Even in their weakened state, the Acolytes commanded formidable influence. Thorfinn Rowle had witnessed it firsthand.
The Head of the Auror Office at the German Ministry of Magic t a mysterious end on his own doorstep, plunging the Ministry into chaos. Rowle was tasked with the investigation and tracked the culprit within three days, earning him a swift promotion to Deputy Head.
This was the Acolytes’ handiwork, of course—the assassination itself and the convenient scapegoat. As for the actual killer Rowle hunted? No one cared who he was. He certainly wasn’t one of theirs, just so disposable asset Vinda Rosier had dug up from the shadows.
Once Rowle assud his new role, he orchestrated a ruthless overhaul of the Auror Office. Dozens of officers were sacked on fabricated charges, replaced by fresh recruits whose loyalties were anyone’s guess. Within a week, Rowle had the departnt firmly under his thumb, with Acolyte sympathizers embedded at every level.
Erwin paid little mind to the Acolytes’ machinations. This wasn’t their mont to strike boldly; under Vinda’s shrewd guidance, they’d burrow into the Ministry’s underbelly and bide their ti. Their resurgence sent a clear ssage, though: the German wizarding world teetered on the brink of upheaval.
Local pure-blood families, despite their wealth and status, lived in quiet dread. The Acolytes’ past atrocities lood like a perpetual storm cloud.
Half a month slipped by in a haze. Erwin had squeezed every drop of enjoynt from Germany, touring its hidden corners and even lingering at sites tied to a certain infamous failed artist. Oddly, he found a strange pull to those echoing places.
On this final day, he resolved to depart. Before Apparating away, he convened with Vinda and Rowle. The latter’s loyalty now ran bone-deep—not rely from the Dark Mark searing his arm, but from the raw terror of the Acolytes’ reach. If they could fell a departnt head at his threshold, no one was safe.
Under Rowle’s efficient oversight, Erwin’s ventures had taken root. In a bustling wizarding enclave in Berlin, akin to Diagon Alley, several storefronts had been snapped up. As renovations progressed, pre-orders for Cavendish enchanted communicators flooded in from the German magical community—far exceeding Erwin’s projections.
Eager wizards had long envied their English counterparts’ gadgets, so trekking to Diagon Alley just to snag one. Now, with local outlets, they clamored to buy.
Erwin handed the reins to Vinda; her cunning made her ideal for steering these operations. After briefing them on a slew of tasks, he vanished in a swirl of Apparition.
A month away felt like an eternity. Erwin materialized straight into the heart of Diagon Alley, where throngs of shoppers buzzed with pre-term frenzy. Acceptance letters had winged their way to young witches and wizards, who now scrambled for supplies with school just two weeks off.
The Cavendish Building, though, humd at a steadier pace. Not everyone needed a new communicator daily. Foot traffic now consisted mostly of top-ups or side dealings.
At the entrance, Erwin bumped into Grodia Selwyn. The sumr had stripped away the boy’s lingering scholarly pallor, leaving him sharper, more poised.
Grodia’s face lit up with genuine surprise. "Master Erwin, you’re back?"
Erwin nodded. "Indeed. What brings you here?"
"Topping up my credit," Grodia admitted with a wry grin. "Splurged on a couple of new robes, and poof—it’s gone."
Erwin chuckled. "Sounds like you’re thriving. How’s Auror life treating you?"
"It’s steady," Grodia replied. "But the rumors of the Dark Lord’s return have spread like Fiendfyre this month. Stirred up the dark wizards, caused a bit of chaos. On the bright side, it’s given plenty of fieldwork."
Erwin nodded approvingly—that was precisely why he’d nudged Grodia toward the Auror exams. Dozens of seventh-years had followed suit at his urging. Fresh from Hogwarts, they craved real-world grit to hone their edges, and reports suggested they were rising to the challenge.
"Keep at it, then," Erwin said. "Your mont’s coming. Out of everyone, you’re the one I count on most, Grodia. Don’t disappoint ."
Though Grodia was of age and heir to old blood, Erwin’s words still ignited a spark in him. He straightened, eyes fierce. "I won’t let you down, Master."
As Grodia strode off, Erwin entered the building. Tom manned the lobby counter, directing the flow of patrons with practiced ease.
Spotting Erwin, Tom hurried over. "Master Erwin, welco back."
They took the lift to the top-floor office, where Tom poured a steaming cup of black tea. Erwin sank into his chair.
"Update ," he said.
"Business is booming," Tom replied. "Just as you foresaw—phone credit’s beco Diagon Alley’s lifeblood. Even Ollivander’s accepts it now, and Hogwarts scholarships this year convert straight to credit via Galleons. Shopkeeps trickle in weekly to swap credit for coin and bank the rest."
Erwin sipped his tea. "As expected. They won’t ditch Galleons entirely yet; no rush. This is only the start. How much coin are we sitting on?"
Tom’s eyes glead. "Over a million Galleons."
Erwin blinked, caught off guard. He’d anticipated a windfall, but this?
Tom explained: "Beyond everyday exchanges, the real haul ca from pure-blood houses. The Malfoys dumped in 150,000 alone; Selwyns matched it; Parkinsons added 100,000. Smaller families chipped in tens of thousands—none less than 10,000."
It clicked for Erwin. So old families had sniffed out his grand design and positioned themselves accordingly, trading liquidity for a stake in the future. The wizarding economy was shifting, and they knew it.
...
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