The Café L'air De La Sirène buzzed with the usual Ministry morning frenzy. Though never intended to be, it had become the de facto cafeteria for workers across the departments. Largely thanks to the Ministry's decades-long failure to agree on building a proper one. The tiled corridors echoed with the shuffling of shoes and the occasional murmur of conversation as Ministry employees made their way to their posts. Green flames erupted now and then from the fireplaces near the entrance as witches and wizards arrived via Floo, brushing soot from their cloaks.
The café itself was large and distinctly Victorian in style. Tall oaken beams lined the ceiling, from which brass lamps hung low, casting a warm glow on the white-and-black tiled floor, grouted in black like an ornate checkerboard.
Harry sat alone at one of the square tables near the center, a polished marble surface reflecting the golden trim of the teacup in his hand. The scent of Earl Grey rose with the steam, subtle and calming beneath the steady buzz of chatter. A folded Daily Prophet lay open before him, the front-page photograph moving with characteristic animation: an Auror mid-interview, brow furrowed, lips parting in soundless speech.
But Harry wasn't looking at the image. His eyes were fixed on the headline and the article beneath it. More children had gone missing. Muggle children. Enough to raise alarms on both sides of the magical divide.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, expression darkening. Carsley still lingered in his thoughts. Their encounter with Inspector Swanson, the strange factory, possible Dementors. The sheer scale of it was beginning to take shape. Something deeper, more dangerous. A conspiracy that might dwarf anything the Ministry had faced since Voldemort's fall.
The scrape of a wooden chair snapped him out of it. Ron dropped into the seat opposite with a groan, running a hand through his windswept hair.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "Felt like all of London decided to cram into the Metro the same time I did. Swear to Merlin, it's like they're all waitin' round a corner just to pile on after me."
Harry glanced over the rim of his teacup. "You know, the Floo Network still exists."
Ron gave him a look. "Yeah, and so do the prices. You seen what they're charging for powder these days? It's daylight robbery. One trip's worth more than my whole week's train fare." He raised his hands in exasperation. "Not to mention, you can't Apparate anywhere near the damned place thanks to all the bloody wards."
"Maybe you wouldn't be in such a rush if you didn't sleep in every morning," Harry said with a faint smile, settling his cup back down. "You could leave with Hermione."
Ron scoffed. "Are you mad? She's up and out by four. Four in the bloody morning. Who does that? I'm convinced she's not human. Might be a vampire, come to think of it."
Harry chuckled. "Careful. Say that too loud and you'll be spending the week on your mum's sofa."
"Worth it," Ron muttered. "Just once, I want to know what time she actually sleeps. I bet she's got a secret time-turner hidden somewhere."
Harry smirked, but the amusement faded as his eyes drifted back to the folded paper on the table. The weight of what they'd uncovered was creeping in again.
"So," Ron said, noticing. "Anything new?"
Harry nodded slowly, tapping the headline with two fingers. "It's growing, Ron. Faster than we thought. I hate to admit it, but Ashford's got a point. Whoever's behind this, they're ramping things up. Quotas, demands. It doesn't sound so far-fetched anymore."
"And worse," he continued, "the muggles are starting to notice. And when they start asking questions, they'll start looking in places we'd rather they didn't. A couple of wards might be enough to keep one or two away, but even the strongest spells don't hold against sheer numbers."
Ron leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. "I don't like it. Death Eaters were maniacs, sure, but even they had the sense to work from the shadows. This lot? Whoever's pulling the strings, they don't seem to give a toss who sees what. That's what bothers me."
He folded his arms. "This sounds like the sort of thing the Watch was meant to stop. To prevent."
Before Harry could respond, a cheerful voice interrupted them.
"Morning to you, Mister Potter," said the waitress, setting a large, steaming plate in front of him. "American breakfast, just like you asked for. Eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, toast, grilled tomatoes, and ham."
Harry grinned. "Cheers, Sally. Looks perfect."
