Erwin frowned. "Go on."
The captain continued, "Based on my calculations, there are only two possibilities. First, the information you've provided might be inaccurate. And the second..."
He paused.
Erwin asked doubtfully, "What is it?"
"The second possibility," the captain said, "is that the place you're seeking might be moving."
Erwin's eyes widened. "Moving?"
The captain nodded. "Yes, Master. Look here—according to the route on Grindelwald's map, they sailed southward. Factoring in the wind direction and speed at the time, plus the type of ships they used, their path should have drifted eastward by about thirty degrees. They would have ended up in this area."
He picked up a quill and circled a spot on the map, enclosing a stretch of open ocean.
Erwin examined the marked location. This chart traced Grindelwald's voyage, and the circle highlighted a narrow strait far out at sea.
The captain then unfolded another map, the one detailing Patriarch Robert's sailing route. "This one shows a westward journey. Applying the same method, the endpoint shifts northward by roughly seventy degrees—almost due south overall."
He drew another circle at Robert's presumed arrival point.
Laying the maps side by side, the captain said, "See, Master? The final bearings couldn't be more different. If both expeditions reached the same destination, there's only one explanation: it's on the move."
Erwin studied the two circled points, his brow furrowing. "Do these locations have anything in common?"
The captain nodded eagerly. "Precisely. Look." He sketched a cross in the map's center, then connected the points. "If we treat this as an axis, both spots fall right on the periphery. Draw it as a circle, and they're diametrically opposite on the edge."
Erwin clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the diagram. "So, in essence, the Isle of Avalon is orbiting some central point in a circular path?"
"That's my theory," the captain replied. "Though the details escape me for now."
Erwin tapped the map. "And the center of this circle?"
The captain hesitated. "Bermuda."
Erwin's eyes widened further. "The Bermuda Triangle? The Devil's Triangle?"
"Yes, Master. Right in the heart of it."
Erwin frowned. "Have you sailed there before?"
The captain shook his head. "Never, sir. Our family's firmly in the wizarding world these days, but Bermuda's a no-go. You might not know this, not being a navigator, but I've dug into the records. Wizarding expeditions have tried it—none came back. I've steered clear."
"Does the circle's edge fall within Bermuda's boundaries?" Erwin asked.
"No," the captain said. "It's deliberate, by the look of it. Step inside the circle, and you're in Bermuda proper. The perimeter hugs the outer limits exactly."
Erwin nodded. "Then we'll investigate the edge. Stay well clear of the Triangle itself. Along the way, try to estimate the Isle's speed and plot where we might intercept it, assuming it's truly circling. We haven't much data, so do what you can—no heroics. If it's impossible, we'll pivot to another approach. Just don't take unnecessary risks."
The captain saluted and departed to relay the orders.
He raised no protest about skirting Bermuda. His loyalty to the Cavendish line ran deep; even a plunge into the abyss wouldn't faze him, let alone a cautious patrol of the fringes.
Once alone, Erwin sank into an armchair, a chill of unease settling over him. The Bermuda Triangle commanded respect—even wizards tread warily there. Nature's fury was one thing; a place like that, forged by who-knew-what forces, was another.
Muggles had puzzled over it for ages, long before Erwin's time. The leading explanation pinned it on magnetic anomalies—compasses gone haywire, vessels veering off course into oblivion. Yet proof remained elusive, birthing wilder notions: whirlpool traps, submerged caverns, even bridges of water defying gravity. Over twenty theories floated about, blending science, the supernatural, and plain old speculation.
Bermuda cloaked itself in peril and enigma. Erwin, like any sensible soul, preferred to admire it from afar.
But now, the hunt for the Isle of Avalon had dragged him toward its shadow. What secrets did Bermuda guard? Was the Isle tethered to it somehow? Or did the Triangle's oddities stem from ancient magic, much like the legends whispered?
Erwin had no answers. Yet a restless itch gnawed at him, urging him to pierce the veil, to chase the unknown. If magic underpinned Bermuda, what of the world's other riddles? The frozen veil of Antarctica, perhaps, hiding realms beyond?
In his old life, as a mere Muggle, such adventures lay forever out of reach. Now, armed with wand and wonder, could he delve where others dared not? Unearth truths that reshaped everything?
He drew deep breaths, quelling the thrill. Too reckless—that path led to graves unmarked. Those mysteries devoured the bold and the foolish alike.
A horn blared then, the ship shuddering into motion. Erwin stretched, settling back. This voyage promised length; best to use it wisely.
He set—Ebony—onto the cushions and crossed to the desk. Under the lantern's glow, he cracked open the notebook, its worn leather evoking Hufflepuff's earthy tomes. Each reading unveiled fresh insights, like layers peeling back. Erwin sensed it: the day this well ran dry, the true legacy of Hufflepuff would beckon. And that moment drew near.
...
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