A cry of surprise echoed through the bookstore.
"Weasley, your dad dared to hit my dad! I'll beat you to death!"
The roar ignited the air.
In the next instant, a flash of platinum-blond hair streaked past Erwin as Draco lunged.
The red-haired boy with the bulbous nose flew backward from a single punch.
Ron hit the ground, dazed and sprawled out.
He'd been standing there, arms crossed, enjoying the spectacle of his father finally giving that smug Malfoy a thrashing.
How had he ended up on the receiving end?
Ron's gaze darted around, but Erwin was already gone, melted into the crowd.
Relief washed over him, quickly replaced by a surge of resentment from the past year's slights—and the pitying looks from his family over the holidays.
He scrambled to his feet, fists balled, and charged at Draco. "You slimy git, Malfoy—I'm going to smash your smug face!"
Chaos erupted in the bookstore.
Hermione, off to the side, buried her face in her hands. "Merlin's beard, are these boys even wizards? Settling it with fists like Muggles! Draco, stop! Have you forgotten what Erwin said? Resorting to brawls is a loser's game. Real power isn't in your punches—it's in your wits!"
Draco reeled from Ron's blow, clutching his swelling eye with a yelp.
Physically, the pampered pure-blood was no match for a scrappy Weasley.
"The Head Boy also said we look out for our own," Draco snarled through the pain. "What are you lot waiting for—a formal invitation?"
The Slytherins who'd been gawking shifted, eyes hardening.
"Bloody Gryffindors, ganging up on us! Get him!"
"Take them down!"
A swarm of green-trimmed robes surged toward Ron.
But Gryffindor wasn't backing down. A handful of lion-hearted students jumped in, faces flushed with defiance.
"You call that fair? Numbers don't scare us—hit 'em back!"
"Teach these snakes a lesson!"
Erwin edged toward the exit, heart pounding.
He hadn't seen this coming at all.
What started as Lucius's orchestrated grudge match had spiraled into a full-blown house brawl—Gryffindor versus Slytherin, right in Flourish and Blotts.
The instigators, Lucius and Arthur, now wrestled to pull their sons apart, shouting over the din.
A chill prickled Erwin's neck. Trouble was brewing, and it was heading their way.
He glanced back—just in time to spot Professor McGonagall striding in, her face thunderous, a wide-eyed first-year trailing behind her.
Erwin's stomach dropped.
Time to vanish.
With a twist of will, he Apparated out.
No way was he sticking around for that lecture. McGonagall's wrath would be legendary, and he'd be caught in the crossfire.
Only a fool would linger.
Word of this would spread like Fiendfyre through the wizarding world. Gryffindor and Slytherin were about to become infamous.
What Erwin missed as he departed...
In the milling crowd, a young girl with her arms folded watched the melee unfold, lips curled in disdain.
"Slytherin's gone soft—brawling with these brainless lions. Utter disgrace."
An elderly attendant nearby cleared his throat. "Miss, we've got everything we need. The master says you're due home for supper. He's invited Professor Snape over—hopes you might apprentice under him, learn the Potions craft."
The girl's eyes lit up. "Severus Snape? I'd kill to meet him. They call him the youngest Potions Master, but that's only because I haven't stepped into the wizarding world yet. Give it time—I'd outdo him before my OWLs."
The old man inclined his head. "Naturally, Miss. You'd eclipse them all."
She turned to go, then froze as Erwin Apparated away in a swirl of air.
"Silver hair... Is that Erwin Cavendish?"
Her companion nodded gravely. "The master's warned that the Cavendish influence is rising fast. If you can, claim the spot as Hidden Prefect for first-years and build ties with him."
The girl smirked. "We'll see at school. One boy holding down seven years' worth of trouble? I doubt it. If he can wear that badge, so can I."
The old man said nothing. His charge was fiercely proud—untested by the world's sharper edges.
School would temper that soon enough. After all, no one knew Erwin's prowess better than their circle.
Back in the Tower, Erwin retreated to his office, gazing out the window. Soon enough, McGonagall emerged from the bookstore, expression carved from storm clouds.
Behind her trudged the sorry lot: bruised Slytherins and Gryffindors, heads down, faces sporting black eyes and split lips. They looked like scolded puppies, full of sullen mutters.
Erwin stifled a laugh. This off-campus scrap would go down in Hogwarts lore—a pre-term riot worthy of the Daily Prophet's front page.
With McGonagall's no-nonsense streak, she'd dock each house two, maybe three hundred points.
Two hundred points gone before welcome feasts were even served? Gryffindor and Slytherin were off to a disastrous start.
Then it hit him like a Bludger.
He was Slytherin's Head Boy.
These were his snakes.
Erwin's amusement evaporated. No—if they didn't shape up fast, the House Cup was doomed.
Competition was brutal this year. Ravenclaw had dominated last term with sky-high scores.
A deficit like this? They'd need iron discipline from day one.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What a disaster."
Glaring at the wilted procession of Slytherins—looking every bit the frost-nipped plants they were—Erwin's temper simmered.
He'd been grinning like a fool just minutes ago, but now? This was on him to fix.
Before he knew it, the Hogwarts term dawned.
King's Cross Station buzzed with farewells and excitement.
Erwin opted for the Express, tradition be damned. How many more rides could he claim before graduation?
In the Head Boy's compartment, solitude reigned. No interruptions, just the rhythmic clatter of wheels.
From the first-year carriage drifted bursts of laughter and chatter as new faces mingled.
A grin tugged at Erwin's lips unbidden.
Fresh crop of students—ripe for the wizarding world's wonders... and woes.
Back at the castle, with time to spare, Erwin ducked into his dorm to freshen the linens and duvet—small rituals to ease into the routine.
He arrived at the Great Hall precisely as the last echoes of arrival faded. Pure chance, really.
The benches were filling: returning students mingled with wide-eyed first-years, the air humming with anticipation.
The Sorting Ceremony loomed.
As Erwin entered, the Slytherin table rose as one.
"Head Boy!"
...
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