Chapter Text
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was older than the city itself. In every whispered story of London’s hidden world, the Blacks were there. They were the keepers of ancient blood oaths, masters of magic and sorcery so old it had formed into something monstrous. The Blacks had kept the prophecy in whispered fragments, passed down like scripture through centuries:
When the line yields not daughter and son, but two sons of one blood, the elder shall awaken the Lord who slumbers. Through his veins shall flow the crown, through his hands, he shall restore that of old.
The prophecy had never belonged to the Blacks alone. Centuries ago, when the Dark Lord reigned, when those who wielded magic ruled, there were houses who bent at the knee willingly, feeding their loyalty with blood. These became known as the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the most ancient and storied of families, their roots twined so deeply into history.
Some claimed to serve for power, others out of fear. Many claimed descent, boasting that the blood of the Dark Lord himself ran in their veins. Over the centuries, those lines spread, fractured, splintered into their own noble branches. The Dark Lord's most loyal followers became known simply as the Nobles. Some families, however fell into ruin, other fled across the seas to hide their names. A few even renounced their oaths to the Lord and buried their allegiance so deeply in the past that descendants no longer knew of it.
But not the Blacks. Never the Blacks.
The House of Black never wavered. They called themselves the true keepers of the oath, the true bloodline of the Lord. While other families softened, bent, or even vanished, the Blacks doubled down, their rituals growing darker, their devotion more fervent. If the Lord was to rise again they would be the ones to provide the way.
After the fall and death of the Dark Lord centuries before, even the families most loyal to him began to notice a change. Bloodlines once rich in magic seemed to lose their power as new generations were born. Only the accounts written down of elders in their families recounted the tales of magic-rich blood, power literally at their fingertips, now, so many years later, reduced to almost nothing.
For generations, the Black family line had repeated its patterns: daughters born in three, sons and daughters in pairs, but never two boys together. The prophecy waited.
And then came Sirius and Regulus.
The birth of two sons shattered centuries of balance, and the family knew at once that the words had come alive. Sirius Black, as the elder, was marked as heir to the darkness, the one who would raise the long-slumbered Lord.
From his first breath, Sirius’ life was no longer his own.
Sirius learned the rituals, the words, the shadows his parents worshipped. He also heard the stories of what the Dark Lord had done — the cities drowned, the bodies, the black shadows that burned any non-magical beings for days.
But Sirius was reckless, even as a child. He laughed in the solemn halls of Grimmauld Place, mocked the rituals, turned family gatherings into games. He asked questions no one wanted answered: why would any one want a Lord who burned cities and drowned armies? Why serve something that seemed to promise only ruin? He never understood the devotion to this old, deceased Lord in his mother’s eyes, the fervor in his father’s prayers.
His brother was different. Regulus was younger by a few years. He was quieter and had trailed Sirius’ steps as a boy, following him like his shadow. Sirius had once thought they were inseparable. They whispered secrets under the vaulted ceilings, stole apples from the kitchens, played knights and kings in the long corridors, but this time, the good kind. The ones who helped their people and saved fair maidens.
But as they grew, something shifted. Regulus began to linger longer in the ritual chambers, listening closely to their father’s instructions. He sat straighter during family sermons, repeated their mother’s prayers with an earnestness Sirius could never manage. Where Sirius scoffed, Regulus believed.
By the time they were teenagers, the distance had become a chasm. Regulus was loyal where Sirius rebelled, devout where Sirius doubted. Sirius’ reckless laughter became a point of shame.
Still, sometimes at night, Sirius would catch Regulus looking at him the way he had as a child, as though he still wanted to follow, still wanted to believe in his older brother more than the crown of shadows their parents spoke of. But when morning came, Regulus’ gaze was steady, his allegiance already given.
Sirius stayed longer than he ever meant to. By sixteen he had dreamed of flight, of slipping out into the city and never looking back, but guilt chained him to Grimmauld Place. Regulus was still there. Despite the widening distance between them, Sirius couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his younger brother alone with their parents. He feared that if he abandoned his family’s expectations, those crushing demands would shift onto Regulus’ shoulders.
But staying only broke him more slowly.
