The thick wooden door creaked open, hinges protesting as faded glass. Coated in years of dust and grime, shuddered in its frame. The sound cut through the low murmur of conversation, drawing glances from nearly every patron inside.
Harry and Ron stepped through first, moving with the ease of those well-acquainted with the place. For Ryan, however, it felt like stepping into a living museum. Everything about it struck him as absurdly archaic—though, in fairness, he wasn't exactly shocked. The wizarding world had always seemed a few centuries behind the times to him.
His dark eyes scanned the interior, which looked like it hadn't changed since the 1600s. Grey stone walls, dim and dusty. Thick wooden tables with uneven legs. Chairs that looked more medieval than practical. Iron lamp shades and a tarnished metal chandelier loomed overhead. The walls were cluttered with framed photographs and newspaper clippings—trophies of sorts, all chronicling the centuries-old regulars of this obscure little hole in the wall. Even the support pillars bowed slightly, as if the architect gave up halfway through. Ryan muttered under his breath at the sight of a photograph featuring Cornelius Fudge and turned away with a scoff.
As with many wizarding buildings, it was larger on the inside than the narrow exterior suggested. Candlelight glowed warmly across the room, joined by slanting beams of sunlight from a tall window set high in the wall. The pub was bustling, with at least a dozen patrons scattered across the tables. A few chatted idly with the bartender—a young woman about their age, long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. She lit up the moment she spotted them.
"Afternoon, Hannah," Ron said cheerfully. "Pub's lookin' lively as ever."
"Ron," Hannah said, raising a brow. "Bit early for a pint, isn't it? Thought you lot were on the clock."
"We are," Harry replied, joining him. "Just here for a quick meetin'. You know who, about you know what."
Hannah's expression shifted as she gave a knowing nod, tilting her chin toward a table at the center of the room.
Seated there was a gaunt, twitchy-looking man, his hands folded on the table, eyes fixed on the surface of his half-finished pale ale. Long black hair hung lankly around his face, greasy enough to make Ryan's stomach turn. His features were sharp, his skin sallow, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept properly in weeks.
"Been waitin' all morning," Hannah said. "Now, I'm not one to tell you how to do your job—but I'd keep my wits about me, if I were you."
"Don't we always?" Ron grinned.
Hannah's gaze shifted to the unfamiliar face behind them. "Well now," she said, eyeing Ryan with interest. "You're a new one. Not from around here, are you?"
"If you're talking geography, not even the same country," Ryan said, taking in the room with a slow sweep of his eyes. "Nice place. Bit too much of a renaissance fair vibe for my taste, but hey—whatever works."
She blinked, then gave Harry and Ron a puzzled look.
"He's American," Harry whispered, leaning in.
"Ah," Hannah said with an understanding nod.
Ron slid off his stool with a grunt, tilting his head toward Harry. Harry gave a slight nod in response. Ryan gave a mild shrug and followed them, hands in his coat pockets.
The three of them reached the center table, pulling up chairs opposite the man nursing his drink. He looked up slowly as they sat, though his face remained unreadable. Still, the rapid flick of his eyes from side to side, and the steady tap of his heel against the floorboards, betrayed a restlessness he couldn't quite mask.
"Gentlemen," he rasped, his voice rough with age or too many cigarettes.
"Fink," said Harry and Ron in unison.
Fink's gaze shifted to Ryan, narrowing slightly. "Friend of yours?"
"Auror," Harry said before either of them could speak. "Don't worry about him. He's just here to watch."
Fink gave a quiet grunt and lifted his pint. He downed what remained in a single swig, ale dribbling down his chin and pooling onto the table as the glass twitched in his shaky grip. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then set the pint down with a dull clunk.
"Right. Business."
Ron leaned forward. "What've you got?"
Fink glanced over his shoulder before leaning in. "Rookwood. Spotted in the Balkans."
Harry blinked. "The Balkans? What in blazes would he be doing there?"
"Doesn't add up," Ron said. "Last we heard he'd legged it out of Westminster. That was, what, a week ago?"
"Don't shoot the messenger," Fink said, fingers steepling atop the scarred wood. "I'm just telling you what my sources are saying. Some nameless little Muggle town up in the mountains. Cold enough to freeze the bollocks off a troll."
