Fleur took the lead once more, walking ahead with a natural, unbothered grace that allowed her to blend effortlessly with the throng of magical folk bustling about Diagon Alley. Wizards in robes of every imaginable color brushed past them, chatting animatedly or hurrying between shops. Children pressed their faces against shop windows, marveling at displays of floating broomsticks, shimmering enchanted cloaks, and towering stacks of spell books.
Jean and Emma walked in step beside Nova, their minds quietly sifting through the thoughts of the passersby like nets dragging through water. Most of what they picked up were mundane worries — overdue potion supplies, missed appointments, and bets lost on Quidditch matches. But every now and then, something darker, sharper would slip through the mental haze.
A meeting in the old safehouse tonight… mustn't be late…
Need to pass the message to Mulciber. Can't let the Ministry find out…
Through their telepathic link, Nova received these stray thoughts like faint echoes, each one cataloged, sorted, and mentally stored for later use.
As planned, the group eventually scattered. Pietro headed off with Emma, while Jean took Tina with her, leaving Fleur paired with Nova.
As they moved through the street, Fleur cast a sidelong glance at Nova, a faint frown tugging at her lips. Just last night, when she'd quietly gauged his magical reserves out of idle curiosity, she'd sensed that they were roughly on par with a third-year Hogwarts student. It had been a mild disappointment to her — for someone his age, such modest reserves typically hinted at limited magical potential.
But now, barely a day later, those reserves had surged. Not only had they risen to the level of a peak fourth-year student, but the quality of his magic — its density and stability — had also improved dramatically. It was a remarkable change, one that defied what she knew of magical growth. Such rapid progression was virtually unheard of without external intervention, yet she could sense no lingering traces of potions or rituals on him.
Puzzled and with no immediate answer presenting itself, Fleur shook her head lightly and turned her attention back to their task. Together, they stepped through the doors of Flourish and Blotts, the largest bookshop in Diagon Alley, its shelves crammed with everything from beginner spellbooks to dusty tomes of ancient lore.
---
Meanwhile, in the shadowed alleyways of Knockturn Alley, Emma and Pietro made their way deeper into the crooked streets. The air was colder here, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic. Shabby, cloaked figures lingered in doorways, and every shop window displayed sinister curiosities — shrunken heads, cursed artifacts, and forbidden texts.
While moving deeper into the twisting, grimy paths of Knockturn Alley, Emma kept her mental senses stretched wide, skimming the surface thoughts of those they passed. Most were as she expected — dark, unpleasant fragments of greed, paranoia, and casual cruelty.
"Can get ten Galleons for that cursed ring if I sell it before sundown…"
"Filthy blood traitors, hope the Dark Lord comes back soon…"
"Another shipment of troll spleens to move before it rots…"
The ambient mental chatter was like a low, greasy fog, clinging to her skin in a way that made her stomach tighten. Pietro moved beside her, his expression unreadable, though she could feel his tension through their link. Even his usually cocky demeanor was subdued here.
Then it happened. A thought flared through the haze — sharp, specific, and exactly what they were searching for.
"Mustn't be late delivering the Wolfsbane… Fenfir's pack will tear me apart if I miss again…"
Emma's eyes narrowed instantly, her attention snapping to a hunched figure ahead of them. He was cloaked in faded, mud-streaked brown robes, moving with a furtive, hurried gait as though convinced the shadows themselves might be watching him.
Without hesitating, she reached out through their link and signaled Pietro with a brief pulse of thought.
There. Target. Follow him.
Pietro, sharp-eyed as ever, caught on at once and adjusted his pace, his movements so smooth it would have been difficult for any observer to notice the sudden predatory focus that entered his eyes.
Emma, meanwhile, kept a careful, measured distance as she trailed the robed man. As she probed his surface thoughts again, she encountered resistance — faint but unmistakable. His mind was protected, likely by a basic Occlumency barrier. Nothing sophisticated, but enough to alert him if she pushed too hard.
Fortunately, Emma was a master. She shifted her mental touch to a feather-light caress, barely skimming the surface, reading only what leaked through naturally. It was enough.
"…three crates… Wolfsbane… midnight… Fenfir won't wait… can't let the Aurors know…"
Emma's lips curled into a faint, cold smile. This was the lead Nova had asked for — confirmation of the Wolfsbane shipments and the exact connection to Fenfir's werewolf pack.
She continued tailing the man as he turned into a narrower side alley, signaling Pietro with a subtle gesture of her fingers. They would follow, stay close, and if possible, find out where he was making the drop.
-----
The narrow alley the man turned into was a claustrophobic, crooked passage, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Dim, flickering lanterns cast pools of weak, yellow light that barely touched the damp cobblestones. The man's hurried footsteps echoed softly, quick and uneven, betraying his nerves.
Emma's gaze hardened as she moved after him, careful not to make a sound. Pietro kept to the shadows just behind her, his figure little more than a blur when he chose to move. The robed man glanced over his shoulder once, his wary eyes scanning the gloom, but Emma had already pressed a subtle veil of psychic suggestion around them — nothing more than a faint whisper of "nothing important here" — and his gaze slid right past.
But she could feel his mind now. Even through the minor Occlumency shields he'd hastily erected, his fear leaked out like cracks in glass. Emma's lips curled in a cold smirk.
Now.
Without hesitation, she struck. A sharp, precise lance of mental pressure pierced the man's consciousness — not enough to outright crush his mind, but enough to overload his thoughts and drop his barriers. The man stumbled mid-step, clutching his head with a strangled gasp, his breathing ragged as confusion and pain lanced through his brain.
"Wha—?! No… not here—"
Before he could recover, a silver blur shot forward.
Pietro moved like a predator unleashed. In less than a heartbeat, he closed the distance, his fist snapping out in a clean, efficient strike to the side of the man's head. The blow landed with a dull, final thud, and the man crumpled instantly, his body slumping to the ground like a rag doll.
Emma exhaled softly, releasing the mental hold she'd kept on him as his consciousness winked out.
"Well," Pietro murmured, dusting his hands off with a satisfied grin. "That was easier than I expected."
Emma stepped forward, crouching beside the unconscious figure. She placed two fingers to his temple and sent a deeper probe into his mind now that there was no resistance. Images and fragments flickered past — crates of Wolfsbane Potion, dark meeting rooms filled with desperate, ragged werewolves, and a man with sharp yellow eyes she recognized from Nova's briefing: Fenfir, leader of the rogue pack.
Perfect.
Emma straightened and glanced at Pietro. "We've got what we need. His memories confirm the deal with Fenfir's pack — Wolfsbane shipments, meeting points, everything. Nova's going to be very pleased."
Pietro smirked. "I say we leave him in a barrel somewhere. Or… wanna let him wake up and think he had a blackout in Knockturn Alley? Happens all the time."
Emma considered it for a moment before giving a faint, elegant shrug. "Dump him in that corner. By the time he wakes up, we'll be long gone."
Pietro hauled the man's limp form to a shadowed nook between two crumbling walls, leaving him sprawled there like a drunken vagrant. Emma sent one last pulse of suggestion into his unconscious mind — fogging over the memory of his attackers, planting a vague, muddled impression of too much Firewhisky and an unlucky fall.
Then, without a word, the two of them melted back into the shadows of the alley, moving swiftly toward the rendezvous point.
Another successful lead secured.