Fools often stumble into fortune by sheer luck. Draco, usually a bit scatterbrained, had struck gold this time. He'd cracked the simplest way through the level—a method tied to the predictable mindset of young wizards everywhere. Faced with any obstacle, most people's instinct was to puzzle it out like a riddle. But Draco saw the real shortcut: If you had the power to upend the game entirely, why not just do that?
No exceptions.
With his nudge, the group quickly latched onto the idea. When something blocked your path, you had two choices: shift it aside or smash it to bits. They opted for the brute-force route.
Wands drawn, the young witches and wizards formed a loose line. A volley of spells erupted, slamming into the stone statue with relentless force. Professor McGonagall hadn't designed the trial for group assaults like this; she'd never imagined anyone would cheat the system so boldly. Under the onslaught, the statue crumbled in a thunderous roar of stone and dust. If it could speak, it might have let out a string of curses—what fresh hell was this daily torment? It never should have been enchanted in the first place.
As the rubble settled, a dark passage yawned open ahead, leading to the next challenge. Without a word, the group pressed on.
The air grew thick and foul the moment they stepped through, a rancid stench assaulting their senses. The young witches and wizards wrinkled their noses in unison, gagging at the rot.
There, slumped beside the passage, lay a troll's massive corpse. Hermione's eyes widened, her breath catching. "Oh no—someone's already been here!"
The Slytherins tensed, their casual scouting mood evaporating. They'd expected an empty test, but this? The troll was stone-dead, slain without mercy.
Hermione steadied herself and knelt by the body, inspecting it closely. "No visible wounds. It's just like the Killing Curse from the books."
A ripple of unease spread through the group. These were students who'd never seen real violence, and the implications hit hard. The Killing Curse marked a true dark wizard—someone ruthless enough to wield unforgivable magic without hesitation.
Erwin observed from afar, intrigued by their reactions. What now? Push forward into the unknown, risking a clash with a dangerous foe? Or retreat to safety? This was a test of nerve, a banquet for the bold. They had numbers on their side; a united front could overwhelm most threats. But rationally? Erwin would bail. A prudent wizard didn't linger under a collapsing roof. Self-preservation was Slytherin gospel—he'd never gamble his life lightly.
He watched the debate unfold. The group fractured along familiar lines. Harry, Ron, and Hermione led the charge to keep going, backed by eager first- and second-years hungry for adventure. The older students, wiser to the perils, argued for retreat—alert the professors and Erwin before things escalated.
It made sense. Hogwarts had a way of shaping its students, even if the Sorting Hat's judgments weren't flawless. Time in a house molded you through subtle influences: the stories, the rivalries, the unspoken ethos. Take Hermione—in the early days, she'd been the voice of reason, chiding Harry and Ron for reckless stunts that could dock Gryffindor points. But prolonged exposure to their antics, forged in the house's fiery spirit, had kindled her own thirst for the thrill. Friendship helped, sure, but Erwin suspected it was deeper: Hogwarts wove its magic into your bones, igniting hidden sparks.
Even he felt its pull, looking back. Amid the ancient stones and echoing halls, Erwin had rediscovered a rare ease, a warmth he'd long forgotten.
As the arguments heated, Erwin's attention shifted to Hermione and Pansy. This was their moment—how would they bridge the divide?
Hermione stepped forward, her voice steady. "Look, if we can't agree, why not split? Those who want to press on can continue and scout ahead. The rest head back, find a professor or Erwin, and report what we've seen. Sound fair?"
Erwin gave a mental nod. Classic diplomacy—splitting the difference to keep the peace. It was the pragmatic play, perfect for mediating disputes or even steering the Ministry someday. Hermione's knack for it shone through; she'd make a shrewd leader.
Her suggestion eased the tension, swaying both camps. It felt like the only viable path forward.
But then Pansy spoke up, her tone sharp and defiant. "I don't care about your debates—I'm going on. I need to know what's happening down there. The Patriarch's pulling ahead, getting stronger every day, and we're lagging behind. Sure, there might be danger, but it's also a chance. We stay cautious, just gather intel—no heroics. And if we report back to Lord Erwin, wouldn't it be better to have the full picture? The more we learn now, the safer he stays later. I want to be his edge, not some sheltered shadow under his wing. I want to stand with him. Don't you?"
Her words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in loyalty. The group fell silent, weighing the fire in her eyes against the chill of the unknown.