Erwin had always approached prophecies with a healthy dose of skepticism, especially after poring over the ones from the original books. The first, the famous one about the savior, had set everything in motion—Harry Potter's parents murdered, Neville Longbottom's driven mad. To shield Neville, they'd hit him with a Memory Charm, wiping chunks of his memory and leaving him stumbling through life like a fool.
Then there was the second, uttered in that first Divination class: around Easter, one of them would depart forever. Sure enough, Hermione ditched the subject before the holiday—the only class she'd ever quit voluntarily.
The third targeted Lavender Brown: her worst fear would strike on October 16th, a Friday. And it did—her beloved rabbit dropped dead that very day.
The absurdity peaked with Neville again. After he shattered his first teacup, Trelawney warned it was merely the start. From then on, cups seemed to explode around him in a string of ridiculous accidents, turning him into a teacup-phobic wreck.
Worse still, she once declared that at a table of thirteen diners, the first to rise would meet their end. The class scoffed—there were only twelve at the table. They forgot Ron's rat, Scabbers (Peter Pettigrew in disguise). Dumbledore stood first to welcome her, and he became the first to fall.
Later prophecies nailed Voldemort's return, Umbridge's downfall, the Death Eaters' assault on the tower, and Dumbledore's demise. It all drilled one ironclad lesson into Erwin's mind: steer clear of Sybill Trelawney, or bad luck would follow like a shadow.
He didn't buy into fate as an unbreakable chain, but magic's precognitive threads were real enough. Strength, he believed, could snap them—but that didn't mean he wasn't intrigued by glimpses of the future.
The Worre family wasn't on his radar, but a legendary Seer's prediction carried weight. It had to mean something.
"Where are they now?" Erwin asked.
Old Tom inclined his head. "I've had them waiting in the meeting room, Master Erwin. Shall I bring you to them?"
"Yes. I'm curious."
Old Tom nodded and led the way. Erwin smoothed his robes and stepped out of the office, the butler trailing discreetly behind.
In the meeting room, Cassandra perched beside a middle-aged man whose lined face betrayed deep worry.
"Father, don't fret," she said softly. "The Head Boy is meant to see us this time, but he's swamped with classes. If it comes to it, I've got the Slytherin Honor Badge—I can call in a favor. Ask him to help us."
Old Worre shook his head. "Cassandra, that badge holds more power than you realize. Whether it's the Cavendish family or Erwin himself stepping in during a crisis, it could save your life one day."
"Is it that dire?" she pressed. "Father, what exactly did our ancestor prophesy?"
He sighed. "Truth be told, I don't know the full details."
Her eyes widened. "You don't? How?"
"Our ancestor sealed it away. She said only one person could open the box and reveal the prophecy—that destined individual alone. No one else."
"So you believe it's the Head Boy?"
Old Worre nodded. "It has to be. The clues point to this era, and no one shines brighter than Erwin Cavendish. I can't imagine another."
"Even without the exact words, she left fragments: a catastrophe looms over the entire wizarding world. One wrong move, and magic itself could perish. Time's short. Whether it's him or not, he has to try. If he unlocks it, the Worre family breaks free—and maybe snatches a lifeline from the storm."
Cassandra nodded, her expression resolute.
The door creaked open then, and Erwin entered with Old Tom. Father and daughter rose swiftly.
"Head Boy," they said in unison.
Erwin gave a curt nod and gestured for them to sit. Old Worre beamed. "Mr. Cavendish, an honor at last."
"Head of House Worre, you're too formal. Cassandra and I go way back—you're like family to me. Apologies for the delay; classes have been relentless. My fault entirely."
Old Worre waved it off. "Nonsense, Mr. Cavendish."
Erwin settled onto the sofa, inviting them to join him. Old Tom poured steaming black tea and retreated.
"Head Worre," Erwin began, cutting to the chase, "Old Tom's mentioned your visits to Cavendish Tower. What brings you here?"
Old Worre leaned forward. "Straight to it, then. I'd like to invite you to the Worre family estate."
Erwin sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Reason? Something you need retrieved? If it fits my plans, I'm happy to oblige."
No beating around the bush—Old Worre laid out the prophecy, every sealed detail. No point in secrecy now. In his eyes, this era heralded the key, and only Erwin could turn it. Even Demos Demos, the mightiest heir in his line's history, had failed.
Erwin set down his cup. "Let me get this straight. There's a vague family prophecy, and you think I'm the one to unlock it. You want me to make the trip, even though you haven't a clue what it foretells?"
Old Worre nodded gravely. "It sounds mad, I know, but the wizarding world faces peril. That prophecy might hold the key to surviving it. Unlocking it could give you an edge—no downside, surely?"
Erwin considered, the weight of unseen futures hanging in the air.
...
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