Just as the three were chatting, Charlotte entered the library. She spotted them huddled at a table and approached with purpose. "Draco," she said briskly, "the Headmaster wants you in the common room. Your test paper's ready."
Draco's face drained of color. He slumped off his chair like a deflated balloon and let out a dramatic groan. "No..."
A thick tome sailed from the shadows, smacking him square on the back of the head. "Draco Malfoy, if you dare yell in this library again, I'll fetch Erwin to sort you out!"
Mrs. Pince materialized from behind the shelves, her expression as icy as a winter gale. Draco clamped his mouth shut, eyes wide. He ducked his head low. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Pince. I was wrong."
She snorted, jabbing a finger at him in warning. Draco shrank like a scolded quail, accepting his doom without another word.
Hermione and Harry exchanged a knowing look. "If Draco's marks are as abysmal this time," Harry said, "Mr. Erwin might just finish him off."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Erwin wouldn't lay a finger on a Slytherin—his manners are beyond reproach. But he's ahead of the curve on this one. And you can't fault Erwin; Draco's brawl at the bookstore on the first day of term was an utter embarrassment."
Harry fell quiet. He'd been there, after all. His silence had earned him whispers among the Gryffindors—that he was a snake in lion's clothing. The scuffle had rocked the wizarding world: two houses clashing in Diagon Alley, of all places. Harry could still see Professor McGonagall's thunderous scowl, and the goblet Erwin had nearly shattered in his fury.
That rage had sent the Slytherins slinking back to their common room in terror. In all the time since, Harry had never seen Erwin so livid.
Hermione waved it off. "Enough about him. Back to your books, Harry. Your scores are lagging—you'll be lucky to crack the top fifty by term's end at this rate."
Harry nodded firmly. "I know. I'll buck up."
She gave a satisfied nod and dove back into her reading.
Meanwhile, Erwin lounged in Snape's office, idly stroking the silky fur of Ebony curled in his lap. Snape hunched over his workbench, grinding herbs with a scowl. After a frustrated toss, he chucked the remnants into the bin. "Still no dice. Theory says it should substitute in the recipe, but it falls flat. The potency's just not there."
"Year of the plant, maybe?" Erwin suggested.
Snape shook his head. "Doubt it. Over the holidays, I visited that family and acquired samples from every vintage. None panned out."
Erwin's lips quirked. Acquired? More like swiped. That sounded just like his godfather.
"Then it's likely some hidden factor we're missing," Erwin said. "No hurry, Godfather. Take your time. Magic-enhancing potions wouldn't have vanished for centuries if they were simple to crack."
Snape grunted agreement and sank into the chair opposite, sipping from a steaming mug. "So, to what do I owe the visit?"
"Nothing pressing—just checking in. Oh, and how's that heirloom from the Forbidden Forest treating you?"
Snape paused, realizing Erwin meant the vampire relic. Odd how the boy had latched onto the idea of it being a Snape family treasure without question. It hinted at insights beyond the ordinary.
"Alas, it's inert," Snape replied. "But I did uncover something intriguing: traces of Cain's blood, the vampires' progenitor. There's an odd energy in it I can't pinpoint. Care to take a stab?"
Erwin nodded. "Hand it over. I'll fiddle with it later."
Snape fetched a slender vial from the shelf and passed it across. Erwin pocketed it without fuss.
"Incidentally," Snape added, "thoughts on Cassandra Worre?"
"Solid choice," Erwin said. "First-year hidden prefect, won it hands down. She's got real talent."
Snape inclined his head. "Word is she dueled you?"
"Just killing time—gave her a fair go. Her skill's advanced for her age, even above the norm."
"Watch the Worre family closely."
"Red flags?"
"You've had them vetted, yes?"
Erwin confirmed with a nod. "American wizarding stock. No clue why they'd pick England for schooling. Their world's a black box—folks there tread lightly around pure-bloods, won't breathe a word."
"Precisely. Their magical scene's a far cry from ours. Those families play rough, much like the Cavendishes. Muggles and lesser wizards keep mum. Before term, I scoped their English outpost."
Erwin murmured an acknowledgment, urging him on.
"The patriarch pushed for me to mentor Cassandra. I declined. Seems the Worres aim to relocate here, though motives are murky. Might prove useful intel for you."
Erwin scratched the dog's ears thoughtfully. "It does. I'm keen on their side of the pond."
Snape nodded. "Fair enough. That's the lot. Dumbledore's scheming again—stay sharp. Don't let the old fox outmaneuver you."
Erwin chuckled. "No worries, Godfather. His game's an open book to me."
Snape didn't pry further. Awareness was all that mattered.
He slid open a drawer and produced a teardrop-shaped bronze vial. "Your Felix Felicis. Brewed to perfection."
...
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