A dry chuckle escaped Shaw as he flipped open his phone, the soft blue glow lighting up his face. He read the message, then slapped his thigh with a grin. "Not even a full day, and our guy's already causing a scene."
He grabbed his cappuccino, took a sip, then winced and coughed. "Jesus, that's awful. Brits really don't know how to make coffee worth a damn." He pushed the cup aside, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
Kimiko glanced up from her tea, her fingers curled around the porcelain cup. She sipped slowly, setting it back into the saucer with a faint clink. The café was modest and modern, a block away from the red phone box that masked the Ministry's entrance. Its walls were chalk-white, decorated with black-framed monochrome photos. Steel accents framed the tables, bulbs overhead casting soft amber hues across the room. Outside, a chill rode the late autumn breeze—brisk, but oddly comforting. Nothing like the sun-drenched humidity she was used to back home in Hawaii.
"For the record," she said, watching traffic move past their outdoor table, "I'm still against this."
People bustled around them, heels and dress shoes clicking against the pavement as they passed. Cars hummed and brakes hissed down the street.
"Ryan's a capable agent, no doubt," Kimiko went on. "But he's reckless. Lacks control. And don't even get me started on his last psych eval."
"Oh, come on," Shaw said with a tired grin, tilting his head. "We've been over this already. Besides, you've had it out for the kid long before this assignment came up."
"I'm not being petty," she snapped. "If that's what you're trying to say. You've seen it, too—every time he comes back from an op, there's less of him left. Like something inside just... shuts off."
Shaw leaned back in his chair. "That's the job, Kimi. You know it as well as I do. It chews us up. But he still gets the job done."
She looked away, the wind brushing strands of black hair across her face. "One of these days, that won't be enough."
"I won't sit here and pretend life as a Specter's all sunshine and rainbows," Shaw muttered, picking up an almond cookie and tossing it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, then shrugged. "But Ryan knew what he was signing up for. He could've walked outta the Red Room any damn time... but he didn't."
"Did he?" Kimiko snapped. "Did any of us?" Her tone sharpened. "We were kids, Shaw. Barely old enough to tie our shoes, let alone consent to becoming weapons."
"I recruited him myself," Shaw said, and there was a shift in his tone—low, grim. "Pulled him out of that rat-hole orphanage, put a gun in his hand, gave him direction. Same as I did with you. Same as all the others."
Kimiko opened her mouth, but he cut across her.
"Or would you rather I'd left you there instead?" Shaw's gaze fixed on her, hard as flint. "You know what happens to kids like us. Caught between two worlds, fitting in nowhere. Wizards call us freaks. No-Majs treat us like trash."
He folded his arms as his voice took on a colder edge.
"My old man was a proud wizard. Magic was his gospel. Used to say I'd be the next to walk the halls of Ilvermorny, just as he did." His mouth twisted into something between a grin and a grimace. "Then he found out I was a squib."
He shook his head slowly.
"Turned on us. Said my mom cursed his bloodline. Drank himself blind. And when she finally had enough, she walked—left me with a man who barely remembered my name."
Shaw's eyes locked with Kimiko's, and something raw flickered behind them.
"I grew up believing I was broken. Defective. The one mistake nobody wanted to admit they made. Joined the Marines just to prove I wasn't nothing." He exhaled sharply. "Maybe I still am."
Kimiko's gaze sharpened, but she said nothing at first.
"Then one day, just like you, I got the offer," Shaw went on. "They said they were building something new. An outfit for the jobs no one wanted to admit needed doing. This was long before Voldemort's name ever made the headlines—back when the world still whispered about Grindelwald. That was the start of the Watch."
Kimiko's eyes dropped to the faded bracelet around her wrist. "We've all got stories, Shaw. Some more tragic than others. But not everyone's built to carry this weight." Her jaw tightened. "Ryan plays the hardened bastard well enough. Stone-faced killer, all grit and gunpowder. But he wears his damned heart on his sleeve. And you keep winding something like that too tight..." She glanced up. "Eventually, it snaps."
