Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The memories haunt him.

Somewhere in one of London’s most abandoned neighborhoods, in a battered old caravan, Sirius jolted awake drenched in sweat, his breath ragged. A gun trembled in his grip, aimed at the shadows—the same ghosts that had been haunting him for the past eleven days.

But there was nothing. No cops. No dead bodies. Just the sound of his own heavy breathing.

He exhaled shakily and lowered the gun, eyes drifting to the muted TV screen in front of him. Every channel. Every headline. Every news outlet—it was all about him.

Fifteen flawless heists, but the last one had turned into a goddamn nightmare. His face was plastered in every police station across the UK, and the authorities were hunting him like a rabid dog.

And he had no idea how the fuck he was still alive—let alone not locked in a cell.

They were looking for him everywhere.

It was time to move. He had stayed in this caravan far too long for his liking.

As Sirius stood up, his foot landed on an empty alcohol bottle, nearly shattering it. He cursed under his breath and started packing—not that he had much to take. Just his gun, a handful of bullets, and a pack of cigarettes. His fingers brushed the old locket hanging from his neck—the one he hadn’t taken off since he was sixteen. Its weight steadied him.

After several failed attempts to disguise himself with a wig, a cap, and sunglasses, he stepped out of the caravan that had served as his hideout for the past five days and walked down the near-empty street.

One thing was certain: he refused to go to prison. There was no fucking way he was setting a foot in a cell. Sirius wasn’t suicidal, but if the choice was between dying or wasting away behind bars, he knew exactly which one he’d take.

As he walked, his mind raced, already piecing together an escape plan. But before anything else, he needed to call Alphard.

His uncle must be worried sick. Sirius needed to let him know he was okay.

Alphard had always warned him about this. And now, as he stepped into a grimy telephone box, he braced himself—because he knew exactly what was coming.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sirius gripped the receiver tightly, scanning his surroundings through the scratched glass. Every nerve in his body was on edge.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Then, finally—

“Hello?”

“Alphard.”

“Oh my god,” his uncle whispered. “Are you okay, son? What is going on?”

“I’m fine. Please, don’t worry. Have you been watching the news?”

“Of course, I’ve been watching. What the hell are you doing, Sirius?”

“I’m thinking of going on a trip,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice. “Find a job, get my shit together. You know, just like you always wanted me to.”

A long silence. Then a sigh.

“I know what this ‘trip’ really means. But does that also mean I won’t see you again?” The grief in his voice hit Sirius like a fist to the chest.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’ll see each other again. Maybe I can even get you a ticket to visit me.”

“Visit you where?” Alphard’s voice cracked. “The cemetery?”

Silence. It stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Sirius swallowed hard. He knew it was a risk, but he owed Alphard the truth.

“Are you alone?”

A sharp inhale on the other end. Then, after a moment of hesitation—

“Yes.”

“Go down the street, towards the grocery store. I’ll find you.”

Sirius hung up, exhaled slowly, and pushed open the door of the telephone box. The air outside was sharp and cold. He took one last look around, then started walking.

That day—the day Sirius was walking straight into the slaughterhouse—his guardian angel appeared.

He thought he’d lost him years ago. But apparently, he hadn’t.

You never know what a guardian angel will look like. And Sirius never would have imagined his would be his little brother—the one he hadn’t seen since he was sixteen.

“I don’t think going on a trip and getting a job is going to save you from this mess.”

Sirius had never turned around so fast in his life. And there he was.

Regulus.

It had been ten years. A decade of silence. Of absence. But here he was, standing right in front of Sirius like no time had passed. He had grown—almost as tall as Sirius, just a few inches shorter. And for a moment, Sirius felt the ache of everything he’d missed.

But nostalgia could wait.

Before he even registered what he was doing, Sirius moved—launching himself at Regulus and shoving him hard against the nearest wall, his gun pressing into his throat.

Regulus didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. If anything, he looked… bored. Like he had expected this. Like he had allowed it.

“What the fuck, Reggie?”

“Don’t call me that.” And there—there it was. A flicker of emotion in Regulus’s face at the nickname.

“It’s a trap,” Regulus said, calm as ever. “The police are waiting for you. They’ve been following you.”

Sirius pressed the gun harder against his throat. “Why the hell would I believe you?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t, so—” Slowly, carefully, he pulled his phone from his pocket, making sure not to make any sudden moves. He turned it toward Sirius.

Photos. Alphard’s house swarming with plainclothes officers. Snipers on the roofs. Surveillance vans on the corners. An entire goddamn unit waiting to take him down.

Somehow, Sirius wasn’t surprised. He knew Alphard had done this thinking it was best for him.

Still, it stung.

Regulus pocketed the phone and met his eyes. “I have a business proposal.”

Sirius let out a dry, humorless laugh. “We haven’t seen each other in ten years, and that’s why you found me? A fucking business proposal? What the fuck, Reggie—I’m your brother—”

“Shut the fuck up for one second, Sirius.” Regulus’ voice was sharp. Controlled. “Think of it as two birds with one stone. I saved your ass, and now I’m offering you a job. Isn’t that exactly what you need right now? A second chance?”

Sirius said nothing. Regulus took that as a sign to keep going. “Do you remember Father’s plan? The heist that would shake the world? The one that was supposed to go down in history?”

Sirius lowered the gun. Stared at Regulus, dumfounded. Then, slowly, he nodded. Because of course he remembered. That heist wasn’t just a plan. It was the only way he remembered their father.

“I’ve modified it since he died,” Regulus continued. “Two years after you left. Honestly, calling them his plans at this point is generous. What’s left is just the shell of an idea. They’re mine now. And they can be ours.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Why me?”

“I could never pull this off without you, brother.” The word brother felt foreign—to say and to hear.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only one who can. The only one who’s capable. And no matter how much time has passed… I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.” He said it with certainty. And maybe even hope.

He meant it. Sirius could hear it in the way he said it—like he was betting everything on that truth. And Sirius knew his little brother—probably better than he knew himself. He couldn’t deny how cunning, how brilliant Regulus was. Other kids spent their childhoods in playgrounds. The Black brothers spent theirs studying, training, learning how to be thieves.

Regulus had been orchestrating heists before he was even old enough to drive. And Sirius had pulled them off. That had always been their system—Regulus planned, Sirius executed. That was how they were raised. That was how they survived.

And Regulus might be a genius, but no one—no one—is better than Sirius in the field.

Whatever his brother had planned… it was fucking gigantic.

And Sirius had no doubt that it would work.

After a few minutes of silence, Regulus leaned in slightly, his voice low, lips tugging upward with quiet excitement. “How does 2.5 billion euros sound to you, brother?”

No one had ever scored that big.

If Sirius’s face was going to be back on the news, it might as well be for the biggest heist in history. And this time, he wouldn’t be alone, but with the only person he’d ever truly trusted. The only one he ever would.

And as much as he hated to admit it, Sirius had already made his choice. He had trusted Regulus with his life before.

And apparently… he was doing it again.

Chapter Text

In a swift turn of events, Sirius found himself in an isolated mansion buried deep in the middle of nowhere.

He was seated in a classroom—yes, a classroom.

The walls were plastered with blueprints, floor plans, surveillance maps, and scribbled notes in at least four languages. At the front stood a massive chalkboard, already crowded with timelines and codewords in Regulus’s sharp, meticulous handwriting.

Around him sat a collection of strangers—the kind of people who had either survived too much or caused too much.

“Welcome, everyone,” Regulus said, standing at the front with his usual eerie calm. “Thank you for accepting this job. We’ll be living here—off the grid, away from the noise—for five months. We’ll train, study, and master every inch of this heist.”

“Five months?” said a broad, heavy-set man beside Sirius. “Are you mental?”

“People spend years chasing scraps for a salary they can barely survive on—and that’s the best-case scenario,” Regulus replied, unfazed. “What’s five months compared to that? I’ve been planning this for almost half my life.”

Silence. Fair point

“Now,” he continued, tapping the chalkboard, “you don’t know each other, and I’d like to keep it that way. Ground rules: no names, no personal questions, and absolutely no relationships.”

