The back of his skull throbbed like a troll had used it for target practice.
It was the heavy, sickening ache that comes from being knocked clean out—a sharp crack, a flash of white-hot light behind the eyes, and then nothing. Just cold, heavy numbness that left his mouth tasting like sour copper and his tongue feeling twice its normal size.
Mundungus Fletcher tried to shift his shoulder, intending to rub his aching neck, but his arm wouldn't budge. He tried his other arm. Nothing.
He twitched his legs, but his boots were pinned tight. He was flat on his back; his shoulders pressed hard against raw stone. He blinked, wide-eyed, but the darkness was absolute—thick, velvety, and suffocating. No light from a distant torch, no draft from a corridor. Just pitch black and the smell of old damp earth and cold iron.
Where the bloody hell am I?
Panic surged in his chest, sharp and icy. He hauled his weight upward with a grunt, but heavy, invisible bands coiled tight around his chest and wrists, locking him down like a corpse in a lead-lined box.
"Oi!" he rasped, his voice coming out raw and scraping against his dry throat. "Oi! Anyone there?"
Silence swallowed his voice whole.
His scattered thoughts tumbled over one another, frantically trying to piece together how a simple recon job had turned into a nightmare.
He had only been doing what Dumbledore asked. The old man wanted eyes and ears at the Black Yuletide Gala, and Dung was supposed to bring back juicy bits of gossip—especially regarding the inner workings of the Black family. But things had taken a strange turn when Lord Arcturus Black personally summoned young Charlie Weasley upstairs.
Why in Merlin's name would Lord Black want anything to do with a Weasley kid? Everyone on the ground floor had been dying to know. And if you wanted to learn what was happening, what was better than getting it straight from the horse's mouth?
So, Dung had quietly slipped away from the crowd and trailed Charlie up the grand staircase.
Following the boy into the private gallery wing had been a revelation. Merlin's beard, the place was a goldmine! The hallway alone was lined with antique silver, ancient runic furniture, and priceless heirlooms that could have bought Dung a cozy seaside cottage and wiped out his debts in Knockturn Alley three times over. Beyond the sheer wealth, the private family gallery was the premier vantage point to listen in. Noble families talked freely when they thought they were behind closed doors, and everyone in the Ministry wanted to know what House Black discussed in secret.
But the moment Dung crossed the threshold toward the gallery doors, his heart had nearly leaped straight out of his throat.
Standing right there was Sirius Black.
Shit. Dung had cursed under his breath, instantly ducking back toward the shadows behind the marble pillars, praying Sirius hadn't caught his scent. Sirius was one of the Order's sharpest trackers back in the day; half the underground knew the man had an uncanny, almost animalistic instinct for spotting prey.
If Dung had known Sirius was here, he would have told Dumbledore to shove his request. The old man had helped prevent Dung from getting sent to Azkaban plenty of times, but Dung wasn't stupid enough to piss off the most dangerous man in the House of Black. Sirius Black might have fought on the light side during the war, but anyone with a grain of sense knew he wasn't someone you bloody well crossed.
It wasn't until the darkness took him that he realized how thoroughly he'd blundered. Dung hadn't even seen who struck him, but he was willing to bet every Galleon in his pockets that Sirius had caught his scent.
"Sirius!" Dung rasped into the black, his voice cracking with desperation. "Sirius, mate, you there? Look... listen to me, alright? It's a massive misunderstanding!"
He had to be careful. Dumbledore might be an old man with a soft voice, but he was still a terrifyingly powerful wizard, and Dung wasn't stupid enough to blab the headmaster's name. If Sirius found out Dumbledore was sending spies to the Black family estate, things would go from bad to lethal. No, he had to play the idiot—just a harmless, greedy pocket-picker who took a wrong turn.
"I had a bit too much of your fancy wine downstairs, Sirius!" he yelled, straining against the invisible bands. "Got lost looking for the lavatory, that's all! I swear on my life, I wasn't looking for no trouble!"
A loud, grinding metallic screech echoed through the pitch black; the heavy, unyielding groan of a reinforced iron door opening, like a cell in the bowels of a prison.
Dung's voice cut off mid-plea as a pair of massive, imposing figures stepped into the room. They wore seamless black masks that covered their entire faces—terrifyingly blank slate-masks with no eyeholes, nose ridges, or mouth slits, utterly devoid of expression.
Before Dung could even process what he was looking at, two pairs of thick, stone-hard hands hauled him up off the cold floor with effortless force.
"Hey! Hey, wait a minute! Who the hell are you lot?" Dung squawked, his boots dragging on the stone. "Hands off! You can't do this!"
Before he could twist away, a coarse, heavy burlap sack was shoved brutally over his head, plunging him back into suffocating darkness and smothering his face with the reek of old grain and dust.
