Erwin finished speaking, and the cage fell silent for a moment. Then came the clanging of chains echoing from multiple directions. Startled, he whipped his head around to see the prisoners in every cell stirring, shuffling closer to the bars.
"A child?"
"It wasn't them—they don't carry that scent!"
"Someone of the same bloodline? Could it be him?"
"It has to be! In the entire wizarding world, he's likely the last one left!"
Cavendish? Erwin froze. "You know me?"
The man in the nearest cage grew agitated, rushing to the door. "Are you Cavendish?"
Erwin nodded. "Yes. Do you recognize me?"
"What's your name? Let me think... Erwin? Erwin Cavendish?"
Even more baffled, Erwin replied, "That's me. How do you know? Who are you, and where is this place?"
The prisoner brushed aside his tangled hair and eyed Erwin appraisingly. "So you were astral projecting! Dreaming your way here—that explains it."
Doubts swirled in Erwin's mind. Why did even a prisoner sound so cryptic? Was this truly the world of Harry Potter, or had he stumbled into some twisted fanfic with demons and underworlds?
"Cut the riddles," Erwin snapped. "Where are we? Who are you, and why do you know my name?"
"I don't know exactly where we are—just that we were all captured and dragged here. Somewhere in Germany, from what I've pieced together."
A dream vacation abroad? This was absurd. Erwin pressed on. "And who are you lot?"
"We are the guardians of the Prophecy—the protectors of its heirs!"
Erwin snorted. "Guardians? You've got some nerve calling yourselves that. Look at you, locked up like this. What, guarding the high road?"
The man fell quiet. "If we'd faced them head-on, we wouldn't be here. We're your guardians, Erwin—the protectors of the Cavendish line!"
Shock rippled through Erwin. Cavendish guardians? No wonder his parents had met such a fate if these were their defenders. Useless as they seemed.
"What's an heir?" Erwin demanded.
The man hesitated, lips parting to answer—just as Erwin's form began to flicker, light and shadow warping around him.
"Time's up!" the prisoner urged. "You can't linger. If you want the truth, grow stronger and find us!"
"Damn it," Erwin growled. "You've said enough to tease the truth already—spit it out!"
But his words hung unfinished as a vortex pulled at his consciousness. The next instant, Erwin jolted awake in his bed, face pale with frustration.
Idiots, the lot of them. Why ramble and go silent at the worst moments? If they'd just explained everything, this mystery wouldn't fester. What kind of storyteller dragged out a plot like this for cheap thrills? Erwin punched the mattress twice, seething.
Back in the dungeon, a voice grumbled from another cell. "Old Horton, the lad's spot on. Get to the point next time—what's with the cryptic nonsense?"
Old Horton—the very man who'd spoken to Erwin—sighed. "My mistake. Force of habit."
"Can't fathom why the old master picked you for the Cavendish protectors. You should've been with the Houstons; they're as indecisive as you."
Horton withdrew into silence, brooding.
Footsteps echoed suddenly down the passage. Two black-robed figures emerged, one scanning the cells warily.
"Feel that? The heir's back—snooping in dreams at his age."
"No time to waste. We end him now. He'll be the greatest threat to the master."
Horton snarled, "You vermin! Not afraid the old master will return and make you pay?"
The robed man sneered. "We'll see when he does—if he does. Our master is the future. Soon, your precious heir will rot in here beside you, and we'll claim what's never been his."
With that, they vanished into the shadows. Horton watched them go, then exhaled heavily.
"Think the young master will be all right, Horton?"
He shook his head. "Hard to say. But his father chose London for a reason—Hogwarts. Dumbledore's formidable. With him watching, the boy should be safe. By now, he's likely started at the school. As long as he's under Hogwarts' protection, they're powerless."
The prisoners retreated to their corners, and the dungeon lapsed into uneasy quiet.
Meanwhile, Erwin raked a hand through his tousled hair, anger simmering. Self-proclaimed moral guardians who couldn't even guard themselves—what a joke. Too sluggish to patrol the high road, let alone protect anyone. Who'd ever thought to assign such fools?
Elsewhere, in some shadowed lair, a figure sneezed sharply. "Someone badmouthing me again? Must be blood kin. Which one? Never mind. Get back here, you wretch! Sneak on me once more, and I'll unleash a Chinese Fireball! Bah—no, that's my trip to the Continent talking. I'll hurl a thunderbolt and finish you off!"
As he spoke, a wispy black mist—like a spectral hound—shuddered nearby and slunk away.
The man sighed wearily. "Their power grows unchecked. Don't these young wizards know restraint? Unruly as they've become."
Erwin headed to freshen up when a knock sounded at his door. He opened it to find Charlotte waiting.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"Quidditch match today," she said with a grin. "The other first-years said you promised to watch. They're all gathered in the common room, waiting for you. Came to check if you're up."
Erwin rolled his eyes. "I know the way."
She shrugged. "Can't blame them—they're keen for you to lead. Must be nice, commanding such respect in Slytherin after just a week. At this rate, you'll have the whole house rallied by term's end."
—