The Mustang cut through the outskirts of Edinburgh, leaving the last edge of the city behind. Buildings of damp, weather-worn stone gave way to open roads and sprawling green hills. Rain began to fall in a soft, steady patter, trailing down the windshield as the wipers slid back and forth with rhythmic sweeps. A low-hanging blanket of grey clouds loomed above, casting the landscape in a dull, oppressive hue.
Inside the car, silence had settled. No banter, no jokes. Just the soft hum of the engine, the hiss of tires on wet road, and the occasional blink of passing traffic lights. Ryan's eyes stayed on the road, but he watched the world slip past. Rows of pedestrians, umbrellas bobbing along the pavements, couples chatting over tea behind café windows, oblivious to what lurked beyond their ordinary lives.
The Mustang turned heads, as expected. American muscle wasn't exactly common on British roads—especially one with a left-side driver's seat. But Ryan kept things tame. He didn't need attention right now. Not from police. Not from anyone.
His foot shifted between clutch and accelerator as he geared down. They were in foreign territory, and he felt it in his bones. The same sensation he always got on hostile ground. Every corner a potential trap, every stranger a possible threat. Rookwood was hiding somewhere out here. The bastard was smart enough to adapt. Maybe even smart enough to use local surveillance the same way The Watch tracked their enemies back home.
He glanced up at a CCTV camera mounted on a traffic light. A flicker of suspicion passed through him. Eyes were everywhere. But for now, it was only a theory.
Nearly two hours had passed since they'd arrived. They were still en route to Rathbone Manor—farther out than expected. Even Apparition hadn't been an option. Wards surrounded the property, keeping unwanted visitors from simply popping in. Ryan smirked to himself. If Harry and Ron had tried to Apparate directly, they'd have ended up walking half a bloody marathon.
The Mustang pulled into a small, mist-veiled gas station nestled at the base of a rolling hill. Ryan stepped out, grabbed the nozzle, and filled the tank beneath the drizzle. He squinted at the screen as the total climbed higher.
"A buck and a half a gallon… Wait, a liter? The hell's a liter?" he muttered, returning the pump to its cradle. "Goddamn metric system. Goddamn highway robbery."
Across the lot, Harry stood by the passenger side, map open and slightly soggy from the damp. He adjusted his glasses, eyes scanning the page intently. Ron emerged from the small restroom, tugging at his coat and buttoning his cuffs.
"Bloody hell," Ron grumbled, rubbing his hands together as he stomped toward the car. "I'm freezing me bollocks off out here."
Ryan glanced over with a smirk. "If this is cold to you, Weasley, you wouldn't last a week in a Brooklyn winter."
"Cold aside," Ron muttered, blowing into his cupped hands. "What the hell was that?"
Ryan looked over with a smirk, arms folding casually. "You're goanna have to narrow it down, Weasley."
"That!" Ron snapped, gesturing wildly at the Mustang. "The bloody car! We drove into a sodding wall—there were green flames—and now we're halfway across bloody Britain!"
Ryan tilted his head slightly, that amused gleam never leaving his face. "Ah. That."
He let the moment breathe before continuing.
"That's how we travel. You guys use the Floo Network, right? Been around forever. But what if I told you… the Watch has one of our own?"
Ron's jaw slackened. "Bugger me—you're telling me the bloody Darkwatch has its own network?"
"Yup," Ryan said, popping the 'p'. "Imagine a secret tunnel running parallel to your own. Hidden. Locked tight. Built long before the Watch even existed."
"But Floo's only meant for people!" Ron exclaimed, still clearly rattled. "You don't shove bloody cars through fireplaces!"
Ryan leaned back against the car, cocking a brow. "We figured out how to move more than just people, Weasley. Keep up. Our network's not public. It's monitored. Controlled. I can't just get a craving for New England clam chowder and hop over to Boston on a whim. I need clearance. HQ reviews every jump."
Ron slowly shook his head, half in disbelief, half in awe. "Merlin's beard… so that's how you lot have been slipping under our radar all this time."
Ryan grinned. "Pretty much. While you're busy looking at doors and fireplaces—we've been using the walls." He screwed the gas cap shut and flicked the lid closed with a snap. "And by the way, the fact you nearly pissed yourself when I drove into that wall? Thought you lot were used to that kinda thing. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and all that magical brick-jumping shit."
He turned, tossing a mock salute over his shoulder. "You boys sit tight. Gonna go pay the king of thieves in there for his overpriced go juice."
