Pilot
“You sure you want to do this?” He asks. There’s no apprehension in his voice, nor is it eager, or calm, or nervous. Inflectionless. Almost bored.
“Nervous for me?” Sirius asks anyway, flicking a smirk back at him, before turning his gaze back to the impressive building before them, and the crowds of people walking to and fro in front of it.
Sirius’ companion rolls his eyes. Flicks the butt of his cigarette six feet from where he stands, posture straight but casual, and lets the smoke from his last drag billow out of his nostrils. Then turns sharply on his heels and begins walking away. A rather brash “don’t get killed,” tossed over his shoulder. Definitely bored now.
Sirius’ smirk turns into a full on grin as he turns back to the building in front of him, contemplating what he’s about to do. Well, how he’s about to do it, anyway. He’s actually enjoying himself.
He could walk straight in, nice and quiet, he muses.
Nah.
He always did have a flair for the dramatic.
He waits, counting out the footsteps behind him until they fade, and then a beat longer until he’s sure his companion has disappeared from view entirely. Then, he steps forward, right onto the raised emblem inlaid into the wide footpath. The metal edges of crossed wands dig into the arches of his feet, despite the heavy soles of his black boots.
With the flick of a hand, the Disillusionment spell - modified by Sirius himself, of course, to allow those he wants to see him, still see him, even while the illusion is still active - drops away entirely. The busy crowds walking this way and that don’t suddenly stop, start screaming, faint, or devolve into complete calamity, much to Sirius’ disappointment. He sighs. More work for him. And by work, he means standing there calmly while the crowds criss-cross in front of him, swirling around him on their morning commute to work, just waiting. Waiting - and calmness, he supposes - have always been work to Sirius.
Eyes slowly start registering his presence as they pass, but only as a new obstacle to get around. Too intent, initially, on getting to their destinations.
It happens slowly. One person to his right walks by him, skirting around him to avoid running straight into him, her eyes sliding across his face before moving on. Then, a flinch. An eye flicking straight back, after a moment. Then her footsteps stop. Then the person next to her runs into her suddenly prone body. It causes something of a ripple effect. Dozens of people nowhere near the foot traffic jam - quite impressively grown in size in a matter of seconds - look over to see what the fuss is about. See the one man in the middle of the crush of wobbling bodies, entirely still. Hands clasped behind his back, legs shoulder width apart, casual innocence in his eyes as if he’s not sure what the slow burn ruckus is about. Cool. Calm. Noticeable.
The murmurs start. Then the screaming.
Sirius Black is standing in the middle of Senter Alley. The busiest street in the middle of the Central Business District of Wizarding London. Right out the front of the grandeur of the wizard’s entry to the Ministry of Magic. Standing on top of the circular, raised metal Seal of the Minister.
All hell breaks loose.
——
On a rooftop about a block down the street, Sirius’ earlier companion stands and watches the madness unfold below him. Watches as Sirius, calm as day, unfastens his black cloak - leather piping, of course - and folds it neatly to set it down beside him. Watches as Sirius straightens back up to toy with the cuff links at the sleeves of his crisp white shirt with tattooed fingers. Watches him smooth out the pale grey waistcoat he’s wearing, which matches his well pressed grey trousers. He notices that despite making an absolute meal out of straightening his clothing, Sirius doesn’t fasten the top three buttons of his shirt, open over the patchwork of tattoos on his chest, the shameless attention whore. Sirius hadn’t wanted to “ruin” his favourite outfits - despite all of his favourite jeans being ripped anyway, and the band t-shirts being stupid, and that the blasted leather jacket he usually wore like a second skin probably deserved to be burned beyond recognition, in his companion’s opinion anyway - if things got messy and the spells started flying, and there was the added requirement of needing to add a businesslike, good impression once things really got interesting. Sirius apparently took no issue with fine Italian silk getting shot to hell in the crossfire. Just the band t-shirts.
He stands calmly on the rooftop and watches as the ripple of awareness spreads outwards from Sirius at its epicentre, amongst the masses on their morning commute. He doesn’t hear the murmurs start - he’s too far away, too high up, the wind ruffling his hair and drowning out much of the world below him - but he does hear the screams start a few moments later. They chose their timing well, early morning with really only office workers, shop assistants and businessmen on their commute, those not inclined to start hurling hexes immediately, not soldiers in a war but the citizens keeping the country going through the conflict by simply doing their jobs and burying their heads in the sand. None of these common folk are the type to see a wanted, dangerous criminal and want to take him down single-handedly - the type wired that way were identified young, snapped up by the Auror program or the Order and are therefore nowhere near the CBD at 8am on a Monday morning. These types of people, below him, a block away, instead recognise the tall figure among them and take cover immediately, or lose their minds a little, or freeze in their fear. Not many Aurors around, with their orders to kill on sight, since the morning shift won’t be off for a few hours. Perfect.
He watches as security - the type that don’t have carte blanche to take Sirius out - pour out of the Ministry’s front doors, surrounding him on all sides, wands drawn, while the civilians scatter like ants away from the supposed threat. Watches as Sirius Orion Black III raises his hands above his head rather lazily - he really is loving this, the fool - and continues waiting.
A commotion can clearly be heard by those surrounding Sirius as their heads, as one, turn back to the Ministry’s entrance, and then the Swift Tactical Auror Response team, in their considerable protective and offensive gear, swarm out of the building to join the circle, Sirius at its centre. His companion on the rooftop can practically hear the resigned but somehow still amused sigh that accompanies their arrival. He watches the most wanted criminal in Britain drop his hands down to the top of his head and slowly lower his body - seriously, it’s so slow it must take an impressive amount of core strength to do it - until he drops to his knees, legs spread wide, hands still on his head.
On the rooftop, he turns on his heel, not needing to see what happens next.
The most wanted criminal in the wizarding world, infamous the world over, the first man to have escaped Azkaban.
Sirius Black just handed himself into the Ministry.