The silence in the narrow, rain-slicked alley stretched taut, thick with suspicion and the unspoken threat of violence. Hasel could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, a familiar, unwelcome companion. Her gaze flickered between the tall, commanding woman and the shadowy figures flanking her, each one a potential adversary. The glint of their hidden blades was noticeable; this was a different kind of fight, one they were utterly unprepared for.
"We don't want any trouble," Hasel stated, trying to keep her voice even, projecting a calm she didn't feel. "We're just… lost. If you could tell us where we are, what city this is…"
The woman's lips curved into a humorless smile. "Lost, are you? In Whitechapel? Not the best place for unescorted ladies, especially ones dressed as… peculiarly as yourselves." Her eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on their attire – practical, yes, for their world, but undoubtedly alien here. Robes, even travel-worn ones like theirs, were clearly not the fashion in this gritty, gaslit London. "And those 'sticks'?" she pressed again, her gaze flicking to their wands. "You didn't answer my question."
Hermione took a shallow breath. Explaining magic to Muggles was always a delicate affair, fraught with the risk of disbelief or, worse, fear. But these were no ordinary Muggles. There was a dangerous competence about them, a lethal grace in their stance. "They're… tools," Hermione said carefully. "For protection."
"Protection?" One of the cloaked men scoffed, stepping forward, a blade appearing in his hand with a flick of his wrist. "Let's see how well they protect you against cold steel, eh?"
Before Hasel could react, before a single spell could form on her lips, the tall woman raised a hand, a silent command that halted the man in his tracks. He grumbled but retreated a step, the blade still held ready.
"Hold, Garrett," the woman said, her voice calm but firm. She turned her attention back to Hasel and Hermione. "You're clearly not from around here. And you're armed, albeit strangely. That makes you a curiosity, or a threat. In my experience, most curiosities in Whitechapel end up being threats." Her eyes narrowed. "So, one more time. Who are you, and what brings you to my territory?"
The possessive emphasis on "my territory" was not lost on Hasel. This woman was a leader, accustomed to obedience. "Our names are Hasel and Hermione Potter," Hasel said, deciding a measure of truth, however unbelievable, was their only option. "We were involved in an accident. A magical accident. We were in the Ministry of Magic, in our London, and then… we were here."
A ripple of murmurs went through the assembled group. The word "magic" hung in the air, met with a mixture of disbelief and something else… a flicker of guarded interest in the leader's eyes.
"Magic?" she repeated, her tone skeptical but not entirely dismissive. "Like stage tricks and charlatans?"
"No," Hermione interjected, her voice gaining a little of its usual firmness. "Real magic. We are witches."
The declaration was met with a stunned silence, then a burst of derisive laughter from some of the men. The leader, however, didn't laugh. Her gaze intensified, scrutinizing them with renewed interest. She took a step closer, her eyes searching theirs, looking for any sign of deception.
"Witches," she mused, drawing the word out. "I've heard tales. Old wives' stories, mostly. But you don't look like any witch I've ever imagined." She paused. "If what you say is true, if you possess this… magic… then you've stumbled into a war you know nothing about, ladies."
"War?" Hasel echoed, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. Had they escaped one war only to be thrust into another?
"A secret war," the woman affirmed, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Fought in the shadows, for the very soul of this city. And you, with your talk of magic, have just made yourselves very interesting to both sides." She gestured vaguely around them. "This is London, 1888. And we are the Rooks. I am Clara Thorne, and this," she swept a hand towards the alley entrance, "is our domain."
1888. The date hit Hasel like a physical blow. Over a century. They were over a century displaced from their own time. A wave of dizziness, cold and sharp, washed over her. 1888? Her mind reeled, struggling to process the impossibility. Ron. Ginny. Teddy. A chasm of over a hundred years had just opened beneath her feet, swallowing everyone she knew, everything she'd fought for. She swayed, the grimy alley walls seeming to close in, and Hermione's hand, instantly on her arm, was the only thing keeping her anchored to this terrifying new present.
Clara Thorne watched their reaction with a keen, calculating gaze. "You seem surprised by the year. Further proof you're not from our London." She considered them for a long moment. "The Rooks fight for the people, for freedom from those who seek to control everything and everyone – the Templars." The name was uttered with a venom that spoke of deep-seated hatred. "They are powerful, ruthless, and they have their fingers in every pie, from Parliament to the darkest alleys. They hunt for power, for artifacts of old, and they crush anyone who stands in their way."
Templars. The name meant nothing to Hasel, yet the description resonated with a chilling familiarity. Power-hungry, controlling, ruthless… it sounded disturbingly like the Death Eaters and Voldemort's regime.
"And you believe us?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with surprise. "About the magic?"
Clara shrugged, a pragmatic gesture. "Let's just say I'm willing to be convinced. If you truly have abilities beyond the ken of ordinary folk, they could be… useful. Or they could make you a prime target for the Templars. They dabble in things best left undisturbed, and whispers of true magic would be like blood in the water to them."
She turned, gesturing for them to follow. "Come. You're soaked and clearly overwhelmed. We have a place nearby. You can dry off, get some food. And then," her emerald eyes gleamed in the gaslight, "you can tell us everything. And perhaps, just perhaps, show us a little of this 'magic' of yours. If you're lying…" She let the threat hang, unspoken but potent.
