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Chapter Text

The air in the chamber, usually still and heavy with the scent of ancient stone and forgotten enchantments, was alive with a frantic, stolen energy. It thrummed against Hasel Potter's skin, a discordant symphony accompanying the blinding, sickly green flash that erupted from the shattered time-turner. One moment, she was lunging, wand outstretched, a desperate shield charm forming on her lips as Hermione, her brilliant, beloved Hermione, wrestled with the rogue Ministry official who'd sought to weaponize the Department of Mysteries' most volatile artifacts. The next, the very fabric of their reality tore.

It wasn't like Apparition, that familiar, uncomfortable squeeze. This was a violent, wrenching expulsion. The polished marble floor of the Ministry vanished, replaced by an impossible, swirling vortex of color and sound. Hasel's scream was swallowed by the roaring chaos, her hand, locked tight in Hermione's, the only anchor in a world unmoored. The taste of ozone, sharp and metallic, filled the air, and a pressure built behind her eyes. Images, too fleeting to comprehend – alien skies, impossible architecture, faces that were almost human but unnervingly other – flashed before her.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the violent transit ceased. The landing was jarring, knocking the breath from Hasel's lungs. She lay gasping, not on smooth stone, but on something uneven, slick, and cold. The acrid smell of damp earth, coal smoke, and something else, something rank and unfamiliar, filled her nostrils, a stark contrast to the sterile scent of the Ministry. Rain, cold and persistent, plastered her hair to her forehead.

Groaning, Hasel pushed herself up, her body aching. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples. Beside her, Hermione was stirring, her usually composed features etched with pain and disorientation. "Hasel? What… what happened?" Hermione's voice was a strained whisper, her eyes, wide and unfocused, struggled to take in their surroundings.

Darkness enveloped them, a thick, cloying blackness punctuated by the faint, flickering orange glow of what looked like… gas lamps? They were in a narrow alleyway, the towering brick walls on either side slick with rain and grime, disappearing into the oppressive gloom above. The cobblestones beneath them were uneven and treacherous. This was not the Ministry. This was not London as they knew it.

A low murmur of voices, guttural and unfamiliar, echoed from the alley's entrance. Hasel's heart lurched. Instinct, honed by years of fighting for her life, screamed danger. She fumbled for her wand, her fingers closing around the familiar yew wood with a surge of desperate relief. "Hermione, on your feet. We're not alone."

Hermione, ever the pragmatist even in shock, was already pushing herself up, her own wand materializing in her hand. They stood back-to-back, a familiar defensive posture, peering into the oppressive darkness.

Figures began to emerge from the deeper shadows at the mouth of the alley, their forms indistinct in the dim, flickering light. They moved with a predatory grace that sent a fresh wave of alarm through Hasel. These weren't the clumsy, power-hungry Death Eaters they were used to, nor the stiffly uniformed Aurors of their world. These individuals were cloaked, their faces obscured by hoods, and as they drew closer, Hasel caught the glint of metal – not wands, but blades, long and sharp, some visibly strapped to their arms, others hinted at beneath their dark, practical clothing.

One figure, taller than the rest, stepped forward. The hood was thrown back to reveal the face of a woman, her features sharp and intelligent, her emerald eyes narrowed with suspicion as they raked over Hasel and Hermione. There was an undeniable air of command about her, a hardened edge that spoke of countless battles fought and won. Her accent, when she finally spoke, was sharp, clipped, and undeniably of this city, yet from an era Hasel only knew from history books.

"And who might you be, then?" the woman demanded, her voice low and carrying an undercurrent of threat. "Stumbling into places you've no business being. Lost your way, have you, ladies?" Her gaze was intense, missing nothing, from their strange, soot-stained clothes to the wands clutched in their hands. The other figures fanned out slightly, a silent, menacing cordon.

Hasel exchanged a fleeting, terrified glance with Hermione. How could they even begin to explain? That they were witches from a different time, a different world perhaps, thrust here by a magical cataclysm? It sounded insane, even to her own ears.

"We… there was an accident," Hermione began, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to keep it steady. "At the Ministry… we were… transported. We don't know where we are."

A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped one of the cloaked figures. The tall woman, however, merely tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "An accident, you say?" She took another step closer, her eyes fixing on the wands in their hands. "And those little sticks? What are they for? Fancy knitting needles?"

The implied threat was clear. These people were not friends. They were armed, suspicious, and on their own turf. Hasel's grip tightened on her wand. She wouldn't go down without a fight, not after everything they'd survived. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the only sounds the relentless patter of rain and the distant, mournful clang of a city bell. They were adrift, in a strange, hostile world, with unknown dangers lurking in every shadow.

Chapter Text

The silence in the narrow, rain-slicked alley stretched taut, thick with suspicion and the unspoken threat of violence. Hasel could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, a familiar, unwelcome companion. Her gaze flickered between the tall, commanding woman and the shadowy figures flanking her, each one a potential adversary. The glint of their hidden blades was noticeable; this was a different kind of fight, one they were utterly unprepared for.

"We don't want any trouble," Hasel stated, trying to keep her voice even, projecting a calm she didn't feel. "We're just… lost. If you could tell us where we are, what city this is…"

The woman's lips curved into a humorless smile. "Lost, are you? In Whitechapel? Not the best place for unescorted ladies, especially ones dressed as… peculiarly as yourselves." Her eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on their attire – practical, yes, for their world, but undoubtedly alien here. Robes, even travel-worn ones like theirs, were clearly not the fashion in this gritty, gaslit London. "And those 'sticks'?" she pressed again, her gaze flicking to their wands. "You didn't answer my question."

Hermione took a shallow breath. Explaining magic to Muggles was always a delicate affair, fraught with the risk of disbelief or, worse, fear. But these were no ordinary Muggles. There was a dangerous competence about them, a lethal grace in their stance. "They're… tools," Hermione said carefully. "For protection."

"Protection?" One of the cloaked men scoffed, stepping forward, a blade appearing in his hand with a flick of his wrist. "Let's see how well they protect you against cold steel, eh?"

Before Hasel could react, before a single spell could form on her lips, the tall woman raised a hand, a silent command that halted the man in his tracks. He grumbled but retreated a step, the blade still held ready.

"Hold, Garrett," the woman said, her voice calm but firm. She turned her attention back to Hasel and Hermione. "You're clearly not from around here. And you're armed, albeit strangely. That makes you a curiosity, or a threat. In my experience, most curiosities in Whitechapel end up being threats." Her eyes narrowed. "So, one more time. Who are you, and what brings you to my territory?"

The possessive emphasis on "my territory" was not lost on Hasel. This woman was a leader, accustomed to obedience. "Our names are Hasel and Hermione Potter," Hasel said, deciding a measure of truth, however unbelievable, was their only option. "We were involved in an accident. A magical accident. We were in the Ministry of Magic, in our London, and then… we were here."

A ripple of murmurs went through the assembled group. The word "magic" hung in the air, met with a mixture of disbelief and something else… a flicker of guarded interest in the leader's eyes.

"Magic?" she repeated, her tone skeptical but not entirely dismissive. "Like stage tricks and charlatans?"

"No," Hermione interjected, her voice gaining a little of its usual firmness. "Real magic. We are witches."

The declaration was met with a stunned silence, then a burst of derisive laughter from some of the men. The leader, however, didn't laugh. Her gaze intensified, scrutinizing them with renewed interest. She took a step closer, her eyes searching theirs, looking for any sign of deception.

"Witches," she mused, drawing the word out. "I've heard tales. Old wives' stories, mostly. But you don't look like any witch I've ever imagined." She paused. "If what you say is true, if you possess this… magic… then you've stumbled into a war you know nothing about, ladies."

"War?" Hasel echoed, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. Had they escaped one war only to be thrust into another?

"A secret war," the woman affirmed, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Fought in the shadows, for the very soul of this city. And you, with your talk of magic, have just made yourselves very interesting to both sides." She gestured vaguely around them. "This is London, 1888. And we are the Rooks. I am Clara Thorne, and this," she swept a hand towards the alley entrance, "is our domain."

1888. The date hit Hasel like a physical blow. Over a century. They were over a century displaced from their own time. A wave of dizziness, cold and sharp, washed over her. 1888? Her mind reeled, struggling to process the impossibility. Ron. Ginny. Teddy. A chasm of over a hundred years had just opened beneath her feet, swallowing everyone she knew, everything she'd fought for. She swayed, the grimy alley walls seeming to close in, and Hermione's hand, instantly on her arm, was the only thing keeping her anchored to this terrifying new present.

Clara Thorne watched their reaction with a keen, calculating gaze. "You seem surprised by the year. Further proof you're not from our London." She considered them for a long moment. "The Rooks fight for the people, for freedom from those who seek to control everything and everyone – the Templars." The name was uttered with a venom that spoke of deep-seated hatred. "They are powerful, ruthless, and they have their fingers in every pie, from Parliament to the darkest alleys. They hunt for power, for artifacts of old, and they crush anyone who stands in their way."

Templars. The name meant nothing to Hasel, yet the description resonated with a chilling familiarity. Power-hungry, controlling, ruthless… it sounded disturbingly like the Death Eaters and Voldemort's regime.

"And you believe us?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with surprise. "About the magic?"

Clara shrugged, a pragmatic gesture. "Let's just say I'm willing to be convinced. If you truly have abilities beyond the ken of ordinary folk, they could be… useful. Or they could make you a prime target for the Templars. They dabble in things best left undisturbed, and whispers of true magic would be like blood in the water to them."

She turned, gesturing for them to follow. "Come. You're soaked and clearly overwhelmed. We have a place nearby. You can dry off, get some food. And then," her emerald eyes gleamed in the gaslight, "you can tell us everything. And perhaps, just perhaps, show us a little of this 'magic' of yours. If you're lying…" She let the threat hang, unspoken but potent.

Hasel looked at Hermione, a silent question passing between them. They were vulnerable, lost, and in a potentially hostile environment. Clara Thorne and her Rooks radiated danger, but there was also a sense of rough-hewn honor about them, a fierce protectiveness of their territory and, perhaps, their people. And right now, they were the only semblance of help in this alien time.

With a deep breath, Hasel nodded. "Alright, Miss Thorne. Lead the way."

The Rooks' hideout, or "rookery" as Clara called it, was a sprawling, dilapidated warehouse tucked away in a labyrinth of equally grimy buildings near the docks. The air inside the Rookery hit them like a physical wave – a thick, cloying miasma of damp wood, the sharp tang of stale beer, the undeniable musk of unwashed bodies, and beneath it all, the metallic scent of oil and sharpened steel. Yet, it was dry, a welcome respite from the biting rain, and the flickering warmth from a large, roaring fire in a makeshift hearth beckoned them deeper into the den. The space was a hive of activity. Men and women, young and old, moved about with purpose, some sharpening blades, others poring over maps, their conversations a low, constant hum. They were a motley crew, their clothes practical and worn, their faces reflecting the harsh realities of their lives, yet there was a shared resilience in their eyes, a sense of belonging.

