Erwin lowered his wand and casually unstoppered the jar. Rita Skeeter burst out in a swirl of Animagus magic, transforming back into her human form. She dropped to her knees, grasping the toe of his shoe and pressing a kiss to it.
"My lord," she fawned, her voice dripping with desperation, "I'm valuable to you. I swear my loyalty—please, give me this chance!"
Erwin glanced at the clock. The timing was perfect. Rita's eyes widened in terror.
"Extend your arm," he commanded coolly.
Her hand shook as she obeyed. Erwin pressed his wand tip to her skin, and the Dark Mark bloomed into existence—a coiling serpent etched in shadow.
Rita's fear spiked. This was the Dark Lord's signature, twisted into something even more sinister. She regretted ever setting foot in Hogwarts, but it was too late now.
"Very well," Erwin said. "Play to your strengths. I won't meddle in your reporting, but you're clever enough to know how to spin it."
She nodded frantically. "I do, sir. Don't worry—I'll prove my worth. You'll see my piece in tomorrow's Prophet."
"Good." Erwin inclined his head. "Do your job properly. One day, you'll see that mark isn't a chain. It's your shield, your path to glory."
"Thank you, sir. I understand."
"Go on, then. Handle your business. I'll summon you if I need you. Keep digging on those Ministry officials—the dirt will come in handy."
Rita's pulse raced. She caught the undercurrent: Erwin was gearing up to challenge the Ministry. Her Ravenclaw wits told her to stay silent and vanish.
"Yes, sir."
She shrank back into beetle form and buzzed out the window. Erwin watched her go, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The key pieces were in place; now it was just a matter of waiting for the dominoes to fall. He hoped the pure-blood families wouldn't let him down.
All his preparations had led here—the final push. If everything went as planned, by summer's end, the Selwyn family would stand as a pillar of power in the wizarding world.
The Dark Mark on his own arm tingled suddenly. Erwin's gaze sharpened. He focused his mind, linking to it.
Tom's voice rasped in his thoughts. "Master Erwin, it's just as you predicted. Our shop was hit—those two wizards you had me hire are dead. Dark wizards did it, and Ministry Aurors are swarming the place now. What's our play?"
A smile tugged at Erwin's lips. "Faster than I thought. The Selwyn allegiance, my Protego Diabolica, and my rising profile have them rattled. Perfect. Did you prepare everything as instructed?"
"Yes, sir. Those lads were Hogwarts grads, solid performers with plenty of mates. The Aurors have the scene locked, but word's spreading—friends are demanding justice."
Erwin paused thoughtfully. "A Prophet reporter will contact you soon. Give her the full story; she'll handle the angle. How many regulars do we have?"
"Our ingredients are fresher, packed with more magic. Following your membership system, we've got seven Diamond members. Four are respected Potions Masters. The other three: two from pure-blood lines, and that writer Lockhart you wanted watched—we hooked him with a Diamond card. Eleven Emeralds below that, twenty Platinums, and over a hundred across Bronze, Silver, and Gold."
Erwin raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Better than expected. Well done, Tom. Time for phase two."
Tom hesitated. "If we stick to the plan, sir, won't we catch heat? What if they can't source materials and demand refunds?"
"Don't fret. They'll chase the real culprits, not us. Push ahead. Draft a letter to the Ministry—I'll line up that interview. Stay in the shadows, remember? The storm's building; let it break."
The connection severed. Erwin exhaled, buzzing with energy. Today was shaping up brilliantly. He'd underestimated how much his moves had spooked the old pure-blood guard, but that acceleration played right into his hands. An unexpected bonus.
Time to make an example—scapegoat one to warn the rest. He needed to hone the blade.
Erwin crossed to the window, staring down at the Black Lake. Its surface gleamed like polished obsidian, hiding roiling depths. Chaos was stirring below. Let it boil, let it erupt. Only at the height of the tempest would he strike.
He clenched his fist in the air. The wizarding world had grown stale; it craved fresh fire.
Meanwhile, on England's misty border, a figure in an evening suit and sky-blue top hat materialized with a crack. Vinda Rosier scanned her surroundings, chin lifted arrogantly.
"Show yourselves," she drawled. "After all these years, you're still amateurs. You've tailed me across half of Europe."
Vortices ripped open, and Aurors materialized, encircling her.
"Vinda Rosier," their leader barked, "back to Nurmengard—now!"
She smirked. "Stop me? The Ministry's scraping the barrel if trash like you rates as Aurors. You'd be lucky to qualify as acolytes' fodder."
The lead Auror's face drained of color, but he held his ground—no retort came. Vinda's power was battle-hardened, carved from duels and whispered Killing Curses, a climb from the ranks of the desperate.
"By agreement," he said stiffly, "acolytes don't cross into Britain."
...
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