A few days after returning to Rosier Manor, Argus tucked into his breakfast while scanning the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. He glanced up at Vinda, who was sipping her tea across the table.
"Vinda, do the acolytes have any intel on recent Hogwarts graduates?" he asked.
She set down her cup. "Plenty. Many of them are sharp enough to carve out careers across the wizarding world—research, curse-breaking, you name it."
"That's not quite what I meant." Argus folded the paper. "Have we looked into how the average ones fare after leaving school? The ones scraping by?"
Vinda shook her head. "No. Argus, I get that Hogwarts holds a soft spot for you, but we're not running a soup kitchen here. Taking on a bunch of middling grads would stretch us thin."
He let out a dry chuckle, setting his spoon aside. "Who said anything about charity? What if I told you we could get them working for the acolytes—for free?"
Her brow furrowed. "Go on."
"They might not handle high-stakes ops, but they could manage the basics: tending herb gardens, breeding magical creatures, harvesting ingredients. Low-risk, steady output."
Vinda leaned back, skeptical. "They're not daft. Why would they sign up without a Knut to their name?"
Argus shrugged. "If we dangled free training in front of them—or even cracked open a sliver of the acolytes' knowledge vaults? They'd bite."
He'd clocked this back at Hogwarts. For most wizards, school was their one shot at structured magic education. After graduation, unless you hailed from a deep-pocketed pure-blood line like the Malfoys, self-teaching was the grim reality. Books weren't cheap, either. Hogwarts footed much of the bill for textbooks during term time, but on your own? A single volume could devour half a month's wages—and that was for surface-level spells.
Families like the Weasleys passed down battered hand-me-downs among siblings. Even then, real depth stayed locked away in Hogwarts' libraries or the vaults of old-blood clans. No access, no progress. And theory alone? Useless without guidance. Botch a charm without a professor watching, and you'd land yourself in St. Mungo's—or worse.
Average students—decent but no stars—ended up funneled into dead-end gigs. If they landed one at all. In a world short on jobs, experience trumped a fresh diploma every time. Shops and offices wanted ready-made talent, not raw recruits needing hand-holding.
Step in the acolytes: offer security, a roof, meals, and a taste of advanced magic? It'd be a lifeline. Wizards in dire straits would swarm like doxies to honey.
Vinda's eyes sharpened, as if seeing Argus's father in his features. "Clever. Word this right, and half-bloods and Muggle-borns across Britain will claw for spots—no salary required."
"In time, fresh grads without connections will eye us first," Argus added, pouring milk into his oatmeal and stirring. "But that's step one. Right now, let's gather dossiers on these kids. Pinpoint their pains, tailor our pitch."
She nodded briskly and rose, though hesitation creased her face moments later. "This pokes a hornet's nest, Argus. We're cracking the pure-bloods' stranglehold on real magic. The Sacred Twenty-Eight won't take kindly."
He waved it off. "We'll court a few allies. No family, no matter how entrenched, can stand against the whole wizarding world alone. They're outnumbered."
"Where do we find those allies?" Vinda mused. "Outside the old bloodlines, Britain's got... the Ministry."
"Exactly." Argus's gaze lit with mischief. "Fudge has been itching to clip the pure-bloods' wings for years. Trouble is, the Ministry's top brass is all old money. Even solid half-bloods get stuck in the mailroom, no mentors, no mobility—just fading into the wallpaper."
Vinda tilted her head. "But if we dangle a shot at real power, why wouldn't they jump ship to the Ministry once they level up?"
Argus smirked. "How many spots does Fudge open yearly? A handful, all snapped up by connected pure-bloods. Our lot hits a ceiling fast—then they'll come crawling back. We're the better bet."
She pondered, then eased into a smile. "I'll reach out to Fudge?"
"Hold off. He's spineless without a push. Show him the upside, dangle a real prize, and he'll risk the backlash. Dumbledore leans on awe; I prefer a carrot he can't resist."
...
Two days later, Vinda slid a thick file across the desk to Argus. The reports painted a bleaker picture than he'd expected. Hogwarts alums weren't gliding into glory—most clawed for survival. Jobs in the wizarding world were scarce as hen's teeth, stable ones scarcer still. Mediocre grades offered zero edge over grizzled veterans who'd logged decades.
Employers balked at investing in greenhorns. No training budgets meant no hires. The cycle ground on, leaving grads in the dust.
Argus skimmed the pages, then outlined his plan. "We cover room and board for trainees—no strings on basics. Acolyte mentors handle instruction, sharing select knowledge from our archives."
Vinda nodded. "And after?"
"Pass the course? They join full-time. Flunk or bail early? No hard feelings—they walk, maybe with a reference if they've earned it."
She paused, flipping through the terms. "What stops rivals from headhunting our stars with fat offers? We'd be training our own competition."
Argus's smile turned sharp. "Not without strings. Entry means signing a binding contract: all training's proprietary. Early exit? Repay costs upfront. Post-training quit? Three-year payback plan on expenses."
"For pampered pure-bloods, that's a non-starter," Vinda said. "But for the rest—starving artists, single parents scraping by? It's a golden ticket. They'll sign their lives away for a chance to thrive."
She closed the file with a decisive snap. "This could reshape everything. The acolytes won't just grow—we'll build an army loyal to the bone."
Argus leaned back, envisioning the ripple. Fudge would come around, the pure-bloods would squirm, and Hogwarts' overlooked would find purpose. One calculated move at a time.