The three days leading up to the Osiris Club infiltration were a whirlwind of intense preparation. Under Evie's critical eye, Hasel and Hermione practiced their Disillusionment Charms until they could hold them for extended periods, moving like shimmering heat hazes against the backdrop of the grimy Rookery. Evie, though still unable to fully comprehend the mechanics of their magic, recognized its practical application for stealth. She drilled them on silent movement, on blending into crowds, on creating subtle diversions that wouldn't draw undue attention – skills that, she emphasized, were crucial even with the advantage of near-invisibility. "A shimmer in the air is still a shimmer," she'd warned. "If someone's looking for it, or if you bump into a serving tray, your magic won't save you from a cracked skull or a Templar's blade."
Hermione, meanwhile, worked with Henry to gather every scrap of information they could find on The Osiris Club. It was, as Clara had stated, a veritable fortress, known for its exclusivity and its impenetrable security. Its membership comprised some of London's most powerful and influential men – industrialists, politicians, high-ranking military officers – many of whom were known or suspected Templar sympathizers. "Getting in will be the easy part, relatively speaking, if your charms hold," Henry had said, his brow furrowed with concern as he studied the club's floor plans, acquired at great risk by a Rook informant. "Getting out, especially if things go awry, will be another matter entirely."
He had also procured, through less-than-savory channels, a pair of simple, dark dresses for Hasel and Hermione, ones that would, with some modification, allow them to pass as serving staff or perhaps inconspicuous guests' companions, should their Disillusionment Charms falter or need to be dropped. They were a far cry from the elegant robes of the wizarding world or even the practical, if drab, attire they had grown accustomed to in the Rookery, and the restrictive corsetry, even loosened, was a particular torment for Hermione. "Honestly," she'd muttered, struggling with the laces, "it's a wonder women in this era can even breathe, let alone think."
On the night of the gathering, a thick, cloying fog, so common in London's autumn, blanketed the city, a welcome shroud for their clandestine activities. Evie, dressed in the impeccable, if somewhat severe, attire of a lady's companion, would accompany them to the vicinity of the club, providing an outer layer of reconnaissance and a potential extraction route. Jacob, much to his chagrin, was assigned to lead a diversionary team on the other side of the city, a move designed to draw away some of the Templars' more thuggish enforcers. "Keep our witches safe, Evie," he'd said, clapping his sister on the shoulder, his usual bravado tinged with genuine concern. "Or I'll never let you hear the end of it."
The West End was a world away from the squalor of Whitechapel. Grand townhouses, their windows blazing with gaslight, lined the wide, clean-swept streets. The clip-clop of horses' hooves on the cobblestones and the rumble of expensive carriages were the dominant sounds, a stark contrast to the raucous din of the East End. The Osiris Club itself was an imposing edifice of Portland stone, its windows dark and heavily curtained, its ornate entrance flanked by two burly, impeccably uniformed doormen who scrutinized every arrival with an unnervingly keen gaze.
"Remember the plan," Evie murmured as they approached a secluded service alleyway a short distance from the main entrance. "You find a discreet entry point – a servants' door, an open window. Once inside, cast your charms. Blend in. Find the main gathering hall. Starrick will likely be holding court there. Identify the target official, observe the artifact, and gather any intelligence you can. Avoid contact. Avoid confrontation. If you're compromised, create a diversion and get out. I'll be monitoring the perimeter."
Hasel's heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The air in the alley was cold and damp, carrying the faint scent of expensive cigars and decaying refuse. Taking a deep breath, she met Hermione's gaze. A silent understanding passed between them – fear, yes, but also a shared resolve.
"Ready?" Hasel whispered. Hermione nodded, her expression determined. "As I'll ever be."
With a final, reassuring nod from Evie, they slipped deeper into the alley. Hermione, with her knack for such things, quickly identified a slightly ajar cellar door, likely used for deliveries. A whispered Alohomora and the door creaked open, revealing a flight of steep, narrow steps leading down into the club's underbelly.
The cellars were a labyrinth of storerooms, wine racks, and heating pipes, the air thick with the smell of dust, damp stone, and cooking food. They moved cautiously, their wands held ready, every creak of the floorboards, every distant clatter of crockery, sending a jolt of adrenaline through them. Finding a secluded alcove, they quickly cast their Disillusionment Charms, their forms blurring and fading into the shadowy surroundings.
Navigating the club as shimmering distortions was a disorienting experience. They had to move slowly, carefully, acutely aware of their surroundings, of the staff who bustled past, seemingly oblivious to their presence. They ascended a narrow servants' staircase, the sounds of the gathering growing louder – a murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, the faint strains of a string quartet.
