James adjusted his cufflinks, scanning the crowd at the charity gala. The atmosphere was posh, and the stakes were high—his team was here to protect an important diplomat. He caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance, standing with a serving plate.
He reached up to his hidden mic, voice low but urgent. "Padfoot, what's going on? You’re supposed to be mingling with the guests."
There was a brief static before Sirius’s voice came through, slightly amused. "What are you talking about, Prongs? I’m mingling just fine. To your left."
James looked to his left and was only met with unfamiliar faces.
“Little higher,” Sirius prompted.
There, on a balcony overlooking the main hall, was Sirius, leaning casually against the railing with a drink in hand, his signature grin wide and easy. James gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgment
When James looked back, the man who had caught his attention was gone. He quickly scanned the area again. Just as he was about to turn away, he spotted the figure again—this time standing out more clearly against the backdrop of the opulent event. The waiter, dressed in a crisp black uniform that hugged his frame just right, was balancing a plate of delicacies with effortless grace. There was a resemblance to Sirius, but this man had an undeniable allure that was hard to ignore. The way he moved, confident yet discreet, exuded a charisma that drew the eye. James couldn’t help but appreciate the other man’s attractiveness; he was just a man, after all.
As if sensing James’s gaze, the waiter turned fully, revealing a sharp jawline that sent a jolt through James. The striking gray eyes—so reminiscent of Sirius's—locked onto his, and the man gave a shy smile, one that seemed both inviting and enigmatic. James found himself momentarily captivated, a warmth spreading through him before he had the good sense to snap out of it.
Shaking his head, he refocused on the task at hand. He reached for his mic again, "Sirius, you won't believe this. There’s a waiter here who looks just like you—uncanny, really—but I have to say, he’s more attractive.”
Sirius’s tone shifted, "Prongs—"
“Jealous?” James teased.
“No, is–” Sirius shot back, but the mic crackled, cutting off his next words. “ He’s—”
“Pads?” James hissed, scanning the crowd, his heart racing as the static hung in the air. Something was wrong.
“Secure the asset!” Sirius’s voice rang out, not from the mic, but cutting through the crowd, he was on the first floor again.
James didn’t hesitate. He jumped into action, heart pounding as he moved swiftly toward the man they were meant to protect. As he weaved through the elegantly dressed guests, a waiter stumbled right in front of him, a tray of wine glasses tilting precariously.
"Whoa! Sorry, sir!" the waiter exclaimed.
Time seemed to freeze as the glasses shattered against the marble floor, red wine spilling over James' expensive suit. He barely registered the vibrant stain blooming across the fabric; his focus was on the growing commotion ahead.
“Really? Now?” James snapped, as he attempted to brush past the clumsy waiter.
“Please, let me help!” the waiter insisted, grabbing James’s arm and reaching for a napkin.
James felt his patience thin. He shoved the waiter aside, “I don’t have time!”
Rushing forward, James spotted the diplomat, eyes wide and face flushed, clutching his throat in desperation. Sirius was already there, desperately trying to save the man. Sirius was positioned to administer the heimlich maneuver, his face set in grim determination. “C’mon, c’mon…” Sirius urged, pushing into the diplomat’s abdomen, but nothing happened.
James knew he had to act, he was useless just watching the scene and he trusted Sirius to do all that he could. James spun on his heel and took off running, urgency driving him to find the waiter who looked so much like Sirius. He needed answers—who was that man, what about him tipped Sirius off?
—
Regulus spotted James Potter before he was fully through the kitchen door. Even if he hadn’t memorized all of the CIA agents’ profiles, it would have been impossible to miss Potter’s conspicuous presence. The way he shifted awkwardly in his tailored suit, trying to blend into the polished ambiance of the event, marked him as someone who didn’t quite belong. If Potter was there, it was likely that his brother was also in attendance, along with the rest of their team—Lupin and Pettigrew. With the CIA involved, stakes were higher, but nothing Regulus hadn’t dealt with before.
“The Agency is here,” he whispered, his voice low and steady.
“Cutting all transmissions in 3...” Dorcas started.
“Wait, which team?” Barty’s voice broke through the comms, louder than necessary. “Who are we looking for?”
“As if you’d recognize them by name alone,” Evan chimed in.
Regulus sensed eyes on him and felt an irritation bubble beneath his calm façade. He couldn’t respond as the bickering between Barty and Evan continued in his earpiece. He slipped seamlessly between groups of guests, ensuring he blended in, all the while hoping to deflect attention away. Potter had spotted him, it seemed, though Regulus was sure the agent wouldn’t recognize him. He moved again trying to shake the stare and it worked for a moment. Regulus turned slightly, facing away from the crowd but not enough to raise suspicion. “Marauders,” he whispered.
His team erupted with unnecessary comments and questions, but Regulus couldn’t afford to be distracted. When he turned back around, his heart raced as he caught sight of Potter’s gaze finding him again. It lingered, an instinctual pull that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. No one was chasing him yet, which he figured had to be a good sign, but he still needed to know if the others were in play.
