Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“If this train goes any slower…”

Sirius Orion Black hated traveling. Now before you get it in your head that he hates visiting new places, or exploring quiet streets, or aimlessly lying in the sand at the beach, he doesn't. He does however hate the traveling part: sitting in a small, cramped, disgusting train compartment while the fucking train doesn't fucking budge. It wasn't his fault that some dude decided to up and throw himself onto the tracks, was it? For the love of God! He had places to be and things to do. Work may not be a sunny, relaxing vacation, but it was just as important.

If he ever wanted to fucking survive long enough to finally get out of his parents’ clutches it had to be. He didn't want to, hell, he couldn't stand another day living in the same city as them. Even if he was out of that house, he was never truly out. No matter where he looked, no matter where he turned, the Black Legacy seemed to follow him, taunting him, reminding him that he wasn’t ‘toujours pur’ enough, that he would always be below average, that he would never be good enough. 

No. He had to get out. He had to. Out, out, out , before the city swallowed him whole. The train delay was just an additional setback, another thing to tack onto his “mental-list-of-setbacks” which seemed to be growing by the second. At this rate, he could wrap it around the world three times before the train even left the station.

It's just a minor problem, Sirius. Deep breaths. Calm down .

Sirius did not stay calm. By the time the train started moving, his brow was furrowed, his back was hunched, and he had managed to spill coffee down the front of his work uniform. Not that his uniform was much: a white shirt, jeans, and black apron could hardly be considered anything fancy. But still, giant, wet coffee stain? Down the front of a white shirt? Yeah. Ruined. Oh well. Just another Tuesday in the life of Sirius Black: coffee-stained, city-stuck, and one wrong move away from losing his goddamn mind.

✷✷✷

Three. Three. Three. 

The number three seemed to hate Remus. 

Three long scratches down his back. Three stops from the Louvre. Three minutes till he was officially late for his job. Ironically, three things seemed to have survived his tombé onto the tracks. Himself, his left shoe, and his phone.

Okay, time for a proper introduction. Enter Stage Left, Oxford Graduate, Historian, and aspiring Museum Docent: Remus Lupin, currently boarding the La Courneuve bound train at Pont Marie , well, at least trying. Lying face down on the grimy, oil-streaked tracks of the Paris Metro, on the first day of a new job, in a new city, was not boarding the train. In fact, it was holding up the train, slowing him down more than he thought possible. Of course, today would be the day that he, Remus Ellis Lupin—the man who has never once been late a day in his life—oversleeps, misses the bus, and falls onto the fucking train tracks. Of– fucking –course.

A harsh, tinny announcement crackled overhead, warning passengers to avoid the tracks—a s if he’d done this on purpose . The hollow thunk of his phone hitting the gravel barely registered over the shrill screech of the Metro brakes, the train coming to a shuddering halt just meters away.

A chorus of horrified murmurs rose, the onlookers watching in frozen disbelief. A woman clutched her handbag as if he were about to lunge at her. Somewhere, a Metro worker blew his whistle furiously, shouting something rapid and angry in French that Remus’s panic-fogged brain simply refused to translate.

Dazed and disoriented, Remus pushed himself up on shaking arms. His palms burned; sharp, tiny bits of gravel digging into his skin. The aching throb in his hip and shoulder promised deep bruises by morning. He tried (and failed) to straighten the collar of his now dust-colored button-up, brushing at the grime smeared across his chest. His left foot pressed uncomfortably against the uneven metal rails, painfully aware of his missing shoe, as he fished his barely-scathed phone from his pocket.

“Hey Siri, add falling onto underground tracks to ‘List of Things I Did Without Meaning Too :)’ Thanks.”

✷✷✷

“Yeah, so I’m going to be a few minutes late for work.”

Pause.

“No, no. I’m definitely coming in today, just a few minutes late. Who in their right mind would skip in the middle of January, when heating bills are due?”

Another pause, followed by a laugh.

“Yes, Elodie, I know. I’ll scrub down the bar top twice if it makes you feel better”

Pause.

“Yes. Thank you, Elodie. I’ll be there in fifteen. ” 

He hung up before she could respond, staring at his phone for a second. Fifteen minutes, huh? There was no way in hell he was making it in fifteen minutes. Pont Marie is three stops from le Louvre , which is five stops from Cadet , which is a ten-minute walk from The Frog & Underground —the bar where he worked.

Sirius glanced out the window, only half-paying attention to the view as it passed by, his mind racing. He should’ve been more prepared, but that damn train delay had messed up his entire morning. Between that and the blasted coffee stain, he didn’t even know if he could handle another shift of dealing with tourists and drunken regulars. He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the lengthy figure sit down next to him. 

“Rough day, huh?” said a gravelly voice. 

Sirius snapped back to reality, his eyes flicking to the figure who had seated themselves beside him. Tall, with messy brown hair and a worn-out expression, the man was adjusting the collar of a white button-up shirt as if he was trying to make himself presentable after some kind of disaster. For a moment, he just stared at the stranger, trying to shake off the lingering irritation from his phone call.

“Rough day, huh?” the stranger asked again, a trace of amusement in his voice as he examined the now slightly dry, coffee stain on Sirius’s shirt.

Sirius blinked, startled by the question. He hadn’t expected anyone to talk to him. Or maybe he had, but just not like this. Not someone who seemed to match his own exhaustion with such effortless calm.

“Yeah,” Sirius muttered, fidgeting with the sleeve of his leather jacket, his irritation mixing with the faintest sense of curiosity. “You could say that.”

The man nodded and sighed, settling back into his seat with a small wince—as if something ached.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius said, feeling like he should say something else, but the words didn’t come. He wasn’t one to open up, especially to strangers, but something about the guy next to him seemed oddly... familiar. Like he'd seen that weariness before. In himself.

The man simply offered a half-smile, a mix of exhaustion and humor playing at the corners of his lips. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m late too.”

Sirius nodded in agreement, but neither of them said anything more as the train rattled onward, their shared silence feeling strangely comfortable amidst the chaos of their day.

✷✷✷

Fired.

The first word Remus’s supervisor said to him was fired.

It was a punch to the gut, salt in the wound—an unwelcome, gut-wrenching jolt to reality. The room was suddenly too small, the air too thin. The walls spun, whirling around him in a dizzying, disastrous mess. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t bear to watch years of hard work vanish the moment he stepped out that door.

He could see why, though. Showing up twenty minutes late, in a grease-stained shirt, a torn sweater, broken glasses, with only one shoe wasn’t exactly professional. But still, it hurt. They didn’t even take the time to consider it. No. No discussion, no sympathy—just one final word: fired .

An hour later, in the cold metal chair of an inauthentic, tourist-trap of a café, Remus sat, still at a loss for words. He was wearing two shoes now, dressed in clothes that didn’t scream mauled by the Metro , but none of it made a difference.

Three years. Three fucking years of study, of late nights and long hours, of proving himself in a world that never seemed to make room for him—gone. Just like that. Maybe he should have slowed down. Maybe he shouldn’t have graduated a year early just to prove them wrong. Maybe then, the small, poor boy from Wales would have had a fighting chance. Maybe…

But no. Instead of helping, the world laughed as he fell onto his back. Again, and again, and again. And now he had finally done it—after he had finally bested the world, Remus had to go and ruin it for himself. How many times could one person fail? Weren’t twenty-three years of torture enough for one soul?

