Erwin pulled up his personal panel. He had 2,100 magic proficiency points left. Without a second thought, he allocated most of them: one batch to the Shield Charm for Protego Diabolica and another to Fiendfyre for clearing paths. That left him with just a hundred.
As he moved to close the panel, his eye caught the Disarming Spell’s progress: 9900/10000. Perfect timing. He dumped in the last points, unlocking a third Level 4 spell alongside the Killing Curse and Sectumsempra. This one he’d mastered entirely on his own—no teacher, just relentless practice since arriving at Hogwarts. He’d fired off Expelliarmus more tis than he could count, compensating for his middling Level 6 talent in basic spells. Still, staring at the panel, those untapped talents below Level 10 grated on him. He’d wait for the Christmas lottery to boost them properly. Otherwise, with the effort these Slytherins were pouring in, even he might fall behind.
Panel dismissed, Erwin felt a trickle of magic returning to his reserves. He stood, intending to head back for so rest. But at the door, he paused. An idea sparked. Fiendfyre needed an igniter to sustain itself, right? Surely enchanted tal like the practice dummy wouldn’t count as fuel. Why not test it himself? Curiosity burned too hot to ignore.
His magic was still low, but Apparition back to the dorm felt lazy. Better to stretch his legs—adventure called. Convinced, he decided to unleash a small Fiendfyre burst and see it in action. It wouldn’t match Grindelwald’s inferno, but a taste would do.
He wandered back to the practice dummy and cleared his throat. Wand raised lightly, he incanted the curse, and purple flas erupted.
A small purple-flad bird erupted from his wandtip, darting toward the dummy. It struck true, lting the tal shell in seconds. Erwin barely had ti to savor the thrill of his first controlled blaze.
Then the interior revealed itself—wood. "Bloody hell! They cheaped out with wood inside?!"
The flas latched onto the timber, roaring to life. In monts, the dummy crumbled to ash. Worse, the fire licked the wooden floor, igniting it with a vengeance.
"I’ve cocked this up," Erwin muttered, panic rising. How to douse it? Finite Incantatem? No, that wouldn’t touch Fiendfyre. And he hadn’t learned it anyway. The blaze swelled, threatening to consu the room.
Desperate, he snapped his fingers. Solution: run. The door to the Room of Requirent swung open as he bolted into the corridor. "Professor Snape! Help!"
His shout echoed. Before the words fully faded, a shadowy figure Apparated in front—Snape, black robes billowing, wand already drawn and scanning for threats.
"What’s happened?" Snape demanded, voice low and urgent.
Erwin jabbed a thumb at the open door. Snape peered inside. His eyes bulged. The Room blazed like a violet sea, flas fattened on the floorboards.
Snape thrust his wand forward. A jet of water shot out—but evaporated into steam on contact. His face darkened. "Fiendfyre?"
Erwin rubbed his neck, sheepish. "Er, looks impressive, doesn’t it?"
Snape’s glare could curdle milk. He didn’t dignify that with a response, instead Disapparating inside. Wand slamd to the floor: "Finite Incantatem!"
A golden barrier blood, sweeping toward the inferno. Where it passed, the flas withered and died. Soon, only smoke lingered.
Erwin exhaled, tension draining. Crisis averted—no Hogwarts barbecue today.
He edged toward escape on tiptoe.
"Mr. Cavendish," Snape drawled from the doorway, "and where exactly do you think you’re off to?"
Erwin froze. Full surna—death sentence. Snape was livid.
"It’s late, Professor," he said, forcing a grin. "Thought I’d catch so shut-eye. Night, sir!"
Snape’s expression was thunderous, eyes smoldering. "Cavendish, are you trying to get yourself killed? Fiendfyre isn’t a toy—it’s a catastrophe waiting to happen. And you dare unleash it here? If I hadn’t been patrolling nearby, the castle would be ashes by now. You’d have burned alive with every other student. And if by so miracle you survived? Straight to Azkaban. Do you grasp the recklessness?"
His voice cracked sharp, a rare slip from his usual silk. Erwin had never seen him this rattled—not even with Potter.
Head down, Erwin mumbled, "I’m sorry, Professor. Won’t happen again."
Snape drew a steadying breath, reining in his fury. "See that it doesn’t. You’re a Slytherin, boy—cunning, not suicidal. Save the heroics for Gryffindor."
Erwin nodded vigorously. "Absolutely, sir."
Snape snorted, turning on his heel and vanishing into the shadows.
Erwin sagged against the wall. Close call. An enraged Snape was a force of nature—far scarier than his daily jabs at Harry. Deep down, though, Erwin knew he’d pushed it too far. The allure of Fiendfyre had overridden sense. Next ti, curiosity would take a backseat.
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