After returning from St. Mungo's Hospital, Abernathy briefed Argus on the chaos at Knockturn Alley and the hospital itself.
Argus remained unflappable. "As expected."
"Has the full cost estimate for the operation come through?"
"Initial treatments ran about 3,200 Galleons, but several wizards were bitten by werewolves and will need ongoing care. We'll have a precise figure once their recoveries stabilize."
"Do the denizens of Knockturn Alley realize the Selwyn and Rosier families orchestrated this?"
"They're likely clueless. If they had access to pure-blood intelligence, they wouldn't have wound up in Knockturn Alley to begin with."
"Now... they know." Argus's gaze sharpened with intent.
...
Late that night, the new estates of the Selwyn and Rosier families glowed with light. Through the windows, shadows of lavish spreads flickered—feasts laid out in celebration.
House-elves darted between tables, ferrying platters of food, sweets, and drinks.
"Hahaha! I knew those acolytes weren't invincible!"
"A bit of cunning, and we make them bleed!" The Selwyn patriarch swirled his red wine, his face ruddy—whether from triumph or the alcohol, it was hard to say. His cheeks and neck burned crimson.
"Our Selwyn line has dominated the wizarding world for generations. Yet this upstart acolyte band, barely a few decades old, dares challenge us!"
"If they don't back off, we'll drive them from Britain!"
Laughter erupted, smug and victorious. They'd scored a quiet win today, humiliating the acolytes without a fight.
But outside the manors, the air rippled with spatial distortions. Dozens of black-robed wizards materialized, cloaked in shadow.
For Muggles, this would be impossible. For wizards, it was routine—Portkeys or Apparition did the trick.
"Is everyone in position?" Vinda whispered.
"Go!"
At her signal, a dozen acolytes fanned out, encircling the manor. The rest melted into the shadows by the gate. Two slipped potions from their robes and downed them swiftly.
Their forms shifted, disguises taking hold. Dressed in finery, they strode toward the entrance with feigned assurance.
"Invitation, please!" A guard stepped forward from the gloom, wand at the ready—but not drawn. The newcomers' attire screamed legitimacy, not the ragged menace of dark wizards.
No call for backup. Pure-blood estates prized decorum above all, especially where reputation hung in the balance. Overreact, and you might offend some untouchable guest. Jobs were scarce these days.
Besides, a family gathering was underway tonight, albeit small.
The two acolytes shared a glance. One reached into his pocket as if for a card, closing the gap.
At the perfect moment, he whipped out his wand. "Imperius Curse!"
The guard's eyes glazed, obedience absolute. He swung the gates wide, ushering them into the manor grounds.
Vinda gripped her wand, advancing steadily. Behind her, the black-robed acolytes emerged in perfect sync—wands raised, cloaks billowing, faces set in grim silence.
"Intruders—"
A patrolling guard spotted the anomaly and lunged for his wand, shouting for aid.
A sickly green flash swallowed his cry. Avada Kedavra!
Vinda's face stayed impassive as the body crumpled. She retracted her wand and pressed on, acolytes in tow.
The Killing Curse's glow had drawn eyes, though. Reinforcements from Selwyn Manor charged forward.
"Leave a handful to handle them," Vinda ordered coolly. She'd weathered storms with Grindelwald; a single pure-blood house posed no real danger.
Eight or nine acolytes peeled off, clashing with the manor's defenders in bursts of spellfire.
The commotion pierced the manor's heart.
"Attack!"
Spells lit the gardens like fireworks. The Selwyns and their hired wizards snatched up wands, rallying from initial shock. As one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they weren't helpless—decades of elite training shone through. Panic faded fast into organized resistance.
"Who dares assault the Selwyns?" the patriarch bellowed, fury laced with disbelief. But as Vinda and her acolytes bore down, shock twisted to dread.
"Stop them—now!"
His kin and mercenaries surged forward on command. The patriarch bolted without a backward glance.
Vinda's smile was ice. "Too late to run."
...
In under half an hour, Selwyn Manor lay in ruins—bodies strewn, silence absolute.
Vinda methodically checked each corpse, ensuring no Selwyn survived to whisper tales. Satisfied, she raised her wand. Crimson flames erupted, dwarfing even the Fiendfyre Argus had once unleashed.
Dozens more fireballs streaked toward the estate. Fleeing wizards slammed into the acolyte cordon Vinda had posted—cut down or forced back into the inferno.
The flames merged into a colossal serpent of destruction, devouring stone and flesh alike.
"All accounted for?" Vinda asked, her emerald eyes reflecting the blaze.
The acolyte beside her nodded. "Selwyns are wiped out. A few stray hires, but nothing major."
"Any left alive?"
"No need." Vinda eyed the roaring pyre and shook her head. "The fire will finish them. We've lingered too long—if the Ministry or other families catch wind, explanations will be... messy."
She led the retreat, vanishing into the night.
A handful of surviving Selwyn wizards huddled, terror-stricken.
"Aguamenti!"
"Finite Incantatem!"
"Run! It's full-blown Fiendfyre—we can't contain it!"
Desperate spells only fed the beast. They became fuel for the blaze.
The same carnage unfolded at the Rosier estate.
In one brutal night, two pillars of the Sacred Twenty-Eight crumbled to ash, erased from wizarding history.
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