Even the cup of bitter coffee in Remus’s hands seemed to disagree. It was too hot, but he didn’t bother to move it away. The heat from the ceramic mug was the only warmth he felt, a brief flicker of something real amidst the fog of his thoughts. Everything was cold, too cold. Too distant.

He should be angry. Should be pacing. Should be doing anything other than sitting here in this overpriced hellhole. But no. His mind, scattered and tired, simply kept circling the same few thoughts.

What now?

History. That was all he had. Years of study, books, documents, artifacts. But none of it mattered now. It was useless when you were living in the gutter of your own mistakes. What good was his knowledge of the ancient world when he was barely able to put one foot in front of the other in the real world? His dream job? 

A joke. A failure, stacked on top of all the others.

It didn’t take long for Remus to realize that the world wasn’t going to stop for him. It never had. Maybe he wasn’t meant for this life. Maybe he wasn’t meant for anything.

The buzz of his phone shattered his thoughts.

“Great,” Remus muttered under his breath. Probably a rejection email, or a reminder about something he didn’t want to remember. He glanced down at the screen.

An unknown number.

He almost didn’t pick up, but something—maybe the silent, stubborn hope of a man who couldn’t give up—made him answer.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Lupin, I assume?”

The voice on the other end was steady, smooth, too calm for his liking.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“I’ve been watching your career from a distance,” the voice continued, not bothering with introductions. “You’ve got potential. A great deal of potential, in fact. But you’re wasting it .”

“Who the hell is this?” Remus’s pulse quickened, suddenly aware of how empty the café felt, how silent everything around him seemed. He should have hung up, but curiosity held him there.

“I’m someone who can offer you a way out,” the voice said, cutting through the air with precision. “You’ve got the skills. I can help you use them. You can do more than just teach about history. You can be part of something that matters.”

His breath caught in his throat, but Remus said nothing. The voice waited, letting the silence fill the gaps.

“You’re at a crossroads, Mr. Lupin. I can give you a second chance.”

Remus gripped the phone tighter. “A second chance at what?”

“History,” the voice said, as if that explained everything. “You’ve studied it, dedicated your life to it, but tell me, Mr. Lupin, how much have you truly touched it?”

The words sent a shiver down his spine. He knew history, of course he did. From the crumbling ruins of Rome to the classified documents of the Cold War, he had buried himself in it for years. But touched it? That was something else entirely.

His silence must have been answer enough because the voice continued, smooth and assured: “Meet me at the Café de l’Odéon on Thrusday. 10pm. Bring a suitcase. Alone. I’ll be in the corner booth.”

“And if I say no?”

A dry chuckle. “You won’t.”

The line went dead.

Remus stared at his phone, heart pounding. Whoever they were, they were right. He wouldn’t say no. Because for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about what he’d lost...

✷✷✷

Sirius stumbled through the door, his jacket slightly askew from the rush to get to the pub. He had barely made it in time, and now the weight of his tardiness hung over him like a heavy cloud.

Elodie was standing by the counter, arms crossed, glaring at him with the intensity of someone who'd spent the last hour juggling a million things and wasn't in the mood for excuses. Her face was red, but the flush wasn't from anger—it was from sheer exhaustion.

"You're an hour late, Sirius," she snapped, her voice sharp but tired. "Do you know what kind of nightmare it's been without you here? The floor's a mess, regulars are bitching, and I swear, if I hear another person ask for a refill in that tone, I might throw this damn bottle at them." She shook the bottle of pastis in her hand, emphasizing the threat. 

Sirius winced, taking in the chaos of the pub. The usual crowd of chatty regulars was still here, but they weren't as lively as usual—grumbling about the wait, eyeing him with the kind of judgment only a bar full of people could muster.

"Sorry, Elodie. Train was—" He stopped himself, knowing the excuse wouldn’t fly.

"Don't care," she interrupted. "You know what time you're supposed to be here. Don't let it happen again. I can't keep picking up your slack."

Sirius nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. He wasn’t proud of it, but he wasn’t sure what was worse—his tardiness or the fact that he couldn’t seem to get his life together in any real way.

He grabbed a rag from the hook, trying to avoid Elodie’s gaze as she continued to eye him, still unimpressed. Her voice softened, just slightly, as she continued.

"You grabbed that flyer, didn’t you?" she asked like she already knew the answer.

Sirius froze for a second, then nodded slowly. He hadn’t expected to talk about it now, not in the middle of all this, but Elodie wasn’t the type to let things slide. She always seemed to know when something was off with him, even when he tried to hide it.

"Yeah, I did." His words felt heavier than usual. "But I’m not sure what to make of it yet."

Two days ago, Sunday, a man dressed in dark, unremarkable clothing, a long coat that fell past his knees, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face had stepped into The Frog & Underground. It was an average afternoon, and though he wasn’t a regular, there was nothing extraordinary about him. 

Sirius, wiping down a glass, didn’t pay him much attention at first. He was used to all sorts of people stumbling in and out of this place—tourists, locals, the occasional troublemaker—but something about this man was different. There was something almost too ordinary about him.

The man sat at the bar, not looking at Elodie or Sirius. He simply ordered a pint, his voice low and steady, and handed over a few coins. Elodie, as always, took the money without a second glance, though she couldn't shake the strange sense that something was off. He didn’t make eye contact, didn’t say anything more than necessary.

The man didn’t even seem to care about the drink itself. The pint was placed before him, and for a moment, Sirius thought he’d sit down and enjoy it. But instead, the man walked over to the corkboard in the corner, seemingly inspecting it. And then, before either Elodie or Sirius could say anything, the man left. Walked out of the pub without a word, an untouched pint in his wake.

It was as if he were never there.

A few hours later, Sirius had noticed the pink flyer on the corkboard. It was odd. Barely any details, just guaranteed high pay. No company name, no contact information. Just the promise of money and the need for “skills”. But still, something about the promise seemed to linger in the air, heavy and strange. Sirius should’ve tossed it immediately. But something about the way it was placed, how the man had just…tacked it there, nagged at him.

Elodie raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "You’ll figure it out. Just don’t forget why you’re here. This place isn’t just a pit stop, Sirius."

Sirius let out a breath, adjusting the apron around his waist. Maybe he didn’t belong here forever. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be stuck in this place, pouring drinks and dealing with cranky customers for the rest of his life. He looked around at the worn, chipped walls, the sticky floors, and the dim lighting, and something inside him stirred. He couldn’t stay here. Not anymore.

But for now, he had to get through tonight.

✷✷✷

If James had one word to describe Regulus Arcturus Black at first glance, it would be cold. Stunning, yes, but cold. His navy suit was tailored to perfection, sharp enough to cut glass, and it brought out the icy steel of his eyes—piercing, calculating, distant. James could feel the weight of them from across the room, assessing, dissecting, deciding.

