"It's you lot again! Go—capture them!"
A handful of rough-looking wizards burst from the crowd, swiftly subduing the noisiest agitators in the alley. The troublemakers froze in shock at the abrupt takedown.
One quick-witted prisoner bellowed, "Who the hell are you? What gives you the right to arrest us?"
"Shut your mouth!" snapped a young enforcer, landing a solid punch. "We've been tailing you for days. You're the ones slinging mud at the acolytes nonstop!"
"I wanted to join the acolytes! But you bastards ruined it!"
That ignited the captors' fury. Fists and boots flew as they pummeled the group. "Because of scum like you, all the acolyte recruitment posters we put up vanished! Do you know how long I've gone hungry in Knockturn Alley?"
"Little Hunter passed their screening and was set to join—until you lot forced the acolytes to halt intake. He starved to death here because of it!"
Rage built with every word, their blows landing harder. These Knockturn Alley wizards fought like cornered beasts, no restraint or mercy. One snarled through bloodied teeth, "I'm just a worthless wretch anyway. Better to take a few of you down before I rot in this pit!"
Onlookers gaped in stunned silence. Some scurried to the shadows, wary of stray hexes—Knockturn was a viper's nest, full of madmen who cursed first and vanished into the fog. But most pressed closer, forming a tight ring of gawkers three deep.
The captives didn't last long under the onslaught from the dark wizards. Blood sprayed as they curled into balls. "Stop—please! We were wrong!"
"Killing us won't change anything! Plenty more are saying the same!"
"It was Selwyn! The Selwyn family paid us to spread those rumors about the acolytes!"
"Mercy—we did it for the coin!"
Ordinary wizards couldn't stand against Knockturn's outlaws. Push them too far, and death followed. Outmatched and restrained from the start, resistance was futile.
The pleas shifted the crowd's murmurs. "Selwyn family? Why sabotage the acolytes?"
"Jealousy, probably. Everyone knows how those acolyte shops have boomed the last two years."
"Or maybe the acolytes staged this to drum up sympathy?"
"Let's watch and see."
Even with the confession, skepticism lingered—trust was scarce in these shadows.
Alan Mitchell and his Aurors had slipped into the throng upon hearing the commotion. He signaled his team to hold position, wands ready.
The Knockturn mob, oblivious to the Ministry intruders, showed no signs of relenting. "Selwyn... I knew those pure-blood snobs were behind it!" the leader growled, eyes blazing. He delivered a final barrage of kicks and hawked a glob of spit. "Round up the lads. We're paying Selwyn a visit. For Little Hunter—this doesn't end here!"
The gang stormed off, unchallenged. No one dared intervene.
An Auror whispered to Mitchell, "Boss, we just letting them go? Half the alley saw the assault!"
"Timing matters in a place like this," Mitchell replied grimly. "Intervene now, spark a brawl with innocents caught in the crossfire? The blame lands on the Ministry. Always does."
He watched them vanish into the gloom, brow furrowed.
...
That night, Selwyn family shops across the district erupted in chaos. Attackers struck without mercy, unleashing curses that lit the sky green.
By dawn, the Selwyns had lost tens of thousands of Galleons. The patriarch shattered every vase in his manor from sheer rage.
Come morning, they stormed the Ministry of Magic, demanding an Auror investigation.
Word of the Diagon Alley clashes and Selwyn sabotage spread like Fiendfyre. Yet doubt persisted—many dismissed it as acolyte theater to reclaim their shine.
In the Minister's office, Alan Mitchell wrapped up his report. "Minister, the probe's done."
"Did you nab them?" Fudge asked.
Mitchell shook his head. "Likely Knockturn drifters. That alley's a cesspool—raids turn up nothing but ghosts."
He recounted the previous day's scene in Diagon Alley and his restraint. "Intervening risked civilian casualties. As for the rumormongers... no solid charges stick. Acting rashly would scream Ministry collusion with the acolytes. Bad for us, worse for them."
"You played it smart," Fudge agreed with a nod. "But the Selwyns need placating."
Even aligned with the acolytes, Fudge lacked iron control over the Ministry. The ancient pure-blood lines, especially the Sacred Twenty-Eight, demanded kid gloves.
"Minister," Mitchell pressed, face hardening, "we need a new stance on these pure-bloods."
Fudge blinked. "Change our stance? Elaborate."
"You know who's pulling the acolytes' strings—no need to spell it out," Mitchell said. "If they turn that rage on the Ministry... or you?"
Fudge's expression flickered, gears turning. Mitchell's warning hit home. What if the pure-bloods unleashed the same fury on him? The acolytes had public goodwill; a short-tenured Minister like Fudge? He'd be a sitting duck, stripped of office and lucky to escape scorn.
"If the acolytes crumble," Mitchell added, "the wizarding world becomes their playground. Director Bones and Director Crouch might not mind, but you..."
He trailed off, the implication clear.
"Watch everyone closely," Fudge ordered, voice like frost. "Especially Ministry insiders. No one escapes scrutiny."
"Yes, sir."