The grand hall of Abbott Manor gleamed under the dim flicker of enchanted candles, their greenish flames casting long shadows across the faces of the gathered wizards. Dressed in their finest robes, representatives from nearly every prominent British pure-blood family sat around a massive oak table. Only a few holdouts like the Weasleys, Blacks, and Prewetts had stayed away. This summit had taken months of tense negotiations to arrange, as old grudges ran deep—some families, like the Malfoys, were outright shunned by rivals led by the Lestranges. Yet the rising tide of the acolytes had forced their hand; the Saints' disruptions threatened the fragile balance of power, compelling even bitter enemies to unite.
The Abbott family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and known for their even-tempered stance, had been chosen as the neutral host. "All representatives are present," announced Abbott's patriarch with a nod, before sinking into his chair. He had no illusions about leading the discussion—his family's modest influence and resources barely kept them afloat amid the sharks.
Silence stretched like a taut wandstring. Finally, the heads of the Rosier and Selwyn families exchanged a knowing look. Rosier puffed on his pipe, exhaling a plume of aromatic smoke, and fixed his gaze on Lucius Malfoy. "If no one's volunteering, I will. Care to explain your cozy ties to the acolytes, Malfoy?"
Every eye turned to Lucius, laced with suspicion, scorn, and outright loathing. The weight of it could have crushed a lesser man, but Lucius's aristocratic features remained impassive, his silver hair catching the eerie light.
A scoff broke the tension from Selwyn. "As if we don't all know the Malfoy clan's history with them. Spare us the act."
The accusation hung heavy, painting the Malfoys as traitors to their own kind. Lucius had faced worse—Voldemort's fall, the Ministry's interrogations—but this was a viper's nest of his peers. He met their stares coolly. "The Malfoys did collaborate with the acolytes once. But we weren't alone in that folly. Vinda Rosier hails from your own Rosier line, and Argus Grindelwald, their leader, was practically raised in her shadow. Perhaps you should ask the Rosiers what they know."
The Rosier delegate's brow furrowed. Vinda was indeed kin, a distant branch from the Continent, but blood was blood. He shot glances atSelwyn and Rosier, shaking his head. These families had all followed Voldemort alongside Lucius, yet Malfoy had always outmaneuvered them. When the Dark Lord fell, purges claimed many, but Lucius emerged unscathed, snapping up their assets like a hawk. No wonder the resentment festered.
Lucius's deflection only fueled the fire. "We're not here for your finger-pointing," growled an elderly Macmillan, his white beard trembling with age—easily Dumbledore's contemporary. He eyed Selwyn's group with disdain before turning to Lucius. "And don't take us for idiots, Malfoy. Think your precious family can weather the storm if the acolytes purge the rest of us?"
Lucius paused, his fingers tightening on his cane. "The Malfoys are one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. We were blindsided by this escalation, same as you."
"Blindsided? Pull the other one," Rosier snorted.
"Enough, Rosier!" snapped Barty Crouch, patriarch of the Crouch line and head of the Ministry's Department of International Magical Cooperation. His voice carried the weight of authority, and Rosier subsided with a grunt, turning away rather than challenge a Ministry heavyweight.
"Mr. Malfoy," Crouch continued sternly, "we require proof of your loyalty."
The room closed in, a chorus of pure-blood pressure from the majority—Lestranges, Notts, even wavering allies like Parkinson and Greengrass couldn't tip the scales. Lucius rose slowly, leaning on his ebony cane, and swept his gaze across the assembly. "Very well. I'll demonstrate my commitment."
With that, he strode from the hall, his robes billowing. Parkinson, Nott, and Greengrass followed suit, their chairs scraping in solidarity.
Once the door clicked shut, Macmillan's elder leaned forward. "The Malfoys are too entangled with the acolytes. We can't stake everything on them."
"Root them out entirely?" Rosier suggested, eyes gleaming with eagerness.
Macmillan fixed him with a pitying stare, as if addressing a dim-witted child. Provoke Lucius, and you'd invite chaos—the man had survived his own father's imprisonment and emerged stronger. And even without him, could they truly fend off the acolytes' old guard? With wits like that, no surprise the Malfoys ran circles around them. Sighing, Macmillan steered the discussion back to plotting against the acolytes, a cabal of families united in desperation.
...
A few days later, in the opulent drawing room of Malfoy Manor, Lucius recounted the summit to Argus over crystal goblets of elf-made wine. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, glinting off antique silver. The pure-bloods had never suspected Lucius would turncoat so thoroughly—spilling every detail, from accusations to their covert plans.
Argus lounged in a velvet armchair, sampling from a silver tray laden with pastries. He bit into one, then grimaced, setting it aside with a napkin to his lips. "Predictable as clockwork. Nothing shocking there."
Lucius nodded. "A few families quietly backed us—Parkinson's lot. After we left, they huddled for a smaller war council. Targeting the acolytes directly."
Argus chuckled, a low, amused sound. "All bark, no bite. If they mustered real nerve for an all-out assault, I'd have a genuine problem."
British pure-bloods still held sway in the wizarding world, their numbers and influence unmatched. But generations of idle luxury had eroded their ancestors' fire—they schemed in whispers, forever cautious.
Lucius eyed him curiously, probing for the next move. "And now?"
Argus's smile sharpened. "Patience. Let's toy with them a bit longer."