The girl dropped her oversized backpack onto the wooden floorboards with a heavy thud that echoed through the quiet pub. With visible effort, she dragged it over to the bar, propped it upright, then smoothed down her blouse and made a beeline for their table.
Ryan instinctively leaned back in his seat, his face drawn in a mix of confusion and caution. Harry mirrored the expression. Before either could speak, the girl reached out, seizing Harry's hand in both of hers and giving it a comically vigorous shake.
"What an honor!" she gushed, eyes wide and sparkling, her freckled face stretched into an impossibly wide smile. "I've followed your exploits since I was a little girl! To think I'd run into you, of all people, in a place like this!"
Harry jostled like a rag doll, while Ryan struggled not to laugh.
"Right, yes, that's… very kind," Harry managed once she finally let go. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss…?"
"Maxine!" she said brightly. "Maxine Misslethorpe."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Misslethorpe? Any relation to Tobias Misslethorpe? As in Witch Weekly?"
Her eyes lit up as she turned to him. "He's my grandfather! Nice to see someone still recognizes the name."
Without waiting for an invitation, she slid into the seat beside Harry, forcing him to shuffle awkwardly away to reclaim personal space.
Harry gave his head a small shake as he regained his composure. "Apologies—Miss Misslethorpe, was it?"
She beamed. "Just Maxine, please. No need for formalities."
Her eyes shifted curiously to Ryan. "And you are?"
"Ashford, Ryan Ashford," Ryan straightened up. "Bit far from the city, aren't you? This dump's not exactly what I'd call a tourist destination."
Maxine's expression shifted, her cheerful demeanor giving way to something more cautious as she leaned in slightly. "Well… um," she glanced at Harry, then back at Ryan. "Seeing as you're an Auror—and I'm assuming you are too?" she asked, squinting curiously at Ryan.
"Not quite," Ryan said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers, his elbows resting against the edge of the table. "But you're close. Go on."
Maxine twirled her fingers nervously. "I'm a reporter," she said at last, drawing both their attention. "And I've been chasing a story for the better part of the year."
Ryan's brow lifted. "Let me guess—missing kids, shady factory, Lord Rathbone's mysterious demise?"
Maxine's eyes widened behind her glasses. "Yes! How did you—"
"Because that's what we're—" Ryan began.
"Ashford," Harry cut in sharply, shooting him a warning look. He adjusted his glasses and turned back to Maxine. "Listen, we're in the middle of an active investigation. We can't afford to have civilians involved, especially not members of the press."
"But I can help you." Maxine shot to her feet and rushed back to her massive backpack. She tugged it open, rummaged through the mess inside, then returned with a thick scrapbook and dropped it on the table with a loud thud that rattled their glasses.
She flipped it open. Pages were covered in scribbled notes, photographs, and color-coded sticky tabs. "I've been following this since the disappearances started in London," she said. "I've gone through every lead, visited every village, talked to dozens of witnesses. If there's a pattern here, I've traced it."
Ryan flipped through the first few pages, his eyes scanning the neatly arranged clippings and annotations. He nodded slowly. "Well… I'll give you this. This is damn thorough."
Maxine pulled a folded map from between the scrapbook pages and spread it across the table. The parchment crackled as it unfurled, revealing dozens of hand-drawn circles and crosses dotted across the surface. "Every mark you see. Each one's a missing child. All of them muggles," she said. "I've spoken to all their families."
She paused, fidgeting with the edge of the map. "Well… nearly of them. Some refused. A few had already left. And others… just slammed the door in my face." Her eyes lifted to meet theirs. "It wasn't anger. It was fear. Like they were terrified of something—or someone."
Harry leaned in, studying the map in silence. His jaw tightened with every new cluster he saw.
Maxine gently slid the map aside, then flipped a few pages in her scrapbook to a spread covered in grainy black-and-white photographs. Men in suits, faces sharp but unfamiliar.
"A few weeks ago, the trail led me here. Carsley," she said, tapping the word scribbled along the edge of the page. "And that's when things started to get strange. All the dates line up with the factory reopening—after sitting dormant for years."
She pointed to two of the men in the photographs. "These are the blokes who supposedly bought out Soulstar Canneries. But here's the thing—no records, no business history, nothing. It's like they dropped out of the sky with a suitcase full of quid, took over the site, and vanished behind a wall of silence."