Ron stared at the plate, eyebrows slowly climbing his forehead. His expression teetered between disbelief and deep offense.
"And for you, love?" Sally asked, turning to him.
Ron blinked. "Er… waffles, if you've got them. Bit of butter. And… coffee, please. Just milk, no sugar."
"Coming right up," she said brightly, and headed off toward the kitchen.
Harry caught Ron still gawking at the mountain of food on his plate. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Ron pointed with a vague motion. "You actually listened to that bloody Yank?"
Harry picked up his knife and fork with a smirk. "As the Americans say, Ron—don't knock it 'til you've tried it."
"You're bonkers, mate," Ron muttered. "There's enough food on that plate to feed a small battalion."
"Well," Harry said, laying his napkin across his lap, "good thing I'm starving."
Ron glanced up at the clock on the wall, its hands ticking just past nine. "Speaking of the Yank, any word from him?"
Harry sliced through a strip of bacon and brought it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before replying. "Nothing recent. Not that I expected him to. He never said how he'd get in touch." He cut into his eggs next, folding them over his toast before taking a bite. After a moment, he swallowed. "Could be an owl. Could be a howler. Knowing Ashford, maybe a bloody message carved into a bar stool."
Ron looked around the café before leaning in across the table. "You don't think…"
"That the Dementors got him?" Harry finished. He shook his head slowly. "No. If whoever's behind this is even half as clever as I think, they wouldn't take the risk. Snatching an adult, especially one who's clearly poking around would raise more than a few alarms. So far, it's only been children. Easier to make disappear. Fewer people asking the right questions."
He paused, eyes distant. "But my gut's telling me they already know we're sniffing around."
Ron exhaled, visibly tense. "Still doesn't answer the real question, does it?" he said, gesturing vaguely. "Why? Why the kids? What the hell are they doing with them?"
Harry met his eyes. "I don't know. But you and I both know there's no good reason to take children. Especially like this. You don't go through this much trouble if the end goal's anything short of horrific." He lowered his voice. "And whatever they're doing, I'm willing to bet it's not just dark, Ron. It'll be monstrous."
Ron opened his mouth to speak, but the sudden buzz of something vibrating cut through the café's gentle murmur. He glanced toward Harry, eyes darting to the young man's pocket. Eyes wide, Harry set down his cutlery and pulled out a slim mobile phone. A private number flashed on the screen.
Ron blinked, incredulous. "Wait a minute… Harry, you've got one of those muggle thingamajigs and you never told me?" He jabbed a finger toward it. "Bloody hell, I thought we were mates!"
Harry shot him a look and raised a hand for silence. He flipped the phone open and brought it to his ear. "Hello?"
"Hey there, good morning," came a young voice on the other end. "Name's Kurumi. You don't know me, but we've got a mutual friend. Ashford. Ring a bell?"
Harry's chair scraped loudly as he stood, his brow furrowing. "Has something happened to him?"
"Well… yes and no," Kurumi replied, tone casual but edged with urgency. "He's fine, promise. Bit sleep deprived and cranky, maybe. Just get yourselves back to Carsley and pick him up at the police station."
"Hold on." Harry's expression darkened. "The station?"
"No time to explain," she said quickly. "And honestly, you'll want to hear it from him. Ciao." The line went dead.
"Wait—" Harry started, but the dial tone had already taken over. He snapped the phone shut and sighed through his nose. "We need to go. Sounds like Ashford's gotten himself into a spot of bother."
Ron stared at him, wide-eyed. "Bother? With the police?"
Harry let out a quiet sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Knowing Ashford, it was bound to happen eventually. Still… I've got a nagging feeling this one's not entirely his fault."
Ron was already rising from his seat. "Come on then, let's not waste time." He turned toward the exit, but stopped short as Sally returned, balancing a tray of waffles and coffee with a pleasant smile.
"Oh, off so soon?" she asked, glancing between them.
