Erwin watched intently from the shadows. Such battles were rare spectacles, offering invaluable combat insights. Until now, he'd never imagined spells could intertwine with such precision.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms Master, never repeated a charm. Everyday incantations, woven together under his expert hand, unleashed devastating force. Erwin could only call it a visual banquet.
Professor Sprout, the stout Head of Hufflepuff House, usually tended to her herbs with quiet patience. Among Hogwarts' professors, Snape was the hardest to approach, but Sprout was the most beloved—warm, unflappable, never one to sneer or sulk. Students often mistook her easygoing nature for weakness. What a folly.
How could a Head of House be anything less than formidable? And did anyone truly believe taming the Whomping Willow required only gentle words? Without raw strength, its branches would crush you in an instant.
Today, Sprout shed her peaceful facade. Her wand moved as swiftly as Flitwick's, though her arsenal was less flashy. Steady beams of light lanced toward Voldemort, each one methodical and unrelenting.
Professor McGonagall posed an even greater danger. Erwin finally grasped why she alone served as Deputy Headmistress. It wasn't mere loyalty to Dumbledore or administrative skill—it was her prowess in battle. He'd never seen Transfiguration fused so seamlessly with combat.
A loose pebble might twist into a snarling stone lion, pouncing without warning. Anything in her line of sight could swell into an army. Terrifying.
As for Professor Snape... he was holding back. At Erwin's quiet instruction, no less.
Voldemort sensed it too. The Dark Lord weighed his odds. Prolonging this skirmish meant defeat. The four Heads of House weren't pushovers, and Snape's restraint opened a chink in their defenses.
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort parried McGonagall's and Snape's strikes. Another gesture birthed a roaring fireball that coalesced into a massive serpent, coiling toward the professors.
The Heads countered in unison, shields flaring to life. Voldemort seized the gap, surging toward the corridor Snape ostensibly guarded.
Snape's eyes flicked sideways, tracking him. He didn't budge.
Voldemort pressed on, bolting for the door. But as he crossed the threshold—
A curse streaked from the gloom, slamming into his chest. The host body crumpled, lifeless. Voldemort's spirit wrenched free, flickering in alarm.
No time to retaliate. The strike's timing and power left no room for error. His ethereal form spiraled upward and vanished into the ether.
In the darkness, Erwin pocketed his wand. A faint surge rippled through his magic reserves. He smirked, then gripped Draco's shoulder and Apparated away before anyone noticed.
The professors doused the serpentine flames moments later. Snape's gaze lingered on the empty shadow where Erwin had stood. He said nothing.
McGonagall hurried to the corpse, kneeling to inspect it. Her lips tightened. She turned to Hermione and the others.
"Back down the corridor, all of you. It's over."
They nodded, though Pansy hesitated. "Professor, Flitwick mentioned You-Know-Who earlier. But isn't he... dead?"
McGonagall's expression hardened. "That's not for you to worry about. Go now."
The group filed out without further protest.
Once the students were gone, McGonagall straightened. "He's not finished. He's returned. Dumbledore must know—his suspicions were spot on."
Flitwick and Sprout murmured agreement. Snape stayed silent, pondering how much McGonagall grasped of Dumbledore's scheme. If she knew the full truth, she'd never stand for it. Students meant everything to her; she'd sacrifice herself before letting them become pawns.
Even if she hadn't pieced it together before, today's perils—laid bare for Harry—would have tipped her off. The younger ones had their doubts; a sharp mind like hers couldn't miss it.
"Clear the body," McGonagall ordered. "I'll contact the Headmaster."
None questioned who felled the intruder. In Hogwarts' strained climate, only Erwin could strike so decisively and melt back into obscurity. They all knew.
Yet the Heads held their tongues, each for private reasons. The hows were irrelevant; the Dark Lord wannabe lay dead. That sufficed.
As for Erwin's absence? They wouldn't pry. Excuses formed unbidden in their minds: perhaps he fretted over the students' safety but wanted them to hone their skills firsthand. Shadow guardianship, letting them grow. A tidy rationale.
Good students always got the benefit of the doubt—even at a magic school.
Back in his dormitory, Erwin assessed the meager boost to his magic. Barely a trickle, less than one percent of his reserves. Still, he grinned. With this gift unlocked, a longer grind was no deterrent. Fill the bar, level up—he'd manage.
Killing for progress? Just another monster hunt in the game of life.
...
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