"Oi! Get this filthy thing off me!" Dung shrieked, his voice muffled but unrelenting. He is thrashing wildly, his tongue working double-time as panic took total control. "Do you have any idea who I am? I've got friends in high places! Important people! Ministry officials, Wizengamot lords—hell, I know people in Knockturn Alley who'll have your guts for garter ties if you lay a finger on me! You're making a massive mistake, mate! A massive, bloody mistake!"
The guards didn't utter a single word. They simply dragged him by his arms, ignoring his frantic, rambling threats, before shoving him forward.
Dung hit the stone floor with a dull thud, skinning his elbows as the rough sack was violently ripped off his head.
He blinked frantically through his water-logged eyes, gasping for air as he scrambled backward against the floor—only to realize he was no longer alone.
The room was dim and heavy with tension, illuminated only at the front by two tall, flickering braziers that cast long, dancing shadows across the cold stone floor. Behind the dais hung a massive, floor-to-ceiling tapestry of pitch-black velvet, embroidered in the center with a single, striking silver crown.
Directly in front of the tapestry, elevated on a raised stone platform, sat a polished black throne.
Seated upon it was a figure dressed in high-collared, deep black robes—the cut and silk of which practically screamed exorbitant wealth. Yet, despite the luxury, the entire presence of the man radiated a sharp, suffocating lethalness that promised immediate ruin to anyone stupid enough to cross him. He wore a matte-black mask that covered his entire face, etched across the forehead with the exact same silver crown from the backdrop.
Who the hell is this? Dung's mind raced, his chest heaving. Is this Sirius? Is he playing some twisted game?
"You are not an easy man to track, Mr. Fletcher," a voice echoed through the chamber.
It was smooth, cold, and utterly calm modified by magic so completely that it carried neither accent nor age. It definitely wasn't Sirius.
"Who are you? Look, whatever this is, I didn't do nothing!" Dung babbled, his hands raised as he pressed his back against the stone floor. "You've got the wrong bloke; I swear it on my life! I'm just a small-time trader; I don't owe nobody—"
The figure on the throne reached into his dark robes and produced a thick roll of heavy, yellowed parchment. With a slight flick of two gloved fingers, he unrolled it, letting the end drop toward the stone floor.
Even in the dim light of the braziers, Dung's eyes caught the red wax seal at the bottom and the scrawled, familiar signature in dark ink. His stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
"Three hundred Galleons to the goblin Frakjaw," the masked voice read smoothly, utterly untroubled by Dung's panic. "Fifty more to the fencing houses in Knockturn Alley. And a rather embarrassing sum tied to a blood-oath with a smuggling ring in Bristol."
Dung's mouth fell open, his breath hitching. "How... how the bloody hell did you get that?"
"I bought them," the Crowned Mask replied coldly. "Every single one. As of three days ago, Mr. Fletcher, I own every Knut of your existence. Which means I'm your new creditor."
Dung swallowed hard, his mind racing at lightspeed. He bought them? All of them? That kind of gold wasn't just street money—that was old, filthy, private-vault wealth. The kind of money that could buy an entire block of Knockturn Alley or pay off an Auror's salary for ten years.
"L-look, guv," Dung stammered, wiping his sweaty palms against his robes as he tried to pull himself into a sitting position. "I'm good for it! Honest! You don't gotta do nothing drastic! I've got a couple of big deals coming through next week—rare silver, pristine condition—I can pay off a chunk of the interest right away!"
"Does that 'pristine silver' happen to involve the trinkets you pocketed from the gallery in the House of Black tonight?" the cold voice asked smoothly.
Silence slammed into the chamber like a physical wall. Dung's throat locked, his eyes wide with absolute terror.
"No need to panic, Mr. Fletcher," the Crowned Mask continued, untroubled by Dung's sudden breathlessness. "Heir Black took those back from your pockets before handing you over to my guards."
"What? But why would he—?"
"He is well aware of your staggering debts to my organization," the figure cut in, leaning back into the shadows of the throne. "In fact, Heir Black was generous enough to ask that I grant you a bit of leeway. Something about a lingering sense of obligation from your shared time in Dumbledore's Order during the war. Quite touching, really."
The figure tilted his head slightly, the silver crown on his mask catching the dim firelight from the braziers.
Well, that's bloody good news, Dung thought, a tiny flicker of hope shooting through his terrified chest.
"Besides," the Crowned Mask added smoothly, resting his gloved chin on his knuckles, "having your corpse rotting in my cellar won't recover a single Knut of the fortune I spent purchasing your debts."
That was all the opening Dung needed.
Without a second thought, he dropped back onto his knees, practically grovelling on the cold stone floor. He pressed his palms together in desperate, frantic supplication, his face flushed and dripping with cold sweat.
