Word of the Diagon Alley chaos and the Selwyn family's woes quickly reached the acolytes. At the time, Argus was deep in practice at the manor, honing his Patronus Charm. What had started as a basic Level Three spell had advanced to Level Four after weeks of rigorous study. Still, it wasn't quite there—the charm only conjured a hazy, mist-shrouded silhouette, far from a solid guardian.
"It won't be long now," Argus thought. "Once I hit Level Five, I should be able to summon the full Patronus."
Vinda approached with a towel, her expression concerned. "Take a breather, Argus. You've been buried in acolyte business and spellwork nonstop these past few days. At your age, you'll burn out if you push too hard."
"Fair enough, Aunt Vinda." He knew rushing magic was a fool's errand. Accepting the towel, he dabbed the sweat from his brow. "Any updates on the Selwyns?"
"A bit. The raid a few nights back cost them three dead, three critically injured, and five with lighter wounds. Cargo losses clock in around eighty thousand Galleons—not fatal, but it'll sting for months. Knockturn Alley's rough crowd is still hitting back; full damage reports are murky."
Vinda rattled off the details like she'd memorized a ledger. Argus smirked. "Serves them right. They all dipped their fingers in the pot, but Selwyn's stuck holding the bag. Aunt Vinda, get word to Rita Skeeter—have her slip into Malfoy Manor and chat with Lucius on the down-low. He'll know the play."
...
Two days later, in the grand hall of the Abbott family manor, the Selwyn patriarch pounded the table, veins bulging. "What the hell? We were all in on this! Why's my family footing the entire bill?"
"Because you're the sloppy one," shot back a brown-haired, bearded man with a sneer. "Can't even tidy up a minor mess like that."
The others averted their eyes, staying silent. Before, they might've chipped in to keep the anti-acolyte front united. But with the acolytes now dominating the field, who wanted to bleed Galleons?
"You—" The Selwyn head's face purpled, teeth grinding audibly.
"Enough on the Selwyns for now," interrupted an elderly man in his seventies, rapping his knuckles on the wood. "Saints first. We can't afford infighting until they're crushed."
He turned to Lucius. "Malfoy, how'd your talks with the acolytes go? If they're open to standing down, we're game for a truce."
These old-blood families prized survival above all. The acolytes' might wasn't something bluster could beat. Sure, they held the upper hand now, but tides turned fast in wizarding wars. Even without Grindelwald stepping in personally, a full assault on the acolytes would leave half this room in graves. No one here fancied becoming a martyr.
Lucius shook his head. "I've parleyed twice. They're not backing off anytime soon."
"Hmph, stubborn fools," the elder grumbled.
"What does a kid that age even understand?" scoffed the Rosier patriarch, eyeing Lucius and his allies with contempt. "He's just coasting on his father's shadow, duping the gullible."
The Rosier head—wait, another Rosier?—leaned in eagerly. "If they're not stopping, let's end them outright..."
"No!" The Macmillan elder slammed the table. "Our aim is to halt their knowledge purge, not wage all-out war."
He fixed on Lucius again. "So, what's their real stance? Any shot at talks?"
Lucius shook his head, suppressing a smile. It hadn't clicked until Rita Skeeter's discreet visit to the manor: Argus wasn't just laundering the acolytes' image. No, this was a masterstroke to paint Britain's pure-blood elite as the villains, toppling them from their ivory towers.
Thank Merlin he'd sided with them early. If he hinted at a ceasefire now, these families would slacken their defenses, buying the acolytes breathing room. But that would also shield the pure-bloods from further backlash, blunting the acolytes' edge.
Better to keep the pressure on, starve them of respite, and strike decisively.
"You want peace, Macmillan?" mocked the other Rosier. "They might not."
"So? You got the guts to throw down with them?"
The Macmillan was ancient, but cowards came in all ages. No one here had the spine for a direct clash.
"What if they escalate? Britain's our turf—Dumbledore's watching. You think Grindelwald's heir would dare invade under his nose?"
"Use your head. That's Grindelwald's adopted son—the last of his line. Harm him, and you'll face the Dragon uncoiling, not some chatty old-timer rotting in Nurmengard."
That last jab came from a younger hothead, clearly too green to recall Grindelwald's reign. To them, he was a relic like Voldemort—fossilized and faded.
"Quiet, all of you." The Shafiq patriarch raised a hand, steadying the room. "It's premature to strike at the acolytes. They're not pushing for war, so why rush in?"
The bickering eased, shifting to countermeasures against the acolytes—and how to soothe the Selwyns' losses without opening the purse strings too wide.
Lucius tuned out the squabble, inwardly pitying their delusion. He caught the eye of the Parkinson and Greengrass reps, giving a subtle nod: stay out of it. No sense getting dragged down when the noose tightened.
As the pure-blood heads hashed out their half-baked plans, none noticed the bespectacled beetle fluttering silently above. Its tiny legs rubbed together in gleeful anticipation.