At the same time, in a subway station in South London, several passengers who had just gotten off the last train were standing at the exit taking shelter from the rain.
The sound came down from above the ground, passed through the vents and stairwells, and formed a dull echo in the platform.
"What's going on?" a young man asked, looking up in confusion.
"It sounds like the radio?" his friend said. "But what radio station would broadcast something like that?"
"What is Auror?" another passenger asked.
No one can answer this question.
People started running in the street. An old woman in a raincoat stood by the roadside, looking up at the sky, her lips trembling. "Is God speaking?"
More people ran out of the houses, stood in the rain, and looked up, their faces full of confusion and fear.
Some people began to pray, some began to cry, and some simply stood still.
"Thirty International Auror have invaded London..." an old man in a top hat repeated the sentence, then turned to the person next to him and asked, "What is Auror?"
"I don't know." The person next to him shook his head, his face pale. "But the invasion of London... was it a war?"
In a small pub in East End of London, a few customers who hadn't left were drinking around the bar.
The moment that sound seeped in through the crack in the door, everyone froze in mid-air with their cups in their hands.
"Invasion?" A burly man put down his cup, his expression shifting from bewilderment to a complex excitement. "Who's invading? The Gallic roosters?"
"Are you stupid? Would a French invasion be broadcast in English?" His friend next to him scoffed dismissively.
"Okay." The burly man looked somewhat disappointed for some reason.
On the third floor of a London borough government office, a gray-haired civil servant is looking at a form on his computer screen with a troubled expression.
When he heard that sound, his fingers stopped on the keyboard, and he froze.
"Invade London?" he repeated, as if to make sure he hadn't misheard.
What is Auror?
His colleague next to him poked his head out from the cubicle, his face somewhat stiff. "I don't know, but I think we have to report it."
He picked up the phone and dialed a number, but unfortunately the line was busy.
He dialed another number, but it was still busy.
Everyone in the office was on the phone, but no one got through.
Inside the government office building on Whitehall Street, a junior clerk on night shift is organizing documents.
When that sentence came in, the stapler in his hand snapped askew, stapled two unrelated documents together.
"What's that sound?" He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out.
The rain was heavy, and there was no one on the streets except for the streetlights casting swaying shadows in the puddles.
But the sound continued to echo in the wind, over and over again.
Thirty International Auror have invaded London!
He closed the window, strode into the hallway, and knocked on the door of the office next door.
"Mr. Thompson, did you hear that?"
The door opened, and a middle-aged man with gray hair poked his head out. "What did you hear?"
"That voice... it said something about the International Auror invading London."
I thought it was thunder outside.
"It wasn't thunder, it was a really loud voice!"
Thompson's expression turned serious. He walked out of his office and listened intently in the hallway for a while.
The voice had faded, but it was still faintly discernible.
"I don't know what this is," Thompson said, his voice tense as he tried to remain calm.
"But the phrase 'invading London,' no matter who said it, had to be reported."
To whom should we report this?
"Report this to the duty supervisor first, then escalate it upwards. Call the Ministry of the Home Office's duty line, and I'll contact the security department."
"Good."
The two of them split up and started working separately.
In the next few minutes, the phones in various departments on Whitehall Street began to ring incessantly.
"You heard it too?"
"Yes, what Auror... I have absolutely no clue."
"Is it a code name for a terrorist organization?"
"I don't know, let's report it to our superiors first."
"Where should we report it?"
"We need to work our way up, layer by layer; we can't let this kind of thing get stuck in our hands."
"OK."
The ringing of telephones, footsteps, and whispers mingled together, plunging the entire duty room on Whitehall Street into a bewildered flurry of activity.
At the east end of Baker Street, under that large parasol, six people froze simultaneously.
Eric had just been complaining about the rain getting into his boots, and now his mouth was still open, but he couldn't make a sound.
Marianne's face turned deathly pale in an instant, and her fingers instinctively clenched the hem of her coat.
Thomas muttered something under his breath in German, which few people present could understand, but the anger and panic in his tone were universal.
"What the hell is going on?" the black wizard from the Lighthouse Country muttered, his voice trembling.
Eric realized what was happening, and his face instantly turned deathly pale. "What was that sound?"
Marianne's hand was already on her wand, but her gaze swept across the street; there was nothing in the rain.
"We've been exposed."
She said, somewhat incredulously.
Thomas gritted his teeth and drew his wand. "That voice was talking about us."
Six people stood under the umbrella, the rain pounding against its surface, their faces increasingly grim.
"The mission failed." Marianne finally uttered the words that everyone had realized but no one had dared to say first.
"Nonsense, of course we failed." Eric gripped the umbrella handle until it turned white. "Now our entire team is exposed. The Muggle world knows we're here, and the International Confederation of Wizards— "
He didn't finish his sentence, but everyone knew what the second half meant.
The International Confederation of Wizards sent them on a secret mission.
Now, almost every Muggle in London knows the term " International Auror ".
" The International Confederation of Wizards will kill us," the witch from Kangaroo Country whispered.
"Let's go back to the contact point first." Marianne's tone became decisive.
"First, summarize the situation and then report it to the International Confederation of Wizards. What happens next... is beyond our control."
Six people emerged from under the parasol and quickly dispersed in different directions.
Their footsteps echoed hurriedly in the puddles, but were quickly drowned out by the wind and rain.
The same scene is unfolding simultaneously in every corner of London.
Those International Auror scattered across Baker Street, Bloomsbury, the City of London, Westminster, the South End, and the North End all reacted almost identically the moment they heard that voice.
At the BT Tower, the young man with light blond hair looked down at the silver disc in his hand.
There was no reaction on the surface of the disc, but he heard the sound clearly.
"He didn't even show up," he said in a low voice, a helpless anger in his voice. "We didn't even see a shadow of him from beginning to end."
A short-haired woman stood in the rain atop the Crystal Palace Tower, rainwater streaming down her face, but she remained motionless.
Her expression was calm, but her fingers holding the plate were trembling slightly.
The man in the dark gray suit behind the second-floor window of the Buckingham Palace slowly closed his eyes.
He knew what was going to happen next.
The mission failed, their identities were exposed, and the International Confederation of Wizards must give the Muggle world an explanation.
He was one of them.
Meanwhile, in the Prime Minister's office at 10 Downing Street, the atmosphere was completely different from before.