Regulus Black was untouchable. He didn’t just exist in a space; he owned it. Commanded it with the kind of effortless authority that couldn’t be taught. He wasn’t loud, didn’t need to be. Power rolled off him in quiet waves, a steady undertow pulling everything in its path beneath the surface. And James—well, James had always been drawn to the current, drowned in it.

He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him. The files, the research, the whispers about a prodigy with killer instinct and infinite class—they hadn’t prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Come on James. You can do this.

James took a slow breath, straightened his jacket, and made his move.

“Excuse me? Hier Black?”

✷✷✷

Toujours pur.

Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur.

Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur. Toujours pur.

Toujours pur. 

The words echoed in his mind, a mantra drilled into him since childhood, each repetition another iron bar in his cage. It was the only one he knew, the expectations his only constant.

But now? Now it felt like poison, the very air in his lungs choking him.

Again and again, relentless. He had no choice—he just had to be. Always pure. Always perfect.

Not that his parents could afford to give him a choice. Afford —what a joke. Black Technologies had just signed a multi-million deal with le Centre National d’Études Spatiales. Money had never been the issue.

Regulus Black was a highly respectable name, from a highly respectable family, who had a highly respectable amount of money. He could have practically anything he wanted with nothing more than a flick of his wrist, almost like magic.

He was always what they wanted, what they expected. Because expectation wasn’t something you could just hide from when you were born into a family like his.

…not unless you ran .

And there was only room for one failure in the family.

The champagne had long since lost its taste, the hollow laughter of guests grating on his nerves like sandpaper. Every fake smile, every forced handshake, every whispered conversation behind gilded walls—they were all suffocating. 

Tch. He was supposed to feel grateful for this life. To revel in the wealth, the success. Black Technologies was already stepping toward becoming the most powerful family in the whole of Europe. It should have been everything he wanted. 

But it wasn’t. And Regulus felt sick.

His stomach churned. He was suffocating, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He wanted out—so, so badly. It was a physical ache, paining him with every step, every step taken inside his golden cage. He wanted nothing more than to finally escape the clutches of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; to finally escape this hell hole he was forced to live in; to finally be free. But the walls around him were too high. There was no room for failure. 

His pulse quickened, but the mantra kept beating through his mind, each repetition louder than the last.

Toujours pur.

Toujours pur. Always perfect. Always the ideal . But he felt nothing of it, felt nothing but disgust for the life that had been forced upon him. His mind burned with the idea of escape, but his hands were tied by invisible chains. Freedom was a distant dream, but the walls? They were closing in. So he did the only thing he knew how to do:

Survive.

✷✷✷

James Fleamont Potter was not your average ‘attendee of charity events.’ You could even call him a novice, a nuisance perhaps. Certainly, when he cut into Regulus Black’s conversation, asking for a word, the stout, old, white man who had been previously talking to him seemed to think so.

“Heir Black, please, I need to talk to you.”

“M’ boy,” asked the stout man, “Is this… nuisance bothering you? We could go somewhere else, step away from the middle class like this one.” His belly shook warily with each word, threatening to pull the man’s tailored, pinstriped suit down. It did not, at all, compliment the man’s nasty glare; it rather much looked as though he were trying to take an ungodly large merde.

James didn’t even have time to laugh at the little voice in his head making the joke, because the room dropped 5 degrees. James felt a shiver run down his spine as if the very air around him had thickened and turned cold. James certainly felt challenged. He could feel his face heat up with embarrassment, his heart rate picking up as he had just sprinted a five-mile race. But, like a stubborn idiot, he decided to push on.

“Heir Black, could we go talk somewhere?” James started, his voice a bit too loud, trying to shake off the tension. “I need to talk to you. Just for a second.”

The silence that followed was thick, stretching out longer than James felt comfortable with. Regulus didn’t even flinch, just stood there, his eyes narrowing slightly—evaluating, calculating. It was as if James were some kind of puzzle he had yet to bother solving.

The old man who had been talking to Regulus before James cut in looked like he was about to say something, but his words trailed off as he glanced between the two of them, clearly unsure how to navigate this sudden shift.

Regulus didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he gave a slight tilt of his head, almost dismissive, as if James’s presence wasn’t important enough to warrant an immediate response. “Very well, come with me.”

James followed Regulus into the small, side parlor, feeling like he had just stepped into an entirely different world. The rest of the gala’s estate had been all polished marble, grand chandeliers, and the kind of cold, calculated luxury that made James itch to loosen his tie. But this room? This room felt lived in, it felt alive.

The walls were a deep cherry, almost maroon, casting the space in a warm, intimate glow. A brick fireplace crackled quietly, flames dancing in a way that made James think of old stories told over winter nights. The furniture was delightfully chaotic—squashy, mismatched armchairs arranged haphazardly, as if guests had long since abandoned any formal seating plans. Throw pillows, none of which matched yet somehow felt perfectly coordinated, were strewn across the space in a way that invited comfort rather than order.

James’s eyes flicked to the walls, covered in rich tapestries woven with breathtaking intricacy. They told stories—ones he didn’t quite recognize but felt compelled to stare at nonetheless. A knight standing tall with his sword drawn. A tower looming in the distance. A king with a golden crown, his gaze unreadable. A castle perched against a darkened sky, its windows glowing faintly, as if whispering secrets only the fabric could remember.

The room was welcoming, relaxing, and home-like. Even Regulus seemed to find more comfort here. His features seemed to soften, the ice-like facade melting away till it was nothing more than a puddle on the floor.

“Heir Black?” James asked tentatively, carefully watching to sit down only after the smaller man. Not that Regulus was small—no, James just happened to be quite tall. 

James. Focus.

Regulus was watching him curiously, as if he could hear the conversation James was having with himself. He hadn’t quite relaxed, but physically, he looked less tense, and when he nodded at James, he almost seemed to smile. 

“Please,” Regulus began, his voice like water running swiftly over James, his words drowning out all other noises, not loud, just peaceful, perfect. “Please call me Regulus.”

✷✷✷

"Karan," The voice came through, calm but urgent. "I need your team. It’s time."

The other man—Karan—straightened in his chair, already sensing where this was going. "What’s the job?"

"Horcruxes. Riddle’s after them, and they’re dangerous. We need them before he does."

Karan’s grip tightened on the phone. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. "And you want us to get them."

"Yes. Discreetly. The Ministry is too slow. We can’t afford to wait."

Karan’s breath caught, and he exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough that I’m calling you," The voice said, a hint of finality in his tone, and something else—something darker—lingered between the words. "We’re counting on you."

Karan leaned back, considering his options. The weight of it pressed down on him, harder than he'd expected. "Alright. We’ll take it. But you know what that means."

"Yes. I do."

There was a pause on the line, the quiet between them thick with the unspoken consequences of what was to come. It felt like too much, yet it had barely started.

Chapter Text

Swivel chair? Check.

Headphones? Check.

Super cool black, mesh, fingerless gloves? Check.

Spotify? Check.

Ok girl. It’s go time.

🎵 As he came into the window…

Five years ago, if you had told 16 year old Dorcas Meadows that she would be the most wanted criminal hacker in the world, she would have laughed in your face. Now, as the 21 year old most wanted criminal hacker in the world, she laughs at her past self.

