The cold air of the evening lingered on Caelum's coat as he walked down the quiet cobblestone street, his steps echoing faintly in the silence. The party had concluded hours ago, but the weight of what he had observed remained firmly settled in his mind.
He had blended in well. None of the pure-blood families had suspected his presence. His fabricated identity had held strong, and his conversation with a few influential figures had granted him small but intriguing leads. But it wasn't enough yet. Not nearly enough.
The Black family's ties, the sudden shifts in underground dealings, the murmured mentions of forbidden artifacts—it was all tangled together, but the threads were still too loose to pull tight.
Caelum knew one thing for certain: the deeper he went, the uglier this would get.
And he was already in too deep to turn back.
When he returned to his temporary residence in London, a flat arranged by one of Dumbledore's old contacts, he carefully removed his disguise spells and crossed the room to the pile of reports waiting on his desk. The familiar weight of parchment, sealed envelopes, and coded messages sat like an unspoken dare.
Hours slipped by as he sifted through the information, cross-referencing names, locations, and movements. There were patterns here—subtle ones. A specific group seemed to be moving resources through less regulated magical districts. Smuggling? Likely. But the frequency of the shipments and the high volume of secrecy around them suggested something more.
Caelum leaned back, eyes narrowing as a name surfaced repeatedly across different reports: The Silvershard Circle.
He'd heard of them in passing. An old, exclusive group that was supposed to have dissolved years ago after several of their members were arrested for illegal artifact trading. Their reappearance now was not a coincidence.
But what stood out wasn't just their resurgence—it was the list of recent abductions that were happening along the same trade routes. The Ministry had dismissed them as unrelated, as simple muggle disappearances or minor criminal acts.
But Caelum knew better.
No criminal organization would risk moving this quietly for something so simple.
The pattern wasn't loud. It wasn't even clear to most eyes. But to Caelum, who had spent years unraveling webs like this, it was practically glowing.
They weren't smuggling artifacts alone.
There were people being moved.
People who weren't showing up again.
His fingers tapped the edge of the desk, a slow rhythm as his thoughts clicked together.
This wasn't just theft.
This was preparation.
The door creaked as one of Dumbledore's trusted messengers, an older witch with quick eyes, stepped inside and handed him a sealed letter before retreating without a word.
He cracked the wax and read.
It wasn't much—just confirmation that the Silvershard Circle was expected to meet again in two weeks, this time in a more secluded part of Knockturn Alley.
Another lead.
Caelum folded the letter, his mind already working through the next steps. He needed to dig deeper into this group, but he couldn't afford to tip his hand. If the Circle realized they were being followed, they would vanish again.
For now, he would watch.
He would wait.
But the faintest tension in his gut told him something more was coming. Something bigger than political games and forbidden trades.
His gaze drifted toward the small window overlooking the street, the city quiet beneath the night sky.
This wasn't just another job.
Something darker was moving beneath the surface, and if his instincts were right, it would reach Hogwarts before long.
The knock at his door broke his train of thought.
He opened it to find Dumbledore himself, the old man's presence calm but sharp.
"May I come in?" Dumbledore asked.
"Of course," Caelum stepped aside.
Dumbledore settled into a chair, his fingers lightly drumming the armrest. "I trust the party proved useful?"
"It did," Caelum replied, pouring them both a drink. "Though what I found is more disturbing than I expected. There's a pattern here. People are going missing. Quietly. Efficiently."
Dumbledore's eyes darkened slightly. "I had suspected as much. The Circle does not resurface without purpose."
"I plan to follow this lead," Caelum said. "But I'll need to be careful. They're well-protected. Even the Ministry's intel on them is frustratingly thin."
Dumbledore accepted his drink with a slight nod. "Do what you must, but exercise caution. These are not people who will hesitate to kill, especially when they realize who is watching them."
"Understood."
They drank in silence for a few moments, the weight of the conversation settling between them.
Dumbledore finally spoke again, his voice soft but deliberate. "There's something else. A whisper, no more than a rumor, but it aligns with what you've found. Some say this isn't merely artifact smuggling. Some say they're preparing for something larger—a summoning."
Caelum's fingers stilled on his glass. "A summoning?"
"A demon."
The word hung in the air, cold and heavy.
