The Scourers were a corrupt group of vigilantes and eugenicists operating in the New World in the absence of a magical government. They deemed themselves the enforcers of magical law in the colonies, and took on the role of bounty-hunters, chasing down accused criminals and conducting their own trials and executions.

They were infamous for their systematic violence against the Native American magical community, and later the African American magical community. Indigenous and African American peoples showing signs of magical ability were either killed or captured and enslaved by the Scourers, who believed that European magical blood was the highest of purity and should remain untainted.

The Scourers flourished when the slave trade began in North America in 1619, moving freely in Muggle circles to acquire largely Muggle-born African American witches and wizards. They experimented with and developed spells on their victims, going to great magical lengths to secure their "property." Slaves were sterilized and often sold to magical families who had integrated into the Muggle colonies' plantation economy.

Refusing to acknowledge the severe human rights violations they inflicted on the men and women they forced into slavery, the Scourers argued that their victims were not fully human, referring to them as "acquisitions." More informally, they called their male slaves "pigeons" and their female slaves "doves."

Hermione braced herself on the bookshelf, her skin tingling all over. "Hello, little dove," Nott Sr. had said to her, tilting her chin up with the handle of his cane.

She sucked in air like it was disappearing. For weeks, she'd been looking through the catalog's results for the word "slave" and its variations. But the Scourers didn't call them slaves.

And from this bare minimum of information on these bloodthirsty mercenaries, driven by prejudice and greed, it was so easy to see where the Death Eaters might have taken their inspiration.

Hermione tugged on a pair of leggings and the first spare shirt she could find, running down to the library barefoot. The doors groaned open with her shove, and she stood at the library catalog, pulse racing.

"Show me all texts containing the phrase, 'the Scourers.' Cross-reference with 'acquisition,' 'dove' and 'pigeon.'"

The book finder glowed. And ten, twelve...fifteen green lights drifted out of the catalog, each leading to a text slowly pulling off the shelves, suspended and waiting for her.

A laugh burst out of her throat — such sweet relief spreading through her veins. She slapped a hand over her mouth and stared at the hovering books.

The closest book to her was a thin leather journal. She reached on her tiptoes to pluck it from the air, and found the name Tobias Tolbrette inside the cover. It was from the 1600s.

Bounding to each row, up each ladder where they hovered, she pulled all the books down, examining their covers, their years. So many handwritten journals and history books that had been published hundreds of years ago. Her volume on the history of magical North America was only a decade old.