Without waiting for an answer, he strode off toward the station shop, leaving the two of them behind.
Ron exhaled, rubbing his hands together. "You're awfully quiet."
"Just thinking," Harry said. "About what happened back in the car. That name he gave… Nosferatu."
Ron blinked, the memory hitting him like a punch. "Bloody hell, I'd forgotten about that. Isn't that the one the Chief mentioned? The codename that had half a dozen pure-bloods sobbing into their silk cuffs?"
Harry nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the gas station. "Yeah. And if it really is him… things just got a hell of a lot more dangerous. For both of us."
Ron ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "Brilliant."
****
Ryan set a cold bottle of Budweiser on the battered counter. The shop looked like it hadn't seen a mop in years—walls flaking, ceiling stained with blackened watermarks, and the halogen lights above flickering like they couldn't decide whether to stay on. The shelves were half-stocked, mostly dust and faded labels. Even the chillers buzzed with the tired hum of machines long past their prime.
The air smelled faintly of damp insulation and something vaguely metallic. The frosted glass at the front was clouded over, blurring the view of the empty road beyond.
Behind the counter sat an old man, slouched like a fixture of the place. Greying hair clung to his scalp in tufts, and his face was set in a scowl so permanent it might as well have been carved into stone. The till in front of him looked like it hadn't been replaced since Thatcher was in office.
Ryan slid a fifty-pound note across the counter, then nudged the bottle forward.
The old man gave the bottle a look, then squinted up at him. "You like drinkin' piss, do ye?"
Ryan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus. What is it with you people and beer snobbery?"
"Ah," the old man muttered, eyes glinting. "A bloody Yank. Figures." He snatched up the note and jabbed at the register. It gave a mechanical wheeze and a dull ding as the drawer creaked open.
"You're a long way from home, laddie," the man added, fishing out the change with fingers stained from years of tobacco and ink.
"No shit," Ryan replied flatly, snatching the coins. He glanced around again. "This place always this charming, or did you just go outta your way for me?"
"Not much call for polish out here," the man said, settling back into his seat. "Only folk come through are from the town further up… or the ones workin' for Lord Rathbone and his fancy manor. Beyond that, it's just me and the crows."
Ryan grunted. "Figures." He gestured toward the wall behind the counter. "Pack of Marlboro Reds, top shelf. Unless you're about to tell me I've got shit taste in cigarettes too."
The old man smirked faintly as he reached for the pack. "Aye… but at least yer consistent."
The old man slid the pack of Marlboros across the counter. Ryan tossed a few loose bills down without counting. The man caught them, but didn't move right away.
"A word of advice, laddie," he said. "Things've not been right… even before they found Lord Rathbone dead."
Ryan's hand hovered over the cigarette pack, pausing mid-reach. "That your idea of small talk?" he asked, brow raised. "You Scots always this cheerful, or is this how you scare off tourists?"
The old man gave a dry smirk. "I might be old, lad, but the eyes still work—and the wit even sharper." He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the counter. "Only two types come through here these days. You're not dressed like the factory lot, and you sure as hell don't look like staff." His gaze sharpened. "And I know an Auror when I see one."
Ryan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Hogwarts?"
"Durmstrang," the man muttered. "Worst bloody years of me life. But that's neither here nor there." He leaned in just a little more. "Like I said… something's wrong in that there town. Something dark. Evil."
Ryan studied him a moment. "What kind of evil are we talking about?"
The old man cast a glance around the empty shop, then leaned in slightly. "Word is, strange things've been goin' on up there. Kids goin' missin'. First just one or two, but then more. Didn't hit the national papers till it started happenin' in London."
Ryan straightened. "Go on."
"Started right after a bad lot moved in—foreign types, not from 'round here. Took over that old factory o' Rathbone's, up the road. Folk say they're not workin' for the estate, but there's always traffic between the manor and that place. Always after dark."
He sat back on his creaky stool, arms folded. "Folk here respect the Rathbones too much to speak ill. Family's been here longer than the damned town itself. But if you ask me?" He sniffed. "I never trusted him. My da always said—never trust a man who's got more gold than he's got good sense. Especially one who builds walls that high and keeps his curtains drawn."
Ryan took the pack, slipping it into his jacket. "Appreciate the insight, old-timer."
The man gave a dry chuckle. "Aye… don't say I didn't warn ye."
"One more thing," Ryan said, pausing at the door. His expression had hardened, eyes steely. "With the big cheese six feet under—who's running the show now?"