Harry offered an apologetic grin. "Afraid so. Bit of an emergency. Mind if we take it to go?"
"Course not, love," she replied. "Give me a tick."
"Thanks, Sally," Ron said, scratching the back of his head. "Sorry about the rush."
"No trouble at all," she said with a wink. "Just don't let it go cold—waffles are only magic when they're hot."
****
Ryan tapped his fingers rhythmically against the cold stainless steel of the interrogation room table, leaning back in the stiff metal chair with a sigh. The room was small. Smaller than he was used to. No one-way mirror, just a security camera wedged in the upper corner, crusted with dust. He wouldn't be surprised if it still recorded in black and white. The air was thick and stale, like the ventilation hadn't seen maintenance since the Cold War. Overhead, the buzz of halogen lights filled the silence like static in a dead broadcast.
His eyes flicked toward the inspector across from him. Swanson, sweating buckets despite barely moving, manila folders spread out before him, each one stuffed with scrawled notes and badly photocopied statements. The poor man looked like he was one breath away from collapsing under the weight of his own body heat.
"You alright there, bud?" Ryan asked, barely suppressing a grin. "You're lookin' like someone microwaved a ham and left it out in the sun."
Swanson shot him a look, then wordlessly slid one of the folders across the table. It spun once before coming to a stop in front of Ryan. Inside were a dozen photographs—busted lips, blackened eyes, snapped fingers, and a worrying number of missing teeth. Faces that looked like they'd kissed a freight train and lived to regret it.
"When you strolled into my town, Mister Ashford," Swanson said, near wheezing from the heat, "I never imagined I'd be dealing with you knocking the locals into hospital beds. Care to explain?"
Ryan leaned forward, glanced at the photos, and gave a low whistle. "Well… not my finest work. But I'll be honest, I'm pretty happy with the outcome."
Swanson scowled, but before he could reply, Ryan held up a hand. "Let me stop you there. They jumped me. I defended myself. That's self-defense where I'm from."
"That's not what they said."
Ryan gave him a mock-surprised look. "No kidding. What'd they tell you? That I just decided to beat the hell out of five dillweeds for the fun of it? That I was just wanderin' the streets lookin' for a group of charming drunks to knock around because I was bored?" He snorted. "Come on. Those guys were lying through their teeth. Well, the ones they've got left."
Swanson's lips tightened.
"This ain't the first time some half-brained thug tried to get me in trouble with that story, and it sure as hell won't be the last." Ryan expression darkened. "So, if you've got something better than hearsay and bruised egos, I suggest you put it on the table. Otherwise, save us both some time and admit I did this town a favor."
Swanson leaned forward, hands clasped tightly together atop the file as his face twisted into something just shy of restrained fury.
"Regardless of the circumstances, Mister Ashford, even if you are an agent of Interpol," he said, "the evidence is stacked against you. We take assault and battery very seriously here. One count alone could earn you several years behind bars." His eyes narrowed. "So, if I were you, I'd make things easier—and confess."
Ryan raised his brows, then let out a mocking stammer. "Be-de-be-de-be-de—that's all, folks." He grinned as Swanson's face darkened. "Your lips are movin', Porky, but I'm not hearing anything worth listening to."
He leaned in, elbows on the table, matching the inspector's posture. "See, funny thing—none of those boys were questioned or taken into custody. None of 'em questioned or charged. Hell, you lot turned up real quick, too quick, like you knew exactly when and where to slap the cuffs on me. In my book, that's called a setup."
Swanson's jaw tightened. "Now see here, you—"
Ryan raised a finger. "Ah-ah. I'm not done." His tone dropped, firm and cold. "We both know this song and dance by heart, so how about we cut the bullshit and get straight into it? You're not trying to book me for a crime—you just want me out of town." A slow smirk crept onto his face. "Or rather… your bosses do. Your real bosses."
Swanson's face blanched, the color draining from his cheeks.