The House of Black had waited for generations for the heir foretold in prophecy, the one who would raise the Dark Lord. As the firstborn, Sirius had been their hope, their crown jewel. Yet year after year, he failed them. His parents pressed him into rituals meant to unlock his power, dragged him before tutors who measured and found him lacking. Where was the sorcery and power that was supposed to pour through his bloodline?
His parents began to call him useless. To say the prophecy must have misread. That perhaps the gift had skipped him entirely. He became, in their eyes, not only a disappointment but an insult to their sacred line.
On the night of his eighteenth birthday, desperation curdled into cruelty. His parents forced him into the ritual chamber, lit with the choking smoke of black incense. They tried to draw magic out of him through pain; words carved into his skin, fists and whips leaving marks across his body. “If you are the heir, your blood will answer,” his mother hissed.
But Sirius’ blood apparently did not answer.
Sirius lay broken for days afterward, bedridden and fevered, with bruises flowering dark across his ribs, every breath a reminder of failure. Regulus came once, standing in the doorway of his bedroom with wide eyes. Sirius thought he saw pity there, or maybe even fear. But Regulus said nothing, and when he left, he did not return again.
When at least Sirius could walk without the floor tilting beneath him, the decision settled in him. There was nothing left to stay for. His parents had beaten him and still the magic hadn’t surfaced. To them, he was useless.
So he plotted and planned. He stole a handful of coins from his father’s study, a silver locket from his mother’s dresser. Enough to buy time, to buy freedom. He tucked it into the lining of his coat and waited until his body healed enough to run.
On a night with heavy fog, Sirius moved through the silent halls. Every step creaked like a shout. At the threshold, he paused, fingers pressed to the carved wood of the great door, the air tinged with the smell of old incense.
And Sirius caught sight of Regulus waiting in the shadows.
His brother’s face was pale, eyes steady as if he had been waiting for his moment to come. He looked at Sirius the way he had when they were children, when they whispered secrets under the stairs. But now there was no laughter.
“You’re leaving,” Regulus said. It wasn’t a question.
Sirius’ throat tightened. “I can’t do it anymore, Reg,” he said quietly. “I can’t be what they want me to be.”
For a heartbeat, he hoped that his brother would come with him. That the little brother who used to follow him around the halls would follow him now. But Regulus only stood there, staring at him with grey-blue eyes that matched his own.
Finally, Sirius turned. His hand pressed the door open. The night air rushed in, damp and cold, smelling of river fog and his freedom.
He didn’t look back.
One Year Later
The fog rolled heavy off the Thames, swallowing the crooked lanes and shivering gas lamps. Sirius Black cut through it with the careless swagger of someone who had no right to be alive — at least, according to his parents — but yet he was too stubborn to die.
He looked like any other dockside drifter. He wore scuffed boots and his coat was patched in more places than he cared to admit. His dark hair had grown long and was falling into his grey eyes. He laughed loudly in taverns, sometimes instigating fights after a few too many drinks that resulted in fists flying in alleys. But after a year of his new life, he carried himself like he owned the cobblestones beneath his feet.
He had learned the rhythm of the streets quickly. Cheap inns with beds often crawling with fleas, cellars where the ale never stopped flowing, rooftops to sleep on when money was running low. Odd jobs carried him: cart-hauling, gutter cleaning, anything that could get him paid quickly enough to get some bread back in his stomach. He spent as little as he could, stretching the handful of coins he’d stolen as far as they would go.
But he still kept the locket. Silver, engraved with a crest he didn’t recognize as that of the Blacks. He’d never seen his mother wear it, but he knew it had value. Sirius kept it around his neck and tucked beneath his shirt and coat, always close to his skin. It wasn’t a keepsake or a memory of the life he fled, but it was a last resort. When the money ran dry and desperation finally cornered him, the locket would be his way out.
He told himself he was free now. He was no heir, no vessel, no prophecy. He was just another face in the fog, a young man the city would chew up and spit out.
And yet, in every tavern where laughter ran too loud, in every alley where shadows grew long, Sirius still felt the weight of his name clinging to him like a curse. He might have traded silks for rags, silver candlesticks for gaslit lamps, but he couldn’t shake the sense that someone, somewhere, was still waiting for him.