The old man gave a dry snort. "That'd be his boy. Nelson Rathbone. Next in line to the bloody throne… not the literal one, mind," he added with a wry look.
Ryan smirked. "Yeah, I figured." He pushed the door open, letting in a gust of cold air. "Be seeing you."
The bell above the door jingled as he stepped out. The old man just shook his head. "Aye, bloody Yanks," he muttered under his breath.
****
Ryan popped the cap off the bottle with a flick and took a long swig as he strolled back to the car. Ron gave him a look.
"Seriously, mate? Middle of the day," Ron said, gesturing vaguely at the dim sun behind thick clouds. "We're supposed to be on duty."
"What Chief doesn't know won't kill him," Ryan said flatly, meeting Ron's stare. "Besides, from what I've read, you and Potter weren't exactly poster boys for following the rules. Take a page outta your brother's book—live a little." He smirked, then turned his eyes on Harry.
Harry was still poring over the map.
"Old guy in the store said there's a town further up," Ryan continued. "Got a name?"
Harry folded the map with a crisp snap and looked up. "Carsely," he said. "Old cannery town, used to supply the coastal villages. Went under about a decade ago—hasn't seen much life since." He gave a slight shrug. "Then someone came in, bought up half the place and set up shop. That's all the file says." He adjusted his glasses. "Nothing about who, or why."
"On the ball. I like that," Ryan said, finishing his beer and tossing the bottle into a nearby bin. "Alright then, let's not keep the Lord waiting." He opened the driver's door and slid in.
Ron shot Harry a look. Harry didn't return it—just stared at the Mustang, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
They both knew it. Getting back into that car meant diving straight into the fire. But for now, they had no choice but to play along.
****
The Mustang rolled into town, headlights cutting through a pale mist that clung low to the streets. The buildings that lined either side were tired and worn. Nothing of Victorian charm, just flat-faced structures from the early 1900s, brickwork chipped and crumbling. The steel streetlamps were rusted, their glow faint and sickly. Most of the shops were shuttered and boarded up, the windows either broken or thick with grime. A handful remained open, but they looked as if they'd given up trying.
The streets were near empty. A few locals milled about. Middle-aged, elderly—moving slowly, eyes shaded by suspicion. The moment the Mustang's engine growled its way through town, heads turned. But it wasn't curiosity in their eyes. It was distrust. Contempt, even.
Ryan's hands tightened on the wheel. He'd seen towns like this before. Dozens. All across the States. Forgotten towns. Hollowed out. Places that wore their decay like a second skin. Places that had secrets buried in the soil.
This one was no different, and it was the perfect place for people like Rookwood to lay low, perhaps even disappear.
"Blimey," Ron muttered from the back seat. "A cemetery's got more going on than this place."
Ryan flicked his eyes toward Harry, who was watching the buildings with a quiet intensity.
"You see it too, don't you?" Ryan asked.
Harry turned. "See what?"
Ryan gestured with his chin as the car came to a slow stop at a red light. "This town's off. Sure, small towns dry up when the industry goes belly-up. I've seen it a hundred times. Mines, factories, refineries—once the money's gone, so are the people."
The red light glared through the fog, casting everything in a faint, ominous hue.
"But not everyone leaves," Ryan continued. "Some folks are stuck. Too broke. Too proud. Or just plain used to dying slow."
Harry glanced at him. "What's your point?"
Ryan's jaw tightened. "Where are the kids?" he said flatly. "Teenagers. Families. Anyone under the age of thirty. All I see are pensioners and drunks waiting on a pub to open."
There was a pause, and then Ron leaned forward. "Now that you mention it…"
"Something stinks," Ryan muttered. "And I've got the sinking feeling we're about to step in it."
The light turned green.
As the car crept forward, Harry returned his gaze to the street. They passed an old diner. Shadows behind the glass, but no movement. Every block felt like a town on pause. Lifeless, and yet… watching.
And in Harry's gut, that quiet unease continued to twist.
The car rolled steadily along the cracked road, mist curling at the edges of the windshield. Then, looming ahead, a monstrous structure rose into view—tall, grim, and lifeless. The old cannery.
Massive silos jutted skyward like rusted fingers, piercing the clouds as plumes of smoke poured from their chimneys, merging with the grey sky above. The windows were coated in decades of grime, their surfaces nearly opaque. A fleet of trucks sat idle in the courtyard, lined up in neat rows like soldiers awaiting orders.
Ryan narrowed his eyes.