Shaw gave a faint smile, not unkind. "That's why this little assignment wasn't just about the mission."
Kimiko looked up, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean by that?"
"Exactly what I said," Shaw replied, flicking a few crumbs from his fingertips. "Most of us in Section Thirteen work alone. That's just how it is. Ryan's been doing that longer than most. No ties. No real connections. Colleagues, sure. But friends?" He shook his head. "The Brass wanted someone on the ground to track Rookwood's contacts, and I figured... maybe it was time the boy had a change of scenery."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And if there's anyone who won't take his crap and might actually get through to him?" Shaw smirked. "It's Harry Potter."
"You're joking," Kimiko said, brow raised. "You seriously paired Ryan up with Potter and his mate like it's some kind of schoolyard playdate? Hoping they'd hold hands and become best friends?" She shook her head, but a grin tugged at her lips. "I knew you were nuts, Shaw, but this one really takes the cake."
Shaw smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Come on, Kimi. When have I ever been the picture of sanity?"
He gave a half-shrug. "Look, I get it. You've got your concerns. Hell, I've got mine too. But maybe. just maybe. It'll work out. And if it doesn't… well, we've seen worse."
Kimiko picked up her tea and took a measured sip. "Let's just hope London's still standing when it's all over."
"With Ryan involved?" Shaw scoffed. "Yeah, that's a big 'if.'"
****
Ryan had always despised the orphanage walls. That sickly, yellowing cream tone, chipped and stained by decades of neglect. Beneath the grime-caked windows, dull green tiles lined the corridor walls like the skin of some rotting creature, cracked and flaking, as though trying to escape the place themselves.
What little sunlight managed to squeeze through the panes came in muted and grey, choked by soot and dust. The air hung thick. A mix of mildew, stagnant water, piss, and whatever horror was festering in the backed-up plumbing.
Brooklyn wasn't kind to the forgotten, and this place, tucked between brick alleys and broken dreams—had been home to Ryan for longer than he cared to admit. Home, if one could call it that. A creaky bunk with rusted springs and a thin, torn mattress. A few hand-me-downs, mostly sizes too big. Books held together with tape and hope. And the ever-present chill that settled into your bones — not from the weather, but from being unwanted.
"I'm telling you, that boy is out of control!" a furious voice rang out from behind the office door. Loud enough to rattle the chipped glass. "Broken ribs. Missing teeth. The boy's skull is fractured!"
"Keep your voice down," came another, sharp and wary. "You don't want—"
"I don't give a rat's ass if that little shit can hear us!" the man snapped.
Ryan sat on the wooden bench just outside, his fists bloodied and raw. Crimson smeared across his knuckles like war paint, flaking as he flexed his fingers. His nose still throbbed, though he'd wiped most of the blood away. It was his fifth fight that week. Another group of bullies laid out in the infirmary with broken bones and split lips.
The new dog had tried marking territory, picking on the younger kids like it was owed to him. Ryan made sure those plans ended in pain. Not that it stopped the bastard. He came back swinging. In the bathroom, the bedroom, even in the kitchen. Didn't matter where, but each time, Ryan left him worse off. Bruises turned to fractures. Taunts turned to silence. And it wasn't until the boy took a graceful dive off the third-floor fire escape, straight into the rusted dumpster below—that the others finally understood. Next time, it wouldn't be a trash heap waiting to break their fall. It'd be a casket.
Because the rule was simple: If the world's gonna treat you like an animal, you bite first.
Ryan snapped his gaze toward the heavy oak doors as they creaked open. A man stepped through—tall, draped in a grey trench coat that brushed his polished shoes, a matching fedora casting shadow across his face. Only the hard lines of his mouth and the grizzled stubble on his jaw were visible beneath the brim. His black leather gloves caught the dim corridor light, slick and spotless as he walked with unhurried purpose.
