The wind off the Thames bit through Aurora's coat as she and Dawlish stepped onto the muddy embankment, the gray sky pressing low over the water like a lid. The river was sluggish this morning, swollen from recent rain, its surface reflecting the dull steel of the clouds.
"Charming," Aurora muttered, pulling her scarf tighter as she surveyed the waterline.
Dawlish grunted beside her, wand already drawn. "You know, I didn't exactly envision my morning wading through magical residue and river sludge."
She shot him a look. "Did you envision much of anything? Or are you just making it up as you go?"
He didn't answer, too focused on sweeping his wand in a slow arc toward the edge of the water. Thin threads of magic shimmered faintly where his spell passed, curling like smoke before vanishing.
"Residual pull here," he said, pointing to a small inlet choked with reeds and half-submerged stone. "It's old—weak—but it's still active."
Aurora stepped closer, crouching at the edge of the embankment. Her hand hovered above the water, eyes narrowing. "It's layered. Like something's trying to mask it."
"Same signature as the mirror site?"
She nodded. "Similar. But it's… distorted. Like it's been pulled through something else."
Dawlish knelt beside her, surprisingly careful. "Could it be one of the anchor points Callum mentioned?"
"Feels like it," she said. "We need to mark this, trace it. I want to know what's feeding into it and where it's feeding from."
He gave a short nod, and for a moment they worked in silence, focused and precise, the only sound the whisper of the river and the occasional squelch of mud beneath their boots.
Finally, Aurora stood, brushing grit from her hands. "I'm sending coordinates to Harry. Let's move downriver and check the next site. If there's a pattern, I want to find it before nightfall."
Dawlish didn't argue. He fell into step beside her, boots crunching over gravel, wand still in hand. And though he didn't say it out loud, something in his expression said he felt it too—that whatever they were circling was starting to wake up.
The second site was harder to reach—a stretch of stone under a crumbling dock, half-forgotten and slick with moss. The magical residue was stronger here, more volatile. Aurora felt it the moment they crossed the threshold, the air charged with static and something colder beneath.
"This one's fresh," she murmured, crouching to examine a jagged scorch mark carved into the wooden support beam.
Dawlish didn't wait. He was already moving toward a cluster of crates stacked at the far end of the dock, wand raised, muttering under his breath.
"John," Aurora warned, standing up. "Don't—"
A burst of energy shot from one of the crates, crackling like lightning. Dawlish flew backward with a grunt, landing hard against a rusted pipe. His wand skittered across the ground, and the crate's ward flared blue before flickering out.
"Bloody hell," he gasped, clutching his ribs.
Aurora was at his side in an instant. "You idiot."
He winced but managed a crooked grin. "Just testing the perimeter."
"You triggered the perimeter," she snapped, waving a diagnostic charm over him before retrieving his wand. "You're lucky that ward didn't gut you."
"I've had worse," he muttered, but the way he held his side said otherwise.
She stood, eyes scanning the area, jaw clenched. "You can't keep doing this, John. You can't keep charging in like you've got something to prove. This isn't a training exercise—it's a curse network with a body count."
His expression shifted, something defensive curling behind his eyes. But he didn't argue.
Aurora took a breath, forcing her voice to calm. "Next time, wait. We do this together, or we don't do it at all."
Dawlish nodded, reluctant but chastened. "Right. Got it."
She helped him to his feet and handed back his wand. "Come on. Let's catalogue the residue and send coordinates to Callum. And don't touch anything unless I say so."
"Bossy," he muttered.
"Alive," she countered. "You're welcome."
The enchanted glass shimmered faintly, casting flickering light across the crates stacked high in the warehouse. Rain ticked against the windows in steady rhythm, but inside, all was still.
The figure stood alone before the mirror. The surface rippled like water, reflecting the moss-slick dock and two distant forms moving through the gloom—one limping, the other scanning the shadows with sharp, narrowed eyes.
They watched in silence as Aurora crouched, her hand skimming over a scorched beam. Her mouth moved, but the words didn't carry. It didn't matter. The meaning was clear enough.
They were getting closer. Too close
The figure's fingers twitched at their side, hands curling slightly before relaxing again.
The mirror pulsed—once, faintly—as Aurora stood, her eyes scanning the shadows. Dawlish moved stiffly behind her, favoring his side, but she didn't slow. She was already looking ahead.
The figure tilted their head.
