Tom nodded. "Yes, Master Erwin, I'll rally the Cavendish family to track him down. But what if we come up empty?"
Erwin shrugged. "It won't matter. His mother and brother are well out of the wizarding world—practically ghosts by now, possibly even dead. But his father? That's a different story. Umbridge slipped him a retirement payout, and any move he makes will leave a trail. We're experts at following those."
Tom inclined his head. "Understood, Master. I'll have him in no time."
Erwin's eyes narrowed. "Once you do, keep him under wraps. He's not ready for play yet. I'll pick the perfect moment to deploy this piece."
He drifted to the window, gaze distant. A vulnerability like that was pure leverage—especially one that could prove deadly.
Sipping the black tea Tom had poured—Erwin favored coffee, but Tom insisted it was too harsh for his age—Erwin savored the warmth. "How's the phone project coming along?"
"Nearly there," Tom replied. "The silver cores for yours are no issue, but even with our resources, churning out enough gold is a stretch."
Erwin nodded; it matched his expectations. The "mana source" was essentially the battery powering these enchanted communicators—storing magic to keep them charged, like endless wizarding acclaim on the line.
He drew the Philosopher's Stone from his enchanted ring. "This'll sort the gold. It transmutes lead. Guard it closely—no one else touches it. Use it sparingly to mint what we need."
Tom's eyes widened briefly as he accepted it, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. Erwin clocked it but let it slide.
He'd bartered with Dumbledore for the Stone partly for study—and partly for profit. The research had yielded zilch; this diluted version lacked eternal life, but its alchemy baffled him still. Compared to Nicolas Flamel, Erwin felt like a novice fumbling in the dark.
No matter. He'd never chased immortality anyway. The real prize was the gold-making edge. Wizards clung to Galleons like Muggles to pounds, blind to how the Stone could topple economies—if its magic held out.
Erwin had tested it once, turning lead to gold, but the drain was immense. It wouldn't bankroll a war, just fill a modest vault. Good enough.
Setting down his cup, he added, "Next weekend, bring your selected crew to the shop. I'll bind them with a loyalty charm. Then they're our communications arm."
Tom assented; Erwin had briefed him thoroughly.
With that squared away, Erwin Apparated back to Hogwarts. The Stone secured, his first year wrapped neatly. He settled into a rhythm of classes and subtle influence, watching house points climb—Slytherin's especially. Wizarding acclaim trickled in, but after dropping a million on recent upgrades, it felt like scraps.
Months blurred by. Holidays arrived at last.
The Friday feast buzzed in the Great Hall, young witches and wizards grinning over their plates. Tomorrow meant freedom from castle walls, the summer stretching ahead.
This year, excitement ran high. Grades had soared across the board—professors had practically crowed at the results. Hogwarts' standards had never looked better.
Erwin, predictably, topped the first-years. Hermione, close behind, stewed over her single slip-up. Without it, she'd have matched his flawless score.
The top ten skewed Slytherin-heavy: six from their house, three Ravenclaws, one Hufflepuff. Gryffindor? Zilch. Professor McGonagall's scowl had darkened the common room since the announcements, her mood a storm cloud no one dared approach.
Older years mirrored the trend—Slytherins dominating five-plus spots per class, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs splitting the rest. Gryffindor's lone bright spot: Percy, scraping ninth overall. McGonagall was livid, her tabby form radiating frost.
Bells tolled, heralding the end-of-year banquet.
Upstairs, in the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore donned a fresh robe. It still evoked rumpled nightwear, but the deep blues and silvers lent a touch of dignity.
He rubbed his temples, eyeing Gryffindor's dismal House Cup tally. Six hundred points adrift—impossible to bridge without some world-saving miracle. He'd conceded defeat already, scheming only to soften the blow come autumn.
Straightening his cuffs, he headed for the door. Strolling to feasts had lost its charm, thanks to Erwin's tightfisted permissions on the castle wards. The boy promised tweaks over break, but Dumbledore couldn't be bothered to press. Dealing with Erwin lately felt like herding Crumple-Horned Snorkacks—exhausting and futile.
He grasped the handle and tugged.
Nothing.
Frowning, he yanked harder. The door stayed shut.
Dumbledore blinked, square spectacles slipping. What in Merlin's name?
...
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