Ryan folded his arms, the chair creaking beneath him. "Someone upstairs is getting nervous. Some nosy Yank and his friends start asking the wrong questions, poking around town, digging into missing kids—and suddenly, the inspector's sweating bullets, praying to God I vanish before something slips."
He let the silence hang for a beat before continuing, his smirk fading. "But let's be real. It ain't the law you're afraid of. Losing your badge, your pension. Hell, even a stretch in prison, you could stomach that."
Swanson swallowed hard, throat twitching as his eyes flicked to the camera in the back.
"No," Ryan said. "You're scared of them. The ones pulling the strings. The ones who send you polite little envelopes stuffed with British moolah... and not-so-polite warnings when things start to go sideways, just like those parents they ran out of town."
He stared the man down. "So, tell me, Inspector… who are they? And why the hell do they scare you more than the law ever could?"
There was a long pause.
"You don't know what you're walking into, Agent Ashford." He drew a sharp, shaky breath. "These people... you've no idea what they're capable of. The kind of power they can summon when they feel threatened."
Ryan's eyes narrowed. "Then tell me."
Swanson looked away, jaw tight. Silence stretched.
"I can get you protection," Ryan said. "You and your family. My people can make that happen. You have my word."
Swanson was still for a moment. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to turn back toward him. His mouth parted, the first word forming.
The interrogation room door then burst open. Ron barreled in, wand drawn.
"What in the bloody—" Swanson gasped, lurching back in his seat.
Ryan looked up just in time to catch Ron at the entrance.
"Stop, wait!"
"Obliviate!"
A flash of white burst from the wand's tip. Swanson's eyes glazed over, lids fluttering before he slumped forward, face thudding into the metal table.
Ron lowered his wand with a grin, gesturing smugly. "No need to thank me, mate. Just doing my bit."
Ryan stared at him in stunned silence before dragging a hand down his face. "For the love of—" he growled. "Weasley, if I had my gun right now, I'd put a cap in your ass!"
Ron blinked. "Blimey. You're welcome."
"Welcome? Welcome?!" Ryan snapped as he shot up, teeth clenched as he jabbed a finger at the unconscious lump slumped over the table. "I freaking had him. He was this close to giving up whoever's running this nightmare, and then you come waltzing in, all red-haired and brain-dead, and Obliviate him like a thumb sucking moron!"
He flung his hands in the air, pacing once before turning back on Ron.
"Jesus Christ, did your mother drop you down the stairs as a kid? Repeatedly? You're an Auror, for Christ's sake, read the damned room before you come barging in like John freakin' Rambo! I mean, by God, how the hell are you still employed—or alive?"
"Merlin's beard, man—calm down!" Ron raised both hands, taking a cautious step back. "We heard you were in a bit of a tick, so we—"
"You know what? Forget it. Forget it!" Ryan barked, storming past him, voice a low, furious growl as he muttered under his breath. "Goddamn wizard cops and their damned cowboy timing..."
Ron blinked after him, face twisted in both confusion and insult. "And who the hell is John Rambo?" he muttered, then trudged after him.
Down the corridor, Ryan turned a corner and froze at the sight of the front desk. Harry stood by the counter, arms folded, waiting. All around him, every constable in the station was unconscious—some slumped in chairs, others flat on the floor. The heavyset one behind the desk snored loudly, face buried in what looked like a half-eaten slice of chocolate cake now smeared across her cheek like war paint.
Ryan didn't say a word. He lifted the counter gate, brushed past Harry, and headed straight for the holding lockers.
Harry tracked him with a glance, brow raised. "What's up with him?"
Ron joined him, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Dunno, mate. Says he was about to get Swanson to spill the beans on whoever's pulling the strings—then I walked in and, uh... obliviated the bloke."
Harry's eyes widened. "You what?" he hissed.
"Merlin's beard, not you too!" Ron groaned.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Sorry, mate, but I'm with Ashford on this one."