Regulus held Potter’s gaze for a moment, then quickly adopted an innocent expression, forcing a smile as he adjusted the tray of hors d'oeuvres he was carrying. He couldn’t let anything seem amiss; he had to maintain his identity of a simple waiter. To his relief, he received a smile in return before James finally looked away, his focus drifting back to the crowd.
“Cut the comms. Now,” he demanded harshly.
Everyone promptly shut up. Dorcas’ voice came through clear and steady “3…2…”
And his earpiece was silent as he stepped in front of the target, a fruit tartlet—the last of Jair Bolsonaro’s favorites—laced with something extra, just for him.
Regulus moved with purpose, just a few steps away when he heard the first cough. A few steps after that, the unmistakable sound of his brother’s voice screamed over the din, filled with panic. Regulus’s heart raced, but he maintained his composure, leaving the serving tray on an empty chair and resisting the urge to look back.
The others would be fine using their planned exit strategy—maintaining their false personas until after being questioned and deemed innocent by the police. But with his brother in play, Regulus knew that was no longer an option for him. He had to disappear, and fast.
He made his way to the coat closet, heart racing as he rummaged through the hangers. His fingers brushed against one of the big black coats that Pandora had planted there earlier, specifically for situations just like this. With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching, he yanked off his waiter’s vest and tossed it aside. Pulling the coat on, he left his tie in place and reached into the pockets to pull out a pair of white gloves and a folded-up chauffeur hat. Without wasting another moment, he tucked his dark curls into the hat and slipped the gloves on. There wasn’t much he could do to hide his face without raising suspicion, so he made do with pulling his collar up.
The distant sound of an ambulance siren pierced the air, heightening his sense of urgency. Regulus took a deep breath, steadying himself before he hurriedly walked out the door. No one had the good sense to stop him yet; the crowd was still too distracted, gawking at the unfolding chaos to think about sealing the exits or questioning anyone. Security kept a close eye on people entering, not exiting, and with communication down, they probably didn’t suspect the ambulance was heading towards them.
Regulus was almost to the drivers’ lot where an unmarked car would be waiting for him, when he suddenly heard the hard footsteps on the pavement.
“Stop!” Someone yelled. “You there! Stop!”
Regulus turned down the next alleyway, bracing himself against the cool, damp brick wall. It wasn’t his brother’s voice. It had to be Potter. In that case, there was no use in running. He would never be able to escape on foot—not with James’s speed, endurance, and sheer willpower. The thought made his stomach twist.
The gala’s ridiculous security protocols left Regulus without any weapons—well, anything they deemed weapons, anyway. If weapons were prohibited, there was no way they would have let him in in the first place, he thought with a grin. He had to rely on his skills and what he knew about James Potter instead.
He recalled the bits and pieces he had learned, fueled by a curiosity about his brother’s team. His mother had only recommended learning the basics, but Regulus found himself drawn to that same file over and over again. James was a boxer and wrestler, an MMA enthusiast in his free time. He seemed the type to act first, think later, diving into situations with a reckless abandon that often put him at an advantage. Sure, James was physically stronger than Regulus, but that could be turned against him.
As James rounded the corner, Regulus threw a series of feigned punches, each movement calculated to get James on the defensive. To his satisfaction, James dodged them with the agility of a seasoned fighter. Just as Regulus had planned, James lunged forward, arms outstretched, ready to grapple.
James wrapped his arms around him and in an instant, Regulus reacted. He leaned back, expertly kicking his legs up and over James’ head in a maneuver he had practiced countless times. For a brief moment, it felt almost like flying. In one fluid motion, he spun within James’s grasp, twisting his body to slip under his other arm. With a sudden shift, Regulus leveraged James’s own weight against him. Channeling all his strength, he used the momentum to flip James over. The larger man hit the ground with a thud and a groan that echoed off the alley walls. Regulus didn’t waste a second. He knew better than to engage in a prolonged fight with someone nearly twice his size, he had learned that the hard way. With a quick glance back at the dazed James, he took off running toward the car, heart pounding in his chest.
He spotted the vehicle with ease, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the flickering streetlight. Without hesitation, Regulus jumped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. The key would be somewhere inside, all he had to do was push start.
Just as he was pulling out of the lot, adrenaline still coursing through him, James suddenly jumped in front of the car, gun drawn. Regulus’s heart raced as he realized the agent had recovered far quicker than he had anticipated.
James had no intention of firing that gun. The pleading expression on his face—attempting to exude authority—was a clear indicator. James didn’t have his finger anywhere near the trigger, Regulus doubted it was even cocked.
For a brief moment, Regulus considered running him over, but he thought better of it. That wasn’t necessary. Not yet. Instead, he threw his hands up in a mock surrender, a sly grin creeping onto his face.
As soon as James moved to approach the driver’s side door, shifting out of the way, Regulus seized the opportunity. He hit the gas and sped off, the tires screeching against the pavement.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw James chasing him with his gun still drawn, but making no real effort to use it. The backdrop of the alley blurred as Regulus drove away, the chaos of the gala fading into the distance.
