Night cloaked London in a veil of shadows, a perfect stage for the clandestine activities of the Rooks. Despite weeks of relentless training with Jacob, Hermione and Hasel still felt like novices in this world of silent takedowns and rooftop acrobatics. However, they learned quickly, their thirst for survival pushing them to their limits.
Their first covert mission was to infiltrate a Templar-controlled opium den, its pungent aroma a sickly contrast to the crisp air outside. Hermione's quick thinking allowed them to slip past the guards disguised as workers, while Hasel's subtle charms diverted the eyes of any patrons who grew too curious. The Rooks worked as a relentless unit, each with their own lethal expertise. Evie, a ghost in the shadows, dispatched guards with methodical precision, while Jacob was a force of chaotic energy, his boisterous brawling a distraction for the more precise work of the others.
Hasel and Hermione used their magic in more insidious ways, casting whispered illusions of moving shadows or creating muffled noises on distant balconies. They were beginning to find their place in this unconventional brotherhood, yet the constant threat of discovery fueled a lingering sense of unease.
One evening, as they planned a raid on a Templar stronghold, Clara surprised them with a mysterious proposition. "I've a special task for you two," she said, her eyes glinting. "Not much flash, but needs that...unique spark you possess."
She unfurled a worn map of the Thames, its surface marked with cryptic symbols. One in particular, an archaic rune, drew Hermione's attention. "That's…ancient," she whispered, brow furrowed in concentration.
Clara nodded, a hint of satisfaction flickering on her face. "Templar meeting point, out on the river, in an old ruin." She tapped a long nail against the parchment. "Some ritual muck, I reckon. Need you to find out what, disrupt it if you can. Discreetly now."
A boat mission. Hasel felt a familiar pang of nausea. Her disastrous attempt to navigate the Hogwarts' lake during her First Year remained a vivid memory. However, duty called. The next night found them perched precariously in a rowboat, muffled oars barely disturbing the river's inky surface. The crumbling structure, a gothic remnant of an era long past, loomed ahead like a decaying specter.
Creeping inside, they discovered the Templars deep in their sinister ceremony. Hooded figures chanted in Latin around a glowing fissure in the stone floor, a crackling energy emanating from its depth. Hasel's scar, dormant for years, throbbed uncomfortably. Something ancient and malevolent stirred within those depths.
"Definitely not good," Hermione whispered, eyes wide.
Hasel nodded grimly. They had to disrupt the ritual, but how? Then, inspiration struck. Years of Charms class came to the forefront as she focused on the Templars' ornate lanterns. With subtle flicks of her wand, the flames within began to flicker and dance, then subtly shift color to an eerie green, casting grotesque shadows on the walls.
The Templars faltered, their chants discordant. A wave of unease rippled through their ranks. Taking advantage of the chaos, Hermione conjured a series of illusory figures – writhing, spectral forms that moaned and shrieked. Panic surged through the chamber.
One particularly burly Templar, his eyes wide with superstitious terror, lunged at the illusion, his sword slicing through empty air. The distraction was enough. Hasel and Hermione slipped into the shadows, retreating just as more furious Templars stormed into the room.
Outside, under the cloak of night, they collapsed into the boat, chests heaving. "Well," Hasel gasped between breaths. "That was...effective."
Hermione laughed, a slightly hysterical edge to her voice. "They'll think twice before messing with ancient ruins again, I imagine."
Yet, as they rowed back, the true weight of the evening sank in. They'd witnessed a ritual of dark power, its connection to the Piece of Eden Clara had mentioned undeniable. And lurking somewhere in the darkness of this unfamiliar city, a young Tom Riddle was aligning himself with forces far more sinister than any they'd faced in their own world.
That night, as they lay awake in their shared room, an unspoken fear clung to them. The shadows seemed to whisper of threats both seen and unseen. London was a vast and intricate web, and they were no longer merely observers – they were players in a deadly game, their every move fraught with unforeseen consequences.