"It's out. One of McDuff's grandsons was at Durmstrang, but he got expelled for breaking rules—using classmates as guinea pigs for Dark Arts experiments."
"The Austrian Minister of Magic's tight with Karkaroff, Durmstrang's headmaster. They used it to squeeze McDuff for intel on our Austrian operations."
"Idiot," Argus muttered, the word barely capturing his disdain.
Durmstrang, Hogwarts, Beauxbatons—they were all just schools for magic. Expulsion? Hardly the end of the world. Plenty of ways to learn the craft. For his service to the Saints, McDuff could've gotten help smoothing it over. What a waste of the kid's talent. Experimenting with Dark Arts on peers at school? The boy had real potential—backbone material for the Saints down the line.
Now? Better to cut it short.
"If memory serves, Karkaroff was a Death Eater," Argus said.
"He weaseled out by claiming the Imperius Curse controlled him," Yages—Argus himself in reflection—sneered inwardly.
Without foreknowledge of how this Durmstrang headmaster nearly spooked Voldemort into hiding later on, Argus might've bought the tough-guy act.
"You lot only fear Death Eaters, not the Saints?"
"Those who didn't live through that era are blissfully clueless..."
"Send someone to reach out?" Vinda suggested.
He doesn't deserve the courtesy.
"A dog's a dog, wizard robes or not," Argus replied.
If Karkaroff had played it smart, Argus might've let it slide. But cozying up to the Austrian Minister? Picking a fight with the Saints?
Only one response for that: break him.
Killing the head of one of Europe's big three schools? Too much noise in the wizarding world—bound to stir paranoia among the rank-and-file.
Better to thrash him until he learns to keep his fangs sheathed.
"Karkaroff's small fry. The real issue's the Austrian Ministry," Argus said. "Negotiate for our seized people and goods?"
"Not much cargo, but we can't leave our folks rotting in cells forever," Vinda added, brow furrowed.
"Negotiation went out the window when they targeted us," Argus shot back, meeting her gaze. "We yield now—what stops the next country from trying?"
"But..." Vinda hesitated.
"Aunt Vinda, remember who we are?"
Her uncertainty drew a wry smile from Argus. "We're the Saints."
"When we swept Europe and America, did the Ministries' opinions ever slow us?"
"Business is just our current play—not a leash turning us into shopkeepers."
Vinda chuckled, the tension easing. Years in trade had wired her for deals and diplomacy, blinding her to the Saints' true roots: power forged in wandfire, not Galleons.
As they spoke, a Saint burst in. "Mr. Grindelwald—the Austrian Ministry's here!"
"Here? For what?" Vinda asked, baffled.
"They... they..." The messenger glanced warily at Argus.
"Out with it," Argus snapped.
"They claim the Saints hid Dark Arts items in our Austrian shipments. Want the boss for questioning."
"Questioning?" Argus barked a laugh at their nerve.
Did a few years of English trade make them think the Saints had gone soft—wands gathering dust?
Expect him to trot to the Ministry like a good citizen?
Vinda flashed back to the time British Aurors had dragged Argus in for grilling and moved to intervene. "You stay, Argus. I'll handle it."
He rolled his eyes. "Aunt Vinda, when did I say I'd play along?"
"Saints don't bow to laws. If they won't talk sense, neither will we."
Vinda's grin matched his as she fell in step. "Lead on—let's greet our guests."
...
At the castle gates, a squad of Aurors in official robes fidgeted, picking at their ears with growing impatience.
"Took them long enough to answer!"
"No surprise the Saints slunk out of Austria and Germany like whipped dogs."
Laughter erupted, harsh and mocking, flushing the faces of nearby Saints. A few hotheads gripped their wands, only reined in by comrades.
The heavy doors creaked open. Argus strode out with Vinda at his side, the Aurors' jeers ringing in his ears. His expression stayed stone-cold.
"You're the little Grindelwald?" the lead Auror sneered, eyeing him.
Argus met their stares silently.
"Your shipments tested positive for Dark Arts contraband," the man pressed, advancing. "You're coming with us."
They treated him like a schoolboy, one even lunging to seize his arm.
Only Argus's wand answered—swift and unforgiving.
"Sent by your Minister?"
The Auror smirked wider, emboldened. He'd heard tales of vanished colleagues at Nurmengard, seen Argus's name in the Prophet. But with Ministry muscle behind him—and the Saints' recent meek arrests—he figured the hype was overblown. Just a kid propped up as their poster boy.
"No need for Ministry grunts on fetch quests," he taunted, sidestepping toward Argus.
In the next breath, a sickly green flash erupted from Argus's wand.
The curse lanced true, slamming into the Auror's chest amid a chorus of stunned gasps. He crumpled, eyes wide in disbelief.
"True enough—the Ministry can handle its own arrests."
"And Saints? We don't bother with killing unless provoked."
His words ignited the fray. Before the body hit the ground, the Saints unleashed hell—curses flying in a deadly barrage.
Outnumbered and caught flat-footed, the Aurors crumpled fast. Strength, surprise—it was a slaughter.
"Spare one. Might come in handy," Argus commanded, voice like cracking ice.
Seconds later, silence fell. Seven or eight bodies littered the gate, the lone survivor on his knees, quaking beside the carnage. No dream—just stark reality.
Argus skipped the interrogation. A flick of his wand plunged into Legilimency, rifling the man's mind for what he sought.
Satisfaction curved his lips. "Got it."
---
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