She sat back slightly, her gaze shifting between Ryan and Harry. "Something's going on in that place. I know it. And I think you do too."
Ryan clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the empty pub. "Well, holy hell," he said, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "You're good." He threw a glance at Harry. "Tell Weasley to turn in his badge. She oughta be your new partner."
"Bugger off, Ashford," Harry muttered, rubbing his temple.
Ryan turned back to Maxine and tapped one of the black-and-white photos. "These two mooks—got names?"
Maxine smirked, nudging her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. "I'll do you one better." She pointed to the first man. Wiry build, mid-forties, thick-framed specs, black hair back like an oil spill. His face looked like it hadn't cracked a smile in decades.
"That's Harold Emerson. Runs operations and plays lawyer when needed. Cold as frostbite and just about as pleasant. Knows every loophole in both wizard and muggle law. Lives off the bloody things. And when legal gymnastics don't cut it…" she gave a dry laugh, "a thick envelope of bills tends to do the trick."
"Of course they do," Ryan muttered, then tapped the man beside him. "And this creep?"
"Surname's Roth. No first name, not one I could find," Maxine replied. "He's the one up top. Never leaves the factory grounds. Emerson deals with the world outside. Roth handles everything inside."
Maxine paused, her fingers brushing the edge of her notes as her gaze dropped. "There's… someone else. A third man." Her voice softened. "No name. No photo. Just whispers." She looked up at them, her expression serious.
"Locals say he only turns up every few weeks. Always after dark. And when he does… the whole town goes quiet." She leaned in slightly. "They don't know who he is. Only that he's dangerous. The sort that makes even the boldest lot cross the street without looking back.
Ryan and Harry shared a glance, something unspoken passing between them.
Then Ryan exhaled, a half-smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, "looks like the universe finally threw us a bone after all."
"Forgive my curiosity, Maxine," Harry began, drawing their attention. "You mentioned you were a reporter. Now, I read the Daily Prophet fairly often, but I can't help noticing. I've never seen your name in print."
"Oh…" Maxine offered a sheepish smile. "That's because I don't write for the Prophet. I write for The Quibbler."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "You mean that tabloid rag? Full of gossip, moon frog sightings, and alien love triangles?"
Harry shot him a sharp look. "That so-called tabloid is run by a very dear friend of mine, Ashford. I'd appreciate it if you showed it a bit of respect."
"No, he's not wrong," Maxine said, surprisingly unfazed. "Conspiracy's kind of the brand, after all." She gave a light shrug. "But yes. I know what you're thinking—why not Witch Weekly, right? I do contribute from time to time." Her eyes dipped to the table. "But… after my grandfather passed, the company's been slipping. Readership took a hit when Skeeter was finally exposed as a liar and fraud. And since the Weekly had backed her for years, they got caught in the fallout."
She drew a quiet breath. "I help out when I can—my parents, my brother—but it's been rough. I've taken to freelancing just to keep things afloat."
Ryan's expression shifted, the edge in his eyes softening. He didn't speak, but he nodded.
"I'm sorry," Harry said gently. "I had no idea."
Maxine shook her head. "It's alright. That's why this story matters so much to me. If I crack this open… not only do I blow the lid off the biggest story in decades, I might just save what's left of my family's name."
"That headline-chasing hyena, Skeeter," Ryan muttered through clenched teeth. "Should've put her on the list—"
Harry shot him a pointed glare, while Maxine's brow arched high at his choice of words.
Ryan immediately clocked their expressions and held up a hand. "—of terrible people I'd personally like to see fall down a flight of stairs. Y'know, metaphorically. Not... government-sanctioned or anything." He cleared his throat. "Totally private list. Not classified. Not... shadowy."
Ryan waved his hand as if trying to brush past the awkwardness. "Right, now that we've got a name and a face…" He tapped the photo of Emerson with two fingers. "What say we go pay these mooks a visit? Starting with this guy."
Harry frowned. "I thought we agreed the factory was off-limits. Too risky."
Ryan smirked. "Who said anything about the factory?"
Harry gave him a skeptical look as Ryan turned toward Maxine.