Without a word, the man passed Ryan, pausing only to glance down at him—a single, measured look that seemed to weigh the boy in silence. Then he turned, wrapped his gloved fingers around the brass doorknob, and stepped inside.
The shouting stopped at once.
What followed wasn't silence, but something worse: low voices, too hushed to make out, laced with the occasional sputter of protest quickly smothered. Ryan leaned back on the bench, craning his neck toward the door, trying to catch something—anything—but the thick walls swallowed every word.
Minutes dragged like hours. Finally, the door opened again.
The man stepped out, his face unreadable. Behind him, laughter erupted—hollow and unfamiliar, like celebration in a place where it didn't belong. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing it away.
Ryan's eyes narrowed. Whatever had just happened, it wasn't over. Not for him.
The older man came to a stop in front of him, then lowered himself to one knee. He removed his hat with a smooth motion, giving him a closer look of a face worn by time—creased skin, a rough-shaven jaw, and lines carved deep around his mouth and eyes. But it was the eyes that caught Ryan. Not harsh. Not judging. Kind.
Not once in his years at the orphanage had anyone looked at him like that.
He had grown used to the glances. Wary, repulsed, fearful. From the staff who muttered when they thought he wasn't listening. From wizards who visited brimming with promise, only for their faces to twist when they realized what he was. From non-magical folk who gave him wide berth, whispering the stories the caretakers gleefully fed them.
But this man was different.
"Hey there," the stranger said gently. "You must be Ryan."
Ryan gave a slight nod, unsure.
"My name's Shaw," the man continued with a faint smirk. "Lee Shaw."
He gave a small chuckle and tilted his head. "This is where you're probably expecting some long-lost relative story, right? 'Ryan, I'm your grandfather. Been searching for you for years.'" He shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint, kid. I'm not."
Ryan studied him warily. "Then who are you?"
Shaw's smile lingered.
"Straight to the point. I like that," he said. "Truth is, I'm no one special. Just like you, I suppose." He paused, then added, "Didn't get my letter from Ilvermorny either."
Ryan's eyes widened. That hit harder than he expected.
"You see," Shaw went on, almost thoughtful, "I know a place. A place where people like you and me. People who don't fit anywhere else, can actually belong." His gaze flicked to the stained windows, the mildew creeping up the corners of the ceiling. "Somewhere far from all… this. Somewhere you can matter."
Shaw's eyes dropped to Ryan's bruised and bloodied knuckles.
"Got into a fight, huh?"
Ryan hesitated, then gave a small nod. "They were picking on the younger kids. Told them to stop. They didn't." His hands clenched tighter. "So I made sure they wouldn't do it again."
Shaw let out a quiet chuckle. "Yeah... I heard. Hell of a way to make a point."
He sat back on his heel, expression thoughtful. "You ever hear the story of the sheep, the wolves, and the sheepdogs?"
Ryan shook his head.
"It's something they used to tell us in the military," Shaw said, raising a finger. "The world's got three kinds of people. First, you've got the sheep. Regular folks. They live their lives believing evil's just a bad dream—something that only happens on the news. And if it ever showed up on their doorstep, they wouldn't know what the hell to do with it."
Ryan stayed silent, listening.
"Then there's the wolves," Shaw went on, his tone darker. "Predators. They hurt others because they enjoy it. Doesn't matter if it's a frail old woman down the street or say… an innocent family on a quiet night."
Ryan's jaw tensed. His breath hitched.
"And then," Shaw said, "you've got the sheepdogs. Not perfect. Not gentle. Hell, sometimes they scare the sheep. But they've got teeth—and they use 'em to stand between the wolves and the flock."
He met Ryan's eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. "You've got that in you, kid. The teeth. The instinct. The fight. That's why I'm here."
"You see," Shaw went on, "I'm something of a trainer. But not for your everyday mutts. I train a special kind of sheepdog."