"Cannery," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Looks like it's back in business."
But something didn't sit right.
Despite the smoke and trucks, the place felt dead. No workers moved through the yard. No clatter of machinery or distant shouting. Just silence. The only sign of life was a lone security guard slouched in a booth by the gate, barely acknowledging their passing.
The car slowed as it drew near, the three men peering out through the windows.
None of them spoke.
Their eyes remained fixed on the gates, then the building, until it faded behind them, swallowed by mist.
Whatever was happening in Carsely… it had begun here.
****
The car rolled to a halt at the foot of the manor's grand porch, its tires crunching against loose, polished stones. Ryan pushed the door open and stepped out, eyes lifting to the towering structure before him—more fortress than estate. The grey stone façade was streaked with age, though modern touches had crept in: reinforced steel trims around the windows, polished glass, and lighting fixtures that hinted at industrial London influence. Vines crawled up the walls like nature reclaiming what once belonged to it, and in the center of the courtyard sat a dry, weathered fountain—round, cracked, and silent.
Harry and Ron climbed out as well.
Ron gave a low whistle. "I'll never understand nobility. I'd have traded a kidney for a house like this. Not that the Burrow was awful—just could've used a bit of… space."
Harry chuckled. "Careful, mate. Say that within earshot of your mum, and she'll belt you with a frying pan."
"Thanks for that," Ron muttered. "Now I've got a headache just thinking about it."
The manor's front door creaked open with theatrical timing, the deep groan of old hinges echoing across the courtyard. Ryan raised an eyebrow as an older gentleman stepped into view. Dressed in a perfectly pressed tuxedo, white gloves tucked at his wrists, the man placed a hand to his chest and gave a formal bow.
"Welcome to Rathbone Manor, gentlemen," he said in a crisp, polished tone. "The master has been expecting you."
Ryan slid his hands into his coat pockets, glancing briefly at the others before striding forward. Harry and Ron followed close behind, their footsteps soft against the marble tiles as they crossed the threshold.
Inside, the grandeur was no less imposing. High ceilings stretched above them, where a massive crystal chandelier cast fractured light across gleaming marble floors. Antique wooden cabinets, glass display cases, and curated shelves lined the walls—each filled with artifacts that seemed older than the manor itself.
Dominating the space above the grand staircase was a large oil painting in a gilt frame. It showed a stern-looking man seated in a high-backed chair, his brown hair slicked back, a thick mustache above a solemn mouth. A woman sat before him in a lavender dress, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Her green eyes sparkled with warmth. At her side stood a young boy, no older than six, the man's hand resting firmly on his small shoulder.
Ryan stared up at the portrait and muttered, "Christ… Thought that whole 'massive family painting' thing was just for movies."
The butler turned and gestured gracefully. "This way, if you'd be so kind."
They entered what could loosely be called the living room—though the scale of it was anything but modest. Several velvet-cushioned sofas were arranged around a wide fireplace, its hearth alive with a warm, steady flame. Emerald curtains framed the tall windows, drawn just enough to let in a wash of pale daylight. Above the mantel hung a coat of arms, metallic and regal, mounted on a panel of dark wood.
At the far end of the room, a younger man stood beneath a portrait. Another depiction of the same stern-faced gentleman they'd seen in the entrance hall. This version showed him alone, dressed in a dark suit, cane in one hand, top hat angled just so, painted with almost reverent detail.
The man turned to face them. Blue eyes met theirs. Tired, sorrowful eyes, like someone who hadn't known proper sleep in weeks. Though well-dressed in a crisply pressed white shirt and a green brocade vest threaded with gold and crimson, there was a weariness about him that age alone couldn't explain. His khaki slacks completed the ensemble, a subdued look for someone who lived surrounded by so much opulence.
"Gentlemen," he greeted, stepping forward and extending a hand. "Nelson Rathbone. Son of the late William Rathbone." His tone faltered briefly. "Forgive my appearance. It's been… a trying few weeks."
Harry took his hand first, but before he could speak, Nelson continued, a faint smile forming. "And you must be the famous Harry Potter. Your reputation precedes you."
He turned next to Ron. "And Ronald Weasley, of course."
"Pleasure," Harry replied with a courteous nod. "So, I've heard… more times than I care to count." His smile was small but sincere. "My condolences, by the way. For your father."
Ron stepped in, offering a firm shake. "Likewise. Sorry for your loss."