Ron threw up his hands. "Alright, I'm sorry, okay? No need to feed me to a bloody Horntail for it."
Ryan returned to the front desk, a worn evidence box in hand. He set it down with a solid thunk before flipping the lid open and laying out the contents—watch, gun, lighter, cigarettes, car keys, and a few other odds and ends neither Harry nor Ron recognized.
"So," he muttered, slipping the watch back onto his wrist. "Got jumped last night by some of the locals. Group of backwater hillbilly types, mid-thirties at best. Tried to play tough."
He picked up his pistol, ejected the magazine, and checked the slide, eyes scanning the mechanism with muscle memory precision.
"Barman at the pub said they work at the factory."
"Mid-thirties?" Harry stepped closer to the desk, brow furrowing. "That's odd. We didn't see anyone like that during the day. The place looked like a ghost town."
"Exactly what I thought," Ryan slid the magazine home with a click, holstering the weapon beneath his jacket. "They tried spinning some line about working the night shift, but it didn't add up."
Ron snorted. "What, and they jumped you for fun? Did you wind 'em up? Go all yank and insult their mum or something?"
Ryan shot him a look. "Oh, real funny, Weasley. Almost as funny as when you obliviated my only lead."
Ron winced. "Bloody hell, I said I was sorry."
"Anyway," Ryan continued, ignoring the apology, "turns out some suit paid them off. Gave 'em cash to rough me up, see if I'd take the hint. When I didn't, they called in Porky to slap the cuffs on me."
Harry folded his arms, expression grim. "So, they've got the law in their pocket after all."
Ryan nodded, slipping the rest of his gear into his coat pockets. "Exactly. Everything's pointing back to that factory, and the mook running point." He adjusted his jacket. "I say it's time we go shake that damned tree, and see what falls out."
"Hold up, Ashford," Harry said, lifting a hand. "As much as I'm with you, we need to take a moment. If you're right about the factory, then they already know we're coming." He adjusted his glasses. "Wouldn't put it past them to burn evidence or bury it deep."
"Not to mention, we still don't know if we're dealing with muggles or wizards," Ron added, shaking his head. "Two worlds bleeding into one another like this. Honestly, I don't even know what to think anymore."
Ryan stopped in his tracks, considering. "Yeah... you might be right, Potter." He rounded the counter, approaching the two of them. "Last thing we want is to—"
He froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as something behind them caught his attention. Through the frosted glass pane of the station's front door, a figure hobbled toward the building. An older man, limping heavily, hunched over a metal crutch. The bandage caked with blood around his forehead, and his clothes were rumpled and stained. His slicked-back blonde hair was disheveled, and bruises painted the rest of his face.
But what stopped Ryan cold wasn't the injuries. It was the look—the clothes, the features.
"No way," he muttered, pushing past the others. "Hold the phone."
He burst through the door. "Hey! You there!"
The old man stiffened at the sound of his voice. His good eye snapped toward Ryan, the other swollen shut. And in that instant, Ryan saw it—not just fear. Recognition.
"Stop!" Ryan shouted, breaking into a run.
The man spun around, limping as fast as he could, even stomping down on the cast around his leg, teeth clenched through the pain. He made it halfway into the street.
Then the car hit him.
The impact folded his body over the hood. Blood splattered across the windshield before he rolled violently across the tarmac, finally landing in a crumpled heap on the road.
Ryan skidded to a halt, eyes wide. His breath caught in his throat as the woman in the driver's seat stumbled out, screaming, clutching her mouth in horror.
The old man didn't move. His body lay twisted on the asphalt, glass shards embedded in his face, one eye wide and unblinking. Blood pooled beneath his head as the scene froze in a silence too heavy for words.
"…Oh, shit," Ryan muttered, hand clamped over his mouth as he stared at the body in the street.
Behind him, the door slammed open.