Ryan raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Is he working alone?"
Fink shook his head. "No chance. There's something else in play. Word is he's taking orders—from someone, or something."
Ron's expression darkened. "Death Eaters?"
Fink scoffed. "You wish. No, this lot makes the Death Eaters look like amateurs. Whatever's pulling the strings, it's organized, deeper, and better hidden. If the whispers are true, this is bigger than anything the Ministry's ready for. Bigger than you two."
A moment of silence hung over the table. Ryan glanced between them, arms folded.
"Brilliant," Ron muttered. "Looks like we're off on a lovely little trip. Can't wait to have icicles dangling off me arse."
Fink gave him a sideways glance, then looked back to Harry. "You didn't hear it from me. But if I were you boys, I'd start watching the shadows a bit more closely."
"This group," Harry asked, adjusting his glasses, "do they have a name?"
"Not a clue," Fink replied. "No one knows what they're called. Only that they're real. Even then, they're more ghost than flesh, drifting through rumor and shadow."
"Rings a bell, doesn't it?" Ron said with a smirk, glancing at Ryan, who shot him a withering scowl in return.
"Seems Mister Shaw wasn't just spinning tales after all," Harry said, arms folded as he mulled it over. "But why would Rookwood be working with anyone else? His loyalty's always been to Voldemort."
"Enemy of my enemy, isn't it," Ron replied, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. "For now, at least. They're stretched thin—too few people, not enough reach."
Fink gave a low grunt. "Between us, I wouldn't wager on it being worth his while," he said. "From the sound of it, these lot make You-Know-Who look like a bad memory. Rookwood might be biting off more than he can chew."
"And what's more," Fink went on, "since the war ended, someone or something's been hunting people like him." He leaned in slightly. "Dozens dead. Death Eaters, sympathizers, the lot. Doesn't matter where they run, where they hide. Pure-bloods, half-bloods, even Squibs—if they backed You-Know-Who, they're marked for dead."
His eyes dropped to the table, jaw tense.
"And from what I've heard…" Fink muttered, "most of 'em would've begged for a Dementor's kiss over what they got." He gave a grim chuckle. "And if you think Azkaban's stone walls'll save you, you're takin' the piss. Some were found dead in their cells. No one knows how. Not even the guards."
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, the weight of the revelation sinking in.
"So, it's not diligence," Harry said slowly, rubbing his chin. "It's desperation. He's still chasing his own goals—but now he sees this... 'organization' as his ticket. Protection, resources."
"Still doesn't explain the endgame, does it?" Ron said, brow furrowed. "Voldemort's gone for good—no spell's bringing him back from that."
A pause settled over the table. Just as Harry opened his mouth to speak, the soft sound of slow clapping cut through the noise of the pub.
Ryan leaned forward, palms pressing against the edge of the table, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Nice little tale," he said, tone mocking. "You come up with that yourself… or did Rookwood help you workshop it?"
"I beg your pardon?" Fink asked, bristling with offence.
"Oh, bloody hell," Ron muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Here we go."
Harry's gaze narrowed. "What exactly are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying your friend here is full of it," Ryan said, cutting clean through the ambient chatter. "And I'm talking septic-tank levels. I can practically smell it every time he opens his mouth."
Fink tensed, jaw tight. "You don't know a bloody thing about me. Or what I know."
Ryan smiled coldly. "I'll tell you what I do know."
His eyes swept across the room.
"I know damn well no one in here's showing up for the Soup of the Day," Ryan muttered. "They've been clockin' us since we walked through the door. Take Fatso in the corner—hasn't touched his stew in hours. No steam, which means it's stone cold. Either he's got a taste for lukewarm misery, or he's on a stakeout. And judging by how much he's sweating, I'd say it's the latter."
He jerked his chin toward the bar. "And Skinny over there? He's had his hand on his wand this whole time, trying to play it casual. Too bad he sucks at it."
Fink's eyes widened slightly. Ron and Harry exchanged glances, then discreetly scanned the room—just as Ryan said. The fat man hadn't moved. The wiry patron at the bar was indeed glancing their way, fingers twitching at his side.