"It's not confirmed," Dumbledore added quickly. "But the whispers are persistent."
Caelum processed the information carefully. Summoning a demon wasn't simple. It required preparation, power, and something more—something the average dark wizard wouldn't dare to attempt.
"What's the Ministry doing about this?" Caelum asked.
"Nothing," Dumbledore said, a faint trace of bitterness in his tone. "They believe the reports to be exaggerated. A smuggler's tale. They see no pattern."
"Convenient."
"Or willfully blind."
Caelum exhaled through his nose, the tension building in his chest. "Then I'll continue to follow this myself. If they're planning a summoning, I need to find out what they're sacrificing."
Dumbledore's gaze was distant. "Be careful, Caelum. This isn't just another criminal ring. If they succeed—"
"They won't."
The words left Caelum's mouth before he could stop them. Not as a boast, but as a promise.
He would make sure of it.
Dumbledore rose, his robes whispering softly as he moved toward the door. "Keep me informed."
"Always."
When the door closed, Caelum let the room fall into silence.
A summoning.
Missing people.
The Circle moving in the shadows.
It wasn't finished.
Not even close.
---
Tracking the Silvershard Circle was proving to be more frustrating than Caelum initially expected. His web of contacts offered little, and the names he gathered were either too cautious or already missing. Still, he pressed on, moving through the hidden layers of the magical world where polite society turned a blind eye.
His patience paid off when a lead finally surfaced—a merchant by the name of Elias Kerr, a known handler of rare magical items, and someone with quiet connections to forbidden circles. Kerr was due to attend a private gathering soon, one that Caelum had no invitation for. But that was never going to stop him.
For the next two days, Caelum tracked Kerr's movements, watching him drift from pubs to shadowy alleys. Kerr had a predictable routine, a creature of habit too comfortable in his secrecy.
It wasn't hard to catch him alone.
On the evening of the gathering, Caelum cornered him in a quiet street, cast a silencing ward, and incapacitated him with a quick charm that would keep him unconscious for hours. Caelum knelt, studying Kerr's face, then carefully layered a disguise spell over himself, adjusting his appearance and even matching Kerr's magical signature.
His imitation was flawless—at least for the time he needed.
The gathering was held in an aging estate hidden by layered wards. Caelum passed through each one, using the pass phrases and minor tokens he had stripped from Kerr's person.
The interior was lavish, filled with low-burning candles and pure-blood families chatting over fine drinks and empty pleasantries. But there was tension beneath the surface. Some families looked genuinely invested, while others seemed merely cautious observers.
Caelum moved through the halls as Kerr, catching fragments of conversation.
Mentions of 'shipments' arriving on schedule.
Discussions of rare materials used in complex rituals.
There was something more than simple trading going on here. Something structured. Something deliberate.
Among the guests, Caelum briefly caught sight of the Potter family—Harry's parents and his younger sister, Lilian, accompanied by Ginny Weasley. Caelum made no effort to approach. He knew his place in this disguise—Kerr wouldn't be seen mingling with them.
Instead, he slipped closer to a group of men talking in a low, serious tone.
"All the pieces are moving into place," one said, his voice gruff. "The preparation is nearly complete."
"Just a few more… shipments," another murmured, glancing around with a sharp edge to his gaze.
Caelum didn't need them to spell it out. The way they danced around the details said enough. Human trafficking. Sacrifices. It explained the growing list of missing persons reports that had been trickling into his investigation.
But to what end? They weren't just after money.
Something was being summoned.
A chill crept into Caelum's bones, but he kept his face neutral, pretending to sip from his glass as the men shifted topics to mundane business.
He stepped away, weaving through the crowd, when a soft, melodic voice called out behind him.
"Kerr?"
Caelum turned carefully, his gaze landing on a woman he had briefly noticed earlier—a striking beauty with silver-blonde hair and an elegance that seemed almost too perfect.
Something about her presence pulled at him in a way he didn't like.
"You've been rather quiet tonight," she said, offering a polite smile.
Caelum matched Kerr's persona, offering a slight shrug. "Long night. I've been keeping to myself."
Her eyes studied him a little too intently. "That's not like you."
Caelum forced a dry chuckle. "Perhaps I'm just here for the drinks this time."
She tilted her head, as if she were deciding whether to press further. "Just don't drift too far from the important conversations. Some things are worth hearing."
