A heavy silence settled over the room, as if Ryan's words had cracked open something unspoken, something too close to the truth. His gaze stayed fixed on Nelson, watching closely. The twitch of an eyebrow. The subtle quiver in his lip. The slight hitch in his breath. Harry caught it too.
Nelson exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging under a weight he seemed no longer able to carry.
"Unfortunately, yes, Mister Weasley," he said at last. "I'm well aware of what's been happening in Carsley… though you won't find much mention of it beyond these hills." He paused. "The first case was months ago. The Baker's youngest—just four years old. Sent out to the playground. Never came back."
Ryan said nothing, only steepling his fingers as Harry and Ron leaned in.
"More followed," Nelson continued. "Weeks passed, and still the children vanished. Muggles. All under ten. One minute they were there, the next, gone without a trace."
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered.
"But the police," Harry said quickly, "surely they—"
"They did," Nelson interrupted. "Suspects were questioned. Alibis checked. Scenes combed over. Protocol followed to the letter." He shook his head. "And yet, every lead vanished into smoke."
"Sounds like some guys I know," Ryan muttered, casting a dry look at Harry and Ron.
Ron glared at him.
"So… no ransom notes? No threats? No demands?" Harry asked. "They just vanished?"
Nelson nodded grimly. "As baffling to me as it is to you, Mister Potter. It's as if something or someone, is simply taking them. Quietly. Efficiently. And leaving nothing behind."
Ryan let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Small-town setting. Kids vanishing. No motives, no clues. You're one red balloon away from telling me there's a kid-eating killer clown in the sewer."
Ron blinked, frowning. "Come again?"
Ryan stared at him. "Seriously? IT. Stephen King?"
Ron looked more confused than before.
"For Christ's sake…" Ryan groaned, rubbing his temple. "You Weasleys really don't read anything that doesn't come with moving pictures, do you?"
Harry and Nelson bit down a smirk. Ron just scowled. "We do read, thanks. Just not weird tales where clowns eat children."
"Anyway," Ryan said, eyes drifting back to the young lord. "The cops couldn't pin down a motive, but did they at least figure out how the kids were taken?"
"I'm afraid I'm not privy to all the details," Nelson replied. "That'd be a better question for Inspector Swanson—he runs the local station. But…" he hesitated, his gaze sharpening slightly, "I have heard, in passing, a few accounts from townsfolk who claimed to witness… something."
Harry, Ron and Ryan raised a brow.
"Something?" Harry repeated.
Nelson nodded. "They said the air went cold. Bitter cold. As if midwinter had swept in all at once. Then came a kind of blackness—thick, like smoke or shadow. Everything would go dark, and when they came to… hours had passed. The child was gone."
Ryan's jaw shifted slightly. "That's… helpful."
But before Harry and Ron could resume questioning, Ryan stood, dusting his palms. "Well, that about wraps it up for now. Appreciate the hospitality, and the honesty."
Harry glanced at him, puzzled. "Wait, what?"
"Oh," Nelson blinked. "Are you returning to London, then?"
Ryan shook his head. "And skip out on all this Scottish small-town charm? Not a chance. Think I'll stick around a bit longer. Find myself a decent inn. Our investigation's just getting started."
Ron groaned under his breath. "Knew he'd say that…"
"If it's lodgings you need, you're welcome to stay," Nelson offered with a polite smile. "Heaven knows this manor has more space than I know what to do with."
Ryan raised both hands. "Appreciate it, but I couldn't impose. Big empty manors like this?" He gave a half-grin. "Seen enough horror movies to know how that ends."
Ron rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable."
Harry, however, narrowed his gaze, something about Ryan's deflection catching his attention.
"Perfectly understandable," Nelson said as he rose from his seat. "Still, if you change your mind, the offer stands." He extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Ashford."
Ryan shook it firmly. "Likewise."
Harry closed his notebook and tucked it away, rising with Ron to shake Nelson's hand in turn.
"Mister Potter. Mister Weasley," Nelson said warmly. "You'll always be welcome at Rathbone Manor."
