The crisis at Hogwarts dragged on, Lockhart's blundering farce doing little to ease the tension.
It was Sunday. Charlotte slipped into the Slytherin common room to find Erwin lounging by the fire.
"Master Erwin," she said quietly.
He glanced up. "What is it?"
"Lockhart tried to resign as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but Dumbledore wouldn't hear of it."
Erwin's mouth twitched into a smirk. "I figured as much. The man's humiliated himself in front of the whole school—everyone knows his secrets now. Even a braggart like him can't show his face after that."
Charlotte frowned. "According to your plan, he shouldn't leave yet. But why does Dumbledore want him to stay?"
"Isn't it obvious? Lockhart's useful to him. Don't ask daft questions like that again—you're sharp enough to work it out yourself. You're just fishing for my take."
She dipped her head. "Sorry, sir."
Erwin waved it off. "No harm done. I get it—with your family out of the picture, you're leaning on me. I'll look after you, so long as you pull your weight."
"I understand."
He stretched. "How's the Golden Trio faring?"
"I haven't seen Hermione in days, but I bumped into Draco in the common room yesterday. Had to drop him a hint. His head's not the quickest, so I kept it blunt—he might've missed anything clever."
Erwin chuckled. "Draco's no scholar, true, but he knows when to ask for help. He'll corner Hermione soon enough. Once she bites, she'll chase the lead."
Charlotte nodded, then hesitated. "Sir, one thing's been nagging me. Should I ask?"
"Go on. You mean why I picked Lockhart?"
She nodded. "He's useless—can't cast worth a Knut. How did he even pass his OWLs?"
Erwin laughed. "He scraped through the exams, remember? You think he's all bluster? If he were hopeless, how'd he master the Memory Charm so well? Fame's rotted his skills over the years, that's all. Dumbledore might've hired him to set him straight, but Lockhart never got the message."
Charlotte's eyes sharpened with realization, though questions lingered.
"So," Erwin went on, "Lockhart's perfect for this. Rotten to the core, fate sealed—why not squeeze every drop of use from him while we can?"
She smiled faintly. "Got it, sir."
He yawned. "Remember, Charlotte: the world's no fairy tale of good and evil. It's shades of gray—pick the one that suits you best. If the payoff's right, anything's fair game."
"And me? The other Slytherins? Just tools to you?"
"You know the answer. Pointless asking what you already suspect."
She held his gaze steadily. "If I can, sir, I'd like to be your right hand—always."
"That depends on you. Plenty of rivals circling."
"I'll make it happen."
"Good. Now off with you. Meet me in Diagon Alley next week."
She nodded and left without prying into his plans. Her role was clear; details didn't matter.
Another week flew by. Another attack struck—a first-year Gryffindor, camera-mad and besotted with Harry Potter. Snapping away, she stumbled into the Basilisk. Her camera shattered; she turned to stone.
Poor thing. When they thawed her, the grief over her ruined gear would sting worse than the petrification.
Saturday arrived. Erwin and Charlotte Apparated to Diagon Alley and headed straight for Cavendish Tower.
Old Tom waited in the foyer. Spotting them, he bowed low. "Master Erwin."
"Everything set?" Erwin asked.
"Yes, sir. The pure-blood families are here—upstairs in the conference room."
"Right. Let's see what misPatriarch they're brewing this time."
Tom and Charlotte trailed him to the elevator. As they ascended, muffled voices leaked from behind the conference room door.
Erwin paused, eavesdropping with a grin, then shoved it open.
The room buzzed with the heads of ancient houses, all turned expectantly.
"Patriarch Erwin," they chorused, rising slightly.
He nodded warmly. "Gentlemen, my apologies for the delay. Hogwarts is a trek, as you know."
Most murmured agreement, no offense taken. But a sharp sniff cut through.
"Hmph. Cavendish, everyone knows you're one of the few at that school who can Apparate. You could've popped right over. Don't blame the location."
The room fell quiet. Erwin's smile didn't falter. He turned to the speaker—a burly man with a perpetual scowl.
"Patriarch Burke. Touchy this morning, are we? Tom, did you skimp on the hospitality?"
Tom inclined his head. "My fault, Master. I'll see to it."
...
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