Clara led them to a quieter corner, where a rough-spun blanket was offered to each of them. "Henry!" Clara called out, and a young man with spectacles perched on his nose and an ink stain on his cheek hurried over. He looked more like a scholar than a street fighter, his eyes bright with an inquisitive intelligence. "These are Hasel and Hermione. They claim to be witches, possessed of magic. They've had an… accident. See to it they get some dry clothes and something hot to drink. And listen to their story. I want to know every detail."

Henry's eyes widened behind his spectacles as he took in the two women. "Witches? Truly? Fascinating! The historical accounts are so often contradictory, you see, and largely dismissed as folklore, but if there's empirical evidence…" He trailed off, then flushed slightly. "Forgive me. Henry Greene, at your service. Historian and advisor to the Rooks." He offered a polite, if slightly awkward, bow.

As Hasel and Hermione, bundled in borrowed, ill-fitting but dry clothes, sipped at a surprisingly palatable herbal tea, they began to recount their tale. They spoke of Hogwarts, of wands and spells, of the war against Voldemort, and of the disastrous accident in the Department of Mysteries. Henry listened with rapt attention, interrupting only to ask clarifying questions, his quill scratching furiously across a worn notebook. The other Rooks in the vicinity, while feigning disinterest, clearly strained to overhear.

When they finally finished, an hour later, exhaustion weighing heavily on them, Henry stared at them, his expression a mixture of awe and scholarly excitement. "Incredible," he breathed. "Travel through time… and perhaps, dimensions?" He pushed his spectacles up his nose, his eyes gleaming. "The fragmented texts we've recovered, the whispers of the Isu – the Ones Who Came Before – they hint at such manipulations of the very threads of reality! Your 'magic,' as you call it, the focused intent, the wands as conduits… it bears a fascinating resemblance, at least in principle, to the energies said to emanate from the Pieces of Eden, though yours seems more… intrinsic, more personal, less reliant on an external artifact. Astounding!"

Clara, who had been observing from a short distance, approached. "So, Henry? What's your assessment? Are they mad, lying, or something else entirely?"

Henry pushed his spectacles further up his nose. "Their story is… fantastical, Clara. Yet, the conviction with which they tell it, the details… and their clear disorientation upon arrival… I believe they are speaking their truth, however improbable it may seem. The existence of 'magic' as they describe it would certainly explain abilities that could shift the balance of our struggle."

Clara fixed Hasel and Hermione with her piercing gaze. "The balance. Yes. That's what this always comes down to." She paused. "You say you fought in a war for freedom in your time. You understand what it means to stand against tyranny." It wasn't a question.

"We do," Hasel said quietly, the memories of fallen friends, of sacrifices made, fresh in her mind.

"Then you understand our fight against the Templars," Clara stated. "They seek to control, to impose their order, believing humanity is too flawed to govern itself. We believe in free will, in the right of every individual to choose their own path, even if that path is messy and imperfect." Her eyes hardened. "If your magic is real, it could be a powerful weapon. But weapons can be turned against their wielders. Are you with us, or are you a danger we need to neutralize?"

The choice was stark, presented with the same brutal honesty that seemed to define Clara Thorne. Hasel looked at Hermione. They were strangers in a strange land, their old lives shattered. But the fight Clara described, the values she espoused, resonated deeply with everything they had fought and bled for. Here, perhaps, was a purpose, a way to make sense of their inexplicable predicament.

Hermione nodded slowly, her gaze meeting Hasel's. "We've always fought for what's right, Hasel."

Hasel turned back to Clara, a new resolve solidifying within her. "We stand against anyone who tries to control and oppress others. If the Templars are what you say they are, then we stand with the Rooks."

A flicker of something – respect? satisfaction? – crossed Clara Thorne's face. "Good. Then welcome to the Rooks, witches. Your training begins tomorrow. This London is a dangerous place, and magic or no, you'll need to learn how to survive its streets if you're to be of any use to us… or to yourselves."

Chapter Text

The dawn that broke over Whitechapel was a muted, grey affair, the weak sunlight struggling to penetrate the thick pall of coal smoke that perpetually hung over the city. Hasel awoke with a start, disoriented for a moment before the previous night's surreal events came crashing back. The rough-spun blanket, the unfamiliar chill in the air, the low murmur of activity already stirring within the Rookery – it was all starkly, undeniably real. Beside her, Hermione was already awake, her brow furrowed in thought as she stared at the grimy window.

Their promised "training" began not with lessons in stealth or blade work, as Hasel might have half-expected, but with a summons from Clara Thorne herself. They found her in what appeared to be a makeshift office – a section of the warehouse partitioned off by stacked crates and draped with heavy tarpaulins. A large, scarred wooden table dominated the space, covered in maps of London, sketches of unfamiliar faces, and cryptic notes.

Clara gestured towards two rickety chairs. "Sit. Before we throw you to the wolves, or rather, to Jacob Frye for your physical conditioning, there's the matter of this 'magic' of yours." Her gaze was direct, unwavering. "Henry is convinced you're genuine. I'm… reserving judgment. But if you are what you say, I need to understand its capabilities. And its limitations."

Hermione, ever prepared, took the lead. "Magic, as we practice it, is about channeling inherent abilities, focusing intent through a conduit – our wands – to manipulate the world around us. It can be used for defense, for healing, for construction, for concealment… the applications are vast."

"Show me," Clara said simply, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. There was no malice in her tone, merely a demand for proof.

Hasel and Hermione exchanged a glance. This was the moment. They needed to demonstrate their abilities without causing undue alarm or revealing the full, terrifying extent of what magic could truly do in the wrong hands. Subtlety was key.

"Perhaps a simple demonstration of light?" Hasel suggested. She raised her wand, focusing on the familiar incantation. "Lumos." A soft, warm light blossomed at the tip of her yew wand, illuminating the dim corner of the office.

Clara's expression didn't change, but Hasel saw a flicker of something in her eyes – surprise, perhaps, or intrigue. Henry, who had quietly entered and was now hovering near the doorway, gasped audibly.

"Remarkable," Henry breathed, stepping closer. "A self-contained, controllable light source, without flame or fuel. The implications for nighttime operations alone are…"

"Indeed," Clara cut him off, though not unkindly. "Impressive. What else?"

Hermione then took her turn. She pointed her wand at a dented tin mug resting on the table. "Wingardium Leviosa." The mug wobbled, then slowly rose into the air, hovering a few inches above the tabletop. With a gentle flick of Hermione's wrist, it drifted to the left, then the right, before settling back down with a soft clink.

A few Rooks who had gathered near the entrance to the "office," drawn by Henry's earlier exclamation, let out hushed murmurs of astonishment. Garrett, the man who had been so quick to draw his blade the night before, stared with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Levitation," Henry noted, scribbling furiously in his notebook. "The ability to move objects without physical contact. Think of the applications in sabotage, in accessing hard-to-reach locations…"

"Yes, Henry, we can all see its uses," Clara said, a hint of dry amusement in her voice. She looked at Hasel and Hermione. "These are… parlor tricks, to an extent. Useful, certainly. But can your magic stop a bullet? Can it mend a broken bone in minutes? Can it make you invisible to the naked eye?"

"Stopping a bullet directly is… complex," Hermione admitted. "Shield charms can deflect physical objects, but the velocity of a firearm projectile is significant. We can, however, create diversions, illusions to misdirect an attacker." She then looked at Hasel. "As for healing, some wounds can be mended quickly, yes. Minor cuts, sprains. More serious injuries require potions and time, much like conventional medicine, though perhaps accelerated."

Hasel nodded. "And invisibility… we have Disillusionment Charms. They don't make one truly invisible, more… camouflaged. Blending with the surroundings. Very effective for stealth, if one remains still."

Clara absorbed this information, her expression thoughtful. "So, it's not the all-powerful force of myth and legend. It has rules, limitations. Good. That makes it more believable, and frankly, less terrifying." She rose from her chair. "Alright, witches. You've piqued my interest. Henry will continue to document your… abilities. For now, you'll learn the Rooks' way. Magic or no, in this city, you need to know how to move, how to fight, and how to disappear when necessary. Jacob!" she called out, her voice echoing through the warehouse.

A man, built like a draft horse with a boisterous laugh and a network of scars that told of a life lived on the edge, emerged from the main area of the Rookery. This was Jacob Frye, one of the twin leaders of the Rooks, though Clara seemed to be the more strategic, day-to-day commander of this particular cell. His sister, Evie, was apparently away on a mission.

"Clara, m'dear!" Jacob boomed, his eyes, bright and mischievous, falling on Hasel and Hermione. "Are these our new recruits? The ones who talk to sticks?"

"They are," Clara confirmed. "And they need to learn how to survive. Don't break them on the first day, Jacob. They might actually be useful."

Jacob grinned, a wide, infectious expression. "No promises! Right then, ladies. Let's see if you're as quick on your feet as you are with your… well, whatever it is you do."

The "training" yard was a section of a nearby, even more dilapidated warehouse, its floor uneven, littered with debris, and smelling faintly of mildew and rats. Jacob Frye, it turned out, was a relentless, if surprisingly patient, taskmaster. He started them with basic agility exercises – scrambling over crates, balancing on narrow beams, learning to fall without breaking every bone in their bodies.

For Hasel and Hermione, both reasonably fit from years of Quidditch (for Hasel) and generally active lives, it was still a shock to the system. The movements were different, requiring a wiry strength and a nimbleness they hadn't cultivated. Their borrowed clothes, ill-suited for such acrobatics, tore in several places. Their muscles screamed in protest, and they were soon covered in a fine layer of grime and sweat.

"Not bad, for beginners!" Jacob called out, after Hasel managed to execute a clumsy but successful roll over a low wall. "You're a bit stiff, Potter, like an old scarecrow. And you, Granger, you think too much! Just move!"

Hermione, flushed and panting, scowled. "There's a correct way to approach these obstacles, a biomechanically efficient path…"

Jacob threw back his head and laughed. "No time for 'biomechanics' when a Templar's got a blade to your throat, love!" Jacob's laughter boomed, echoing off the damp walls. "Out here, it ain't about the prettiest form or the most efficient angle. It's about instinct, speed, and a healthy dose of not wanting to end up gutted in some dark alley. The Templars don't wait for you to calculate the trajectory of your jump, they just strike. You hesitate, you die. Simple as that. Now, again!"

Despite the grueling nature of it, there was an odd sort of exhilaration. Hasel found a grim satisfaction in pushing her body, in the raw physicality of it. It was a different kind of exhaustion than the mental drain of complex spellwork, but no less profound. Hermione, though initially frustrated by the lack of precise instruction, began to adapt, her keen intellect quickly analyzing Jacob's movements, mimicking his more fluid style.

Throughout the day, other Rooks would drift in and out of the training area, some offering unsolicited (and often contradictory) advice, others simply watching with expressions ranging from amusement to grudging respect. The initial suspicion was still there, but it was slowly being tempered by curiosity. These "witches" weren't the cackling, green-skinned caricatures of folklore. They were women, clearly out of their depth, yet determined.

