In a dimly lit corner of the corridor, Erwin drew a small mirror from his robes. It flickered to life, revealing the real-time positions of the young witches and wizards below. How had he come by such a tool? It stemmed from his unique access to Hogwarts' hidden wards—a perk that had startled him when he first uncovered it.
The device resembled an Enchanted Mirror straight out of wizarding lore, projecting clear images from any area under his purview. No audio, but otherwise as sharp as a surveillance charm. Draco, peering over his shoulder, gaped in disbelief. "How...?"
Erwin shrugged, tweaking the angle until the view steadied into a perfect bird's-eye overlook. Then a nagging thought struck him. He studied the mirror closely. That occasional prickle of being watched—could someone with higher authority be peering back? Dumbledore, perhaps? But no, he'd sensed it even in the Slytherin dungeons. Something more powerful, then.
What Erwin didn't realize was how close he was to the mark. The mirror belonged to Sunny Finch, a relic from ancient wizarding lineages, acquired by her mentor through sheer fortune. Its origins remained a secret, but by Erwin's inner classifications, it ranked at the pinnacle of legendary gold artifacts.
He shook off the speculation; overthinking it wouldn't help. This world was labyrinthine enough to foster daylight apparitions without raising an eyebrow. Focusing on the display, he watched the group launch their assault on Fluffy.
"Reducto!"
"Expelliarmus!"
"Bombarda!"
A wild volley of spells peppered the beast. Fluffy, the massive three-headed hound, reeled in confusion. This wasn't the plan Hagrid had outlined—just guard the trapdoor, lull to sleep with music, and let the intruders pass harmlessly. No beatings included; the pay wouldn't cover it.
The strikes barely scratched Fluffy's hide. As a magical brute, it boasted immense raw power, high resistance to spells, and enough ferocity to tangle with a dragon and hold its own. Still, a few landed true, stinging from the likes of Hermione and the fifth-year Slytherins. Their daily drills during free periods, bolstered by tips from upperclassmen, had honed their aim. At this pace, Erwin figured, these soon-to-graduate students would outmatch most wizards in a scrap by at least half.
He shot Draco a sidelong glance, eyebrow arched. Draco flushed, averting his eyes. He knew that look all too well. What kind of idiots blasted a guardian beast with basic hexes? Even Erwin would need prolonged effort—and advanced curses—to subdue it properly. Run-of-the-mill spells? Laughable.
Worse, Draco oversaw their practical training. Erwin handled theory in study sessions, but Draco drilled the incantations. This blunder felt like a personal rebuke. He grumbled inwardly; no syllabus covered battling XXXXX-class creatures like Fluffy. Spotting one was a stroke of rare luck.
But not all were fools. Pansy, spells fizzling against the dog's armored fur, barked, "This isn't working! The Slytherin Leader warned us—many beasts have innate gifts, like magical resistance. But nothing's flawless; they all have a chink in the armor. Spells won't pierce this hide. We need a workaround!"
Her words jogged Hermione's memory. "That's it! Hagrid let slip—Fluffy loves music. Stop firing; play something. Once it hears tunes, it'll doze off peacefully."
The group halted, wands lowering. Fluffy didn't charge. Per the agreement, it was to intimidate, not maim—Hagrid's orders, though unspoken to the dog. The old gamekeeper figured it was just a sentinel. But the real directives came from the Headmaster himself, that formidable wizard with the twinkling eyes. Dumbledore's schemes were airtight; Fluffy had no choice but to obey.
Through the mirror, Erwin nodded approvingly at Pansy and Hermione. The plot mirrored the tales he'd heard, even if Hermione took a nudge to recall it. Pansy, though—she'd internalized his briefing. Underestimation averted; the girl had real promise.
Emboldened, the students pivoted. A cluster of Slytherins approached a jumble of discarded furniture—broken chairs, a splintered table. Wands flicked, Transfiguration spells reshaping the debris into fiddles, flutes, and drums.
Older students stepped up, murmuring charms over the instruments. Notes burst forth, weaving a lively waltz. Brass hummed, strings soared, percussion thrummed—a full orchestra from thin air.
Fluffy's three heads perked up, drooling muzzles softening into blissful grins. What sorcery was this melody? Pure bliss.
Erwin nearly snorted. Wasteful genius. Waltzing a three-headed monster into submission? Live ensemble and all? Did the beast even grasp the rhythm?
Evidently, magic bent reality in the most absurd ways. This Hogwarts escapade? Worth every twisted turn.
...
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