Hermione and Hasel found themselves standing sheepishly at attention before Clara and Jacob. The veteran Assassins weren't exactly subtle in their assessment of the two witches.
"You're soft," Jacob declared bluntly, circling them as if inspecting livestock. "No offense, but your fancy lights and whispers won't last a minute out there. Templars eat soft witches for breakfast."
His words stung, but Hasel couldn't deny the truth. They had survived, barely, more due to luck and surprise than skill. Facing Voldemort, even a younger version, had rattled something deep within her. In the harsh reality of this world, magic couldn't be their sole defense.
Clara, though equally blunt, possessed a more tactical mind. "We'll train you," she decided. "Not with swords, mind you - not enough time for that. But your bodies, your reflexes... that's something we can change. It won't be pleasant." She shot them a grim smile.
The following morning saw the witches thrown into the chaotic world of Assassin training. Jacob, it turned out, was a merciless taskmaster, pushing them to the brink of exhaustion. They ran obstacle courses in the grimy alleys of London, scaled rooftops with aching muscles, and dodged blunted blades in a cramped sparring ring. Hermione's analytical mind absorbed the acrobatic techniques, while Hasel thrived on the sheer physicality of it, the burn in her lungs a welcome distraction from the darkness lurking in her mind.
The Rooks, initially dismissive, began to grudgingly accept them. Henry, always curious, gleaned as much knowledge as he could about wizarding customs and magic theory. Evie, though aloof, seemed to respect their tenacity. Nights were spent discussing Templar movements, studying ancient histories, and learning the intricacies of the shadowy war they'd been thrust into.
Exhausted and bruised, Hasel and Hermione finally collapsed in their small shared room one evening. It was a far cry from their spacious quarters at Hogwarts, but the sanctuary of privacy was welcome.
"I haven't felt muscles like this since Quidditch tryouts," Hasel groaned, massaging her aching calves.
Hermione chuckled wearily. "At least we're not facing rogue bludgers, only angry men with knives." She sighed, then grew serious. "Hasel, we need to talk about what happened at the warehouse...Riddle."
Hasel's stomach twisted. "I know," she admitted. "Seeing him, so young, yet already monstrous... it shakes me." She rubbed her forehead, a familiar headache pounding behind her eyes. It wasn't just the physical strain – the past swirled around them, threatening to drown them.
"The Department of Mysteries..." Hermione began softly. "Do you think whatever sent us here... was it random? Did it send him too?" She turned to Hasel, their eyes mirroring the same unspoken questions.