The following days settled into a rhythm dictated by the harsh demands of their new reality. Mornings began before the smog-choked dawn, the Rookery stirring to life with the clatter of cook pots, the murmur of hushed conversations, and the grating sound of blades being sharpened against whetstones. Hasel and Hermione, despite the lingering ache in muscles they hadn't known existed, forced themselves to join the early risers, eager to prove their commitment and, more pragmatically, to secure a share of the often-meager breakfast – usually a thin, watery porridge or stale bread with a scraping of something vaguely resembling jam.
Their physical training with Jacob Frye continued relentlessly. He pushed them through obstacle courses that snaked through the decaying warehouses and across precarious rooftops, his booming encouragement often interspersed with good-natured taunts about their "fancy magic" not being much use when dangling from a loose drainpipe. Hasel, drawing on years of Quidditch reflexes, found a surprising aptitude for the climbing and leaping, though her landings often lacked grace. Hermione, initially more hesitant, approached each challenge with meticulous observation, her analytical mind breaking down the movements, much to Jacob's amusement. "Still thinkin' too much, Granger!" he'd bellow. "Feel it, don't just dissect it!"
Yet, even Jacob had to admit their progress was rapid. What they lacked in ingrained street-smarts, they made up for in sheer determination and a desperate need to adapt. Their magical abilities, too, began to find small, practical applications within the Rookery, always discreetly, always with an awareness of the unease it could still provoke in some. Hermione, with a quick, whispered charm, mended torn tunics and patched leaky buckets, earning grateful nods from the overworked Rooks tasked with domestic chores. Hasel, discovering a knack for it, would occasionally use a subtle Confundus Charm to misdirect nosy dock guards during minor supply runs, or a well-aimed Levitation Charm to retrieve items dropped into inaccessible crevices, acts that didn't go unnoticed by the more observant members of the gang.
Henry Greene became their most frequent point of contact beyond Jacob. His scholarly curiosity about their magic was insatiable. He would corner Hermione at every opportunity, his notebook perpetually in hand, peppering her with questions about spell theory, magical creatures, and the history of their wizarding world. "The concept of a 'wandless' magic, as you've mentioned is possible for highly skilled individuals, is particularly intriguing," he mused one afternoon, as Hermione patiently explained the basics of Transfiguration using a pebble and a twig. "It suggests the power is truly internal, the wand merely a focusing tool. This aligns with some of the more esoteric Isu texts, which speak of 'the Will and the Word' shaping reality."
"In essence, yes," Hermione agreed, intrigued by the parallels Henry was drawing. "Intent is paramount. The wand helps to channel and refine that intent, especially for complex spells. But the core power resides within the witch or wizard." She paused, a wistful expression crossing her face. "Our education at Hogwarts focused heavily on wand-based magic, of course. It's the accepted, safer method for most."
"Safer?" Henry latched onto the word. "Implying that raw, unfocused magic can be dangerous?"
"Extremely so," Hasel interjected, joining them. She'd been practicing disarming techniques with a rather sullen Rook named Thomas, who seemed to view their presence as an unwelcome aberration. "Uncontrolled magic in children can manifest in unpredictable ways. It's why training begins at a young age." She thought of her own accidental magic, of Aunt Petunia's shattered vase. "It can be destructive if not properly channeled."
Henry nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "Another parallel. The Pieces of Eden, in the wrong hands, or wielded by those without the strength of will or understanding… they too can bring about immense destruction." He looked between them, his expression serious. "Your arrival here, with such abilities… Clara is right to be cautious. Such power, if the Templars were to learn of its true extent, or worse, how to harness it…" He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The ever-present threat of the Templars was a dark undercurrent to their daily lives. Whispers of their activities – a merchant strong-armed into compliance, a Rook informant disappearing without a trace, a new shipment of "arcane curiosities" arriving under heavy guard at a Templar-controlled dock – were constant reminders of the war being fought in the city's shadows. Clara Thorne, often closeted in her makeshift office with her lieutenants, would emerge with new orders, her face etched with a grim resolve.