"Place is miles from the town. Probably not much in the way of decent food nearby. And I'd wager Mister Fancy McFancy-Pants doesn't touch whatever slop they're serving in the break room."
Harry arched a brow. "You think he goes out for lunch?"
"I think he's got a routine," Ryan said, turning fully to Maxine. "And I'm guessing you know where he usually grabs his grub."
Maxine's lips curved into a grin that matched his. "I do. But on one condition."
Harry was about to protest, but Ryan cut in smoothly. "Name it."
"You take me with you," she said, chin raised. "I want in. First-hand access, proper quotes, everything."
Ryan chuckled. "Oh, I liked you before. Now I really like you. Deal."
"What? No—absolutely not!" Harry raised his hands in protest. "She's a civilian, Ashford! She shouldn't be anywhere near this."
"Like it or not, Potter, she's the only reason we even have a lead," Ryan shot back. "Sides, she's done more digging than half your department and mine combined, and I don't say that lightly."
Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again, scowling.
Ryan gave a small shrug. "If it's any consolation, you can tell Chief it was my idea."
Harry rubbed his temple, letting out a groan. "Bloody hell, this just keeps getting better and better"
Ryan was about to reply when his head snapped toward the window beside the door. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the parked car across the street. Its engine was off, but the windows were tinted too dark.
"Were you followed?" he asked, not looking away.
Maxine's face paled. "Not that I know of."
Ryan was already on his feet. "Stay put. I'll check it out."
"Wait—what?" Maxine turned to Harry. "Where's he going?"
Harry let out a long sigh. "To do what he does best," he muttered grimly.
****
The glass-paneled door swung open with a cheerful tinkle of the brass bell overhead as Ron stepped into the café. He was instantly hit with a wave of roasted coffee, steamed milk, and just the faintest trace of cinnamon and spice. The place was packed every table taken, the air buzzing with overlapping conversations, occasional laughter, and the odd patron who didn't understand the concept of an indoor voice.
Ron shifted awkwardly on his feet. It was nothing like the Ministry café, which was dull, formal, and smelled of burnt toast. This place felt modern. Bright. The sort of place filled with people who knew what "Wi-Fi" was. Everyone seemed young, stylish, and glued to their phones or laptops. He tugged his hands deeper into his pockets and joined the queue, doing his best not to look completely out of place.
Up front, the barista was a man in his early thirties, slim, with a sharp haircut and an expression that suggested smiling was a sin. He didn't speak—just used nods and eye movements to communicate, which somehow worked. One by one, customers left with their orders, all without a word exchanged.
Then it was Ron's turn.
"Er, alright, mate," Ron said, offering a sheepish grin.
The barista gave him a blank look.
Ron fished a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket, smoothing it out. He squinted.
"Right... Triple-Shot Caramel Macchiato," he read slowly. "Iced. Extra whipped cream. Five and a half pumps of caramel... and, uh, the topping's supposed to be in the shape of a star?"
The barista's expression twitched for the first time—eyebrows lifting in subtle disbelief. Then he rolled his eyes and jerked his chin toward the back corner of the café.
Ron turned to look.
There, at a corner table, sat a girl who looked no older than eleven. She was drowning in a bomber jacket three sizes too big, its sleeves drooping past her hands, tapping away at a laptop.
Ron gave a sigh. "Right. Cheers," he muttered and made his way over.
He pulled out a chair and sat down. The girl didn't look up. Just kept typing with lazy precision, occasionally switching tabs, the candy stick bobbing in her mouth.
"Um... you Kurumi?" he asked, leaning in slightly.
She glanced up, her tone dry. "Who's asking?"
"Well, I'm—"
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," she cut in flatly. "Gryffindor. Sixth kid of Arthur and Molly. Average O.W.L. scores, nothing stellar. Keeper for the Gryffindor team for, what—half a season? Member of Dumbledore's Army, later joined the Order. Fought at Hogwarts, signed up for the Aurors straight after, still clinging to that gig three years later."
She tapped another key, eyes flicking over her screen. "Nothing major on your record. Pretty standard Ministry boy." She popped the lollipop from her mouth and gave him a once-over. "Honestly? You're aggressively average."
