It was no use. Charlotte's teammates lay sprawled across the training ground, eliminated one by one. Only she remained, wand trembling in her grip.
"Professor, I forfeit!" Charlotte cried, her voice cracking. "I can't take them all alone!"
Erwin chuckled, his eyes glinting with misPatriarch. "They're all down, Charlotte. You're a fifth-year—and a Slytherin prefect at that. Time to show what you're made of."
She managed a wry smile. No mercy from her professor today. Still, Charlotte wasn't going out without a fight. She drew on her dwindling magic reserves, flicking her wand with a shout: "Bombarda!"
A sharp crack echoed as the nearest stone golem's knee joint shattered. The massive figure toppled, crumbling into rubble on the frost-kissed grass.
But the effort left Charlotte gasping, her face pale and slick with sweat. The last golem lumbered toward her, unyielding. She spread her arms wide in a final, defiant stance.
The golem's stone foot connected with a thud, sending her skidding across the ground. She came to a stop at Erwin's feet, bruised but unbroken.
With a casual wave, Erwin restored the final golem to lifeless stone, its fragments scattering like broken toys. He stretched, surveying the groaning fifth-years littering the field, then shook his head ruefully. Madam Pomfrey was going to have his hide for this. The infirmary was already busier than a Quidditch match day.
With a flick of his fingers, he levitated the lot of them into the air, a comical procession of floating students trailing behind him like enchanted balloons. Erwin couldn't help but grin at the sight as he led them toward the castle.
Once inside, the airborne group vanished up the stairs, and a cluster of second-years emerging from Flying lessons exchanged wide-eyed glances.
"Blimey, was that Professor Erwin's class?" one whispered, voice hushed in awe.
"You saw those golems? Massive bruisers— one swipe and you're paste!"
"Think we'll have to face them too? Makes my skin crawl just looking."
"No kidding. And we've got Defense Against the Dark Arts this afternoon. Reckon we can feign sick?"
The spectacle had shaken them. At first, Erwin's appointment as their professor had sparked excitement—he was one of them, after all, not some stuffy adult droning on. But this? It was brutal. They'd take McGonagall's stern lectures or even Snape's icy glares any day over getting pummeled into the Hospital Wing.
In the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey's expression soured at the influx of battered students dumped unceremoniously onto beds and the floor. But spotting Erwin, she held her tongue, crossing her arms.
"Out with it, young man. What fresh chaos have you wrought this time?"
Erwin offered an apologetic bow. "Sorry to burden you, Madam Pomfrey. But these fifth-years are on the cusp of O.W.L.s, with N.E.W.T.s looming after. Time's short—they've squandered enough this year on distractions. Theory alone won't cut it for Defense Against the Dark Arts; it's all about the practical. So, I set up a sparring drill with the golems. My apologies for the extra work."
Her frown softened into sympathy. "You poor thing, pouring your heart into these troublemakers. Don't fret—I'll patch them up. Off you go; I've got this."
Erwin nodded gratefully. "Thanks ever so much."
Life at Hogwarts buzzed with energy, at least from Erwin's vantage. He thrived on the chaos, watching his students sharpen their skills under pressure. The Hospital Wing, though, resembled a battlefield triage tent. Students from all four houses limped in daily, sporting bruises, sprains, and the occasional charmed bandage that itched relentlessly.
Erwin tailored his methods by year. First-years stuck to textbooks, building foundations without the terror of live drills. Second- and third-years blended theory with light practice to ease them in. But from fourth-year up, the gloves came off: hands-on combat against conjured stone golems, scaled to their level.
Fourth-years faced five golems—tough but manageable. Fifth-years doubled that to ten, honing endurance. Sixth-years tackled just five, but each packed the punch of twenty ordinary ones, forcing precision over brute force. And the seventh-years? Erwin unleashed a guardian rivaling the castle's own ancient sentinels, a creation that even taxed his limits.
His investment paid off. Under the relentless "lessons," the older students' spells flew truer, their reflexes keener. Word spread, and soon the other professors eyed Erwin's approach enviously, itching to infuse more practicality into their own classes.
Professor Sprout led the charge. In yesterday's Herbology lesson, she marched her Hufflepuffs and the visiting sixth-year Slytherins to the Whomping Willow's edge, intent on demonstrating hands-on care for the temperamental tree.
Predictably, the Willow took offense. Branches whipped like vengeful serpents, hurling students skyward in a flurry of yelps and leaves. Sprout barely talked it down in time—otherwise, heads might have rolled, quite literally.
The aftermath was pandemonium: young witches and wizards scattered like startled pixies across the grounds. Erwin, passing by, had paused to watch with a nostalgic smirk. It reminded him of his own early scrapes.
The professors huddled later, dissecting the fiasco. Most conceded their subjects—Potions' delicate brews, Charms' intricate wandwork—didn't lend themselves to such raw physicality. Disappointment lingered, but they adapted where they could.
Time flew as the holidays neared. Fifth-years buckled down for O.W.L.s, a pressure cooker of revision sessions orchestrated by the staff. Results would arrive by owl in July, but Erwin had no doubts. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, at least, he'd drilled them relentlessly. An Exceeds Expectations was the floor; Outstanding, the goal. With the progress he'd seen, they were on track to smash it.
...
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