Erwin glanced at the clock, estimating the time. Barring any surprises, Dumbledore should return to Hogwarts soon, wrapping up the first term. With so many young witches and wizards involved this year, Erwin was eager to see how the Headmaster would try to inflate Gryffindor's points. Right now, with just Harry Potter's contributions, they trailed Slytherin by over four hundred points—a full year's haul for most houses. The House Cup race would be fierce.
But Erwin had no intention of letting that meddlesome old headmaster tip the scales. The Cup symbolized a year's hard work for Slytherin, and he planned to guard it closely. Precautions were already in place.
Meanwhile, outside a remote manor, Dumbledore munched on an apple, cloaked by a Disillusionment Charm to dodge a suspicious farmer. He sneezed suddenly and rubbed his nose. By now, it should be time, he thought. Voldemort won't miss this chance with me away. But that curse ensures Harry's safe—it's a near-perfect plan. Still, Gryffindor's points are woefully low. I need a way to fix that before heading back.
Unaware of Dumbledore's scheming, Erwin would have cursed under his breath if he knew. The old man was still plotting to rig the Cup—just as expected.
Three days slipped by in a haze. They weren't easy for Erwin, with visitors hounding him daily and testing his patience.
On the first day, Pansy burst into his dormitory, bubbling over with tales of her adventures. Her excitement was infectious, and Erwin listened with a patient smile. After all, he'd taken her under his wing; a bit of emotional support came with the territory. Raising allies meant tending to their spirits, after all.
The next day, Hermione followed suit, sharing her own experiences as if it were a casual debrief. She was a key piece in his strategy—someone others needed to see as special to him. That way, if threats turned real, they'd target her first, giving him breathing room.
By the third day, Draco dragged Harry Potter along for what started as a discussion but devolved into bickering. Erwin promptly ushered them out, tired of the endless chatter. He'd heard enough variations on the same stories from Pansy and Hermione, and now the rest of Slytherin was abuzz with gossip. The older students—sixth- and seventh-years—who'd sat out the drama grumbled in the common room, resentment simmering. Without Snape's iron grip on the house, Erwin figured the younger ones might have stormed the staff room in protest.
The wizarding world, too, churned with unrest over those same three days. Whispers spread like wildfire: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned. He wasn't dead after all—and he'd struck at Hogwarts. Eyewitnesses among the students confirmed it.
The Daily Prophet held off on Rita Skeeter's piece at Erwin's insistence. He could've rushed it out the next day, but that wouldn't create the splash he wanted. Instead, he let rumors fester for three days, building hype. The news of Voldemort's survival tore through Britain's magical community like a storm.
The Ministry of Magic scrambled to deny it. Fudge appeared on camera, face stern, vowing the Dark Lord was gone for good. If he returned, Fudge would resign on the spot. His bluster convinced a few skeptics, buying temporary calm.
Erwin chuckled when he heard. Just like the tales he'd read, Fudge prioritized his power grab over truth. Every denial played right into Erwin's hands—he'd engineered it that way.
Today marked the Daily Prophet's new edition, unleashing the real chaos. Subscribers awoke to a screaming front-page headline: "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Lives! The Dark Lord's Return Spells Doom for the Wizarding World?"
The article detailed the Hogwarts incident with vivid clarity, backed by photos: Voldemort's spectral form and his parasitic possession of Quirrell. Copies flew to homes across the country, including the ancient pure-blood estates.
At Malfoy Manor, Lucius stared at the paper, hands shaking. Narcissa peered over his shoulder. "What's got you so rattled?"
"The Dark Lord," Lucius whispered. "He's truly back."
Narcissa froze. "But you said Draco and the others might've been mistaken. How could he return now, of all times?"
Lucius slumped in his chair, gaze distant. "Erwin pushed for this edition to hit the stands—no delays, no interference. He wanted the world to know. But why the fanfare? What's his angle?"
Narcissa fell silent, equally baffled.
After a pause, she asked, "So what now?"
"Hogwarts breaks for holidays soon. I'll meet Erwin and prepare for the worst. You stay out of it, Narcissa. If darkness falls again, take Draco and go—France, America, anywhere. Our fortune will keep you both secure."
She moved behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "If that day comes, I'll send Draco away. But you and I? We're in this together. I vowed it on our wedding day."
Lucius clasped her hand, eyes misting. Narcissa smiled faintly. "And it's not over yet. Erwin leaked this—he's got a plan, even if we can't see it. I trust he'll pull us through if things go south."
Lucius nodded. "You're right. He's sharper than his parents ever were. He might just save us all."
Back at Hogwarts, Erwin sipped his morning coffee and unfolded the Prophet. A sly grin spread across his face. This is why the wizarding world never gets boring.
...
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