"What? All this was the work of those pure-bloods!"
"I knew it! Mr. Argus would never stoop to that. He must've been framed!"
"Damned bloodsuckers! What did Argus do to tick them off so badly they'd pull these slimy tricks?"
"No need to spell it out—it's that notice from the acolytes! These pure-bloods are just lording their magic over us!"
The Daily Prophet's front-page exposé had British wizards seeing red.
Fooled like fools by those pure-bloods!
Rumors had poisoned the acolytes' reputation for so long, nearly driving them out of Diagon Alley with pitchforks and hexes!
And for what? The acolytes had slashed prices to help everyday wizards, even when Argus clashed with Gringotts and the Auror Office to shield them.
Every move, every stand—they'd put the common folk first.
Slandered at every turn, yet they never struck back at the misled masses!
Even Knockturn Alley's lowlifes had sniffed out the truth—why hadn't the rest?
Because the duped were ordinary wizards, not sharp-eyed schemers.
Remorse hit like a Bludger. British wizards couldn't stomach facing the acolytes anymore.
No spine left to look Argus in the eye!
Humiliation burned—mocked by their own ignorance!
"I'm such an idiot! Believed that rubbish hook, line, and sinker. How can I face Argus now?"
"To hell with pure-bloods! Step in their shops again? I'd sooner change my name!"
"Those families are finished. Merlin himself couldn't save 'em—I called it!"
"Spot on. The wizarding world's not letting this slide!"
...
Hogwarts Castle.
Professor McGonagall—one of the few staff holding down the fort—shook with fury at the Prophet's headlines.
Her bond with Hogwarts ran deeper than most could fathom. The school was her life's compass, every pupil like her own kin.
She knew not all grads soared high. Jobs were scarce; middling talents drifted, too many washing up in Knockturn Alley.
She'd witnessed it all, heart twisting with worry.
A handful, she might've pulled strings for. But the numbers? Even Dumbledore couldn't fix that mess, let alone her.
Now, the acolytes offered steady work—a lifeline!—and these pure-blood clans had torched it.
How could Professor McGonagall stand idle?
"How dare they!"
The words escaped in a hiss, her whole frame quaking.
Professor Sprout, tending the greenhouses through the lull, mirrored her outrage.
Eyes met in silent accord. They shrugged on cloaks and marched for the gates.
...
Knockturn Alley.
A ragged horde in threadbare robes surged from the shadows, a brooding mass radiating menace.
"Blast it! Knew those pure-bloods were rotten to the core. They wrecked my shot—I'll bury the lot!"
"Thought it was just Selwyn, but no, the whole pack's rotten!"
"Pure-blood? Means nothing! I'm spoiling for a scrap with 'em!"
The mob hadn't cleared the alley when another crew barreled in from a side street.
Spotting the frontrunner, faces soured.
"Visman, I'm calling out those pure-bloods today—avenging our swindled mates!"
"No time for you!"
"Fight? Save it till I'm done!"
The leader sneered. "Waste of effort anyway!"
"You're not alone in grudge-holding. Half my crew's kin got acolyte picks!"
"Today? We square every debt—old and new!"
Lightning cracked the sky, thunder rumbling like a dragon's growl.
Storm clouds boiled; rain lashed down in sheets.
Drops hammered the wizards, but none sought cover.
They pressed on, robes sodden.
"Fine by me! Stay out of my way, or you're next!"
"You? Ha!"
The leaders spat barbs, egos clashing like spells.
More groups filtered in—dozens swelling to hundreds before they hit open air.
...
The Burrow.
"Mum, check it! Disaster for Selwyn and crew!"
"Daily Prophet's got proof—a secret huddle plotting against the acolytes!"
"Folks calling 'em frauds, but it's all backroom whispers!"
"Snaps from the meet, too!"
The Weasley twins waved the paper, yanking Molly and Arthur over.
Ron chomped his bacon sarnie viciously.
"Slytherin scum—cheats through and through!"
"Such rot!"
"Ron! No slinging mud unseen," Molly snapped, catching his grumble.
Arthur snatched the Prophet.
"Knew Argus was clean!"
"Let's see: Selwyn, Rosier, Lestrange, Macmillan... nearly every big British pure-blood name."
"Slippery lot—resort to whispers and shadows."
"Why's Chief Auror Barty Crouch there?" Percy craned in.
The angle caught only his profile, but Percy's hero-worship spotted him cold.
His idol, crumbling.
"He's... the director! Fair, upright..."
"He's Sacred Twenty-Eight, though," Bill, the eldest, cut in gravely. "Likes it or not, he had to show."
Molly and Arthur shared a knowing look, consensus forming.
Outside the Burrow.
Sirius and Lupin lurked in the treeline, one gnawing stale bread, the other clutching a battered Prophet—someone's castoff.
"Pure-bloods are in the soup now! Shame—if it'd been years back, I'd scout the acolytes myself."
"Ha! When are they not?" Sirius snorted.
"Peter faring? Still tailing Ron?" Lupin eyed the paper, then Sirius.
"His yellow streak's eternal."
"Can't lurk forever. No openings soon—why not peek at Harry?"
"Haven't laid eyes on him since Azkaban!"
"But—"
"But nothing. My Animagus form's secret. We'll just glimpse from afar. Come on!"
...
Acolytes' Manor.
Argus scanned the paper, a sly grin tugging his lips.
"Reckoning time."
"Wonder how long these pure-bloods last."
"Bit more play, though. Don't want the fun ending early..."