He gave them a deliberate once-over. A few people snickered. Sirius barked a laugh.

“You’ll each choose a name. Something simple—cities, numbers, planets. Whatever sticks.”

“How about Lady 6 and Lady 9?” offered a woman so stunning Sirius nearly forgot how to breathe. Dark hair in tight braids, eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, tattoos curling up her arms. Her rings caught the light. So did her piercings. She looked like a rockstar who belonged on stage, not in a criminal classroom.

Next to her sat a ginger woman, with freckles dusting every inch of her skin. “Oh, I’d love that.” She said, grinning. The first woman smirked in response.

Across the room, a man spoke without looking up. “That’s gonna be a problem. I can’t even remember my own phone number.” He spun a pencil between his fingers, slow and lazy. Scars and freckles marked his deep brown skin like constellations. Crooked nose. Messy dark curls. Chocolate-brown eyes.

Sirius hadn’t realized he was staring until their eyes met. A faint smile brushed his lips, and he gave a quick, almost imperceptible wink.

And he could swear he saw a blush rise to the man’s cheeks. Oh, he’s beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

“Planets, then.” someone said from behind Sirius. “I’ll be Mars. And this scarred guy can be Uranus.”

Sirius didn’t turn around, but he caught the flash of a leather jacket out of the corner of his eye. A good one, too. Black, fitted, rebellious. Sirius made a note: he was definitely getting one like that when this was over.

“Fuck you,” The scarred man said flatly. “I’m not Uranus.”

“What the fuck is wrong with Uranus?”

“It sounds like anus.”

Leather Jacket snorted so hard it came out as a full-blown laugh and Sirius smiled to himself.

“Why don’t we just use our first names only? It’s easier.” Sirius offered, more to the room than anyone in particular.

To his surprise, there were nods. Murmurs of agreement. Even Regulus didn’t object—but, of course, the little shit didn’t give them his name. Not that anyone expected him to. So, they just started calling him Professor. And like everything Regulus did, it fit. He had no criminal record. No registration. No passport. No ID. He hadn’t renewed a single document since he was seventeen. For all intents and purposes, he was a ghost. A very intelligent ghost.

There were seven others in the room, not counting the Black brothers.

The one behind Sirius—the shit-stirrer with the leather jacket—was Barty. Interpol’s nightmare. Wanted across Europe for 27 confirmed heists: jewelry stores, auction houses, armored trucks. His biggest hit? 434 diamonds from the Champs-Élysées. He was a shark in a swimming pool—you could swim near him, but you’d never stop watching your back. He was Regulus’ right hand, the only one already familiar with the plan. Him and Sirius would lead the operation inside the bank.

Beside Sirius sat Frank— built like a bouncer, dressed like a tired grad student. A prodigy with tools. The entire escape plan rested on his shoulders. First thing he ever dug was a mine in Austria. Then he figured there was more money digging up. Six fur shops, three watch dealers, and a rural credit union later—he was here.

Behind Frank was Dorcas—the rockstar. The queen of bar fights, pure hot-blooded; Broken ribs, busted teeth, track record of brawls. She was chaos on legs, and absolutely perfect for a heist.

Behind her, the scarred man: Remus. The Mozart of hacking. He’d been coding since he was six, and could disable any security system like he was brushing his teeth. Alarms. Surveillance. Digital vaults. You name it, he’d cracked it. Socially, though? He acted like the concept of conversation had just been invented.

Next to Remus were the twins—Fabian and Gideon. Ex-military. Quiet, lethal, and loyal. They’d survived war together, and looked like they could survive just about anything.

Last was the redhead—Lily. Sharp eyes, sharper tongue. Hardened optimist, and absolutely nuts. She’d been counterfeiting money since she was thirteen. Now? She is the quality control manager.

Regulus took a step back, eyes glinting. “You need to understand—when this starts, the media will be obsessed. Every person in this country will be asking, ‘What the fuck are they doing?’ But more importantly, they’ll be thinking—‘Those motherfuckers. I wish I’d thought of that first.’

“We’re not stealing anyone’s money. And for that reason alone, the public will root for us. Their support is vital. We’re heroes—until we spill a single drop of blood. One fatal mistake, one victim, and we’re no longer legends anymore. We’re just another group of bastards with guns.”

A pause.

Then: “Professor?” Lily raised her hand.

“Yes, Lily?”

She tilted her head, smiling. “What exactly are we robbing?”

Regulus didn’t speak. Instead, he gestured toward the back of the room and every head swiveled.

There it was.

A towering scale model of the Bank of England.

Holy fucking fuck, Sirius thought.

If Regulus was willing to go this far, then hell—he’d follow him the rest of the way.

Chapter Text

DAY OF THE HEIST
FRIDAY, 8:35 A.M.

In the back of the van, rifles rested upright between the knees of eight people dressed in red hooded coveralls and Dalí masks.

Every mask was in place—except for Lily’s, who had hers pushed up on her head, lazily applying lipstick like this was just another Friday morning errand.

The air was heavy with anticipation. Five months of planning and one shot to get it right.

Remus broke the silence first. He took off his mask and stared at it like it had personally offended him. “Who the fuck picked these masks?”

Across from him, Barty looked up. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re not scary,” Remus replied, incredulous. “In every movie, robbers wear terrifying masks. Zombies. Skeletons. Maybe the Grim Reaper. Not this curly-mustached bullshit.”

Sirius smiled behind his mask. Remus only ran his mouth when he was nervous. It meant his brain was firing on all cylinders. God, he is so stupidly fond of him.

Barty, less sentimental, pulled a gun and pointed it directly at Remus’s face. “I can assure you, a motherfucker with a gun is scarier than any skeleton.”

Next to Remus, Dorcas lifted her mask off too, inspecting it like it had insulted her mother. Completely unbothered by the gun aimed at Remus’ head.

“That’s enough. Put the gun down, Barty,” Frank sighed, sounding every bit the exhausted babysitter.

Dorcas still hadn’t taken her eyes off the mask. “Who is this guy even supposed to be?”

“Dalí,” Sirius said absently, polishing his rifle. “Spanish surrealist painter. Brilliant, too.”

“A painter?”

“Yeah.”

“A guy who paints?”

“Pretty much.”

Dorcas scoffed. “Unbelievable. You know what’s actually terrifying? Kids’ cartoons. Those things are nightmare fuel.”

Frank took off his mask and looked at her, baffled. “What cartoons?”

“Goofy. Pluto. Mickey fucking Mouse.”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying a mouse with big ears is scary?”

“Yes, asshole. Want a kick to the nuts?”

“It’s not a big deal. Shut the fuck up—all of you,” Fabian muttered.

“No, but it is,” Dorcas insisted. “Picture it—some lunatic walks in with an assault rifle and a Mickey Mouse mask. You’d think he’s about to start a massacre. Know why?”

“Enlighten us,” Barty said flatly.

“Because weapons and children don’t mix. Ever. That combo screams psychopath.”

“I agree,” Lily chimed in, tucking her lipstick into her suit and checking her teeth in a tiny mirror. “You can’t fight that logic.”

“Then a Jesus mask would be even scarier,” Barty grumbled “He’s more innocent.”

The silence that followed wasn’t agreement—it was the van beginning to slow.

They’d reached the first stop.

Frank stood up, cracked his neck, threw the door open and jumped out of the van, slamming the door behind him.

The driver didn’t looked back. As soon as Frank’s boots hit the pavement, the van peeled away toward the next stop.

And just like that, it all became real.

————

A few minutes later, the van screeched to a stop outside an old, gutted storage facility.

Everyone jumped out. Masks on and focused.

They loaded every piece of equipment they needed for the heist into the van in practiced silence.

They moved fast, passing gear hand to hand, checking items off mentally. Five months of prep meant every hand knew what it needed to grab. They’d rehearsed this a hundred times.

By the time they returned to Frank’s position, the three target vehicles— one truck, two police escorts— were approaching the barricade.

Frank had done his part. Now it was time for theirs.

For a single moment, Sirius thought about the innocent lives that were about to get caught in the crossfire.

————

STATE HIGHWAY
9:25 A.M.