As the day wore on, and the weak afternoon sun began to dip below the forest of smoking chimneys, Jacob called a halt. "Alright, that's enough for today. You're both still standing, which is more than I can say for some new recruits." He clapped them both on the shoulder, a surprisingly gentle gesture. "Get yourselves cleaned up. There's stew tonight, if Cook hasn't burnt it."

Back in the relative quiet of their small, partitioned-off sleeping area, Hasel and Hermione collapsed onto their rough pallets, every muscle aching.

"I don't think I've ever been this physically exhausted," Hasel groaned, stretching out her sore limbs. "Not even after a double Potions lesson with Snape followed by a Bludger-heavy Quidditch practice."

Hermione managed a weak smile. "He's… unorthodox. But I see his point. Our magic is a powerful tool, but it can't be our only defense. Especially if we're caught unawares, or if our wands are lost." She looked at her own wand, lying on the blanket beside her. "We need to learn their ways, Hasel. Not just for the Rooks, but for ourselves. We don't know how long we'll be here, or what other dangers this world holds."

The thought of their unknown future, of the sheer impossibility of their situation, settled heavily between them, a cold counterpoint to their aching muscles. Sleep felt miles away, their minds replaying the day's brutal lessons and the alien faces of their new 'comrades.' Yet, amidst the aches and the grime, a tiny, stubborn spark of something new was kindling. They were adrift, yes, but not entirely without an anchor. They had each other. They had survived Voldemort, survived a war that had torn their world apart. This was different, terrifyingly so, a different kind of battlefield demanding a different kind of magic, a different kind of steel. But the core of their being, the fierce will to live, to protect, to fight for what was right, remained unbroken. They would learn. They would adapt. They would master this new, brutal world, or die trying. And as Hasel finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, the last image in her mind was not of the Rookery's grime, but of Hermione's determined face, a beacon in the encroaching darkness.

Chapter Text

The following days settled into a rhythm dictated by the harsh demands of their new reality. Mornings began before the smog-choked dawn, the Rookery stirring to life with the clatter of cook pots, the murmur of hushed conversations, and the grating sound of blades being sharpened against whetstones. Hasel and Hermione, despite the lingering ache in muscles they hadn't known existed, forced themselves to join the early risers, eager to prove their commitment and, more pragmatically, to secure a share of the often-meager breakfast – usually a thin, watery porridge or stale bread with a scraping of something vaguely resembling jam.

Their physical training with Jacob Frye continued relentlessly. He pushed them through obstacle courses that snaked through the decaying warehouses and across precarious rooftops, his booming encouragement often interspersed with good-natured taunts about their "fancy magic" not being much use when dangling from a loose drainpipe. Hasel, drawing on years of Quidditch reflexes, found a surprising aptitude for the climbing and leaping, though her landings often lacked grace. Hermione, initially more hesitant, approached each challenge with meticulous observation, her analytical mind breaking down the movements, much to Jacob's amusement. "Still thinkin' too much, Granger!" he'd bellow. "Feel it, don't just dissect it!"

Yet, even Jacob had to admit their progress was rapid. What they lacked in ingrained street-smarts, they made up for in sheer determination and a desperate need to adapt. Their magical abilities, too, began to find small, practical applications within the Rookery, always discreetly, always with an awareness of the unease it could still provoke in some. Hermione, with a quick, whispered charm, mended torn tunics and patched leaky buckets, earning grateful nods from the overworked Rooks tasked with domestic chores. Hasel, discovering a knack for it, would occasionally use a subtle Confundus Charm to misdirect nosy dock guards during minor supply runs, or a well-aimed Levitation Charm to retrieve items dropped into inaccessible crevices, acts that didn't go unnoticed by the more observant members of the gang.

Henry Greene became their most frequent point of contact beyond Jacob. His scholarly curiosity about their magic was insatiable. He would corner Hermione at every opportunity, his notebook perpetually in hand, peppering her with questions about spell theory, magical creatures, and the history of their wizarding world. "The concept of a 'wandless' magic, as you've mentioned is possible for highly skilled individuals, is particularly intriguing," he mused one afternoon, as Hermione patiently explained the basics of Transfiguration using a pebble and a twig. "It suggests the power is truly internal, the wand merely a focusing tool. This aligns with some of the more esoteric Isu texts, which speak of 'the Will and the Word' shaping reality."

"In essence, yes," Hermione agreed, intrigued by the parallels Henry was drawing. "Intent is paramount. The wand helps to channel and refine that intent, especially for complex spells. But the core power resides within the witch or wizard." She paused, a wistful expression crossing her face. "Our education at Hogwarts focused heavily on wand-based magic, of course. It's the accepted, safer method for most."

"Safer?" Henry latched onto the word. "Implying that raw, unfocused magic can be dangerous?"

"Extremely so," Hasel interjected, joining them. She'd been practicing disarming techniques with a rather sullen Rook named Thomas, who seemed to view their presence as an unwelcome aberration. "Uncontrolled magic in children can manifest in unpredictable ways. It's why training begins at a young age." She thought of her own accidental magic, of Aunt Petunia's shattered vase. "It can be destructive if not properly channeled."

Henry nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "Another parallel. The Pieces of Eden, in the wrong hands, or wielded by those without the strength of will or understanding… they too can bring about immense destruction." He looked between them, his expression serious. "Your arrival here, with such abilities… Clara is right to be cautious. Such power, if the Templars were to learn of its true extent, or worse, how to harness it…" He didn't need to finish the sentence.

The ever-present threat of the Templars was a dark undercurrent to their daily lives. Whispers of their activities – a merchant strong-armed into compliance, a Rook informant disappearing without a trace, a new shipment of "arcane curiosities" arriving under heavy guard at a Templar-controlled dock – were constant reminders of the war being fought in the city's shadows. Clara Thorne, often closeted in her makeshift office with her lieutenants, would emerge with new orders, her face etched with a grim resolve.

One evening, as a cold drizzle pattered against the warehouse roof, a new figure entered the Rookery. She moved with a quiet, almost feline grace that contrasted sharply with Jacob's boisterous energy. Her features were strikingly similar to his, but where Jacob's eyes danced with mischief, hers held a keen, analytical intensity. She was dressed in dark, practical attire, a hood pulled low, and the intricate leather bracer on her forearm hinted at a concealed weapon. This, Hasel surmised, must be Evie Frye, Jacob's twin sister, returned from her mission.

Evie's appraisal of Hasel and Hermione was cool and thorough, her gaze lingering on their wands, then on their faces, searching for something Hasel couldn't quite name. "So, these are the 'witches' Jacob has been so… effusive about," Evie said, her voice a low, melodic contralto. There was a note of skepticism in her tone, but also a spark of curiosity. "He claims you can conjure light and move objects with your minds."

"More or less," Hermione replied, meeting Evie's gaze steadily. "It's a bit more complex than that, but yes."

Evie's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. "London is full of charlatans claiming extraordinary abilities. The Templars themselves are not above using superstition and trickery to achieve their ends." She took a step closer. "I, however, prefer tangible results. Show me something that isn't a simple sleight of hand." Her challenge was direct, less about hostility and more about a demand for concrete evidence.

Before Hasel or Hermione could respond, Clara Thorne emerged from her office. "Evie. You're back. Report?"

Evie's attention shifted instantly to Clara, her demeanor becoming all business. "The Templar shipment was well-guarded, as anticipated. But I was able to confirm its contents. Not a Piece of Eden, as we feared, but something… else. Ancient, certainly. Possibly Isu-related, but a minor artifact, according to Henry's preliminary assessment of my sketches." She produced a small, rolled-up piece of parchment from within her tunic. "Starrick has it now, under lock and key in his private vault."

Crawford Starrick. The name had come up before in hushed tones, a Templar Grand Master known for his ruthlessness and his obsession with accumulating power, both mundane and mystical.

Clara took the parchment, her brow furrowed as she examined the sketches. "Minor or not, anything Starrick takes an interest in is cause for concern." She looked up, her gaze sweeping over Hasel and Hermione, then back to Evie. "Perhaps our new associates could provide a… unique perspective on this. Their 'magic' might allow them to perceive things we cannot."

Evie raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking back to the witches. "You'd trust them with something of this importance already, Clara? Based on parlor tricks and Jacob's enthusiasm?"

"Jacob's enthusiasm is rarely a reliable metric," Clara said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "But Henry believes their abilities are genuine. And desperation, Miss Frye, can make for strange but effective alliances. They need to prove their worth, and we need every advantage we can get against Starrick." She turned to Hasel and Hermione. "Tomorrow, you'll accompany Evie and Henry to observe one of Starrick's known properties. No direct engagement. Purely reconnaissance. We need to understand more about his operations, his defenses, and perhaps, what else he's collecting."

The assignment, though clearly a test, sent a jolt of nervous anticipation through Hasel. This was it. Their first real foray into the clandestine war, their first chance to truly contribute, to use their skills for something beyond mending clothes or levitating mugs.

Later that night, huddled in their small alcove, the sounds of the Rookery a muted backdrop, Hermione voiced her own anxieties. "Starrick… the name itself sounds ominous. And going into Templar territory, even just for observation…"

"We'll be careful," Hasel said, though her own heart was thrumming a little faster than usual. "We have to be. This is our chance to show them we're not just a liability, Hermione. That we can actually help." She looked at her wife, her expression softening. The fear was real, the uncertainty a constant companion, but so was the fierce, unwavering bond between them. "And whatever happens," she added, taking Hermione's hand, "we face it together. Just like always."

Hermione squeezed her hand, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. The echoes of their old life, of Hogwarts and the Burrow, felt impossibly distant, like a half-forgotten dream. But here, in the heart of this grimy, gaslit city, amidst strangers who fought a secret war, they were beginning to carve out a new, uncertain path. And for now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

The pre-dawn air was sharp and cold, carrying the familiar London scents of coal smoke, damp wool, and the faint, metallic tang of the nearby Thames. Hasel pulled the collar of her borrowed, ill-fitting coat tighter around her neck, the rough fabric a poor substitute for the warmth of her own magically enhanced robes, now carefully stowed away. Beside her, Hermione adjusted the rather drab bonnet that Evie had insisted they wear, a necessary concession to blending in. Their wands were concealed within hidden pockets sewn into their sleeves – a clever adaptation Hermione had devised, much to Henry's admiration.

Evie Frye moved with a silent, purposeful grace that Hasel found herself envying. Dressed in dark, practical clothing that allowed for ease of movement, she was the epitome of an urban predator, her keen eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. Henry, by contrast, seemed somewhat out of place, his scholarly stoop and the satchel overflowing with notebooks and sketching materials marking him as an observer rather than a participant in the city's rougher games. Yet, there was an undeniable intelligence in his gaze, a deep understanding of London's hidden currents.

"Starrick's property is a warehouse in the Lambeth district, just south of the river," Evie explained in a low voice as they navigated the still-sleeping streets. The gaslights cast long, dancing shadows, turning familiar alleyways into menacing corridors. "He officially uses it for his import-export business – tea, spices, textiles from the colonies. Unofficially…" she let the sentence hang, a grim implication in her tone. "It's heavily guarded, day and night. Blighters, mostly. Hired thugs loyal to the Templar coin."