They emerged into a lavishly decorated hallway, its walls adorned with heavy velvet curtains and oil paintings in ornate gilt frames. The air here was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and rich food. Following the sounds, they located what appeared to be the main salon – a vast, opulent room, its ceiling high and frescoed, its crystal chandeliers casting a dazzling, almost blinding light.
The room was crowded with men in formal evening attire, their voices a low, rumbling cacophony of self-important pronouncements and sycophantic laughter. Waiters, their faces impassive, moved through the throng with silver trays laden with champagne flutes and delicate canapés. Hasel and Hermione, still under their Disillusionment Charms, found a relatively secluded spot near a towering potted palm, their shimmering forms hopefully inconspicuous amidst the ornate decor.
It didn't take long to locate Crawford Starrick. He stood near a large, marble fireplace, a commanding figure even in this room full of powerful men. His tailored evening suit was impeccable, his silver hair neatly combed, his hawkish features set in an expression of urbane confidence. He was surrounded by a small coterie of admirers, his voice, though not loud, carrying an unmistakable air of authority.
"And the official?" Hasel whispered, her voice barely a breath, hoping the Disillusionment Charm would muffle the sound.
Hermione, her eyes scanning the room with intense focus, murmured back, "I recognize some of these men from the newspapers Henry showed us. That one, by the window, is Lord Ashworth, a prominent magistrate. And the portly gentleman Starrick is currently speaking to… I believe that's Sir Reginald Hargreaves, a Member of Parliament with considerable influence over trade regulations."
As they watched, Starrick, with a theatrical gesture, produced a small, velvet-lined box from his pocket. Even from across the room, Hasel felt a faint, cold prickle, a diluted version of the unsettling energy they had sensed from the crates in Lambeth.
"This, gentlemen," Starrick announced, his voice carrying clearly in a momentary lull in the conversation, "is a small token of my esteem. A relic of a bygone era, said to bring… clarity of purpose to its owner." He opened the box, revealing a small, intricately carved ivory figurine, no bigger than his thumb. It glowed with a faint, sickly yellow light, a miniature echo of the luminescence they had seen in the carriage.
Sir Reginald Hargreaves, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of greed and curiosity, reached for the figurine. "Remarkable, Starrick! Truly remarkable. From what ancient civilization does it hail?"
"Its origins are… obscure," Starrick said, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "But its effects, I assure you, are quite potent. It has a way of… focusing the mind, of stripping away doubt and indecision, allowing one to see the… logical path forward."
As Hargreaves took the figurine, his fingers closing around it, Hasel felt a wave of that cold, tainted energy wash across the room, far stronger now, like a physical blow. She saw Hargreaves flinch, his eyes widening for a moment, his jovial expression faltering. Then, just as quickly, his features smoothed out, his smile returning, though it seemed… harder now, his eyes holding a new, unsettling glint of avarice and ambition.
"Indeed," Hargreaves said, his voice a little too hearty. "I feel… remarkably clear-headed. As if a fog has lifted." He pocketed the figurine. "Thank you, Starrick. A most… enlightening gift."
Hermione gasped, a small, choked sound that Hasel barely caught. "Did you see that? His eyes… the change in his demeanor…"
Hasel had seen it. It was subtle, but undeniable. The ivory figurine, whatever its true nature, had clearly exerted some kind of influence over the Parliamentarian, sharpening his ambition, perhaps, or eroding his inhibitions. It was a chilling demonstration of the insidious power Starrick was wielding.
Their attention was so focused on Starrick and Hargreaves that they almost missed the new arrival. A young man, impeccably dressed in evening attire that seemed almost too formal for his youthful features, entered the salon. He moved with a quiet confidence, his dark eyes sweeping the room with an unnerving intensity. His handsome face was set in an expression of cool amusement, as if he found the entire gathering a rather tedious, if occasionally diverting, spectacle.
Hasel's breath caught in her throat. Her scar, dormant for so long, seared with a sudden, agonizing pain, so intense it almost buckled her knees. She clutched at her forehead, a gasp escaping her lips, her Disillusionment Charm flickering precariously.
Hermione, instantly alerted by Hasel's distress, turned, her eyes widening in alarm. "Hasel! What is it?"
But Hasel could only stare, her blood running cold, her mind reeling with a horrifying, impossible recognition.
The young man, as if sensing her gaze, paused, his head turning slightly. His eyes, cold and calculating, seemed to pierce right through her Disillusionment Charm, meeting hers for a fleeting, terrifying moment. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips.
Tom Riddle. Here. In the heart of the Templar's den. And he knew they were there.