🎵 It was the sound of a crescendo…

Dorcas’s fingers flew across the keyboard, a familiar rhythm taking over as she broke through layer after layer of encryption. This wasn’t just any database—this was le Centre National d’Études Spatiales, one of the most secure systems in Europe. But if there was one thing she knew, it was how to break into the unbreakable.

🎵 He came into her apartment…

Her screen flickered as the firewall collapsed, the last barrier cracked open, finally a small victory. The encrypted file she’d been hunting for flashed across the screen: EN-VZBLT , also known as the invisibility cloak. This was the jackpot, and it was hers for the taking. 

🎵 He could see she was unable…

Her fingers hovered over the mouse, ready to copy the file, but something felt off. The hum of her computer seemed louder now, the air around her thicker, almost suffocating. She shook her head, focusing on the task— this was it.

🎵 It was her doom…

And then it happened.

🎵 Annie, are you okay?

Intrusion Detected: Location Tracked

Dorcas froze. The familiar sense of control slipped away, leaving her with nothing but the raw edge of panic. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, and for a split second, the realization hit her with a force she hadn’t expected. Her stomach dropped. The screen flickered again. Panic surged through her veins, sharp and electric. A few more seconds of frantic clicking and typing, but it didn’t help. The data wasn’t budging.

Shit.

🎵 Are you okay, Annie?

Her hands hovered over the keyboard, but she couldn’t stop. You’ve come this far, don’t back down now.

Her fingers moved fast, trying to cover her tracks, but every keystroke felt like a last-ditch effort. The seconds felt like hours, and just as she was about to disconnect, the screen went black.

Connection Lost.

She swore, letting out a curse under her breath as her chair spun away from the desk.

🎵 You've been hit by

🎵 You've been hit by a smooth criminal

✷✷✷

It should be illegal for anyone to look that good in a red suit. More importantly, it should be illegal for suspicious strangers to look that good in a red suit.

James Potter’s suggestion had been outlandish and stupid—him, Regulus Black, joining a heist? Unheard of. Scandalous. Completely insane. And yet, something about him caught Regulus’s eye over and over again. Something about that red-clad man, that James , was striking. Eye-catching. Dangerous. Regulus didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t trust it.

But that offer. It was a damn good offer. Too good to turn away. Too good to trust.

He wanted to resist. He should resist.

And yet, there James was—his words like silk, uncoiling into Regulus’s mind. Was he a fool for listening? Or was James just that good at making the impossible sound like a damn necessity?

Regulus’s logic, his carefully maintained sense of control, his razor-sharp wit—everything had melted into a smooth, golden mess, like warm honey or melted chocolate, thick, gooey, and impossible to grasp. But even then, even with his thoughts tangled and his instincts dulled, he could still see the truth—James’s eyes might have been those of an angel, but his heart was cold. He had another goal, some hidden agenda, some prize he was playing for. Regulus just didn’t know what it was… yet. It was just one of those kinds of things.

Honestly, Regulus was probably confusing himself more than anything, but it was hard to think straight when James was standing there in the red room (a.k.a. the Gryffindor room, a.k.a. the room where James Potter had just asked him to join a hunt—an ancient, brutal war disguised as a mission to prevent world destruction) looking like sin itself. Like he could crush the earth with his fingertips. Like the devil, draped in gold and fire.

But one thing was certain: James was a manipulator, a player, a smooth operator wrapped in effortless charm. And Regulus would be a fool to forget that.

✷✷✷

Her pulse was loud in her ears, and the buzzing feeling in her fingers didn’t stop. Her eyes darted to the corner of the screen, her heart slamming against her ribcage. She checked everything again—firewall, logs, traces. Nothing. Everything had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck.

🎵 There's a sign in the window.

Her phone buzzed.

🎵 That he struck you— a crescendo, Annie.

A text.

Her stomach twisted. Her fingers still shaking, she grabbed the phone. The screen lit up.

Unknown Number

Her heart skipped. She didn’t even have the time to wipe the sweat from her palms before the phone buzzed again.

Call Incoming: Unknown

“Shit. No, no, no...” Dorcas muttered, but before she could think better of it, she answered.

“Dorcas Meadowes,” the voice crooned, smooth, amused, like they were discussing the weather. “That was a nice try.”

Her throat tightened. Too calm. Too easy. Whoever this was, they weren’t scrambling to trace her, weren’t struggling to catch up—they were ahead of her. Watching.

She didn’t speak.

A chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Oh, don’t stop typing on my account. I quite liked watching you panic.”

Her fingers curled into a fist. “Who are you?”

“Now, now. That would be giving away the fun, wouldn’t it?” A pause. “You know, I expected more from you . Sloppy exit. Sloppy cleanup. Almost like you wanted to be found.”

Her grip tightened on the phone. That wasn’t true. That wasn’t true . They both knew it.

“Don’t worry, though. I’m feeling generous today.” A beat. Then, far too casually: “Tell me, Dorcas. How attached are you to that nice little apartment of yours?”

🎵 There's a sound at the window.

Her stomach turned to ice. 

A low hum. “I imagine it would be terribly inconvenient if it were to, oh, I don’t know... catch fire? Just a thought.”

🎵 Then he struck you, a crescendo Annie?

Dorcas sucked in a sharp breath.

Another pause. Then, light, teasing, “Relax, darling. You’re too fun to waste.”

He came into your apartment.

She wanted to throw the phone across the room, but her hands were frozen.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” The voice shifted, still amused but with something sharper beneath it. “I have an opportunity for you. A job. You like those, don’t you?”

🎵 Left bloodstains on the carpet.

Dorcas forced herself to breathe evenly. “I don’t work for people I can’t see.”

A delighted laugh. “Good news, then. You don’t work for me. You work for yourself—I’m just here to... encourage good decisions.”

🎵 And then you ran into the bedroom.

She ground her teeth. “And if I say no?”

Silence.

🎵 You were struck down.

Then, quiet, almost a whisper: “How is your sister doing these days?”

🎵 It was your doom, Annie.

The blood drained from her face.

🎵 Will you tell us that you're okay?

“I hear she’s stable. For now.” A thoughtful hum. “It would be a shame if something unexpected were to happen, wouldn’t it?”

🎵 Are you okay, Annie?

Dorcas’s vision blurred. The buzzing in her ears returned full force. “You bastard.”

🎵 You've been hit by—

“Now, now,” the voice murmured. “That’s not very polite.” Another pause. “I’ll be in touch.”

🎵 You've been hit by—

The call ended.

Dorcas stared at the screen, her breath shallow, her pulse a hammer against her ribs.

Shit.

Her phone buzzed again.

A text.

Unknown Number: Thursday. 10 PM. La Folie en Tête, Quartier des Peupliers. Come alone. Bring a suitcase.

She frowned at the brief, impersonal words. Before she could react, another message popped up.

Unknown Number: By the way, the name’s Karan.

The name felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She still didn’t know what the final picture was supposed to be.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, and her breath caught in her throat. Karan.

The weight of his words—the implied threat, the knowledge that she was caught—settled heavy in her chest. Her sister.

She glanced at the clock. Thursday. 10 PM.

No choice.

