The Templar warehouse was a hulking monstrosity of brick and iron near the Thames. Infiltration, rather than confrontation, was the Rooks' preferred tactic. Hasel, used to more flamboyant magical displays, discovered that her wand could be just as effective with subtle charms: locking mechanisms frozen, guards distracted by phantom whispers. The Rooks moved like shadows, their hidden blades ready for close combat Hermione, proving her brilliance as always, adapted quickly, using her quick wits and observational skills to disable alarms and avoid detection.
Inside, the warehouse was a maze of crates and machinery. The Rooks dispersed, searching for their target. Hasel and Hermione stayed close to Clara, following her lead deeper into the complex. It was eerily quiet, the only sound a steady drip of water from a leaky pipe.
Suddenly, a flicker of movement in the rafters caught Hasel's eye. A figure, silhouetted against the grimy windows, crouched precariously on a metal beam. Before she could call out, it dropped, landing with feline grace. A young man, no older than they'd been during their time at Hogwarts, stood before them. His eyes, a cold, piercing blue, flickered with recognition as they fell upon Hasel and Hermione.
"Well, well," he purred in a deceptively smooth voice, "Looks like I'm not the only unexpected guest tonight."
His bearing, the cut of his robes – there was something undeniably *familiar* about him. A knot of unease tightened in Hasel's gut. She had faced darkness before, but this felt different, a chilling echo warped by time and circumstance.
Hermione, ever perceptive, picked up on her tension. "Hasel…" she whispered cautiously.
The young man smirked, tilting his head. "Tom Riddle," he introduced himself. "And you two are?"
*Riddle…* The name struck like a lightning bolt. A twisted piece slotted into place, a terrifying realization taking shape. This wasn't just any dark wizard – this was *Voldemort*, in his youth, somehow displaced alongside them.