One evening, as a cold drizzle pattered against the warehouse roof, a new figure entered the Rookery. She moved with a quiet, almost feline grace that contrasted sharply with Jacob's boisterous energy. Her features were strikingly similar to his, but where Jacob's eyes danced with mischief, hers held a keen, analytical intensity. She was dressed in dark, practical attire, a hood pulled low, and the intricate leather bracer on her forearm hinted at a concealed weapon. This, Hasel surmised, must be Evie Frye, Jacob's twin sister, returned from her mission.
Evie's appraisal of Hasel and Hermione was cool and thorough, her gaze lingering on their wands, then on their faces, searching for something Hasel couldn't quite name. "So, these are the 'witches' Jacob has been so… effusive about," Evie said, her voice a low, melodic contralto. There was a note of skepticism in her tone, but also a spark of curiosity. "He claims you can conjure light and move objects with your minds."
"More or less," Hermione replied, meeting Evie's gaze steadily. "It's a bit more complex than that, but yes."
Evie's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. "London is full of charlatans claiming extraordinary abilities. The Templars themselves are not above using superstition and trickery to achieve their ends." She took a step closer. "I, however, prefer tangible results. Show me something that isn't a simple sleight of hand." Her challenge was direct, less about hostility and more about a demand for concrete evidence.
Before Hasel or Hermione could respond, Clara Thorne emerged from her office. "Evie. You're back. Report?"
Evie's attention shifted instantly to Clara, her demeanor becoming all business. "The Templar shipment was well-guarded, as anticipated. But I was able to confirm its contents. Not a Piece of Eden, as we feared, but something… else. Ancient, certainly. Possibly Isu-related, but a minor artifact, according to Henry's preliminary assessment of my sketches." She produced a small, rolled-up piece of parchment from within her tunic. "Starrick has it now, under lock and key in his private vault."
Crawford Starrick. The name had come up before in hushed tones, a Templar Grand Master known for his ruthlessness and his obsession with accumulating power, both mundane and mystical.
Clara took the parchment, her brow furrowed as she examined the sketches. "Minor or not, anything Starrick takes an interest in is cause for concern." She looked up, her gaze sweeping over Hasel and Hermione, then back to Evie. "Perhaps our new associates could provide a… unique perspective on this. Their 'magic' might allow them to perceive things we cannot."
Evie raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking back to the witches. "You'd trust them with something of this importance already, Clara? Based on parlor tricks and Jacob's enthusiasm?"
"Jacob's enthusiasm is rarely a reliable metric," Clara said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "But Henry believes their abilities are genuine. And desperation, Miss Frye, can make for strange but effective alliances. They need to prove their worth, and we need every advantage we can get against Starrick." She turned to Hasel and Hermione. "Tomorrow, you'll accompany Evie and Henry to observe one of Starrick's known properties. No direct engagement. Purely reconnaissance. We need to understand more about his operations, his defenses, and perhaps, what else he's collecting."
The assignment, though clearly a test, sent a jolt of nervous anticipation through Hasel. This was it. Their first real foray into the clandestine war, their first chance to truly contribute, to use their skills for something beyond mending clothes or levitating mugs.
Later that night, huddled in their small alcove, the sounds of the Rookery a muted backdrop, Hermione voiced her own anxieties. "Starrick… the name itself sounds ominous. And going into Templar territory, even just for observation…"
"We'll be careful," Hasel said, though her own heart was thrumming a little faster than usual. "We have to be. This is our chance to show them we're not just a liability, Hermione. That we can actually help." She looked at her wife, her expression softening. The fear was real, the uncertainty a constant companion, but so was the fierce, unwavering bond between them. "And whatever happens," she added, taking Hermione's hand, "we face it together. Just like always."
Hermione squeezed her hand, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. The echoes of their old life, of Hogwarts and the Burrow, felt impossibly distant, like a half-forgotten dream. But here, in the heart of this grimy, gaslit city, amidst strangers who fought a secret war, they were beginning to carve out a new, uncertain path. And for now, that had to be enough.