Unknown Number, Possibly ‘Karan’: Annie, are you okay? You've been hit by a smooth criminal. 

✷✷✷

The two men slumped in their seats, heads lolling, glasses half-empty, unaware of the watching shadow, the blinking red light.

The bartender dried his hands on a cloth and nodded toward the back of the café. Within moments, two figures emerged from the shadows, moving efficiently, practiced. They lifted the unconscious men, careful, almost gentle, like they were handling something fragile.

The bartender glanced at the clock. Timing was perfect. The car was already waiting outside. From here, it was a straight trip to the airport.

They would wake up mid-flight.

Until then, there was nothing left to do but clean up the glasses, wipe the counter, and turn off the neon sign.

✷✷✷

Peter Pettigrew recited facts under his breath, clinging to them like a lifeline.

"Berlin Tunnel, 1954—British and American intelligence intercepted Soviet communications for eleven months before detection. Operation Gold, compromised by a double agent. The Venona Project, 1943 to 1980—Soviet transmissions cracked, but identities obscured for decades. Enigma, 1939—Alan Turing’s breakthroughs at Bletchley Park—”

He exhaled sharply, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. The words weren’t helping.

La Folie en Tête, Quartier des Peupliers. Thursday, 10 PM. Suitcase. Alone.

That was it. No names, no details, no assurances. Just a time, a place, and the vague promise of something bigger than himself. Just instructions to say goodbye .

It had been too tempting to turn down.

But now, standing in front of the café, watching the neon glow of the sign flicker like an unspoken warning, his stomach twisted. He’d made a mistake. He knew it, felt it deep in his bones, and yet—

The words that had been circling in his mind, without him even realizing, were suddenly there, clear as day, threading through his thoughts.

🎵 How I feel this river rushing through my veins,

🎵 With nowhere else to go, it circles 'round...

The words were haunting, almost seductive. He shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling, but it only deepened. His pulse thudded in his throat, something primal rising within him.

🎵 I'm in my prime

🎵 I'm liquid smooth, come touch me too

🎵 I'm at my highest peak, I'm ripe

🎵 About to fall, capture me...

A chill ran down his spine. The music of the words lingered in the back of his mind, unnerving, almost mocking.

He didn’t know who was inside. He didn’t know if they’d even want him inside.

Peter was good with facts. Numbers, patterns, secrets buried in redacted files and forgotten ciphers. But this?

This was walking in blind.

The door creaked on its hinges as Peter stepped inside, the faint hum of the neon sign still echoing in his head. The warmth of the café hit him first—heavy, too warm for the cool night air outside—and the smell of old wood and coffee mixed with something sweeter, more insidious. It was a soft glow, dim, but not enough to hide the shadows that seemed to stretch just a little too far in the corners of the room.

The chatter of a few scattered voices hummed in the background, but no one immediately turned to look at him. Peter’s eyes darted around, searching for anything—any clue, any familiar face—but all he found was an unsettling calm.

He was alone. Completely alone in a sea of people who knew things he didn’t.

🎵 I’m at my highest peak, I’m ripe...

The words flickered again, like a warning, too loud in his mind. He clenched his fists, fighting the rising panic. This wasn’t him. He didn’t do things like this. He didn’t walk into rooms full of strangers with nothing but vague promises and instructions to follow.

“Peter Pettigrew?”

The voice was low, smooth. Too smooth. It cut through the haze of his thoughts like a blade.

Peter froze. He hadn’t even seen the figure move, but standing at the bar, leaning casually against the counter, was a man—tall, sharply dressed, his brown hair neatly combed, wide eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, looking completely out of place yet fully at home. His gaze locked onto Peter’s with an unsettling calm, as if he had been waiting for him all along.

He tried to swallow, his throat tight. “Yes?”

The man slowly grinned; easy, practiced—just shy of charming but too deliberate to be anything but dangerous. It didn’t falter, didn’t waver, just lingered, stretching slow and knowing, like he had already won. “Good. We’ve been expecting you.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. "...We?"

The words—the ones he couldn’t shake—flooded his mind once more.

🎵 I'm liquid smooth, come touch me too...

The man’s smile didn’t waver. Something cold settled in Peter’s chest, and despite himself, he stepped forward, drawn into the man’s presence like a moth to a flame.

"Come with me,” the man said softly, turning toward a dimly lit door at the back of the café. “We’ve got much to discuss.”

Peter hesitated, then followed.

No turning back now.

✷✷✷

Sirius arrived five minutes early. Five minutes to get the lay of the land, five minutes to make sure this wasn’t a trap. He didn’t like walking into situations blind, but that was the nature of this job, wasn’t it? Uncertainty. Risk.

The café was near empty, its warm glow spilling onto the cobblestone street outside. Inside, a few figures sat hunched in booths, quiet, waiting. The scent of espresso and something sharper—cigarette smoke clinging to old upholstery—hung in the air.

He wasn’t stupid. Someone was watching him.

Sirius slid into a booth near the window. No menu, no waiter asking for an order. Within seconds, a drink was placed in front of him.

Clear liquid. Lemon slice on the rim.

He hadn’t asked for it.

His jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the glass. Across the café, another drink was served, identical to his own. Sirius glanced up, already on edge, and—

That guy.

They’d crossed paths once before. Sirius didn’t know his name, but he remembered the worn jumper the man wore, soft and slightly frayed at the edges, like something someone’s grandfather would own. The kind of thing you held onto, even when it had long since lost its shape.

The man hesitated before wrapping his fingers around the glass. He looked exhausted, eyes shadowed and guarded, but when he finally lifted his gaze, he met Sirius’s head-on.

Sirius wasn’t sure what passed between them.

Recognition, maybe. A shared resignation.

Then, a voice—low, steady, a quiet encouragement from the bartender. “Drink.”

Sirius exhaled slowly through his nose. His instincts screamed at him to push the glass away, to get up, to leave. But he was here for a reason. And some part of him knew—if he didn’t drink, someone would make sure he did anyway.

“Alright, then,” he muttered.

He picked up the glass. The first sip was sharp with lemon. The second burned.

Too late.

The edges of his vision blurred. The room softened. His limbs felt heavy, his mind slowing, like someone had reached into his skull and turned down the volume on his thoughts.

Across the café, the man in the grandpa jumper watched him for a moment longer before lifting his own glass.

Sirius tried to focus, tried to stay awake, but his body wasn’t listening anymore. The last thing he saw was the man drinking, slow and deliberate.

The last thing he thought was, at least I didn’t go first.

Then, nothing.

✷✷✷

A dull, throbbing ache pulsed at the base of Peter’s skull. His limbs were heavy, his mouth dry, his thoughts tangled and sluggish. The world around him swayed, but not in the way it should.

Pressurized air. The low hum of engines.

His stomach lurched. A plane.

He tried to move, but his arms felt leaden. His head lolled to the side, and through bleary vision, he took in the dim cabin. Private. Expensive. Soft leather seats. A glass of water sat on the table beside him, droplets of condensation clinging to the surface. Someone had been considerate enough to leave it within reach.

How generous.