"She always was relentless," they murmured, voice low and amused. "But relentless doesn't mean ready."
The mirror shifted again, the image swallowed by a shimmer of blue light. What remained was reflection—warped, colorless, and empty.
But beneath it, something pulsed. Slow. Patient.
Calling.
Aurora pulled her collar up higher as she and Dawlish picked their way through the fog-draped industrial strip. The warehouses loomed like forgotten giants, their broken windows and rusted signage giving the whole place an eerie, frozen-in-time feel.
"Charming spot," Aurora muttered, glancing around.
Dawlish grunted, wand already in hand. "This one," he said, jerking his chin toward a squat brick building tucked behind a stack of shipping containers. "Readings were highest here. Let's check it out."
They moved in tandem, wands raised, senses sharp. Inside, the warehouse was dark but not abandoned—dust thick on the ground, but recent footprints trailed through it. Mirrors—dozens of them—lined the walls, most cracked or covered with cloth, but all humming with latent magic.
Aurora's breath caught. "This is it," she whispered.
Dawlish moved further in without waiting. "The hell are all these mirrors?"
"Wait—Dawlish—" Aurora hissed, but he was already halfway across the floor.
A door at the far end slammed open, and a cloaked figure bolted, wand at the ready. Dawlish gave chase instantly, yelling, "Oi! Stop—Ministry business!"
Aurora ran after him, heart pounding—but by the time they burst out the other side, the figure had vanished in a burst of smoke and wind, Disapparating just beyond the ward perimeter.
"Dammit!" Dawlish swore, chest heaving.
Aurora skidded to a halt beside him, breath visible in the frigid air. "You just let our lead disappear."
"He was right there!" Dawlish snapped. "We could've had him—"
"You didn't even think to check for a trap," she said, voice low and furious. "What if the wards had been rigged? What if he'd been waiting to spring something worse?"
She turned on her heel before he could answer, storming back inside the warehouse. The place still hummed with leftover magic—old enchantments and something darker, buried beneath the surface.
She combed the space with precision, her eyes catching on a scattering of papers pinned to a corkboard tucked behind a stack of crates. She carefully lifted one: a hand-drawn map with the anchor points they'd identified… and notes scribbled in jagged handwriting.
"Found something," she called.
Dawlish appeared behind her, still breathing hard, but stayed silent for once.
Aurora's eyes narrowed as she focused on a weathered parchment at the center—a list of artifacts, coded and classified, each bearing Ministry designations. Her fingers hovered over a scorched corner where the seal was barely visible, half-burned away. Like someone had tried to destroy it—but not completely.
She flipped it aside, revealing another parchment beneath it. This one was older, ink faded but legible. Detailed instructions. Cryptic runes. A chilling mention of a blood ritual—and there, in the bottom corner—impressed into the paper beneath a Ministry clearance stamp—was the symbol they'd seen before."
A jagged circle with a single line driven through it like a blade.
Aurora stared at it, cold dread settling low in her gut. Not just because the symbol was there. But because it hadn't been added later. It had been printed with the rest—faint, like part of the original file.
She didn't look at Dawlish. "This wasn't stolen Ministry property."
She held the parchment up to the light. "This started at the Ministry."
Dawlish didn't say anything. His silence was enough.
Aurora's gaze flickered back down to the crate, where several more papers were stacked in disarray. Her fingers twitched, reaching for something that caught her eye—a small leather-bound journal, its edges worn with age. Without a word, she picked it up, flipping it open carefully. Her pulse quickened as she scanned the first few pages.
The journal was old, but the ink was still fresh in places. The handwriting was shaky but deliberate, an obsessive repetition of symbols and phrases. Her eyes zeroed in on a particular passage, the words seared into her memory. She felt a chill creep up her spine.
"Shit," she muttered.
She pulled out her wand and sent a silver hawk Patronus soaring into the air. "Callum. Thames warehouse. We need your eyes—fast."
Another flick, and a second message flew out—this one racing for Harry.
"Warehouse at the Thames. We found something. Bring backup."
She stood, facing Dawlish, her expression stone-cold. "Next time, you wait for the team."
Dawlish didn't respond, but the flush on his neck was answer enough.
The sound of footsteps echoed off the damp stone as Harry, Ron, and Draco moved through the warehouse district, following the lingering shimmer of Aurora's hawk Patronus as it guided them toward the source.