"And judging by all the fake-ass chatter floating around—like that clown over there rambling in circles about Puffskeins, and the other genius moaning about the Kestrels having a bad season, I'd say everyone in this little hole-in-the-wall's on the take. And I'm not talkin' your run-of-the-mill drunk in a bowler hat, tipping his cap with a 'Good mornin', Guv'ner,' types either."
His gaze darkened."No... I'm talkin' mercs. The real kind. Eyes up, weapons ready. And they're locked in on us."
"And you," Ryan continued, turning back to Fink. "You've been fidgeting like a nun in a whorehouse. Eyes darting, breaths shallow—like you're waiting for something to kick off. And your right pocket," he pointed, "you've checked it three times in the last five minutes. Heavier than the left. Judging by the way it jingles, I'd say it's packed with coin."
His smirk twisted into something venomous. He reached for the obsidian watch on his left wrist, sliding it until the face of the watch rested below his open palm. "So, tell me, Fink—what's the going rate these days to sell out a pair of Aurors?"
Harry and Ron turned sharply toward Fink as the color drained from his face. Sweat gleamed on his brow, trailing down his temple. His hazel eyes snapped between the three men—frantic, cornered.
A heavy silence fell. All around them, the tavern seemed to freeze. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the clink of cutlery ceased. Behind the bar, Hannah ducked low, swallowing hard as she crouched out of sight.
"Fink?" Ron said cautiously.
Fink let out a strangled cry and threw himself to the floor.
"Down!" Ryan barked, springing up as he flipped the table on its side. It crashed with a heavy thud just as the tavern erupted into chaos.
Dozens of patrons leapt to their feet, wands drawn in an instant. Spells tore through the air—flashes of red, blue, and green streaking across the pub. Bolts slammed into their overturned table, sending scorched splinters flying.
Harry and Ron dove for cover, wands at the ready. A jet of white-hot magic struck the wood just inches from Harry's ear, sending him recoiling with a hiss.
"Bloody hell, we're surrounded!" he shouted.
Ron gritted his teeth. His eyes landed on Fink, curled on the floor like a kicked dog. Without hesitation, he grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him upright, wand pressed to his throat.
"Fink, you rotter!" Ron snarled. "You bloody sold us out!"
Fink gave a weak, trembling grin. "Look, mate—life of an informant, innit? Nothing personal. Just business."
A blast shattered the edge of the table.
"You boys always this twitchy?" Ryan called over the din, crouched beside them with his back against the wood. He calmly slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a click of his lighter, unfazed by the chaos. He took a long drag and blew out a slow stream of smoke.
Ron glared. "You barmy or what? How are you so bloody calm?"
Ryan grinned around the cigarette. "Ain't my first ambush." He tilted his head toward Fink, still clutched in Ron's grip. "Keep an eye on the rat. I'll handle the rest."
He removed the long overcoat, then reached into his jacket and drew. Harry's light green eyes widened the moment he saw it, carbon-black, elongated, and shaped with lethal precision. The weapon slid into Ryan's hand as if it were made for him.
A gun.
It all began to click. The list Ryan had mentioned. The assassination of Cornelius Fudge. The mysterious killings of Death Eaters. Like strings on a corkboard, every clue pinned and knotted together—leading back to a single entity—The Darkwatch.
Ryan spat the cigarette from his lips.
Then, he stepped into the line of fire.
The weapon came up.
Gunshots tore through the tavern. The slide of the weapon snapped back with every shot, brass casings clinking to the floor. Screams of pain followed. Shouts, confusion, groans of the dying. Blood sprayed against stone walls, streaking the grey with crimson.
Ryan moved like a shadow—quick, relentless, almost inhuman. He ducked and weaved between spells, his silhouette a blur in the chaos. The first man didn't stand a chance. Ryan seized his wand arm mid-cast, twisted it aside, and drove two bullets into his chest. As the wizard crumpled, Ryan spun, using the body as cover before firing across the tavern—one shot to the chest, another to the head. Two more fell.
Four bodies in seconds.