"Blighters?" Hasel queried, the term unfamiliar.

"Street gangs, muscle for hire," Henry supplied helpfully. "The Templars often use them for their dirtier work, keeping their own hands clean, so to speak. Less disciplined than their formal agents, but often more brutal."

"Our objective today is simple observation," Evie continued, her voice cutting through Henry's explanation. "We find a vantage point, note patrol routes, identify entry and exit points, look for any unusual activity. No engagement. No heroics." She cast a pointed look at Hasel and Hermione. "And no… overt displays of your particular talents. If you can use your 'magic' to see or hear things we can't, do so discreetly. Understood?"

"Understood," Hermione affirmed, Hasel nodding in agreement. The responsibility of this first mission weighed heavily on them. They needed to prove their worth, but more importantly, they couldn't afford to make a mistake that would endanger the Rooks or themselves.

They crossed the river on a crowded, clattering public ferry, the grey waters of the Thames churning below, carrying with them the cloying mix of river mud, industrial effluence, and the distant, unsettling aroma of the tanneries they were leaving behind – a stark contrast to the cleaner air they remembered from their own time's river crossings or even the somewhat fresher scent of the Black Lake at Hogwarts. Lambeth, on the south bank, was a sprawling district of factories, tenements, and warehouses, the air even thicker with the stench of industry than Whitechapel. Evie led them through a bewildering maze of narrow streets and cobbled courtyards, her knowledge of the city's hidden pathways clearly extensive.

Finally, she stopped at the edge of a grimy alleyway that offered a partially obscured view of a large, foreboding brick warehouse. It was a solid, utilitarian structure, its windows small and barred, its main entrance guarded by two thuggish-looking men in ill-fitting greatcoats, their hands stuffed into their pockets, their eyes constantly scanning the street.

"This is it," Evie murmured, gesturing for them to stay back in the shadows. "Starrick Industries. A legitimate front for a multitude of sins." She produced a small, brass spyglass from her belt. "We'll observe from here for a while, then try to find a better vantage point, perhaps from one of the rooftops opposite."

The next few hours were a lesson in patience. Hasel, accustomed to the more direct action of her previous life, found the enforced stillness challenging. She watched the Blighter guards, noting their bored, listless demeanor, the way they occasionally shared a swig from a hidden flask. Hermione, however, seemed more in her element, her keen eyes cataloging every detail, her lips occasionally moving in silent calculation. Henry, meanwhile, was busy sketching in his notebook, his pencil flying across the page as he documented the warehouse's architecture and the surrounding street layout.

"Their patrols are predictable," Hermione whispered to Evie after a long period of observation. "Two at the main entrance, one circulates around the perimeter every fifteen minutes, and I've seen at least two more on the roof, though their positions change."

Evie nodded, a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Good. You have a sharp eye, Granger."

"Can you… sense anything?" Evie asked, turning to Hasel, her voice barely audible. "Anything unusual about the building itself? Any… magical emanations, as Henry calls them?"

Hasel closed her eyes, focusing her senses, trying to extend her magical awareness beyond the mundane. It was a technique she hadn't practiced often, usually relying on more overt spells. The air thrummed with the low, chaotic energy of the city, a cacophony of human emotions and industrial noise. But beneath that, emanating from the warehouse, she felt… something else. A faint, cold resonance, not unlike the unsettling aura of some Dark Arts objects she had encountered, but weaker, more diffuse.

"It's faint, but it feels… wrong. Cold. Like a residue of something unpleasant." A shiver traced its way down her spine, not entirely dissimilar to the feeling she sometimes got just before a particularly potent piece of dark magic was about to be unleashed, yet this was different, older, and tinged with a faint, almost imperceptible echo of the same chaotic energy that had ripped them from their own time. She couldn't define it further, but the sensation was undeniably there, a subtle stain on the fabric of the place.

Hermione, too, seemed to sense it. "I feel it as well. A sort of… lingering negativity. Not a strong magical signature, but definitely an unnatural one."

Henry, listening intently, scribbled a note. "Fascinating. Perhaps the artifact Evie observed left some sort of psychic or energetic imprint on its surroundings. Or perhaps Starrick is involved in rituals or experiments that leave such traces."

"Or perhaps," Evie interjected dryly, "it's just a poorly maintained warehouse full of underpaid, resentful Blighters. Let's not jump to mystical conclusions just yet." Despite her words, Hasel noticed a new alertness in Evie's posture.

As the morning wore on, Evie decided they needed a better view. "The rooftops opposite should give us a clearer line of sight into the upper windows and the loading docks at the rear," she said. "Follow me, and try to keep up. And for heaven's sake, be quiet."

The ascent to the rooftops was a nerve-wracking experience for Hasel and Hermione. Evie moved with the effortless grace of a cat, utilizing drainpipes, window ledges, and crumbling brickwork as if they were a personal staircase. Henry, surprisingly agile for a man of his scholarly build, followed with a practiced ease. Hasel and Hermione, however, struggled, their movements clumsy and uncertain, their fear of heights a tangible thing.

"A little less like a sack of potatoes, Potter, if you please," Evie called down in a stage whisper as Hasel fumbled for a handhold.

Gritting her teeth, Hasel pulled herself up, her muscles burning, her heart pounding. This was a far cry from flying on a broomstick. Hermione, ever resourceful, used a quick, silent Sticking Charm on her gloves and the soles of her boots, giving her a much-needed advantage, a small act of magical assistance that did not go unnoticed by Evie, who merely raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

From their new vantage point, a narrow, gabled rooftop overlooking the rear of Starrick's warehouse, they had a much clearer view. They could see into the grimy windows of the upper floors, though most were too dirty to reveal much. The loading docks below were a hive of activity, with rough-looking men hauling crates and barrels under the watchful eyes of more Blighter guards.

"Anything?" Evie asked, her spyglass trained on a particularly large, reinforced door at the rear of the warehouse.

Hermione, using a subtle magnification charm on her own eyes – a piece of non-verbal magic she'd been perfecting – scanned the scene. "There's a lot of mundane cargo. Tea, cotton bales, machinery parts by the look of it. But…" she paused, her brow furrowing. "There's one section of the loading dock, heavily guarded, where they're handling smaller, more securely bound crates. They're being loaded onto a closed carriage, not a standard dray cart."

Hasel focused her own magical senses on those crates. The cold, unpleasant resonance she had felt earlier was stronger here, emanating from those specific containers. "Those crates," she said, her voice low. "They're the source of that… feeling. Whatever is in them, it's not ordinary."

Evie's eyes narrowed. "Can you tell what it is?"

"Not specifically," Hasel admitted. "It's not like any magical signature I've encountered before. It's… inert, yet unsettling. Like something sleeping, but having a very bad dream."

Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the main entrance of the warehouse, visible even from their position at the rear. Shouts, the clang of metal, the sound of a scuffle.

"What in the blazes?" Evie muttered, swinging her spyglass around.

Henry, who had been observing the street, gasped. "It's… it's another gang. The Blighters are being attacked!"

Indeed, a rival gang, identifiable by their differently colored armbands, was launching a brazen daylight raid on Starrick's warehouse. The two groups of thugs clashed in the street, knives and cudgels flashing.

"Opportunists," Evie spat, a look of disgust on her face. "Vultures, picking at the scraps." She lowered her spyglass. "This is our chance. With their attention focused on the front, security at the rear might be lax. We might be able to get a closer look at that carriage and its cargo."

It was a risky proposition, a deviation from their orders of pure reconnaissance. But the opportunity was too tempting to ignore.

Chapter Text

Evie's words hung in the air, sharp with the thrill of unexpected opportunity. The distant sounds of the gang fight – shouts, the sickening thud of cudgels, the occasional crack of a primitive firearm – provided a chaotic soundtrack to their decision. Henry looked uneasy, his gaze darting between Evie and the brawling figures at the front of the warehouse. "Clara's orders were clear, Evie. Observation only. This… this is a significant escalation."

"Clara also expects results, Henry," Evie countered, her eyes already scanning for a viable descent route. "And that carriage," she gestured with her chin towards the loading dock, "is about to move. Those crates felt important to our… witches. I'm inclined to trust their instincts on this. We get a closer look, identify the cargo if we can, and we're gone before anyone's the wiser. The Blighters at the rear will be distracted, likely drawn towards the main fight."

Hermione exchanged a quick, worried glance with Hasel. Evie's logic was sound, in a reckless sort of way. The gang fight provided the perfect cover. But the risks were undeniable. If they were caught…

"What do you think?" Hasel murmured to Hermione, keeping her voice low. The cold, unsettling thrum from those crates was a siren song, a mystery begging to be unraveled. It reminded her too much of the dangerous artifacts they had dealt with in their own time.

"The potential intelligence gain is significant," Hermione conceded, her analytical mind weighing the pros and cons. "If Starrick is moving something that resonates with that kind of… negative energy, Clara needs to know. But Evie is right, we must be discreet. Our priority is information, not confrontation."

"Then we're agreed," Evie said, not waiting for a formal consensus. She was already moving, her lithe form slipping towards a series of drainpipes and ledges that offered a precarious path down to a lower rooftop, and from there, to the alleyway flanking the rear of the warehouse. "Stay close, try not to make a sound, and let me take the lead. Henry, you keep watch from up here. Signal if you see any Templar reinforcements or if the situation at the front changes drastically."

Henry nodded, his expression a mixture of anxiety and reluctant excitement. "Be careful, all of you."

The descent was faster, more urgent than their earlier climb. Adrenaline sharpened Hasel's focus, and even Hermione moved with a newfound swiftness, her Sticking Charms proving invaluable on the slick, soot-covered surfaces. Evie, a blur of motion in the grey light, reached the alley floor first, her eyes immediately scanning for guards.

"Two Blighters near the carriage," she hissed, gesturing for Hasel and Hermione to join her in the shadows of a recessed doorway. "They look nervous, distracted by the fight. The driver is in his seat, looking impatient."

The closed carriage was larger than a typical hansom cab, its paintwork dark and unremarkable, clearly designed for inconspicuous transport. The rear doors were closed, but not, Hasel noted, visibly locked with any heavy padlocks. The crates, now partially obscured by the carriage itself, still pulsed with that faint, disturbing energy.

"We need to see what's inside those crates," Hasel whispered, her gaze fixed on the carriage. "Even a glimpse."

"Too risky to try and open them here," Evie countered. "But perhaps… one of you could get close enough to the carriage itself? Listen? See anything through a crack?"

Hermione considered this. "A well-placed listening charm might work, if I can get close enough without being seen. Or perhaps a discreet Alohomora on the carriage door, just to see if it's truly unsecured."

"The listening charm is less risky," Evie decided. "Potter, you're better at sensing these… things. You try to get a feel for the cargo from a distance. Granger, with me. We create a minor diversion, draw those two Blighters away from the carriage for a few moments. That should give you the opening you need."

Hasel nodded, her heart pounding. This was it. Their first real test as part of a Rook operation.

