A long, uncomfortable silence settled over the Leaky Cauldron. The air hung thick with smoke and scorched ozone, the bitter tang of gunpowder still clinging to the stone walls. Residual magic fizzled faintly in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of blood and something heavier—death.
Harry, Ron, and Ryan stood frozen in a tense triangle. Wands were trained on Ryan, and his pistol remained firmly aimed at the broken figure of Fink sprawled on the floor. Ron swallowed hard. His hand trembled, wand quivering ever so slightly as sweat beaded down his face. Harry was steadier, but not by much—the subtle twitch in his brow betrayed his internal war.
Ryan, by contrast, looked utterly composed, familiar with this kind of pressure. And yet, there was something different in his eyes now. Not fear. Not even anger. Just the unfamiliar weight of being on the other end of a standoff with people he didn't consider enemies.
All of it might have come to a head, until a gust of wind burst from the fireplace at the end of the tavern.
With a crackling whoosh of green flame, a man stepped through the hearth, dusting soot from his coat as if returning from nothing more than an errand. His short black hair was slicked back, his jaw rough with stubble. He wore an earthy brown suit, neatly tailored, the jacket a shade deeper than sand. A beige shirt and golden ascot peeked through the lapels, and a long, dark overcoat swept behind him like a cloak. In his arms: two paper bags filled with groceries—spring onions, eggs, milk, a loaf of bread peeking out the top.
All eyes turned toward him.
"Hannah, I'm home, love. I—" He stopped dead, taking in the splintered furniture, the smoldering scorch marks, and the four men locked in a deadly standoff. His brow furrowed. "What in Merlin's name happened here?"
"Neville," Ron said stiffly, his wand still half-raised. "Um… we can explain."
Ryan let out a quiet breath and lowered his pistol. With a practiced motion, he released the hammer and holstered the weapon back beneath his coat. His eyes dropped once more to Fink, who whimpered weakly on the floor.
"Lucky you," Ryan muttered. "You get to breathe another day." He stepped closer and leaned in slightly. "Word of advice—when they ship you to Azkaban, don't drop the soap."
Ryan crouched down and picked up the phone Fink had dropped. Without a word, he stepped away from the wreckage, loafers crunching over shattered glass and splintered wood as he made his way to the bar. Harry's eyes followed him the whole way, silent and watchful.
At the counter, Ryan pulled a slim black device from his coat pocket, flipped it open, and began to dial. He pressed it to his ear, eyes drifting over the bodies and debris scattered across the tavern. A beat passed. Then he spoke.
"Yeah, it's me. I need a Six on the Leaky Cauldron, Charing Cross Road."
He paused, glancing over the carnage again. "Reservation for a Bar Mitzvah. The whole damned family, and bring a mop."
With that, he snapped the phone shut and slid it back into his pocket.
Behind the bar, Hannah stood stiffly. Bands braced on the counter, her jaw tight. Though she hadn't said a word, the fury simmering in her eyes was plain. She wasn't trembling. She wasn't blinking.
She was seething.
Ryan noticed.
"Don't worry," he said, nodding toward the mess. "My guys are on the way. They'll put everything back the way it was. Won't cost you a thing."
He glanced down to the floor where the skinny man from earlier was bleeding out into the cracks between the floorboards.
"Sorry about the whole..." He made a vague circular gesture with his finger, as if gesturing to an accidental wine spill.
Hannah stared at him, unmoved.
"Huh," she muttered, expression flat. Clearly unimpressed.
Behind them, Ron stepped in front of Fink, his face dark with restrained fury. His breaths came sharp and fast, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The trembling man on the floor tried to muster a smile—nervous, pathetic.
"So… no hard feelings, mate?" Fink offered weakly.
Ron didn't answer. He simply leaned in—and kicked him clear across the face.
Fink's head snapped sideways with a sickening crack, and he crumpled unconsciously to the floor. A tooth skittered across the blood-streaked floorboards.
"None whatsoever, wanker," Ron muttered, slipping his wand back into his coat.
Harry let out a long breath and holstered his wand as well.
