Back in his dormitory, Erwin couldn't shake off the unease. He had to admit it: even he had underestimated Professor Quirrell. No one else stood a chance against that deception.
Quirrell had hidden his depths masterfully. So well, in fact, that Erwin had overlooked a key detail. Quirrell was a standout Ravenclaw alumnus—brilliant even among that house's roster of geniuses. How could Dumbledore select someone like that for a professorship and expect anyone to dismiss him as ordinary?
Erwin rarely slipped like this. He never underestimated opponents. But Quirrell's acting had been flawless, masking everything with a veil of incompetence. Beyond that, what truly unsettled Erwin was the man's unwavering loyalty. Erwin knew he was sentimental at heart, though few earned his trust these days. The rest—Slytherins, even Hermione—were mere tools to him, to be discarded once spent.
Yet Quirrell had accepted the controlling potion without a second thought, pledging himself fully. He didn't care about Erwin's endgame or moral compass, only the sliver of respect Erwin offered publicly. That alone had secured his devotion to the end.
Erwin shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Were these wizards fools or just hopelessly trusting? Perhaps he'd overthought it all. His Selwyn upbringing had twisted his view: no one was truly good; everyone schemed. But Quirrell's faith challenged that cynicism. For the first time in ages, Erwin felt a flicker of relief.
He sprawled on his bed, staring at the canopy. It wasn't so bad, this rare warmth. In a drowsy haze, sleep claimed him.
As Erwin slumbered, a spectral form emerged from his brow—Rowena Ravenclaw's spirit. She gazed at his peaceful, smiling face and felt a sharp ache. Gently, from afar, she reached out as if to ease the mask he wore, even in dreams. But she withdrew, sighing softly. "It's nearly time, child. All this burden is for our final triumph. You can do it—I've never doubted you. They've pinned their hopes on you. Succeed for them... and for yourself."
Wings fluttered outside the window. Ravenclaw glanced over, then dissolved into starlight, vanishing back into Erwin's mind.
Moments later, Ebony slipped inside, shutting the window with practiced ease. She sniffed the air, tilting her head in faint puzzlement, then shook it off. Transforming into a golden monkey, she tiptoed to the basin for a quick wash, mindful not to wake him. Back as a sleek black cat, she leaped onto the bed, nuzzling Erwin before curling up beside him.
In his sleep, Erwin sensed her warmth and absently stroked her fur twice before drifting deeper.
The dormitory fell silent. Outside, the Black Lake lapped gently under the breeze, and Hogwarts' grounds whispered with rustling leaves. The castle slumbered in deceptive peace—their last night here, unnervingly still.
Dawn's first light stirred the castle awake. In the Great Hall, young witches and wizards donned Muggle attire, stowing their robes. Erwin's purple suit gleamed against his silver-white hair, giving him the air of a storybook noble.
Entering with his cluster of Slytherins, he drew every eye. Witches whispered and giggled, heads together, their topic clear.
At the staff table, the other professors had departed overnight, leaving only the Heads of House to bid farewell. Professor McGonagall's eyes sparkled at the sight. "Well, isn't he dashing?" she murmured.
Professor Flitwick beamed. "My word, the lad's a vision!"
Professor Sprout chuckled. "All the girls lit up the second he walked in. He'll break hearts left and right."
McGonagall smirked. "If he hasn't already."
Snape said nothing, but pride gleamed in his gaze. That's my boy, my godson. Always shining, no matter what.
After their final Hogwarts breakfast, McGonagall stood. "Right, everyone—to the platform! The Express awaits. Enjoy your holidays, and remember the rules I outlined yesterday. I don't want any of you in a Ministry courtroom!"
The Heads of House led them out. On Hogsmeade station, Erwin and Snape watched the Slytherins board.
"Godfather," Erwin asked, "holiday plans?"
Snape's voice was gruff but steady. "I must leave Britain to gather supplies—it'll take time. Owl me if needed; they'll find me."
...
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