Vinda tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Now that you ntion it, you’re right. I’d almost forgotten."
The Auror let out a quiet sigh of relief at Vinda’s words.
"In that case, let’s head back, Lady Rosier!"
Vinda covered her mouth, bursting into laughter. "But why should I honor the agreent? You don’t think you’re the ones setting the rules in this prison, do you? The rules have always been ours to control."
As he spoke, a wand materialized in Vinda’s hand.
The Auror’s heart skipped a beat. He fumbled for his own wand, but before he could raise it, a jet of green light erupted from Vinda’s tip and struck him square in the chest. He crumpled, lifeless.The
The other Aurors reacted swiftly, drawing their wands and unleashing a barrage of spells at Vinda’s unmoving form.
Vinda didn’t flinch. His wand danced like a will-o’-the-wisp, flicking spells aside with effortless precision. He shook his head. "Weak. Pathetically weak. The wizarding world’s gone soft. If that’s the best you’ve got, you’re done for."
Panic flickered across the Aurors’ faces. One seized the mont and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!"
Green light streaked toward Vinda’s position—but he was already gone. The curse slamd into another Auror instead, dropping him instantly.
Vinda reappeared behind the caster, wand pressed to the man’s temple. "Too slow. Lights out."
Under the open sky, on the bloodied grass, green flashes lit the air. Corpses littered the ground in their wake. Vinda’s figure vanished, leaving a single newspaper fluttering down from the ether.
It was the Daily Prophet. The headline blared: "Hogwarts’ Star First-Year, Erwin Cavendish—Who Discovered the Reparifarge and Finite Incantatem Coexistence—Faces His Final Prefect Challenge Today!"
So ti later, a team of Ministry Aurors arrived at the scene. Their faces paled at the sight of the bodies.
"They clashed with Vinda!"
"Alert the British Ministry—Vinda’s heading to England!"
"What now? Nurngard?"
"Don’t be daft. If Grindelwald wanted out, he’d be free already. Storm Nurngard? You’d end up like these lot. We can’t touch them. Bag the bodies and scarper. Vinda’s off to England; whatever happens next is their headache. Even if the Acolytes rise again, it’s not our fight. Let’s move."
The others nodded grimly, gathering the fallen before Apparating away.
The field fell silent once more. No one would ever know of the skirmish that had claid these Aurors’ lives.
anwhile, Erwin had no idea the Black Rose of France—Vinda Rosier—was bound for Hogwarts. And her target was him.
Having lost touch with Tom, Erwin decided to take a breather. But before he could settle in, a knock echoed at his door.
He sat up, frowning. What a hectic day.
With a casual flick of his wand, the door swung open.
Draco stood there. "My lord."
"Co in," Erwin said. "What’s on your mind?"
Draco stepped inside and produced a vial of potion and a rolled parchnt. "Sir, Old Selwyn left these when he departed Hogwarts. He said to pass them to you."
Erwin took them, intrigued. "What’s this about?"
Draco explained, "The potion’s the key to our Selwyn family’s second magical surge. The parchnt? No idea. Grandfather said you’d figure it out once you read it."
Erwin nodded. "Anything else?"
Draco hesitated. "The new Hidden Prefect for first-years has been selected."
"Who? Draco—you?"
Draco shook his head with a sly grin. "Pansy. She took down in one shot."
Erwin could see the amusent in his eyes. "Sounds like you got walloped."
Draco winced. "Flying lesson right into the stones. Cracked a couple of ribs—I’m off to Madam Pomfrey after this."
Erwin chuckled. "Tough break. You’re slipping."
Draco lingered, shifting uncomfortably. "Sir... about Charlotte. Shouldn’t we keep an eye on her? She..."
Erwin t his gaze. "The act’s convincing, eh? Even you’ve bought it."
Draco blinked, confused.
"Don’t sweat it," Erwin assured him. "I know what I’m doing. She’s on our side now. Here—extend your arm."
Draco’s face lit up. Word of Erwin’s Dark Mark-like sigil had spread; it was a badge of honor in Slytherin. Blaise Zabini, the first to bear it, was the talk of the common room.
Draco rolled up his sleeve without a second thought. Erwin applied the mark, then outlined its functions: communication, tracking, unbreakable loyalty.
Satisfied, he dismissed Draco.
Setting the potion aside, Erwin unrolled the parchnt and scanned it. His brow furrowed deeper with each line.
It was straightforward—a recipe for the potion Draco had ntioned, the catalyst for a second magical surge. But the signatures at the bottom stopped him cold: Imogen Cavendish and Charles Selwyn.
Erwin knew of Imogen from the family tree. She’d developed this brew drawing from her own bloodline gifts.
The scroll detailed the Cavendish line’s innate talents: the capacity for multiple magical surges, tied to blood purity. Each surge built reserves, amplifying power over ti.
This was the Draconic bloodline of the Cavendishes. It explained Erwin’s childhood flares—raw ancestral might.
He rolled it up with a sigh. How ironic. Learning his heritage from an outsider’s notes.
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