Whispers of discontent had spread like Fiendfyre through the British wizarding world. In dimly lit pubs and crowded markets, the talk was all the same.
"Have you heard? The acolytes call it free training, but it's just unpaid labor! They work you from dawn till dusk without a Knut."
"I heard they lock you into contracts the moment you step inside. No way out unless you sign your life away. Bullying honest folk, that's what it is!"
"What happened to the acolytes? They weren't like this before..."
"Who needs to spell it out? Their masks are off. Did you really think they were the good guys?"
These murmurs echoed everywhere, from the Leaky Cauldron to back-alley chats.
Abernathy apparated straight to the Acolytes' Estate upon hearing the latest. "Argus, the wizarding community's turning against us. They're saying we're—"
"A plague on Britain," Argus finished, not looking up from his book. "Exploiting wizards left and right, and we ought to be run out of the country."
Abernathy blinked. "It's not quite that dire..."
But Argus's calm demeanor told him everything. The young leader had seen this coming and was ready, biding his time for the perfect counterstrike.
"Uncle Abernathy," Argus said, flipping a page, "how many do you reckon will swallow this nonsense?"
Abernathy frowned. "Hard to say, but enough to make trouble."
"And do you believe it?"
"Of course not!"
"Precisely." Argus set the book aside, his voice steady. "Wise folks are rare; most just echo the loudest voice. They're sheep, swayed by a nudge. And the irony? They pat themselves on the back for seeing 'the truth.' Give them a spark, and they'll ignite a wildfire."
Abernathy nodded slowly, the strategy clicking into place.
...
The Leaky Cauldron buzzed with its usual afternoon chaos—clinking glasses, raucous laughter, and the occasional shout.
"Told you the acolytes were all show!" one wizard bellowed over his pint. "Price cuts? Defending Muggle-borns? Pure theater to line their pockets!"
"Yeah, pure-bloods like them would never lift a finger for the rest of us. It's all a Galleon grab!"
"My mate joined their training camp last week. Now he's trapped, slaving away without a wage. Not even a half-Knut!"
The tide had turned viciously fast. In days, the acolytes had gone from wizarding darlings to the most reviled scoundrels in Britain.
Their shops suffered worst of all. Foot traffic dried up; profits cratered.
Even Vinda couldn't stay away. She stormed into Argus's study, clutching ledgers stained with ink. "Argus, when do we fight back? Sales are down to half—keep this up, and we'll be scraping by on a third."
"Not yet," Argus replied evenly, unruffled. "Patience."
"But we've poured Galleons into recruiting new members. If we don't ramp up sales soon, it's all wasted. Those pure-bloods won't let us catch our breath!"
"Let the curse fly for a while."
Vinda tilted her head. "Fly for a while? What's that supposed to mean?"
Argus leaned back, choosing his words. "Any spell needs time to land, whether it's from a friend or foe. Same with our enemies' schemes. Strike now, and we clear the air quick—but we squander the real advantage. Let the rumors peak. When British wizards hit boiling point, they'll see they've been duped. The backlash will be a tidal wave, strong enough to drown even the Sacred Twenty-Eight families above us."
He met her eyes. "Trust me, Aunt Vinda. Our reserves will hold. No need to rush the wand."
She exhaled, the tension easing. "Alright. But it better pay off."
...
In the opulent main hall of Selwyn Manor, gold-leafed chandeliers cast a warm glow over tables laden with silver teapots and pearl-inlaid china. The air smelled of rich black tea and smug satisfaction. A cadre of pure-blood elders lounged, chuckling into their cups.
"Hah! Thought the acolytes were unstoppable? Look at them now—shops on the brink in under a week!"
"A spot of effort, and they're floundering. Pathetic!"
"Lucius, cozying up to that lot for months. What a fool."
"What does a whelp younger than my grandson know about business?"
"The acolytes are desperate, handing reins to some green boy. Hilarious."
"Why not finish Lucius while we're at it?"
"No," another cut in, swirling his tea. "Lucius is a sly fox—handle him later. Crush the acolytes first."
"Simple enough. Stir the pot with the common wizards a bit more. Their shops won't see a penny in days."
"Agreed. We've prepped the groundwork. Whatever treasures they're hoarding, we swallow it whole this time."
Laughter rippled through the hall like a shared incantation.
...
Three days on, the acolytes' shops teetered. Once beloved haunts in Diagon Alley, they were now reviled as gutter trash. Wizards paid premium elsewhere rather than risk a glance inside.
Revenue had nosedived two-thirds. Only rock-bottom prices kept the last sliver afloat.
In the bustling alley, a cluster of shifty figures melted into the throng—veterans of such games, their steps silent and sure. They converged near a potion stall, voices rising like a rehearsed chorus.
"The acolytes are crooks through and through," one announced loudly. "My cousin signed on and learned the hard way—everything they peddle is fake!"
"Counterfeits? You're joking!" a planted listener gasped, playing his part.
"Not a bit! Cheap prices? That's your red flag. Charity from that lot? Pull the other one."
"Outrageous!"
"Think about it—the rent alone in Diagon Alley eats Galleons. They must be fleecing folks blind to stay afloat."
"Makes sense. My cousin's kin bought brewing supplies from them once. Botched the potion, drank it, and dropped dead. We blamed the recipe back then, but now..."
They hollered as if the whole alley needed to hear, oblivious to the subtle shifts in the crowd behind them—the turning heads, the growing doubt. The curse was flying, and it was only gaining speed.