"Ms. Vinda Rosier."
Professor McGonagall's words made Dumbledore's eyes narrow slightly. His face remained impassive, betraying nothing of his thoughts.
"You want her to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts?"
"Precisely." McGonagall nodded, her gaze on Dumbledore laced with unease. "Setting aside her... affiliations, her power, insight, and mastery of magic make her the ideal choice."
It was an objective assessment. In the British wizarding world, Vinda's talents were unmatched—her prowess in spellwork, her sharp intellect, and her deep arcane knowledge set her leagues above the rest. Guiding a classroom of eager students would be child's play for her.
McGonagall and the others knew nothing of Argus's time-travel origins; they chalked his meteoric rise entirely to Vinda's influence. They trusted her guidance implicitly.
The real sticking point was her background—and her bitter history with Dumbledore.
"I'll need time to consider it," Dumbledore replied evenly, offering no firm yes or no. With that, he excused himself and retreated to his office.
McGonagall let out a quiet sigh. She'd half-expected as much.
Professor Sprout, who had stayed silent throughout, avoiding the brewing tension between Dumbledore and the acolytes, finally spoke up. "Minerva, fancy a drink in Hogsmeade?"
Sensing McGonagall's frustration, Sprout extended the olive branch. McGonagall glanced toward the spot where Dumbledore had vanished, her eyes lingering for a beat before she turned away.
"Let's."
"Perfect timing—no students cluttering the place. We can speak our minds."
"Couldn't agree more. With those lot around, a quiet chat's impossible." Sprout chuckled in full accord.
...
Three days later, at Acolytes Manor.
"So, they've finally run out of patience and decided to strike."
Argus scanned the fresh intelligence on the pure-blood families and the Ministry, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
The reports detailed the backing the old bloodlines intended to throw behind Barty Crouch. With Lucius feeding him inside info and Allen keeping tabs at the Ministry, piecing together their schemes was straightforward.
"Barty Crouch Jr.'s probably holed up with his father for now."
"Too soon to play that card. Better to let these pure-bloods dig their own graves first."
"Besides, Junior can't die—not yet. He's Voldemort's die-hard, a key cog in the resurrection machine. Without him, that fool Pettigrew wouldn't have the brains to pull it off. Not in this lifetime, anyway."
Lost in his calculations, Argus looked up as Vinda burst into the room.
"Argus, trouble!"
"What's happened, Aunt Vinda?"
Her frantic expression wiped the smirk from his face, replacing it with grim focus.
"Werewolves—dozens of them—have swarmed Knockturn Alley. They're attacking indiscriminately, no regard for who gets in the way."
"Werewolves? In Knockturn Alley?"
Argus's brow furrowed. Lucius's warning from days earlier echoed in his mind: families like the Selwyns and Rosiers still seethed with resentment toward the acolytes. This reeked of their doing.
"Exactly. They're ranting that we've seized their forest homes, and since Knockturn's wizards sided with us, they deserve to pay the price."
"Any casualties on our end?"
Argus dismissed the forest claim as the flimsy pretext it was. The real nonsense was pinning this on Knockturn's lot defending the acolytes. Those dark wizards had been teetering on redemption—until this chaos dragged them back into the shadows. No redemption now.
Worse, the attackers were framing it as payback against the acolytes. If the acolytes stayed out, it'd paint them as disloyal, souring ties with everyday wizards and stunting their growth. But intervening would tie them irrevocably to Knockturn's underbelly, especially after Diagon Alley's recent overtures. It was a trap to brand the acolytes as Knockturn's shadowy allies forever.
Vinda's worry mirrored his own thoughts—that much was clear.
"One of our nearby shops got hit. Several scratched; they're en route to St. Mungo's."
"How bad?"
"No word yet—it hinges on the healers. Their lives aren't at risk, but..."
Argus got the unspoken part: the scratches could turn them. Managing any new werewolves among their ranks would be a nightmare.
"Ministry or pure-bloods making a move?"
"Nothing so far." Vinda shook her head.
Subduing the beasts was simple enough; the trick was doing it without fueling rumors of acolyte ties to Knockturn.
"How many injuries in Knockturn?"
"No tally yet, but easily dozens."
"Get them all to St. Mungo's—best care money can buy. The acolytes foot the bill." Argus mulled it over, opting to invest in goodwill. At minimum, it avoided the stigma of abandoning allies in need.
He added, "And warn our people: stay sharp, no heroics that get them bitten."
"Right. But the werewolves—what about them?" Vinda pressed.
"Greedy mongrels. Without pure-blood puppet masters pulling strings, they'd never have the guts." Argus's voice hardened.
"Killing them's straightforward, but not if it costs us. And what does it achieve? The Rosiers and Selwyns are the root—the rest is just weeds."
"You mean... cut them out for good?" Vinda's eyes sharpened, concern deepening.
"Argus, a warning: England's pure-bloods aren't pushovers. Even a handful can bite back hard."
"Bleeding them dry isn't the same as erasure."
"That's why Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius Black, and the rest got Azkaban—not the Dementor's Kiss. The Ministry won't risk wiping out bloodlines on their watch."
"It's their sacred line in the sand. Get it?"
As a Rosier by birth, Vinda knew the tangled web of pure-blood politics inside out. She disapproved of what Argus implied.
"If I had a choice, I'd avoid this mess. But constant threats? Better to end it decisively."
"Back when Voldemort rampaged, the Longbottoms nearly vanished. The Prewetts too."
"Why didn't the pure-blood elite rise up then?"
Argus's sneer dripped disdain. "Hypocrites—kick the weak, cower from the strong. Give them the right nudge, the proper alibi, and they won't avenge the fallen."