Ron stared at her, deadpan. "Blimey, you're just like Ashford. Maybe worse."
She smirked. "High praise."
"I didn't mean that as a compliment," Ron muttered.
Kurumi shrugged, leaning forward with a smirk. "Doesn't change the fact that it is."
Ron gave her a sidelong glance.
"You're new to the Watch, Weasley, so let me clue you in," she continued, resting her elbows on the table. "Ashford isn't just some rando with a gun and a chip on his shoulder. The man's a legend. In our world, there are only four names that carry real weight and Ryan Ashford's one of them."
That caught Ron off guard. His brow furrowed.
"We all get codenames, sure," Kurumi went on, twirling her lollipop between her sleeve-covered fingers. "Most never mean anything. But a rare few? They become myths." She sat up straighter. "Some of us specialize. Intel, combat ops, arcane forensics, you name it. I deal in information. Others go after targets—military cells, crime syndicates, monsters that go bump in the night."
Her eyes glinted. "Ryan? He specializes in one thing: missions no one expects to survive. I'm talking one against a hundred. Heavily armed. Highly trained. Doesn't matter." She leaned in closer, resting her chin atop her hands. "Pureblood supremacists. Dark wizards. Paladins from the Vatican. Hell, former Snatchers. Every one of them either ran or fought. And in the end? Same result." She tapped the table lightly. "Dead. And usually in pieces."
Ron swallowed, his collar suddenly tight.
Kurumi's voice dropped a pitch. "Maybe you've heard the name… Nosferatu."
Ron blinked. "Yes?" he said.
"It's Romanian," she explained. "Means 'the insufferable one.' That's where the whole vampire mythos comes from. The Strigoi—undead sorcerers. Cursed, cruel, terrifying." She gave a faint smile. "Bram Stoker dressed it up, Anne Rice romanticized it, but the real ones? They weren't tragic lovers. They were nightmares."
She locked eyes with him. "And that's the kind of fear Ryan inspires. That's what those bastards felt before they died. You've heard him talk about how long he's been in the Watch. And I'm guessing you've heard of the list."
Ron nodded slowly.
Kurumi leaned back, lollipop back in her mouth. "Every name he crossed off. Every safehouse he torched. Every corpse he buried along the way laid the foundation of what the Watch is today."
She let the lollipop roll between her teeth, then smirked. "So yeah, call him a pain in the ass. I won't argue with you. But Nosferatu?" She tilted her head, eyes sharp. "He's the reason half our enemies don't sleep without checking under the bed first, and even if they did, they still wake up screaming."
Kurumi chuckled, low and dry. "There's a saying in the Watch: the ones locked up in Azkaban? They're the lucky ones. Because that place—" she leaned in. "—it's no longer there to keep them in."
She smirked. "It's there to keep us out."
"Blimey, that's… grim," Ron muttered under his breath.
Kurumi held out her hand with a wiggle of her sleeved fingers. "Alright, Weasley. Hand it over."
Ron blinked, then jolted upright. "Oh—right." He dug into his pocket and produced the phial, carefully placing it in her palm.
She held it up to the light, her pale-blue eyes narrowing as the iridescent liquid shimmered within.
"Interesting…"
"You know what it is?" Ron asked.
She turned to him, deadpan. "Do you?"
"If we did, we wouldn't be here, would we?" he snapped.
Kurumi cracked a grin, unfazed. "Fair enough." She gave the vial a little spin between her fingers. "Could be a potion. Maybe a narcotic. Hard to say. I'll run it through the lab and see what shakes loose."
"You do that," Ron said, folding his arms. "And while you're at it, maybe you can—"
He was cut off as the bartender plunked down an absurdly oversized drink in front of him. A towering glass of blended ice, dark mocha brown, crowned with a mountain of whipped cream and drizzled caramel. Shaped unmistakably into a five-pointed star and topped off with a swirly straw.
Ron stared. Kurumi stared. And then she burst out laughing.
"Oh—oh my God!" she choked, clutching her sides. "He actually made you order it!"
Ron's face twisted. "What in the bloody hell is this?"
She wiped away tears. "He told you it was some secret code, didn't he? Like, 'order this or you'll end up in a dumpster bag,' right?"
"…Wait, it wasn't?" Ron's face drained of color.
