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James knew it was serious when they locked the door. No coffee. No jokes. No stack of files he could flip through while pretending not to be nervous. Just a table, a screen, and a man who looked like he hadn’t slept since deciding this was a good idea.
Remus sat beside him, posture neat, hands folded. Too neat. That was always the tell.
“This is an undercover operation,” Sergeant Dumbledore said.
“Long-term.”
James glanced at Remus and raised a brow. Long-term was a dangerous word. It meant becoming someone else. It meant mistakes that couldn’t be walked back.
“The Black syndicate,” the man continued, and the screen flickered to life.
James leaned forward before he meant to. Old money. Old violence. Old names that didn’t need explaining if you grew up hearing whispers about who owned which docks, which judges, which streets.
“
Their reach is… extensive,” Sergeant Dumbledore said carefully. “We believe they’re involved in arms trafficking, money laundering, and—”
“And half the city,” James muttered.
Remus shot him a look. A warning. James leaned back, folding his arms. This was big. Career-defining. Something heavy settled in his chest—pride, maybe, or the promise of it.
“We need someone inside,” Sergeant Dumbledore said. “Someone they won’t question.” The screen shifted again. A family tree this time. Names branching like veins. James followed them without thinking.
Black. Black. Black.
And—Sirius Black.
Remus inhaled softly.
James turned to him, startled. “You know him?”
Remus’ mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “I know of him.” That was worse.
“Former heir,” Sergeant Dumbledore said. “Estranged. Reckless. Useful.”
James felt something spark—interest, adrenaline, the stupid confidence that had gotten him recruited in the first place. “So what,” he said, “we befriend the prodigal son?”
“We become who they trust,” Sergeant Dumbledore corrected. “However long that takes.”
The room felt smaller.
James glanced at Remus again, trying to read him. Remus’ gaze was fixed on the screen, on the name Black like it might look back. “Say we get in,” James said. “Say we do everything right.”
Dumbledore met his eyes. Not blinking. “Then you stay,” he said. “Until it’s over.”
James nodded. Easy. He could do that. He’d always been good at staying upright under pressure. Beside him, Remus folded his hands tighter. No one mentioned what would happen if they couldn’t leave.
*
Nervous was an understatement.
Remus’ stomach hadn’t settled since the meeting. He didn’t understand why Sergeant Dumbledore picked him for this—quiet, careful, better suited to do paperwork than syndicates that swallowed people whole.
Remus was a quiet guy. Kept to himself. Took small cases. This was bigger than anything he’d ever taken.
But right now he was leaning against a wall in front of a clothing shop, waiting for James to come out.
His hands shook as he placed a cigarette to his lips, reaching for the lighter in his pocket, before the door of the shop swung open, making Remus jump, his cigarette nearly falling from his lips.
“Remus—hey! I thought we were quitting smoking together!” James huffed, fixing the heavy-looking shopping bag on his shoulder as he carried the other bags.
“I was. Until I found out we’re going undercover in one of the most powerful and dangerous syndicates,” Remus argued, finally finding his lighter in his jeans pocket, now able to light his cigarette.
James grinned, already skipping down the street. “I’m not worried at all.”
Remus bounced off the wall, rolling his eyes. “Well, good for you,” he said, as he hobbled to catch up with James, staring at all the shopping bags he was currently holding. “Your bank account will be crying,” he laughed, exhaling smoke.
“You think all of this is for me?” James chuckled. “Some of this is for you, so you owe me,” he said, smirking as he handed Remus two full shopping bags. Remus took the bags, accidentally dropping his cigarette, too shocked to notice.
“I can't afford all of this, James!” Remus argued, staring into the bags.
James rolled his eyes as they turned the corner to their shared flat. “You will when we finish this undercover case,” he grinned.
Remus sighed as they reached the flat building door, holding bags in his arms while struggling to get the keys out of his jacket pocket.
“I mean, don’t you find it exhilarating? This case?” James rambled as Remus managed to unlock the door, holding it open for James, who just walked in, continuing to spew about the case.
