After dinner, Erwin headed straight to Snape’s office. He entered the password with practiced ease. With a soft hiss, the door swung open.
The mont he stepped inside, a pungent odor assaulted his senses. Erwin waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the stench.
"Professor Snape! What are you brewing? It slls dreadful!"
Snape ignored him, his attention fixed on the cauldron before him. Inside, a thick, pitch-black sludge bubbled and churned ominously. Erwin suppressed a shiver. It looked downright sinister—surely so kind of poison?
Sensing Snape’s intense focus, Erwin held his tongue. He moved to the side, pulled out the Half-Blood Prince’s Potions Textbook, and settled in to read.
About half an hour later, the potion was complete. Snape exhaled sharply, a flicker of relief crossing his sallow features. He poured the viscous liquid into a vial and thrust it toward Erwin.
Erwin accepted it with curiosity. "Where should I put this, Professor?"
"Drink it," Snape snapped.
Erwin froze, staring at the murky contents. Drink it? The stuff looked lethal. What if it killed him on the spot?
Snape’s lip curled. "Drink it, and you’ll understand its effects. Quickly now—we still need to brew a Wit-Sharpening Potion."
Erwin’s expression soured. No choice, then. From Snape’s deanor, it didn’t seem like a murder plot. And if the man truly wanted him dead, he’d hardly bother with this charade.
With a grimace of resignation, Erwin tilted his head back and downed the potion. The instant it hit his tongue, a wave of bitterness exploded across his senses. He winced, forcing it all down without pause.
Smacking his lips in disgust, Erwin pondered the effects. Then, abruptly, a surge of power erupted within him. Almost imdiately, a familiar, twisted throbbing—deep and insistent—clamped down, suppressed by an iron force.
His eyes widened in shock. "This is...?"
Horror gripped him. He’d harbored a dark secret for years: a near-pathological craving for violence, for ending lives. Only Tom knew the truth. Erwin prided himself on being a decent sort, but this urge gnawed at him relentlessly. He’d buried it deep, especially since arriving at Hogwarts, channeling it only when necessary—like his ferocious assault on the Acromantula the previous day.
He’d always chalked it up to his grim upbringing, a survival instinct honed in shadows. Ruthlessness was non-negotiable in his old world. But now? Snape’s potion had quashed it effortlessly. And worse, Snape clearly knew about it.
Erwin’s gaze sharpened with suspicion. How? And why the redy? Beneath his robes, his acacia wand slipped silently into his hand.
Snape’s eyes flicked to the hidden movent, a shadow of lancholy passing over his face before he masked it. "No need for paranoia. If I ant you harm, your current skills wouldn’t save you—wand or no wand. I’ve said as much before. That bloodlust? It’s your heritage."
Erwin blinked. "My bloodline?"
Snape inclined his head. "So truths I can’t share yet. For your own good. Just know this potion curbs the drawbacks of your ancestry. You’ll need a fresh vial every week—from ."
"I don’t get it," Erwin pressed. "Professor, you know I can rein it in myself."
Snape’s tone grew sharper. "You manage now because you’re young. Without this, it’ll overwhelm you by next year."
Erwin’s brow furrowed. "Was it like this for my father?"
"No," Snape replied curtly. "He was different. His blood wasn’t as potent. Yours blends his with your mother’s—a volatile mix. You’ll grasp it eventually. For now, more knowledge does you no favors."
Erwin fell silent, absorbing the words. Then: "Professor, why help ? I’m a liability. Why bring to Hogwarts at all?"
Snape’s eyes narrowed. "Dumbledore knows your circumstances. Don’t flatter yourself thinking no one noticed your Forbidden Forest jaunt. You’re arrogant, Erwin—through and through. You wielded Muggle firearms but didn’t bother erasing the traces, banking on your cleverness to deflect suspicion. Yet you missed the obvious: who else could blend Muggle tech with stealthy forest raids? You play the cautious card, but control blinds you. Drop the hubris, or it’ll cost you dearly."
Erwin stayed quiet, the rebuke hitting ho. Arrogance? Guilty as charged. When exhilaration took hold, he felt invincible, dismissing details he’d otherwise scrutinize. Like a berserker lost in battle—fierce, but blinded.
He dipped his head respectfully. "I’ll keep that in mind, Professor."
Snape nodded, pausing before adding, "You can trust . I’ll never betray you. But Dumbledore? Tread carefully. He serves grander ideals, willing to sacrifice anything—even you—for them."
Erwin stared, caught off guard not by the warning—Dumbledore’s unreliability was no shock—but by Snape voicing it aloud.
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