Hogwarts Castle, Headmaster's Office.
Ever since hearing about the Selwyn and Rosier families' vanishing act, Dumbledore had been rooted to his chair, lost in thought. His sharp instincts told him something was rotten in the wizarding world, but his focus had been entirely on safeguarding Hogwarts. He'd barely kept tabs on the simmering feuds among the pure-blood circles, so the full scope of the conflict between the acolytes and those families eluded him.
Even if he dug deeper, reliable intel would be scarce. The players involved were all heavy hitters from ancient bloodlines—who among them could be swayed?
"Argus... was it you?" Dumbledore murmured, his face a mask of conflicted emotions.
From what he knew of Argus, the man preferred subtle pressure—coercion through backroom deals, not outright annihilation. He'd force concessions, even total surrender, but he'd never get his hands dirty.
If not the acolytes, then who? What other British force could erase two pure-blood families in a single night?
"We'll need Mundungus to poke around," Dumbledore decided, his eyes gleaming with resolve. He stroked Fawkes's feathers, and with a whoosh of flames, he vanished from the room.
...
Acolytes Manor.
Argus set down the report—pilfered intelligence on Dumbledore's movements—and eyed Vinda across the table. "So, these pure-blood families are finished?"
Vinda glanced at the notes but stayed silent.
"From what Malfoy's feeding us, yeah," Argus continued. "They've zeroed in on Allen, convinced he'll oust Barty Crouch. They're planning a preemptive strike."
"No need to rush Crouch out," Argus said, shaking his head. "Let Allen dip into those responsibilities, grab some influence. But keep Crouch in place for now."
"This is prime timing," Vinda countered. "Push harder, and Allen could land the director's spot. We'd have our foot in the Ministry door."
Argus leaned forward. "And then? Fudge gets wind we're backing Allen, teams up with Director Bones, and suddenly our leverage crumbles."
He knew Fudge's type all too well—useful as a puppet, but still Minister, clinging to that scrap of legitimacy. Let him gain too much sway in the Ministry, and he'd turn on them like a cornered rat. No one tolerated a viper under their sheets forever.
Argus's real play was to erode Crouch and Bones bit by bit, driving them into an uneasy alliance against Fudge. That would bind Fudge tighter to the acolytes, opening the path for Allen to supplant him entirely. Acting now might snag a quick win from the International Magical Exchange Bureau, but it'd be poison-laced—short-term gain, long-term ruin.
"So, exploit the pure-bloods' plot to boost Allen, but hold off on making him director," Vinda pieced it together. "Stay in Fudge's shadow for now?"
"Exactly. The Ministry's ours to claim." Argus had learned from his father's blunders. The old man obsessed over it, the wizarding world's nerve center. If he'd seized control in that Bhutan election years back, history might've bent differently.
Argus paused. "Fudge will do the heavy lifting to prop up Allen, desperate to preserve his clout. When the moment's ripe, we shove Allen over the finish line."
Vinda nodded. "Got it. On the werewolves who hit Knockturn Alley—we've tracked them. Handle it ourselves, or tip off the Alley crew?"
"We take them out," Argus said flatly. "They threatened the acolytes. Time they learned the cost."
"Right. I'll dispatch a team—"
"Hold up, Aunt Vinda!" A young voice cut in. It was Argus's protégé, barely containing his eagerness. "For this job... can I come along?"
"Absolutely not," Vinda shot back before he could elaborate.
"If it were a standard skirmish, fine—I'd encourage it. A wizard without battlefield scars stays green forever. But werewolves? Too risky. One slip, and... the acolytes can't lose you."
The boy deflated but didn't push. He'd hit a wall with his Patronus Charm lately; nothing broke through like live combat. Dementors were elusive prizes, so werewolves would have to do. Dark creatures were dark creatures—close enough.
With Argus's nod of approval, Vinda swept out, mission set.
...
Deep in a misty forest cave, a ragged pack of a dozen werewolves huddled, eyes wide with dread.
It started as a simple gig: shake down the Selwyns and Rosiers for some Galleons, ease their miserable existence. But the families vanished right after forking over the advance, leaving the pack exposed. Now they had the acolytes and Knockturn Alley's cutthroats on their trail.
Hiding in the wilds, they whispered prayers for obscurity. In their panic, they'd bolted without supplies—no food, no gear. Only their unnatural stamina kept them from starving or freezing.
"Boss, what's the plan? Hide here till we rot?" A scrawny teen, barely past boyhood, gulped down his fear.
"No chance," the leader growled, forcing calm. "The acolytes won't scour forever. We lay low, wait for the heat to die. Worst case, bolt to Austria. If that's hot, Africa's calling. Even those fanatics won't chase us across continents."
His pep talk sparked flickers of hope. "Yeah, they're not Merlin. No way they—"
"Hmph!" The leader's nostrils flared. He sprang up, snarling. "Wizard incoming! Eyes sharp—now!"
"Wizards?" Panic rippled through the group.
A burly middle-aged wolf with rust-red hair and a jagged scar hawked a gob of spit. "You want my hide? Come try me!"
"I'll gut whoever bleeds first!"
His frame ballooned in seconds. Coarse fur—mottled brown and gray—erupted across his skin. Fangs elongated, ears sharpened to points, face twisting into a snarling muzzle. Rags shredded as claws tipped his paws.
Roaring, he barreled into the underbrush.
The others locked eyes, then howled in unison. One by one, they warped—half-man, half-beast—and melted into the trees, ready to tear apart whatever hunted them.
---
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