Eventually, James threw his hands up in defeat, and Regulus couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.
—
After giving a detailed report and receiving an even more detailed berating for all the mistakes he made, James leaned against the wall of the conference room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The stern gaze of their supervisor still burned in his mind, and he could almost feel the weight of every critical word pressing down on him.
He turned to Sirius, who was fiddling with a pen, his expression unreadable. “You knew who that guy was,” James pressed, his voice low but urgent. “Who was he? Why was he there?”
Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I wish I could tell you, but… it’s complicated. I can’t share any details yet,” he replied.
“Come on, Sirius. We can’t just leave it at that.”
“I know,” Sirius said quietly, his gaze steady. “Just trust me.”
The pleading look on his face was enough to make James drop the subject, at least for now. He trusted Sirius with his life—and more. Their bond had been forged in the fire of countless missions and the camaraderie that came from shared experiences. They had met at 18 when they both joined the same class at the CIA, fresh-faced and eager, and eight years later, they had become brothers.
In fact, James regarded his entire team as brothers. He, Sirius, Remus, and Peter—codenamed Prongs, Padfoot, Moony, and Wormtail—were known collectively as the Marauders unit. Peter Pettigrew had known James since middle school but didn’t join the agency until a year after him. Sirius Black started at the agency around the same time as James, and they quickly formed a close bond. During their first year, they met Remus Lupin, who had been with the agency for a year already. In those early years, the four of them operated in different areas, each carving out his own niche: James and Sirius as field agents, Remus specializing in strategy analysis, and Peter handling logistics and support.
Eventually, their diverse skills caught the attention of their superiors, and they were selected to form a tactical field team. This was a turning point in their careers. The four of them, now more than just friends, were a force to be reckoned with. They trained hard, building trust and learning to rely on one another in high-stakes situations. They celebrated victories together and supported each other through failures, creating a bond that felt unbreakable.
The years passed, filled with missions that tested their resolve and deepened their friendship. They shared countless late-night debriefs filled with laughter and camaraderie, but also moments of vulnerability. They faced dangers together, each incident further solidifying their commitment to one another. James had always thought they knew everything about each other. Until now.
“I don’t understand,” Remus commented. “James says some guy looks like you, communication goes down, you freak out, and Bolsonaro drops dead. The killer hands James’ ass to him and gets away, but you can’t tell us what you know?”
“Drop it Moony,” Sirius stood to leave. On his way out, he added, “You’ll all know soon enough.”
Less than a week later, Dumbledore, head of the agency, called a meeting for every available agent.
“Thank you all for your time; I know just how valuable it is,” Dumbledore began. He launched into a lengthy speech, detailing ongoing operations and acknowledging their hard work. James felt his mind wander, anticipation gnawing at him until Dumbledore finally reached the crux of the matter: the resurgence of the Black family assassins.
As soon as the words left Dumbledore's lips, murmurs rippled through the room, a wave of unrest washing over the assembled agents. James caught Remus’s eye; he raised an eyebrow, clearly as puzzled as James felt. Sirius remained rigid, staring straight ahead as if bracing for an impending storm. It was unlike Sirius to hide his feelings, and James felt a rush of concern.
“I thought they were a myth,” Peter shouted, his voice cutting through the chatter.
Dumbledore’s tone remained calm as he addressed the room. “They have been dormant for nearly two decades, but they are very real and a significant threat.”
The man paused to pull up images on the screen, and James's breath caught in his throat. The man from the gala appeared, strikingly handsome with sharp features that were eerily reminiscent of Sirius. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.
As the agency head detailed the events of the gala, James watched the room’s dynamics shift. Agents exchanged glances, some whispering as they glanced at Sirius. “We know this man’s name is Regulus Black. The details surrounding his involvement remain murky. We’re unsure if the Black family still maintains any connections, or who else might be working with him.” As if sensing the room’s unease, he added “While we have very little information, I want to assure you that there is no one in this agency that I don’t trust.” His gaze swept across the room, steady and reassuring, but it confirmed what they all suspected.
Sirius was related to them.
“Twenty years ago, we executed a major bust that led us to believe we had dismantled most of the assassin group. At the time, it seemed like a significant victory for us. However, we knew better than to assume that none of their operatives had slipped through the cracks. The Black family is extensive and possesses numerous resources, with ties that stretch around the globe. The complexity of international law often makes it difficult to pursue criminal charges, especially against a network as established and slippery as theirs. Even if we were to apprehend Regulus now, securing any charges against him would be incredibly challenging, especially given the circumstances surrounding Bolsonaro's death.”
Another murmur rippled through the room, but Dumbledore continued over them, “While we hadn’t been overly concerned about them for some time, the recent developments have forced us to reevaluate our stance. It is believed this cohort has been responsible for dismantling governments and starting wars. They have no allegiance to any flag or leader, they only work for the highest bidder. Bringing them down before they do any more damage is a top priority. Interactions with them will be dangerous and, in most cases, deadly;” his eyes scanned the room again and settled on James’ own, “to those that have faced them, and survived, consider yourselves lucky.”