1949
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The London sky that autumn day was a blackened shroud, clouds thick and brooding. For days, rain had fallen relentless, carving rivers down filthy streets, stirring gutters into torrents of muddy ruin.

The wind tore at branches, scattering dead, decayed leaves across the slick cobblestones below.

The city had basked in a long, feverish summer, the kind that lingered unnaturally after years of war. But where people once had prayed for rain, they now cursed its ceaseless onslaught, the damp creeping through walls, leaving a chill that gnawed to the bone.

Theresa woke not to the steady, ominous rhythm of rain striking her narrow attic window but to the shrill cry of her old alarm clock, piercing through the morning gloom.

She blinked at the cracked glass, where streaks of water glistened like ghosts on the panes. She had time before the streets would teem with the figures she wished to avoid—the twisted, cloaked shadows of Knockturn Alley, lost souls and those who made no attempt to hide their sins.

People like her.

Outside, a gaunt witch placed warped plants beneath a soot-stained awning, while hooded figures drifted along, silent as wraiths. Theresa let out a sigh, rising from the creaking bed that barely held her weight.

On the chipped dresser by the door lay a stale heel of bread and a small bottle of sour milk.

She wasted no time devouring them; each crumb, each sip counted as she weighed her day's choices, knowing every Knut would have to stretch and be carefully bartered.

Her work at the Merchant's Den paid little, just enough to keep her scraping by. Each day she clawed for the smallest comforts, sparing no pride to haggle over bruised apples or scraps of dry meat.

She'd learned—survival here demanded every shred of cunning, and luxury was a weakness she could not afford.

The coins she pocketed came from men too drunk or foolish to know better, but they were as necessary as the air she breathed.

Her hands had become deft at the games she played, watching for the subtle slips, stacking the deck as easily as she might cut a loaf of bread. She took what she needed from them with no remorse—she had no choice.

Other girls hadn't been so lucky. One by one, they had vanished, falling into darker trades, selling whatever innocence remained to survive.

She promised herself she would never follow that path, clinging to her last shreds of dignity like a shipwrecked soul clutching the ragged planks of a sinking boat.

The hours drifted by, her errands a blur of weary faces and the smell of damp rot in the narrow alleys. She bought what she could, slipping between huddled figures in the winding lanes, a ghost among ghosts.

At nightfall, she returned to her room above the tavern, aching to her bones. The months of ceaseless labor and restless nights had burrowed deep into her flesh, cold and unforgiving, like iron nails hammered into her joints.

Her employer's wife, Desdemona, had given her this room in quiet charity, having seen Theresa's desperation when she'd helped her daughter, Calliope, through a strange fever.

Theresa's knowledge of herbs and potions had saved the girl, and since that day, Desdemona had kept her close. But Hamish, her husband, was another matter—a rough man with a disdainful eye, seeing her as yet another mouth to feed.

Sometimes, late at night, Theresa could hear their fights echoing through the thin walls, Desdemona's silence bruised and fearful. She'd once dared to ask about the dark ring around the older woman's eye, but Desdemona had only looked away, her silence louder than any cry for help.

That evening, Theresa twisted a shard of coal between her fingers, brushing the dark dust over her eyes to hide the purplish veins that revealed her exhaustion. Hamish preferred her to look "presentable" for the clientele, merchants and traders who frequented his establishment—a place of grudging respect in the rotting heart of Knockturn Alley.

Descending the creaking staircase, she entered the noisy, smoky haze of the tavern.

She drifted through the room like a shadow, luring the men to the table, guiding them into games they'd already lost. It was easy—they never suspected her, letting greed blind them, fists pounding the table when their coins slipped away.

Tonight, four men sat at her table. Two were barely past thirty, casting leering glances and asking about her marital status.

Theresa only smiled, masking the grind of her teeth as she shuffled the deck. She would win.

"Fuck! That lass won again!" One of the older men cursed, slamming his hand of cards down. He was a dealer in cursed artifacts; she had gathered as much from the earlier conversation. His small, black eyes narrowed, then flicked toward the youngest, who tried to hide a smirk.

"What's so funny, ye runt?" he snarled, but the younger one only shook his head.

"You blame your incompetence on a woman," the young man replied. His friend nudged him, muttering something, but the merchant rolled up his sleeves, his scowl deepening.

"Oh, ye better shut the fuck up before I cut out ye tongue and put it up yer ugly arse," he sneered, pushing back his chair.

Theresa's lip curled in the faintest of smiles, watching him with that same hollow disdain. She had seen his kind a hundred times—more familiar with a tankard than with any measure of real life. Before the tension could boil over, she leaned in, her voice smooth, a velvet trap.

"Gentlemen, no need for trouble. Please, sit down and try again." Her words worked like a spell; the older man grumbled, but he dropped back into his seat.

"One more round," he growled, pushing forward three Galleons. Theresa hid her smirk as she shuffled, already imagining what she would buy with his loss.

A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her pleasure as she felt his gaze, hot and heavy, follow every one of her movements.

"The devil's finest trick is convincing you he doesn't exist," came a low, unfamiliar voice, slicing through the din.

The words startled her, breath catching as she turned, eyes scanning toward the bar, where Desdemona served a pair of cloaked travelers. Her gaze finally settled on a young man with raven-black hair, seated with a quiet, predatory poise. His back was straight, his posture immaculate, yet there was an ease in him that made her pulse quicken.

He sat, a study in shadows and control, tracing a gloved hand along his polished trousers, then leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees with calculated grace.

"And you are?" she asked, her voice a shade too soft as her eyes flicked over his well-tailored robes.

The man took a sip from his drink, gifting her a sly smile. He was dressed in black, save for the crisp white of his shirt—a stark elegance that suited him perfectly, sharpening his presence like a blade.

"Nobody," he answered, his dark eyes lingering. She noted the subtle curl of his black hair at his collar, his gaze simmering with a knowing heat.

"Sorry, have we met?"

She studied his movements, slow and precise, like a cat circling its prey, while her fellow gamblers fidgeted impatiently at the table.

"You weren't at Hogwarts, were you?" he remarked, taking another deliberate sip, deflecting her question as his eyes glinted with something unreadable.

It struck her then: this was not a man who answered questions; he asked them.

"And why would my schooling interest you?" she replied, twisting the deck of cards between her fingers.

"You seem clever. And, if I'm not mistaken, quite skilled—your winning streak is impressive." His gaze traveled over her face, as though capturing each imperfection, every fleck of coal dust and crease of weariness.

He had been watching her.

A strange warmth crept into her hands, and she knew he had seen through her charade. But she met his gaze, unflinching, her voice dropping to a low whisper.

"What is it you want, Mr. Nobody? Why would a man like you be here, in this place?" Her eyes wandered over the crisp lines of his shirt, her mind working behind her calm facade.

"The real question," he replied, voice as smooth as silk, "is why a young woman of your intelligence must stoop to trickery and deceit to survive." His mouth quirked in a hint of a smile, a barely-there acknowledgment of her ruse.

For a fleeting second, his gaze flicked to the ring on her right hand—a single, tarnished reminder of a past life. Shocked, she covered the small token, her expression hardening.

"You've cheated these fools with ease." His eyebrow arched, voice a soft, knowing murmur.