They rounded the corner just as Aurora pushed the wide steel door open with her shoulder. She looked up, tension still etched into her features. "Took you long enough."
Harry's eyes swept the room. "Where's Dawlish?"
"Inside. Brooding." She didn't wait for a reply, turning and walking deeper into the warehouse.
Draco glanced around as they followed, his eyes narrowing at the scattered mirrors, the strange, residual magic still clinging to the walls like smoke. "Charming place."
Harry ignored the jab, spotting the cluster of notes spread across the board near the center. "What did you find?"
Aurora gestured to the parchment. "This was underneath a pile of crates—hidden, but not well. It looks like our perp's been watching for a while. Tracking movements."
Ron leaned in, squinting at the parchment. "Is that a list of Ministry-flagged artifacts?"
"Looks like it," Aurora said, tapping one of the entries. "Some match inventories that were reported recovered. But this—" she pointed to the faint imprint of the Ministry seal at the corner, "—this is what matters."
Harry's jaw set. "You're saying it's an inside job?"
Aurora gave a dry, humorless laugh. "I'm saying whoever's behind this either is the Ministry… or doesn't give a damn about crossing it."
Draco knelt, scanning the rest of the papers. "He got away before we saw his face?"
Aurora nodded. "Dawlish chased him, naturally. Gave himself away before I could tag him with a tracking charm. He Disapparated just beyond the perimeter."
"Of course he did," Ron muttered.
Harry turned to Aurora, voice sharp with urgency. "We need to lock this down. Secure the area, document everything, and get these notes back to the office. This might be our first real lead."
Aurora was already in motion. "Callum's on his way. I need him to see the trail before it fades." She paused, her gaze flicking toward Draco before continuing, "That's not all. Looks like this creep's been watching Hermione…"
She pulled a journal from her robes and handed it to Harry, who took it with a wary glance.
"What's this?" Harry asked, flipping the notebook open. His heart stuttered as he skimmed through the pages. Inside were detailed accounts of Hermione's day-to-day life—her routines, locations, even what she had for meals. Interspersed among the notes were sketches of her. Some disturbingly lifelike, as if whoever had been watching her had drawn them in real time. Others were twisted fantasies: Hermione nude in the center of a ritual circle, blood runes carved into her flesh, and one of her in the throes of passion with a dark figure, their face obscured by shadows of ink.
Harry's eyes widened as he flicked through the pages. His pulse quickened, and his stomach twisted into a knot. He stopped at one of the drawings—a particularly vivid one of Hermione, her face contorted in horror, surrounded by dark symbols. His fingers gripped the journal tighter, but it felt like he couldn't look away. He couldn't tear his gaze from the sketch. The thought of someone stalking Hermione, of someone having such twisted obsessions with her… It made his blood run cold.
"What the hell is this?" Harry's voice was hoarse, his eyes meeting Draco's, who was standing stone-still, staring down at the drawings.
Draco's face went white as he clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth nearly ground together. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. His breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as he took in the sickening details. His voice was low, dangerous, dripping with fury. "This is sick. Whoever's doing this is fucking insane."
Ron's face had gone an unnatural shade of pale as he looked over Harry's shoulder, his fists clenched. His usual bravado was nowhere to be found. "This... this is sick," he said, shaking his head. "Why the hell didn't we know about this sooner?"
Draco stepped closer to Harry, taking the notebook from his hands with a swift motion. "Hermione's been watched—tracked, violated like this... and no one knew. No one fucking knew." His voice broke on the last word, raw and heavy with rage. His fingers dug into the edges of the notebook, crumpling it slightly in his grip. "We need to find this bastard. Now."
Harry met Draco's furious gaze, his own anger simmering under the surface. "We need to act fast," he said, his voice hard and steady. "We find whoever's behind this, we take them down."
Draco's lips twisted into a grim, humorless smile. "I'll do more than take them down," he muttered. "I'll make them wish they'd never heard her name."
The words hung in the air, a dark promise that no one in the room doubted Draco would keep.
Harry looked at Draco, then at Ron and Aurora, his expression hardening. "She doesn't know. This stays between us. No one else can find out about this—not yet." His voice brooked no argument.
Draco's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Ron gave a sharp nod, his usual defiance replaced by something quieter, more resolute.
Aurora's eyes met Draco's, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Her nod was hesitant. 'Understood,' she said, the edge of doubt in her voice clear—but she obeyed.