"Appreciated," Harry replied with a polite nod. Ron echoed the sentiment.
"Henson will see you out," Nelson gestured toward the door.
The butler was already waiting, and Ryan turned to follow him. But just before he crossed the threshold, he cast one last look back at Nelson. His dark eyes lingered. Watchful, searching, before he turned away again.
"Ashford, what was that about?" Harry asked quietly, catching up behind him. "We still have questions—"
"Not here," Ryan muttered, cutting him off with a flick of his hand.
Ron glanced at Harry, frowning, but Harry didn't reply. He could sense the shift in Ryan's demeanor. This wasn't his usual sarcasm. Not now.
So, he nodded, and the three of them stepped out into the afternoon mist.
****
The Mustang rumbled down the winding mountain road, its engine far quieter now, restrained beneath the weight of thought rather than throttle. Moisture clung to the windshield in a thin sheen, wiped away in rhythmic swipes by the wipers. Halogen headlights cut through the rolling fog ahead, casting ghostly light across the damp asphalt and the looming silhouettes of pine trees that stretched endlessly into the fog.
Below, in the distance through breaks in the trees, the town of Carsley glowed faintly—an island of weak amber light nestled against the base of the mountain. And beyond it, stark against the mist, loomed the cannery. Its towering smokestacks belched black smoke into the late afternoon sky sky, curling like ink through water, blotting out what little sunlight the clouds hadn't already taken.
No one had spoken for a while. Harry kept glancing toward Ryan, but the man's eyes remained hidden behind his mirrored aviators, unreadable. His jaw was tight, the muscle at the corner twitching with quiet thought.
Harry shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, catching Ron's expression. Ron raised his eyebrows and jerked his head subtly, silently prompting Harry to speak up.
Harry drew a breath—but before he could utter a word, Ryan broke the silence.
"He's hiding something."
The bluntness cut through the air. Ryan didn't look at either of them as he spoke, just kept his eyes on the road ahead. "Not lying exactly. But he's holding back. That much was obvious."
"That's why you dragged us out of there?" Harry asked, his brow creasing with irritation. "Because you had a feeling?"
Ryan gave a short breath through his nose. "Not a feeling, Potter. Experience. He was being straight with us—right up until we mentioned the kids. After that? Shut down. You felt it too."
Ron leaned forward from the back seat. "And how, in Merlin's name, did you piece that together?"
"Think about the timeline," Ryan said, finally glancing at Harry. "You were jotting it down, right? Nelson said the disappearances started a few months ago. One kid here, another there. Muggle children, all under ten."
Harry opened his notebook and flipped to the appropriate page. "Right… he did say that."
"So, tell me," Ryan continued, "how do months of missing kids not make national headlines? No protests, no press, not even a warning across every channel both magical and muggle until it started happening in London?"
Ron let out a quiet breath. "Now that you mention it…"
"They were snatching kids under everyone's noses because no one cared," Ryan said. "That's what places like Carsley are good for. Isolated. Forgotten. Easy to exploit. But as demand grew, the well dried up—so they expanded."
Ryan tapped a finger against the steering wheel. "And I'd wager if you pulled records of missing kids within a hundred-mile radius of Carsley, you'd see a pattern. A trail." He glanced at them. "Starts with isolated villages, countryside hamlets. Places where no one asks too many questions."
"Like locusts," he added. "One town to the next."
"And eventually to London," Harry murmured, already connecting the dots.
"Exactly," Ryan nodded.
"But why London?" Ron asked, suddenly sitting forward. "There are other bloody cities across Britain. Smaller. Easier targets. Why take the risk?"
"Maybe they got bold. Or greedy," Ryan said. "Or maybe whoever's behind this had a quota to meet. And small towns weren't cutting it anymore. So, they went for the motherload."
Harry frowned. "You keep saying that—quota, demand. You make it sound like a business."
Ryan glanced at him. "And if it is?"
Harry's jaw tightened. "These are children, Ashford. Not cattle."