He leaned in slightly, his tone growing more pointed.
"Not the ones that just bark when trouble shows up. I'm talkin' about a rare breed. One that walks between two worlds—and doesn't quite belong in either. The kind that stands guard over both flocks… because the wolves come from both sides."
His gaze locked with Ryan's, steady and unflinching.
"I don't just sharpen their teeth," Shaw said. "I teach 'em where to bite—and when." He let the silence hang for a moment before continuing, eyes never leaving the boy in front of him. "Now I'm giving you a choice, kid."
He gestured around the dim hallway with a slight tilt of his head.
"You can stay here, rot in this piss-stained dump until the day they kick you out with nothing but the shirt on your back. Maybe flip burgers for minimum wage, get married too young, divorced twice, live just long enough to die forgotten in some cheap flat with a broken heater."
Then, slowly, Shaw stood. The weight of his coat shifted as he extended a gloved hand.
"Or," he said, steady and quiet, "you can come with me. And I'll make you into something more than this world ever thought you'd be."
There was a long, lingering pause.
Ryan stared at Shaw's hand.
For a ten-year-old boy with bloodied knuckles, no family, and a future carved out of nothing but rot and silence, it wasn't much of a choice. Shaw was right—he had nothing. His parents were ghosts, his name barely registered within or beyond these walls. If he died tomorrow, they'd drop him in a plywood box and shovel dirt over him without a word. No mourners. No memory. Just another forgotten child swallowed by the world's indifference.
His gaze turned to the faded walls of the orphanage—the cracks, the filth, the stale air thick with mold and piss. Then back to the man standing before him, hand outstretched like a lifeline.
Ryan reached for it. Took it.
"Good boy," Shaw said with a quiet smile, nodding toward the door. "Shall we?"
They walked together through the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the stillness. Just before they reached the door, Ryan looked back. One final glance at the place that raised him—and tried to break him.
He didn't cry.
He didn't hesitate.
He just turned forward again.
Some part of him knew the man beside him might as well have been the Devil—charming smile, silver tongue, and promises wrapped in gold and glitter. But for a ten-year-old boy with nothing to lose, it was a deal he took without hesitation.
After all, what was one Hell traded for another?
At least this one offered purpose.
And how right he was.
****
Ryan opened his eyes, slouched against the side of the red telephone kiosk as a pale gust of wind swept past. The sky overhead was the color of wet ash, clouds smothering the sun into a dull smear. Everything was damp—the stone beneath his feet, the brass of the kiosk's handle, the air itself. A thin film of dew clung to the world, soaking into his fingers as he drew his last drag from a cigarette, lips curling faintly as he let the smoke drift up into the cold, grey London sky. When he reached the filter, he flicked it down and crushed it beneath his loafer with slow, deliberate pressure.
The sound of grinding metal caught his attention.
He glanced over his shoulder just as the platform rose behind the glass, revealing Harry and Ron stepping up into the kiosk. Neither looked pleased. Their expressions were tight—Harry's jaw clenched, Ron's eyes dark with fury. If looks could cast curses, Ryan figured he'd already be ash on the pavement.
He straightened as the door swung open, but made no move to greet them.
"If you're expecting an apology," he said, "you're wasting your breath. I don't care if he's your brother. There are some things a man shouldn't walk away from unscathed."
Ron stepped forward at once, eyes ablaze. "Forgive me if I don't give a damn about your bloody opinion, you twisted piece of—!"
Harry's arm shot out, stopping him cold. "That's enough. Both of you." He turned to Ryan. "I don't know what your grudge is with Percy but keep it to yourself. I meant what I said—no more insults. There won't be a third warning."
"Funny," Ryan drawled. "That pencil-pushing, overachieving, nutless little bastard threw your whole damned family under the bus, and you're still bending over backwards to defend him." He tilted his head, lips curling into something sharp and cruel. "Maybe if you'd fought half as hard for Fred… he would still be breathing."
