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.