Erwin nodded curtly. "Be more careful next time."
Old Bulstrode snorted. "Cavendish, drop the act. You know exactly why we're here."
Erwin settled into the head seat at the conference room table. "I'm afraid I don't follow, Head Prefect Bulstrode. Why don't you explain? I'm in the dark about your visit today."
His gaze swept over the assembled pure-blood patriarchs. Those who met his eyes quickly looked away.
Old Bulstrode pressed on. "You lot are spineless! Fine, if no one else will speak up, I will. You've crossed a line, Cavendish. Sticking to your magic supplies would've been tolerable, but now you're encroaching on everything. Do you think the pure-blood families are pushovers?"
Erwin lifted the black tea Old Tom had just set before him and took a measured sip. "Enlighten me. Is there some wizarding law dictating that Diagon Alley shops can't overlap in trade?"
Old Bulstrode's tone grew icy. "Don't feign ignorance. You know what I mean. Laws protect the powerful. These waters run deep—your Cavendish family can't swim them."
Erwin inclined his head. "Fair point. So what outcome are you after with all this?"
Emboldened, Old Bulstrode glanced at the others, who averted their gazes like scolded schoolboys. He alone bore the burden.
"It's straightforward," he declared. "We five pure-blood families want in on Cavendish Tower. We'll invest three thousand Galleons for a fifty percent stake in the profits."
He fixed Erwin with a smug stare.
Erwin let out a low chuckle. "Fascinating. Three thousand Galleons—a princely sum. Is that the consensus?"
He scanned the room. A hand shot up from one patriarch.
"Patriarch Erwin, don't lump us in," the Greengrass head said hastily. "The Greengrass family has no such designs. I'm here for a different matter—please exclude us."
Bulstrode's eyes bulged. "Traitor! Greengrass, you snake—betraying our pact?"
The Greengrass patriarch shrugged. "We've never been allies, Bulstrode. I've said as much before. I came for my own reasons and tagged along since you were headed this way. Had I known you'd make such outrageous demands, I would've postponed my visit to you, Patriarch Erwin."
Bulstrode glared daggers, as if he could strike the man down with a look.
Erwin leaned back, arms folded, savoring the unfolding drama. The remaining patriarchs stayed mute, their silence damning.
"Very well," Erwin said at last. "I grasp Head Prefect Bulstrode's proposal. Old Tom, fetch Rook."
Old Tom nodded and slipped from the room.
Suspicion rippled through the visitors. What was Cavendish scheming?
Moments later, a middle-aged man in a crisp black suit entered, guided by Old Tom. He bowed to Erwin. "Sir, it's been too long."
Erwin smiled. "Indeed. Did Old Tom brief you?"
Rook nodded. "Thoroughly."
"Then proceed," Erwin said.
Old Bulstrode scowled. "What's the meaning of this, Cavendish?"
"Simple," Erwin replied. "Rook serves as the Cavendish family's legal counsel—a role he held in the Muggle world and retains here. He has a few points to clarify."
Old Bulstrode surged to his feet, slamming the table. "Are you mocking me?"
A sharp glint flashed in Erwin's eyes. "Sit."
The older man's fury peaked, but as he opened his mouth to retort, Erwin's gaze hardened further. "I said, sit."
The command hung calm yet laced with menace. A chill swept the room. Old Bulstrode swallowed, sinking back into his chair without another word.
Erwin's expression softened to amiable warmth. "Rook."
The solicitor stepped forward. "Per Ministry of Magic statutes, Chapter 3, Section 17: All wizarding property falls under Ministry protection. Seizure of any wizard's assets invites a minimum thirty-year sentence in Azkaban."
"Chapter 5, Section 19 further safeguards properties. Unwanted interference or schemes against a wizard's holdings warrant the same penalty."
Rook retreated behind Erwin.
The pure-blood heads' faces soured. The Greengrass patriarch watched with evident amusement, as if at a farce.
"Given Cavendish Tower's earnings," Erwin continued, "three thousand Galleons reeks of extortion. The Tower is my asset—you're scheming to pilfer it. By those laws, Azkaban awaits you tomorrow. Right, Head Prefect Bulstrode?"
Old Bulstrode's complexion darkened to thunderous. The others shifted uneasily.
After a tense pause, he growled, "Pure-blood affairs lie beyond Ministry reach. This is family business—they stay out. That's the tradition."
Erwin's smile widened. "So pure-bloods float above the law?"
"I never said that," Bulstrode snapped. "We have our customs, our resolutions. Inter-family disputes aren't for Ministry meddling. You know this, Cavendish. If you think citing statutes will scare us off, think again—you're barking up the wrong tree."
...
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