Meanwhile, in the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall wrapped up her annual summary. Normally, this would cue Dumbledore's announcement of the House Cup winner. But after a long wait, the headmaster was nowhere to be seen. The young witches and wizards exchanged puzzled looks. Why the delay this year?
Erwin lounged at his seat, methodically slicing into the lamb chops on his plate—a dish he'd specially requested, grilled with authentic British flair. The flavor was spot on. As for Dumbledore's absence from his office, that was Erwin's handiwork too. Knowing the old man's penchant for meddling, especially with Slytherin's massive lead, Erwin had revoked his access privileges. To be thorough, he'd layered on double wards against Apparition. Even Erwin himself couldn't pop in now without lifting them—and he had no intention of handing Dumbledore an opening.
Dumbledore might be a sly old fox, but Erwin trusted nothing when it came to him. The score gap was insurmountable, yet the headmaster's reputation for bending rules loomed large. Better safe than sorry—lock him out, and no chaos could ensue.
Up in the office, Dumbledore's expression soured. He saw the trap now: Erwin's insistence on delaying privilege restoration until the holidays was all for this. Yes, the headmaster had toyed with awarding last-minute points to sway the Cup, but snatching victory outright? That would be absurd. Still, Erwin's paranoia stung. Dumbledore exhaled heavily. Trust between them had eroded, especially after he'd peeled back the boy's Slytherin mask. Regret gnawed at him—not for the first time.
A voice crackled from the wall portrait. "Last feast of the term, and you're holed up here, Dumbledore?"
The headmaster stayed silent.
Phineas Nigellus Black's painted eyes gleamed. "Ah—Erwin's locked you in, hasn't he?" Laughter echoed through the frame. "Brilliant! I always knew that lad had potential. True Slytherin through and through—better than Salazar himself!"
Dumbledore flicked his wand, draping a cloth over the portrait. But Black's image shifted to the adjacent frame. "Touchy, are we? Someone's finally called out your sanctimony. You deserve this, old man. Haven't felt this delighted in ages!"
Head pounding, Dumbledore silenced the next frame with a wave. Black's barbs were legendary—loyal only to Slytherin, venomous to all else.
Back in the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall's face tightened. Erwin could tell she was seething; no doubt the Transfiguration professor was fuming at the disruption. With a reluctant sigh, she announced the House Cup winner: Slytherin, of course.
But without Dumbledore present, she couldn't alter the hall's enchantments. Erwin's mind whirred. In an instant, emerald banners unfurled overhead, serpents coiling triumphantly across the walls and ceiling. McGonagall gave him a subtle nod of acknowledgment, and Erwin flashed a quick smile.
The other Heads of House knew Erwin had seized partial control of Hogwarts—it wasn't exactly hushed—but the full extent remained under wraps. The Slytherins erupted in cheers, and Erwin let them. Why curb the joy? They'd earned it.
As the decorations shifted, the wards on the headmaster's door clicked open. Dumbledore stepped into the hall, drawing sharp glances.
McGonagall rounded on him immediately. "Headmaster Dumbledore, you owe us an explanation. Absent from the most pivotal moment of the year? Do you realize the mess this could have caused without Erwin's intervention?"
Her tone bordered on sharp, and Dumbledore's mouth parted in surprise. He knew she was right—Erwin's setup had averted disaster, even if he'd engineered it. But admitting that aloud? Impossible. He murmured an apology instead.
McGonagall, ever the professional, let it drop with a curt nod. Dumbledore took his seat, jaw set.
Erwin lifted his goblet of pumpkin juice in salute. Dumbledore ignored it, his eyes stormy. But a whisper slithered into the headmaster's ear—courtesy of one of Erwin's subtle charms. "Professor, Erwin's toasting you. Got an issue with my godson? Or has he offended you somehow?"
Dumbledore froze. Hogwarts had changed; he was the interloper now. Erwin held the reins.
The meal dragged on, unappetizing for the headmaster. Even the treacle tart and Yorkshire pudding he'd requested from the house-elves that morning tasted like ash. Bitterness welled up at the sight of Slytherin's fluttering banners.
The feast stretched late, filled with chatter and goodbyes. Professors turned a blind eye to the relaxed vibe—it was the term's end, after all. Seventh-years bid farewell to underclassmen, a melancholy hush settling over the tables. Hogwarts felt like home to many, not a place to escape.
Harry Potter embodied that reluctance. He lingered, dreading the return to Privet Drive. He'd even pleaded with Dumbledore to stay over the holidays, but rules were rules. Yet the headmaster had hinted at changes this summer—something unusual. Intrigue sparked in Harry's chest, chasing away the gloom.
As plates cleared and students rose, the Great Hall buzzed with a mix of triumph and wistfulness. Slytherin's victory sealed the year on a high note, but farewells loomed. For Erwin, though, it was just another step forward.
...
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