"Thank you, guv! Bless you, sir! Bless Heir Black!" Dung blubbered, his voice high-pitched and breathless as he scraped forward a few inches on his knees. "Look, I'll do anything! You name it, I'll do it! Any job, any favor, any dirty little errand you need run in the alleys—I'm your man! Fencing, acquiring, keeping an ear to the ground... nobody knows Knockturn Alley like old Dung!"
He wiped his nose on his sleeve, looking up with wide, watery eyes at the dark throne.
"I'll work every Sickle off, I swear it! You want rare ingredients? Smuggled goods? Ministry gossip? Just say the word, guv, and I'll have it on your table before sunrise! Just... please, don't turn me over to the goblins or the Aurors!"
A quiet, low chuckle echoed from behind the crown-etched mask—a cold, humorless sound that sent a fresh shiver down Dung's spine.
"Well," the Crowned Mask said softly, leaning forward on his throne. "I do happen to have a need for someone with your particular... lack of scruples."
"Anything, guv! I swear, I'll do whatever you ask!" Dung babbled, nodding so hard his greasy hair flopped over his forehead.
The figure reached into his coat, pulled out a thick, folded sheet of parchment, and held it out. One of the faceless black-masked guards stepped forward with silent, fluid precision, took the paper from his hand, and strode over to toss it onto the stone floor directly in front of Dung.
"I am currently expanding my operations, Mr. Fletcher, and I require a dedicated operative—someone willing to do the sort of labor that respectable wizards shrink away from," the cold voice explained. "You will be my eyes, ears, and hands in the gutters."
Dung eagerly snatched up the parchment, unfolding it with trembling, sweat-slicked fingers. But as his eyes scanned the inked list, his breath hitched. The blood drained entirely from his face, leaving him pale and twitching.
"This... this is—" Dung choked out, his eyes wide as he stared at the handwriting.
"What?" the Crowned Mask cut in softly, his tone laced with a dangerous edge. "Backing out already, Mr. Fletcher?"
Dung swallowed hard, his hands shaking so violently the parchment rattled in his grip. He forced his head up, looking toward the black throne.
"N-no," Dung rasped hurriedly, hugging the paper to his chest like a shield. "No, sir. No backing out. I'm your man."
The masked figure stood up from the black throne with a slow, deliberate grace. The heavy velvet robes rustled softly against the stone as he descended the platform steps. He crossed the chamber, his boots clicking like clockwork against the floor, until he stopped directly in front of the groveling thief.
Slowly, the Crowned Mask dropped down to a low squat, leaning in until the blank black mask was mere inches from Dung's face. The scent of ozone, dried herbs, and old money hung heavy around him.
"Good," he purred softly, the magical distortion making his quiet voice sound like a blade sliding from a sheath. "I expect every item on that list delivered within seven days. Fail me, Fletcher, and I won't just collect on your debts. I will make sure every fence, goblin, and bounty hunter from here to Berlin knows you're carrying a heavy pouch."
Dung nodded frantically, cold sweat dripping down his neck. "Seven days! Seven days, I swear on my life, guv—"
"And to make sure you do your end of the bargain."
At the end of the dark corridor of a silent house in Knockturn Alley, screaming could be heard, thin and raw, muffled by the heavy door it came through. No one in the street outside seemed to notice it at all.
*****
Sirius watched Mundungus stumble out into the street and vanish into the dark, his arms crossed as he leaned against the soot-stained window frame.
Behind him, the masked man crossed the room and lifted the black mask from his face. Regulus Black stood revealed beneath it.
"Will he fall in line, do you think?" Regulus asked, his thumb tracing the etched crown on the forehead of the mask.
Sirius frowned. "Not out of loyalty. But Dung is a coward, and more than that, he's an opportunist. He owes Dumbledore nothing beyond what Albus can give him, which is keeping his skin out of Azkaban every time the Aurors catch him fencing stolen pewter, and tipping him off before Ministry raids. Offer him more gold and better protection, and he'll jump ship." He exhaled through his nose. "As much as he annoys me, Dumbledore did something right."
"And that is?"
"Dung is still bloody good at what matters. He can name the worth of a cursed locket from across a room, tell you who sold it and who's buying, and put a banned item in your hands within the week without anyone asking where it came from. Half of Knockturn Alley owes him a favor, and the other half underestimates him." Sirius's mouth twisted. "He's a grubby little rat, owes too many debts, but he's the best-connected one in London."
"Which is why he will be of use to us."
"For now. Dumbledore still has a grip on him."
"Which is why I did what I did," Regulus said, a little regretful over the pain he had caused the man.
Sirius stared at the mask Regulus was holding. "A king? Really?"
"My name is Regulus. It means little king."
"Well, you are shorter than me, so I suppose you are the little king," Sirius said, grinning.
"Sirius!"
Sirius shifted his weight, his eyes lingering on his brother. "I'm worried, you know."
Regulus frowned slightly. "You don't have to be."