He surged forward, slipping beneath a volley of wandfire. One shot hit a wizard in the thigh; the second struck his partner in the shoulder. Ryan didn't slow. He slammed the barrel into the first man's throat, choking off his scream. In the same motion, he dropped the empty magazine, slammed in another, chambered the round.
Two more shots. Two more corpses.
Harry and Ron watched from behind cover, frozen in disbelief. Neither moved, barely breathed.
Ron's mouth had gone dry. His heart pounded against his ribs. A chill crawled down his spine. A man without magic, outfighting wizards like they were nothing.
Harry's thoughts reeled. His wand trembled in his grip, breaths coming fast and shallow. Everything about Ryan—the stillness in his movements, the cold calculation in his eyes—confirmed what his gut had warned him all along.
He wasn't just a killer.
He was built for it.
Ryan slid across the floor just as a flash of green light ripped past his head. In a single fluid motion, he kicked the attacker's legs out from under him. The man hit the ground with a cry, but the sound was cut short by a clean shot to the skull.
Another wizard surged toward him.
Ryan didn't hesitate. He raised the gun and fired. The muzzle flashed, lighting the tavern with staccato bursts as the spellcaster crumpled mid-cast. He moved like a machine. Spells died on lips as bullets tore through bodies before the words ever left them.
One attacker lunged. Ryan met him head-on, slamming the butt of the pistol into the man's wrist, wand flying from his hand. Before the wizard could react, Ryan emptied three rounds into his chest. He caught the body as it fell and used it as cover, dragging it forward and firing from behind it—two more enemies dropped in seconds.
Then came the skinny man from the bar.
His wand was already raised. "Depulso!" he cried.
A flash of blue shot across the tavern.
Ryan didn't flinch. He raised his jacket like a shield, and the spell struck it dead on. But instead of hurling him back, the energy curled across the fabric, vanishing into the weave. For a heartbeat, glowing circuits traced across the material, crackling yellow like lightning running beneath the surface.
The skinny man's eyes widened in disbelief.
Ryan fired.
The bullet punched through his skull. His head snapped back. Bone and brain matter spattering across the bar, before his body collapsed in a twitching heap.
****
Harry's gaze snapped to a wizard circling around the table, wand already aimed at him. Gritting his teeth, he raised his own.
"Expelliarmus!"
The opponent's wand flew from his hand—but before he could react, Harry followed up without pause.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The wizard froze mid-step, body locking rigid as he toppled backward with a thud.
Across the chaos, Fink made a sudden dash for the exit—only to be yanked back by the collar of his coat.
"Oh no you don't, you slimy wanker," Ron growled, dragging him down. "You're staying put."
Ron turned sharply, spotting another assailant charging. He raised his wand.
"Confringo!"
A burst of fire exploded from the tip, engulfing the attacker's face. The man screamed, staggering back.
"Depulso!"
The second spell struck square in the chest, launching him backward through a cluster of tables with a crash. The man slumped unconscious, sprawled in the wreckage.
"Bloody hell, Harry!" Ron shouted over the roar of battle. "I always fancied a shootout, but this is mental! Feels like Hogwarts all over again!"
"Can't expect the job to be smooth sailing all the time now, can you?," Harry shot back, scanning the room. Then his eyes widened. "Ron—duck!"
Ron dropped instinctively as Harry whipped his wand around, blasting a streak of red light over his friend's head. It struck the wizard behind him full force, sending the man flying into a stone pillar with a bone-rattling crack.
****
Ryan barely had time to react before a lumbering mass of a man slammed into him, driving him backward into a table with a heavy crack. His pistol flew from his grip, clattering across the stone floor. The fat wizard loomed over him, wand raised, the sickly green glow of a killing curse casting an eerie light over his bloated face.
"Avada—"
Ryan's fist shot up, slamming into the man's throat and cutting the curse short in a choking gasp. His eyes flicked to the untouched bowl of stew still sitting on the table. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and smashed it across the man's face—porcelain shattered, broth and beef spraying in every direction, painting the wizard in gravy and vegetables.
The man reeled.
Ryan snatched the wand in his hand and snapped it in half. Then, gripping the wizard's wrist, he drove the jagged end of the wand straight into his eye socket.
