0684 The Culprit
London, South Heathmans Road
A dirty river flowed alongside the residential area, its murky waters were partially concealed by thin, ghostly mist that rose from its polluted surface. The pungent sll of stagnant water and industrial waste perated the damp night air.
Weeds—not the delicate wildflowers that might beautify a countryside adow, but resilient, persevering ones that thrived in neglect grew rampantly on both banks of the polluted river, their twisted roots were intertwined with discarded plastic bottles, rusted tal cans, and soaking cardboard.
The remains of what was once a brick chimney, left behind by an abandoned textile mill that had once provided livelihood to the neighborhood, now stood as the tallest structure in the dilapidated residential area. Under the weight of the low-hanging night sky, the chimney stood tall, sinister and ominous.
Decades of industrial smoke had stained its bricks a permanent black colour and vines had begun the slow process of reclaiming it for nature.
An eerie silence covered the area, broken only by the soft consistent gurgling of the dark river as it andered sluggishly through the deep night. The occasional distant wail of a police siren or the muffled bass from a car stereo passing several streets away only emphasized the remoteness of this forgotten place.
There was hardly a sign of life in this desolate place, except for a skinny fox sneaking down the riverbank, hopefully sniffing at the grease-stained wrapping paper of discarded fish and chips deep within the overgrown grass.
At this precise mont, with a soft pop, a slender, hooded figure suddenly materialized by the river's edge, seemingly from thin air itself. The fox froze mid-movent, its muscles tensing in instinctive fear, and its eyes were widening and focusing upon this strange new figure.
The figure stood perfectly still for several heartbeats. Then, slowly, the newcor's gaze fell upon a nearby wall, beside her, covered in bizarre graffiti. She searched for a certain mark among those patterns which were lacking of any art or logic. After a mont, she found the information she wanted to confirm.
With a small nod of satisfaction, the woman in the gray trench coat- as it was indeed a woman, despite her efforts at concealnt— casted a final glance around the deserted area to ensure that her sudden appearance had not been noticed by anyone, then quickly walked into a cobblestone alley.
The network of alleys she entered was a confusing maze of crisscrossing passages—a relic of dieval urban planning that had sohow survived centuries of London's developnt.
The claustrophobically narrow passages, barely wide enough for two people to walk together, were lit only by occasional street lamps with flickering light bulbs that casted more shadows than lighting.
The narrow passages, the flickering street lamps, and the almost identical dilapidated houses that were on both sides of these passages created a peculiar optical illusion. Anyone wandering these passages without purpose might have an unsettling sensation that no matter how long or how far they walked, they were trapped in the sa mont, standing still while the world looped around them in an architectural Möbius strip.
But the woman in the gray coat was not one to wander aimlessly. She moved with the confidence of soone who had morized a complex route, navigating the bewildering turns and intersections with certainty.
She passed one alley after another, seemingly not at all worried about the evil that might breed in this mostly dark Muggle residential area.
In this way, the woman in the coat arrived at the depth of the maze ford by a series of broken brick houses and stopped in front of a dilapidated house with windows boarded up.
Looking around, not many rooms in this area had lights on, and this house in front of her had no electric light. Only when approaching could one see the candlelight in the room that was greatly weakened by the oil-soaked gauze and the nailed boards.
The woman in the coat stood at the door for a mont, calming her breathing that had beco disordered from the recent hurried walk. Then, she knocked on the wooden door, which was covered with a layer of paper pulp, at a specific frequency.
"Co in, Jasna, you know there's only in here—" A male voice, carrying notes of both boredom and mild frivolousness, drifted through the door.
It was a house that looked the sa inside and out. Most of the paint on the interior walls had peeled off after a long ti in a dark and damp environnt. Even the subtle vibration from opening the door caused the peeling paint to fall like dust.
In an area of only about 20 square ters, there was a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and toilet. On the wall near the window was a gas stove, and the trash can next to it was filled with moldy, rotten potatoes. Next to the bed opposite the entrance door was a flush toilet with cracks from the base.
Don't expect furnishings like a sofa or TV in such a room. The sloped-legged but intact-painted coffee table in the center of the room was the last bit of decency in this place.
After entering the room, Jasna finally took off her hood. Her shoulder-length brown curls, which had been tucked into the hood, flowed down her shoulders, still shimring even in the dim candlelight.
She glanced around at the environnt in the room, ignoring the blond young man who had spoken earlier and was leaning against the headboard with his feet crossed on the edge of the bed, admiring a Muggle magazine full of sexy Muggle won wearing underwear. Instead, her gaze fell on a middle-aged man standing in the corner like a coat rack.
Calling him middle-aged wasn't quite accurate. Judging from the fineness of the skin on the man's wrists and neck, he seed to be only in his twenties. However, the slovenly shirt and scruffy stubble made it easy to misjudge his age.