"I'll keep that in mind," Caelum said smoothly, bowing his head before moving to leave.
Her gaze lingered on him as he walked away, the weight of her attention sticking to his back.
Something about her felt off, but he couldn't place what.
Not yet.
He left the estate soon after, unraveling the disguise spell as he slipped into the shadows of a quiet street. His mind replayed the details of the night—the cryptic discussions, the thinly veiled mentions of shipments and rituals, and the woman whose presence left him unsettled.
There was no question now.
The Circle was working toward something dangerous.
And Caelum would uncover exactly what.
Step by step.
Without rushing.
Without drawing too much attention.
Because what he found tonight was just the edge of something much, much larger.
And he knew better than to assume he had seen the worst of it.
---
The backroom of the Silvershard estate was thick with smoke and tension. Edwin Greaves leaned against a mahogany table, carefully watching the men gathered around him. Smugglers. Brokers. Old names with new debts. Every one of them desperate enough to risk what they were about to do.
"This," Edwin tapped a crate stamped with neutral shipping seals, "is the last shipment for this cycle. Everything after tonight is high-risk. The Aurors have started sniffing around."
Across from him, a man named Corbin frowned, his fingers drumming on the table's edge. "What about the patrol schedules? I was told they'd be handled."
"They were. For now," Edwin said, folding his arms. "But I'm not paying you to gamble on 'for now.' We need to move these pieces carefully."
Corbin's lip twitched, his frustration poorly hidden. "And what exactly are we risking all this for? You've been dancing around the point for weeks."
Edwin's eyes narrowed. He didn't like answering questions, but loose ends were worse.
"Our employer wants a demon summoned. A controlled summoning. Not some reckless, half-baked ritual. It's precise, it's expensive, and it requires very specific… materials."
Corbin's frown deepened. "The missing people?"
"Necessary," Edwin said without flinching. "The soulbinding process demands living vessels. The rest of their—" he paused, choosing his words "—components, are divided among other clients."
It disgusted him, sometimes. But gold outweighed squeamishness.
Another smuggler, a younger man with a sharp jaw and nervous hands, shifted in his seat. "And what happens after? Summon a demon? What's the endgame?"
"That's above our pay grade," Edwin replied bluntly. "We deliver. We arrange. We keep quiet. The rest isn't our concern."
But it wasn't that simple. Even Edwin knew the game was bigger than their part.
He had seen the cloaked figure who occasionally attended their exchanges. The one who never spoke directly to them but carried the weight of old, dangerous magic. Whoever was pulling the strings wanted something from the demon. Power. Bargaining chips. Maybe both.
"Is the Potter family still poking around?" someone asked.
"They're busy with their own affairs," Edwin muttered. "Besides, most of them wouldn't look twice at dealings like this. They sit in their towers and forget that the filth crawls just under their boots."
Corbin smirked. "What about that 'Kerr' fellow? He was acting odd last night. Didn't mingle like usual."
"Could've been nothing," Edwin shrugged, but made a mental note. Suspicion was a slow poison if left unchecked.
There was another knock at the door.
One of Edwin's guards slipped in, whispering something into his ear. Edwin's brow lifted.
"Seems another shipment's been delayed," he said, glancing at the gathered men. "Which means we're short. Again."
Corbin's expression soured. "We can't afford delays. The next phase is in weeks, and we still haven't secured enough vessels."
"I know."
"Then what's the plan?"
Edwin's fingers tapped the table again, thoughtful. "We source from the smaller villages. Less noise. Less attention."
"They'll notice eventually."
"By then, we'll be gone."
The smugglers exchanged uneasy looks. They were all in this too deep now.
Edwin straightened, his voice cold. "The buyers are getting impatient. The summoning is scheduled. If we fail, we don't just lose gold—we lose our necks."
The room fell silent. Each man weighed his greed against the growing noose around their operation.
"We press on," Edwin said, finalizing the decision. "We secure the remaining vessels, move the shipments, and tighten security. No more loose tongues."
He let his gaze linger on each of them, a silent warning.
"No one leaves until this is done."
Corbin rose, face set in grim determination. "Fine. But I want to know if that 'Kerr' fellow turns up again. If he's compromised, we cut him loose."
