Cassandra glanced at Erwin, her voice steady. "So, Professor, what now? Ignore them?"
Erwin smiled faintly. "No, we'll play along."
She blinked, caught off guard. Why would he follow their script when he'd already seen through it?
Erwin offered no explanation. A scripted family feud? Not quite. His lips curved upward. There were layers to the Demos family he hadn't uncovered yet—and that was the thrill of it. Life without surprises would be as dull as a scripted play.
He didn't dwell on it. Uncertainty kept things interesting.
Unlike in Germany, the American Ministry of Magic—MACUSA—hadn't reached out. Erwin expected as much. The old families here, especially the Diggories, held real sway. MACUSA was little more than a figurehead. If he wanted to shake up the American wizarding world, he'd need the Diggories on side. Crossing them outright would only unify the opposition against him.
He ran a finger along his amethyst wand. The Diggories were off-limits for now, but the lesser families? Fair game. And he wouldn't have to wait long for an excuse; someone would blunder into providing one.
More pressingly, he needed to bolster his magical power soon.
The night passed quietly. Erwin enjoyed a comfortable evening in his hotel penthouse.
He rose early the next morning. Cassandra joined him for breakfast in the suite. She ate in silence, respecting his space—no questions about the Worre family manor or his plans. She trusted him to lead.
Afterward, Erwin lingered in the room, patient as ever. Cassandra gazed out the window at the bustling street below, her thoughts drifting.
Then, the flutter of wings caught his ear. His eyes sharpened. "Cassandra, the window!"
She opened it swiftly. An owl swooped in—Bobby, Erwin's faithful bird. It nuzzled his hand affectionately.
Erwin chuckled. "Well done. Fetch him a treat."
As Cassandra obliged, Bobby dropped the envelope from his beak onto the table and hopped away eagerly.
Erwin slit it open and scanned the contents. His brow furrowed deeper with each line. Satisfied, he crushed the parchment in his fist; it erupted in harmless flames, crumbling to ash. The signature glowed briefly: Vinda Rosier.
This was her reply. Before leaving for America, he'd sent her a letter via Poppy, inquiring about Grindelwald's prophecies. The old dark wizard had been a seer in his own right—foreseeing Muggle weapons that sparked the International Statute of Secrecy. Most dismissed him, but Erwin sensed deeper truths.
According to Vinda, Grindelwald had indeed prophesied as a youth, dismissing it as a vivid dream at first. But maturity brought clarity: it might foretell a cataclysm.
Prophecies were enigmatic, much like Sybill Trelawney's trance-induced visions, forgotten upon waking. Grindelwald's strength let him retain fragments, which he later documented.
A worldwide catastrophe. Corpses littered the earth. Western wizards joined Eastern wizards in desperate alliance against shadows cloaked in black mist. Grindelwald couldn't discern the foe, only the slaughter: skies turned crimson, bodies stacked like barricades, rivers of blood. The fallen reeked of otherworldly dread—perhaps even divine.
God, he'd speculated. The Almighty Himself.
Grindelwald had guarded the secret fiercely, sharing it only with Vinda Rosier and Dumbledore. Now, with his blessing, Vinda had confided in Erwin. He was the fourth to know.
Cassandra swept the ashes away quietly, sensing his absorption.
Erwin sank into the sofa, mind racing. Prophecies had always intrigued him; this one felt perilously real.
After a moment, he rose. "Come on, Cassandra. Time to visit your manor."
Her eyes brightened. She nodded, falling in step as they left the hotel.
No sooner had they emerged than Erwin detected watchful eyes—subtle, but unmistakable to him. A smirk tugged at his lips. Predictable. Someone was getting impatient.
It suited him perfectly. He hadn't crossed the Atlantic just to sightsee. This trip demanded results—or it would all be for naught.
...
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