Evie, with a predatory glint in her eye, picked up a loose cobblestone. "Wait for my signal." She exchanged a look with Hermione, then, with a silent count on her fingers, hurled the cobblestone down the alley, away from the warehouse. It clattered loudly against a stack of empty barrels.

The two Blighters guarding the carriage jumped, their heads snapping towards the sound. "What was that?" one of them growled, his hand instinctively going to the cudgel tucked into his belt.

"Probably just rats, you oaf," the other grumbled, though he too looked uneasy. "Go check it out. I'll stay with the goods."

As the first Blighter reluctantly moved to investigate the noise, Evie and Hermione slipped from their hiding place, moving with surprising speed. Evie, a shadow in the gloom, circled around a stack of crates, while Hermione, using her smaller stature to her advantage, darted towards the side of the carriage furthest from the remaining guard.

Hasel, meanwhile, focused all her magical senses on the carriage. The cold, unsettling thrum was stronger now, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It wasn't just one object; it felt like several, each with its own distinct, unpleasant signature. She could almost taste the wrongness of them, a metallic, bitter sensation on her tongue.

Hermione reached the side of the carriage, pressing herself flat against its wooden panels. Her lips moved silently, her wand, concealed in her sleeve, no doubt channeling the listening charm. Her eyes were wide, focused, absorbing whatever sounds or impressions she could glean from within.

Suddenly, the Blighter who had gone to investigate the barrels shouted, "Oi! There's someone back here!" He had clearly found nothing, but his suspicion was aroused.

The remaining guard by the carriage tensed, his hand tightening on his cudgel. "What is it? See anything?"

Evie chose that moment to act. She emerged from behind the crates, a blur of motion. The Blighter, still peering down the alley, started to turn, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he registered her sudden appearance. Before he could fully react, or raise an alarm, Evie's arm shot out, the pommel of her hidden blade connecting with a sickening thud to the side of his head, just behind the ear. The man grunted, a choked sound, his eyes rolling back, and crumpled to the ground in a silent heap.

"Granger, now!" Evie hissed, already moving to drag the unconscious Blighter further into the shadows.

Hermione, startled by the sudden, brutal efficiency of Evie's takedown – a chilling echo of the violence she'd witnessed and participated in during the war – flinched internally but forced the reaction down. There was no time for hesitation. She seized the opportunity. She reached for the carriage door handle, her fingers brushing against the cold metal. With a whispered, almost inaudible "Alohomora," she tested the lock.

There was a soft click. The door was unlatched.

Her eyes met Hasel's for a fleeting second – a silent question, a shared risk. This was beyond their mandate. But the lure of the unknown, the need to understand what Starrick was so intent on acquiring, was too strong.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione pulled the carriage door open just a crack, peering inside. Hasel, moving closer, tried to see past her.

The interior of the carriage was dark, but not entirely. A faint, sickly luminescence emanated from several small, ornately carved wooden boxes, similar in size to jewelry caskets. There were perhaps half a dozen of them, nestled in straw. And from each one, Hasel felt that same cold, disturbing resonance, amplified now, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"What are they?" Hasel breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

Hermione's face was pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. "I don't know," she whispered back. "But they feel… ancient. And incredibly dangerous. Not like the Pieces of Eden Henry described, not that powerful, but… tainted. Corrupted."

Before they could investigate further, a shout from the rooftop broke the spell. "Evie! Templars! A patrol, coming down the main street! They've seen the commotion at the front!" It was Henry's voice, tight with urgency.

Evie, having secured the unconscious Blighter, swore under her breath. "Time to go. Now!" She was already moving towards the alley entrance, her senses on high alert. "Granger, Potter, with me! We can't be found here."

Reluctantly, Hermione closed the carriage door, the soft click of the latch echoing in the sudden silence. They had seen enough. Enough to know that Crawford Starrick was dealing in objects of a dark and perilous nature, objects that resonated with a magic that felt alien and wrong.

They melted back into the labyrinthine alleyways of Lambeth, Evie leading them with a desperate, practiced speed, the sounds of the approaching Templar patrol growing louder behind them. Their first reconnaissance mission had escalated quickly, but they had survived. And they had a chilling new piece of the puzzle in the war against the Templars. The shadows of 1888 London, it seemed, concealed far more than just mundane villainy. They hid secrets that could unravel the very fabric of reality, secrets that Hasel and Hermione were now inextricably, terrifyingly, a part of.

Chapter Text

The retreat from Lambeth was a blur of adrenaline-fueled urgency. Evie, with her innate knowledge of the city’s underbelly, led them through a twisting warren of narrow alleyways, shadowed courtyards, and even a brief, heart-stopping dash across a series of interconnected rooftops, the shouts of the Templar patrol echoing ominously behind them. Hasel, her lungs burning, her borrowed coat snagging on loose bricks, focused on keeping Hermione in sight, her wand clutched ready in her sleeve. Hermione, though clearly shaken by the close call and Evie’s brutal efficiency, moved with a determined focus, her earlier rooftop practice, however clumsy, now proving its worth.

They didn't stop until they had put several blocks and the bustling thoroughfare of Lambeth Road between themselves and Starrick’s warehouse. Henry met them at a pre-arranged rendezvous point – a grimy, deserted cul-de-sac tucked behind a row of soot-stained tenements. His face was pale, his spectacles slightly askew, but his eyes were bright with a mixture of relief and academic excitement.

"Thank heavens you're alright!" he exclaimed, his voice still a little breathless. "I saw the Templar patrol turn down the street just after you disappeared into the alley. I feared the worst." He looked from Evie to Hasel and Hermione. "What did you find? Did you see the cargo?"

Evie, ever pragmatic, cut straight to the point. "Small, carved wooden boxes, Granger got the door open for a moment. Half a dozen of them. Potter sensed something… off about them. Corrupted, she said."

Hermione nodded, still catching her breath. "They radiated a cold, malevolent energy. Not raw power like a Piece of Eden is described, but something… tainted. Almost like… like objects infused with a very dark, very specific kind of intent. It felt… wrong, on a fundamental level." She shuddered, the memory clearly unsettling her. "And there was a faint luminescence, a sickly green-yellow glow."

Hasel added her own impressions. "It was a disturbing sensation. Like touching something that had been steeped in misery or malice for a very long time. It wasn't just old; it felt… actively hostile, even in its inert state." The memory of the feeling made her scar, the faint lightning bolt on her forehead, tingle unpleasantly, a ghost of old pains.

Henry listened intently, his earlier relief giving way to a frown of deep concentration. He pulled out his notebook, his quill already poised. "Ornately carved, you say? Luminescent? And this… tainted energy? This doesn't sound like typical Isu technology, which, while powerful, is usually described as more… neutral, its effects dependent on the wielder's intent. This sounds more like… like objects deliberately imbued with a negative force. Almost like… cursed items, from your own world’s folklore, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Hermione conceded. "Some Dark Arts objects in our world carry similar auras, items created through acts of extreme cruelty or malice, designed to cause harm or exert control. But these felt… different. Older, somehow. And the energy signature wasn't one I recognized from any known branch of our magic."

"We need to report this to Clara immediately," Evie stated, her gaze sweeping the alley entrance, ever vigilant. "Starrick isn't just collecting Isu artifacts; he's dabbling in something else, something potentially even more unpredictable." She looked at Hasel and Hermione, a new, grudging respect in her eyes. "Your… senses… proved useful today. More useful than I anticipated."

The return to the Rookery in Whitechapel was made with a heightened sense of caution. The information they carried felt dangerous, a heavy weight in the oppressive London air. Clara Thorne received their report in her makeshift office, her expression growing grimmer with each detail. Jacob, who had joined them, listened with a mixture of bravado and concern, his usual boisterousness somewhat subdued.

"Corrupted artifacts," Clara mused, her fingers drumming a restless tattoo on the scarred tabletop. "Not Pieces of Eden, but something else. Something Starrick believes will give him an edge." She looked at Henry. "What do your books say about such things, Greene?"

Henry, who had been rapidly flipping through several ancient-looking tomes he’d retrieved, shook his head. "Very little, I'm afraid. Most of our Brotherhood's knowledge focuses on the Isu and their direct creations. These… 'tainted' objects, as Hermione describes them, fall outside that primary focus. There are scattered references in obscure texts to items of power that predate or run parallel to Isu influence, items that draw their strength from… darker, more primal forces. Often associated with rituals, sacrifices, and the deliberate channeling of negative human emotion." He shivered. "Most such accounts are dismissed as superstition, but given what our new associates have sensed…"

"It means Starrick is playing with a fire he doesn't understand," Clara finished, her voice hard. "And that makes him even more dangerous." She looked at Hasel and Hermione. "Your unique abilities, your sensitivity to these… energies… it's an invaluable asset. But it also puts you in even greater danger. If Starrick learns that there are those who can not only identify but potentially understand or even counteract these things he's collecting…"

"He'll hunt us," Hasel said quietly, the statement a grim certainty rather than a question. It was a familiar scenario, one they had lived through for years.

"Precisely," Clara affirmed. "Which means we need to be smarter, faster, and more ruthless than he is." She leaned forward, her emerald eyes intense. "Those boxes you saw, the carriage… we need to know where they were taken. What Starrick intends to do with them. This is no longer just about preventing the Templars from gaining another foothold. This is about stopping a madman from unleashing forces that could consume this entire city, perhaps more."

The weight of their new reality pressed down on Hasel and Hermione. They had sought refuge, a place to understand their displacement, and instead, they had been thrust into the heart of another war, one with stakes that seemed to grow more terrifying with each passing day. The familiar ache of responsibility, the burden of being the ones who could perceive and potentially fight a unique form of darkness, settled upon them once more.

"We'll do whatever we can to help, Clara," Hermione said, her voice firm despite the tremor of fear she felt. "If our magic can provide an advantage, we'll use it."

Jacob, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke, a grin spreading across his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, then! Sounds like things are about to get a damn sight more interesting around here! Good thing we've got a couple of witches on our side, eh?" His attempt at levity fell a little flat in the oppressive atmosphere of the office.

Clara shot him a warning glance before turning back to Hasel and Hermione. "For now, get some rest. Both of you. You've earned it. Henry will continue to work with you, to try and understand the nature of these… tainted energies. Evie will incorporate you into more advanced training. We need you to be able to defend yourselves, with or without your wands." Her gaze softened almost imperceptibly. "You took a risk today, going beyond the parameters of the mission. It was reckless. But," she paused, "it also yielded vital intelligence. The Creed values initiative, but it also punishes foolishness. Learn the difference."

Later that night, in the quiet solitude of their small sleeping space, the events of the day replayed in Hasel’s mind. The cold thrum of the artifacts, Evie’s brutal efficiency, the ever-present sense of danger… it was a stark contrast to the life they had known, yet disturbingly familiar in its underlying currents of conflict and a fight for survival.

"Hermione," Hasel whispered into the darkness, "those boxes… they felt like… like Horcruxes. Not the same, but that same kind of deep, clinging wrongness. That feeling of a soul… or something like it… being twisted."

