The wizard who drew his wand froze in shock.
What the hell? When did I cast a spell?
Why Expelliarmus of all things?
Chief Rosier was equally stunned.
You bloody fool!
I just told you to stand down, and you go and disarm someone?
Are you trying to start a war?
Do you honestly think the Rosier family can take on every Muggle-born and half-blood wizard in the world?
Rosier recovered quickly, throwing up his hands. "That was just nerves—his magic slipped. The Rosier family will cover all medical costs for the injured wizard!"
"And we'll offer substantial compensation besides!"
He hoped to defuse the tension, but the crowd—fueled by years of resentment toward families like the Rosiers—was beyond reason. Wizards drew wands in unison, leveling them at the purebloods.
"You dare cast spells on us? Think half-bloods won't fight back?!"
"Get 'em!"
"Compensation? Sod that—I'll drag a few of you down with me if it kills me!"
"Pureblood privilege ends today. Let's settle this!"
In the wizarding world, a forest of raised wands was as menacing as a line of loaded rifles. The Rosiers broke out in cold sweats, faces paling. Not every pureblood was a Dumbledore or Grindelwald, facing down armies alone. For them, holding off two or three common wizards was pushing it. Hundreds? A nightmare.
"Go—call for clan backup! Now!"
The nearest Rosier bolted through the manor gates without a backward glance.
"Everyone, calm down! This is all a misunderstanding!" Chief Rosier mopped sweat from his brow, voice steady but desperate.
The crowd wasn't buying it.
"Misunderstanding? I'll give you a misunderstanding!"
"Even if I blast you to bits, it'll be one!"
"Charge! Don't let them summon reinforcements!"
A red bolt—Stupefy—streaked from the mob, thin but unmistakable: the battle had begun.
Spells erupted in a storm:
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Diffindo!"
"Incendio!"
"Bombarda!"
"Expelliarmus!"
Chief Rosier clutched several protective charms. As the barrage hit, he triggered one—a blinding white flash swallowed the first volley. His necklace shattered in the process, buying precious seconds.
"Protego!"
A shimmering shield deflected most of the onslaught. He held, but his kin fared worse. Lacking such artifacts, they took the brunt: dozens of curses slammed home, sending them crumpling in sprays of blood. Some teetered on the edge of death.
In the chaos, one figure—wand raised in mock fury—slipped quietly to the crowd's rear. Eyes on the Rosiers, no one spared him a glance. He melted into the shadows, gone.
Inside the manor, pureblood estates like the Rosiers relied on a skeleton crew: three or four blood kin, bolstered by hired half-bloods. The Rosiers had five true members left—a slim margin. Losing even one was intolerable.
Word of the siege spread like Fiendfyre. The family rallied every able body and charged the gates. They arrived to carnage: entrance wizards battered, two Rosiers among the wounded.
The reinforcements hung back, unwilling to clash directly. Their goal: extract the beleaguered purebloods. But the manor's defenders were outnumbered, a fraction of the furious horde outside. No counterattack possible—just desperate retreats under a hail of spells. Blood sprayed as they fell back.
"You're calling in backup? Declaring war on half-bloods, then?"
"Bring it! I've been waiting for this!"
"Who hasn't? They start trouble, refuse to apologize, and now fight dirty. No Rosier hides forever!"
Boom!
A Bombarda shattered the gates to splinters. Without that barrier, the Rosiers crumbled. Thirty or forty might have held, but hundreds? Reporters had already captured the fray, headlines brewing in rival rags—not the Prophet, but potent enough at this volatile hour. The skirmish snowballed into a spectacle.
More wizards flooded in, swelling the mob. Whispers turned bold: Why stop at the Rosiers? Wipe out the purebloods entirely.
The manor's wards buckled under the assault, crumbling in a final roar. The estate lay in ruins—only a handful of Rosiers escaped unscathed.
But the fury didn't ebb. The crowd, tasting blood, targeted the next pureblood holdout. Word rippled outward; reinforcements joined at every corner. As numbers swelled, a radical thought took root: This could end the old families for good.
...
Acolytes Manor.
Argus scanned the fresh-off-the-press Prophet, the provocateur from the riot standing before him.
"Well done. No one spotted you?"
"None, sir. Silent cast, low power. Eyes were elsewhere."
"Good. Report to Vinda—she'll brief you on the rest. And send her here once it's sorted. We've matters to discuss."
"Yes, sir."
The wizard vanished. Ten minutes later, Vinda entered with her signature graceful stride, like a prowling cat.
"What's so urgent?"
"Aunt Vinda, move now. Have the acolytes snap up assets from these hit families—fast."
"Priority: Diagon Alley shops, raw material suppliers, magical creature farms."
"Our plan shifts to phase two."
"Take over Diagon Alley... and..."
Gringotts.