Regulus had said it from the beginning:
There was only one way to sneak three tons of explosives into the Bank of England.

Every Friday, a truck delivered fresh rolls of watermark currency paper—escorted by two police cars.

In England, anything with a double police escort is considered untouchable. But jam all radio and phone communication, and then roll up in red coveralls with surrealist masks and rifles in hand—suddenly “untouchable” doesn’t mean shit.

Frank’s makeshift barricade brought the convoy to a hard stop.

The van screeched into view. Doors flew open. Guns raised.

Sirius and Lily hit the first police car.
“Get the fuck out of the car!” Sirius barked, yanking the driver out by the collar. Lily handled the passenger just as fast.

At the same moment, Barty and Dorcas did the same with the truck crew and Fabian and Gideon had the second police car secured in under ten seconds.

“Open the back door. Now!” Barty ordered, shoving the truck driver toward the latch. Frank stepped out from cover and joined Barty, gun raised. The driver, pale and trembling, unlocked the truck.

If that man’s daughter had been inside, he would have died before opening those doors. But for a few rolls of watermark paper? Not worth it.

The lock clicked. The doors swung open.

Inside were massive cylindrical containers—each one filled with rolls of clean, unprinted currency paper.

They started uploading supplies from the van into the truck. Remus climbed into the far end, laptop already glowing, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Once everything was inside and locked down, they got to work on the disguise swap.

Barty and Dorcas pulled on the police uniforms from the two cops they’d taken down and Frank changed into the truck passenger’s uniform.

The three men they’d replaced—the two cops and the truck passenger—were tied, gagged, and shoved into the back with Remus.

He looked up from his laptop and gave them a polite smile. They looked back at him, then at the machine gun mounted next to him. No one smiled back.

Remus kept typing, locked into the code, while Fabian and Gideon worked around him—covering the hostages, the gear, and the gun machine with the large containers.

Then they emptied the first two containers, climbed in, and sealed the lids shut—swapping out stacks of currency paper for two fully armed soldiers. Trojan horse style.

Meanwhile, Sirius and Lily slipped into wigs and sunglasses, reloaded the barricades into the van, and climbed inside.

“You’ll be driving with a gun aimed at your side,” Barty told the three remaining drivers. “And when dispatch calls to check in, you’ll answer like it’s the best day of your fucking life.”

Dorcas dragged one cop to the second escort car and climbed in beside him, pistol pressed to his ribs, Barty did the same with the first, While Frank sat next to the truck driver, silent and steady.

Everything was in place.

The first escort car took the lead—real cop driving, with Barty in the passenger seat.
Next came the truck: the driver tense behind the wheel, Frank beside him, silent and watchful. Remus and the twins were in the back.
Then the second police car followed, with Dorcas sitting calm and quiet, like she belonged there.
And finally, the van—with Sirius and Lily, locked in and ready.

“All set?” Barty said into the earpiece. “Sirius, don’t take your eyes off the girl.”

“Please,” Sirius replied. “She’s seventeen. I think I got that covered.”

————

BANK OF ENGLAND
10:15 A.M.

Sirius and Lily stood across the street from the Bank of England, watching as a school bus unloaded in front of the museum wing.

Dozens of teenagers in matching uniforms spilled out—blazers, backpacks, awkward jokes. They moved in a sluggish line toward the security checkpoint, dragging their feet like any other bored group on a Friday morning.

Then, in the middle of it all, they spotted her.

Long brown hair. Clean shoes. School bag over one shoulder. Their target.

They shared a glance. Sirius touched his earpiece. “Professor. Our little lamb just entered.”

“Perfect,” Regulus’s voice came through, calm and clipped. He was five blocks away, in a run-down storage unit turned into command center. The walls were covered in blueprints, diagrams, floor plans, scribbled timelines—layers of ink and paper mapping out every step of the heist like a war strategy. Remus had wired the place—rows of servers and security monitors buzzing quietly in the dark, enough tech to hack a country—but the layout, the logic, the placement of every piece… that was all Regulus. Once the team secured the inside, Regulus would have eyes on every hallway, every angle, every camera feed in the building.

————

LOADING DOCK GATE

The first police escort vehicle rolled to a stop outside the secured gate.

Barty sat in the passenger seat, calm and unreadable. His uniform was neat, his hand steady on the pistol pointed discreetly at the cop beside him.

The gate security guard stepped up to the window and leaned in. “Morning, George,” he said with a grin. Then he glanced at Barty and frowned. “Where’s Adam today?”

“Shift change,” the officer said, surprisingly calm for a man with a gun in his ribs. Barty faked a coughing fit and turned his head to hide his face.

The guard didn’t question it. Just gave a quick nod and walked toward the control booth.

“Camera at your eleven” Remus’ voice buzzed in Barty’s ear. He turned his face away from the lens just in time.

A few seconds later, the gate rolled open. They were in.

————

“I’m in,” Remus’ voice cut through the comms. “I’ve got full access to the bank’s security system. Alarms are disconnected.”

Regulus didn’t miss a beat. “Sirius. Lily. Go.”

Without hesitation, the two of them slipped into the crowd of students entering through the main doors. They passed through the marble archway like any two young tourists on a museum visit.

Two security guards stood at the x-ray scanners. Two metal detectors ahead.

Sirius glanced at Lily in the next queue. She didn’t need to look back. They’d practiced this a dozen times.

When their turn came, they stepped forward and casually dropped two identical duffel bags onto the conveyor belt—each one packed with weapons.

————

LOADING DOCK

The truck reversed into position.

Frank and the truck driver swung the back doors open, and two forklifts rolled forward, engines growling as they lined up with the cargo.

As the first two containers were pulled onto the pavement— the second they hit solid ground, the lids burst open.

Fabian and Gideon emerged, masked and armed, rifles already raised. They opened fire into the ceiling.

Concrete dust showered down like ash

The dock exploded into chaos. Employees screamed and scattered, diving behind pallets, tripping over crates. Panic hit before anyone had a chance to think.

Dorcas was out of the police car before the echo faded. She spotted a guard sprinting toward the alarm and smashed her gun into his nose. He fell to the floor before he could reach it. “Not today, sweetheart.”

Barty followed suit, covering the remaining guards before they had time to react.

Inside the truck, Remus stood up and stretched. He glanced down at the three hostages sitting gagged beside the gear and the machine gun. “Wish me luck, darlings,” he said casually, then jumped down and disappeared into the chaos.

————

Back at the security checkpoint, the x-ray scanners beeped. Sirius moved first.

He quickly stepped through the metal detector and slammed his elbow into the nearest guard’s face. The man dropped.

Then he pulled the pistol from his jacket, aimed it at the second guard, “Don’t move,” he growled. “Don’t even blink.”

Behind him, Lily already had her two guards down—one of them pinned under her heel.

The entrance was theirs

————

It unraveled fast.

From the loading dock to the main hall to the upper floors, panic spread like fire.

Tourists. Employees. School kids. Bank managers—those smug bastards who thought they’d seen everything. Everyone ran, everyone screamed—sprinting for cover, shoved out of routine and into raw survival.

The team moved fast—each one heading to their assigned zones. Their goal was to round up every person in the building and bring them to the main hall.

Five blocks away, Regulus paced the length of the command center—headset pressed tight to one ear, eyes locked on a wall of flickering monitors, listening to the chaos pour through every open channel and measuring it.

————

Dorcas tied up the last security guard and dragged him behind a stack of crates. The shouting echoed in her earpiece—panic still unfolding across the bank.

She exhaled, pressed her fingers to the earpiece.
“Professor. Loading dock’s clear.”

————

Inside the bank’s internal security room, Remus moved fast. He dropped to his knees, plugged in his laptop, and started typing like a man possessed.

Lines of code blinked across the screen. One by one, the camera feeds lit up—He grinned to himself. “Showtime.”

Then Sirius’s voice came in—louder than it should’ve been. “We’ve got a problem. I can’t find the lamb.”

————

Sirius was drowning in chaos.

The main hall was filled with bodies crashing into each other, running blind in every direction. The team was trying to regain control—guns raised, voices sharp—but the panic kept spilling over.