"I know that," Ryan said quietly. "But whoever's behind this clearly doesn't. And when people stop seeing kids as human, they start treating them like currency."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Neither Harry nor Ron had a rebuttal.
Because, as much as they hated to admit it. Ryan might be right.
"But here's the part that really stuck out. Nelson said something odd when he described the disappearances. Cold air. Frost. Shadows. Witnesses blacking out." He paused, then turned slightly. "Now, you two have seen your fair share of monsters. What does that sound like to you?"
Harry froze. So did Ron.
"You don't mean—" Ron started.
"Dementors," Harry said, the word leaving a chill in the car colder than the night outside.
Memories he'd long buried began to surface both unwelcome and vivid. That first encounter on Privet Drive, the tense ride aboard the Hogwarts Express, and that night by the lake when he'd stood between death and the man he called family, when he'd saved Sirius.
Ryan nodded grimly. "Yeah. And if that's what's behind this, then Voldy's little fan club didn't all vanish after the war. They're still out there. And they're feeding."
He gripped the wheel tighter.
"And let's bring the pin and red twine a little closer to the middle. To where it all started," he said slowly, "right around the time that factory came back to life."
The color drained from Ron's face. "You think that's where they're nesting?"
Ryan's mouth tugged into a crooked smirk. "Bingo. But that's just half the puzzle." His expression darkened. "The real question is, if Voldy's six feet under, who the hell's controlling them now? Last I checked, Dementors aren't house pets you can train. They're drawn to power. Real power. The kind that poisons the air and curdles your blood. That's why they hitched their wagon to You-Know-Who."
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered.
Harry's eyes widened briefly before settling into a hard stare. "Do you think it's true?"
Ryan glanced at him. "Think what's true?"
"That there's another one," Harry said. "Another Dark Lord… rising."
Ryan drew in a slow breath. "I don't know," he admitted. "Neither does the brass back home. But that's what's got everyone pacing the halls. It's the not knowing that keeps us up at night."
Ron shifted uneasily in his seat. "So… what now?"
"Now?" Ryan sat back, one hand still on the wheel. "We start knocking on doors. First stop, the local PD. This Inspector Swanson might have more than he's letting on. After that…" He nodded toward the plume of smoke in the distance. "We pay a visit to that factory. Whoever's running it is due for a little friendly conversation."
"I don't mean to sound like a tart," Ron began, rubbing the back of his neck, "but we came here to solve Lord Rathbone's murder. Not chase after missing kids."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Typical Weasley," he muttered. "You didn't connect the dots, did you?"
Ron scowled, but Ryan kept going.
"We've got a whole damn conspiracy brewing out here—missing kids, a sketchy factory pulling overtime out of nowhere, and now whispers of Death Eaters and Dementors? That's not just smoke, Weasley. That's a full-on fire. And if Rathbone got close to it… well, someone probably made sure he stayed quiet."
Harry tapped his chin, eyes narrowed in thought. "So, you think he found out something—something big. Too big to keep to himself. Maybe tried to expose it… and paid the price."
"Exactly," Ryan nodded. "It's not confirmed, but the signs are there. All we can do is follow the trail." He looked back toward the road ahead. "And right now, the trail's hot."
"Sounds like a plan," Harry said, adjusting his glasses.
Ryan hesitated a moment, then spoke again. "Look, I've been on a lot of ops. Seen things you wouldn't believe. The kind of stuff that sticks with you, even when the case is closed. And I'm telling you—this one's got all the signs of a very bad day."
Harry exhaled slowly. "Then let's hope it doesn't turn into a worse one."
****
The navy-blue double doors creaked open as the three young men stepped into the police station. It was like walking into a time capsule. White cinderblock walls stained with age, gray floor tiles dulled by decades of wear, and that unmistakable stale smell of old paper and overbrewed tea. The reception counter was a large hole in the wall, framed by a cracking wooden ledge. Rusting metal chairs with chipped green paint lined the waiting area.
But what drew their eyes was the notice board to the right of the reception. Jammed top to bottom with missing posters. Every single one showed a child's face. Toddlers. School-aged. Smiling. Gone.