Hermione, lying beside her, was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. "I know, Hasel. I felt it too. As if they were containers for… for concentrated malice. Whatever Starrick is collecting, it’s not just about power. It’s about something far more insidious." She shivered, pulling the rough blanket tighter around her. "And to think, there might be more such things out there, from different times, different realities, all bleeding into this one because of what happened to us, because of the Veil…"

The implication was terrifying. Their arrival hadn't just displaced them; it might have weakened the barriers between worlds, allowing other, darker things to seep through. The weight of that possibility was almost too much to bear. The shadows of 1888 London seemed to deepen around them, filled with unseen threats and the echoes of a magic far older and more malevolent than anything they had ever encountered. And they were right in the middle of it, two witches from another time, their fate now inextricably bound to the Rooks and their desperate, clandestine war.

Chapter Text

In the days following their perilous reconnaissance mission, a new dynamic began to solidify within the Rookery. The initial outright suspicion towards Hasel and Hermione had, for many, softened into a wary curiosity, punctuated by moments of grudging respect, particularly from those who had witnessed Evie’s tacit approval of their performance. Clara Thorne, true to her word, assigned Henry Greene to work closely with Hermione, their combined intellects tasked with unraveling the mystery of Starrick’s "tainted" artifacts. Hasel, meanwhile, found herself under the tutelage of Evie Frye, whose training methods were a stark contrast to her twin brother’s boisterous approach.

Henry and Hermione transformed a dusty, forgotten corner of the warehouse into a makeshift research den. Crates became tables, shelves were fashioned from loose planks, and the air soon filled with the scent of old parchment, drying ink, and the faint, citrusy aroma of the herbal tea Hermione frequently brewed to aid her concentration. Henry, with his access to the Brotherhood’s fragmented archives and his network of contacts among London’s more eccentric antiquarians, procured an assortment of obscure texts – some genuine historical treatises, others lurid penny dreadfuls filled with folklore and superstition, all of which Hermione devoured with her characteristic intensity.

"The challenge," Hermione explained to Hasel one evening, rubbing her tired eyes, a smudge of ink on her cheek, "is that we're dealing with something that doesn't fit neatly into either of our established understandings of magical or ancient artifacts. Your sense of 'concentrated malice,' Hasel, is a crucial starting point. It suggests a deliberate imbuement, a perversion of natural energies, or perhaps energies from… somewhere else entirely."

Henry, poring over a tattered Latin manuscript that spoke of 'anima corrupta' – corrupted souls or spirits bound to inanimate objects – nodded in agreement. "Many cultures have legends of cursed items, objects that bring misfortune or exert a malevolent influence. The Templars, in their arrogance, have always sought to control power, whatever its source. If Starrick believes these objects can grant him an advantage, he won't care about their origins or the potential cost." He tapped a passage in the manuscript. "This text speaks of rituals, of binding sites where the veil between worlds is thin. It’s highly speculative, of course, full of medieval paranoia, but…"

"But it resonates with what we suspect about our own arrival," Hermione finished, her expression troubled. "If the Department of Mysteries, with its concentration of temporal and dimensional magic, acted as a catalyst, and if our passage somehow… damaged the Veil, as you theorized, Hasel, then it's conceivable that other things, other energies, could be bleeding through. Or perhaps these 'tainted' artifacts are native to this world, but are now more easily… activated, or their influence amplified."

The weight of that possibility, the idea that they might be indirectly responsible for unleashing new dangers upon this unsuspecting era, was a heavy burden. Hasel listened, her own understanding of magical theory far less academic than Hermione’s, but her instincts, honed by years of confronting Voldemort’s dark creations, screamed that they were on the right path. The cold, cloying wrongness of those boxes in the carriage had been undeniable.

While Hermione delved into ancient texts and arcane theories, Hasel’s days were spent under Evie Frye’s exacting tutelage. Evie’s training was less about brute force and more about precision, stealth, and exploiting the environment. She taught Hasel how to move like a whisper through the crowded London streets, how to use the shadows and the teeming throngs of people as a cloak. They practiced silent takedowns, not with the brutal finality Evie herself employed, but with an emphasis on disarming and incapacitating, techniques Hasel found more palatable.

"Your magic gives you an advantage, Potter," Evie conceded one afternoon, after Hasel had successfully used a silent, wandless Disillusionment Charm to evade her notice in a mock pursuit through a bustling marketplace. "But you rely on it too much. What happens when your 'wand' is gone, or when you're in a situation where even the slightest flicker of unnatural light will betray you?"

Evie pushed Hasel to hone her physical senses, to read the subtle cues of her surroundings, to anticipate an opponent's moves. They spent hours on the rooftops, not just practicing acrobatics, but learning to observe, to map out patrol routes, to identify escape paths. Evie, with her cool, analytical demeanor, was a demanding instructor, but Hasel found a grudging respect for her skill and dedication. There was a shared intensity between them, a focus born of necessity and a commitment to their respective causes.

Occasionally, Evie would incorporate Hermione into their sessions, particularly when it came to infiltration techniques. Hermione’s knack for disabling primitive alarm systems (often with a discreetly applied Freezing Charm or a cleverly transfigured component) and her ability to quickly decipher coded messages or notice minute details that others missed, earned Evie’s quiet approval.

"You two are… an anomaly," Evie remarked one evening, as they shared a meager meal of bread and cheese on a rooftop overlooking the twinkling gaslights of the city. The usual cacophony of London was a muted roar below them. "Your abilities are unlike anything I've encountered. Jacob sees you as a pair of exciting new weapons. Henry sees you as a fascinating academic puzzle." She paused, her gaze distant. "I see you as… a complication. And a potential asset. But the line between the two is dangerously thin."

"We just want to help, Evie," Hasel said sincerity. "And find a way back home, if that's even possible." The longing for their own time, for their friends and the world they knew, was a constant ache beneath the surface of their daily struggles.

Evie’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Home is a powerful motivator. But be careful what you sacrifice to reach it." The enigmatic words hung in the air, a subtle warning that Hasel couldn't quite decipher.

Their integration into the Rooks was a slow, uneven process. Some, like the burly Garrett who had initially threatened them, now offered gruff nods of acknowledgment, particularly after witnessing their increasing competence in training or hearing whispers of their usefulness on the Lambeth mission. Others, like the perpetually sullen Thomas, remained deeply suspicious, muttering about "unnatural" influences and bad omens. But Clara Thorne's authority was absolute, and her conditional acceptance of the witches meant the rest of the Rooks, however reluctantly, followed suit.

One afternoon, Clara summoned Hasel, Hermione, Evie, and Henry to her office. The maps on her table were marked with new, ominous symbols, centered around a district known for its opulent townhouses and secretive gentlemen's clubs – the heart of Templar influence in the city.

"Henry, Hermione," Clara began, her voice crisp and businesslike. "Your research into these 'tainted' artifacts. Any progress?"

Hermione deferred to Henry, who adjusted his spectacles. "We've cross-referenced historical accounts of similar phenomena with Brotherhood records. There are recurring motifs – sudden outbreaks of madness, inexplicable violence, objects that seem to… drain the life or will from those who possess them. Many of these accounts are linked to individuals or groups who later became known to the Brotherhood as Templar sympathizers or agents."

Hermione added, "The energy signatures Hasel and I sensed are consistent with descriptions of items used in… coercive rituals, or items that are themselves the product of extreme negative emotion, almost like a psychic residue given form and purpose. We believe Starrick isn't just collecting them for their power, but perhaps to amplify some other force, or to use them to influence or control key figures in the city."

Clara nodded slowly, her expression grim. "And that brings us to our next problem. We've had word of a high-level Templar gathering, scheduled to take place in three days at a private club in the West End – The Osiris Club. Starrick himself is expected to be in attendance." She tapped a location on the map. "Our sources suggest he may be planning to 'gift' one of these tainted artifacts to a prominent city official, a man whose loyalty the Templars are keen to secure."

"A demonstration, or a means of control," Evie murmured, her eyes narrowed in thought.

"Either way, we cannot allow it," Clara stated. "This is not a direct assault. The Osiris Club is a fortress, and a public confrontation with Starrick there would be suicide. But we need eyes and ears inside. We need to know which official he's targeting, what exactly he's planning, and if possible, to observe the effects of one of these artifacts firsthand, from a safe distance." She looked directly at Hasel and Hermione. "Your unique… sensitivities… might be our best chance to understand what we're truly up against. And your Disillusionment Charms, if as effective as you claim, could provide the perfect means of infiltration."

The air in the small office crackled with tension. This was a far more dangerous proposition than their previous reconnaissance mission. This was stepping directly into the Templar’s den, into the heart of their power. But it was also a chance to gather crucial intelligence, to potentially avert a disaster.

Hasel met Hermione’s gaze. The fear was there, a cold knot in her stomach, but so was a flicker of the old Gryffindor recklessness, the ingrained need to act in the face of injustice. They had come to this time, to this war, by some twist of fate. And perhaps, just perhaps, they were uniquely equipped to fight it.

Chapter Text

The three days leading up to the Osiris Club infiltration were a whirlwind of intense preparation. Under Evie’s critical eye, Hasel and Hermione practiced their Disillusionment Charms until they could hold them for extended periods, moving like shimmering heat hazes against the backdrop of the grimy Rookery. Evie, though still unable to fully comprehend the mechanics of their magic, recognized its practical application for stealth. She drilled them on silent movement, on blending into crowds, on creating subtle diversions that wouldn't draw undue attention – skills that, she emphasized, were crucial even with the advantage of near-invisibility. "A shimmer in the air is still a shimmer," she'd warned. "If someone's looking for it, or if you bump into a serving tray, your magic won't save you from a cracked skull or a Templar's blade."

Hermione, meanwhile, worked with Henry to gather every scrap of information they could find on The Osiris Club. It was, as Clara had stated, a veritable fortress, known for its exclusivity and its impenetrable security. Its membership comprised some of London's most powerful and influential men – industrialists, politicians, high-ranking military officers – many of whom were known or suspected Templar sympathizers. "Getting in will be the easy part, relatively speaking, if your charms hold," Henry had said, his brow furrowed with concern as he studied the club's floor plans, acquired at great risk by a Rook informant. "Getting out, especially if things go awry, will be another matter entirely."

He had also procured, through less-than-savory channels, a pair of simple, dark dresses for Hasel and Hermione, ones that would, with some modification, allow them to pass as serving staff or perhaps inconspicuous guests' companions, should their Disillusionment Charms falter or need to be dropped. They were a far cry from the elegant robes of the wizarding world or even the practical, if drab, attire they had grown accustomed to in the Rookery, and the restrictive corsetry, even loosened, was a particular torment for Hermione. "Honestly," she'd muttered, struggling with the laces, "it's a wonder women in this era can even breathe, let alone think."

On the night of the gathering, a thick, cloying fog, so common in London's autumn, blanketed the city, a welcome shroud for their clandestine activities. Evie, dressed in the impeccable, if somewhat severe, attire of a lady's companion, would accompany them to the vicinity of the club, providing an outer layer of reconnaissance and a potential extraction route. Jacob, much to his chagrin, was assigned to lead a diversionary team on the other side of the city, a move designed to draw away some of the Templars' more thuggish enforcers. "Keep our witches safe, Evie," he'd said, clapping his sister on the shoulder, his usual bravado tinged with genuine concern. "Or I'll never let you hear the end of it."