🎵 崩れてゆく前に... [translation: before it collapses]

The lyrics surfaced in his mind, unbidden, like something half-remembered from a dream. He blinked slowly. Tried to steady his breathing. His last memory was—

La Folie en Tête. The café. The man at the bar.

His stomach twisted.

Peter dragged a hand to his temple, trying to force his thoughts into something resembling order. He needed information. Context. Anything.

A quiet shuffle to his left made his pulse spike. Someone else was in the cabin.

"Finally awake?"

The voice was smooth, familiar. Not the man from the café—someone else. Lighter, amused.

Peter forced himself to turn his head. A figure lounged across from him, legs crossed, watching him with unreadable eyes. Their expression was relaxed, but there was something too measured about it. Like they were taking notes.

"Where—" His own voice sounded foreign, hoarse and strained. He swallowed, trying again. "Where are we going?"

The figure tilted their head, considering him.

"Does it matter?"

Peter gritted his teeth. His fingers curled against the armrest. The weight of his own body still felt wrong, but his mind was waking up.

It mattered. It mattered a lot.

The figure smirked, as if reading his thoughts. "Relax, Pettigrew. You’re in good hands."

A lie.

The hum of the engines filled the silence between them. Peter stared at the glass of water, its surface perfectly still despite the turbulence in his chest.

🎵 I'm pulsing. My blood is red and unafraid of living...

He exhaled slowly, and glanced around, just now noticing the other passengers.

Shit. This was going to be a long day.

✷✷✷

The blinking red light was steady, unblinking. Watching. Recording. Calculating.

A man sat in a dimly lit room, eyes fixed on the grainy café footage flickering across multiple screens. The camera feed—angled perfectly above the worn wooden beams of Café de l’Odéon —showed two men slumped in their seats, heads tilted like broken marionettes, glasses half-empty on the table before them. Ice melted, condensation beading down the sides. Time passed, second by second, but they wouldn’t know it. Not yet.

Sirius Black had lasted exactly six seconds. Suspicious, but not enough. He had looked at the bartender, at the drink, at the dim glow of the street beyond the window. Then, with a resigned sort of arrogance, he had lifted the glass to his lips.

Remus Lupin—because yes, the man knew who he was—had waited longer. Fourteen seconds. He had studied the drink, studied Black, watched him waver, slump, slip into unconsciousness before making his decision. He had traced the rim of the glass with one careful finger. Exhaled. Then taken a slow, deliberate sip.

Interesting.

He shifted in his chair, fingers tapping absently against the desk. The bartender moved into frame, drying his hands, nodding toward the back. Right on time, two figures emerged from the shadows, smooth and silent, lifting the unconscious men with an efficiency born of practice. They handled them carefully—almost gently.

A car idled outside. The door swung open. One man, then the other, was carried out into the night. The bartender wiped down the counter, stacked the glasses in the sink, then reached for the switch.

The café went dark.

The man leaned back, exhaling through his nose. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He reached for his phone. A single message, brief and impersonal.

In transit. See you soon - Karan

The red light blinked once more. Then it, too, went dark.

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Chapter Text

Regulus sat in the dim glow of the cabin, arms crossed, boot tapping against the floor in slow, measured beats. The hum of the plane was steady, rhythmic—nothing like the chaos of the night before. Everything had gone as planned, he was free, he was out… well kind of.

Now, it was just a waiting game.  

Across from him, two unconscious figures were slumped in their seats. He recognized one of them, of course. He’d known him his whole life.  

Sirius .  

Even in sleep, his brother looked restless, like he might wake up swinging. His fingers twitched against his leg, his brow furrowed as if even his dreams were something he had to fight.  

Regulus stared at him for a long moment, then looked away.  

The other one—Remus Lupin—was a stranger. His sweater was old, stretched at the sleeves, the kind of thing someone held onto long after it had outlived its usefulness. There was something gaunt about him, like he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks, but he had the face that looked like it might be kind if given the chance.  

Regulus sighed and leaned back in his seat, turning his head toward the only conscious figures in the cabin—Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier. They were also the only people he was somewhat familiar with, having been the ones responsible for getting everyone onto the plane. The two lounged comfortably, as if they belonged there, completely at ease—like drugging and kidnapping people the night before had been just another routine task. Perhaps it had been.

“Feeling sentimental?” Barty asked, his voice light, teasing. “Staring at big brother a little too long there.”  

Regulus didn’t react. “I didn’t expect him to be here.”  

Evan snorted. “Neither did we.” He stretched his arms behind his head, his sharp eyes flicking over Sirius and then back to Regulus. “Though, between the two of you, I’d rather work with you. He’s got a reputation for being… difficult.”  

Regulus hummed, neither confirming nor denying.  

Barty grinned, shifting closer. “You’re handling all this well.”  

Regulus arched a brow. “Should I not be?”  

Evan and Barty exchanged a look before Barty shrugged. “Most people don’t take this kind of thing so easily. But you? You seem like you belong.”  

Regulus didn’t know if it was meant as a compliment or an observation, but he took it as both.  

He had known what he was signing up for. He had agreed to come willingly. There was no point in hesitating now.

Regulus glanced back at his brother, before looking away again. No turning back now.

✷✷✷

He tugged at the tie around his neck. These days, it felt more like a noose than a symbol of dignity.

Less than seventy-two hours ago, Albus Dumbledore—world-renowned historian, museum director, and antiquities expert—had called him.

Not Karan. Not the name everyone else knew him by.

Fleamont Potter.

Husband of Euphemia Potter.

Father of James Potter.

A dead man. A ghost of the past.

It had been years since anyone had used that name. Years since he had let himself be that person. But Dumbledore knew better than most—no matter how many masks someone wore, the truth always found its way through the cracks.

And now, Fleamont was panicking.

The plane would land soon. They’d wake up, shake off the last effects of the drug, and start asking questions. The recruits—because that’s what they were now—would be sent to the penthouse.

Then they’d get the text.

From Karan.

And the real game would begin.

✷✷✷

The first time he left “home” was at fourteen. He hadn’t planned on leaving, it just sort of… happened. He wished it hadn’t, that he never had to leave him there, wished he had never left his baby brother in that house.

Ever since then, he hated it—packing up his whole life into a suitcase, picking himself up by the ass, and dumping himself someplace new. Someplace unknown. Someplace different .

Sirius Orion Black hated traveling. He hated it even more when he didn’t fucking know where he was going . There was something uniquely infuriating about being shuffled from place to place without a clear destination, like a pawn in someone else’s game. It made his skin itch, his patience wear thin, and his temper flare at the slightest inconvenience. He wasn’t the kind of person who liked surprises—not when they involved vague instructions, dark café tables, and a nagging sense that someone, somewhere, was deliberately keeping him in the fucking dark.

Honestly, Sirius would much rather be off this plane, on the ground, and at the beach. He hated the smell of airplanes, the recycled air, the ache in his joints after too many hours stuck in one place. More than anything, he hated the idea of leaving. But he’d taken the drink. He’d agreed to this. No one had forced his blunder.

And yet—

His stomach lurched as he woke up, the hum of the aircraft filling his ears, a weight pressing heavy on his chest. 

The first thing he noticed was the rancid taste in his mouth—a consequence of passing out before brushing his teeth. The second was that his head felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton and left out in the sun. Altogether, he felt like absolute shit.