Ryan's eyes narrowed slightly. So did Harry's. Ron, meanwhile, took in the station with faint curiosity.
Behind the counter sat a woman who looked like she'd been stationed there since the Falklands. She nursed a chipped teacup, its steam curling upward like smoke from a dying fire. Her sausage-like fingers, topped with an inch of thick crimson nail polish, clutched a scone slathered in enough marmalade to drown a toast rack. Her face was a battlefield of wrinkles under heavy mascara and overzealous lipstick, her expression one of eternal irritation.
Two constables occupied desks further inside. One was reading the paper. The other was hunched over his mobile, playing Snake like the year was still 1999.
Ryan exhaled sharply and approached the counter.
"Excuse me," he said flatly.
The woman looked up slowly, eyes heavy-lidded and unimpressed. "Evenin'. What d'you want, then?"
Ryan reached into his coat, pulled out a black leather wallet, and flicked it open with a practiced motion. Inside gleamed a polished badge and ID. "Special Agent Ryan Ashford. Interpol."
He held it just long enough for her to squint, then tucked it back inside his jacket.
"This here's my colleagues, Special Agent Weasley and Potter. We need to speak with Inspector Swanson. Now."
Ron and Harry exchanged a look.
"Interpol?" she repeated, frowning. "What's Interpol want with our lot in Carsley?"
Ryan gave her a tight-lipped smirk. "That's between me and your boss. Your job's to go get him. Preferably before that scone finishes off your arteries."
Her nostrils flared, but she heaved herself to her feet with a grunt and shuffled toward the back door without another word.
As she disappeared into the corridor, Ron leaned over. "Subtle."
"Subtle doesn't cut it when kids start vanishing off the face of the earth," Ryan muttered. His gaze drifted back to the wall of posters, jaw tightening. "And no one says a goddamn thing."
"Speaking of which, what in blazes was that?" Ron asked, eyeing Ryan with a mix of curiosity and awe.
"Oh, this?" Ryan pulled the black leather wallet from his coat and flipped it open, revealing the Interpol badge and ID. "Watch closely."
He flicked it shut, then opened it again. The ID now displayed NYPD credentials. Badge number, photo, everything. "Cool, huh?"
He snapped it shut once more, then flipped it open a third time. This time showing an Italian Polizia di Stato ID.
"One of the perks," Ryan said with a smirk. "Magically encrypted, illusion-based—helps me get through all kinds of doors. Real time-saver."
Ron's eyes widened like a kid seeing his first broomstick. "Wicked," he breathed. "Bloody hell, imagine if we had one of those. I'd never get told off by mum again for being late."
Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Ron…"
"What? Just saying." Ron grinned. "You've got to admit, that's dead useful."
"Yeah," Harry muttered, "until you end up impersonating a Sicilian inspector in front of the actual Sicilian inspector."
Ryan chuckled. "Been there. Long story. Don't recommend it."
The woman returned, her uniform straining at the seams, buttons clinging on for dear life. Her shoes creaked under the pressure of each step, leather bulging at the edges.
"Inspector Swanson will see you now," she muttered, lowering herself back into her chair with an audible sigh. "Down the hall, to the left."
"Grazie," Ryan said with a crooked grin, already turning toward the corridor.
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance as they passed her. The woman's eyes followed them with a subtle curl of contempt, her red-painted lips curling around another oversized bite of her scone. They disappeared down the corridor, her chewing the only sound left behind.
****
The first thing Ryan noticed when they stepped into the office was the smell—diluted scotch and stale tobacco, clinging to every inch of fabric and wood like an old ghost. It had soaked into the walls, the carpet, even the picture frames.
Those frames held photos of a stout, red-faced man posing beside various public figures—politicians, local MPs, even one with the British Prime Minister. Trophies lined the shelves: cricket, football, and other club memorabilia. Ryan's eye landed on a deep red and yellow scarf emblazoned with a devil insignia. Some local team, he guessed. He rolled his eyes. Brits and their obsession with kicking balls around a field.
