Flames crackled through the Prescott manor, the air thick with acrid smoke and fading wails. After what felt like an eternity, silence settled over the ruins. No one survived the inferno. Even the grand stone buildings lay in smoldering heaps, scorched by dragonfire.
Erwin surveyed the devastation from atop Norbert's massive head, a satisfied nod escaping him. He didn't fancy himself heartless, but mercy was a luxury he couldn't afford. "Pull the weeds by the roots, or they'll sprout come spring," he muttered. Unless someone proved useful, he left no loose ends—no threats to circle back and bite.
Beside him, Cassandra stared at the carnage, her face pale. She'd never imagined a second-tier family could be erased so utterly, in one brutal sweep.
"Right," Erwin said, clapping his hands. "On to the next."
She nodded, still dazed. Norbert, though swift as a gale, couldn't bridge the distances instantly. By the time they reached the second target—the Robert family—the sun hung high overhead, marking noon.
Word of the Prescott annihilation had spread like Fiendfyre through the wizarding grapevine. Inside the Robert manor's opulent dining hall, the family patriarch slumped at the head of the long oak table, his weathered face twisted in fury.
"Who gave you permission to meddle at the Worre estate?" he bellowed. "I explicitly forbade involvement! This is a clash between elite houses—Cavendish and Demos. We're small fry; anyone who sticks their neck out gets it chopped off. Confess—who defied me?"
The room fell silent. Several younger Roberts shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. Patriarch Robert, the family elder, sighed heavily. Their evasion told him everything: everyone but him had thrown in with the Diggonrys, eager for scraps of favor.
He rubbed his temples, exhaustion settling in like a familiar curse. He'd outlived too many to be naive. The Cavendish and Demos houses were titans, their feud a bloodbath waiting to erupt. But now wasn't the time—not with the Ministry watching and old alliances fragile. Sides chosen too soon meant becoming collateral damage.
That's why he'd kept the family out. Yet here they were, tangled in the mess because his son—the current patriarch—couldn't resist a show of loyalty.
"Father, forgive me," his son said, voice trembling. "It was my error. I'll offer my life if it quells the Cavendishes' wrath."
Patriarch Robert eyed him wearily. "Foolish boy. Your head won't satisfy them. We're not the target; we're the message. You handed Erwin the perfect excuse to flex his muscle across the American wizarding world."
The son's face drained of color as realization dawned. His scheme had been simple: dispatch lackeys to the Worre ruins, pledge allegiance to Robert, and perhaps snag some protection in return. A boost for the Roberts. But he'd forgotten the Cavendishes weren't pushovers. Young Erwin, for all his youth, wielded ambition like a wand—sharp and unyielding.
"Then what now?" the son stammered. "Evacuate the key members? Scatter the assets?"
"Too late," Patriarch Robert replied grimly. "He's here."
A thunderous roar split the air, shaking the chandeliers. "Out—everyone," Patriarch Robert commanded. "Let's see if there's any way out of this."
He led the procession into the courtyard, where Norbert's colossal form blotted out the sun. Erwin perched atop the dragon's head, gazing down like a judge at execution.
"Plotted your graves already?" one elder sneered, though his voice wavered. "I figured you'd stand and fight for your holdings."
Patriarch Robert stepped forward, bowing low to the figure in the sky. "Lord Cavendish, a word, if you'll grant it?"
Erwin glanced down, eyebrow arched. "And who might you be?"
"The former patriarch of House Robert," the old man replied steadily. "Eldest of our line."
Erwin chuckled. "Ah, the family cornerstone, then?"
Patriarch Robert inclined his head. "Before House Cavendish, no foundation stands firm."
"Flattery's a start," Erwin said. "But we're famished—haven't eaten since dawn."
"Our kitchens are yours," Patriarch Robert offered quickly. "A modest spread, but hearty."
Erwin smirked, then tapped Norbert's scales. The dragon descended with a ground-shaking thud, revealing its full, terrifying bulk—a mature beast, scales gleaming like burnished armor.
Erwin dismounted gracefully, Cassandra at his side. The Roberts recoiled at the sight.
Patriarch Robert bowed deeper. "This way, Lord Cavendish."
Erwin feigned suspicion. "Hoping to trap me inside for a mass ambush, are you, old man?"
Terror flashed across Patriarch Robert's face. "Perish the thought! We can dine al fresco—the gardens are lovely this time of day. No tricks, I swear. House Robert means no harm."
Erwin laughed outright. "Relax, I jest. No self-respecting wizard stoops to parlor tricks. And honestly? Even solo, I outmatch your lot."
Without waiting, he strode into the manor. Patriarch Robert hurried after, signaling house-elves to scurry into action.
Moments later, platters arrived: roast pheasant, fresh-baked pies, and flagons of butterbeer. Erwin sampled a bite. "Not bad at all."
Patriarch Robert beamed faintly. "I'm pleased it suits you."
Erwin set down his fork. "So, out with it. What's this parley about?"
The elder placed his utensils aside, meeting Erwin's gaze. "Spare House Robert, my lord. We've erred, but we're not your true foes."
Erwin leaned back, unsurprised. The elaborate lunch, the groveling—it reeked of desperation. "Give me one reason. House Cavendish harbors no soft spots for enemies."
...
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