In a single furious day, every pure-blood family named in the Daily Prophet's exposé faced the wrath of British wizards. The Parkinsons, the Greengrasses—even the Malfoys led the charge. But thanks to Lucius's foresight, these families had evacuated their valuables ahead of time. A manor might be lost, but it was a small price compared to the devastation others endured.
Barty Crouch, the Ministry's pure-blood poster boy, took the hardest hit. Wizards demanded his resignation en masse, and inside the Ministry, colleagues shunned him like a carrier of dragon pox. No one wanted even a whiff of his tainted legacy.
The battered pure-bloods reconvened at Crouch's urgent summons. In less than two weeks, they'd met more often than in the previous decade.
The Rosier patriarch spoke first, his face ashen from recent wounds. "We must unite and crush this uprising. The honor of pure-bloods cannot be sullied!"
"Agreed," the Selwyn head rose swiftly, his injuries less visible but no less real. "Blasted acolytes—if not for them, we'd never be in this mess!"
Lucius kept a cool exterior, but inwardly he sneered. "You lot started this fire, and now you blame the acolytes for fanning the flames? You strut around like kings, but retaliation comes for everyone."
He knew the pure-bloods' Achilles' heel all too well. They basked in ancestral glory—hoards of knowledge, gold, and influence. Yet they lacked a true titan like Dumbledore or Grindelwald to lead them. Their wizards were skilled, sure, but numbers meant nothing against such legends.
It had been the same under Voldemort's shadow: pure-bloods, cowed and helpless, picked off at whim. If Grindelwald weren't rotting in Nurmengard, these families wouldn't dare stoop to such pettiness against the acolytes.
The call to arms from Rosier and Selwyn fell flat. Most pure-bloods, scarred by the riots, feared another wave of commoner fury. Worse still was the boycott: their shops stood empty, not a single Knut crossing the counter. British wizards shunned them, even as prices plummeted. They'd pay premium at acolyte stores just to avoid the pure-blood haunts.
A short-lived rage? Manageable. But a lasting grudge? That could bankrupt them. How would they fund their lavish lives without Galleons? Not every family had the Malfoys' sprawling estates, raking in rents without lifting a wand.
The Rosier patriarch's frustration boiled over. "What, you plan to let these half-bloods trample us? Swallow your losses and grovel?"
Dead silence.
Finally, the Macmillan head broke it. "Don't you remember where our Galleons come from? Without half-blood wizards shopping our wares, who'd fill our vaults? We've thrived in Britain by playing smart, not charging in blindly."
The elder who'd handled past meetings was too rattled to attend—barely eating, lost in worry. So the patriarch came himself.
"Exactly," came echoes from several corners.
Macmillan pressed on. "Our priority should be bolstering Barty Crouch in the Ministry. If even they stay sidelined, we're done for."
All eyes swiveled to Crouch. As pure-blood leaders, they had Ministry ties and knew his peril. Macmillan was spot on. But propping up a rival? That stung. "Help you climb? Fine—but what's in it for us? We burn favors, you pocket the gains? No free rides."
Crouch, a Ministry veteran, read their greed like an open book. He opened his mouth for vague assurances, but Rosier cut in sharply.
"We're discussing how to smash these mudblood rabble—not propping up your departmental throne!"
In the cutthroat world of wizarding politics, no nod meant no deal. Rosier knew it but pushed anyway. His family had lost members in the attacks—real blood on his hands. Back home, how could he face his kin? How hold his ground among the elite?
Without the acolytes' ironclad unity, the Rosiers alone were doomed. Only a full pure-blood alliance could smother the threat.
The room went quiet again.
Rosier slammed the table. "Cowards, all of you! If you're too scared of the acolytes, disband this farce!"
With a snort, he stormed out, dignity be damned.
Selwyn followed suit, and his allies trailed hastily, emptying half the table.
"The meeting goes on," an elder with a grizzled brown beard intoned calmly. "We won't let hotheads sink us all."
...
Acolytes' Manor buzzed with quiet efficiency. Vinda laid recent sales reports before Argus.
"Our shops' turnover jumped two-thirds in days," she said.
Argus scanned the figures. "Guilt-buying from wizards easing their consciences. Still, we can hold onto half that surge."
"Don't slack off," Vinda urged. "Keep snapping up properties—every one we can."
"I'll delegate it," Argus replied with a nod. "Cash flow holding steady?"
"For now."
"Good. The Ministry's a powder keg. Unless something shifts, Crouch is on thin ice."
Vinda's eyes sharpened. "You mean... push one of ours into the spot?"