The man screamed.
Blood poured down his face as he thrashed in agony. Ryan didn't pause. He yanked his hand back and slammed his palm against the wand's butt—driving it deeper into the skull. The wizard spasmed, then collapsed, knees giving way before he hit the stone floor face-first, unmoving.
Ryan's eyes locked onto the last wizard standing, wand already raised.
The gun lay between them.
Ryan sprinted.
A jet of green light hurtled toward him—too fast.
He dove, rolling just beneath it as the killing curse missed him by inches. His hand snapped around the pistol. In a single motion, he dropped into a crouch, took aim, and fired.
Two clean shots to the chest. The wizard jerked violently.
Ryan rose, walking forward as he squeezed the trigger again. Shells hit the ground. Blood streamed from the wizard's mouth as he staggered, too shocked to scream.
The dying man made one last attempt, wand rising weakly in trembling fingers.
Ryan knocked the hand away with a sharp elbow, stepped in, pressed the barrel under the man's chin and pulled the trigger.
The ceiling was painted red. The body hit the floor.
Silence followed.
Ryan exhaled sharply, lowering the gun, his chest heaving. He glanced over at Harry and Ron, still crouched behind the table.
"You boys alright?" he called, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not bad for a first time."
Before either of them could answer, another wizard at the door staggered to his feet, face twisted in rage. His breath came fast, his wand lifted high, a battle cry tearing from his throat.
Ryan didn't blink.
He flicked his hand toward the table.
A shockwave burst from his palm, unseen but forceful. The heavy table lifted clean off the ground and launched across the tavern like a battering ram. The wizard didn't even have time to scream before the table smashed into him and crushed him against the wall. His wand fell from limp fingers.
Harry and Ron slowly stood, eyes wide.
They looked at the man pinned to the wall, then back at Ryan.
Then again at the wall.
"Merlin's beard," Ron breathed. "What the bloody hell was that?"
Ryan raised a brow, casually brushing dust from his sleeve. "What was what?"
"That!" Ron cried, gesturing wildly. "That—!" He waved his arms again, exasperated. "The table! You tossed a bloody table with your hand!"
But Ryan didn't answer. His eyes snapped toward Fink, just in time to see him drive a sharp elbow into Ron's ribs.
"Oof—!" Ron doubled over, instinctively loosening his grip. Fink twisted free and spun around, leaping toward the wall. But before he reached it, his body began to unravel—dissolving into a vortex of flickering particles, as if caught in the eye of a storm.
"Oh no you don't!" Ryan shouted.
With a flick of his wrist, a sleek cylindrical device slid from his sleeve into his hand. Jet black, baton-length, gleaming under the tavern lights. A metallic claw snapped open at its tip. Without hesitation, he aimed and fired. The claw, tethered to a cable, shot through the air and disappeared into the storm of flickering energy where Fink had nearly vanished. For a split second, the tavern held its breath.
Then came the scream.
A choked, garbled cry of agony echoed through the room, as if electricity were coursing through him. Ryan yanked the device backward. Like a puppet on a string, Fink was ripped back into existence—his body slamming across the tavern and crashing back-first into the table with a brutal crack, sending wood and splinters flying.
Ryan tapped a button. The claw retracted smoothly into the barrel as he slid the device away without a word. Ron stood frozen, hand half-raised as if to ask what the bloody hell just happened—but Ryan walked right past him.
He ejected the spent magazine from his pistol, letting it fall to the floor with a metallic clink, then slid in a fresh one. He chambered the round and stepped over the wreckage, standing directly above the twitching man sprawled in the rubble.
Fink looked up, blood trickling from his lip, eyes wide with fear as Ryan levelled the barrel at his face.
"N-now, now—" Fink stammered, one trembling hand raised. "I'm sure we can come to an understanding."
Ryan didn't blink.
"Who put you up to this?" he asked coldly.
"Please, understand—this wasn't personal, it was just—" Fink began, voice trembling.
"Wrong answer."
Ryan lowered the pistol and pulled the trigger.
Fink screamed as the bullet tore through his thigh, blood spilling fast across the broken floorboards.
