Erwin pored over every line in the Daily Prophet , his eyes scanning frantically for details he might miss. His expression darkened with each passing sentence.
He wasn’t mourning the Weasleys’ downfall—in fact, he’d relish seeing them get their couppance after their recent clash. But this? It reeked of a setup, and the timing couldn’t be worse. Coming right after his row with them, anyone with half a brain would point fingers at him. Bad news all around.
Erwin knew he had nothing to do with it. But who’d believe his denial? If the roles were reversed, he’d suspect himself first. In a world where truth bent to those in power, rumors could tank his reputation overnight—especially among everyday wizards open to a bit of stirring. Worse, it clashed with the fragile image he’d built: the perennial victim, the underdog just starting to earn sympathy. Now the Weasleys were laid low? No one would buy his "poor " act anymore.
His grander sches hung in the balance too. This could spook his real targets, derailing months of careful plotting. Cursing under his breath, Erwin wondered: Who’d pull this? Soone nursing a grudge against the Weasleys, using the feud as cover?
As staunch Dumbledore allies, the Weasleys had racked up enemies—not from starting fights, but because anyone gunning for the greatest wizard in Britain wouldn’t spare his friends. The higher Dumbledore climbed, the more precarious his perch. Take Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic: he’d long resented Dumbledore but lacked the spine for a direct confrontation. Would he exploit this to take a swing?
Erwin’s mind whirred. No, Fudge wasn’t sharp enough. If he were, the Ministry wouldn’t be such a ss under his watch. Fudge’s power was more title than substance; Dumbledore’s shadow lood large, leaving him with few true loyalists and widespread discontent. Plus, Fudge was a blood purist through and through—he’d never lift a finger to avenge a "half-blood sympathizer" like Erwin, even if it ant jabbing at Dumbledore.
Erwin mulled it over, then froze. He’d overlooked the obvious: his Slytherin crew. He knew his standing among them was solid, but he’d never tapped it fully. And if any house at Hogwarts stuck together like glue, it was Slytherin. Those kids might rally their pure-blood families on his behalf—out of house pride, or loyalty to their "Prefect Erwin."
The pieces clicked. Through house gossip and shared grudges, they’d likely pieced it together and acted. It spelled trouble, but at least it was straightforward—no shadowy Ministry plots.
At lunch, Erwin barely touched his food, his appetite soured by worry. No matter the culprit, the fallout lood: shattered public image, curtailed maneuvers. He’d poured effort into playing the wronged outsider, a mask that let him strike without drawing heat. Lose it, and he’d be isolated, his hands tied.
What galled him most? He couldn’t even fault them. They thought they were doing him a solid, settling the score.
The Slytherins noticed his dour mood. Grodia edged closer, hesitant. "Er, Prefect? You look... off."
Erwin fixed him with a steady gaze. "Grodia, level with . Did you lot write ho about the Weasleys?"
Grodia’s face paled, but Erwin pressed on. "I don’t want lies, whatever the excuse."
"I’m sorry, Prefect," Grodia blurted. "We didn’t an to keep it from you. We were just furious on your account—so we sent owls."
Erwin sighed, a mix of exasperation and relief washing over him. Simpler than he’d feared: no grand conspiracy, just overzealous kids. It eased the paranoia, if not the ss.
"Who exactly?" he asked.
Grodia shrugged. "Everyone who could."
Erwin blinked. "What do you an, everyone ?"
"Just that! Anyone with connections fired off letters. Every pure-blood family still kicking should’ve gotten an owl by now."
Erwin stared, stunned. Exhausted. Let it be done. He’d underestimated them badly. The combined clout of Slytherin, united for once? It was a force of nature—enough to dismantle the Weasleys in a single, brutal day.
...
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