhere. Farewell."
With a crack, he vanished.
Erwin stared at the empty space, dumbfounded. Rivals or not, this was abandonment. Leaving a first-year alone with one of history's deadliest witches? Where was the vaunted vow to safeguard every student under Hogwarts' roof?
That blasted Dumbledore—proving once again he was as slippery as they came.