Eamon reached the exact spot where he’d last seen the suspicious father and son.
He checked every angle—no hiding places anywhere.
Unless they’d Apparated out, there was no way they could disappear that fast.
Even an Invisibility Charm wouldn’t cut it; every public building had anti-Invisibility wards to stop wizards from doing shady shit out in the open.
Had they really just Apparated?
Eamon felt the whole thing was too clean.
He stood there thinking for a moment, then noticed what he’d overlooked.
The truck.
He snapped his head up, but the truck was already gone—rolling straight through the gates into the Rose Pavilion.
Down in the underground warehouse beneath the Pavilion, the truck pulled to a stop.
The driver climbed out.
“Rough day?” the warehouse manager asked, walking over with a couple of golems.
He held up a delivery manifest.
“Let’s see… pasture shipment of meat, eggs, and dairy, right?” “Yeah,” the driver rasped.
One golem opened the cargo doors.
Its crystal eyes lit up and started scanning the load.
Suddenly purple sparks flashed across the crystal surface.
Black-clad figures in tight jumpsuits burst out of the truck and jammed stun batons into the golems.
Wild electricity fried their core runes.
The golems dropped, smoking and twitching.
“Keep it quiet!” the driver snapped.
“We don’t get paid if the goods get damaged.” The noise drew the manager’s attention.
He started to curse, looked up—and the driver’s finger pressed against his forehead.
“Imperio.” The command was low and flat.
The manager’s eyes went glassy for a second, then cleared.
“Done?” a man’s voice called from inside the truck.
“Done.
Come on out.” The man in the ruined “Blooming Season” suit jumped down first.
Then came the “little boy”—except under the warehouse lights his face was clearly that of a grown man.
Not a boy.
A dwarf.
“The rest is on you,” the driver said, straightening his cap.
“This manager will get you upstairs.
I’m going back undercover.
Whatever noise you make from here on, don’t expect me to help.” “Got it,” the dwarf said with a dismissive wave.
He turned to the others.
“You already know the plan.
No need to repeat it.
Move.” “Yes, sir.” The black-clad team hauled wooden crates out of the truck as fast as they could.
The man in the fancy suit grabbed a crowbar and pried one open.
Dim light fell across rows of explosives packed inside.
… The driver waited until everything was unloaded, then started the truck.
He didn’t give a damn what these people did next.
His job was to stay embedded in wizard society and provide support when it mattered.
That was it.
The truck rolled quietly through the underground tunnels.
Then the driver slammed on the brakes.
Eamon stood right in front of the truck, staring straight at him.
The driver felt a sudden, crushing pressure from that ordinary-looking face—especially the eyes, like twin whirlpools pulling him in.
He dropped his gaze fast, letting the shadows hide his face.
Eamon stepped closer.
“Hey—” The engine roared.
The driver floored it and aimed straight for him.
Eamon’s face hardened.
He raised a hand.
A sandstorm exploded upward from the ground.
Gravel and sand hammered the windshield like bullets, cracking the glass and blinding the driver.
More sand got sucked under the wheels.
The truck fishtailed, lost control, and even when the driver tried to lift it into flight it was too late.
The truck slammed sideways into the wall.
Before the driver could shake off the impact, a spell hit him.
A sickening weightlessness yanked him out of his seat.
He floated up, bounced off the ceiling, then slammed back down.
The Levitation Charm—basic as hell, usually just used for moving crates.
But this version was different.
It disrupted the flow of magic itself.
Every time the driver tried to gather power, the spell knocked it apart.
Eamon walked over, flicked his wrist, and the truck dissolved around the driver, dropping him to the floor.
“Who the hell are you?” Eamon asked.
His eyes glowed with a strange light.
Auror training had taught every graduate to specialize in one or two signature curses.
Eamon’s was the Soul-Reading Curse—perfect for interrogation.
Their eyes met.
The driver felt his memories surge forward like pages being ripped open and read by the man in front of him.
“Helping Muggles when you’re a wizard?
You’re a goddamn traitor.” Eamon had already pulled the surface memories.
The driver’s recent activities flashed through his mind.
Pain twisted the driver’s face.
Dark blue-black veins suddenly bulged across his skin.
He threw his head back and let out a raw, wolf-like howl.
Blood rushed to Eamon’s face.
He staggered back a step.
The Levitation Charm shattered under some twisted force.
The driver dropped to his feet, eyes glowing red, and hurled a barrage of fireballs between them.
Flames and smoke filled the tunnel.
The wrecked truck melted in the heat.
The shockwave had nowhere to go and slammed outward in every direction, cracking the walls.
The driver himself was flung backward by the blast.
But in the middle of the fire and dust, Eamon raised his right hand.
An invisible crest on his palm flared as blood rushed through it, becoming sharply visible.
A flawless barrier snapped into place around him.
Fire and heat stopped cold.
The shockwave didn’t even mess up his hair.
It was alchemy-etched magic—some wizard families engraved family crests onto loyal servants so they could use secret, inherited spells.
The crest on Eamon’s hand carried a special protective charm from Lily Potter herself.
“Wait… you’re with the Potter family!” the driver shouted, staring at the glowing mark as he climbed to his feet.
Eamon frowned, unsure what the traitor was getting at.
“You sure as hell don’t have the money to shop here.
Let me guess—you’re with the Potters.
They’re inside the Pavilion right now, aren’t they?” The driver grinned, teeth stained red with blood.
He stood up and jerked his thumb toward the warehouse.
“You’re strong, I’ll give you that.
But taking me down won’t be easy.
The crew inside is ready.
If you don’t stop them fast, half the Rose Pavilion is going up in smoke.”