The West End was a world away from the squalor of Whitechapel. Grand townhouses, their windows blazing with gaslight, lined the wide, clean-swept streets. The clip-clop of horses' hooves on the cobblestones and the rumble of expensive carriages were the dominant sounds, a stark contrast to the raucous din of the East End. The Osiris Club itself was an imposing edifice of Portland stone, its windows dark and heavily curtained, its ornate entrance flanked by two burly, impeccably uniformed doormen who scrutinized every arrival with an unnervingly keen gaze.

"Remember the plan," Evie murmured as they approached a secluded service alleyway a short distance from the main entrance. "You find a discreet entry point – a servants' door, an open window. Once inside, cast your charms. Blend in. Find the main gathering hall. Starrick will likely be holding court there. Identify the target official, observe the artifact, and gather any intelligence you can. Avoid contact. Avoid confrontation. If you're compromised, create a diversion and get out. I'll be monitoring the perimeter."

Hasel’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The air in the alley was cold and damp, carrying the faint scent of expensive cigars and decaying refuse. Taking a deep breath, she met Hermione’s gaze. A silent understanding passed between them – fear, yes, but also a shared resolve.

"Ready?" Hasel whispered.
Hermione nodded, her expression determined. "As I'll ever be."

With a final, reassuring nod from Evie, they slipped deeper into the alley. Hermione, with her knack for such things, quickly identified a slightly ajar cellar door, likely used for deliveries. A whispered Alohomora and the door creaked open, revealing a flight of steep, narrow steps leading down into the club's underbelly.

The cellars were a labyrinth of storerooms, wine racks, and heating pipes, the air thick with the smell of dust, damp stone, and cooking food. They moved cautiously, their wands held ready, every creak of the floorboards, every distant clatter of crockery, sending a jolt of adrenaline through them. Finding a secluded alcove, they quickly cast their Disillusionment Charms, their forms blurring and fading into the shadowy surroundings.

Navigating the club as shimmering distortions was a disorienting experience. They had to move slowly, carefully, acutely aware of their surroundings, of the staff who bustled past, seemingly oblivious to their presence. They ascended a narrow servants' staircase, the sounds of the gathering growing louder – a murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, the faint strains of a string quartet.

They emerged into a lavishly decorated hallway, its walls adorned with heavy velvet curtains and oil paintings in ornate gilt frames. The air here was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and rich food. Following the sounds, they located what appeared to be the main salon – a vast, opulent room, its ceiling high and frescoed, its crystal chandeliers casting a dazzling, almost blinding light.

The room was crowded with men in formal evening attire, their voices a low, rumbling cacophony of self-important pronouncements and sycophantic laughter. Waiters, their faces impassive, moved through the throng with silver trays laden with champagne flutes and delicate canapés. Hasel and Hermione, still under their Disillusionment Charms, found a relatively secluded spot near a towering potted palm, their shimmering forms hopefully inconspicuous amidst the ornate decor.

It didn't take long to locate Crawford Starrick. He stood near a large, marble fireplace, a commanding figure even in this room full of powerful men. His tailored evening suit was impeccable, his silver hair neatly combed, his hawkish features set in an expression of urbane confidence. He was surrounded by a small coterie of admirers, his voice, though not loud, carrying an unmistakable air of authority.

"And the official?" Hasel whispered, her voice barely a breath, hoping the Disillusionment Charm would muffle the sound.

Hermione, her eyes scanning the room with intense focus, murmured back, "I recognize some of these men from the newspapers Henry showed us. That one, by the window, is Lord Ashworth, a prominent magistrate. And the portly gentleman Starrick is currently speaking to… I believe that's Sir Reginald Hargreaves, a Member of Parliament with considerable influence over trade regulations."

As they watched, Starrick, with a theatrical gesture, produced a small, velvet-lined box from his pocket. Even from across the room, Hasel felt a faint, cold prickle, a diluted version of the unsettling energy they had sensed from the crates in Lambeth.

"This, gentlemen," Starrick announced, his voice carrying clearly in a momentary lull in the conversation, "is a small token of my esteem. A relic of a bygone era, said to bring… clarity of purpose to its owner." He opened the box, revealing a small, intricately carved ivory figurine, no bigger than his thumb. It glowed with a faint, sickly yellow light, a miniature echo of the luminescence they had seen in the carriage.

Sir Reginald Hargreaves, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of greed and curiosity, reached for the figurine. "Remarkable, Starrick! Truly remarkable. From what ancient civilization does it hail?"

"Its origins are… obscure," Starrick said, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "But its effects, I assure you, are quite potent. It has a way of… focusing the mind, of stripping away doubt and indecision, allowing one to see the… logical path forward."

As Hargreaves took the figurine, his fingers closing around it, Hasel felt a wave of that cold, tainted energy wash across the room, far stronger now, like a physical blow. She saw Hargreaves flinch, his eyes widening for a moment, his jovial expression faltering. Then, just as quickly, his features smoothed out, his smile returning, though it seemed… harder now, his eyes holding a new, unsettling glint of avarice and ambition.

"Indeed," Hargreaves said, his voice a little too hearty. "I feel… remarkably clear-headed. As if a fog has lifted." He pocketed the figurine. "Thank you, Starrick. A most… enlightening gift."

Hermione gasped, a small, choked sound that Hasel barely caught. "Did you see that? His eyes… the change in his demeanor…"

Hasel had seen it. It was subtle, but undeniable. The ivory figurine, whatever its true nature, had clearly exerted some kind of influence over the Parliamentarian, sharpening his ambition, perhaps, or eroding his inhibitions. It was a chilling demonstration of the insidious power Starrick was wielding.

Their attention was so focused on Starrick and Hargreaves that they almost missed the new arrival. A young man, impeccably dressed in evening attire that seemed almost too formal for his youthful features, entered the salon. He moved with a quiet confidence, his dark eyes sweeping the room with an unnerving intensity. His handsome face was set in an expression of cool amusement, as if he found the entire gathering a rather tedious, if occasionally diverting, spectacle.

Hasel’s breath caught in her throat. Her scar, dormant for so long, seared with a sudden, agonizing pain, so intense it almost buckled her knees. She clutched at her forehead, a gasp escaping her lips, her Disillusionment Charm flickering precariously.

Hermione, instantly alerted by Hasel’s distress, turned, her eyes widening in alarm. "Hasel! What is it?"

But Hasel could only stare, her blood running cold, her mind reeling with a horrifying, impossible recognition.

The young man, as if sensing her gaze, paused, his head turning slightly. His eyes, cold and calculating, seemed to pierce right through her Disillusionment Charm, meeting hers for a fleeting, terrifying moment. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips.

Tom Riddle. Here. In the heart of the Templar’s den. And he knew they were there.

Chapter Text

The searing pain in Hasel’s scar was a brutal, unwelcome herald. It ripped through her with the intensity of a Cruciatus Curse, a visceral reminder of the dark magic intrinsically linked to the young man now standing across the opulent salon. Her Disillusionment Charm sputtered, her form flickering like a faulty gaslight, threatening to expose them entirely. Hermione’s hand shot out, gripping Hasel’s arm, her touch a grounding force in the sudden, overwhelming wave of agony and terror.
"Hasel, we need to go! Now!" Hermione’s whisper was urgent, laced with a fear that mirrored Hasel’s own. Her eyes, however, were already scanning for an escape route, her mind, even in crisis, working with sharp, tactical precision.
Tom Riddle’s smirk widened almost imperceptibly. He made no overt move, no gesture of recognition that would alert the other occupants of the room to their presence. Instead, he simply inclined his head, a minute, mocking acknowledgment, before turning his attention back to the fawning Templars surrounding him. It was a chilling display of control, of utter confidence. He knew they were there. He knew they were compromised. And he was enjoying it.
The pain in Hasel’s scar began to subside, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache and a cold sweat that prickled her skin. But the damage was done. Her Disillusionment was failing, her outline becoming more distinct with each passing second. Several nearby guests, deep in their conversations, had yet to notice, but it was only a matter of time.
"The side door," Hermione hissed, tugging at Hasel’s arm. "The one we passed in the hallway. It leads to the kitchens, I think. If we can make it there…"
They moved, no longer shimmering phantoms but two increasingly visible women in ill-fitting dark dresses, trying to appear as if they belonged, as if they were merely two serving girls making their way through the crowded room. Every step was an agony of suspense. Hasel could feel Riddle’s gaze on her back, a cold, knowing pressure. He wasn't stopping them. Not yet. It was a game to him, a perverse amusement.
A portly gentleman, his face flushed with champagne, turned, his eyes widening as he nearly collided with Hasel. "Well, now! What have we here? Lost your way, my dears?" His gaze was lecherous, his breath reeking of stale wine.
Before he could raise an alarm, or draw further unwanted attention, Hermione acted. With a swift, almost imperceptible flick of her concealed wand, she sent a nearby tray of champagne flutes, held aloft by a passing waiter, wobbling precariously. The waiter yelped, struggling to maintain his balance, and several flutes crashed to the floor, shattering with a loud, attention-grabbing noise.
The distraction was enough. In the ensuing chaos, as guests turned to stare and servants rushed to clean up the mess, Hasel and Hermione slipped through the throng, their hearts pounding, and reached the side door. It opened into a narrow, dimly lit corridor, the clatter of the salon fading behind them.
"The kitchens should be this way," Hermione whispered, pulling Hasel along. They could hear the clatter of pots and pans, the raised voices of stressed kitchen staff. Safety, or at least a less conspicuous form of danger, lay ahead.
But as they rounded a corner, they found their path blocked. Not by a Templar guard, or a curious servant, but by Tom Riddle.
He stood there, leaning casually against the wall, an expression of polite inquiry on his handsome face. The knowing smirk was gone, replaced by a look of cool, almost academic curiosity. He had moved with an unnatural speed, a silent, predatory grace that was utterly unnerving.
"Leaving so soon, ladies?" Riddle’s voice was soft, cultured, yet it sent a shiver of pure dread down Hasel’s spine. "The party is just getting started."
Hasel’s hand instinctively went to the wand hidden in her sleeve. Hermione, beside her, did the same, her stance shifting into a defensive posture. They were trapped.
"What do you want, Riddle?" Hasel demanded, her voice hoarse. The throbbing in her scar intensified in his presence.
Riddle’s eyes, those cold, intelligent pools of darkness, flickered between them. "Want? Such a… possessive word. Let us simply say I am… intrigued. Two anachronisms, far from home, possessed of abilities that are… shall we say, not of this time or place." He pushed himself off the wall, taking a slow, deliberate step towards them. "I confess, your appearance at Starrick’s little warehouse a few weeks ago was… unexpected. Though not, perhaps, entirely unwelcome. It added a certain… spice to an otherwise tedious affair."
"You were there?" Hermione breathed, her eyes widening. "You saw us?"
"Oh, I see a great many things, Miss Granger," Riddle replied, his lips curving into a faint smile. "It is one of my many talents." He paused, his gaze lingering on Hasel. "And you, Hasel Potter. A name that resonates with a certain… familiarity. Though I confess, the context eludes me. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"
His words were a carefully crafted dance, a mixture of feigned ignorance and subtle threat. He knew more than he was letting on. He had to. The connection between them, the searing pain in Hasel’s scar, was undeniable proof.
"We don't know what you're talking about," Hasel said, trying to keep her voice steady, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "We're just… lost."
Riddle chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Lost? Yes, I suppose you are. We all are, in a way. Adrift in a sea of… possibilities." His gaze sharpened. "But some of us are better equipped to navigate the currents than others." He took another step closer, his presence filling the narrow corridor, a palpable aura of power and menace emanating from him. "Starrick is a fool, a blunt instrument obsessed with trinkets he barely understands. But he serves a purpose. As, perhaps, could you."
"We serve no one," Hermione stated, her voice ringing with a defiance that Hasel admired, even in her fear.
"A pity," Riddle said, his smile fading, his eyes growing colder. "Such… conviction. Such… wasted potential." He sighed, a theatrical gesture. "I had hoped for a more… enlightening conversation. But I see you are not yet ready to embrace the… opportunities this new reality presents."
He raised a hand, not in a threatening gesture, but as if to dismiss them. "Go, then. Run back to your Rooks, to your misguided notions of freedom and rebellion. But know this, Hasel Potter, Hermione Granger… our paths will cross again. And when they do," his voice dropped to a silken whisper, a promise of future torment, "I trust you will be more… receptive."
And then, with a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the air, he was gone. Not Apparition, Hasel knew, but something else, some form of advanced magic she didn't recognize, a silent, instantaneous vanishment that left behind only the faint, cloying scent of something ancient and dark, like dust from a long-sealed tomb.
For a long moment, Hasel and Hermione stood frozen, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. The encounter had been brief, terrifyingly so, but it had shaken them to their core. Riddle was here. He knew who they were. And he was clearly allied, in some capacity, with the Templars.
"We have to warn Clara," Hasel finally managed, her voice trembling. "And Evie. This changes everything."
They found Evie in the service alley, her expression tight with concern. "What happened? I saw Riddle enter the club. I was about to come after you."
"He knows, Evie," Hermione said, her voice strained. "He knows who we are. He confronted us."
Evie’s eyes widened, her usual composure faltering for a moment. "Riddle? Confronted you? And you're still in one piece?" She looked them over, her gaze sharp and assessing. "What did he say? What did he want?"
Quickly, concisely, they recounted the encounter, the chilling conversation, Riddle’s unnerving knowledge, his effortless disappearance. Evie listened in silence, her expression growing grimmer with each word.
"This is bad," Evie said finally, her voice low and serious. "Very bad. Riddle is not some common thug like Starrick’s Blighters. He's… different. More dangerous. If he's working with Starrick, or worse, manipulating him…" She shook her head. "We need to get back to the Rookery. Clara must be informed immediately."
The journey back to Whitechapel was a tense, silent affair. The opulent grandeur of the West End seemed to mock them, its glittering lights a stark contrast to the darkness that had just enveloped them. Riddle’s words, his knowing smirk, his chilling promise, echoed in Hasel’s mind. Their past had not only followed them; it had intertwined itself with this new, dangerous present in a way that threatened to unravel everything. The shadows of 1888 London had just grown infinitely deeper, and far more menacing.