But slowly he adjusted to his new life in London. By day, he ran errands when coin ran short or hustled a few hands of cards when he was feeling especially mischievous. And at night, he drank with the locals among the smoke and clatter of London’s seedy taverns. He thrived in the crowd of people, sharing a beer and laughing boisterously as the weight of his family’s legacy slowly lifted off his shoulders.
It wasn’t uncommon for Sirius to leave with company when the night ran long. Sirius knew that he was an attractive young man, and it didn’t take much to attract the notice of others. All it took was a flash of his grin, a quick toss of his long, dark hair, and eyes followed him. It didn’t matter much if it was a striking man with a tight laugh or a woman whose eyes flickered in the candlelight at the table. They’d follow him upstairs to his small room above the pub, the door muffling the noises of other patrons below. By morning, they were always gone, leaving without even an exchange of names, just the ghost of warmth on the bed beside him.
The noise, the games, the drinks, the press of a body. All of it felt like freedom for Sirius. He was adjusting to his new life, living under the radar in parts of London his family would never think to look.
Now, at nineteen, he left his small room at an inn to see what the night had in store for him. Sirius spat into the gutter, shouldering past a drunk stumbling out of a pub.
The drunk staggered two steps and bowled straight into another figure just ahead. It was a young man, maybe Sirius’ age, with brown skin and a pair of round gold spectacles perched precariously on his nose. The glasses gleamed faintly in the gaslit street lamps, polished and well-made. They looked too fine for the threadbare coat and scuffed boots he wore. The contradiction caught Sirius’ eye at once.
“Hey, watch it!” The young man snapped. His vowels were neat, the cadence precise. A posh accent, the same sort Sirius had worked for a year to grind out of his own speech.
That was enough to pull the drunk upright, indignation suddenly burning through the ale in his veins. He squared up, swaying but dangerous all the same, face flushed and ugly. He leaned in, slurring curses, and the young man with the spectacles shoved his hands into his pockets like he had no idea what came next.
Idiot. Sirius almost laughed.
Then the drunk’s fist swung.
The boy with the glasses barely dodged in time, more by luck than skill, and the fact that he clearly wasn’t anywhere near as inebriated as the man with the punches. He stumbled back ways into the wall, glasses askew, hands still jammed stubbornly in his pockets, as though sheer defiance might win him the fight.
“Alright then, pretty boy,” the drunk growled, winding up again.
Sirius sighed, and before the next punch could land, he stepped in, catching the drunk by the shoulder.
“Easy now,” Sirius said, twisting just enough to throw the man off-balance. The drunk lurched sideways, tripped on the cobblestones, and went down hard with a groan.
“Oi!” The bespectacled boy protested, as if Sirius had spoiled his fun.
“Oi, yourself,” Sirius shot back with a smirk. “You were about two seconds from losing those pretty glasses, and your nose along with ‘em.”
The boy straightened, brushing dirt from his sleeves, cheeks flushed with equal parts embarrassment and indignation. His accent, posh and polished, cut through again as he said, “I had it under control.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Sure you did.”
The drunk groaned again from the ground. Sirius leaned down, yanked the man’s flask from the inside of his coat, as well as a few loose coins, and tucked it into his own. “Payment for services rendered,” he said cheerfully, before turning back to the boy.
The boy huffed, while pushing his glasses back into place. “And who exactly are you?”
Sirius grinned, almost wolfish in the low light. “Someone who just saved your arse.” Sirius grabbed the flask again, untwisting the top and taking a quick sniff before bringing it to his lips. “Sirius.” He didn’t offer more. He never did.
The boy studied him for a moment, his lips quirking. “James.” No surname either.
For a heartbeat, they both smirked, as if they’d shared a private joke. Two liars in the same gutter, acknowledging each other’s omission without needing to say it.
“Do you always rescue complete strangers from alley brawls?” James finally asked, now that something had eased between them.
“Only the ones who look like they’ve never thrown a punch in their life,” Sirius shot back with a grin, letting his own voice slip with his own crisp accent.
James’ head turned abruptly. His eyes gleamed with recognition. “You,” He said, smile curling, “aren’t half as common as you’re pretending to be.”
Sirius smirked back, daring him. “Neither are you.”
And in that moment, for the first time since he’d left Grimmauld Place, since he’d left Regulus, Sirius felt a sense of camaraderie. Two boys hiding their pedigrees behind dirt and bravado, choosing alleys and dirty pubs over the suffocating weight of what they left behind. Secrets pressed close between them, not yet shared but already understood.