“It may be all exciting until you remember we could possibly die,” Remus reminded him as they climbed the stairs to their floor.
“Don’t be a killjoy,” James teased, letting Remus pass to unlock the flat door.
“I’m not being a killjoy. I’m being realistic,” Remus said, unlocking the front door and holding it open for James again.
“I know what will boost your mood,” James said, grinning—which was never a good sign.
He headed to their tiny living room, which smelled of cigarettes and was only a step from the kitchen.
“James,” Remus warned, “what have you planned?” he said warily.
Sirius hated family meetings.
He didn’t listen anyway, so he didn’t even know why he was there. He just zoned out and drank. A lot.
When he was younger, his mother used to scold him for not keeping his head up, not sitting up straight, or talking too loudly.
Now she didn’t care as long as he didn’t talk. He wasn’t the future heir of the Black syndicate. Regulus was.
And even though Sirius was ecstatic for freedom in his life, Regulus was now chained to a fate that was meant to be Sirius’. And Sirius would feel forever guilty.
He glanced at Regulus, who sat across the table from him.
His expression was stone-cold. Posture perfect. Head held high.
The very thing Sirius could never be.
And even though Sirius hated his parents, it still hurt as a kid when they were disappointed in him or couldn’t look him in the eye because he had embarrassed them.
But he’d learned not to care anymore.
The meeting wasn’t even cold yet—the air still thick with cigar smoke and old power—but he was already shrugging into his coat, glass abandoned on the table like an insult.
He didn’t bother looking back. If they wanted him, they could come say it to his face.
No one did.
Good.
The club was three blocks down and underground, exactly the way Sirius liked it. No windows. No clocks. Music pounding hard enough to rattle the bones in your chest. Black-owned, Black-controlled, Black-approved—a leash disguised as a playground.
The bouncer nodded him through without question.
Inside, everything was red light and shadows. Silk dresses. Expensive cologne. Money changing hands in corners while everyone pretended it was just dancing.
Sirius headed straight for the bar and slapped a hand down hard enough to rattle the glasses.
“Whiskey,” he said. “Don’t insult me.”
The bartender poured without comment.
Sirius downed it and signalled for another before the burn faded. The relief still sat warm in his chest—quiet, steady. He didn’t miss the throne. Didn’t miss the rules. Didn’t miss the suffocation, the way every breath used to feel borrowed. Losing it hadn’t broken him. It had saved him.
Someone took the stool beside him.
“You’re making a scene,” Regulus said, looking Sirius up and down. And Sirius could just tell Regulus was disgusted by his outfit: a fishnet tank top, black jeans with rips in the knees, and silver chains with rubies to match.
Sirius looked at him, then at the bartender, signalling for another drink. “That’s the idea.”
He turned slowly to fully face Regulus, giving his brother a once-over. Perfect suit, covered in silver snake jewellery. Perfect posture. Already being shaped into something sharp and obedient.
“Relax,” Sirius added. “I’m not stealing your crown.”
Regulus’ mouth tightened. “You don’t take anything seriously.”
“I take my freedom very seriously—well, what I have is the closest thing to freedom you’ll get here,” Sirius said, lifting his glass. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Regulus leaned closer so Sirius could hear him over the music. “People are watching you.”
Sirius laughed—low, amused. “Let them. I’m not important anymore, remember?”
“That’s not how this works.”
“No,” Sirius agreed. “But it’s how it should.”
Regulus straightened, irritation flashing through his careful calm. “You act like this doesn’t affect you.”
Sirius finally met his eyes. “It doesn’t,” he said honestly. “What affects me is watching them turn you into something you didn’t choose.”
That landed.
Regulus looked away first.
“
Just don’t make things harder,” Regulus muttered. “For any of us.”
Sirius finished his drink and stood. “I’m not the one saying yes.”
Regulus left without another word.
Sirius’ order finally arrived—slower this time. Around him, the club kept breathing: deals struck in shadows, bodies pressed close, laughter too sharp to be real.
This was the price of belonging, and Sirius was glad it was no longer his to pay.
