Argus arrived at the manor gates to find two familiar figures waiting—one tall and stern, the other shorter and more rounded. "Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout!" he said, placing a hand over his chest in welcome. "Please, come in."
A flicker of confusion crossed his mind. McGonagall's world rarely extended beyond Hogwarts and Hogsmeade; she even stayed on campus during holidays. Why visit now? She knew the acolytes' disdain for Dumbledore all too well—as his right-hand woman, she'd faced their cold shoulders before, if not outright hostility.
"Minerva, I told you Mr. Grindelwald wouldn't go down without a fight," Sprout said as they settled into the manor's drawing room. She gave Argus an appraising once-over, her expression softening. "Now that you've seen him for yourself, you can stop fretting."
McGonagall offered a faint smile but didn't contradict her.
"Professor McGonagall, thank you for your concern," Argus began.
She cut him off gently. "No, I should be thanking you. Without the acolytes stepping in, half our graduates this year might've ended up scraping by in Knockturn Alley."
Sprout nodded, her eyes distant. "Aye, it's a relief." As Hufflepuff's head, she watched too many of her students graduate into poverty, barely scraping together enough to eat. The ache of it never faded. The acolytes' recent moves had eased that burden considerably.
She and McGonagall had been in constant touch these past days, working to iron out the pure-blood families' woes. It was why the British wizarding response had been so swift. Argus's recruitment drive served the acolytes' growth, true enough—but results mattered more than motives. If it meant better lives for wizards and fewer clashes, it deserved support.
"Professors," Argus started again, just as Vinda swept into the room.
Her gaze locked onto McGonagall the instant she appeared. Decades ago, they'd been mirrors of their mentors: Vinda at Grindelwald's side, McGonagall at Dumbledore's—both sharp, unyielding assistants with a shared sense of duty and poise. Vinda carried an effortless aristocratic grace; McGonagall, a quiet authority that commanded respect.
Their clashes had been legendary, and the memories lingered sharp as ever.
McGonagall turned, meeting Vinda's eyes. Two pairs of emerald green stared back, brimming with unspoken history—rivalry, respect, regret.
The air thickened. Hostess and guest, frozen in mutual regard, neither willing to speak first.
Argus hesitated, his mind racing. These were his elders: Vinda, who'd all but raised him, a surrogate for his late mother; McGonagall, the professor who'd guided him through school more than once. How could he mediate old wounds? They were both too proud, too stubborn to yield without cause. He rubbed his temple, a headache brewing.
...
Meanwhile, the family heads—including Rosier and Selwyn—gathered in the council chamber of Selwyn's newly acquired manor. Eleven or twelve sat scattered around the vast round table, tension hanging heavy.
Selwyn and Rosier presided at the head, faces like stone, lips sealed.
The Rosier patriarch's defection still rankled. He'd seen the winds shifting and abandoned their alliance, opting for truce with the acolytes instead. It fueled their bitterness over the meeting's failures, turning quiet resentment into outright fury.
"Lord Rosier," a representative from one of the lesser pure-blood lines ventured, after exchanging uneasy glances, "are we truly moving against the acolytes next?"
Rosier's eyes flashed. "Damn right. I swear on my blood, I'll fight them to my last breath!"
The room went still. Had the man lost his mind? A few Galleons from the acolytes could bury them all—never mind their elder statesmen. If Rosier wanted suicide, he could do it alone.
They'd tagged along assuming he'd swallow his pride and bluff for appearances' sake. But this? War with the acolytes? They'd have followed Rosier's lead and cut ties if they'd known.
Rosier scanned them, his gaze arctic. "What, you're planning to betray us like Rosier?"
"No, of course not!" they stammered. In better days, they might've pivoted to allies like the Malfoys, longstanding foes of Rosier and Selwyn. But now? Refuse, and they'd face reprisal. Agree, and Rosier's vindictive streak would mark them for later reckoning. Short-term safety meant long-term doom—war with the acolytes spelled slaughter.
"Lord Rosier, at least share your strategy," an elder from another family pressed, glancing around for support. "The acolytes are too strong. All Britain's pure-bloods united might check them—but just us? We'd be crushed."
Rosier smirked, deferring to Selwyn. "We've got that covered."
Selwyn leaned forward, voice low. "Those Knockturn Alley thugs love playing enforcer for the acolytes. Let's see how deep their loyalty runs."
"What happened in Knockturn Alley?" one asked, brow furrowing. "Will the acolytes even get involved?"