Nelson gave a tired chuckle. "Father was a spirited man. Principled, uncompromising. The kind who could hold up a crumbling ceiling with sheer will alone." He exhaled slowly. "I suppose you saw the town on your way in?"
"Looks like it's seen better days," Harry said carefully.
"That," Nelson said with a dry laugh, "would be putting it kindly. I remember a time when—" He paused, eyes shifting to the unfamiliar face among them. "And you are?"
"Ryan." He stepped forward, offering a hand. "Ryan Ashford. Federal agent with MACUSA. I'm here on special assignment."
"MACUSA?" Nelson's brow lifted. "You're quite far from home, Mister Ashford."
Ryan gave a half-smirk, glancing around the room with practiced scrutiny. "You don't know the half of it." He gestured upward with the neck of his head, taking in the ornate ceilings and alabaster-trimmed walls. "Beautiful place. Late 1800s, I'm guessing?"
Nelson's brows arched in pleasant surprise. "Older. This manor has been home to the Rathbones for generations."
"Huh," Ryan said, his tone turning pensive.
Nelson's smile dimmed slightly. "Carsley was once little more than a crossroads. A roadhouse, tavern, a few homes, somewhere to rest and water the horses. The old Highland clans used to avoid it, said the land was cursed. Bollocks, of course—pardon my French."
He gave a sheepish shake of the head. "My ancestor, however, didn't believe in ghost stories. Built the manor here anyway. The town grew around us… and the rest, as they say, is history."
The soft clink of silver against glass drew their attention as the old butler gently set a polished tray down on the coffee table.
"But first," Nelson said, gesturing with an open hand, "how about a spot of tea?"
"Uh… I'll pass—unless you've got coffee," Ryan replied, leaning back slightly. "No offense, just never been much of a tea guy."
Harry and Ron both shot him a look.
Nelson chuckled warmly. "Of course. Always happy to accommodate."
"Henson, if you would?" he added.
"Not at all, sir," the old man replied with a courteous nod. "I'll fetch the biscuits while I'm at it."
He turned and departed, footsteps quiet against the marble floor.
The four men settled into the velvet-upholstered chairs. Harry and Ron reached for their cups, steam curling from the fine china as they each took a sip. A short while later, Henson returned, placing a steaming mug of black coffee before Ryan, along with a silver plate of biscuits—assorted, each one neatly arranged by size and shape.
"Well then," Nelson said as he gently placed his teacup back on the saucer. "I imagine you have questions. I've already shared most of what I know with your colleagues, but I'm happy to go over it again if it helps."
"That won't be necessary," Harry replied, setting down his own cup. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim notebook and a pencil. "Just a few details I'd like to clarify."
"Starting with," Ryan interjected, taking a sip of the coffee. His face twisted slightly as he swallowed. He set the mug back down with a soft thunk. "Why do I even bother," he muttered under his breath, then continued. "Did your father have any enemies?"
Nelson blinked. "Well… that's certainly direct. But fair."
He paused, folding his hands together.
"You'd expect me to say no—that he was beloved, a good man no one would dare harm." He shook his head slowly. "But you'd be wrong. My father had enemies. Quite a few, actually."
All three leaned forward slightly. Harry flipped open his notebook, the scratch of pencil on paper the only sound for a moment.
"Not enemies out of malice," Nelson added. "He wasn't cruel. Never vindictive. But he had views. Strong ones. And he didn't shy away from speaking them."
He exhaled softly, gaze drifting toward the hearth.
"My father was a contradictionist. Old money, pureblood lineage—but he rejected the very beliefs that came with it. He challenged the notion of superiority, of magical hierarchy. Made it very clear where he stood during the war."
His eyes flicked back to Harry. "I assume you already know… my father opposed Voldemort."
"It's been noted," Harry said, his pencil moving across the page. "I imagine plenty of your fellow pure-bloods didn't take too kindly to that."
"No," Nelson replied, a humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No, they didn't. Their disdain was loud and clear. Especially the Malfoys."
Ron's jaw tightened at the name. Harry's brow twitched, the shift subtle, but not lost on Ryan, who noted the reaction with quiet interest.
"That said," Nelson continued, "my father's decision to remain officially neutral likely spared him from becoming a target… of a certain group." He chuckled lightly, though there was little mirth in it. "Forgive me. I read too much tabloid rubbish for my own good. You'll think me a fool."
"Not at all, Lord Rathbone," Ron began, only for Nelson to lift a hand.
"Please. Just Nelson. I've never been fond of titles. They make me feel like I'm impersonating my father."