They left the alley together, the drunk still muttering on the ground behind them. Sirius gave the flask a small shake. “Still got a bit left. Shame to let it go to waste.”
James arched an eyebrow. “Not sure that rotgut is worth it.”
Sirius smirked. “But it’s free.” He tipped it back, winced, and passed it over. “Care to join me?”
James hesitated only a moment before taking it, his nose wrinkling at the sharp scent. “Well, when you put it that way…” He took a swallow and sputtered, coughing until Sirius laughed.
The two of them wandered aimlessly until they found themselves at the river’s edge, a lone bench looking out across the Thames. The fog curled over the water, swallowing the far bank in shadows. Sirius sprawled across half the bench, boots up, while James sat straighter, flask in hand.
They traded lies like the men in the pubs were trading cards. Sirius said he was working as a dockhand, which James clearly didn’t believe. James claimed he’d been raised in a factory, which Sirius laughed at outright. With every falsehood came another smirk, another jab, another burst of laughter that carried into the night.
“Tell me,” Sirius drawled, his voice slipping again into its unpolished, careful disguise, “what’s a posh boy like you doing picking fights in alleys?”
James tilted the flask, his smile lopsided. “Funny. I was going to ask you the same.”
Sirius felt his own grin tug wider. For once, he didn’t bother to answer. The lies were easier, the laughter even easier still, and in the space between them, a kind of recognition settled. Two boys who should have never met, at least not under these circumstances, sitting on a bench by the river, hiding their truths and finding in each other other a bit of honesty.
Beyond them, the masts of docked ships pierced the fog, their lanterns glowing faintly in the dark like watchful eyes.
When the flask ran dry and their laughter taped into a long silence, Sirius stretched, arms overheard and yawned loud enough to echo off the water. “Well,” he said, drawing his coat tighter, “that’s me done. Back to the inn before the fleas get too lonely.”
James glanced over, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Inn?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Cheap room above a pub. Bed springs poke through and the floor smells like piss. Proper luxury.”
To his surprised, James laughed, but it wasn’t with understanding or recognition. “You stay in places like that?”
Sirius cocked his head, grin faltering just a little. James clearly hadn’t meant it cruelly, but the words gave him away. There was no grime under his fingernails, no dirt across his face decorated with his gold glasses. He might wear scuffed boots and drink cheap liquor in the slums of London, but at the end of the night, he clearly didn’t crawl upstairs to a moldy cot.
No, wherever James disappeared to when the streets emptied, it wasn’t a cheap inn.
He forced his grin back into place. “Not all of us have palaces waiting, mate.”
James only smirked, as if the barb landed and he didn’t mind.
They stood there for a moment longer. Neither quite seemed to know how to end the night.
Finally, James stuck out a hand. Sirius took it, their grips firm and real.
“I’ll be honest,” Sirius said, smirk softer now, “I hope I see you again.”
James’ smile curved, honest and warm “So do I.”
For a moment Sirius lingered, watching James walk off into the mist of the evening, heading in the opposite direction. Then he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and started toward the inn. The flask felt light and useless in his coat, and, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the gutter. He didn’t need it anymore.
He reached the corner, ready to disappear into the next street when a hand shot out of the shadows and clamped hard around his arm.
Sirius spun, snarling, but the grip was iron. He struggled, twisted, tried to throw his weight back, but an arm pulled him back against a large chest.
“James—!“ he started, voice cracking, but a hand slapped over his mouth, cutting him off.
A low voice hissed in his ear, smooth and cruelly familiar. “Well, well. Hiding among the rats of the city, are we?”
Sirius froze, blood running cold. He knew that voice. He’d heard it in Grimmauld’s halls, in the dark salons of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Rabastan Lestrange.
One of his family’s old friends. One of the Nobles. A servant of the prophecy and the Dark Lord.
Sirius thrashed harder, panic lashing through him, but the hand left his mouth only long enough to press a cloth against it, acrid and suffocating. His vision swam, the fog twisting into black.
The last thing Sirius heard was Lestrange’s voice, amused and mocking, close against his ear, “You can’t outrun what you are, Black.”
Then everything went dark.