He blinked, once, twice, three times, and the blur of the cabin lights sharpened into focus. He was on a plane. A private one, judging by the plush seats and the lack of screaming babies or flight attendants peddling overpriced alcohol on squeaky metal carts.

The man next to him was still asleep, arms folded across his chest, the sleeves of his oversized jumper bunched at the elbows. Sirius had seen him before—not often, not well enough to know his name, but enough to remember the scar across his cheek, the milk chocolate waves of his hair, the quiet way he held himself—like he was trying to take up as little space as possible while still maintaining his position as the most gorgeous man on earth.

Sirius rubbed his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair, he really needed some quality hair maintenance time. His limbs still felt sluggish, but the fog was lifting.  

His eyes flickered to the front of the cabin.

And then he saw him.

Regulus.

His baby brother.

His breath caught. For a second, the hum of the plane dulled to nothing.

He looked different. Or maybe he didn’t. The same sharp lines of his face, the same careful posture. He was dressed well—way better than Sirius. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, his expression unreadable. He was watching. Of course he was.

Sirius swallowed, pulse spiking. Of all the people in the world.

“What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath, but his voice came out hoarse.

Regulus tilted his head slightly, his gaze impassive, as if Sirius waking up from a drugged sleep mid-flight was the most normal thing in the world.

Sirius clenched his jaw, forcing himself upright. His fingers dug into the armrest. He should say something. He should—

But his throat was dry, and the words stuck.

Regulus didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

Neither did Sirius. 

✷✷✷

She blinked hard, forcing her vision to sharpen.

Across the aisle, a blonde woman sat with her arms crossed, looking entirely too at ease for someone who had clearly been drugged and transported against her will. Next to her, a man—soft-faced, with disheveled brown hair—had his head in his hands, mumbling something under his breath.

Beside her, another woman was already awake. Dark-haired, sharp-eyed. Watching.

And then there were two others—a redhead near the back, sitting stiff as a board, green eyes narrowed like she was already calculating escape routes. And another blonde, this one more ethereal-looking, tapping her fingers against the seat arm as if playing a silent tune. She seemed oddly at peace, like this was nothing more than an inconvenience rather than a potential crime.

None of them looked familiar.

Dorcas exhaled slowly. “Okay. What the fuck.”

The curly-haired woman beside her smirked slightly. “Good morning to you, too.”

Dorcas shot her a look. “We don’t know each other.”

“Nope.”

The blonde across the aisle spoke up. “Seems like none of us do.” Her voice was light, but there was an edge to it. Like she was already piecing things together.

The man groaned. “Oh, I’m panicking. Internally.”

The redhead at the back scoffed. “Well, someone better start panicking externally because I’d really like to know what the hell is going on.”

The ethereal blonde hummed, tilting her head. “We were drugged, obviously.”

Dorcas frowned. “Yeah, thanks for that, Captain Obvious.”

The blonde just smiled. “You’re welcome.”

The redhead pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright, so none of us know each other, none of us remember getting on this plane, and—let me guess—we all feel like we got hit by a bus, right? Did we all get mysterious instructions saying to bring a suitcase and take the shot?”

A round of nods.

A sudden crackle split through the cabin, and then, a voice. Smooth. Measured. Unbothered.

“Good morning, Angels.”

Everyone froze. The few people who hadn't been part of the conversation—six men: two pale, dark-haired ones who Dorcas was sure were the notorious Black brothers, a man with bleached dreadlocks who looked eerily similar to the woman with dreads who was talking to the ginger, a tattooed dark-haired man draped over the dreadlocked man, a man who seemed far too sunny to be surrounded by the rest, and a quiet one, sitting cozy in a jumper—were all silent too. They had been in the middle of a semi-heated argument before the crackle.

Dorcas’s eyes snapped up to the overhead speaker, her pulse spiking. She knew this voice. She had heard it before. Karan. 

He continued, unhurried.

“I imagine you’re all feeling a little… disoriented. I assure you, that’s normal. It’ll pass.” A brief pause. “You have questions, naturally. Unfortunately, I’m not inclined to answer them just yet. But here’s what you do need to know: you were chosen. You were all given an opportunity to walk away before this moment. You didn’t. That makes you mine.”

Dorcas clenched her jaw. The others looked just as tense—except for the three of the six men sitting on the other side of the plane. Two of them were calm, as if this was all completely normal, while the third, the sunny one, seemed… oddly at ease? The two she thought were the Black brothers looked just as, if not more, wary than she was. The final one just looked quiet, he just sat there… watching.

The voice—Karan, it had to be —continued.

“Your job, for now, is simple: Sit back and listen carefully. When we land, you will follow the instructions given to you. There will be no second chances, no alternative routes. You are either in or in.  Trust me—you do not want to be out.”

A sharp click. The line went dead.

Silence settled over the cabin. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Dangerous.

Then, finally, someone broke it.

“Well,” the man with disheveled hair muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That was deeply unsettling.”

The curly-haired woman beside Dorcas huffed a quiet laugh. “No kidding.”

The redhead near the back was still standing, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Alright,” she said sharply. “We need to start with the basics. If they aren’t gonna tell us anything, we should at least know who we’re dealing with.”

A pause. No one moved.

Then, the blonde across the aisle tilted her head, considering. “Suppose that makes sense,” she mused. “It’d be a shame to go through all this trouble and not even learn each other’s names.”

Dorcas leaned back in her seat, eyeing the others warily. This was stupid. Names wouldn’t help them get off this plane. Names wouldn’t explain why the hell they were here. Names were like going back to preschool, when some random kid would walk up and say, “I’m Sarah. You’re my new best friend,” and then walk away. Names were stupid, unnecessary liabilities. She didn’t know how long she was going to be stuck here, but she sure as hell didn’t want the last six years of her career to go down the drain just because someone wasn’t tight-lipped.

But—

If they were all stuck together, it wasn’t the worst idea.

The man sighed. “Fine. I’ll go first, since I feel like I’m dying anyway.” He gave a small, awkward wave. “Peter Pettigrew, archaeologist with a specialty in WCWI cryptology.” 

“Pandora Lovegood,” the woman with dreadlocks across from him smiled, “Social engineer and fashion designer.”

The redhead hesitated, then nodded.  “Lily. Doctor Lily Evans, actually. I specialize in poison control, but I can do a little bit of everything—mirror surgery, treating coughs, you name it.”

“I’m Mary McDonald, I’m also an archaeologist,” the woman next to Dorcas said smiling brightly at Peter, her brown curls bouncing with excitement. “Honestly, I’m surprised there are two of us. You said you specialize in cryptology? I’m an intelligence historian, also WCWI…”

Gears were turning. She could see the patterns forming. Everything was starting to click into place.

She crossed her arms, leaning back into her seat and surveying the group with calculating eyes. “I’m Dorcas Meadows,” she said, her voice low, almost casual, “The most wanted hacker in Europe.” She let that hang in the air for a moment, not bothering with any further explanation. The redhead—Lily?—and Pandora gaped at her, but the other blonde woman looked… intrigued? Dorcas smirked, but before she could respond, the men by the corner—who had been arguing for the longest time— stood up.

