Erwin nodded. Even without Rowena Ravenclaw’s input, he sensed sothing amiss about this place. In tales of old, spots shrouded in persistent mist always hid peril. This island was no exception.
He flicked his wrist, summoning his athyst wand. Slowing his steps, he advanced cautiously toward the Isle of Avalon.
The mont his boots touched the shore, an overwhelming pressure slamd down on him like a tidal wave. Erwin braced instinctively, but realization dawned just as swiftly. Resistance was futile; he let the force bear him down. He crashed to the ground but cast a Shield Charm mid-fall, erging unscathed.
Ravenclaw regarded him with a neutral gaze, a flicker of uncertainty in her ethereal eyes before she masked it. "It’s the remnant of ancient magic," she said.
Erwin scowled, pushing to his feet. "No flying allowed here, even after all these centuries. That power still packs a punch."
"ans we’re in the right spot," she replied. "But the no-fly rule complicates things. Your pace will suffer on foot, and the ground hides threats far worse than the skies."
Erwin agreed with a curt nod.
"Stay put for now," she instructed. "I’ll scout ahead. As a spirit, I’m less vulnerable, though my range is limited—I can only give a broad sweep. You’ll have to venture deeper after, and we’ll repeat the process."
He inclined his head. "Much appreciated, Founder Ravenclaw."
"It’s practical," she said dryly. "I’m bound to you now. If you et your end, I won’t escape either. Eternal stagnation here would be tornt."
With that, her form shimred and drifted away.
Erwin tracked her path until she vanished into the haze. His expression hardened. Had she suspected? He couldn’t be certain, but delay was no longer an option. Ti pressed; he had to accelerate.
He scanned the surroundings, spotting rare plants long extinct in the wizarding world. Without Ravenclaw’s archives and that old journal, he might not have identified them. Kneeling, he harvested them with care, stowing them in his enchanted ring where ti stood still, preserving their potency.
So bore seeds—he’d attempt cultivation back ho and consult his godfather on forgotten potion recipes. The man was a master brewer; sothing potent might erge from this haul.
He didn’t stray far, yet gathered over a dozen varieties. A bountiful yield. Joy surged through him; the Isle of Avalon was a veritable hoard of lost wonders, like so fabled ruin brimming with relics from a bygone era.
Then, warmth blood from the Ravenclaw’s Diadem on his brow. Her voice echoed faintly: "Erwin, head straight ahead—no deviations. I’ll et you there."
The connection severed. The Diadem’s link allowed brief communion.
Tucking the last herbs away, Erwin pressed on without pause, delving into the island’s heart. He entered a dense forest where trees lood taller than those in the Forbidden Forest, ancient sentinels whose crowns choked the sky. Sunlight barely filtered through, casting the undergrowth in perpetual twilight, pierced only by stray beams.
After a steady trek, he spotted Ravenclaw hovering above a colossal skeleton. She gestured urgently. "Erwin, examine this."
He approached the bones—imnse, serpentine, stretching impossibly long. Far grander than the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets.
"It resembles a serpent," Ravenclaw observed, "but no ordinary one grows to this size. Could be a basilisk—or sothing akin."
Erwin nodded. "Basilisk, without doubt." He knelt, tapping the vertebrae. "These are solid as iron. No signs of natural decay or starvation."
"Agreed," she said. "My incorporeal state limits ; I can’t probe further. You investigate while I scout ahead."
She ascended once more, leaving him to the task.
Such a beast—how ancient must it have been? This specin dwarfed the Chamber’s by sevenfold.
Tracing the spine to the skull, Erwin crouched low. A sudden breeze rustled the canopy, parting leaves to admit a shaft of sunlight. It struck the cranium squarely.
His eyes widened. He reached out, fingers brushing the illuminated spot. Two faint ridges protruded—subtle, horn-like nubs.
The sight evoked legends of mythical dragons, not the fire-spewing Chinese Fireball or the hulking lizards of modern lore, but the serpentine wyrms of ancient wizarding tales, coiling through the ether.
Yet these horns were nascent, as if the creature teetered on the brink of ascension, a serpent on the cusp of draconic glory.
Chill gripped Erwin. The wizarding world preserved echoes of such myths, but twisted: unicorns as goat-like grazers, far from majestic guardians. Dragons existed, yet none matched the ethereal forms of yore.
And now, this—proof of sothing greater?
He scrutinized the skeleton anew, pressing his palm to the bone for a deeper read. Magic humd through his touch, revealing textures invisible before.
At the ribcage, his hand froze. He applied gentle pressure.
A sharp crack echoed. The bone splintered beneath his fingers.
Erwin inspected the fracture: jagged edges, laced with hairline fissures. This wasn’t age or wear—it was trauma, as if shattered by unimaginable force.
His mind raced. A flood dragon? Here? The implications chilled him further. If the dinsional barriers had weakened, letting such a relic surface...
The Isle of Avalon guarded secrets long buried. But if the veil between worlds frayed, what else might slither through?
...
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