The office was smaller than he expected—half the size of the Chief's back at the Ministry. A large oak desk sat between them and the man behind it, buried beneath an avalanche of loose papers and half-opened manila folders.
The man himself was portly, not muscular, with a balding crown and a fringe of wiry brown hair. His uniform looked like it had given up the fight years ago, his belly pressing firmly against the buttons. He scribbled something with a fountain pen, seemingly unaware of their arrival.
Ryan muttered under his breath, "Jesus… is the concept of a diet alien to you Brits?"
Ron bit down a laugh, while Harry gave a tight, amused grin.
The man finally looked up, slipping off his glasses and setting them aside. "Ah. Agent Ashford, I presume."
Ryan stepped forward, extending a hand. "That's me. Pleasure." He gestured behind him. "Special Agents Weasley and Potter."
Swanson shook each of their hands in turn. "Inspector Swanson. Pleasure's mine, gentlemen." He gestured to the seats in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat."
They sat. Swanson clapped his hands. "Can I offer you anything? Bit of tea?"
"No thank you, Inspector," Harry said as he settled in. "We've just come from Rathbone Manor."
The change in Swanson's expression was immediate. A shadow crossed his face—brief, but telling.
"I see," Swanson said, clearing his throat. "Then I take it Lord Nelson sent you my way?"
"Sharp one," Ron said, folding his arms. "Then I assume you already know why we're here."
"Lord Rathbone's murder," Swanson replied, his tone careful. "Though forgive me for asking—what's Interpol got to do with a nobleman's death in Carsley?"
"Lord Rathbone's death is just the tip of the iceberg, Inspector," Harry said coolly. "Let's not pretend otherwise."
Ryan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Truth is, we're here about the killer clown in your sewers snatching kids for breakfast."
Swanson blinked. "I... beg your pardon?"
Harry exhaled and shook his head. Ron covered his face with a hand.
Ryan threw up his hands. "Seriously? You too? None of you have seen It? Stephen King? Pennywise?"
Swanson looked baffled.
Ryan sighed. "Unbelievable. No wonder this country's in shambles. Anyway, point is—we're here about the missing kids."
"Ah," Swanson muttered, the word heavy with resignation. "I suspected it was only a matter of time before someone traced it all back to Carsley."
"So, it did start here," Harry said.
Swanson nodded, leaning back in his chair with a loud creak, the frame groaning beneath his weight. "Quite right. At first, it was just one, then two. We chalked it up to children wandering off, getting lost. Happens, especially in places like this. But then it became three. Then five. Then twelve. Weeks passed… no sightings, no bodies, no clues. Just—vanished."
He rubbed a hand over his tired face.
"We searched," he went on. "House to house. Every street, every patch of wood, drain, and field. We turned the town inside out."
Ryan folded his arms, his tone hard. "And it never occurred to you to loop in someone bigger? Reach out to the next town over, maybe call up Scotland Yard, London PD, anyone? Or did you just shrug and go, 'Welp, kids will be kids'?"
Swanson's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing just a touch. "We did, Agent Ashford," he said. "Every station between here and London heard from us. But you know how it goes. Small town, small problems. Not worth their time."
He gestured around the room. At the cracked walls, the worn floors, the flickering fluorescent light above. "And look around. We're understaffed, underfunded, and forgotten. The parents of those kids packed up and left not long after. Most didn't want to stay, much less fight. Some… I think they were too afraid."
He paused, as if weighing his next words. "Or maybe they already knew it wouldn't make a difference."
"Afraid of what, exactly?" Harry asked, his tone quiet but sharp.
Swanson drew in a deep breath, his eyes shifting side to side as though the very walls might be listening. He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"I'm sure you've noticed," he began, "despite everything that's happened, not a word of it's made the headlines. I figured it was what I told you earlier—small town, small problems. No one gives a toss." He glanced toward the window as if checking for shadows. "But we're talking absolute radio silence. Not a line in the papers, not a whisper on the tele. Not even some crackpot blog ranting about conspiracies."
