Erwin shrugged as the dungeon door creaked open. Their dear Professor Snape had arrived, right on cue.
He’d half-expected this after unleashing Sectumsempra in that skirmish, but the reality still sent a shiver down his spine. Snape had always treated him decently—better than most, really. But you didn’t cross Snape lightly. Everyone at Hogwarts knew there were two people you never wanted on your bad side.
First was Madam Pomfrey, the matron whose potions and spells held your fragile life in her capable hands. Hogwarts was a minefield of hazards: Quidditch dives, wayward spells, or pranks from mischief-makers like the Weasley twins. So dangers were deliberate, others just bad luck.
The second? Snape himself. Offend him, and he’d turn your school days into a masterclass in petty tornt.
Erwin trailed the professor to his office without a word. Snape flicked his sleeve, and the heavy door slamd shut behind them—a neat bit of wandless magic that made Erwin’s eyes widen in admiration.
Snape settled into his high-backed chair, his dark eyes piercing. "Tell , when exactly did you learn Sectumsempra?"
Erwin scratched his head, feigning casualness. "Last night?"
Snape’s lip curled. "You only received my old notes yesterday. And you skipped straight to that?"
"No, Professor—it’s my mory. I skimd and morized the key parts. I’ll go back and digest the rest later. That’s how I study. Anyway, I spotted the spell you jotted in the margins and gave it a try."
"How long did you practice?"
Erwin hesitated. "Ten minutes? Maybe twenty? An hour at most."
Snape’s face darkened like a brewing storm. The evasion hung in the air, but the professor knew better. Erwin hadn’t labored over it for days; the boy had grasped it in a flash.
A scoff escaped Snape. "Don’t let it go to your head. Picking up spells quickly is no great feat."
Erwin nodded vigorously, the office door’s seal muffling any chance of eavesdroppers. Whatever Snape said was gospel here—even if it ant agreeing the man was rlin reborn.
Snape’s expression softened a fraction, pleased by the deference. This was a proper Slytherin: sharp, compliant when it counted. Far better than that scar-headed nuisance, Potter, with his insufferable green eyes. If not for his old debt to Jas, Snape might have unleashed true venom on the boy. As it was, Erwin sensed the edge in every word, a controlled cruelty that made his skin prickle.
"Use Sectumsempra sparingly from now on," Snape continued. "It’s rooted in the Dark Arts, even if it spares you the usual taint of malice. Its power is too vicious for squabbles between students."
"Understood, Professor." Erwin paused, choosing his words. "But my spellwork’s still patchy. I doubt I could pull off anything like Sectumsempra in a real pinch."
It was as clear as he could make it: a plea for guidance. With any luck, Snape would offer private lessons, stocking Erwin’s arsenal and saving him from wasting System points on a draw. He was a student, after all—learning from a master wasn’t begging.
Snape’s gaze sharpened, reading the ploy. "Don’t think you can wrap around your finger. No private spells until you’ve claid your prefect badge. You found Sectumsempra on your own; my notes were ant to sharpen your potion skills, to make you useful in my lab. That’s the bargain. Earn the role fairly."
Erwin scratched his head again, frustration bubbling. Slytherin and its endless rules—why couldn’t anything be straightforward?
"Professor," he ventured, "I’m curious. Who ca up with all these traditions?"
Snape leaned forward, his voice a low drawl. "Salazar Slytherin himself. Founder of our house, one of Hogwarts’ four greats. You know Slytherin’s core: ambition, cunning, survival of the fittest. Salazar saw magic as a ladder, climbed only by the ruthless. In his day, Slytherin was a proving ground—a gladiatorial pit where the weak were culled, and the strong claid their due."
Erwin blinked, caught off guard. Salazar sounded like a tyrant from so dark legend. No wonder the other founders had sidelined him. It smacked of ruthless indoctrination, breeding predators over scholars. Yet it worked: Slytherins outmatched the other houses in duels and sches, their alumni etched in history’s shadows—nas whispered, not celebrated.
There were trade-offs, of course. That cutthroat edge forged titans but left scars: a house obsessed with power, where alliances crumbled under self-interest. Still, as Erwin mulled it over, he couldn’t deny the appeal. In a world of wands and wonders, weakness was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
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