Ron gave a respectful nod.
"Anyway," Nelson went on, reaching for his teacup again, "I'm sure you've heard of The Darkwatch. Supposedly a band of shadowy vigilantes operating off the grid, beyond any ministry's reach. Rita Skeeter's favorite obsession, no doubt. I always thought it was hogwash myself—but over time, the coincidences began to pile up. Even the Malfoys weren't spared." He paused, eyes lowering for a moment. "Well… Lucius was. So was Draco. But his wife—"
His voice faltered. The air in the room shifted.
Ryan's fingers curled tighter around the armrest, and Harry's eyes flicked toward him, watching.
"Well," Nelson exhaled, brushing it off, "the past is the past, I suppose." Then he leaned forward, his gaze sharper. "Though, I must ask—what prompted this line of questioning? Are you suggesting my father was targeted? Murdered… in retaliation?"
"It's a possibility," Harry said calmly, "one we haven't ruled out."
"We've been tracking one of Voldemort's old lieutenants," he continued. "You might've heard the name: Augustus Rookwood."
Nelson's brow furrowed. "Rookwood… yes, I've come across the name. But why here?"
Ryan cut in smoothly. "We have reason to believe he's set up shop somewhere in this town."
"But why here of all places?" Nelson asked, his brow furrowed. "I understand it's remote. Practically invisible to the Ministry—but to murder my father, just to make a point? Risk drawing attention to yourself in the process? It doesn't add up."
"Trust me, I thought the same," Ryan said, leaning forward, hands steepled. "But we were hoping you could help fill in a few blanks."
"Of course," Nelson replied, gesturing for them to go on. "Ask away."
Ryan didn't hesitate. "The factory in town," he began. "From what I read, it shut down years ago. Then out of nowhere, someone waltzes in, writes a fat check, and brings the place back to life. So, who exactly are they—and what are they making in there?"
Nelson's expression darkened, his shoulders lifting in a faint shrug. "You're right. The cannery was closed for some time. Mismanagement, corruption—take your pick. The company folded. We tried to lure another in, but most went for the coast. Better logistics, cheaper labor, fewer risks."
Harry, Ron, and Ryan all nodded silently as he continued.
"Then, about a year ago, a new outfit showed up," Nelson said. "Private, anonymous. Offered a substantial sum up front in exchange for... discretion." He gave a bitter chuckle. "I urged my father to think twice, but he wouldn't hear it. Said the town needed saving, not scrutiny. So, he signed off."
Ryan tapped a finger on the armrest. "Locals say there's been a lot of traffic between the factory and this manor."
Nelson shook his head. "Not quite. The road out back cuts through part of the estate—it's a private path leading down the mountain. Quicker than taking the main road. Trucks use it to save time. In return, the company pays us for access."
"And what do they do in that factory, exactly?" Ron asked.
Nelson's gaze dropped to the floor, the weight of guilt pulling at his tone. "I don't know. Truthfully. Father signed an indemnity agreement. Full operational autonomy in exchange for monthly payments. I wasn't privy to the details."
"That's… awfully convenient," Harry muttered, eyes narrowing.
"Incredibly shady," Ron added, arms crossed.
"I don't disagree," Nelson said quietly. "But by the time I took over, the deal was already in place. My father thought he was saving the town. I fear he may have done the opposite."
Ryan exhaled, eyes still locked on Nelson. "Yeah. So do we." He drummed his fingers on the armrest. "One more thing."
The shift in tone drew all their attention.
"What do you know about the missing kids in town?" he asked.
Nelson blinked. His eyes widened, just for a second. Across from him, Harry and Ron exchanged a glance—less startled, more puzzled.
"It's reached London, then?" Nelson said quietly.
"There've been murmurs on the wireless. Been happening all over London. Thought it was a separate incident until I got a little tip earlier today," Ryan replied. "Articles in The Prophet too. But this isn't just any case of runaways or accidents. These are muggle kids. All under ten. All vanished without a trace."
He let the silence hang before continuing. "And driving into town, not a single child in sight. No prams, empty ass playgrounds, schools. Nothing." His voice dropped. "So, unless someone screwed the Pied Piper, I'm guessing something's very wrong."
A heavy quiet settled over the room. Even the fire seemed to hush in the hearth.
Nelson's face was pale. His jaw shifted like he was grinding his teeth. But he said nothing.
Harry sat back slowly, eyes narrowing.
Ron glanced between them, his voice low. "Why do I get the feeling that wasn't news to you?"