"You're saying someone's covering it up," Ron said, brow furrowed.
Swanson held up his hands. "I'm not saying anything, lad. But if someone were pulling strings? Let's just say they've got deep pockets. And they're very good at convincing people to forget."
Ryan's eyes drifted to the half-drained bottle of scotch tucked beside the cabinet and the unopened box of cigars behind Swanson's desk, but he said nothing.
Harry broke the silence. "Lord Nelson mentioned something. Witness accounts—what few of them there were. Said they noticed frost in the air… and then nothing. Hours gone. Memory wiped clean."
Swanson nodded grimly. "That's what they said, aye. Sounds mad, doesn't it? I thought it was trauma, maybe even panic-induced hallucinations. But every one of them described the same thing."
"Go on," Harry prompted.
Swanson steepled his fingers. "They said the temperature dropped suddenly. So fast you could see your breath. Frost on the windows, the ground. Like the dead of winter rolled in without warning." He hesitated. "And then one of them. Older lad, maybe eighteen—said he felt something before it all went dark. Not just cold… something wrong. A presence. Cloaked in black."
All three men froze.
"Dark," Swanson continued. "Tall. Robes that didn't move in the wind. Evil, he said. Said it felt like it was feeding on him."
Harry's jaw tightened. Ron looked down, lips drawn in a line. Ryan leaned back slightly in his chair.
"And when he woke up," Swanson added, "he was lying on the pavement. Early morning. No memory of how he got there. Lucky it wasn't midwinter—he'd have frozen solid."
A cold silence settled over the room. The unspoken name already on their minds.
"Anyway," Swanson exhaled, settling back in his chair with a practiced sigh, "the investigation's still ongoing, as you can imagine. Thin leads, but we're doing what we can. If there's anything in our files that might help you boys, you're welcome to it. Heaven knows, if it gets those children back, it'll be worth it."
"Appreciate that," Ryan said with a faint smile. "By the way, you've got a nice setup in here." He tilted his chin toward the cabinet. "Cigars. Cubans, I'm guessing. Not the cheap ones."
Swanson's eyes followed the gesture. "Ah, yes—gift from a friend," he said, attempting a chuckle. "Travels often. Knows I've got a soft spot for a good smoke."
Ryan hummed. "And that?" His finger shifted to the nearby bottle. "That Macallan isn't from a corner shop either. Special cask, right? Easily a grand. Maybe more. Lot for an inspector out in the sticks, wouldn't you say?"
Harry arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Ron folded his arms, watching Swanson carefully.
Swanson's chuckle faltered. "Well… birthdays, anniversaries. People get generous."
"Sure," Ryan said, almost casual, his gaze narrowing. "And the people you mentioned earlier. The ones with deep pockets and long shadows… they wouldn't happen to be the same ones running the old factory in town, would they?"
The air shifted. Swanson's jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. And though his expression hardened, a bead of sweat crawled down his temple.
"I've no idea what you're implying," Swanson said stiffly. "But if I were you, Agent Ashford, I'd tread very carefully. For everyone's sake."
For a second, the tension hung thick in the room.
Then Ryan laughed, dry and sharp. "Easy, Chief. Just messing with you. Should've seen your face." He pointed with a smirk.
Swanson blinked, clearly caught off guard, before letting out a shaky laugh of his own. "Right… American humor. Bit of a shock to the system."
Harry didn't laugh. Neither did Ron.
Ryan's smirk faded just slightly. "We've all got something to lose, Inspector. I just hope yours isn't for sale."
Inspector Swanson gave a strained chuckle. "Of course. None at all," he said, though the way his fingers tightened around each other on the desk told a different story. "Just a word of caution, gentlemen. Questions have a nasty habit of dragging answers out of the dark, and not all of them are the sort you'll want to face. Here in Carsley, we've got an old saying: when you dig, all you find is dirt."
Ryan rose from his chair, calm as ever. "I'll bear that in mind."
He turned on his heel, heading for the door. "Be seeing you."