“Did you say most wanted hacker in Europe? As in the girl who just successfully hacked the CNES?” The one man, the tattooed one, almost seemed excited about her “job” description but before he could continue, the blonde cut in.

“Mate, wait for your own turn. It's mine right now, I’m Marlene McKinnon, and up until last month, I was serving as a pilot in the Air Force.”

Now it was the dreadlocked man’s turn to perk up. His brows lifted in surprise as a slow grin spread across his face.

“McKinnon? As in Mars-Bars McKinnon?”

Marlene blinked, then jolted upright. “Rosie?! Oh my God , I didn’t even recognize you with the new hair!” She gave him a once-over, as if making sure he was real. “Wait, this that new job you ditched me for?”  She turned back to the others, gesturing toward him. “Well, everyone, meet Evan Rosier. We were in the Air Force together—he was my sharpshooter, awful pilot. Don’t get on his bad side.”

Evan chuckled, shaking his head. “Awful pilot? That’s rich coming from you, McKinnon.”

Marlene smirked. “I got us on the ground in one piece, didn’t I?”

Dorcas couldn't help the smirk that tugged at her lips as she watched the banter unfold. This was going to be an interesting team. Definitely more entertaining than she'd expected.

Evan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back, glancing at the others. “Evan Rosier, ex-military, now private security.” His tone was cool, practiced—like he’d done this introduction a hundred times before.

“Hey. Rose, enough introductions, it's my turn.” The tattooed man pushed Evan out of the way, “Bartemius Crouch Jr. at your service,” he said, turning on his heel so he was facing Dorcas. "But you can call me Barty." She guessed that Barty was intrigued by her, though she didn't like his tone much, it was quite flirtatious.

Three introductions later, Dorcas confirmed her assumption that the two brothers were indeed the Black brothers—Sirius and Regulus. Both had ties to high society, though one had been disowned. She also learned that the quiet, scarred man in the cozy sweater was Remus Lupin, an Oxford graduate and historian. That left only the sunny one, whose introduction was by far the most surprising.

“I’m James,” he said with a grin, as if this whole situation wasn’t complete chaos. “James Potter, leader of field operations for this mission.” He glanced around the group with an almost too-optimistic air. “Nice to meet you all.”

Oh lord, if he was the leader of field ops, this whole thing was going to fall through. He was just too sunny. But, Dorcas reminded herself, this wasn’t about her opinions. She was here to do a job, not to play babysitter. But him as her boss? That was insanety. She had a hard time imagining how someone so... bubbly could lead a team through something as complex and dangerous as whatever this mission was. It was like asking a puppy to direct traffic. Still, the pay was good, and she'd work with whatever was thrown at her. Besides, she didn't need to like him to do her job. She just needed to get through this.

The group was still quiet after James's chipper introduction. Dorcas couldn't help but wonder what kind of operation they were being pulled into. Field operations leader or not, she wasn’t buying the overly sunny act. Something about it rubbed her the wrong way. Still, she kept her thoughts to herself.

In the back of her mind, she was already cataloging everything she’d heard: their skills, their specialties, even the ones who hadn't said much. It all had a purpose. There had to be a reason Karan had chosen this particular mix of people, even if none of them seemed to fit the typical mold.

Marlene would definitely come in handy if they had to be airlifted or if the mission went south. She clearly had a good head on her shoulders and wasn’t afraid of a little banter. Then there was Peter Pettigrew, who specialized in cryptology from WWI—useful for decoding things, though something about him felt... off. And Pandora Lovegood? Social engineer and fashion designer? She couldn’t figure out how that fit into the bigger picture just yet, but Pandora's calm, almost unnerving presence was enough to make Dorcas pause.

The two Black brothers were as tense as anyone else—especially Regulus, who seemed to have that air of someone who didn’t belong but couldn’t do anything about it. Sirius, on the other hand, was more guarded but had that energy that suggested he'd be useful in a crisis.

Then there was Barty Crouch. Judging by his cocky attitude and the way he seemed to push past Evan without hesitation, he wasn’t the kind of guy who cared much about how things went down. His confidence was almost too much, but he had to be good at what he did to be here.

And then... James Potter. Dorcas bit back a sigh.

If they survived this mess, he might just be the wild card. Or the one who got them all killed.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the plane hit turbulence, jolting everyone in their seats. It wasn’t enough to send them flying, but it was enough to remind them they weren’t exactly in control.

Marlene grinned, taking the chaos in stride. "Guess the fun's just starting."

Dorcas couldn't help but agree. It certainly wasn’t going to be boring.

✷✷✷

James Potter. Of course, James fucking Potter was the leader of field ops.

Regulus didn’t bother hiding the irritation that flared in his chest. He had spent the better part of his life avoiding that exact brand of chaos and energy. The guy was a walking disaster, a bright-eyed, overly optimistic whirlwind who somehow seemed to stumble his way through everything without ever truly taking things seriously.

Regulus glanced over at him, noticing the way James grinned, like he hadn’t just casually thrown a bombshell into the middle of their tense, carefully calculated situation. This wasn’t a bloody school mission, it was real —dangerous, complex, and potentially life-threatening. And James Potter was somehow leading it.

"James Potter," Regulus muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "I’d be surprised if he could lead himself out of a paper bag, let alone a field operation."

But then, as James flashed that grin again, the one that had always made his heart skip just a little too fast, Regulus couldn’t quite keep the tiny tug in his chest from showing. He had only known James for a week and he was already going weak. He looked away quickly, trying to push the thought down.

It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He couldn’t be thinking about this now, not when they were about to plunge into a God knows what kind of mess.

But damn it, James made it hard not to. Even with his blinding optimism and his reckless confidence, there was something about him that… drew Regulus in, something dangerous but magnetic that he couldn't ignore.

Shaking his head, Regulus focused back on the room, willing himself not to get caught up in whatever this was. He’d get through this. He always did. Even if James Potter was steering the ship. Regulus didn’t need some overly eager, wide-eyed idiot telling him what to do. He had his own plans. And he’d stick to them— eventually.

✷✷✷

Hours later, after having been settled into their new accommodations, the buzz of multiple phones going off at once filled the ears of the new associates.

Welcome to New York City, Angels.

I trust you’ve settled into your new accommodations—quite spacious, I must say. Your penthouse is yours for the duration of your stay. Nine of you, plenty of room to breathe. You’ll find it has everything you need, including the freedom to move about and blend in with the city's pulse. No one will be looking for a group of tourists, and that’s exactly what you’ll be.

Don’t get too comfortable, though. You were chosen for a reason, and you’ll start earning your keep soon enough. You’ll need to learn to speak with American accents at some point—don’t worry about that right now. Focus on settling in first.

Expect a call tomorrow morning at 9:57 AM via James’s phone. He’ll be your point of contact for now, so be ready.

For today, relax, get to know each other, and keep your eyes open. Tomorrow, you’ll receive your next instructions. But keep your heads on a swivel. People are watching, even when they don’t seem to be.

Welcome to the mission, Angels. Don't forget—you’re either in or in. There is no leaving.

- Karan