And Sirius wasn’t focused on any of it.

He was scanning every school uniform in the crowd—every flash of brown hair, every terrified face. Nothing.

His pulse kicked up.

“Fuck,” he muttered, already turning. “I’m checking the restrooms.”

————

Remus sprinted to the control panel at the main entrance and slammed his hand down on the emergency lockdown switch.

A loud metallic groan echoed through the building—then steel doors slammed shut across the entrances.

Nobody in. Nobody out.

————

Sirius heard her before he saw her.

“Give me my phone! What are you doing? Give it back to me, you asshole!”

He kicked the bathroom door open. It slammed hard against the wall.

Two teenagers froze mid-argument, eyes wide with panic. The girl stood by the sink, shirt half-buttoned. The boy clutched her phone in his hand.

Sirius tilted his head. “Really?” Then he grabbed the girl by the arm, yanked the phone from the boy’s hands, and shoved them both toward the door without a word.

They stumbled, stiff and silent, as he marched them out and back toward the main hall.

———

By the time Sirius returned, the main hall was already under control.

The hostages stood in a tight circle.
Blindfolded. Identical black fabric with white crosses painted over the eyes.

The chaos had drained out, replaced by an eerie quiet.

Sirius shoved the two teens into the lineup and blindfolded them too.

No one said a word.

————

At the command center, Regulus stood motionless in front of the screens, listening as silence settled over the building.

The doors were sealed. The main hall was secure. The city had no idea—yet.

But the clock had started.

There’s no going back now.

Chapter Text

Sirius rose on his toes, scanning over the crowd.

Three team members—Barty, Dorcas, and Lily—stood in the middle of a trembling circle of hostages. Sirius stretched a little higher until his eyes caught Remus’ across the room. Remus was already looking at him, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. Sirius mirrored it before ducking back down.

“First of all,” Barty began, his voice cutting through the heavy silence, “good morning.” He grinned faintly, letting the words linger.

Dorcas and Remus started moving through the hostages—They collected phones, demanded PINs. Dorcas scribbled each name and code behind every phone before tossing it into the basket Remus held out.

“I’m the co-person in charge,” Barty continued, his tone casual, almost polite. “And first off, I want to offer my sincere apologies. I’m sure this isn’t how you planned to end your boring week.” His grin widened as he surveyed the circle of terrified faces. “You’re here as hostages, ladies and gentlemen.”

A ripple of panic spread instantly—gasps and stifled sobs erupted through the room.

“If you obey,” he added, “I guarantee you’ll leave alive, safe and sound. No issues.”

“PIN?” Dorcas asked curtly, writing Peter Pettigrew on the back of a phone.

“Why do you need my PIN?” Peter stammered.

She looked up, eyes sharp. “Either you tell me your fucking PIN, or I’ll beat it out of you.”

Peter swallowed hard. “1234.”

Dorcas blinked, then burst out laughing. Remus chuckled beside her, shaking his head. “Fucking dumbass,” Dorcas muttered, jotting it down and tossing the phone into the basket before moving on.

A telephone started ringing at the reception desk. The sound cut through the tension like a blade.

Barty turned his head sharply. “Ms. Marlene McKinnon,” he called. “Would you be so kind as to step forward, please?”

A blonde woman near the front flinched. Peter squeezed her hand tightly. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Please, Marls—don’t move.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, squeezing his hand back before letting go. She took a step forward.

———

Frank held the torch steady, the hiss of oxygen and acetylene slicing through the silence. The jet of flame screamed against the thick steel of the safe, spitting out a storm of white-gold sparks that scattered across the polished marble like shrapnel. The molten edges glowing a furious orange that reflected off his visor.

He was carving a jagged window into a fortune—a mountain of cash that would serve only as bait, a distraction. Every drop of falling slag marked another second ticking toward disaster.

Dorcas appeared at the doorway. “Everything’s under control,” she informed him, breathless.

Frank gave a short nod and twisted the valves shut. The flame died instantly, leaving only the echo of its shriek and the acrid smell of burnt metal. He lifted his visor, eyes narrowing as he studied the darkened hole he’d just cut.

Dorcas hovered behind him, her face bright with adrenaline and anticipation. Frank reached for a slender, specialized tool—a lock manipulator designed for the safe’s exposed inner clockwork. He worked with the patience of a surgeon, the focus of a watchmaker.

Then, with a soft click, a green light blinked to life above the vault door.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Frank straightened and spun the wheel. It turned smoothly, rapid metallic clicks echoing like applause.

The door swung open.

Stacks upon stacks of money gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light. Dorcas and Frank stared at the fortune in stunned silence before breaking into matching grins.

“Imagine having sex in here,” Dorcas said suddenly.

Frank blinked, “Fucking hell, Dorcas—that’s the first thing you think of when you see a pile of money?”

She laughed, unbothered. “Well, it’s either that or a swim.”

He shook his head, but couldn’t hide his smile.

“Professor, Frank fucking did it. The vault’s open.” She said into her earpiece

Regulus’s voice came through, sharp and controlled. “Perfect. Proceed with the plan.”

Dorcas turned to Frank, and smirked. “Let’s go make history.”

———

Barty dragged Marlene to the telephone, his gun raised lazily, the muzzle leveled right at her throat. “Answer it,” he said softly. “Convince whoever’s on the other end that the bank’s shut down due to a technical issue. You do that, and everyone keeps breathing. Understand?”

Marlene nodded, barely able to get air into her lungs. She reached for the receiver with a trembling hand.

“Bank of England,” she said, voice somehow calm. Barty’s eyes glittered with amusement. “How can I help you?”

There was a pause. Then a man’s voice—sharp, impatient. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Pettigrew, please.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, forcing a light, rehearsed tone. “Mr. Pettigrew’s unavailable at the moment. Our system’s down.”

The caller pushed back, his voice rising in irritation. Barty could hear faint fragments of questions and demands through the static.

“Sir,” Marlene snapped suddenly, her fear bending into anger. “I told you—no can do! We’re having technical issues.” She took a shaky breath, her voice trembling now. “I don’t know where Mr. Pettigrew is! If you need to talk to him so badly, try calling his damn phone number!”

And with that, she slammed the receiver down. The sound echoed across the hall like a gunshot.

She stood there, frozen, pulse pounding in her ears.

Then Barty chuckled. He lowered his gun, “An Oscar worthy performance,” he said. “I like you, McKinnon.”

———

Twenty minutes in, they started wiring their analog communications rig to talk to Regulus. Without cell phones or radio frequencies nobody outside could hear them.

They sealed the doors; the alarms hadn’t gone off. Not a single soul beyond those walls knew that eight completely insane motherfuckers had seized the Bank of England.

In that sweet calm before the storm, Remus placed the last hostage’s phone on the board in front of him. He pinned the phones down with duct tape, and beneath each one he’d written the owner’s name and PIN.

Sirius came in carrying two duffel bags, his mask clenched between his teeth. He dropped the bags onto the conference table and looked up to find Remus already watching him. Slowly, Sirius tugged the mask free from his teeth and crossed the room to Remus. “Nicely done,” he said, studying the phones. Then, leaning close enough for Remus to feel the warmth of his breath, he murmured, “You look rather handsome in red.” Remus smiled—he couldn’t help it—and for a moment, his mind slipped back to last night, the night before the heist.

****

There was a soft knock on Sirius’s makeshift bedroom door in the dusty manor Regulus had picked as their hideout. It was midnight; Sirius sat bolt upright, already knowing who it was. He opened the door and exhaled when he saw Remus shifting in the dark. “Hi,”

“Remus, you fucking idiot!” Sirius hissed, pulling him inside and peeking out the doorway to make sure no one had heard. He shut the door quietly. “Are you crazy? If the professor catches us—”

“I know, I know. Just come here. I need to tell you something.” Remus cut him off and grabbed Sirius’ shirt, hauling him down onto the bed.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Sirius asked, a crease of worry between his brows.

