The group navigated the dim basement corridor until they reached its shadowy depths. A single door loomed there, unassuming yet heavy with secrecy.
Patriarch Robert released Patriarch Robert's hand and stepped aside. Patriarch Robert delved into his robes and withdrew a necklace, its pendant a simple cross that glinted faintly in the low light.
Erwin studied it closely, a flicker of recognition tugging at his memory. The symbol felt oddly familiar, like something glimpsed in an ancient tome.
Patriarch Robert pressed the cross against the door and retreated two paces. With a soft click, the door swung open on silent hinges.
He bowed slightly. "Sir, please enter."
Cassandra shot Erwin a questioning glance. He offered her a reassuring smile. "Wait here for me."
She nodded, and Erwin strode inside without a second thought. Any traps or ambushes? Hardly a concern—he trusted his wits, and the Roberts weren't fools. Patriarch Robert, in particular, was far too shrewd for rash moves.
Patriarch Robert followed close behind. As Erwin crossed the threshold, two wall-mounted torches flared to life, casting a warm glow over the sparse chamber. A single stone pedestal dominated the center, topped by a plain cloth pouch.
Erwin eyed it. "So this is the source of your edge over other wizards' magic?"
Patriarch Robert's pulse quickened, but he nodded. "Sharp as ever, sir. Yes, this has bolstered my magical reserves beyond the ordinary."
He approached the pedestal, lifted the pouch, and offered it to Erwin. Untying the strings, Erwin peered inside. A handful of dark, unremarkable seeds nestled there.
Before Erwin could probe further, Patriarch Robert launched into the tale. "As a young man, I lost my way at sea and washed up on a fog-shrouded isle. I didn't dare press inland, but on the fringes, I found these. Back home, one sprouted into a fruitful plant. Eating its yield amplified my magic tenfold. The others, though... they refused to grow. I've scoured the oceans since, but that island eludes me."
Erwin's brow creased. The story rang a bell—eerie echoes of Grindelwald's own exploits. Only Grindelwald had plunged deeper, alongside Dumbledore, into the heart of the Isle of Avalon.
So Patriarch Robert had brushed against Avalon too? Erwin turned the seed over in his palm. Legends painted it as magic's cradle, where ancient forces—gods, perhaps—first gifted power to humankind. But why the veil of silence in wizarding lore? Scant mentions, faded myths. If Robert had returned with these seeds, who else had ventured there? And what treasures—or curses—had they claimed?
Patriarch Robert watched him intently. "Sir, I can't say what these truly are, but their potential feels immense. You've a gift for the arcane; perhaps you can unlock them where I failed."
His tone held a desperate edge, lest Erwin dismiss the offering and doom the Roberts to ruin.
After a tense pause, Erwin pocketed the pouch. "I accept them. In return, I'll pay a call on the Robert. Find an eleven-year-old from your line for Hogwarts' acceptance letter."
Relief washed over Patriarch Robert's face. "Thank you, Lord Cavendish! You've saved us."
Erwin dismissed the gratitude with a wave. "Enough. This crypt's no place to linger—too damp for proper rest."
That night, Erwin quartered at the Robert estate. Come dawn, he and Cassandra Apparated back to the Robert' sprawling manor.
The Robert patriarch greeted them coolly, his eyes narrowing as he divined their intent. "Back so soon, Lord Cavendish? Meddling to shield the Roberts?"
Erwin's lips quirked. "Not shielding, exactly. They made an offer worth my time."
The patriarch's voice hardened. "This is America, not Britain. You've no business here."
Erwin shrugged, unfazed. "Power draws lines, not the powerless."
A dangerous spark lit the Robert's gaze. "Insulting us, are you? The Robert, weak?"
"I'd never presume," Erwin replied smoothly. "But the Cavendishes could ignite a war tomorrow. Can you afford the same?"
The patriarch's expression soured. Erwin pressed on. "We both know peace suits me less than you. My youth's my shield—even victory leaves you empty-handed. War's a fool's gamble for your side."
"The Roberts are ours to judge," the patriarch snapped. "They've overstepped, striking at kin. No outsider can harbor them."
Erwin rose, smoothing his robes. "Then that's your call. I've already summoned my kin; they'll guest with the Roberts. Harm a hair on their heads, and as Cavendish head, I'll answer in kind."
The patriarch's stare could have frozen fire, but Erwin met it steadily. "One last thing: your house-elves brew wretched coffee. Worse than Muggle diner slop. Time for fresh help."
With that, he turned on his heel and departed. The patriarch watched him go, murder flickering in his eyes before he reined it in. He muttered under his breath, "A thorn in Robert lands? Fine—I'll drive it deep."
Outside the wards, Cassandra ventured a question. "Will they back off the Roberts, my lord?"
Erwin chuckled dryly. "Not entirely. No grand purge, but expect pinpricks—small woes to test the waters."
...
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