Hasel looked at Hermione, a silent question passing between them. They were vulnerable, lost, and in a potentially hostile environment. Clara Thorne and her Rooks radiated danger, but there was also a sense of rough-hewn honor about them, a fierce protectiveness of their territory and, perhaps, their people. And right now, they were the only semblance of help in this alien time.
With a deep breath, Hasel nodded. "Alright, Miss Thorne. Lead the way."
The Rooks' hideout, or "rookery" as Clara called it, was a sprawling, dilapidated warehouse tucked away in a labyrinth of equally grimy buildings near the docks. The air inside the Rookery hit them like a physical wave – a thick, cloying miasma of damp wood, the sharp tang of stale beer, the undeniable musk of unwashed bodies, and beneath it all, the metallic scent of oil and sharpened steel. Yet, it was dry, a welcome respite from the biting rain, and the flickering warmth from a large, roaring fire in a makeshift hearth beckoned them deeper into the den. The space was a hive of activity. Men and women, young and old, moved about with purpose, some sharpening blades, others poring over maps, their conversations a low, constant hum. They were a motley crew, their clothes practical and worn, their faces reflecting the harsh realities of their lives, yet there was a shared resilience in their eyes, a sense of belonging.
Clara led them to a quieter corner, where a rough-spun blanket was offered to each of them. "Henry!" Clara called out, and a young man with spectacles perched on his nose and an ink stain on his cheek hurried over. He looked more like a scholar than a street fighter, his eyes bright with an inquisitive intelligence. "These are Hasel and Hermione. They claim to be witches, possessed of magic. They've had an… accident. See to it they get some dry clothes and something hot to drink. And listen to their story. I want to know every detail."
Henry's eyes widened behind his spectacles as he took in the two women. "Witches? Truly? Fascinating! The historical accounts are so often contradictory, you see, and largely dismissed as folklore, but if there's empirical evidence…" He trailed off, then flushed slightly. "Forgive me. Henry Greene, at your service. Historian and advisor to the Rooks." He offered a polite, if slightly awkward, bow.
As Hasel and Hermione, bundled in borrowed, ill-fitting but dry clothes, sipped at a surprisingly palatable herbal tea, they began to recount their tale. They spoke of Hogwarts, of wands and spells, of the war against Voldemort, and of the disastrous accident in the Department of Mysteries. Henry listened with rapt attention, interrupting only to ask clarifying questions, his quill scratching furiously across a worn notebook. The other Rooks in the vicinity, while feigning disinterest, clearly strained to overhear.
When they finally finished, an hour later, exhaustion weighing heavily on them, Henry stared at them, his expression a mixture of awe and scholarly excitement. "Incredible," he breathed. "Travel through time… and perhaps, dimensions?" He pushed his spectacles up his nose, his eyes gleaming. "The fragmented texts we've recovered, the whispers of the Isu – the Ones Who Came Before – they hint at such manipulations of the very threads of reality! Your 'magic,' as you call it, the focused intent, the wands as conduits… it bears a fascinating resemblance, at least in principle, to the energies said to emanate from the Pieces of Eden, though yours seems more… intrinsic, more personal, less reliant on an external artifact. Astounding!"
Clara, who had been observing from a short distance, approached. "So, Henry? What's your assessment? Are they mad, lying, or something else entirely?"
Henry pushed his spectacles further up his nose. "Their story is… fantastical, Clara. Yet, the conviction with which they tell it, the details… and their clear disorientation upon arrival… I believe they are speaking their truth, however improbable it may seem. The existence of 'magic' as they describe it would certainly explain abilities that could shift the balance of our struggle."
Clara fixed Hasel and Hermione with her piercing gaze. "The balance. Yes. That's what this always comes down to." She paused. "You say you fought in a war for freedom in your time. You understand what it means to stand against tyranny." It wasn't a question.
"We do," Hasel said quietly, the memories of fallen friends, of sacrifices made, fresh in her mind.
"Then you understand our fight against the Templars," Clara stated. "They seek to control, to impose their order, believing humanity is too flawed to govern itself. We believe in free will, in the right of every individual to choose their own path, even if that path is messy and imperfect." Her eyes hardened. "If your magic is real, it could be a powerful weapon. But weapons can be turned against their wielders. Are you with us, or are you a danger we need to neutralize?"
The choice was stark, presented with the same brutal honesty that seemed to define Clara Thorne. Hasel looked at Hermione. They were strangers in a strange land, their old lives shattered. But the fight Clara described, the values she espoused, resonated deeply with everything they had fought and bled for. Here, perhaps, was a purpose, a way to make sense of their inexplicable predicament.
Hermione nodded slowly, her gaze meeting Hasel's. "We've always fought for what's right, Hasel."
Hasel turned back to Clara, a new resolve solidifying within her. "We stand against anyone who tries to control and oppress others. If the Templars are what you say they are, then we stand with the Rooks."
A flicker of something – respect? satisfaction? – crossed Clara Thorne's face. "Good. Then welcome to the Rooks, witches. Your training begins tomorrow. This London is a dangerous place, and magic or no, you'll need to learn how to survive its streets if you're to be of any use to us… or to yourselves."