Neville, meanwhile, had hurried to the bar, groceries forgotten on the nearest table. He reached Hannah in seconds, gripping her gently by the arms, scanning her face.
"Love, are you alright?" he asked. "Did they hurt you?"
"No, no—I'm fine," Hannah replied, brushing a bit of ash from her sleeve. "Not me first bar brawl. Won't be the last."
Neville stared at her in disbelief.
"Brawl?" he echoed. "Hannah, this wasn't a brawl—this was a massacre."
His gaze shifted—first to Ryan, who gave him a flippant, unapologetic little wave as he leaned against the bar, then to Harry and Ron, who had begun to collect themselves near the ruined table.
Neville's expression hardened.
"Weasley. Potter," he said coldly. "You've got some explaining to do and I suggest you do it now."
He turned in their direction. "And don't think for a second that I give a rat's arse that you're Aurors."
"Blimey, Neville, calm down, we were just—" Ron began, but never got the chance to finish.
"Don't tell me to calm down, Weasley!" Neville snapped. "Don't you dare!" He threw his arms wide to the wreckage around them. "I leave this place for a few bloody hours, and I come back to this?"
He jabbed a finger toward the lifeless bodies sprawled across the tavern. "Look, I can turn the other cheek for a busted nose or a broken table. But corpses? Blood on the walls? That crosses a bloody line!"
Ryan, who had been silently watching from the bar while he browsed through Fink's phone, gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes.
"Jesus Christ. Are all you Hogwarts types this high-strung?" he muttered. "After everything you lot survived, you'd think you'd have nerves of steel, not paper."
Neville turned sharply, eyes blazing. "And you—"
He stopped mid-sentence, then turned to Harry and Ron, pointing at Ryan.
"Who in blazes is he?"
"Colleague," Harry and Ron said at once.
"He's American," Hannah added casually, as if that explained everything.
Neville blinked, then gave a sharp nod. "Ah."
He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair.
"Still doesn't change the fact that he came in here and turned the place into a bloody slaughterhouse."
His eyes locked onto Ryan with a glare. "And if anything had happened to Hannah—"
"Neville, love," Hannah interrupted gently, resting a hand on his arm. "Enough. You're going to burst a vein."
"Mate," Harry finally said. "I get it. I really do. You've every right to be angry. But you need to know—we didn't start this."
"But we sure as hell finished it," Ryan muttered, eyes still fixed on the phone in his hand.
Harry shot him a sharp glare but said nothing.
"It was Fink," Ron added, nodding toward the unconscious man sprawled across the floor. "Set us up. Tried to have us killed. Said Rookwood was behind it."
Neville's brow furrowed. "Wait—Rookwood? As in Augustus Rookwood? The man who—" He trailed off as he caught the flicker of pain in Ron's eyes. "You've been after him for months now, haven't you?"
Harry nodded. "We thought we finally had something solid. But no, he was one step ahead. Again." He exhaled, folding his arms. "I'm sorry, Neville. Honestly. None of this was meant to happen, and putting Hannah in harm's way? That was never part of the plan."
Neville sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the fury in his posture slowly giving way to weariness.
"I believe you, mate. I do." His tone lowered. "Bloody hell… three years on, and we're still dealing with Voldemort's scraps. His little army of fanatics just won't die."
He rubbed his eyes, his shoulders sagging. "Sometimes I wish we could just wipe the lot of them out."
"Working on it," Ryan said offhandedly, not looking up.
"Well, this has been a right waste of time," Ron huffed, throwing his arms up. "Back to square one—and this time, we're fresh out of leads."
"Can't argue with you there," Ryan said, flipping the phone shut with a snap. "Burner, most likely. Message history's short—basic instructions, no sender ID, no coordinates, nothing that gives us a trace."
He tucked the device into his coat. "I'll hand it over to my guys, see if they can pull anything off the signal metadata… but I'm not holding my breath."
Ron blinked. "Right… not a single word of that made sense."
Harry gave a small shrug. "He means we might be able to trace the phone Rookwood used to send the messages. If we're lucky, it could lead us to his location."