Harry and Ron stood as well, giving the inspector a polite nod before following Ryan out.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Swanson reached for the phone. He pulled the receiver close and punched in a number with deliberate slowness. The line rang once… twice…
Then someone answered.
"We have a problem," Swanson said.
****
The cold evening air hit them as the precinct doors swung shut behind. The sun had already begun to dip behind the mountains, casting streaks of dull orange across a fog-choked sky. Everything felt damp. The pavement slick beneath their feet, the air heavy and clinging. Streetlamps flickered to life, casting pools of amber light through the thickening mist.
The precinct stood along a crumbling stretch of storefronts. Most boarded up, their windows shattered or clouded with grime. A few still clung to life, lit from within by a flickering bulb or the faint glow of a television screen.
Ryan struck his steel lighter, lit his cigarette, and drew in a long breath before exhaling smoke into the chill. His eyes swept the street. Most of the people walking by were older, deep lines etched into their faces—seventies, maybe older. A few might've been in their fifties. No one their age. No teenagers. No children. Not even young parents.
Harry and Ron joined him on the sidewalk. Ryan turned to meet them.
"What'd you think of Porky Pig?" he asked, cigarette tucked between his lips.
"Bloody obvious he's on the take," Ron muttered, arms crossed tight over his chest. "No way around it."
"Which explains the silence," Harry said grimly, his eyes scanning the fog-laced street. "Grease the right palms, threaten the rest… and suddenly no one's asking questions." He exhaled slowly. "We're not looking at negligence. This is a full-blown cover-up."
"Very good," Ryan said with a smirk. "And it looks like Inspector Oink Oink practically confirmed it. Dementors running snatch-and-grabs, cops pretending nothing's happening. You add all that up, it only points one way."
Ron's jaw tightened. "That bloody factory."
"My thoughts exactly," Ryan nodded. "But much as I'd love to go breaking doors and dangling suits out windows, it's late. They've likely punched out for the day."
"So, what now?" Harry asked.
"You two head back to London. Keep the brass in the loop," Ryan said. "I'm gonna stick around, find myself a room in town. Maybe charm a few locals. Get them talkin'."
"You want us to leave you here? Alone?" Ron frowned. "Come off it, you're not serious."
"Aww," Ryan grinned. "Is liddle Ronnie Wonnie worried about liddle ol' me?" he teased, mockingly.
Harry snorted. Ron flushed. "No—I mean, well—"
"Relax, Weasley." Ryan took another drag. "Like I told you, I've been on my own longer than I can remember. I'll be fine."
Harry nodded, though with some reluctance. Ron followed, clearly less convinced.
"We'll meet back here tomorrow morning," Ryan said. "Get a proper breakfast. And I mean a real one. Bacon, eggs, beans, the works. Not that sad excuse for poached eggs you Brits call food."
Harry managed a smirk. "How do we reach you?"
"You don't. I'll reach out," Ryan said, and raised a hand before Harry could protest. "It's safer. I don't know what's coming. None of us do. But if you don't hear from me by ten sharp, bring the whole damn cavalry to this town, understood?"
"But you said—" Ron started, only for Ryan to cut him off.
"I'm good, Ronnie boy. But even the best get blindsided," he said, flicking ash to the curb. "And I'm not about to have you two walk into a trap. You've got lives to live. People who care about you."
He looked off toward the glowing mist that enveloped the town around them. "Me? I've got an empty apartment in New York and a guitar that hasn't seen fresh strings in five years."
"Ashford," Harry began.
Ryan exhaled a plume of smoke and waved a hand dismissively. "Go on. Get outta here."
They hesitated. Just for a moment.
Then turned to leave.
Once the coast was clear, the two young men exchanged a glance. In an instant, a rush of wind swept through the air. Magic flaring like a breath held too long. Then, with a shimmer and a swirl, both vanished without a trace.
Ryan watched the space they'd left behind, took one last drag from his cigarette, then flicked it to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot.
"Well," he muttered, turning toward his car, "looks like I'm in for one hell of a night."