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.