"Which raises another question," Ryan said, then paused, glancing toward the bar. "But first—"
He leaned casually over the counter toward Hannah.
"I could use a drink. Killing dark wizards really dries the throat."
Hannah raised an eyebrow, arms folded.
"Go on, then. What's your poison?"
"Budweiser."
Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Figures. You Yanks really do love drinking piss."
Ryan gave her a flat look. "You got it or not?"
With a theatrical sigh, Hannah ducked beneath the bar, returned with a bottle, and set it down harder than necessary.
Ryan smirked as he picked it up. "Much obliged."
He popped the cap off with a flick and took a swig, exhaling with contentment.
"Ah... that hits the spot," Ryan murmured, lowering the bottle with a satisfied sigh. He gestured toward the group with its tip.
"Now, we all know Rookwood's as much a technological philistine as the rest of your lot. Couldn't give a damn about Muggle tech." He took another swig. "So that begs the real question—who's been bringing him up to speed? Who's teaching him how to use all this, and why's he suddenly so open to it?"
Harry rubbed at his chin, frowning. "Come to think of it… he's right." His eyes lifted slightly in thought. "Rookwood hated everything Muggle. Wouldn't be caught dead holding a remote to the tele, let alone a mobile."
"Desperation, maybe?" Ron offered, shrugging. "Man's out of options. Can't rely on magic alone anymore, not when he's on the run."
"I don't mean to intrude on your investigation," Neville said calmly, drawing their attention. "But when you've spent enough time with plants, you start to notice a pattern. Every living thing, whether it's a weed or a wizard, shares one instinct when the pressure's on."
He paused. "Survival."
Ryan raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"You think he's adapting?" Ron asked.
"I think clinging to the past is what got Voldemort killed," Neville said bluntly. "What got the Ministry blindsided when the Death Eaters came back swinging. If Rookwood's as clever as we think, he knows damn well that holding on to old ways is a death sentence. He needs an edge."
Ryan nodded slowly, swirling the last of the beer in the bottle.
"And that," he said, "brings us to the next question."
He took a final swig.
"Who's holding Rookwood's leash?"
The tavern fell into a heavy, unsettling silence, the question lingering like smoke in the air. Around them, the wreckage of battle lay still. Thoughts churned beneath furrowed brows, uneasy and unspoken. And in that quiet, one truth became unmistakably clear.
They might be facing something far worse than they were prepared for.
****
As Harry, Ron, and Ryan stepped out through the front doors of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry's eyes narrowed.
Three unmarked vans pulled up to the curb. The tires hissed against the wet asphalt as the vehicles came to a halt. Doors swung open in unison and out stepped a group of men in black suits, their movements crisp and calculated. Behind them came others in hazmat suits and gas masks, their visors fogged with breath, their gloved hands carrying sealed cases.
The suited agents fanned out, securing the area with smooth efficiency. Some began speaking to shopkeepers and onlookers, gently dispersing the small crowd that had begun to gather. The hazmat team moved straight into the tavern, disappearing behind the battered doors like a well-oiled machine.
Ryan watched the operation with all the concern of a man waiting for his coffee order. Calm, quiet, as if he'd seen it all before—and likely had.
He turned and began walking toward his parked car, but he only made it a few steps before Harry's voice rang out behind him, laced with fury.
"Ashford!"
Ryan stopped. Hands in his coat pockets as he turned slowly. Harry stormed up to him and grabbed him by the front of his coat, fist clenched tight in the lapel.
"What in blazes happened in there?" Harry growled. "Who the hell gave you permission to turn it into a bloody shooting gallery?"
Ryan didn't flinch. "You're welcome, by the way," he said flatly.
"Pack it in," Harry snapped, his grip tightening. "That attitude might fly where you're from, but it's not doing you any favors here."
"Do you even understand what you've done? You've wrecked months of investigative work. Ron and I were close—closer than we've ever been. And now it's dust. You shot up a wizarding landmark, you murdered people indiscriminately and for what? Do you honestly think you're the star of some bloody action flick?"
Ryan let out a low snort, followed by a dry, humorless chuckle as he shook his head.
