The next morning, Vinda Rosier and Abernathy returned to Acolytes Manor after tying up loose ends.
"Aunt Vinda, Uncle Abernathy—what were our losses?" Argus asked.
"Three dead, seven injured," Vinda replied coolly. "Nothing life-threatening."
She had slipped back into her polished demeanor, a stark contrast to Abernathy's weathered grit, like figures from separate eras sharing the same drawing room.
"The world is about to change," Argus murmured, staring at the slate-gray sky beyond the rain-streaked windows.
A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table beside a dog-eared copy of the Daily Prophet, its headline screaming in bold ink:
KNOCKTURN ALLEY WARLOCKS RAZE SELWYN AND ROSIER MANORS—ENTIRE FAMILIES PERISH!The accompanying photo showed a colossal serpent of churning flames devouring the estates, leaving only smoldering ruins and blackened husks amid the debris.
...
"Merlin's beard! Have you seen the Prophet?" a witch gasped in Diagon Alley. "Knockturn Alley wizards hit the Selwyn and Rosier manors last night—wiped them out clean!"
"What? When did those Knockturn thugs get so bold?"
"This'll set British pure-bloods ablaze. No one's crossed a Sacred Twenty-Eight family like that since You-Know-Who fell."
The report detonated across the wizarding world, rippling from Britain to every corner of the magical community. For years, no pure-blood lineage had been eradicated so utterly. And two from the Sacred Twenty-Eight? Unthinkable.
"The manors are ash—no survivors," one wizard muttered over breakfast. "Even the garden gnomes got scorched."
The Ministry's probe pinned the blame on Selwyn and Rosier, claiming they'd orchestrated the werewolf assaults on Knockturn Alley. Retaliation, pure and simple. No arrests yet; details pending further inquiry.
Allen had clearly pulled strings at the Ministry— the official line omitted any trace of the acolytes. British wizards bought it hook, line, and sinker. Knockturn's denizens, though? Utterly baffled.
Bloody hell, one warlock thought, rubbing his eyes. Who am I? Where am I? And how did our alley suddenly become an unstoppable force? We took down Sacred Twenty-Eight houses? I'd have bet my wand we'd get slapped down!
Word spread like Fiendfyre: Which shadowy boss led the raid? Genius!
Pure-blood families, meanwhile, seethed with rage—and fear.
"Idiotic Fudge! Does the Ministry take us for fools?" the Yaxley patriarch roared, his goatee quivering as he pounded the table. An apoplectic flush crept up his neck.
The middle-aged advisor at his side placed a steadying hand on his arm. "Patriarch, compose yourself. We need you sharp."
"Who needs investigating? In all of wizarding Britain, who else could pull this off?" the old man snarled, eyes bulging.
Unity among the pure-bloods was a myth, especially against outsiders. Fury boiled, but terror simmered beneath. Two houses obliterated overnight—no cries for aid, no leaks, nothing until the Ministry's owls flew.
Selwyn and Rosier weren't nobodies; mid-tier Sacred Twenty-Eight, respected and resilient. If they fell so fast, who was safe? A flick of the wrist, and poof.
"Selwyn and Rosier brought it on themselves," a sharp-tongued young witch from the Carrow family drawled. "Mess with werewolves? Expect claws in return."
The brown-haired Burst scion nodded dismissively. "Exactly. Play with fire, get burned. Or scratched."
"Spare us the smugness," the Macmillan elder cut in, scanning the room with piercing eyes. "We all know what's really eating you."
Sacrificing for ghosts? Pointless. Those fools picked a fight with the acolytes; their blood was on their own heads.
"But we can't let this slide," another voice protested. "Pure-blood honor's at stake!"
"If we roll over, the acolytes own Britain. Where does that leave us—scraping for crumbs?"
Silence fell like a dementor's chill. Lucius Malfoy, who'd been playing the silent observer, smirked inwardly.
Bunch of cowards. Bully the weak, cower from the strong. You dismissed the acolytes as nobodies until they bared their teeth. Now you're terrified. And for good reason—once they've struck, do you think they'll negotiate?
This massacre had rewritten the rules. The pure-bloods' iron grip on power? Shattered. The acolytes had toppled their pedestal in a single, brutal night.
"Look closer," the Abbott head urged wearily. "The Ministry's shielding them. Why else would the Prophet skip every acolyte whisper?"
"If we don't burrow into the Ministry soon, Fudge will lock us out for good."
"No more secrets," the Macmillan elder barked. "Help Barty Crouch reclaim the International Magical Exchange and Cooperation Department first."
"That Auror chief under Fudge is no pushover," he added, eyes flicking to Barty Crouch in the shadows. "He's nabbing Dark wizards left and right. Ignore this, and he might just eclipse you."
"The acolytes' ascent is inevitable," the elder continued. "But the Ministry? We can still rein them in. No more free rein!"
Consensus hardened: The acolytes were untouchable—step back. The Ministry? Pliable, no ancient might or deep coffers. Pick on the easy mark.
After an eternity of tense quiet, Barty Crouch spoke. "The Crouch family will give its all."
A beat. "But that price you demand? Unacceptable."
Relief washed over the gathered representatives. They shared knowing glances.
"Hold on," one said. "We can negotiate."
"Plenty of time to sort it out."
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