Erwin wasn't confident he could take down Thorfinn Rowle outright. The man was no slouch, even if he lacked Erwin's raw edge. But this barely ten-year-old boy radiated an intensity that put even seasoned Aurors on edge. The pressure in the room was suffocating.
A knock echoed from the door. Erwin rose casually to answer it, turning his back on Rowle without a second thought. To any outsider, he looked utterly exposed.
Rowle's hand tightened around his wand, thoughts churning. Now would be the perfect moment for a Killing Curse. He doubted the boy could react in time. Yet something gnawed at him—a gut instinct screaming that unleashing it would invite disaster.
As Rowle wavered, Erwin swung the door open. A hotel waiter stood there, wheeling in a silver cart.
"Sir, your tea and coffee—shall I bring them in?"
Erwin nodded. The waiter pushed the cart inside, his eyes flicking to the crumpled figure on the floor—the Director's addled brother, out cold. The man didn't flinch, his expression as neutral as if he'd spotted a spilled drink. Clearly, such messes were routine in these parts, a testament to how lawless the wizarding fringes could get abroad.
The cart bore a steaming pot of coffee and two cups of black tea. The waiter inclined his head. "Sir, if you need anything else, just ring for your butler."
Erwin nodded with a polite smile, slipping a few notes from his pocket into the man's hand. The waiter pocketed them gratefully.
As he turned to leave, he added, "Sir, would you like assistance clearing away the... extra rubbish? We offer that service."
His gaze darted meaningfully to the floored idiot.
Erwin chuckled. "No need, thanks—I'll sort it myself."
"It's my pleasure to serve you, sir," the waiter replied, slipping out.
Erwin settled back onto the sofa, lifting a small spoon to stir his coffee. He took a sip, then remarked, "I always figured my butler was pulling my leg when he said coffee's flavor hinges on the water, the roast, and the brew. Thought it was all about the beans. But he's spot on—this tastes worlds apart. Mr. Rowle, care for some black tea? You don't strike me as the type to slum it in the Muggle world often. Give it a go; see how it stacks up against the stuff back home."
Rowle scowled, his earlier underestimation shattered. The boy's composure after that display had shifted to wary respect. Now, it curdled into outright dread. How could Erwin sit there, dissecting beverage subtleties, when he'd just danced inches from death's door? If Rowle had struck, the consequences would have been catastrophic.
Erwin set down his cup. "You really should've tried hexing me from behind. Might've ended it quick, kept your schemes buried. Shame you froze. Going for it now means facing me fair and square. So, Mr. Rowle—fancy a go?"
Sweat beaded on Rowle's brow and trickled down.
He knew it. Erwin had baited him deliberately, leaving that vulnerability as a trap. His instincts had saved him; any attack would've unleashed hell.
Erwin watched him coolly, lounging with deceptive ease. He was a picture of openings, yet Rowle couldn't muster the nerve to exploit one.
The tension stretched taut.
Rowle exhaled sharply. "Mr. Cavendish, what do you want? What's your angle?"
Erwin grinned. "Looks like you've got the spine to hold off. As for me? Let me lay out my pitch first."
Rowle blinked. "Pitch?"
Erwin nodded. "Simple philosophy: everyone's got a price. Once the Galleons chime, objections vanish. Make the incentive juicy enough, and anything's on the table. What I'm dangling is probably your holy grail: power."
Rowle froze, caught off guard.
Then, cautiously: "Power? What do you mean?"
Erwin leaned in. "Content playing deputy head of the Aurors? Don't you itch to climb higher? Picture yourself in the Minister's seat one day—calling the shots for the whole Ministry."
Rowle's eyes gleamed with unguarded hunger.
Minister of Magic? He'd dreamed of it a thousand times, replaying the fantasy of that throne. But without allies or a power base, he'd clawed just to snag this role. Absent a miracle, he'd rot here until retirement, then fade into dusty paperwork until the end.
Now, Erwin dangled that miracle. Temptation clawed at him.
Yet Rowle was no fool—he'd survived by playing it safe. He shook his head. "You're having a laugh, Mr. Cavendish. I've no such delusions. This post suits me fine."
Erwin's smile didn't waver. "Say what you like. The Cavendish name doesn't toss promises around lightly, but when we do, they stick. Mull it over—cooperate, and doors open."
Rowle pondered, ready to negotiate further.
But Erwin pivoted abruptly. "Why Berlin? Holiday fun, mostly—sightseeing keeps things fresh. And I fancy a trip to Nurmengard tomorrow. Sort the details for me."
Rowle recoiled. "Nurmengard? Impossible! It's a restricted zone—no Ministry clearance, no entry!"
Erwin shrugged. "Not my problem. I'm heading there tomorrow, permit or no. You Acolytes waltz in and out freely, don't you? Or do you doubt I could blast my way past the wards? Figure it out, Mr. Rowle—you're dealing with me now. Off you go. I'll take a Muggle car to the outskirts tomorrow; you handle the rest. See you then."
...
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