“The heist is tomorrow. We have no idea what will happen. But if there is one thing I know for certain, it’s that I’m serious about you—don’t make that joke, please.” He raised his hands; Sirius smirked and Remus wanted so badly to poke at his dimples, and bite his cheeks.

“Look, I don’t know,” he went on, words tumbling out in a rush. “We never talked about this. I just— I’m so sure about you, Sirius. I know you’re it for me. That’s it. I don’t want anyone else.” Remus rambled, earnest and a little out of breath

He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a small dog tag and placed it in Sirius’ palm. “I couldn’t buy you a ring—because the professor’s a lunatic and we’re stuck in this godforsaken place—but once we pull this off and get the hell out of here, I’ll buy you one so big you’ll need a wheelbarrow to carry it.” Sirius laughed quietly, turning the dog tag over in his palm before looking back at Remus—his messy curls, soft brown eyes, and the quiet desperation written all over his face. Something in Sirius’ chest ached.

“So… is this like an engagement dog tag?” He asked, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Something like that. It’s got my full name. It’s yours now—just like I am.” Remus said it so simply, so sure.

Sirius exhaled slowly, “Look, I don’t know how to say this,” he began. “Remus, what we have is great. Fucking amazing. We’ve slept together a few nights—”

“Few nights? You mean every night except like five or six,” Remus interrupted, eyes narrowing. “Did you not like it?”

“What? I absolutely fucking did. It was fantastic!” Sirius protested, a touch affronted. “But…” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting away for a moment. “I just think we need more than great sex to make it work.”

“I love you,” Remus blurted, and Sirius froze. “Is that what you want to hear? Because I’m madly in love with you, Sirius. Of course you don’t have to say anything—no pressure at all—but there’s zero doubt in my head.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Sirius finally exhaled, the sound unsteady, as if Remus’ confession had stolen the air from his lungs. “How about—after the heist, we go to Tahiti? See if this works?” he said softly and Remus nodded without hesitation. “Because honestly,” Sirius went on “Tomorrow there’s only one thing to focus on: not getting killed.”

Remus tilted his head, a slow smile curving his lips. “What about right now? what do we need to focus on?” He said in a suggestive tone, eyes flicking to Sirius’ mouth

Sirius grinned, then slowly straddled Remus’ lap, capturing his lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. Remus couldn’t help but laugh softly into it, breathless and utterly certain that they would be fine. That somehow, they’d make it work. No matter where or when.

****

“I know what you’re thinking about,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes as he set his gun and mask on the table.

Remus raised an eyebrow, smirking. “What? You read minds now?”

“It’s written all over your face.” Sirius said, as he hooked a finger under his shirt collar and pulled out the dog tag resting against his chest. Remus’ eyes glinted at the sight, and without hesitation, he grabbed Sirius by the waist.

“Behave, Lupin,” he whispered, a warning threaded with amusement.

Their moment shattered when footsteps echoed down the hall. They pulled apart as Dorcas entered, hauling three duffel bags with Barty close behind. He flipped one open—mountains of cash gleamed inside. “Alright, misfits and maniacs, put on your vests and get ready. We’ll contact the Professor so he could tell us when to activate the alarm. Let’s fucking go.” Barty announced

The room sprang into motion.

———

“Prepare the doors,” Regulus’ voice crackled through the earpiece as Barty stepped into the main hall. “Hostages!” His shout cut through the echoing space, making everyone in the room flinch. “For your safety, move three steps back.” Fabian and Gideon moved instantly, their broad frames driving the panicked crowd away from the steel gate.

Sirius, Remus, Dorcas, Frank, and Lily strode toward the main entrance, each carrying a duffle bag of cash from the vault. Barty, Fabian, and Gideon stayed behind to manage the hostages.

Meanwhile—five blocks away—Regulus watched the live feed on the monitors, fingers tightening around a timer. His voice came again, calm and precise. “Lily, now.”

Lily slammed her hand onto the control panel. A metallic groan echoed through the building as the steel doors unlocked and began to slide open. Then came the alarm—shrill, relentless, and piercing through every corner of the bank.

Regulus tuned into the police frequency. “Closest unit, two minutes,” he announced evenly through their earpieces.

At the front, Sirius pulled his mask down, feeling the weight of the duffle bag on his shoulder. Behind him, the others mirrored the movement; they adjusted their masks and secured their bags. Every second heightened the tension, every heartbeat a countdown to the precipice.

And then, as the wailing sirens grew audible in the distance, Sirius’ mind flickered back to the class they’d attended months ago about this exact moment.

****

“It’s imperative the police have absolutely no idea what we’re doing,” Regulus had said, pacing the length of the classroom. “We want them to think this is just a conventional heist. That we were caught leaving with the money. That our guns were out for defense, not attack. That we had no choice but to retreat. Let them think we’re improvising. And above all, remember—no one gets hurt.”

****

The words played in Sirius’ head like a mantra when Regulus’ voice broke through the static “Now.”

They stepped outside, guns firing toward the ground, bullets cracking against concrete to create chaos. The hostages erupted in panic, terror ripping through the hall.

One thing Regulus hadn't mentioned, because he hadn’t stated the obvious: the cops would fire back.

The gunfire hit the pavement inches from Sirius, the whine and spit of ricocheting lead jolting him into a terrifying reality—the possibility of death so close it seized his breath.

He was at the front, firing his weapon, meticulously careful to aim away from the officers. Then—a scream tore through the chaos.

Remus.

Sirius’ world froze. He spun around just in time to see Remus collapse to the ground. Fear and disbelief gripped him—never, ever turn your back in a firefight. Yet, that’s exactly what he had done.

If Lily, Dorcas, and Frank hadn’t unleashed a coordinated wave of suppressing fire, holding the police at bay, Sirius would have been dead in seconds.

He dove to the ground beside Remus, his heart hammering against his ribs, his hands shaking violently. Blood glistened on Remus’ forehead and Sirius couldn't breathe. He was screaming something—meaningless, nonsense words—nothing registered except the pure, blinding panic in his own chest.

“Get inside!” Lily screamed in distress, covering their retreat.

Sirius’ logic collapsed. Rules, strategy, Regulus’ careful instructions—they evaporated like mist. His body moved on instinct alone. He raised his gun, rage burning in his veins, and fired. Not at the ground this time, not to scare, but to kill.

One of the cops went down, blood spreading across the concrete. The other ducked behind the car door, thrown off by the sudden hit, and Sirius seized the moment to drag Remus into the bank. The police car was a wreck of shattered glass and twisted metal.

When the cop rose from cover and fired again, Sirius shot low—caught him in the feet. Another one down. But he didn’t care, he couldn’t care.

The moment they were all back inside the bank, Frank quickly slammed the steel door shut. The police had been neutralized, two victims left bleeding on the pavement, and the plan—Regulus’ first and most fundamental rule—was irrevocably broken.

Inside, chaos still reigned. Hostages screamed, the team shouted over one another, but Sirius felt like he was underwater—sound warped, motion distant. He tore off his mask, let it fall to the floor, and dropped to his knees beside Remus.

He could hear Barty and Dorcas shouting, Frank trying to calm them down, and he could feel Lily hovering close. In the distance, the twins were yelling at the hostages to be quiet.

Sirius’ hands were shaking violently as he yanked off Remus’s mask and met wide, panicked eyes. Remus was gasping, hyperventilating—alive. Sirius couldn’t help but burst into tears.

Remus is alive.

The vest had taken the bullets; he had fallen only from shock and the impact, scraping his forehead. It was nothing—just a scratch. Yet Sirius sobbed uncontrollably, holding Remus as though letting go might erase the fact he was still breathing.

“What the fuck did you do, Sirius?! You shot the cops!!” Dorcas’ sharp voice cut through the fog of relief. Sirius didn’t look at her. His arms only tightened around Remus. “It was the first rule! The first thing the Professor warned us not to do, you motherfucker!”

———

Regulus stood in the control center, stunned, his chair toppled behind him from where he’d leapt to his feet. Through the earpiece, he could hear chaos from both sides—the police radio calling for backup for the wounded officers, and his team shouting over one another.

Everything he’d meticulously planned had gone sideways. His mind raced—what the fuck went wrong?

