The Rookery was a hive of hushed, anxious activity when Evie, Hasel, and Hermione finally returned. The thick fog that had aided their infiltration of the West End now seemed to seep into the very bones of the warehouse, carrying with it a palpable sense of unease. Jacob's diversionary team had returned earlier, reporting increased Templar patrols across the city – a clear indication that their presence at the Osiris Club, or at least some unusual activity, had not gone entirely unnoticed.
Clara Thorne was in her makeshift office, the flickering gaslight casting long, dancing shadows on the maps and notes spread across her table. Henry Greene stood beside her, his usual scholarly enthusiasm replaced by a worried frown. The moment Evie entered, followed closely by the two witches, Clara looked up, her emerald eyes sharp and questioning.
"Report," Clara commanded, her voice devoid of preamble.
Evie recounted the events at the Osiris Club – Starrick's presentation of the tainted ivory figurine to Sir Reginald Hargreaves, the subtle but chilling change in the Parliamentarian's demeanor, and then, the crux of the matter: Tom Riddle's appearance, his unnerving awareness of Hasel and Hermione, and his cryptic, menacing conversation with them.
As Evie spoke, Clara's expression grew increasingly stony. The only outward sign of her agitation was the slight tightening of her jaw, the almost imperceptible drumming of her fingers on the tabletop. Henry, however, reacted with visible alarm, his eyes widening behind his spectacles, his hand instinctively going to the collection of arcane texts on a nearby crate.
"Riddle," Clara repeated, the name a low growl in her throat. "So, the serpent has finally shown his face openly among the Templars." She looked at Hasel. "This connection you feel, this… pain your scar causes you in his presence. You are certain it is him? The same… Dark Lord from your time?"
Hasel nodded, the memory of Riddle's cold, knowing smirk sending a fresh shiver down her spine. "There's no doubt. The pain… it's a unique signature. And his eyes, his voice… it's him, Clara. Younger, perhaps, but undeniably him." The dark, washed-out red of her hair, streaked with premature white from battles past, seemed to frame a face suddenly older, wearier.
Hermione added, "His knowledge of us, his reference to our appearance at Starrick's warehouse, his effortless, non-Apparition form of disappearance… he possesses a level of magical proficiency far beyond anything we've encountered in this era, beyond even what Starrick seems capable of. He is a significant, and largely unknown, variable in this conflict."
"An unknown variable with a direct, personal connection to you," Clara observed, her gaze intense. "This makes you both a greater asset, and a far greater liability, than I initially anticipated." She rose, pacing the small confines of her office like a caged lioness. "Starrick, for all his ambition and ruthlessness, is a known quantity. We understand his motivations, his methods. This Riddle… he is an enigma. And enigmas, in our line of work, are often deadly."
Henry, who had been frantically flipping through one of his books, finally spoke, his voice tight with a mixture of fear and academic fervor. "The name, Riddle… it has appeared before, in some of the more… obscure and disturbing Brotherhood archives. Fragmented accounts, dismissed as unreliable, of an individual of immense power and charisma, operating in the shadows, manipulating events, always elusive. The descriptions are vague, the timeline inconsistent, almost as if…"
"As if he, too, is not entirely bound by the conventional flow of time?" Hermione finished, her eyes meeting Henry's, a dawning horror in their shared gaze.
"Precisely," Henry breathed. "If Riddle is, as you suspect, a temporal anomaly like yourselves, but one with a pre-existing, perhaps even ancient, understanding of the forces at play in this world… then he is not merely an ally of the Templars. He could be a master manipulator, playing his own game, using Starrick and the Templar Order for his own, inscrutable ends."
The implications were staggering. If Riddle was not simply a younger version of Voldemort, but a temporal entity with his own agenda, his own history intertwined with the clandestine wars of this world, then their fight had just become infinitely more complex, and infinitely more dangerous.