"Blimey," Ron gasped as he and Harry rushed out. "What did you do?"
"Son of a—" Ryan hissed, still stunned. Then, under his breath, "Damn it all." He turned slightly. "Potter, wipe her."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"The driver," Ryan snapped. "Do it. Now."
Harry's eyes darted to the sobbing woman stumbling out of the car, hands trembling, face streaked with tears. He drew a sharp breath, then pulled out his wand, striding toward her.
"Miss," he said gently. "Look at me." Her terrified eyes met his, wild and broken. "It's going to be alright."
"Obliviate."
Her eyes glazed over, the sobs ceasing. She slumped into his arms, and he gently guided her back into the driver's seat, closing the door behind her.
Meanwhile, Ryan crouched beside the old man's corpse, patting down his coat pockets with efficient, practiced hands. Blood soaked the asphalt around them, but his hands didn't falter. He found a wallet, flipped it open, and slid the ID into his own jacket.
"Oi, mate—seriously?" Ron stormed up, face twisted in disbelief. "Bloke's dead and you're robbing him?"
"Park the dumb for one second, Weasley," Ryan muttered, rifling through another pocket. "I'm working."
He tossed aside a few receipts and a crushed pack of cigarettes before pausing. Something smooth and cold touched his fingers—glass. He pulled it out slowly.
"What the hell…"
It was a phial, about three inches long, stoppered with a cork. Inside, a strange liquid shimmered. A dark sapphire glow, wispy, almost alive, swirling like smoke suspended in water.
Ryan turned it in his hand, eyes narrowing. "We've got something. No idea what, but it's not nothing."
He slipped it carefully into his jacket pocket, then stood.
"We need to move. Now."
He turned and took off, loafers pounding against the pavement.
"Ashford!" Ron called after him, bewildered.
Harry stepped up beside him, glancing once more at the lifeless body in the street, then at the woman now slumped in her seat. No alarms. No screams. Just quiet.
Their eyes met.
Without a word, both of them ran after Ryan.
****
Back at the Broken Broomstick, the three of them sat at the far end of the pub beneath the soft, amber glow of the overhead lamps. The place was empty at this hour. Just the low creak of wood and the distant hum of pipes behind the walls. After hearing a rough summary of what had happened, the bartender had muttered something about taking stock and vanished into the basement. Harry figured he just wanted to give them privacy.
Each of them had a pint in front of them, beads of condensation trailing down the glass as the golden ale sat untouched. Ron stared into his, eyes unfocused, the events of the night weighing heavy on his shoulders.
Across from him, Ryan held the phial delicately between two fingers, lifting it up to the light. The strange liquid within shimmered and swirled.
The silence stretched until Harry finally broke it. "Alright… I think we've been quiet long enough." His green eyes locked on Ryan. "You want to tell us what the hell happened back there? Who was that man?"
Ryan exhaled, slow and steady, before placing the phial gently on the table. "I… I'm not sure." His brow furrowed. "But I've a pretty good feeling that was the same guy I clocked last night."
Ron leaned forward. "Wait, you're saying he was one of the blokes who jumped you? But didn't you say they were all young lads?"
"Exactly," Ryan said, nodding. "At first, I figured maybe it was his dad or something. Uncle, maybe. I mean, nobody just ages thirty years overnight, that's insane." He paused, jaw tightening. "But then I saw it, same damn hair, same outfit… and the exact same busted leg."
Harry frowned. "Could be coincidence."
"Maybe," Ryan said. "But I only wrecked one guy's knee last night. Dislocated it clean. That man outside the station? He was limping on the same leg." He tapped the table with his finger. "Not to mention, the way he looked at me. He knew exactly who I was."
Ron glanced at the phial. "You think… that's got something to do with it?"
Ryan didn't answer immediately. He reached out, picked up the phial again, and studied the swirling contents in silence.
"I don't know what it is," he muttered, "but whatever it is… it's not normal."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look.