Ron's expression twisted with fury. He took a step forward, fists clenched.
"You think this is funny, mate?" he snapped. "You think we're just having a laugh? Taking the piss? I knew this was a mistake. You are a mistake. Chief never should've saddled us with you."
Ryan's smile vanished, replaced by something colder.
"Cute. Real cute. Both of you."
He squared his shoulders. Eyes locked on Harry first. "Close? You call that close? You two were seconds away from being turned into charred remains because you trusted the wrong son of a bitch. You were played like amateurs."
He continued. "You've been at this for months. Chasing shadows, trading theories, connecting dots that lead nowhere, and you're still not even remotely close to the bastard who's been running circles around you."
His gaze snapped to Ron. "And honestly? I'd expect that kind of blind stupidity from a Weasley."
Ron bared his teeth, fury burning in his eyes. But Ryan turned back to Harry, voice cutting sharper than ever.
"But you? Harry freaking Potter? The one they write stories about? The one who toppled the dark lord?" He scoffed. "I expected better. And saying I'm disappointed? That doesn't even begin to cover it. You're not Aurors. Neither of you."
His eyes flicked between them.
"You're just boys," Ryan said. "Playing cops and robbers in a world you don't even begin to understand." His gaze narrowed. "I knew it was a setup the second I stepped foot in that bar. It didn't just feel wrong—it reeked. And you two strolled in grinning, like lambs to the slaughter, without so much as a second thought."
He leaned in closer to Harry, eyes locked on him, until their faces were mere inches between them.
"Tell me something, Potter. Be honest. Battle of Hogwarts aside, you ever been in a pinch like that? Outnumbered, outgunned, no backup, no plan—just death waiting at the door?"
Harry said nothing, but the flicker in his eyes gave him away.
Ryan scoffed. "Yeah. That's what I thought. You're not cut out for this. Neither of you. You should turn in your badge, find a nice desk, and file papers until you retire. Otherwise, you'll both end up in a hole."
His eyes slid to Ron.
"And if you're lucky, maybe they'll dig yours right next to Fred."
Ron lunged, face twisted in rage but Harry grabbed his arm, holding him back.
"Don't," Harry said through gritted teeth.
Ryan tore his lapel free from Harry's grip and straightened his coat.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I've got real work to do. You can go scurry back to Robards and let him know just how thoroughly you screwed the pooch."
He turned to leave, walking toward the waiting Mustang and opened the door. But just before he climbed in, he looked back over his shoulder. "Oh—and Potter?"
Harry's glare stayed locked on him.
"That's twice now you've pointed a wand at me." Ryan's tone dropped to a frigid murmur. "There won't be a third."
He turned away and climbed into the car. The engine growled to life, deep and guttural, shaking the frame as it idled. A second later, he hit the accelerator. Tyres screeched against the pavement as the Mustang shot down the street, vanishing around the corner in a blur of metal and smoke.
Ron stared after it, fists clenched at his sides.
"Next time I see that smug bastard, I swear I'm gonna blast his bloody teeth in," he muttered.
"Easy, mate," Harry said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the corner where the car had disappeared. "We've got bigger things to deal with."
He exhaled slowly.
"First things first—we get Fink and whoever's still breathing into custody."
Ron snorted, still seething. "And then what?"
Harry didn't answer right away. His shoulders slumped just slightly, the weight of the chaos settling in.
"We'll figure it out," he said at last. "Later."
****
The Shelby Mustang screeched into a parking space, tyres biting into the asphalt as the engine gave a guttural roar before cutting off. Pedestrians on the sidewalk flinched, some swearing under their breath, shooting scowls at the driver. A few stopped and stared, drawn by the rare sight of pure American muscle—sleek, brutal, and entirely out of place on the narrow streets of London.
The door flung open, and Ryan stepped out, slamming it shut behind him. He rounded the front of the car with purpose, loafers hitting the curb as he made for a small shop tucked along the road. A narrow, steel-framed façade bore the name Black On Black in gold-embossed letters, etched within a matching golden circle across the glass window.
A soft bell chimed as he pushed the door open.
