Life aboard the ship dragged on in monotonous waves. Erwin had long lost count of the days, as if time itself had slipped anchor and drifted away. Simply put, it was excruciatingly dull.
His routine played out like a scratched record: mornings began with breakfast, followed by fruitless fishing from the deck—a mindless way to pass the hours. Lunch came next, then afternoons lost to reading under the endless sky. Evenings ended early in bed. Rinse and repeat, as the vessel cut deeper into the open sea.
This ship was no ordinary craft. Its speed stemmed from an innovative power source, blending enchantments Erwin had gleaned from Arthur Weasley's blueprints for enchanted cars. With the Cavendish family's relentless ingenuity, they'd scaled it up into a grand vessel fueled by magic crystals. Erwin had even woven in engine designs from the enchanted fortress schematics in his possession.
The Cavendish Magical Vehicle Company was already sketching plans for production, though their prototypes—humble cars akin to Weasley's—paled beside this behemoth. Assembling even a handful of those engines had devoured months of rare materials. Still, it was progress. Nothing like it existed in the wizarding world yet, and with magic crystals as the exclusive fuel, the Cavendishes held a clear monopoly.
Days blurred into one another until, on this fateful morning, the ship shuddered to a halt. Erwin, lounging on deck, felt the sudden stillness. He gazed out at the boundless ocean ahead.
The captain approached with a crisp salute. "Master Erwin, we've reached the coordinates. The Isle of Avalon should emerge here, if my reckoning holds."
Erwin nodded. "Then we wait. Keep the crew vigilant."
The captain agreed, though pinpointing the isle's exact vanishing point was impossible—only a broad estimate guided them. Patience was their only ally.
Meanwhile, back in Britain, Hogwarts buzzed with the eve of term. Sirius Black's release had unfolded much as expected: battered and limping, he'd crossed paths with Harry Potter under the shadow of an unrelenting Ministry warrant. Yet the wizarding world barely stirred. After the specter of Voldemort's return, what fresh horror could rival that?
Diagon Alley thrummed with pre-term frenzy. Young witches and wizards trailed their parents through crowded lanes, shops overflowing with eager shoppers. The Cavendish emporium was no exception, its counters swamped by families clamoring for galleon credit exchanges.
Unlike Gringotts, the Cavendishes welcomed Muggle currency at fair rates, no strings attached. This drew flocks of Muggle-born parents straight from the Leaky Cauldron, their gratitude effusive. Most hailed from London, where tales of the family's influence were already legend. Entering the wizarding world and finding such unexpected courtesy? It cemented the Cavendishes' goodwill overnight, their prestige surging anew.
In the mansion's conference chamber, Lucius Malfoy, Patriarch Parkinson, Elder Selwyn, and heads from allied pure-blood houses convened, faces etched with concern. The door swung open, admitting Tom.
"Old Tom," Lucius began, "no word from Erwin yet?"
Tom shook his head. "Not yet, sir. He owled me to request leave from Hogwarts—he'll return in a few days."
Lucius leaned forward. "And Gringotts? Those goblins are on the brink. They hemorrhaged nearly forty percent of their clients last year alone. They won't sit idle much longer."
Tom met their gazes steadily. "The Master anticipated your worries. He assures you Gringotts' turmoil won't touch your interests. And should any of you doubt the Cavendish holdings, you're free to redeem your galleon credit for Galleons at a moment's notice."
A hush fell. Elder Selwyn spoke first, voice resolute. "The Selwyns stand firm—no exchanges. Galleon credit outshines gold in utility. As for the goblins? Give the word, and we'll storm their vaults ourselves."
Lucius nodded slowly. "The Malfoys could muster the same, but Erwin would never sanction open war. Gringotts is Ministry-sanctioned, after all. We're pushing galleon credit, but without official backing, it's a gamble."
Patriarch Parkinson steepled his fingers. "Erwin leaves nothing to chance. If he claims a plan, it's ironclad. Best we trust it and watch events unfold."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room; the others deferred to Parkinson's pragmatism.
Tom inclined his head. "Your faith honors him. The Cavendishes never betray allies—that's our vow. One more thing from the Master: Britain's wizarding houses are overgrown, breeding chaos. With loyal families like yours, that's plenty. The rest—the barren pure-blood lines, the ghosts—they're relics. Dead weight belongs in the dustbin. We'll begin the purge soon, but our hands are full. Your aid in seizing their enterprises and assets would be invaluable."
The patriarchs exchanged glances, a mix of resolve and calculation in their eyes. The winds of change were stirring, and the Cavendishes steered the gale.
...
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