Harry froze. So did Ron. Neither of them moved. Neither of them could.
"You barmy little bastard!" Fink shouted, eyes wide in horror.
"Who?!" Ryan barked.
"You're mad! You're a bloody lunatic! You crazy Yank!" Fink howled, clutching at his bleeding leg.
"Wrong again."
Another shot. Another scream. The second thigh this time.
Fink writhed in agony, veins standing out on his neck as he shrieked.
Ryan leaned forward. "I've got thirteen bullets left in this mag and plenty more where they came from," he growled. "So, unless you want me to start getting creative—start talking."
He jabbed the muzzle toward Fink's knee.
"Give me a name. Or I swear I'll blow out your Goddamned kneecaps next. And yeah, you might patch it up with magic but trust me—you'll be limping the rest of your sorry life."
"Rookwood!" Fink finally screamed, tears streaking down his cheeks. "It was Rookwood! That bastard set you up!" He sobbed. "Paid me a thousand Galleons to lead you into the ambush. All these wankers—they're his!"
Ryan paused, tilting his head slightly as he glanced over his shoulder at Harry and Ron.
"That a lot?" he asked flatly.
Harry arched a brow. Ron gave a grim nod.
Ryan turned back, locking eyes with Fink. The informant flinched.
"Where is he? Where's Rookwood?"
"I don't know!" Fink gasped.
Ryan shifted the pistol toward the man's kneecap.
Fink shrieked, nearly hyperventilating. "I don't know, I swear! I never met him face to face. I got all my instructions through some Muggle device!" He scrambled inside his coat, fingers fumbling until something slipped from his grip and clattered onto the floor.
Harry and Ryan both recognized it immediately.
A mobile phone.
"He sent messages—just messages," Fink cried. "Told me what to do. His blokes showed up, handed me the gold, and that's it! I swear on me mum's grave, and she ain't even dead yet!"
Ryan exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders—at least for a moment.
"Alright," he muttered. "I believe you."
Then, without pause, he raised the pistol and aimed it at Fink's head.
Fink's scream tore through the tavern. He thrashed against the floor, eyes wide, hands up, tears streaming as he begged for mercy that wouldn't come.
Ryan's finger hovered on the trigger. That's when he heard it.
The familiar hum of magic gathering at his temple—warm and vibrating, like the air itself holding its breath. The wand pressed lightly but unmistakably against the side of his face, just beneath the eye.
Ryan's expression hardened.
His eyes slid sideways, only to find Harry sanding at his side. Behind his round glasses, his eyes blazed not with fear, but conviction. His wand arm didn't tremble.
"That's enough," Harry said, words quiet, but like steel drawn from a scabbard. "We'll take it from here."
Ryan didn't move. The tension in his jaw rippled as his finger remained tight on the trigger.
"You serious?" he growled through clenched teeth. "This bastard sold you out. Had your names penciled in for a nice little slot in the morgue. And you're trying to save him?"
"We're Aurors," Harry snapped. "Not bloody executioners. Everyone gets their trial. Even him."
A slow breath escaped Ryan, the gun still raised. "I don't play by your rules. I never have." His gaze sharpened. "Sides, I've already given you a front-row seat to what I'm capable of. You've seen it." A beat. "Do you really want to find out how far I'll go?"
Then, came another sound.
Faint. Building behind him.
A second wand.
Ryan's eyes flicked to the side—just enough to catch Ron in his periphery. The redhead stood a few feet behind, wand raised, tip glowing bright and ready. His jaw was clenched. Brows furrowed with a mixture of anger and disbelief.
"Then you'll have to go through both of us," Ron said, strained, but steady. "Because Harry's right. We're not executioners. And we sure as bloody hell aren't murderers."
The silence in the tavern grew heavy, suffocating. Even the groans of the wounded faded beneath the weight of the standoff.
The air smelled of scorched wood, spilled ale, and fresh blood. Cracked floorboards creaked beneath their feet. The faint sizzle of extinguished magic lingered like smoke on the air.
For a heartbeat, none of them moved.
The pistol at Fink's head.
Two wands trained on Ryan.
Three men, each waiting to see who would flinch first.