———

The bullet from an M-16 travels at 2,100 miles per hour. Faster than sound. In one shot, one instant—life can vanish.

Sirius managed to fuck up the plan in less time than that.

All for Remus.

Chapter Text

James Potter walked into the kitchen to find his mother sitting at the dining table, her reading glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she flipped through a well-worn paperback. Across from her sat Harry, dressed neatly in his school uniform, his tongue poking out in concentration as he sketched something with a colored pencil.

“I can’t believe you let him skip school again,” James said, running a hand through his messy hair as he crossed to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Harry looked up with a guilty grin, and Effie hid her smile behind her book. “Harry’s a little tired,” she said mildly.

James took a slow sip and arched an eyebrow. “You’re spoiling him.”

“I spoiled you, and you turned out just fine,” she replied, not looking up from her page. Her tone carried the kind of gentle authority that only mothers possess.

James walked over, leaned down, and kissed her forehead affectionately before turning to his son. “And you,” he said, bending to Harry’s level, “this is the least you deserve for skipping school.” He playfully bit Harry’s cheek, earning a startled giggle. “No more absences for the entire semester. I mean it.”

“Dad, you’re being strict,” Harry said, pouting, his lower lip trembling in theatrical protest.

“Oh, boo-hoo—” James was cut off by the sharp buzz of his phone, one glance at the screen made his shoulders drop. “Of course,” he muttered, he walked out of the kitchen and answered. “Commissioner?”

“James, I know it’s your day off,” the voice on the other end said grimly, “but we’ve got a hostage situation. The suspects tried to get away with money but they weren’t successful and now they’re holed up inside the Bank of England. They wounded two officers. I need you to be the negotiator.”

For a brief moment, James closed his eyes. The scent of coffee, the sound of his son’s laughter — all of it seemed to fade into the background.

“I’ll be there in ten,” he said, his voice steady, already reaching for his jacket and keys.

———

“What the actual fuck were you thinking? Tell me what the fucking hell that shit was back there, Sirius! Are you fucking nuts? Are you mental? What were you trying to do?” Dorcas’ voice tore through the conference room. Everyone — except for Barty, Fabian, and Gideon, who were still with the hostages — had scattered around the room, trying to process the chaos of what had just happened.

Remus sat on the edge of the table, his leg bouncing restlessly while Lily dabbed at the gash on his forehead with a wet cloth.

Sirius sat in a chair across from them, jaw tight, and Dorcas’ shouting ringing in his ears. “Calm the fuck down, Dorcas! It was a firefight!” Sirius snapped, frustration cracking through his voice. “What would you have done if you were getting shot at? Spit at them?”

“Fuck you! You should’ve taken cover!” Dorcas shot back, her hands shaking as she pointed at him. “We had a plan, you reckless piece of—”

“The fuck you mean what would you have done?” Lily’s voice cut through them like a whip. She’d turned from Remus now, eyes blazing. “You were supposed to stick to the plan, Sirius! We’ve gone over it four hundred million fucking times!”

Sirius yanked at his hair. His head was pounding.

When Lily finished bandaging Remus, she turned on him too. “And you—what the fuck were you thinking? No one was supposed to shoot anyone, you motherfuckers!”

Dorcas paced back and forth, muttering curses under her breath, fists clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white.

“I blacked out from the impact—” Remus started, voice tight.

Dorcas slammed her hand down on the table. The sound cracked through the room. “I don’t give a shit!”

The door swung open, and Barty strode in— calm and composed, in stark contrast to the storm inside “They’re taking the injured cops away,” he said evenly. His tone had that cold steadiness that always managed to silence the room. “Have you connected the phones yet, Remus?”

Remus nodded, gesturing toward the red telephone sitting in the middle of the long table.

“Perfect.” Barty removed his earpiece, then began moving around the room, collecting everyone else’s one by one. “Cut off all wireless and radio signals,” he said, smashing the small devices under his boot. The crack of plastic against the floor echoed. “It’s time to switch to analog.”

Then he turned to Remus. “Call the Professor.”

———

The red telephone rang once — sharp and jarring in the near-silent control room.

Regulus picked up immediately.

“What the fuck happened out there?” His voice was quiet but laced with fury, the kind that was all the more dangerous for how controlled it was.

“Sirius shot two cops,” Barty said flatly. “They fired first — took a shot at Remus and Sirius shot back.” A pause. “Seems like those two are… involved.”

Across the room, Sirius’ head snapped up, his expression tightening at the implication.

“Let me talk to Sirius.”

Barty handed the receiver over. Sirius grabbed it, jaw clenched. “What?”

“Is it true? Do you have a relationship with Remus?”

Sirius laughed bitterly. “Are you fucking kidding me? I shot back to protect myself and my team partner. No matter how badly you want things to go your way, guess what, Professor—” his tone dripped with venom, “things don’t always turn out the way we want or expect.”

He slammed the receiver back into the cradle, the sharp clack echoing like a gunshot.

Regulus stayed still, his eyes locked on the monitor feed showing Sirius’ back as he stormed out of the room.

He should’ve known.

Remus Lupin was exactly his brother’s type

———

When James arrived at the Bank of England, chaos reigned outside. Sirens wailed from every direction, officers moving like a tide as they secured the perimeter. An ambulance idled nearby, engine low and steady, ready in case it was needed. In the distance, a command tent had been pitched just a few meters from the bank’s entrance, its canvas flapping slightly in the morning breeze.

His badge caught the light, glinting against the worn leather of his jacket. James walked toward the tent without hesitation, eyes scanning the scene until they landed on Alice — his best friend and the first familiar face he’d hoped to see. She met him halfway, expression sharp and all business.

“What the hell happened here?” James asked, quickening his pace toward the flapping tent entrance.

“They opened a vault, tried to escape and failed. Now they’re cornered inside,” Alice replied, keeping stride with him

“Why didn’t the alarm go off?” James’ brow furrowed, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face

“We don’t know yet. A manual alarm went off—we think an employee set it off” She rubbed a thumb along her jaw, a small, habitual gesture.

“How many hostages?”

“Hard to say. The museum wing was open today. But confirmed so far: thirty-five employees, eleven security guards, seventeen students.”

“Students?” James stopped short, the word tasting bitter. “What the hell are students doing in there?”

“Field trip,” Alice said with a sharp roll of her eyes.

“Do the media know?” he asked, his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings for glints of hidden cameras. “Any intel on the suspects?”

“No, they have no idea yet. We’re pulling CCTV from nearby shops and canvassing witnesses. We’ve seen four suspects on footage, but we think there are at least six. They’re heavily armed — at least three M‑16s — and aggressive.” A black-clad tactical team moved ahead of them, dropping into position to cover the bank doors.

“Lovely,” James tasted iron on his tongue. “The special unit’s here.”

“They were the first to arrive,” Alice replied.

“For the love of God, give me one piece of good news,” James said, stopping at the tent entrance.

“Well, the cops who were shot,” Alice answered, voice softening. “They’re alive.”

“Thank God.” He let the relief wash over him for a moment as they ducked into the command tent together.

Inside, the tent smelled of coffee and cables. Folding tables were crowded with laptops, maps, printouts and half-empty cups. People who’d been plucked from routine and thrust into crisis moved with brittle efficiency: radios squawked, fingers flew across keyboards, officers exchanged clipped updates into phones

“Do we have access to the bank’s CCTV?” James asked, stepping up to the nearest bank of monitors.

“No signal,” Alice nodded toward three officers hunched over a terminal. Error messages and lines of code glared back from the screens. “They might have smashed the cameras or severed the feeds. We’re trying everything.”

“What about the network?”

“They cut the fibre. We can’t get a remote feed. It’s all offline.” Her jaw tightened and James muttered a curse under his breath.

He turned to the room and raised his voice. “Listen up!” The chatter died down as heads snapped to him. “Police, civil protection — I want every mobile phone disconnected across the perimeter. We’re going to commandeer the building’s roof antenna and route any incoming signals through this tent. Any cell traffic in the cordon must be routed through here first.”

