As the words "Protego Diabolica" rang out, a roaring fireball engulfed Erwin's entire body. The next second, a surge of purple flame erupted from within, devouring the red blaze and expanding outward. The purple fire formed an impenetrable wall, encircling him completely. Gradually, the red flames vanished, leaving only the violet inferno enveloping Erwin like a living barrier.
He stood at its heart, silver wand dangling loosely in his grip, arms outstretched as if embracing the heat. Untouched by the blaze, Erwin resembled a mythical figure forged in fire—serene, commanding, otherworldly. The sight froze everyone in place.
In the stands, nearly every adult wizard had risen to their feet, including Dumbledore. His piercing blue eyes widened in unmistakable horror as he stared at the boy wreathed in purple flames. The image blurred with a long-buried memory: silver-white hair, the same ethereal poise. "Impossible," Dumbledore murmured, composure cracking. "How could Erwin wield Protego Diabolica?"
Snape's dark eyes flickered with rare surprise. He hadn't known Grindelwald personally, but the legends were etched in wizarding history. Protego Diabolica was synonymous with the dark wizard—a forbidden mastery over Fiendfyre.
Narcissa clutched the railing, her voice a whisper. "That's... Protego Diabolica. The one from the legends? How does Erwin know it?"
Lucius shook his head, brow furrowed in bewilderment. The incantation wasn't a secret; ancient tomes detailed it. But no one since Grindelwald had tamed it without catastrophe. Protego Diabolica was Fiendfyre's cruel cousin—uncontrollable chaos, banned for good reason. Only two wizards had ever bent it to their will: Grindelwald with his protective ring of purple doom, and Dumbledore with his own hellish variant. Their legendary duel had scorched the wizarding world, unveiling raw power that still echoed in whispers.
Decades later, imitators had all failed spectacularly. Fiendfyre devoured everything, caster included. Yet here was Erwin, wielding it with eerie precision.
Among the students, older ones who recognized the spell paled. Grodia watched in awe, while Pansy turned to the older students, doubtfully asking, "What was that? Some kind of shield?"
Hermione, however, leaned forward, her mind racing through dusty volumes. "Protego Diabolica—Grindelwald's signature curse. It's a defensive blaze that tests true loyalty; only those utterly devoted to the caster can pass unharmed. In history, it's appeared just twice: once to purge disloyal followers, and again when it nearly razed a city."
Grodia swallowed, eyes wide. "Blimey, that's nightmare fuel. So the prefect could level a whole town if he wanted?"
"Not quite," Hermione replied briskly. "Spell potency ties to magical reserves. Erwin's brilliant, but against a titan like Grindelwald? His power's still building."
From the stands, Lucius shot Hermione an appraising glance. "That girl's got a sharp mind. Hogwarts first-years nowadays are something else."
Narcissa nodded, watching Grodia's animated gestures. "Familiar enough with our son to earn Erwin's trust. It's a boon for her."
Lucius said nothing, but his silence bespoke agreement.
In the arena's center, the purple flames shifted, coiling like serpents. Twin roars split the air as two spectral dragons of fire burst forth, wings unfurling in a blaze. They circled Erwin obediently, eyes gleaming with hunger for destruction, awaiting his word to unleash hell.
The fiery ring swelled, licking toward the Quidditch pitch's edges. Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a worried frown. "We must intervene. If it reaches the stands..."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the Slytherin Heir's ring, still hovering midair. He shook his head. "Not yet. The Prefect Challenge ends only when Erwin claims that ring. We stay out—for now. But preparations are wise."
With a subtle flick of the Elder Wand against the ground, he intoned, "Finite Incantatem!"
A radiant golden barrier erupted, sheathing the stands in protective light. The purple flames halted abruptly, confined to half the pitch around Erwin. They writhed in frustration, as if sensing the leash.
Erwin met Dumbledore's casual gaze, his wariness spiking. Ridiculous—an effortless counter to such devastation? This wasn't like the Dumbledore's Army drill in the Room of Requirement, where raw Fiendfyre had fed on debris after his magic waned. Here, Erwin's reserves burned strong; he'd expended only a third, yet the Headmaster quashed it with one incantation. Just how formidable was this old wizard?
Pure-blood elders in the stands exchanged uneasy looks. They could have contained it too—Erwin was young, his strength prodigious but unpolished compared to a family patriarch's. Yet none matched Dumbledore's nonchalance, wand already pocketed.
Erwin pulled back his stare, resolve hardening. With his unique edge, surpassing the Headmaster was inevitable. A wizard's gift like his wouldn't falter against the establishment.
Turning to Grodia, he smirked. "Well, senior? Looks like victory's mine after all."