After unleashing the spell once, Erwin felt a weight lift from his mind. At least his curiosity was sated—for now. Still, he had to admit, those purple flas were downright impressive. His spell practice had veered into uncharted territory, everything tinted in shades of violet: the curse, the Fiendfyre, the lot. As any avid reader knew, masters of magic could twist the sa incantation into a spectrum of colors. And who else but Erwin Cavendish, the true hero of this tale, to pull it off?
Grinning to himself, he whistled as he sauntered back to the Slytherin common room. His magic reserves were utterly depleted, not a spark left. Sleep was the only quick fix in the wizarding world—no potions or ditations to hasten recovery, just rest. Wizards were stuck in the past, unable to innovate like the mages in those Muggle fantasy novels who could replenish mana at will.
By the ti he slipped through the lake-view entrance past ten o’clock, his magic had trickled back to about a tenth. The emptiness gnawed at him, leaving him on edge. A cluster of younger Slytherins huddled by the fireplace, poring over books and debating charms theory. Erwin’s chest swelled with pride. This was Slytherin’s future: ambitious minds blending intellect with their house’s cunning heritage. If they rivaled Ravenclaw’s scholars one day, Slytherin would dominate the houses.
The group spotted him and sprang to their feet. "Prefect!"
Erwin nodded approvingly. "Brilliant. Keep at it—the glory of Slytherin rests on shoulders like yours."
Their eyes lit up, determination renewed as if the tos might burrow straight into their skulls. Malfoy sidled up, his voice low. "Prefect, Professor Quirrell was looking for you earlier. Said to et him in his office when you got back."
Erwin’s smile faltered. Quirrell? That was Voldemort’s puppet talking. Why would the Dark Lord summon him now?
Malfoy caught the shift. "Problem, Prefect?"
"Nothing," Erwin said, forcing a grin. "Carry on with your studies. I’ll sort it out."
He retreated to his dormitory, slumping into a chair with a furrowed brow. What could Voldemort want? Erwin kept the man at arm’s length—a dangerous foe, even diminished. Sure, he’d lost to Dumbledore in the original story, but that was all part of the old wizard’s intricate web of plots and feints. If Voldemort were truly a pushover, why would Dumbledore, at the height of his power, bother with such elaborate sches? Horcruxes played a part, no doubt, but it scread respect for the Dark Lord’s raw talent.
Especially after witnessing Dumbledore’s clash with those black-robed attackers. The sky had blazed crimson from his flas—terrifying, godlike power. Erwin shuddered. How formidable had Voldemort been in his pri, trading blows with a wizard like that?
He activated his inner voice. "System, what’s Voldemort’s magic level at his peak?"
[Peak Voldemort’s magic falls between levels six and seven.]
Erwin scratched his head. "Between? Make it six and a half, then."
[Precisely—above six, but short of seven.]
"And in actual combat, all factors considered?"
[True battle prowess hits level eight, matching Dumbledore and peak Grindelwald.]
Erwin’s frown deepened. "Is Voldemort that strong?"
[This simulation assus his pri, pre-Horcrux era, at optimal age and strength.]
It clicked. Those soul fragnts had diluted the Dark Lord’s might. Foolish move, splitting himself like that.
"And ?" Erwin pressed.
[At your current age, with mastered spells—no firearms—your combat strength is around level five, at full output.]
Erwin mulled it over. "So this wraith version of him... he can’t be much above now."
The inner voice went silent, as if exasperated. [Figure the rest out yourself. Where’s the thrill if I spoil it all?]
Erwin smirked. Stingy as ever. This System had its limits, but it was better than nothing. Should he et the man? Curiosity burned brighter than caution, especially with Dumbledore away. Voldemort might try sothing underhanded, but facing him head-on was a step toward tackling greater threats. Erwin wasn’t the type to cower—not when he’d been too feeble to even consider it before.
Decision made, he snapped his fingers. Apparition would keep things discreet. But precautions first. With a flick of his wrist, an array of lethal Muggle armants materialized on the desk: pistols, rifles, their safeties checked and magazines loaded. His gaze lingered on the final piece—an RPG launcher. He hefted it, slid the rocket into place, and ard it with a satisfying click. Ready for whatever the Dark Lord had in store.
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