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.