He moved to a cluttered table and leaned over the maps. “Do we have floor plans?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” an officer said, sliding a sheaf of laminated blueprints toward him. “We’re looking for every possible entry and egress.”

———

Regulus used the little free time they had to think, going over his next moves. The police needed time to set up their camp, launch a drone, study the building’s layout. He gave them a small window to organize before he made his first contact.

Patience was a weapon, and he wielded it carefully.

He flicked to the security cameras and caught sight of Sirius moping around. A frown tugged at Regulus’ face.

Never. Not once in all the years they’d pulled heists together had Sirius broken a rule. He never improvised, never panicked, never let emotion override the plan.

Regulus’ mind raced. Maybe Sirius had changed over the years—but it didn’t add up. Sirius had carried out successful solo heists before. Regulus knew because he’d been… obsessively attentive, maybe even shamelessly stalking his brother.

He studied every heist Sirius pulled and recognized the patterns, he saw the echoes of his own early strategies in the way Sirius executed them.

There was no doubt in Regulus’ mind about Sirius and Remus. They were definitely together. But were they just casual? A hook up? Or something deeper?

He thought about today. About how Sirius had almost become a murderer—how he had risked everything, the plan and his life, to save Remus. No one did that for a casual fling. No one.

And still… Sirius had always been unpredictable. Ruthless, fearless in his own way—but when it came to plans, he was meticulous. Always. And now… he’d shattered that code.

Is he in love?

Regulus felt a punch of anger rise in his chest, hard and hot. He wanted to yell, to shake Sirius, to make him understand the sheer recklessness of what he’d done—almost getting himself killed, almost jeopardizing everything they’d worked for.

And yet.

He couldn’t. Not fully. Not when he’s looking at Sirius, alive and moping around the bank like nothing had happened. The relief clawed through him, sudden and suffocating, making it impossible to stay furious. The plan, the stakes, everything—none of it mattered as much as seeing his brother safe.

Maybe later, when they were away from this chaos, away from the sirens and the smoke and the adrenaline, Regulus would unleash his fury. Maybe he’d smack him, yell, and rage at him for breaking every rule in the book. But not now.

For now, he let himself breathe. A shallow, trembling exhale, just enough to feel gratitude overpowering anger.

———

“Alice, patch me through. I want to speak to them—now.” James strode to the head of the tent, but a movement behind him froze his steps. A man in a black suit had entered, and irritation stabbed through James like a lightning strike. He pinched the bridge of his nose, whispering frantically, “What the fuck is Colonel Dumbledore doing here?”

Alice shook her head and mouthed, I don’t know. She left him with the newcomer and moved to check the telephone.

“There are lunatics with guns in the same place we print money. Don’t you think Intelligence should be involved?” Dumbledore’s voice carried across the tent, calm and oddly amused, making it clear he had heard what James had said.

Before James could answer, Alice—god bless her—interrupted. “James, we’re calling the bank right now.”

James pivoted sharply, deliberately ignoring Dumbledore. He grabbed a headset and sank into the chair in front of the microphone, every sense on high alert, waiting.

———

Everyone—except Fabian and Gideon—sat around the long table. The telephone at the center began to ring; for a single suspended second the whole room held its breath. They had been expecting this call.

Barty slid a switch that routed the line to Regulus, then he flicked the call onto speaker.

“Hello?” James Potter’s voice echoed simultaneously in the bank’s conference room and Regulus’ control center.

“Good evening,” Regulus replied evenly.

“This is James Potter speaking, inspector in charge of the negotiation. May I ask who I am speaking to?”

“The man in charge of the heist,” Regulus said, his voice distorted. James furrowed his brows, exchanging a glance with the officer beside him, who whispered, “He’s using a voice changer. We’re trying to clean up the signal.”

“How are your colleagues doing?” Regulus asked, almost conversational.

Sirius, had been sitting rigid—legs bouncing anxiously. He straightened at the question.

“We have no casualties at the moment.” James’ reply was measured, Relief uncoiled through everyone, and Sirius closed his eyes, letting his breath out in a long, shaky exhale. For a few seconds, the room seemed to breathe with him—like a weight had been suddenly lifted off their chests.

“I’m glad,” Regulus said earnestly. “Genuinely glad.”

James exchanged a quick look with Alice; both wore the same puzzled frown. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you clearly—your voice is kind of distorted.”

“My apologies for this terrible metallic voice,” Regulus said with mock solemnity. “I hope you understand — I must protect my identity.”

“What is it that you want?” James asked, going straight to it.

“I want to negotiate with someone who won’t waste time to check with a supervisor, intelligence, or their mother for permission.” There was a humorless curl at the edge of Regulus’ voice.

“Well then you should talk directly to the King,” James shot back. “But since he’s rather busy running the country, I’ll stand in, if you don’t mind. Do you have any other concerns?” James asked again.

“Yes. Tell me Inspector, what are you wearing?” Regulus’ question was so absurd and out of nowhere, everyone around the conference table exchanged amused looks. Meanwhile, in the tent, everyone looked mildly concerned. Even Dumbledore seemed taken aback; his expression curdled into confusion.

“What?” James asked, baffled.

“What are you wearing?” Regulus persisted. “Don’t you think our clothes say a lot about our personalities?”

James quickly collected himself, “I really have no problem answering your question, but be aware—this conversation is being monitored by MPS, MO19, PN, NCA, EOD, intelligence services like MI15 and GCHQ, give or take a few more officers.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself.” Regulus’ voice was casual. “Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for withholding my name—you may call me ‘Professor.’ That’s what everyone calls me.”

James motioned to Alice to respond; she rolled her eyes and leaned into the mic. “Hello. I’m Alice, Deputy Inspector of the Police Department.”

“Nice to meet you, Alice. How are you?” Regulus’ tone was absurdly polite. Barty couldn’t hide his grin as one by one people introduced themselves and Regulus greeted them, slipping in small talk here and there—Regulus could be a little shit when he wanted to be, but at the same time he was intoxicatingly, infuriatingly hilarious.

“As precious as this moment is, I’ll have to intervene, Professor. Tell me—what do you want?” James asked again.

“Time,” Regulus said, simply. “A few more minutes and we would’ve been able to get away. You should know we’re perfectly prepared to defend ourselves, so I’d very much like to avoid any kind of intervention. Can I trust you not to enter the bank, Inspector?”

“Yes, of course.” James said, “ But in order for me to trust you, you need to do something for me: release the students. They’re minors—things will be much easier.” Regulus had expected the demand.

“But inspector, you still haven’t told me what you’re wearing yet?”

James rolled his eyes, exhausted by the farce of the situation. “Black jeans, a matching black button-up, and a brown leather jacket. Is that good enough for you?”

“Very,” Regulus said, a slow, satisfied sound. “Now I have a clear picture. I’ll think about your request and call you back Inspector.” He paused, then carefully, hung up.

James flung the headset onto the table. Alice turned to him, incredulous. “Is he mental? Only a madman would take nearly sixty hostages and play games with the negotiator.”

“No. He’s way too calm for that.” He rose suddenly, urgency snapping through him. “I want a helicopter circling above their heads, twenty-four-seven.” Orders spilled from him; a team sprang up into action, moving and calling frantically.

“Excuse me, Inspector.” Dumbledore stepped forward, “Eyes on the target alone won’t make them surrender. The head of GCHQ and I think we should intervene immediately.”

“If you want a disaster like the Opera House in Moscow, then be my guest,” James snapped. Fury laced the sentence. “You’re not needed here, Albus—go bolster your ego somewhere else.”

“Come now now, Inspector,” Dumbledore said, chiding. “Don’t be so defensive. I’m only trying to help. I know you’re going through a rough time but there’s no need to let it out on me.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” James narrowed his eyes.

“I’m referring to the charges of domestic violence you filed against your ex-husband, Rodolphus.” Dumbledore’s voice was casual. The tent fell into a brittle silence.

“I see you’ve done your homework, Albus.” James said, as controlled as ever.

”Internal Affairs has to do its job Mr.Potter” Dumbledore continued, almost conversational. “In fact, They saw no sign of injury on your son. Your ex-husband has their full support, he rebuilt his life and career within the department.”

