Fleur leaned in closer, inhaling appreciatively. "You smell wonderful! Care to share what it is?"
Erwin flashed a grin. "If I knew, you'd be the first to hear."
She covered her mouth with a light laugh. "You're quite the celebrity, even back home at Beauxbatons. Folks call you the epitome of British wizarding aristocracy—and from what I've seen, they're spot on."
Erwin kept his expression neutral, though inwardly he scoffed. Fame like that? I'd know if it were true—my wizarding acclaim would've skyrocketed by now. Still, flattery from a Veela like her wasn't the worst thing.
Up in the professors' seats, Headmistress Maxime watched the exchange with a flicker of intrigue in her eyes. Fleur was notoriously aloof at their school, her part-Veela heritage lending her an air of untouchable grace. Yet here she was, chatting up a stranger.
Dumbledore glanced her way. "Headmistress Maxime, is this visit purely for sightseeing?"
She tore her gaze from Erwin. "Not at all. Karkaroff should arrive any moment—we'll discuss matters then."
Dumbledore inclined his head, curiosity evident. The sudden arrival of both foreign headmasters at Hogwarts raised questions about their true intentions.
Moments later, they made their dramatic entrance. Headmaster Igor Karkaroff of Durmstrang strode into the Great Hall, Viktor Krum at his side, both materializing in the center amid a swirl of frost-kissed air.
Karkaroff's voice cut through the murmurs like ice. "Dumbledore, breaching Hogwarts' wards is no small feat."
The old wizard's face remained serene. "All measures are for the students' safety, as you well know."
Karkaroff huffed dismissively and claimed a seat at the staff table without further ado.
His eyes scanned the hall before landing on Snape. "Who is this Erwin? Letting a first-year reach the Slytherin prefect finals? Your house must be in dire straits."
The words had scarcely escaped when a razor-sharp curse sliced past Karkaroff's sleeve, nicking the fabric.
His face paled as he whipped around. Snape lounged casually, wand leveled, his dark eyes gleaming with challenge. "What was that?"
Karkaroff's jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. As a former Death Eater, he knew better than to cross Snape—whose prowess in dueling was legendary among their old circle.
Dumbledore observed impassively, offering no intervention.
Erwin stifled an eye-roll from his spot below. This Karkaroff's a right prat—thick as Ron on a bad day, all bluster and no bite. If he hadn't ratted out his fellow Death Eaters for a lighter sentence, he'd still be rotting with the Dementors. No wonder Snape shut him down; the man's mouth wrote checks his wand couldn't cash.
Snape sheathed his wand with a mocking curl of his lip, and Dumbledore rose smoothly to defuse the tension. "Very well. It's nearly time—the other guests will arrive shortly. Let's prepare."
Professor McGonagall and the staff nodded, bustling into action. With Hogwarts' doors open to spectators for the prefect challenge finals, arrangements were essential. Crowds had gathered to witness Erwin's duel against Grodia, the Slytherin hopeful.
Fleur stood, brushing a hand over Erwin's shoulder. "Come visit Beauxbatons sometime—I'd be delighted to show you around."
"Count on it," Erwin replied.
She departed with Maxime, while Karkaroff trudged past. He paused, eyeing Erwin appraisingly, but Snape's voice sliced the air before he could speak. "Out of the way. Or shall I assist?"
Karkaroff's scowl deepened, and he stormed off without a retort—clearly soured.
The other students filtered out, buzzing with anticipation. Draco clapped Erwin on the back. "Best of luck, Prefect!"
Erwin nodded. Pansy hovered nearby. "Sir, we'll head out now."
"Fine by me," he said, though he noted her recent shift to more formal address. Allies were allies; if "sir" made her comfortable, so be it—even "Your Majesty" wouldn't faze him.
The seventh-years, on the cusp of graduation, clustered around Grodia with mixed encouragement. "Don't overdo it, Prefect—save some energy."
"Make it quick; you're both seniors, after all."
"I'm itching to join the Slytherin ranks—victory would be brilliant!"
"If it gets rough, just yield. No shame in that."
Erwin bit back a chuckle. Defections before the battle's even joined? Loyalty's thin when stakes are high.
Grodia managed a rueful smile amid the barrage.
Soon, the hall emptied, leaving only the two finalists.
"Those lot clearly doubt me," Grodia muttered.
Erwin laughed. "Only because they underestimate you. Show them otherwise."
Grodia shook his head. "Off I go—see you on the pitch, Erwin."
With a nod, Erwin headed to the Quidditch pitch lounge, the Slytherin team's prep area. He drew his wand, polishing its silver length with care. This duel would test him like nothing since arriving in the wizarding world—no gadgets like the M134 Minigun; just raw skill and spells.
The wand hummed faintly, as if eager for the fray.
Meanwhile, the stands filled with spectators. Draco spotted his parents and waved enthusiastically.
Narcissa acknowledged him with a perfunctory wave, her focus on Lucius. "We're about to see him, Lucius."
Her husband nodded, a spark of barely concealed thrill in his eyes.
Draco scratched his head, puzzled by her cool response, but dismissed it—Mother doted on him, after all.
Narcissa squeezed Lucius's hand. He covered hers gently. "Steady on—don't draw eyes. With the boy in our world now, chances to connect abound. Have Draco invite him to the Manor over the holidays."
"Yes," she breathed. "I'll cook for him—proper feasts, just like home."
Lucius suppressed a wince, recalling her culinary disasters. Erwin might regret that invitation.
The minutes flew, and ten o'clock struck.
Dumbledore amplified his voice with a subtle charm. "I declare the Slytherin prefect challenge finals underway! Grodia Selwyn and Erwin Cavendish—to the arena!"