Erwin's eyes scanned the chaotic battlefield below. Charlotte sprang into action without hesitation. She directed her fellow students to carefully extract the petrified young wizards from harm's way, shielding them from further danger. Then, with a sharp voice that cut through the din, she issued her orders.
"Slytherins, take the lead in the assault! Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, back them up—focus on control spells to keep it pinned! Ravenclaws, guard the petrified ones and nip at its heels whenever you spot an opening!"
Under Charlotte's command, the students' efforts sharpened into something resembling a real strategy. Erwin watched from above, a nod of approval tugging at his lips. Not bad at all. She'd proven herself capable. Over the holidays, he'd have her train more with Vinda—she'd sharpen up even further.
Guided by her plan, the young witches and wizards began to wear down the basilisk. Its massive bulk, once an advantage, now slowed it fatally. They darted in with hit-and-run strikes, pelting it with jinxes from afar and dodging its lumbering swipes. The layered Shield Charms Erwin had woven around the beast absorbed the brunt of the spells, but the constant barrage still stung, fraying its temper.
The basilisk's eyes gleamed with murderous intent, its sanity slipping as rage built. It coiled to lunge wildly—until it spotted Erwin perched on the stone platform. In an instant, clarity flooded its gaze. It veered sharply, snapping at empty air instead of the boy in front of it, and slammed headfirst into a pillar. Dazed, it shook its head, scales rattling.
The young wizard who'd narrowly escaped its fangs stood frozen, heart pounding. "Blimey... I thought that was it," he gasped.
Charlotte frowned at the beast's odd behavior, her eyes flicking toward the platform. Though the angle hid Erwin from view, she pieced it together quickly. A knowing smile crossed her face.
Up on the overlook, the Heads of House observed with evident pride. Professor Sprout beamed. "Erwin had the right idea—nothing hones these kids like a spot of real practice."
Professor McGonagall inclined her head. "Agreed. Their spellwork's tighter, and the teamwork? Worlds better than before. I reckon we've seen enough. Severus?"
Snape gave a curt nod. "Pointless to drag it out. Erwin, end this."
"Right away, Godfather," Erwin replied. With a flick of his wand, he vanished from sight.
McGonagall rose. "Come on, then. Seems we've made the trip for naught."
Sprout chuckled warmly. "Here's hoping every 'emergency' from now on ends the same way. Means these lot are growing up fast."
"Quite. And tonight, they deserve a proper feast for it." The four Heads Apparated away in unison—a perk Erwin had insisted on granting them as Headmaster. Dumbledore, the forgotten figurehead in name only, lingered in the background. If trouble brewed again, Erwin might consult him out of courtesy... but follow through? Hardly. The old man's input meant little anymore.
Erwin materialized squarely between the basilisk and the cluster of students. Gasps rippled through the group as the beast halted, its massive head turning toward him with recognition.
"Well done, all of you," Erwin said with an easy grin. "That's enough. Head out—Professor Sprout's got the mandrakes restorative ready. You should see your friends up and about soon."
The students exchanged wide-eyed looks. Charlotte stepped forward at once. "Slytherins, with me—withdraw!"
She didn't press for explanations; obedience came naturally. The others followed suit, relief washing over their faces. With Erwin on the scene, doubt evaporated—they'd seen his prowess too many times to question it.
Harry lingered a beat, jabbing a finger toward the seething specter of Voldemort. "Mr. Erwin, that's him—Voldemort!"
Erwin's smile didn't waver. "I know, Harry. Go on now. Get those petrifications reversed."
Harry's face lit up. "Hermione too? Brilliant! We'll clear out, then."
The young wizards filed out swiftly, leaving the chamber echoing with their footsteps.
The basilisk slithered over, nudging Erwin's leg affectionately with its enormous head. He scratched its scales fondly. "Rough go, eh? That lot give you a proper thrashing? We'll hit the Black Lake tonight—fresh fish on me."
It bobbed its head enthusiastically. Life with Erwin had shown it true freedom; the chamber's isolation felt like a distant nightmare now.
Voldemort's ghostly form twisted in fury. "You... why does it heed you?!"
Erwin laughed lightly. "Senior Tom, still nursing those wounds after just a few days? Tsk."
The reminder hit like a hex. Voldemort shuddered, memories of Ravenclaw's unyielding pummeling flooding back. As a spirit, injuries should have been ephemeral, soul-deep at worst. But no—the pain lingered as vivid scars, refusing to fade, as if his ethereal form remembered every blow like flesh and bone.
Erwin lifted his hand, the Slytherin's Heir Ring glinting ominously. "Recognize this?"
Tom's eyes bulged. "Impossible! The Heir's Ring? You're... you actually claimed it? With those impossible trials—how?!"
Erwin shrugged. "Genius has its perks."
Tom lapsed into stunned silence. He'd attempted the prefect challenge himself once—and failed miserably. To outsiders, it seemed straightforward: climb the ranks through duels, starting with first-years against older students. But the reality? Gap after gap in power, reserves, and skill. A true first-year prodigy? Unheard of.
Yet here Erwin stood, the impossible made flesh. Voldemort's mind reeled, grasping for answers in the face of utter defeat.
...
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