Jacob Frye, who had entered the office during Evie's report, his usual boisterous demeanor replaced by a grim watchfulness, slammed a fist onto the table. "So, what's the plan, then, Clara? We take this Riddle fellow out? A quick knife in the dark, problem solved?"
Evie shot her brother a withering look. "It's not that simple, Jacob. If what Hasel and Hermione say is true, if what Henry suspects has merit, then Riddle is far more than just another Templar agent. Attempting a direct assault without understanding his true capabilities would be suicidal."
"Evie is right," Clara said, her voice cutting through the tension. "Riddle is a new piece on the board, a powerful one, and we don't yet understand the rules of his game. For now, our priority remains Starrick and these tainted artifacts. Sir Reginald Hargreaves, now under the influence of that ivory figurine, will undoubtedly become a more pliable tool for the Templars. We need to monitor him, to see how this 'gift' affects his actions, his decisions. And we need to find out where Starrick is storing the other artifacts, the ones you saw in the carriage."
She turned to Hasel and Hermione. "Your encounter with Riddle, his awareness of you… it changes things. You are now marked. He will be watching you, waiting for an opportunity. Which means we must be even more cautious, even more discreet in how we utilize your… talents."
"But we can still help," Hasel insisted, a note of desperation in her voice. The thought of being sidelined, of being unable to act against the rising threat of Riddle, was intolerable.
"Oh, you will help, Potter," Clara assured her, a grim smile touching her lips. "Your unique perspective, your understanding of this… dark magic… it is more valuable than ever. But we will choose the time and place of your engagement with extreme care. For now, you will continue your training with Evie. You need to be able to defend yourselves not just against Blighters and Templar thugs, but against a sorcerer of considerable power. And you," she looked at Hermione, "will continue your research with Henry. We need to understand these tainted artifacts, their origins, their weaknesses. And we need to know if there is any way to counteract their influence, particularly on individuals like Sir Reginald."
Clara paused, her gaze sweeping over the small group. "Riddle's appearance, his interest in you, it complicates matters immensely. But it also presents an opportunity. He underestimated you once, by letting you go. He may do so again. And when he does, we need to be ready."
The meeting broke up, leaving Hasel and Hermione with a heavy sense of foreboding. The confirmation of Riddle's presence, his clear and present danger, had stripped away any lingering hope that their arrival in this time was a simple, albeit catastrophic, accident. They were entangled in a web of ancient conspiracies, temporal anomalies, and dark magic, with their deadliest enemy playing a central, terrifying role.
Later that evening, as they lay in their small, shadowed alcove, the usual sounds of the Rookery a muted backdrop to their own troubled thoughts, Hermione voiced the fear that had been gnawing at both of them.
"Hasel," she began, her voice low and hesitant, "Riddle… he said he was 'intrigued' by us, by our abilities. He spoke of 'wasted potential.' What if… what if he wasn't just taunting us? What if he sees us as… potential allies? Or worse, tools to be manipulated, just like he seems to be manipulating Starrick?"
Hasel felt a cold dread seep into her bones. The thought was horrifying, yet it resonated with Riddle's known modus operandi. He had always been a master of manipulation, of twisting others to his will. "He tried to recruit me once, remember?" Hasel said, her voice barely a whisper, the memory of a younger, yet no less sinister, Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, offering her power, a place by his side, still vivid in her mind. "He preys on ambition, on desperation, on perceived weakness."
"And we," Hermione continued, her voice tight with anxiety, "are an ocean of desperation away from everything we know and love. We are vulnerable, Hasel. More vulnerable than we've ever been."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and the chilling realization of their precarious position. They were not just fighting for their survival in a hostile new world; they were fighting to avoid becoming pawns in a game played by an enemy who knew them, perhaps better than they knew themselves in this strange, unraveling reality. The serpent was not just in the salon; he was in their past, their present, and, Hasel feared, their future, his shadow stretching long and dark over the gaslit streets of 1888 London.