"Nothing about this town is," Harry said. "And I get the feeling it's only going to get worse."
Ryan exhaled sharply, then opened his hand. "Potter, I need a sheet of paper. And your pencil."
Harry raised an eyebrow but reached into his coat, pulling out the small notebook from before. He tore out a page and handed it over with the pencil.
Ryan began scribbling quickly, the graphite scratching hard against the paper as he wrote what looked like an address. Once done, he handed both the page and the phial to Ron.
"I need you to take this to the exact location written here."
Ron glanced at the address. "'The Black on Black?' Wait, that's a café, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Ryan nodded. "When you get there, go straight to the barista. Order a Triple-Shot Caramel Macchiato, iced, extra whipped cream, five and a half pumps of caramel and topping drawn in a shape of a star."
Ron blinked. "What? Why the hell do I—"
"Pay attention, Weasley!" Ryan snapped, making Ron flinch. "That café's a front for the Watch. The order's a code phrase. Say it wrong and they'll assume you're a threat. You'll be in a body bag behind the dumpsters waiting on Six."
Ron swallowed hard. "Right. Got it."
"The barista will pass you to someone inside. Her name's Kurumi. You've heard her on the phone," Ryan added, glancing at Harry.
"She sounded a bit… young," Harry said, frowning.
"Yeah, so was I," Ryan said simply. Then he jabbed a finger toward the phial. "Give that to her. She'll know what to do with it. After that, check in with Chief, then haul ass back here."
Ron looked between the note, the phial, then to Harry, who gave a confirming nod. Ron sighed. "Alright then. I'll see you lot in a bit."
And with a spin of wind and light, Ron vanished with a sharp crack.
Ryan looked at the untouched pint left on the table. "Could've at least finished his drink. Oh well—more for us."
Harry's gaze shifted to him. "Any idea what happens next?"
Ryan took a long swig from his pint, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Honestly?" he muttered, setting the glass down with a dull clink. "I'm just as stumped as you are."
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Ryan cut him off. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love nothing more than to storm the place. Guns blazing, explosions lighting up the sky, bad guys dropping like flies."
He shrugged. "But if these bastards have stayed hidden this long without even the Watch catching a scent, then I'd bet good money they've got an escape plan ready to go." His eyes met Harry's. "Last thing we need is for them to torch the whole op, vanish into thin air, and take those kids, and whatever the hell is it they're up to with them."
Ryan drew a sharp breath. "And that ain't even the worst part."
"There's worse?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Think about it," Ryan said, gesturing. "We storm the place, and surprise, surprise—it's all just a big misunderstanding. Whoopsie-daisy, wrong bad guys. Our bad." He gave a short laugh, dry and humorless. "It's happened before. More than once actually."
Harry stared at him, unimpressed.
"Oh, don't give me that damned look," Ryan muttered. "I'm not that much of a loose cannon. Sides, unlike some people, I actually do my homework." He leaned back slightly, tapping the side of his pint glass. "Still… took months of clean-up, dozens upon dozens of memory wipes. Six was furious. The Brass even more so." He paused. "Bottom line is, like it or not, we've got to play it smart, and we've got to play it right."
"So, what?" Harry asked. "You're saying there's nothing else we can do but sit on our hands?"
"Least until Kurumi gets back with what's in that phial. Or better yet, the universe decides to throw us a dang bone," Ryan said, lifting his pint again, "I'd say—"
The doors to the pub slammed open, cutting him off.
A young woman with an oversized backpack staggered in—mid-twenties, maybe. Skinny jeans, white blouse, round glasses, and a mess of curly brown hair that looked like it hadn't left the eighties. She caught herself on the doorframe, adjusting her specs with wide eyes as she looked straight at them.
Her breath hitched. "By the stars above… Harry Potter…"
Ryan leaned in, whispering sideways without taking his eyes off her. "Ex of yours?"
Harry frowned. "You wish."