Edwin gave a nod. "Agreed. No liabilities."
As the smugglers filed out, Edwin stayed behind, staring at the crates, the ledgers, and the careful network they'd built over months.
His hands were steady. His mind was clear.
But something still gnawed at him.
Something about the way the stranger had moved at the party.
How he'd listened without asking too many questions.
How he'd vanished just a little too quickly.
Edwin wasn't a paranoid man by nature.
But this?
This smelled wrong.
And in his line of work, instincts were often the only thing that kept a man alive.
---
The fire crackled softly in the corner of the dimly lit room, the only source of warmth in the old hideout where the smugglers had gathered. Maps were strewn across the table, marked with red ink, circles, and shifting dates. The silence between the men wasn't one of comfort—it was one of calculation.
"You sure about the next shipment?" one of them asked, leaning forward, his scarred fingers tapping against the edge of the wooden table. His name was Morric Vale, and he had been running these routes for years—never asking questions, never getting involved in the 'why.' Only the gold mattered.
Across from him sat Garen Thorne, younger, sharper, and more ambitious than most. His gaze didn't waver. "It's confirmed. They'll arrive in two days. If the wards hold, no one will even know they've passed through the southern checkpoints."
"And the… product?" another man, older, grayer, but no less dangerous, muttered, barely raising his head from his ledger.
"Twenty-seven this time," Garen replied, his voice disturbingly casual. "Young, healthy. No ties. No one to come looking."
Morric scowled but said nothing. There was a time when even he would have hesitated at this kind of cargo, but the pay had been too good, and eventually, the weight of those decisions dulled. Survival left little room for guilt.
"It's not just the usual exchanges anymore," the gray-haired man said, closing his ledger and folding his arms. "Our buyers aren't interested in money or favors. They're asking for something else now."
"Souls." Garen's lip curled slightly, as if even saying the word left a bitter taste. "They don't call it that, of course. They dress it up with ritualistic garbage, but we know what it is."
"Who the hell are these people?" Morric muttered, unease flickering briefly in his eyes. "No one in the Ministry's this deep. Even the Black family never dared go this far."
Garen's expression tightened. "The Black family's involved, though not all of them. There are splinter groups now. Some chasing things even Voldemort wouldn't openly speak of."
The name hung heavily in the room.
They didn't fear the Ministry. They didn't fear Aurors. But Voldemort's name—despite everything—still carved an instinctive hesitation in men like them.
"He's gone," the gray-haired man muttered. "It's just whispers now."
"Whispers don't organize human trafficking rings," Morric shot back. "Whispers don't funnel relics into the underground and gather sacrifices."
Garen's voice dropped lower. "Some say he's not trying to come back. Some say he's preparing for something else. Something worse. And these shipments? They're not for his return. They're for something he's trying to bring here."
Silence settled again, but this time, it felt like it clung to their skin.
Morric finally let out a breath, pushing his chair back. "Look, I don't care about their plans. We move the cargo. We take the gold. That's our part. We don't get involved in their games."
"Easy to say now," the gray-haired man grunted. "What happens when whatever they summon doesn't stop at their doorstep? What happens when it starts crawling toward ours?"
Garen shook his head, his gaze sharp, resolute. "By then, we'll be gone. Or we'll have bought enough favors to disappear."
Morric wasn't convinced, but arguing was pointless. None of them were walking away from this. They were already too deep.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door—a quiet, deliberate rhythm that matched their internal code. One of their lookouts slipped inside, glancing between the men. His face was pale.
"You might want to hear this," he said carefully. "There was someone at the gathering. A man using another's face. He slipped in and out without raising a fuss, but some of the guests noticed."
Morric's jaw clenched. "A Ministry rat?"
"Doesn't look like it. None of the usual tails. Some suspect he's freelance. Maybe tied to Dumbledore's people."
The room tensed.
"Find him," Garen ordered without hesitation. "Quietly. No panic. If he's digging around, we need to know what he's found—and we need to cut his line before he finds more."
Morric wasn't so sure it would be that easy. Anyone bold enough to sneak into a pure-blood gathering and walk out untouched wasn't someone they could corner in an alley and dispose of quietly.
But they would try.
Because they had no choice.
The wheels were already in motion, and whether they liked it or not, they were caught in them.
-----------------------
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