School days dragged on in a haze of routine and repetition. Three days slipped by in an instant, bringing Wednesday to Hogwarts. While the castle basked in its usual deceptive calm, the wider wizarding world simmered with unrest.
That morning, a flock of owls swooped through the windows, dropping identical copies of the Daily Prophet into the hands of Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and a handful of other staff members. Before breakfast, Snape unfurled his edition with his customary sneer, only for his face to harden in an instant. A dark, murderous aura pulsed from him, his black eyes narrowing like a serpent's on the screaming headline.
"Insolent fools," he hissed through gritted teeth. "They've signed their own death warrants."
In her office, Professor McGonagall sipped her coffee, spectacles perched on her nose as she scanned the front page. The cup slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor, but she barely noticed. Horror etched her features. "The Yaxley family... have they lost their minds?"
Word spread like Fiendfyre among the professors—and soon, the students. Down in the Slytherin common room, Draco's face twisted in fury as he slammed the newspaper onto the flagstone floor. "Those blasted Yaxleys! How dare they? I'll owl Father right now—they'll regret this!"
Pansy Parkinson, at his side, wore a mask of ice-cold resolve. "I'm with you, Draco. After breakfast, I'm writing home too. The Yaxleys will pay dearly."
Murmurs of outrage rippled through the other pure-blood students, their expressions grim and unified. If a Yaxley walked in now, they'd hex him into next week without a second thought.
Draco scowled, folding his arms. "Fine. But we wait for the Head Prefect's word. Do what you must, but Pansy—come with me upstairs. He should be up by now. We'll wait outside with the others."
Pansy nodded sharply, and the pair headed to the dormitory level, joining the cluster of prefects outside Erwin's door.
Inside, Erwin lounged on his bed, already awake and holding his own copy of the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter had outdone herself with the front-page exclusive.
CAVENDISH ENVOY SLAIN IN COLD BLOOD: YAXLEY FAMILY'S BRUTAL RETALIATION!
The article laid it all bare: every sordid detail of the negotiation gone wrong, culminating in the Yaxley patriarch's wand delivering the fatal curse to Rivers, the Selwyn family's envoy. A moving photograph accompanied the text—Rivers's lifeless body sprawled in a crimson pool, the Yaxley head's face set in grim triumph, his wand still aimed at the corpse.
Skeeter wove the broader tale with her signature venom, framing the longstanding feud between the Selwyn and Yaxley families. It all traced back to a clash over magical supplies: the Selwyns offering top-quality ingredients at rock-bottom prices, undercutting the Yaxleys' bloated empire. The wizarding world knew the score—Selwyn's shop had been a godsend for frugal wand-wavers, while Yaxley's marked up the same goods two, three times over. No wonder resentment festered.
Under Yaxley pressure, the Selwyn outlet shuttered its doors. Erwin had engineered it that way, of course. Profits? Minimal. But that was never the point. The shop was bait, dangled to lure the Yaxleys into overreach. And bite they had. The moment they ramped up the suppression, their downfall was inevitable.
Skeeter painted the Selwyns as hardworking, upright traders crushed by Yaxley greed—oppression dripped from every line without ever naming it outright. She capped it with a subtle jab, penned at Erwin's direction: the pure-blood cartels hoarding the market, pricing out everyday wizards and strangling livelihoods. And the coup de grâce? Rivers wasn't even a wizard. He was a full Muggle—no Squib ambiguity to soften the blow.
Across the country, in the echoing halls of Yaxley Manor, the family patriarch crumpled his copy and hurled it aside, his eyes blazing with arctic fury. "That wretched Skeeter! How dare she twist the truth? And the Prophet—have they forgotten their place? Get me the editor's head on a platter. Force a retraction, now!"
A nervous subordinate cleared his throat. "Sir, we've tried. But the Malfoys, Parkinsons, and Selwyns are shielding her. They're the ones who muscled this into print."
The patriarch's rage faltered into stunned silence, then dawning realization. "So fast? Clever... too clever." He paced, pieces clicking into place. "From the start, it was a trap. Erwin Cavendish—one of the ancient pure-blood lines, playing us like fools. We never crossed him first; he baited us. But why? Unless... he's after the one pulling our strings. Yes, that has to be it."
At Malfoy Manor, Lucius brooded in his study, staring at the offending rag. Narcissa swept in, sensing his tension. "Lucius? What's got you so dour?"
He slid the paper across the desk. She skimmed it, her cheeks flushing with anger. "The Yaxleys are begging for oblivion! Erwin sought peace, and they mock him—then murder his envoy? The Ministry will crucify them! We can't stand idle, Lucius. We must make them answer."
Lucius raised a hand, his voice measured. "Patience, Narcissa. This reeks of orchestration. Look closer—do you not see the strings?"
She scowled, scanning again. "All I see is Erwin wronged. What more is there?"
The wizarding world held its breath, alliances fracturing like brittle wandwood. At Hogwarts, whispers echoed through the corridors, but in the shadows of Slytherin, Erwin's prefects stood vigilant, awaiting his lead. The powder keg was lit; only the explosion remained.
...
Bonus chapter progress:
Power Stones: [11]/100
5 Star Reviews: [6]/10
Every stone gets us closer.