Dumbledore and Fawkes froze at Erwin's words. The headmaster stared at him in disbelief, then glanced at the phoenix, who was pacing agitatedly on his perch, beak poised as if ready to lunge.
Dumbledore's face paled. "Erwin Cavendish, we can negotiate, but not with nonsense like that. Do you even know what phoenix blood is worth? A vat? Where do you expect me to get a vat's worth from Fawkes?"
Erwin eyed the bird warily—those pecks looked brutal—and conceded his ask was over the top. "Fine, a bucket then."
He pulled out an aluminum bucket from his robes without missing a beat. If Aragog had been there, the spider would have shuddered in recognition; this was the very vessel that had haunted its nightmares.
Dumbledore sighed, eyeing the bucket with helpless exasperation. Who carried one of those around like pocket change? Clearly, Erwin was no stranger to this sort of improvisation.
"When do you plan to finish off Harry?" Dumbledore asked calmly.
Erwin blinked. "Huh?"
The headmaster leaned back, his tone measured but laced with steel. "As you said, I can't stop you—not after last time. And you clearly have no interest in chatting. So go on, then. I just ask that you make it quick. The boy's suffered enough already."
Erwin rolled his eyes. So the old man knew full well how rough Harry's life was—yet he'd scripted it that way. Sly as ever, Dumbledore had flipped the script, forcing Erwin's hand. Killing Harry would complicate things, especially with Snape to answer to.
"Let's cut the theatrics, Professor," Erwin said. "I want phoenix blood. What's your offer?"
"A small vial. That's my bottom line."
"Done."
Dumbledore blinked, cursing inwardly—he'd lowballed it. Erwin, meanwhile, hid his glee. He only needed three drops, but a whole vial? From the wizarding world's sole known phoenix, no less. Tears healed and detoxed; blood had to pack even more punch.
Sensing the rip-off, Dumbledore added, "One vial for Fawkes's blood, once only—in exchange for Harry's protection."
"Agreed," Erwin replied. "But let's set a term."
"Until graduation," Dumbledore proposed.
Erwin turned to leave. "Start picking out a plot for him, then."
"How long will you accept?" the headmaster pressed.
Erwin paused. "Three days."
Dumbledore rolled his eyes. Erwin was clearly angling for a freebie.
"Be reasonable," he said. "Realistically speaking."
Erwin shrugged. "This holiday, then. No wizard troubles on my watch—I can even sort out his Muggle-side messes. You know Harry's not faring well there, and it's beyond your reach. Consider it payback for your... schemes."
Dumbledore pondered, then nodded. "Very well."
Erwin extended his hand expectantly. Without hesitation, the headmaster drew a small vial from his desk, filled with a shimmering golden liquid. Erwin inwardly kicked himself—raiding the office for treasures might have been smarter than this haggling. Who stashed phoenix blood in a drawer like spare ink?
He pocketed the vial smugly. "Oh, and stock up on bargaining chips for next term, Headmaster. If we keep playing your game, we'll have plenty more deals."
With that, Erwin Apparated back to his dormitory, wasting no time. He fetched the enchanted egg from his System space and uncorked the vial, dripping exactly three drops onto the shell. The blood soaked in instantly, leaving the vial about a fifth lighter. He'd save the rest for experiments—phoenix blood screamed potential.
Eyes locked on the egg, Erwin muttered, "Don't let me down, little one. Or else."
The shell quivered as the blood took hold. A magical chime rang in his mind: [Conditions met for hatching the Enchanted Egg. Process commencing—two minutes. Stand by.]
A glowing countdown hovered above it. Erwin itched to smash the timer; the suspense was maddening. He paced, counting down the seconds.
Finally: 3... 2... 1.
A sharp crack echoed. Fissures spiderwebbed across the shell, and pulses of raw magic seeped through, bathing the room in warm, ethereal light. Something extraordinary was about to emerge.
...
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