Chapter Text
I.
Below the surface
The heat of the day hung heavily over the city. It had settled between the rows of buildings as if it had decided to stay. After the past weeks, during which England had experienced a summer for the century, even underground it had become barely more bearable. The stale air in the Underground station was thick enough to cut and vibrated with voices and the metallic screech of arriving and departing trains. People hurried past one another—on their way to work, home, running errands. Stressed, lost in thought, hurried.
Among them moved a woman who went entirely unnoticed, appearing completely ordinary — and yet she could not have been more unusual.
She was tall and slender, with a posture that seemed automatically straightened, as if she were accustomed to constant vigilance. A casual observer might have taken her for one of the many London office workers in the government district — black tailored trousers, a white blouse, dizzyingly high heels. Her long black hair was tied into a bun, though after a long workday a few strands had taken on a life of their own. A brown trench coat hung over her arm — it was far too warm for a coat, even down here.
With her free hand, she pulled a small plastic card from her pocket. In passing, she held it against the reader at the entrance to Charing Cross station. A brief, matter-of-fact beep, the turnstile gave way, and together with hundreds of other commuters she disappeared into the belly of the city.
No one paid attention to her.
Exactly as it should be.
The escalator carried her down to the Northern Line platform. It was populated by the colorful mixture of Londoners that had always defined the city: businesspeople, tourists, students with backpacks, and women with strollers. The woman with the trench coat positioned herself among them.
The train arrived. Doors hissed open. She stepped inside.
After work hours, the trains were full. Sweating people stood shoulder to shoulder, holding onto metal poles. The woman did the same. She found a place near one of the doors and loosely wrapped one hand around the handrail, her gaze seemingly uninterested, directed at an advertisement panel.
Next station: Leicester Square.
The train plunged into the tunnel.
She noticed the man almost immediately.
Not because he was staring at her. In fact, he did the opposite. He stood a few meters away, half concealed behind a chattering group of Asian tourists with large cameras and even larger backpacks, and he looked like any other commuter: jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, and a face one forgot after two seconds.
But there was something about him that felt off.
She let her gaze wander seemingly aimlessly through the carriage, bored, over other advertisements and strollers with crying babies inside. And in that moment, their eyes met.
He knew it.
Not who she was.
But what she was.
Wizards often recognized their own by things that could hardly be described. By an almost imperceptible tension in posture, by the faint trace of magic that, even in Muggle clothing — no matter how inconspicuous — could never be entirely concealed.
She immediately looked away again.
Leicester Square.
The doors opened. People pushed out, new ones pushed in. She remained where she was. The man did not move.
The train set off again.
Now she was certain.
A feeling she knew all too well crept into the back of her neck. First thing Aurors learnt was to trust their instincts — and she had trained under the best of them.
Perhaps he was harmless.
Next station: Tottenham Court Road. Change here for Central Line and Elizabeth Line.
Perhaps not.
The train rattled on through the tunnel. Her gaze moved through the compartment, counting exits, discreetly scanning movements and faces.
Tottenham Court Road.
The man was still there.
Were there more of them in the carriage?
Next station: Goodge Street.
The air was warm and smelled of metal and a mixture of perfume, sweat, and cigarette smoke.
The man did not move. At least he did not come any closer.
Goodge Street.
He did not get off.
Two more stations.
Then she would disappear.
Next station: Warren Street. Change here for Victoria Line.
The train slowed again.
This time, the man moved — just a single step.
Warren Street.
He still did not get off.
But she could feel him drawing closer behind her.
Next station: Euston. Change here for Victoria Line, London Overground and National Rail Services.
It could still be coincidence.
The train braked.
She decided in the same second.
Euston.
The doors opened with a hiss. She released the handrail and stepped forward, seemingly on impulse, as though she had only decided at the last moment to get off.
The platform was noticeably less crowded than Charing Cross, yet still busy enough. Effortlessly, she disappeared among suitcases, strollers, backpacks, and briefcases.
She let herself be carried out of the station by the flow of people, moving with the fluid speed of someone who knew exactly where she was going.
Did she hear footsteps behind her?
Perhaps.
She did not turn around.
Her free hand slipped into her trouser pocket and closed around the handle of her wand.
She followed the stream of people toward the exit.
Escalator. Hall. Turnstiles.
Taxis honked, bus brakes screeched, travelers streamed across the forecourt. Pigeons fluttered upward as someone hurried too quickly toward them.
The woman turned sharply around the corner of the building and disappeared behind a dumpster.
It happened within a second.
Where a person had just stood, a large black bird landed on the asphalt.
It beat its wings once, hopped between the pecking pigeons, and looked around.
No one paid attention to it.
Pigeons cooed. Another raven landed a few meters away.
The black bird watched the crowd. The man from the Underground was nowhere to be seen.
The agreed meeting point was at King’s Cross station. But if someone had truly followed her, it was safer to abandon the planned route.
The raven spread its wings. With a powerful beat, it rose into the heated London air.
When it finally reached Grimmauld Place, the bird descended onto the wrought-iron railing of a small green square. There it remained, sitting quietly.
Watching.
Its head turned slowly, attentively. The street lay quiet. A child rode a bicycle along the pavement, followed by his stressed-looking mother, while a grumpy-looking elderly man watered his balcony plants.
Several minutes passed.
Then a tall figure appeared at the end of the square.
The man approached the green square on foot, his gaze fixed relentlessly ahead. Despite the scorching heat, he wore a long black cloak that billowed behind him as he walked. An unusual sight, even for London. But that did not seem to concern him. His stride was steady and calm, showing no trace of haste or doubt.
As he drew closer to the railing where the raven sat, he lifted his gaze. Then he stopped and studied the bird.
"I had hoped you would already be here," he said quietly.
The raven jerked its head, beat its wings once, and lifted into the air. The man resumed his path, now more hurried, and walked straight toward the houses numbered eleven and thirteen. The less distance he left between himself and the buildings, the more their appearance began to change.
At first barely noticeable — then more and more clearly.
As if responding to a secret signal, they seemed to shift aside, making room for a gap between them. Into that space, piece by piece, a third building slid into view. It grew larger and larger, dark window frames emerging from the greyed facade, and three steps folded out toward the entrance door.
The man climbed them effortlessly. At the same moment, the raven landed on the railing beside the top step. A brass knocker in the shape of a snake hung on the heavy door. The man grasped it and knocked hard three times.