London's underbelly was a labyrinth of whispers and secrets, and Clara had tasked Hasel and Hermione with unraveling one particularly ominous thread. "A Templar higher-up, name's Starrick. Brutal and ambitious," she growled, sketching a rough portrait of a man with a cruel, hawkish face. "He's been making power plays, squeezing industries, and there's talk of some artifact he's fixated on."
Intrigue sparked in Henry's eyes. "Starrick…he's been obsessed with the Precursor civilization, the ones who created the Pieces. Obscure theories, but perhaps he's stumbled upon something..."
The Rooks' network of eyes and ears across the city proved invaluable. Hasel and Hermione slipped into bustling taverns and shadowy dockyards, their ears attuned to gossip and their magic discreetly enhancing their senses. They learned that Starrick's power grab extended to railways, factories, even the criminal underworld. The man, it seemed, believed control was the only currency worth pursuing.
One lead took them to an unassuming apothecary shop with the scent of dust and dried herbs lingering in the air. A hunched woman with shrewd eyes guarded the counter. Hermione, posing as a student in need of a rare ingredient, subtly gleaned a surprising tidbit of information: Starrick had been frequenting the shop, his requests for exotic and potentially dangerous substances growing increasingly peculiar.
The apothecary's description of a particularly potent hallucinogenic brew sent a shiver down Hasel's spine. It sounded eerily similar to potions Voldemort had used for nefarious purposes – to weaken minds, to conjure twisted visions of power.
"We need more than rumors," Hasel insisted to Clara after reporting back. "We need proof of what he's up to."
Clara's lips thinned. "Proof is a luxury we can rarely afford. But…there's a shipment coming in for Starrick tonight. Heavily guarded, of course."
The warehouse was a sprawling beast of brick and iron near the docks, the rhythmic chug of steam engines a constant backdrop. Evie and Jacob provided the initial distraction, slipping inside disguised as dockworkers and causing deliberate havoc at the far end of the building. Meanwhile, Hasel and Hermione crept in through a forgotten drainage tunnel, their progress slow and damp.
They emerged into a vast, dimly lit storage room, its contents a testament to greed. Crates overflowing with silk and spices were stacked alongside ominous metal contraptions of unknown purpose. A flicker of movement above drew their gaze − Riddle, his pale face ghostly in the shadows, was observing from a precarious perch high on the rafters.
Hasel's heart thudded painfully. He wasn't interfering, just watching. Had he known they'd be here? Was this a setup, some twisted game of his devising? She pushed the thought aside, forcing herself to focus.
Hermione nudged her, pointing towards a heavily guarded section. Several burly men patrolled around a lone crate, far larger and more elaborately carved than the others. A sense of foreboding tickled at the back of Hasel's mind. That was their target. The 'proof' Clara craved.
Carefully, they made their way closer, using illusion charms to subtly manipulate flickering oil lamps and casting barely discernible rustles in distant corners. The guards, tense and superstitious, were easily misdirected. Yet, with each step, the pull towards the crate intensified. It hummed with a latent energy, not unlike a Piece of Eden, yet distinctly different, colder and more...primal.
Then, a sudden shout echoed through the warehouse. Evie and Jacob's cover had been blown, their fight spilling out into the nearby corridors. The diversion was over.
"We have to move," Hermione hissed, urgency in her eyes.
Hasel nodded grimly. She knew what had to be done, even if it was reckless. Focusing her will, she aimed not one, but two spells simultaneously. The first was a simple unlocking charm, targeted at the crate. The second…the second was riskier, a subtle compulsion spell designed to inflame the guards' curiosity.
The lock clicked open with a satisfying *thunk*. One of the guards, his eyes widening in a mixture of alarm and fascination, broke formation, drawn towards the crate like a moth to a flame.
The guard's unexpected movement caused a cascade of startled reactions. His fellows, confused and suspicious, attempted to restrain him, even as he fought with an unnatural fervor to reach the open crate. Chaos erupted in the heart of the warehouse.