The scent of roasted beans and warm pastries immediately wrapped around him, mingling with quiet conversation and the mellow hum of café music. The place was compact. No bigger than a small office. Cozy, with just enough space for a dozen patrons. Behind the counter, a barista offered a two-finger salute without missing a beat.
Ryan nodded back and scanned the room. His eyes landed on a figure tucked into the farthest booth.
A girl—waist-high, couldn't have looked older than twelve. She wore an oversized grey hoodie that swallowed her frame, the sleeves dangling well past her hands. A maroon skirt peeked out beneath the hem, paired with black thigh-high socks and scuffed shoes. Her long, platinum blonde hair was a mess of unbrushed tangles, parted just enough to reveal striking lavender eyes fixed on the screen of an open laptop. A lollipop stuck lazily from the corner of her mouth as her fingers danced across the keyboard.
Ryan sighed and walked over. He pulled out the chair across from her and dropped into it with a thud.
"You keep hanging around places like this," he said, eyeing her, "cops are gonna start asking questions."
Without looking up, she replied. "They're called bobbies, Ryan. You're not in New York anymore—try to keep up."
"Bobbies, smobbies," Ryan muttered, waving a hand. "Just a bunch of posers in hardhats." His gaze drifted toward her laptop. "What're you working on this time?"
Before she could answer, the sudden wail of sirens cut through the ambient café noise. A blur of flashing blue tore past the front windows—three police cruisers in fast pursuit, tyres screeching as they vanished around the corner.
Ryan's eyes tracked them, brow lifting. He turned slowly back to the girl.
She grinned without looking up. "Just having a bit of fun with the locals. Turns out the Bank of England's firewalls are about as sturdy as wet cardboard."
Ryan let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, well… remind me never to stash my cash in this backwater."
He rested his forearms on the table. "Alright, squirt. Now that you've finished giving MI6 a migraine, I've got something I need you to run."
The girl finally looked up, lavender eyes cool and unimpressed.
"It's Kurumi, Ryan," she said evenly. "Try to remember that. Or at least pretend you give a damn."
"Sheesh, fine," Ryan muttered, rolling his eyes. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the grey burner phone, sliding it across the table toward her.
Kurumi picked it up, flipping it open with one sleeve-covered hand. Her eyes scanned it briefly.
"I need a trace," Ryan said, leaning back in his chair.
Kurumi tapped the device with idle curiosity. "This got anything to do with the Rookwood case?"
"Got it off a snitch who nearly had us buried," Ryan replied, nodding a thank-you as the barista arrived and set a steaming latte in front of him. "Turns out he's been in regular contact with the man himself."
Ryan took a sip. His shoulders relaxed, eyes closing for a brief moment of bliss.
"Jesus... finally. A proper cup of coffee."
Kurumi's brow rose. "With Rookwood?" she echoed. "Hold on—the Rookwood? Wizarding supremacist, Voldemort's lapdog, card-carrying Muggle hater? That Rookwood?"
Ryan set the cup down with a soft clink.
"Trust me, I'm just as baffled as you are. The guy used to flinch at the word 'electricity,' and now he's sending texts like a damned teenager. Someone's bringing him up to speed. Teaching him how to use this stuff."
He leaned forward slightly.
"It's worse than we thought. They're evolving."
"I'll say," Kurumi muttered.
She grabbed a cable from her laptop, plugged it into the phone, and immediately began typing. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, and lines of code started streaming down her screen as the device synced.
"Let's see what our little dinosaur's been up to…" Kurumi murmured, eyes flicking across the screen.
Then her fingers froze. Her expression shifted, eyes narrowing.
"Huh."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Kurumi didn't look up. She resumed typing. "Well, this is… unexpected." She let out a short breath. "You've got to be kidding me. The phone's encrypted. And not your run-of-the-mill 'McAfee' encryption either. We're talking high-grade. Military-level."
"Whoa, hold on." Ryan blinked. "Back up."
He pointed at the device like it had personally insulted him.
"You're telling me someone Pentagoned a ten-dollar burner phone?"
Kurumi smirked without breaking stride. "Yup. Budget on the outside, Fort Knox on the inside."
