Thorfinn Rowle's face hardened. How could he possibly agree to such a demand? Especially when Erwin had issued it like an order from on high.
Just as he opened his mouth to deliver a firm refusal, Rowle froze. Something was off about Erwin's demeanor. The boy spoke with the casual authority of a superior addressing a lackey. What gave him the nerve? The unshakeable confidence?
Was Erwin so sure Rowle would bend? Or did he truly believe he could hoist Rowle up the ranks?
Rowle hesitated. He craved advancement, but he knew his limits. Yet Erwin seemed poised to shatter them.
Out of caution, he held his tongue. He couldn't risk alienating someone who might actually deliver.
After a tense pause, Rowle rose to his feet. "I'll arrange it."
With a flick of his wand, the dazed fool sprawled on the floor levitated into the air. Rowle hauled him out, the door clicking shut behind them.
A faint smile tugged at Erwin's lips. Weaknesses made people so pliable. This German Auror deputy director wasn't so different from Fudge or Umbridge—ravenous for power, just a shade sharper.
That worked in Erwin's favor. The Cavendish name already carried weight in Britain's wizarding circles, bending the Ministry to his will when needed. A little leverage, a clever ploy, and things fell into place.
But Germany was another beast. Here, Erwin needed a capable ally, someone with their own grit to climb alongside him. A dolt like Umbridge would fizzle out, even with his backing. Rowle, though? A gentle nudge, and the man would chase his own ambitions, playing right into Erwin's hands.
Why bother? The enchanted communicator business was primed for international expansion, and such a lucrative venture demanded insider edges. Alliances with foreign Ministries were key.
Erwin's sights stretched far beyond Britain, encompassing the entire wizarding world. Compared to the Dark Lord's looming return, Germany felt stagnant—Grindelwald retired, the Acolytes dormant. Too peaceful. Erwin thrived on chaos, the kind that let him maneuver unseen.
If no one else would shake things up, he'd do it himself. He'd vowed, upon entering this world, to etch the Cavendish legacy across every corner of it. The entire wizarding world.
Gazing out the French windows at Berlin's nocturnal sprawl, Erwin felt a thrill. At last, he'd meet Grindelwald—the legendary figure, Dumbledore's old rival, the man Vinda Rosier had devoted her life to. The one who'd ignited true upheaval. Erwin had wondered about him for years.
...
Meanwhile, deep within Nurmengard Tower.
Vinda Rosier arranged the evening meal her master had requested on the scarred wooden table. "My lord, Erwin has arrived in Germany. I plan to fetch him tomorrow. Shall I arrange lunch with you?"
Grindelwald draped his napkin across his lap and swirled a sip of red wine, letting it linger on his tongue. "No need. If the boy can't find his way to me, he doesn't merit your high regard. Nor mine."
Vinda's brow furrowed. "But the Ministry Aurors aren't to be trifled with. He has the skill to break through, but it'd only draw unwanted heat."
Grindelwald set down his glass, his eyes gleaming with intrigue as he studied her. "Vinda, you seem unusually invested in this lad. Worried about someone you've barely met? That's rare—I haven't seen you this animated in ages."
She offered no reply. How could she admit the days dragged on, especially since her master had taken up that infernal "prison game"? Boredom gnawed at her.
Spotting Erwin had been a spark in the monotony. He felt like a divine jest for the Acolytes—a potential new leader to shake off the dust. If he rose to claim them, she'd finally have purpose again. Perhaps even a chance to hurl a curse or two at Dumbledore. The thought alone brought a wicked smile.
Grindelwald chuckled softly. "Vinda, you ought to skim the Prophet more often. How long since you've cracked one open? The boy's sharper than you give him credit for. He won't blunder in blindly. Whatever ploy he pulls, it'll surprise us. Just wait."
Vinda rolled her eyes. Easy for him to say, cooped up with his daily Prophet ritual. She had no such luxury—preparing his meals, quelling Acolyte squabbles. Age hadn't dulled their enemies; fools still tested them, courting Killing Curses and needless blood.
Then there were the opportunists sniffing at their fringes. Vinda stamped them out, day after relentless day. Newspapers? A luxury for the idle.
A soft hoot drew her gaze. An owl perched at the iron bars, tapping insistently.
With a subtle wave, Vinda summoned the letter from its leg. She scanned the contents, her expression turning to stone. "My lord, I must handle an urgent matter. I've picked up the trail of those vermin again."
Grindelwald waved dismissively. "Go on, then. But Vinda, ease up—you needn't shoulder it all. These days, such trifles hardly concern me."
...
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