After Pansy finished speaking, the Slytherins all wore thoughtful expressions. Erwin watched her, his eyes gleaming with admiration. Yes, that's exactly it. Pansy kept surprising him, and he realized he'd overlooked far too much before. There were so many talented Slytherins—like Pansy herself. If not for today, he wouldn't have known she had such sharp instincts.
The surest path to victory lay in inspiring loyalty, as history had proven time and again. If Hermione embodied the cunning bureaucrat, always ready with a calculated move, Pansy was the steadfast general, willing to shoulder any burden. Loyal to a fault and brave enough to put herself on the line—what a formidable ally.
Erwin was more than satisfied with her performance. Best of all, she'd picked up some of his own tricks, like the subtle art of persuasion. In their world, brute force no longer ruled; words held that power now. And Pansy had a real gift for it.
Her speech had clearly stirred the group, especially the older students. They looked to Erwin with renewed respect, recalling the day he'd shielded them with Protego Diabolica on the Quidditch pitch—a memory seared into their minds. Their caution had kept them from crossing the ring of fire back then, a regret that still stung. But now, with another chance dangling before them, how could they hesitate? Even the first-years stepped up without a second thought. The older ones wouldn't be outdone.
As the only hidden prefect there, Pansy's awkward status as a first-year suddenly elevated her in everyone's eyes. She didn't elaborate. Instead, she simply took the lead, striding forward. The Slytherins fell in behind her.
Hermione watched Pansy's retreating figure, frowning slightly as if on the verge of some revelation. But it slipped away before she could pin it down.
"Come on, Hermione, what are you woolgathering about?" Harry Potter asked from beside her.
She shook her head, saying nothing. The trio trailed after the group.
Pansy hadn't forgotten the practicalities, though. She dispatched a few students back to report the situation to Professor Snape and Erwin. Unbeknownst to her, those messengers scoured the castle in vain—the very people they sought were watching over them, unseen and protective.
They soon reached the final obstacle, one devised by Snape himself. It was deceptively straightforward: a logic riddle to select the right potion from a lineup, allowing passage through a chamber wreathed in flames.
Hermione approached a table lined with seven bottles of near-identical liquids. A parchment scroll lay nearby, outlining the puzzle.
"Out of these seven, only one holds a potion to withstand the fire," it warned. "Choose wrong, and you'll swallow poison."
Hermione scanned the scroll, her love for such brain-teasers making quick work of it. She identified the fire-resistant vial in moments—but it held barely enough for one person.
She explained her reasoning to the group. The others mulled it over, tension thick in the air. They all knew a dark wizard lurked ahead; no one wanted to sacrifice a classmate lightly. If push came to shove, though, it would fall to Harry Potter. The special glint in his eye marked him as the obvious choice.
By now, more than a few realized this "challenge" was little more than a test—too simplistic for guarding something like the Philosopher's Stone. A seventh-year could breeze through it alone. Against a thief bold enough to raid Hogwarts? Laughable. It had to be staged.
And who among them was the most pivotal figure? Harry Potter, of course. If this was tailored for him, sending him through made perfect sense.
Still, they racked their brains for alternatives, unwilling to rush into it.
As the debate dragged on, Draco piped up. "Hang on—why are we breaking our heads over this?"
All eyes turned to him, expectant. Draco might not be the sharpest wand in the shop, but his luck was legendary. They still remembered how he'd blundered through the wizard's chess match by sheer fortune.
Draco met their stares and puffed up a bit, confidence surging. He was Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy name—the best of the best.
He cleared his throat. "Instead of guessing here, why not ask Pansy what else the Heir mentioned?"
A collective eye-roll swept the group. But then, realization dawned. Blimey, it did make sense. Why reinvent the wheel when Pansy had the inside track?
Erwin's expression soured. He'd read Draco's lips from afar and had to admit, the boy was sharper than he'd given him credit for in that moment.
The four Heads of House, concealed at the crowd's edge, nearly broke cover. Draco's insight was uncanny. Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and Professor Sprout fixed their gazes on him.
Snape's face darkened like a thundercloud. He could tolerate weakness or misPatriarch from his students—but idiocy? Unforgivable. In his view, Draco embodied it.
Erwin saw it differently, though. Wasn't Draco playing the fool to great effect? Or perhaps it was just blind luck. Either way, multiple angles were fair game.
Snape looked ready to erupt. Professor Sprout, ever the peacemaker, steered the conversation elsewhere. "What do you reckon they'll do? Pick one to go through, or turn back?"
McGonagall shook her head. "Hard to say. These children might surprise us yet. Severus's flames are just ordinary fire—putting them out isn't beyond them. It all hinges on creative thinking."
Flitwick chimed in. "Without the sixth- and seventh-years, the fifth-years' spellwork might falter. I wouldn't bet on it."
McGonagall fell silent, her eyes locked on the young Slytherins. She anticipated another twist from these resourceful first-years. True, the fifth-years hadn't covered flame-extinguishing charms in class. But she knew their self-study sessions had delved far beyond the syllabus. This was the real test: had they absorbed it, or just nodded along?