Erwin showed no surprise at the apparition of the spirit. He'd encountered plenty before—Ravenclaw's essence still lingered in his mind, after all. This was nothing new.
He studied the translucent figure, whose features eerily mirrored Cassandra's, and asked, "Are you from the Worre family line?"
The spirit nodded. "Indeed. Though I wouldn't call myself a true ancestor. I was the seventh head of the Worre family."
Erwin pieced it together. His hunch had been right—the Worres traced back further than most pure-blood lines.
"So," he said dryly, "now that you've emerged, what's the point? Enlighten me on some ancient riddle, or drop more cryptic hints for me to unravel?"
He knew the routine all too well. If his life were a story, the readers would be rolling their eyes by now. Even he was growing weary of the endless mysteries.
The spirit blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness. For someone of her vast experience, this wasn't the reverent exchange she'd imagined. But she recovered quickly. "I emerged only to see you for myself. I can't unravel the mystery— you'll uncover it in due time. Even if I could explain, I wouldn't know how. All I know is you're part of a grand design, one that predates your arrival. The details? Beyond even the Worres' ancient grasp."
She paused, her ethereal form flickering. "My glimpse of you came in a dream. I pieced together fragments from it, nothing more. No revelations, no answers—just this."
Erwin raised an eyebrow. "Then why bother appearing? To gawk at me? You're long gone; seeing me changes nothing for you."
She let out a soft, wistful laugh. "You're refreshingly direct. True, my presence alters nothing. But curiosity drew me. I wanted to meet the one who could tip the balance of the wizarding world."
Erwin shrugged. "Fair enough. Though I've never put much stock in fate. Strength and cunning? Those I trust. Destiny can be bent if you've got the will—and the power."
The spirit regarded him thoughtfully, then smiled. "Now I see it. In my era, there was a king they hailed as the true sovereign. He reshaped history, forged an age. You carry his blood, yet surpass him. Perhaps that's the mark of a real leader."
Erwin's pulse quickened. "King Arthur?"
"Yes," she confirmed. "That's what history named him."
He inclined his head. "High praise. But it's late—I should head out. You won't try to keep me, will you?"
Her smile widened. "No need. Your power outstrips mine. Go freely; this realm will fade once you're gone."
Erwin nodded. "You've waited ages just for this chat. Mind if I take a crystal ball as a souvenir?"
Her eyes twinkled with knowing amusement. "Take what you like."
He plucked one from a nearby shelf. "How do I exit?"
"Walk straight behind me," she instructed. "You'll emerge."
Erwin turned and strode forward. Moments later, the misty chamber dissolved, depositing him back in the Worre family archives.
Cassandra jumped, her eyes wide. "Patriarch, where did you vanish to?"
"Your ancestor's parting gift," Erwin replied. "How long was I gone?"
"Ten minutes, at most."
He frowned, calculating. That space had felt like two full hours. It reminded him of the Ravenclaw inheritance—time stretched thin inside, racing ahead outside. Some ancient magic at work, bending time itself?
Cassandra's gaze fell on the crystal ball clutched in his hand. "Is that the prophecy our ancestors guarded?"
Erwin shook his head. "Not quite. The real one's too fragile to remove. This? Just a decoy. For prying eyes."
She caught his meaning immediately. He was baiting the American pure-bloods, dangling a false lead to draw them out.
Her shoulders slumped, conflict etching her face. Erwin smirked. "Want to know the actual prophecy?"
She nodded hesitantly. "It drove us from our homeland. I've always wondered. But if it touches on the Ancient Wizarding Houses' secrets, keep it to yourself."
"It's not that tangled," he assured her. "Curious, though—where did the Diggorys get the idea it involved those houses? It doesn't. Here, listen."
He recounted the dream's vision word for word: the boy with the lightning scar, the dark lord's fall, light yielding to shadow only for cycles to renew. A tale of enduring struggle, veiled in metaphor.
Cassandra's brow furrowed. "What does 'alternation of light and darkness' even mean? Is it about you, Patriarch?"
"Who knows?" Erwin said with a shrug. "Prophecies are riddles by design—vague enough to fit anything. Don't lose sleep over it."
She exhaled, relief softening her features. For her, the truth itself was victory. Generations of Worres had sacrificed everything to protect this secret, sight unseen. Now, at last, it was hers to hold.
...
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