Ron erupted.
He lunged, hands outstretched, fingers aiming straight for Ryan's throat. Harry barely managed to grab him, muscles straining to hold him back.
Ryan raised both hands in mock surrender, his grin unrepentant. "Alright, alright," he said. "Sheesh, didn't think you boys were so easy to wind up."
He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and strolled past them, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "So, remind me again, where exactly are we headed? Leaky Cauldron, right?"
Harry let out a steady breath as Ron adjusted his stance, still glaring at the back of Ryan's head. "Charing Cross Road," he said curtly. "Our contact's waiting there. We could be there in a blink if we Apparate."
Ryan pulled one hand free, revealing a sleek black device in his palm. "Yeah, you could do that," he said, pressing a button with a soft click. "Or… we could ride in style."
A low mechanical growl filled the air, drawing their eyes toward the curb. Parked beside them was a gleaming beast of a car. Dark blue with silver accents, polished to a mirror shine.
Ron's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell... is that what I think it is?"
"Shelby Mustang GT-500," Ryan replied, grinning as he opened the door with a flourish. "She's got bite. No offense, but I only drive American."
He nodded toward the passenger doors. "Well? You boys coming, or should I meet you there?"
Harry and Ron exchanged a look.
****
The car tore down the narrow London streets like a beast loosed from a leash, its engine roaring loud enough to rattle the windows of passing shops. Ryan shifted gears with practiced ease, foot dancing between the clutch and throttle, the speedometer needle edging dangerously far to the right.
Harry remained calm, buckled in without a flinch. After years chasing the Snitch at bone-breaking speeds, this was nothing new. Still, he cast a sidelong glance at Ryan, whose expression was hidden behind dark Ray-Bans. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if the Yank was doing this just to rattle them.
It was certainly working on Ron, who was gripping the headrest from the back seat, face pale, knuckles white.
"How long you two been on the job?" Ryan asked, shifting gears again as he swerved between two black cabs, earning a string of horns. "Lemme guess—two years?"
"About that," Harry said evenly. "First year was spent at the Academy." He glanced over. "You?"
"Since I was ten."
"Ten?" Ron blurted, momentarily distracted from his terror. "You joined the Darkwatch at ten? Bloody hell, that's the year we got our Hogwarts letters!"
"Yeah, well whoop de do for you," Ryan scoffed. "Can't say I had the same luck."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Why's that? You're American. I'd assume Ilvermorny would've taken you."
Ryan laughed dryly, taking a sharp right that slammed Ron against the door. "Ilvermorny doesn't want anything to do with people like me."
Harry's brow furrowed. "You're a Squib?"
Ryan gave an exaggerated shrug. "Oh, ding ding ding. Give the boy a prize." He kept his eyes on the road. "Believe me, I'd have given anything to wave a wand and shoot sparks outta my ass. But hey—life's not fair. Some of us win the lottery. The rest of us learn how to flip burgers or brew coffee for entitled jackasses."
"Is it true what they say?" Ron asked, clutching the seatbelt strap tight across his chest. "About the Darkwatch?"
Ryan didn't answer immediately. His hand shifted the gear with a low growl from the engine. "Depends on what they say," he replied, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. "And what you think you know."
"Only what's been printed," Harry added, calm but pointed. "That you lot operate in the shadows—protecting both worlds from threats the public never sees." He hesitated. "But it's Section Thirteen that gets most of the attention."
Ryan arched a brow, glancing briefly at Harry before returning his eyes to the road. "And what do they say about Section Thirteen?"
Ron shifted uneasily. "That they're the best you've got. Darkwatch's elites. Trained killers with full clearance to take down anything or anyone that threatens the balance."
Harry's gaze moved to the mirror, locking with Ryan's reflection. "And that Cornelius Fudge was one of your targets."