Kurumi howled. "Sweet Niblets, when he said you were gullible, I thought he was exaggerating! But no—here you are with your Frankenstein's monster of a frappuccino!"
Ron groaned and sank into his chair. "Ugh, I hate Americans." Out of sheer spite, he snatched the cup and took a long sip. He smacked his lips, still scowling. "…That's actually annoyingly good."
****
The midday sun was barely more than a suggestion behind the thick blanket of clouds overhead. A dim, grey veil hung over the town like a curse. Fog clung to the streets. Sometimes as thin as breath, other times so thick it could strangle light. Dampness settled on everything: car hoods, windowsills, creeping into the bones of buildings and the rot of wood. Mold bloomed in corners like an infestation. Maybe that was what they hated most about this place. It wasn't just dying. It was festering.
In a parked sedan outside the inn, two men sat, their eyes fixed on the pub's front door.
The driver drummed impatient fingers against the leather steering wheel. "Blimey, how long are we meant to sit here? I'm bloody starving."
His partner, in the passenger seat, didn't look up. He was studying a manila folder spread across his lap—detailed notes, surveillance logs, and a black-and-white photo of Maxine Misslethorpe clipped to the corner.
"You heard the boss. Watch the girl, make sure she keeps her nose out. And if she doesn't…" He slipped a hand into his coat and pulled a wand halfway out. "We've got a spot ready for her. Deep and quiet."
The driver grinned. "Sure, that part's fun, but does it have to be so quick?" He tapped the photo with a lecherous chuckle. "I mean, been stuck in this dump for months. Getting a bit… restless, if you catch my drift."
"Bugger off, mate. That's disgusting," the passenger muttered. "You're disgusting."
"Oi, a man's got needs."
A sharp knock on the window cut the conversation short. Both men flinched, turning toward the source. A stranger stood outside, smiling like they were old friends. He raised a hand in a friendly wave.
"Hey, how's it going?"
The window shattered an instant later as Ryan drove his fist clean through it. In the same brutal motion, he caught the driver square in the jaw. Bones snapped, and the man collapsed unconscious against the wheel. Ryan reached through the broken frame, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him back into a choking headlock.
The passenger fumbled for his wand, breath hitching, only to freeze as cold steel met his gaze.
"Don't," Ryan growled, gun steady. "Toss it back. Real slow."
The passenger swallowed hard. Then let the wand clatter to the floor.
Ryan's eyes dropped to the open file on the man's lap, scanning the photo clipped to the page. Then he glanced back at the man. Without a word, he reached into the unconscious driver's jacket, pulled out a wallet, flipped it open, and read the ID.
"Murdocs… as in Murdoc's Wizarding Detective Agency?" Ryan muttered, eyebrow raised as he skimmed it. "Jesus, you guys are still a thing?"
He slid the wallet into his coat pocket with a dry scoff. "Thought they shut your sorry asses down decades ago. Back when the Ministry got tired of cleaning up after your mess. Union busting, backroom deals, assassinations in broad daylight. Real garbage disposal crew."
He motioned to the file with a flick of his gun. "Well, guess you're not really detectives anymore, huh? Just muscle-for-hire with fake badges and fat egos."
"But hey… could be worse." His grip around his gun tightened. "You and your buddy here could've been ex-Snatchers." His expression darkened. "And if that were the case, we wouldn't be talking right now, 'cause you'd be too busy getting embalmed."
"See," Ryan began, "even before Snakeface kicked it, I hunted Snatchers for sport."
His smirk twisted. Cruel, cold, almost feral. "I'd chase 'em through the woods. Always the same. Running, crying, soaked in piss and stink, screaming for help that was never coming. But they never got far. And when I finally had them? On their knees, begging, thrashing like animals?" He shook his head. "I didn't give them the mercy of a bullet. Hell no."
The smirk vanished. Rage crept into his eyes like a storm building on the horizon. "Not after what they did. After what they chose to do. Laughing, smiling, while tearing families apart like it was a game."
His eyes darkened further.
"I made 'em a promise. All of them. A red-handled machete." He spread his left hand out like he could still feel the grip. "That's what I used. Steel to bone. Over and over again, until there was nothing left but meat and regret."