Jasna strolled up to the man who stood as straight as a coat rack and carefully examined his gray, decaying skin and the eyes rolled up in their sockets, showing only the bloodshot whites, as if appreciating a piece of craftsmanship.
"Not bad, Aeschylus—" After completing her circuit around the standing figure, Jasna's lips moved subtly, pulling into a contemptuous smile. Her voice, lodious yet cold, carried notes of reluctant approval.
"Oh, thanks—" The blond youth nad Aeschylus responded with nonchalance, his attention seemingly absorbed by the images in his magazine.
Jasna withdrew her evaluating gaze from the man and clasped her hands behind her back, beginning a slow circuit of the cramped room.
Her voluptuous hips traced an incredibly alluring curve, and Aeschylus, like a cat slling fish, sat up straight in one swift motion, greedily watching Jasna's wiggling buttocks wrapped in dark blue skinny jeans.
"I really don't quite understand—"
Completing another survey of the squalid room, Jasna's gaze skimd over the cracked toilet facility as if contact, even visual, might sohow contaminate her. Her cold eyes showed disgust as they moved away from the disgusting sight.
"How do these Muggles tolerate such awful conditions?"
She asked, genuine bewildernt tinging her disdainful tone.
"Nothing strange about it—" Aeschylus began, before his words were interrupted by his own audible gulp as he swallowed hard, "Beasts do have an extraordinary tolerance in this regard—" he continued, his eyes never leaving Jasna's body with a lecherous look.
"If you dare look at with those eyes again, I'll turn you into the sa thing as this Muggle, Aeschylus—" Jasna finally stopped tolerating Aeschylus's offensive gaze. Her face was frosty, and her wand peeked out from under her sleeve.
Seeming to recognize that Jasna's threat was not an empty one, Aeschylus reluctantly shifted his gaze away from her figure. With a sulky gesture, he imdiately raised the magazine in his hands higher, creating a barrier between them. "What exactly did you co here for?" He asked lazily, his attention apparently returning to the provocative Muggle won displayed on the pages in front of him.
"Believe , Aeschylus, I absolutely do not want to see you unless it is absolutely necessary—" Jasna's posture shifted as she stood straight.
The movent caused the outline of her breasts to strain briefly against her black turtleneck sweater—an unintentional display that did not escape Aeschylus's peripheral vision.
"Mr. Raman sent specifically to inquire—" Jasna's sharp eyes seed to burn through the magazine, fixing directly on Aeschylus's pale face with uncomfortable intensity. "How is your assigned task progressing? Has that thing been dispatched as planned?"
"What do you think?" Aeschylus responded evasively, turning a page of his magazine with exaggerated casualness. His expression suddenly brightened as he apparently encountered sothing particularly stimulating on the new page, causing his crossed legs to twitch involuntarily with barely suppressed excitent.
"If that is indeed the case, then why, pray tell, are you still here?" Jasna's voice underwent a sudden transformation, dropping several degrees in temperature until it seed capable of frosting the already damp air between them.
"Surely you don't have the delusion that you're safe hiding in this miserable hovel? Even if the British Ministry of Magic is currently full of incompetent fools and political bootlickers, they still have the magical capability to track the signature of dark magic to this location.
Or perhaps in your arrogance, you believe that figures of the caliber of Albus Dumbledore and Bryan Watson will simply stand idle while that Mudblood champion ets her end, without investigating the parties responsible for orchestrating her demise?"
"Relax, Jasna—" Recognizing that his casual attitude would no longer do, Aeschylus released a theatrical sigh of resignation.
He rolled up the magazine tightly and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his palms, then in one fluid motion jumped off the sagging bed and stretched his body like a cat awakening from a nap. "Hogwarts is on holiday break now. For Hermione Granger to receive our 'special gift', she'll have to wait at least a week—"
"If she remains at the school during the break, perhaps that would be the case," Jasna interjected, a note of impatience creeping into her voice.
"I played a little trick—" Aeschylus reached down to pick his jacket from where it had been carelessly tossed at the foot of the bed. His voice carried unmistakable smugness as he continued, "That thing won't be officially dispatched until after the classes resu—"
Jasna's tone paused for a mont before she continued, "Since you have apparently completed the task Mr. Raman assigned, then hurry up and leave from British soil. If the British Ministry of Magic doesn't implent border sealing procedures next, that would be strange. According to the information we have, Bryan Watson has a close relationship with Kakus Fawley, which may an that the smuggling routes we've used before may no longer be safe—"
"Oh—" Aeschylus raised his pale eyebrows in an expression of exaggerated surprise. "Oh, I must thank you, Jasna, you've given a reminder—"
Under Jasna's puzzled gaze, Aeschylus narrowed his blue eyes and showed a playful smile. "Perhaps, before my departure, I should leave our friends at the Ministry a few additional surprises to rember by..."
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