She stretched her fingers and cracked her knuckles. "Still, nothing I can't crack. Might take a minute, but my digital minions are already chewing through it."
She tapped one final key and leaned back, satisfied.
"Just sit tight, cowboy. Let's see what kind of ghosts this thing is hiding."
Kurumi popped the lollipop from her mouth and held it in her sleeve-draped hand, smirking across the table. "So… how'd the playdate with the one and only Harry Potter go?"
Ryan scoffed and leaned back in his chair, lifting the latte to his lips. He took a slow sip, then exhaled. "Guy's got what's left of his Nimbus Two Thousand jammed so far up his ass he's casting shadows." His eyes narrowed. "And his redheaded lapdog's not much better."
Kurumi gave him a long, unimpressed stare.
"You do know they're not you, right?"
Ryan rolled his eyes.
"They've been on the job what—two, three years?" she went on, folding her arms across her chest. "Veterans of the Wizarding War or not, they were still just school kids. Their biggest worry back then was passing exams and not flunking Potions."
She leaned forward slightly.
"While they were elbow-deep in flowerbeds during Herbology, you were stripping down rifles blindfolded. While they were learning how to turn toads into teacups, you were dodging live rounds in combat drills. While they were chasing Quaffles across a pitch, you were tracking dark wizards across five continents."
She slid the lollipop back between her lips with a soft pop. "Honestly, you've been on your own so long you expect everyone else to think, move, and act like you. But they can't. And they shouldn't."
Her voice dipped just slightly, steady and quiet.
"And I'm willing to bet neither of them's ever taken a life. Not out of duty. Not even in self-defense. Not like you."
Ryan's expression shifted at her words—just slightly. The usual edge in his eyes dulled, his gaze drifting to the half-finished cup in front of him.
"Both of you come from different worlds," Kurumi said gently. "You wear bitterness like armor, but it still leaks out. And trust me, you're not the only one who wished they got that wax-sealed Hogwarts letter instead of a visit from Lee Shaw."
Ryan gave a low exhale, setting the cup down with a faint clink. He pulled out a cigarette from his silver case, catching it between his teeth.
"Yeah, well… life shoveled shit in our faces and told us to suck it up."
He flicked open his lighter with a snap, flame rising—only for the barista to appear beside him without a word, snatch the cigarette clean out of his mouth, and jab a finger at the No Smoking sign overhead.
Ryan blinked, caught off guard. Then he gave a shrug and pocketed the lighter as the barista walked off, cigarette in hand.
"Point stands," he muttered. "I chose this life. I chose to be the sheepdog."
He paused.
"But so did they."
Kurumi smiled faintly. "Sounds like what they really need is someone to watch their backs. A big brother type. Someone who's seen how dark the world gets when the lights go out."
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "And honestly? I can't think of anyone better than the one and only Nosferatu." She leaned back with a small sigh. "But you can't protect them if you're always trying to provoke them. So maybe ease up a little—onii-chan."
Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ, you're such a weeb."
A loud ding chimed from Kurumi's laptop.
Her smirk widened instantly. "Hah! Take that!" she shouted, pumping a fist in triumph.
Half the café turned to look.
"You ain't got nothing on Ratatoskr!" she added proudly, completely unfazed by the stares.
Ryan hissed through his teeth. "Are you nuts?" he muttered, shooting a glance at the now-curious patrons. "Codenames are codenames for a reason."
Kurumi gave him a smug, knowing look.
"Oh, relax. Take your tampon out," she said, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Let's see what our friend left behind…"
Her tone shifted slightly as her eyes narrowed, leaning closer to the screen. "Well, as expected—wiped clean. Probably remote. But I can still recover fragments of the last few messages."
Ryan took another sip of his coffee and muttered, "The more I hear about how well-equipped Rookwood's gotten, the more I hate this job."
Kurumi didn't look up. "Bastard's been playing this poor sap like a fiddle for days. I can't pin down an exact location, but I've got a general region."
Ryan's expression hardened. "Where?"
She paused, then looked up from the glow of her screen.
"Edinburgh."