Chapter Text

The Rookery was a hive of hushed, anxious activity when Evie, Hasel, and Hermione finally returned. The thick fog that had aided their infiltration of the West End now seemed to seep into the very bones of the warehouse, carrying with it a palpable sense of unease. Jacob’s diversionary team had returned earlier, reporting increased Templar patrols across the city – a clear indication that their presence at the Osiris Club, or at least some unusual activity, had not gone entirely unnoticed.

Clara Thorne was in her makeshift office, the flickering gaslight casting long, dancing shadows on the maps and notes spread across her table. Henry Greene stood beside her, his usual scholarly enthusiasm replaced by a worried frown. The moment Evie entered, followed closely by the two witches, Clara looked up, her emerald eyes sharp and questioning.

"Report," Clara commanded, her voice devoid of preamble.

Evie recounted the events at the Osiris Club – Starrick’s presentation of the tainted ivory figurine to Sir Reginald Hargreaves, the subtle but chilling change in the Parliamentarian’s demeanor, and then, the crux of the matter: Tom Riddle’s appearance, his unnerving awareness of Hasel and Hermione, and his cryptic, menacing conversation with them.

As Evie spoke, Clara’s expression grew increasingly stony. The only outward sign of her agitation was the slight tightening of her jaw, the almost imperceptible drumming of her fingers on the tabletop. Henry, however, reacted with visible alarm, his eyes widening behind his spectacles, his hand instinctively going to the collection of arcane texts on a nearby crate.

"Riddle," Clara repeated, the name a low growl in her throat. "So, the serpent has finally shown his face openly among the Templars." She looked at Hasel. "This connection you feel, this… pain your scar causes you in his presence. You are certain it is him? The same… Dark Lord from your time?"

Hasel nodded, the memory of Riddle’s cold, knowing smirk sending a fresh shiver down her spine. "There's no doubt. The pain… it's a unique signature. And his eyes, his voice… it's him, Clara. Younger, perhaps, but undeniably him." The dark, washed-out red of her hair, streaked with premature white from battles past, seemed to frame a face suddenly older, wearier.

Hermione added, "His knowledge of us, his reference to our appearance at Starrick’s warehouse, his effortless, non-Apparition form of disappearance… he possesses a level of magical proficiency far beyond anything we've encountered in this era, beyond even what Starrick seems capable of. He is a significant, and largely unknown, variable in this conflict."

"An unknown variable with a direct, personal connection to you," Clara observed, her gaze intense. "This makes you both a greater asset, and a far greater liability, than I initially anticipated." She rose, pacing the small confines of her office like a caged lioness. "Starrick, for all his ambition and ruthlessness, is a known quantity. We understand his motivations, his methods. This Riddle… he is an enigma. And enigmas, in our line of work, are often deadly."

Henry, who had been frantically flipping through one of his books, finally spoke, his voice tight with a mixture of fear and academic fervor. "The name, Riddle… it has appeared before, in some of the more… obscure and disturbing Brotherhood archives. Fragmented accounts, dismissed as unreliable, of an individual of immense power and charisma, operating in the shadows, manipulating events, always elusive. The descriptions are vague, the timeline inconsistent, almost as if…"

"As if he, too, is not entirely bound by the conventional flow of time?" Hermione finished, her eyes meeting Henry’s, a dawning horror in their shared gaze.

"Precisely," Henry breathed. "If Riddle is, as you suspect, a temporal anomaly like yourselves, but one with a pre-existing, perhaps even ancient, understanding of the forces at play in this world… then he is not merely an ally of the Templars. He could be a master manipulator, playing his own game, using Starrick and the Templar Order for his own, inscrutable ends."

The implications were staggering. If Riddle was not simply a younger version of Voldemort, but a temporal entity with his own agenda, his own history intertwined with the clandestine wars of this world, then their fight had just become infinitely more complex, and infinitely more dangerous.

Jacob Frye, who had entered the office during Evie’s report, his usual boisterous demeanor replaced by a grim watchfulness, slammed a fist onto the table. "So, what's the plan, then, Clara? We take this Riddle fellow out? A quick knife in the dark, problem solved?"

Evie shot her brother a withering look. "It's not that simple, Jacob. If what Hasel and Hermione say is true, if what Henry suspects has merit, then Riddle is far more than just another Templar agent. Attempting a direct assault without understanding his true capabilities would be suicidal."

"Evie is right," Clara said, her voice cutting through the tension. "Riddle is a new piece on the board, a powerful one, and we don't yet understand the rules of his game. For now, our priority remains Starrick and these tainted artifacts. Sir Reginald Hargreaves, now under the influence of that ivory figurine, will undoubtedly become a more pliable tool for the Templars. We need to monitor him, to see how this 'gift' affects his actions, his decisions. And we need to find out where Starrick is storing the other artifacts, the ones you saw in the carriage."

She turned to Hasel and Hermione. "Your encounter with Riddle, his awareness of you… it changes things. You are now marked. He will be watching you, waiting for an opportunity. Which means we must be even more cautious, even more discreet in how we utilize your… talents."

"But we can still help," Hasel insisted, a note of desperation in her voice. The thought of being sidelined, of being unable to act against the rising threat of Riddle, was intolerable.

"Oh, you will help, Potter," Clara assured her, a grim smile touching her lips. "Your unique perspective, your understanding of this… dark magic… it is more valuable than ever. But we will choose the time and place of your engagement with extreme care. For now, you will continue your training with Evie. You need to be able to defend yourselves not just against Blighters and Templar thugs, but against a sorcerer of considerable power. And you," she looked at Hermione, "will continue your research with Henry. We need to understand these tainted artifacts, their origins, their weaknesses. And we need to know if there is any way to counteract their influence, particularly on individuals like Sir Reginald."

Clara paused, her gaze sweeping over the small group. "Riddle’s appearance, his interest in you, it complicates matters immensely. But it also presents an opportunity. He underestimated you once, by letting you go. He may do so again. And when he does, we need to be ready."

The meeting broke up, leaving Hasel and Hermione with a heavy sense of foreboding. The confirmation of Riddle’s presence, his clear and present danger, had stripped away any lingering hope that their arrival in this time was a simple, albeit catastrophic, accident. They were entangled in a web of ancient conspiracies, temporal anomalies, and dark magic, with their deadliest enemy playing a central, terrifying role.

Later that evening, as they lay in their small, shadowed alcove, the usual sounds of the Rookery a muted backdrop to their own troubled thoughts, Hermione voiced the fear that had been gnawing at both of them.

"Hasel," she began, her voice low and hesitant, "Riddle… he said he was 'intrigued' by us, by our abilities. He spoke of 'wasted potential.' What if… what if he wasn't just taunting us? What if he sees us as… potential allies? Or worse, tools to be manipulated, just like he seems to be manipulating Starrick?"

Hasel felt a cold dread seep into her bones. The thought was horrifying, yet it resonated with Riddle’s known modus operandi. He had always been a master of manipulation, of twisting others to his will. "He tried to recruit me once, remember?" Hasel said, her voice barely a whisper, the memory of a younger, yet no less sinister, Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, offering her power, a place by his side, still vivid in her mind. "He preys on ambition, on desperation, on perceived weakness."

"And we," Hermione continued, her voice tight with anxiety, "are an ocean of desperation away from everything we know and love. We are vulnerable, Hasel. More vulnerable than we've ever been."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and the chilling realization of their precarious position. They were not just fighting for their survival in a hostile new world; they were fighting to avoid becoming pawns in a game played by an enemy who knew them, perhaps better than they knew themselves in this strange, unraveling reality. The serpent was not just in the salon; he was in their past, their present, and, Hasel feared, their future, his shadow stretching long and dark over the gaslit streets of 1888 London.