"And the best part?" he said. "I made their friends watch. Each one. All the way to the end. They never did figure out why their numbers kept falling at an alarming rate, and Greyback never went far, because that chicken shit knew that there's something out there hunting his ass. Something a whole lot worse than I."
The man's face turned ghost-pale, his breath caught in his throat.
Ryan then straightened, gaze sharp as steel. "So, if I were you, I'd thank my lucky stars that despite how stupid you may look, you're not apocalyptically stupid."
The man's jaw tightened. "You're making a big mistake, Yank. A real big one."
Ryan smirked. "Funny. I don't see me on the business end of a gun."
He cocked the hammer back with a click—a sharp, metallic warning that made the man freeze.
"Let me make this absolutely clear. I don't like being followed," Ryan said. "Neither do my friends. So, here's what's goanna happen. You crawl back to your boss, and you let him know we're not buying the act. We know something's up. And if I ever see you or your glass-jawed pal over here anywhere near us again?" Ryan leaned in, steady. "I'll whip out my trusty little machete and chop you boys up into little freaking dog treats. Comprende?"
He shoved the man back, turned on his heel, and walked off without another word. The pistol disappeared into his jacket as he crossed the road, disappearing back into the fog-drenched street.
In the car, the passenger sat frozen for a beat before pulling out a mobile. He flipped it open, dialed, and held it to his ear.
It rang once. Then clicked.
"You were right," he said quietly. "It's him."
****
There were many words used to describe Harold Emerson: meticulous, disciplined, focused. But above all—consistent.
Routine, for a man like Emerson, was not a matter of comfort. It was strategy. It stripped away the inefficiencies of choice, banished the noise of preference, and left only clarity. No second-guessing. No distractions. Just precision.
They called him mechanical. Robotic. But such insults came from the frazzled and the frantic. Anxious plebeians deluded by the illusion of choice. In truth, consistency was the engine of progress, and Emerson had no interest in entertaining chaos.
He offered a stiff nod to the server as she laid his plate in front of him. Fish and chips, with a side of salad. The same meal he'd ordered every afternoon at precisely one o'clock. The same table. The same seat. The chef no longer waited for instruction. The staff didn't ask questions. This was efficiency, pure and uninterrupted.
The restaurant was modest. Small, family-owned, just outside of Carsley. Dark green and ivory walls framed with cheap golden trim. Old photos and paintings hung with pride. Twelve tables at most. The scent of roses drifted faintly from a vase on the counter, mixing with the warm aroma of vinegar and fried batter.
Emerson adjusted the black bow tie at his collar with precise, measured fingers. He unfolded his napkin with the grace of a surgeon preparing for an operation, laying it across his lap without so much as a wrinkle. Then he reached for his cutlery, angling the fork and knife with exact symmetry on either side of the plate.
Beside him, the bodyguard stood silent. Tall, immovable, encased in a dark suit and mirrored shades. For a moment, he leaned in slightly, as though seeking silent approval. No words were exchanged. Emerson gave a single, subtle nod. Without hesitation, the man turned and walked away, disappearing toward the back of the diner, toward the restroom. Emerson never looked up. His focus returned to the plate before him. Order had been maintained.
The fish cracked crisply under the knife's edge. Emerson sliced a precise square, lifted it to his mouth, and chewed slowly. Methodically. Savoring the symmetry.
Then—clatter.
A pair of sunglasses hit the table with a sudden thud, knocking his water glass sideways. One lens shattered. Blood smeared the frame.
"He's not coming back," said a voice.
Emerson glanced up.
A man had seated himself across from him. Broad-shouldered, relaxed, American. To his left, a dark-haired young man with glasses. And to the right, a young woman with bright, keen eyes and a notebook under her arm.
They had all pulled up chairs at once. As if rehearsed.
Emerson calmly set his utensils aside and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He folded it neatly and placed it on the table. His expression never changed.
"Well," he said, quietly disdainful, "you certainly have my attention."
His eyes moved from one to the next.
"Mister Ashford," he said, addressing Ryan without a flicker of emotion.
Then, turning to the young man, "Mister Potter."
And finally, to the girl, "Miss Misslethorpe."
A breath, cool and unhurried.
"To what, may I ask, do I owe the pleasure?"