*
Regulus stepped out into the night, letting the club’s bass fade behind him. The air was sharp, cool—a relief from the red-hot shadows inside. He adjusted his jacket sleeves, smoothed imaginary wrinkles, counted his steps to the curb with the habitual precision of someone who measured everything.
T
he black car was already waiting, sleek and polished. Evan sat composed, his bleached dreads falling over a white tank top, gold jewellery complementing his dark skin, black trousers with thin grey stripes, and a cigarette between his fingers, back straight, legs crossed. Barty, in contrast, sprawled across the seat like he owned the space—black tank top, ripped jeans covered in silver and gold jewelry, brown and green hair tangled with sunglasses on top of his head—grin wide and chaotic.
“Reggie! Don’t ignore me!” Barty slurred, waving a hand wildly.
Regulus tilted his head just enough to catch the grin. “I’m hardly ignoring you,” he said evenly, sliding into the seat carefully to avoid crushing Barty’s elbow.
“You’re no fun, Reggie!” Barty protested, wriggling.
“I make my own fun,” Regulus replied dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched with faint amusement.
Evan exhaled smoke toward the slightly open window. “Sirius still being difficult?”
Regulus glanced at him, neutral but honest. “When is he not?” His hands folded in his lap, fingers tracing the folds of his coat. He didn’t need to explain; Evan understood.
Barty, undeterred, started singing—loud and off-key. Regulus pressed his lips together but let a faint, amused smile creep in. “Please don’t audition for a recording contract,” he murmured, and Evan chuckled quietly, leaning back against the door.
The car moved through the city, lights and reflections painting patterns on the windows. Regulus watched it all—neon signs flickering, streetlights uneven, pedestrians blurred in motion. Details mattered; he noticed everything, catalogued it silently. Barty leaned back, humming along with his own tune, and Regulus let himself enjoy the harmless absurdity.
-----------------------
When the car slowed near the apartment, Regulus rose first, adjusting his jacket. “You two behave,” he said lightly, only half serious, as Evan gently steadied Barty.
When they reached their apartment door, Regulus knocked slowly. A girl wearing silk pyjamas, bleached braids falling to her waist, the moonlight hitting her dark skin, swung the door open almost immediately, lamp in hand like a weapon, eyes wide and—most obviously—dilated. Recognition softened her stance. “Reggie!”
Regulus allowed himself a real, small smile. “Hi, Dora.”
“Come in! Come in!” she urged, stepping aside. “You’re just in time—Barty’s already…” She glanced at him, then at the stumbling Barty, and burst into laughter. “Exactly where I thought he’d be!”
Regulus stepped in fully, shaking his head slightly at Barty. “Try not to destroy anything before dinner,” he said lightly, and Barty grinned, mock-saluting him. Evan smirked at Regulus from the doorway.
“I told you he’d survive,” Evan said.
“Barely,” Regulus replied quietly, eyes flicking to the chaos with faint amusement.
Pandora gestured toward the lounge. “Sit, sit! Or at least pretend you’re going to sit—Barty will keep you company whether you like it or not.”
Regulus moved further inside, noting the marble floors, the sunlight on the walls, the faint scent of lavender. The chaos was friendly here—not the suffocating tension of the club. He allowed himself to relax a fraction, just enough to breathe.
Barty flopped onto the couch, laughter still bubbling. “Don’t forget us, Reggie!” he called.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Regulus said, voice quiet but firm. A faint smile lingered longer than he expected.
He peeled off his jacket carefully, draping it over a chair, and stepped toward the far end of the apartment, moving with measured precision. His room waited, quiet and still, a sanctuary from noise, expectation, and performance.
The city stretched beyond the window—vast, indifferent, unchanging. Regulus sat at his desk, removed a notebook from its drawer, and opened it. The pages were filled with words no one had read, lines shaped from thought, restraint, and rare bursts of unfiltered feeling.
Here, he could breathe. Here, he could name the things he could not say aloud: loyalty, resentment, humour, longing. Every letter was a small rebellion against the world outside his window.
He exhaled slowly, pen poised. And for the first time since leaving the club, Regulus allowed himself to write without caution.