"Taking on the underground is bloody risky, Reg."
"The alleys may be a cesspit, Sirius, but they're also the only place left where Ministry censorship hasn't gutted the truth," Regulus said coolly. "The Ministry and Hogwarts libraries have spent decades scrubbing away anything that so much as touches blood magic, soul-craft or ancient rituals. If I'm going to figure out how to safely strip a soul fragment from a host without killing them, I need uncensored texts, soul-anchoring vessels, and dangerous artefacts that simply don't exist in respectable shops."
He set the mask down on the battered wooden table between them.
"Not to mention the reagents," Regulus added, looking Sirius dead in the eye. "Basilisk venom, untainted marrow, extinct roots. The moment you place an order for those through legal channels, three different Ministry clerks file a report, and Dumbledore gets a whisper of it by nightfall. Buying through the black market gives us what we need without leaving a paper trail straight back to Grimmauld Place."
"Plus, the underground hears faster than any other system in the world," Sirius mused, his gaze drifting back toward the street. "If Voldemort returns, or if there's a whisper of war brewing, we'll hear of it before the Ministry even convenes a hearing."
"Precisely."
Sirius shook his head, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Still, it's bloody risky. Who knew the Slytherin in the family would be the one to take this on? Feels like something a reckless Gryffindor would pull."
"And you are a Gryffindor taking on Slytherin roles," Regulus countered smoothly, setting the mask down. "Which I think is actually far more terrifying."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "More Terrifying?"
"Think about it, Sirius. You don't have the traditional connections many Slytherin graduates spend years building, simply because you were sorted into Gryffindor. But the Sacred Twenty-Eight and most of the high nobility and politicians cannot ignore the fact that you are the heir and future Head of the House of Black. And your influence is tremendous. So, forging those connections now will be easy. What makes you dangerous is that you are unpredictable. You're willing to take risks and make plays that most Slytherins would flinch at."
Regulus paused, his expression growing dark and solemn.
"Voldemort may be the threat everyone fears today, but history forgets that some of the most dangerous, ruthless wizards who ever lived were Gryffindors when they pushed their ideals to the extreme. A Gryffindor with the full weight of the House of Black behind him—and no moral qualms about doing what must be done—is something the Ministry isn't prepared for. This is why even Lucius Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore are cautious of you."
Sirius leaned his head back against the wall, taking a slow sip from his glass. "Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully, a small, knowing smirk gracing his lips.
Before Regulus could press the point, the heavy door at the end of the room swung open with a muffled click.
"Was that man always so damn sticky? Is that a thing among you British wizards?"
One of the masked guards stepped into the light, brushing off his dark sleeves. His broad Southern drawl was instantly recognizable, carrying that relaxed, sun-baked lilt from across the Atlantic.
"Our captain is British," the second masked man chimed in right behind him, his accent clean, crisp, and distinctly Canadian. "He's not sticky."
"Well, the captain's an exception," the first replied with a snort, unbuckling the straps of his blank faceplate.
Sirius chuckled, leaning back into his chair. "Why do you two still call me the captain? I'm no longer with the Custodians."
"Well, you're still our captain, boss," the Canadian said naturally.
Both men pulled off their blank black masks, revealing two familiar faces underneath. Wyatt Vance, with his sharp, observant eyes and easy Southern grin, and Lucan Belrose, looking as composed as ever.
"Well, now that that little show is over," Wyatt said, stretching his arms above his head until his back popped, "it's time for me to skedaddle. I'm off to spend some quality time with my beau."
Lucan just shook his head, a wry, unimpressed look on his face. "I'm actually surprised you've lasted this long."
Wyatt paused, narrowing his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You were an absolute whore," Lucan replied flatly, without missing a beat.
"Hey!" Wyatt scoffed, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I'll freely admit I was a whore, but once I go steady? This whore is strictly off the market, honey."
Regulus slowly turned his head to look at Sirius, one dark eyebrow raised in sheer disbelief. "These are the people you worked with?"
Sirius didn't even look up from his drink, a lazy, wicked grin spreading across his face. "Honestly, I'm just waiting for Wyatt to fuck up so Esme can kill him for breaking her mentee's heart."
"Captain! Ye of little faith!" Wyatt gasped, clutching his chest even harder as if mortally wounded. "I'll have you know I am a changed man! Devoted! Loyal as a hound!"
Lucan let out a soft, mocking snort while rolling his shoulders. "Right. And I'm the King of England."
"I think the Muggles only have a Queen," Wyatt offered helpfully, flashing a bright, innocent grin.
"Oh, shut up!" Lucan snapped, rolling his eyes as Sirius burst into a rough, barking laugh.
Regulus simply pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a quiet, long-suffering sigh that suggested he was already questioning every life choice that had brought him into a room with Sirius and the Custodian agents.