Knockturn Alley lay in ruins, its narrow streets choked with despair. Wizards huddled in the gloom, some drawing wands to their own throats, only to be wrestled back by frantic family and friends. Sobs echoed off the grimy walls.
In Diagon Alley, life might scrape by without dignity or decent meals, but at least they could call themselves human. Here, every step demanded caution, every glance carried judgment. A simple chat with kin could spell disaster for all involved.
Knockturn's residents couldn't afford St. Mungo's, so injuries—from curses or werewolf bites—meant gritting teeth through the agony. Those with a few spare Sickles might scrape together a visit to a shady back-alley healer. The penniless just endured.
"They came for revenge on the acolytes—why drag us into it?" one wizard spat, clutching a bleeding arm.
"Yeah! Your grudge with the acolytes is your problem. Bunch of animals!"
"Why should we pay for their mess? We don't even know those bastards!"
"The acolytes aren't saints either. This is their fight, and they haven't said a word while we're bleeding out!"
"You idiots don't even recognize them? Don't lump us in with you lot!"
Resentment boiled over, aimed at anyone caught in the crossfire because of the acolytes. Insults flew thicker than the fog.
"Enough!" a voice cut through the din. "This has nothing to do with the acolytes. They didn't sic the werewolves on us."
"If you've got beef, hunt down the wolves yourselves!"
The speaker was a young man, bandaged and limping, who'd once hoped to join the acolytes. His defense ignited a firestorm of jeers.
"Acolyte's lapdog! He your daddy or something?"
"He left you to the wolves—turning you into one! And you're still shielding him?"
"Damn right—if it were me, I'd take a few acolytes down too!"
"Shut it, all of you!"
The gang's leader strode forward, a white cloth bound around his wrist—werewolf claw or battle wound, it was hard to tell. "I'll handle this with the acolytes myself."
"Max, get the wounded to Old Ross for patching up. Tell him to bill us later."
Money was tight, but he wouldn't let his people bleed out. A quick fix from the alley's resident quack would have to do; he'd square up when coins came in.
"Boss, I'll skip. Saving for my girl's Hogwarts tuition next year."
"Not me—wife's ill, need every Knut for her."
"Count me out too."
Knockturn wasn't just a haunt for dark wizards; it was a refuge for the desperate, those with no other options. Take Lupin, for instance—if he hadn't tailed Sirius after Peter and Harry, he'd be in the thick of it too. Werewolf by birth, he couldn't catch the curse again, but a thrashing was fair game.
The leader sighed, shoulders slumping. "Go anyway. The gang's footing the bill."
Relief rippled through the group, easing the tension just a fraction.
"Ungrateful acolytes! We torched those pure-blood shops for them, and now this—no thanks, no help!"
"They ditch us after we do their dirty work. First stop after Old's: their Diagon shop for payback..."
The griping halted abruptly. A group emerged from the shadows, clad in crisp black robes with house-elf pouches slung over shoulders. At their head: Abernathy.
Their arrival stunned the crowd. Abernathy addressed them gravely: the acolytes regretted the chaos. All injured would receive top care at St. Mungo's, expenses covered. If a loved one died or turned, the acolytes would ensure the family's stability—priority slots in future recruitments included.
Uproar erupted. Werewolf bites weren't a cheap fix; purging the venom could bankrupt a Knockturn family a dozen times over. Yet here were the acolytes, shouldering it all without flinching.
The wizard who'd howled loudest moments ago now stared at the ground, cheeks burning. He'd branded them selfish, ready to smash their shops in rage. But they'd stepped up, treating Knockturn's forgotten like equals—no sneers, no judgment. Just aid for folks who'd been invisible their whole lives.
Guilt twisted with gratitude and hope, drawing tears from hardened eyes. They'd even preempted the fallout, safeguarding families on a whim from vague werewolf threats. The cost? Astronomical—and they didn't blink.
Abernathy led the wounded toward St. Mungo's, the crowd trailing in stunned silence. Even his team exhaled in relief. To guard against mishaps, Argus had equipped them with the acolytes' latest: upgraded protective cloaks, inspired by Lockhart's old model. Stronger wards, broader coverage, and soon mass-produced for all ranks.
St. Mungo's hadn't budgeted for a werewolf surge, but bags of Galleons changed minds fast. Healers got to work in the wards, spells flying as patients stabilized.
"Thanks for pulling us through," the Knockturn leader told Abernathy, gripping his arm. "We'll repay this—mark my words."
"Save it for our boss, Mr. Filch. He's the one who sent the crew and the gold to help Knockturn Alley. I was just the messenger."
Abernathy shook his head, but a faint smile cracked his stern facade. For the first time in ages, Knockturn felt a spark of something like belonging.