Seizing the opportunity, Hasel and Hermione darted forward. The crate's contents were shrouded in burlap. With trembling hands, Hasel pulled it aside, revealing an object that pulsed with a strange, sickly light. It was a mask – carved from bone, adorned with feathers and macabre symbols that seemed to writhe and dance before their eyes. An overwhelming sense of *wrongness* flooded Hasel, a cold tendril of fear curling around her heart.
"This isn't…it's not like the others," Hermione whispered, her face pale. "It's...older. Darker."
The mask throbbed, its power seeping into the very air, turning it thick and oppressive. From the rafters above, a low chuckle echoed – Riddle was delighted by the chaos.
Gunshots rang out amidst the shouts of the guards, forcing them to scramble for cover. The situation had devolved into a dangerous free-for-all, and their escape plan was in tatters.
Hasel clenched the mask, its chill seeping into her skin. "Hermione, we need to get this out of here."
Just then, a hulking figure in a Templar uniform emerged from the melee. Starrick himself. His eyes, burning with fanatical intensity, were fixated on the mask.
"The relic," he breathed, his voice a rasp. "It is mine."
A wave of his hand summoned more guards, their weapons trained on the two witches. Riddle, ever the opportunist, melted back into the shadows. This was no longer about infiltration; this was a desperate fight for survival.
Hasel and Hermione fought back-to-back, their spells deflecting bullets and disarming guards. Yet, every move, every spell, felt tainted by the mask's proximity. Their magic, normally so vibrant, felt sluggish, contaminated.
"Hasel!" Hermione cried out, pointing to a far exit. Evie and Jacob, bloodied but defiant, were battling their way through, creating a narrow window for escape.
With a surge of determination, Hasel blasted a hole in the crumbling brick wall. Dust and debris filled the air as they sprinted through, Hermione cradling the mask. The Rooks covered their retreat, their yells mingling with the crackle of gunfire and Starrick's furious commands. They tumbled onto a waiting cart, Evie cracking the reins as they hurtled away into the labyrinthine streets.
Back at the Rook hideout, the mood was grim. The mask lay on the worn table, an ominous, unsettling presence. Henry nervously poked it with a quill.
"Precursor, definitely," he declared, eyes alight with a mixture of dread and fascination. "But crude…a poor imitation of the true Pieces. Yet, something…it feels wrong. Forced."
"Starrick believes it'll give him power," Jacob scoffed. "Bloke's already mad as a hatter, don't need no magic for that."
Clara paced the room, her usual decisive nature laced with worry. "Power over his rivals, over London…that's what he craves. But this…" she gestured at the mask, "it's a wild card, dangerous to *everyone*." She fixed Hasel and Hermione with a penetrating stare. "You two felt it, didn't you? The way it messed with your magic."
Hermione shuddered, remembering the oppressive weight that had threatened to suffocate her spells. "Ancient magic," she murmured, "twisted into a weapon. They never should have made it."
The conversation trailed off, the weight of the situation settling over the room. London had always been dangerous, but with the addition of ancient relics with corrupting influence, the stakes had risen to dizzying heights. That night, as Hasel and Hermione lay awake, the echoes of Riddle's mocking laughter and the memory of the bone mask's unsettling aura clung to them. And through it all, there was the undeniable sense that their presence in this world, their connection to magic itself, had irrevocably changed the course of events.
Over the following weeks, Clara began discreetly seeking information about other, similar artifacts scattered throughout history. Hasel, in quieter moments, found herself thinking back to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore's lessons about the lure of power and the dangerous path of seeking to control forces beyond comprehension. The parallels were chilling.
One crisp autumn afternoon, as Hasel was sparring with Evie in their makeshift training yard, a familiar voice broke the rhythm of their grunts and clinks of metal. "Well, this is far more entertaining than I imagined."
Hermione stood at the edge of the clearing, an amused expression on her face. However, it was the figure beside her that made Hasel's blood run cold. A woman, tall and regal, with a cascade of silvery hair and vibrant robes, held Hermione's hand, her gaze sweeping over Hasel with a look of thoughtful appraisal.
"Hasel," Hermione said, the hint of a smile playing on her lips, "Allow me to introduce my mother."