Erwin gently shook the jar in his hand. The beetle inside was still dazed, its tiny legs twitching feebly. Given its size, a few slaps would have left it out cold for hours—if not longer. He'd held back; otherwise, one sharp tap might have ended it.
Animagus transformations weren't foolproof, he mused. They came with the creature's vulnerabilities, like this insect's fragility. A stray thought crossed his mind: Professor McGonagall and catnip. He shook his head sharply, dismissing the absurdity. Plotting against a professor? He was losing it.
The office door creaked open. Professor McGonagall entered, her square spectacles glinting under the lamplight.
Erwin slipped the jar into his pocket with practiced calm.
Unaware, she asked, "How did it go, Erwin? Did the reporters cause any trouble?"
He shook his head. "Not at all, Professor. Just basic questions—nothing I couldn't handle."
She nodded approvingly. "Good. If that's all, head back and rest. I haven't congratulated you yet: Head Boy of Slytherin. The role's been empty too long. As the first—and perhaps only one in a generation—you'll do the house proud. Slytherin's changed under your influence; it's not what it was."
Erwin demurred. "You're too kind. The four houses are all part of Hogwarts. I just lent a hand—the professors did the real work."
Professor McGonagall smiled faintly. "Modesty's a virtue, Erwin, but at your age, a touch of pride shows ambition. Don't undersell yourself."
"I understand, Professor. I'll keep that in mind."
She waved him off. "Go on, then. Oh, and around Christmas, I'll take you from Hogwarts for your Order of Merlin medal ceremony."
Erwin nodded. "Right. Good night, Professor."
As he left, Professor McGonagall sank into her chair, eyeing a fresh Transfiguration journal on her desk. "How could such a brilliant young man be Grindelwald's follower?" she murmured. "A threat to the wizarding world? The Ministry's blowing it out of proportion."
With that, she ripped open an unopened letter and tore it to shreds, tossing it in the bin. The envelope bore the Ministry's seal.
Back in the Slytherin common room, the students clustered, awaiting Erwin's return. They rose as one when he entered.
"Head Boy!"
"Sit, everyone," he said quietly.
They obeyed, eyes fixed on him.
"Becoming Head Boy won't change much," Erwin began. "The prefect system stays. Each prefect handles their year. Bring unresolved issues to me—or to your year's prefects. We'll re-elect the first-year prefect. Draco."
Draco stood. "Yes, sir?"
"You're in charge of the selection. Find a replacement."
Draco nodded. "Understood. I'll handle it."
Erwin rose. "I'm turning in. Carry on."
The Slytherins stood, murmuring agreement as he headed upstairs. At his dormitory door, he pushed it open.
Charlotte waited by the table, arms crossed, her expression guarded. She'd been there a while.
Erwin ignored her, setting the jar down with a clink. He splashed water on his face at the basin, the cool trickle steadying him.
Only then did he turn to her. "Bold of you to show up. Confident you can slip away? Or do you think I'll go easy?"
"Master, I don't understand," she said evenly. "I just came to explain why I didn't cross the Protego Diabolica."
Erwin's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Enlighten me."
"You know I'm not pure-blood. I didn't recognize your spell—Grindelwald's era is ancient history. By the time I realized, it was too late."
"A fair point," he conceded, nodding.
Charlotte exhaled subtly, tension easing from her shoulders.
But in an instant, cold metal pressed against her throat. She froze, sweat prickling her skin. Glancing down, she saw the gleam of his wand tip.
"Master... you don't believe me?"
Erwin chuckled, low and mirthless. "Charlotte, do you take me for a fool? I'd buy that excuse from someone else—Grindelwald's magic is obscure. But you? Your power's no Muggle-born fluke. I loathe blood purism, but wizarding families do breed talent: early exposure, holiday drills. Even pure-bloods don't match you. And you're supposed to be a Muggle-born prodigy?"
"Geniuses exist," she countered, voice steady despite the wand. "Arrogant as it sounds, even you must admit I'm gifted."
He pressed the wand forward. Her throat yielded slightly, a sharp sting drawing a wince.
"Self-righteous types never learn," Erwin said. "You think you're clever, don't you? Up at dawn to 'wake' me, always hovering like a shadow. I've trusted you with tasks, confided in you. You've crafted this perfect image: loyal confidante. No—mistress, even. As if a boy my age wouldn't notice the game."
Charlotte's eyes widened fractionally, but she held still, the wand a deadly reminder. The air thickened with unspoken accusations, the jar on the table a silent witness to her earlier form. Erwin's gaze bored into hers, unyielding, as the truth hung between them like a curse waiting to strike.