Draco had grown up. He couldn't afford to be reckless anymore—not when his family's future hung in the balance. Swallowing his impulse, he glanced at his parents.
Sure enough, relief and worry flickered in his mother's eyes. Draco knew he'd made the right call; he hadn't dragged them all into the fire with him. For once, he'd acted like the heir they needed.
In the Malfoy stands, Narcissa frowned in confusion. "Why's Draco just standing there? He should have charged through the flames and thrown in with Erwin! Even if we fell, Erwin could shield him. The boy's a fool!"
Lucius shook his head, disappointment gnawing at him. As a former Death Eater, the stain ran deep in his bones, redemption or not. The Dark Lord might be gone, but Lucius always sensed his shadow lurking, ready to return.
He dreaded the Death Eaters' grasp, but he feared for his family even more. He'd sacrifice anything to keep them safe.
This was a golden opportunity—Draco under Erwin's wing would offer real protection. If the Dark Lord rose again and Lucius was dragged back in, his son would be safer with Erwin than amid that poisonous lot. Lucius knew Erwin's value all too well. The boy faced a formidable foe, but the power at his back was staggering. Dormant for now, but once unleashed, it could upend the wizarding world.
For the first time, Lucius felt a twinge of contempt for Draco's naivety.
At that moment, the Chief's ring in the sky stirred. It drifted toward Erwin, and the two colossal purple fire dragons roared in challenge. A pulse of magic surged from the ring, clashing against them.
Erwin's brow furrowed. "Back off!"
With his sharp command, the dragons veered apart. The ring floated on, hovering before him. Erwin extended his hand, and it slipped onto his finger, nestling beside the enchanted ring marking him as Selwyn family patriarch.
As the ring settled, a rush of magic flowed from the Slytherin dorms into it. Suddenly, a map bloomed in Erwin's mind, pinpointing a hidden chamber deep within the common room. He'd never suspected such a place existed.
This, he realized, was Slytherin's secret legacy. With the ring on his finger, he was now the Heir of Slytherin—the one true heir.
From the stands, the Slytherins emerged from the wall of fire, clustering around Erwin. All the year prefects stayed hidden, save for Charlotte, who remained frozen in place.
A sly grin tugged at Erwin's lips. The younger Slytherins nearby shot Charlotte puzzled looks. To them, she was his right hand—or more than that.
Charlotte's face darkened. She hadn't anticipated this twist; it derailed half her schemes.
Erwin paid her no mind and flicked his wand. "Slytherin!"
The purple fire dragons launched skyward, twisting together before slamming into each other. They detonated in a blaze, reforming as a massive purple fire serpent that coiled menacingly overhead.
The young witches and wizards beside Erwin drew their wands, chanting "Slytherin!" in unison. Spells arced upward, weaving into the serpent and shifting its hue to vivid green. Its eyes gleamed with cold intelligence, scanning the Quidditch pitch.
Even some graduated Slytherins joined in, pouring magic into the beast. Its gaze sharpened, alert and commanding. At last, the serpent rocketed high, bursting into the Slytherin house crest—a glittering banner across the sky.
The flames encircling the pitch faded. Erwin lowered his wand.
The Slytherins bowed their heads. "Heir!"
He nodded crisply.
Meanwhile, in the grim tower of Nurmengard, the elderly Grindelwald tilted his head skyward, brow creasing. He rapped lightly on the stone wall.
A figure materialized in the cell. "Sir? Decided on dinner yet?"
"Vinda," Grindelwald said gravely. "I sense someone wielding Protego Diabolica."
Vinda—the elegant French Black Rose, aged but unbowed—frowned. "Protego Diabolica? Sir, only you can cast that. Not even Dumbledore. You're its creator, after all. I trust your instincts."
Grindelwald shook his head. "No mistake. I must meet this one. I'm intrigued. Help me track him down."
"As you wish, sir," Vinda replied. "But first—dinner? I need to stock up; your prison games mean planning every meal ahead."
Grindelwald chuckled. "Surprise me, but fetch a bottle of red wine. I'm in high spirits. And find a sharper prison robe—this one's dreadful. I loathe it."
Vinda sighed. "Right away, sir. If only you'd skip the self-inflicted wretchedness. I've cycled through every shade imaginable to suit these outfits of yours."
"I'm a prisoner," Grindelwald countered with a wry smile. "We ought to look the part."
Vinda rolled her eyes, exasperated. How long would her husband drag out this charade?
He waved her off. "Get to it. And snag me a couple more books while you're out. Muggle ingenuity is downright alarming. It's making me question if I ever had the right vision. Pity I'm too old to pivot now—even if I found the path, time's against me."