Ryan's jaw tensed slightly, the muscle along his cheek tightening. But he said nothing. The silence in the car grew heavier, filled only by the low hum of the engine and the quiet whine of tires against the asphalt.
"Cute," Ryan said suddenly, breaking the silence with a scoff. "In case you missed it, the guy was two cheeseburgers short of a heart attack. McDonald's—or whatever passes for fast food in your world—would've finished him off long before a bullet ever got the chance."
But before Harry could cut in, Ryan pressed on.
"And yes, I know exactly how the tub of lard met his end. Might shock you, but the Darkwatch ain't the only group operating between both worlds." He leaned back slightly, one hand on the wheel, eyes still hidden behind his shades. "Fudge got in bed with the wrong people. Made promises he had no business making and couldn't keep if he tried. And trust me, I know men who've been killed over a hell of a lot less."
He shifted gears, the car rumbling as it surged forward. "But color me curious. Why bring up that bloated sack of corruption? You and Fudge weren't exactly pen pals, not after the crap he pulled with you and Dumbledore."
"Don't get me wrong, Ashford," Harry replied, eyes fixed on the blur of London rushing past the window. "I've no love for Fudge or the mess he left behind. The man had plenty to answer for." His tone dipped, quieter now. "But no one deserves to end like that. Not even him."
"Not even Voldemort?" Ryan asked, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as he caught the flicker of discomfort cross both their faces. "You don't have to play saint with me, Potter. The law loves making humans out of monsters."
"It gives them due process," Harry shot back, sharper now. "A chance to speak, to be judged—not by fear, but by truth."
Ryan let out a low exhale, his fingers drumming the wheel. "Yeah, well… the truth's a coin. Toss it the right way, and it buys you freedom. Toss it wrong, and it'll bury you."
He shifted gears again, the Mustang growling like a beast.
"But here's the thing," Ryan continued. "Your choices? That's what decides what you are. Some men choose to be men. Others?" His jaw clenched. "They choose to be animals. Voldemort. The Death Eaters. And in my line of work… men get arrested. Animals get put down."
Ryan slammed on the brakes, his hand yanking the emergency lever in one smooth motion. The tires shrieked across the asphalt, smoke curling from the rubber as the Mustang fishtailed. Both Harry and Ron gripped their seatbelts, bracing themselves as the car drifted sideways across the road and slid perfectly between two parked cars, the movement precise—almost surgical.
The engine cut. Ryan unbuckled his belt and casually removed his sunglasses, setting them on the dash.
"We're here," he said, glancing at the rearview mirror.
Ron was ghost-white, clinging to the seat like it might run off without him.
"If you pissed yourself back there," Ryan added with a smirk, opening the door, "you're covering the cleaning bill."
He stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind him with a satisfying thud.
Ryan tilted his head back, eyeing the old building in front of him. The faded charcoal wood, the patchwork of red brick, and the soft amber glow behind the frosted window made the place look like it had been plucked straight out of Victorian London. His gaze landed on the weathered sign swinging gently above the entrance—The Leaky Cauldron, the name carved deep into old, warped wood.
He let out a low whistle. "Jesus. This place looks like something outta Charles freakin' Dickens," he muttered, folding his arms. "And they say it's supposed to be hidden? Kinda hard to miss the haunted pub aesthetic."
The car door slammed behind them as Harry helped Ron out of the back seat, then stepped up beside Ryan, his tone clipped.
"Remember, Ashford," Harry said, his eyes locked on the door. "This is our case. You're just here to watch. So, keep your bloody mouth shut and let me and Ron do the talking."
Ron shot Ryan a withering look that said he'd be more than happy to hex his teeth out if he spoke out of turn again.
Ryan lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you're the tour guides. I'm just here for the sights."
Harry gave a curt nod, then pushed the door open. The three of them stepped into the pub, the scent of stale ale, woodsmoke, and something vaguely magical wrapping around them like a worn old coat.