James’ control snapped. “I don’t know if you’re just a fucking asshole or if that’s your way of coping with your pathetic, awful life.” His words sliced through the silence “Either way, your concern isn’t appreciated, Colonel. And Don’t you ever—ever—bring my son into this.”

Chapter Text

“What if things go wrong? What if the plan fails?” Remus questioned, the metallic hiss of the beer can echoing as he cracked it open.

Dorcas mashed her cigarette out on the weathered wooden table in front of them. They were scattered around a garden dining table, the sweet, cool air of the countryside mixed with the tang of tobacco and the approaching scent of night. Beers, wine, spent cigarettes, papers, and pens were strewn across the surface.

Remus’ question hung in the air—heavy, even if he tried to sound casual.

Lily smirked, exhaling a thin stream of smoke herself. “Well,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every word, “The usual, i guess. Back in prison. Barely getting our hands on a cigarette. Four measly shrimps for Christmas. You know… the glamorous life.”

“Honestly, what’s more fucked up is if it all works out,” Sirius said, twirling a pen between his fingers, his eyes distant. “The hell are we even doing with all that money?”

Dorcas leaned back in her chair and grinned. “I’m getting myself a fucking Maserati.”

Remus’ eyes lit up. “Holy shit—what color?”

“Hot pink,” she said proudly, and Lily and Sirius erupted into cheers. “You know what? why stop there?” Dorcas added thoughtfully. “I’ll also buy myself a martial arts studio and a three-story nightclub with speakers so loud they make your ears bleed.”

“Why the hell not? Good for you, Cas,” Fabian said with a grin, and the table erupted into laughter.

“You’re all invited to my nightclub, by the way” Dorcas said, lighting another cigarette, “criminals and common whores alike.”

“You’ll need like three to four million for that.” Frank chimed in, seriously thinking about. “And honestly, I want to buy you new lungs, Cas. You’ve destroyed yours with all that smoking.”

Dorcas laughed. “Where the hell are you going to find me new lungs?”

“I don’t know—people sell kidneys, right? There’s gotta be a market for lungs out there.”

Across the table, Regulus, who had been silently nursing his drink, failed to smother a laugh.

“Holy shit, Frank! That’s the third time you’ve made the professor laugh!” Sirius exclaimed, eyes bright with mischief as he pointed at Regulus—whose composure snapped back in an instant, mouth hardening into a scowl. Frank threw his hands up in triumph, and slapped Sirius’ palm in a victorious high-five.

“I want a winery in Provence,” Barty announced, pouring himself a glass of wine and staring at it dreamily. “Two-hundred-acre vineyard, my own oak barrels… the works.”

Fabian snorted. “You know you can buy any bottle of wine at the supermarket, right? Why bother with a winery?”

“For the art, you prick,” Barty said with a faint smile.

“I, for one,” Remus said, downing a glass of wine, “am buying myself an island.”

“Make it two,” Sirius raised his beer. Lily clinked her wine glass against it, grinning. “Why not three? Let’s go, team islands!”

“An archipelago for the whole team,” Dorcas said, clearly pleased with the idea.

Remus laughed, but there was a glint in his eyes when he spoke again. “No, I mean it.” The idea had already taken root, curling at the edges of his voice. “A small island with a massive house, a balcony overlooking the sea. I want to wake up, roll out of bed, and dive straight into the water.”

“Finally,” Fabian said, pointing at him, “someone smart with their money.”

Lily exhaled a cloud of smoke and leaned back. “I’m going to pay off debts first. People need to stop bothering me. Then… I’ll buy a plane and fly it myself.”

“Why not hire a hot pilot?” Sirius teased.

“I’m the hot pilot, darling,” Lily shot back with a grin. “Besides, I want to mess with the control tower: ‘Clear the runway for the hot ginger Beyoncé, motherfuckers!’” The table exploded with laughter,

“You know, even after buying everything we’re dreaming of, we’ll still have a mountains of cash left,” Regulus said, finally speaking, calm as ever. “At the end of the day… we’re making history by printing billions.”

Everyone fell silent for a moment, staring at him, letting the reality sink in. Insanely rich. Beyond anything they’d ever imagined.

For a brief second, the world felt limitless.

****

“Stand up.” Barty’s voice cut through the vast hall. The hostages, still blindfolded, scrambled to their feet at the sharp clap of his hands. “Take your blindfolds off.” There was a moment of confused, terrified hesitation where no one moved. Then—

“Take it off!” He repeated, louder. This time, obedience was immediate.

Barty began strolling casually among the rows of standing, frightened people. “Despite the helicopters above us, the forces outside are generous enough to give us a few hours of peace and quiet. So—rest for a bit. In a few minutes, we’ll hand out sleeping bags, water, and sandwiches .” He paused, tilting his head with an unsettling smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, and I’d like to ask a small favor. Take your clothes off.” Shock rippled across the faces before him like a wave

“Oh, no, don’t worry—nothing inappropriate,” he laughed lightly, waving a dismissive hand. “We’re giving you the same red coveralls we’re wearing. Purely for your own comfort.”

Fabian and Gideon moved down the rows with the coveralls. Dorcas and Remus passed out sleeping bags. Sirius and Lily followed behind, handing out water bottles and sandwiches.

“Excuse me, sir.” Peter stepped forward. “I don’t mean to bother you, but there are folks here with heart conditions, pregnant women, diabetics, students. Please, I’m asking you to let the most vulnerable go.”

“Who do you think you are? Fucking Gandhi?” Dorcas snapped, hurling a sleeping bag at him. It struck Peter squarely, sending him stumbling backward, his eyes wide with panic. “Dorcas, relax,” Barty said, rolling his eyes as he strode past her, moving to the front of the hall.

Without warning, Dorcas pulled a gun and levelled it at Peter’s head. A collective gasp swept the room; Peter’s hands flew up and the sleeping bag he’d been clutching slid to the floor. He looked one second away from wetting himself.

“Take the gun.” Dorcas, in a swift, practiced motion, flipped the weapon so the handle faced him. Peter froze for a second, eyes flickering between her face and the gun. “I’m not asking you, fucker. I’m ordering you—take it.” Her hands were steady. In violent contrast, Peter shook all over. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached for the pistol, holding it with a white-knuckled grip, as if it might explode any second.

“Now, point it at me,” she said.

He could barely get the words out. “I—please—”

“Point the gun at me!” she ordered sharply.

The rest of the team continued their distribution and quiet chatter, treating Dorcas’ theatrics and the terror she was inflicting as nothing more than background noise. Barty, however, was openly entertained; he might as well have been eating popcorn.

Dorcas’ patience snapped. She reached out, raised the gun in Peter’s trembling hand, and pointed it directly at her chest. “Now shoot me,” she said.

Peter panted, horror-struck. “Please—no, I don’t—”

“If you don’t shoot in five seconds, I’ll blow your head off.” She punctuated the threat by producing a second gun and pressing it to his temple. The hostages’ fear spiked, rising to a near-hysterical pitch.

“Five, four, three..”

And then Peter pulled the trigger, and everyone screamed in pure terror; the team didn’t even flinch.

He kept pulling the trigger, but no bullets came out. It kept clicking, but no gunshots were heard.

Dorcas threw her head back and roared with laughter at the utter fear frozen on his face. Lily shook her head, a faint, amused smile playing on her lips.

“It’s a fake gun, Petey boy! But you did great! You’d make a hell of a criminal,” Dorcas wheezed, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “It’s a gift from me. You can keep it.” She patted his shoulder roughly and walked away.

Peter remained frozen in place, pale as a sheet of paper, the fake pistol still shaking in his hand.

“Alright, showtime is over,” Barty announced, clapping his hands again. “We’re also going to hand out some fake weapons to the rest of you. In a few hours we’ll need your cooperation. All you have to do is obey us.” He grinned, gesturing around the hall. “Come on, people! What are you waiting for? Get undressed!”

———

“James, we can’t find any electronics or detect any signals. No walkie‑talkies, no phones. Nothing,” Alice said, pressing a report into his hands. “We haven’t traced a single transmission from inside.”

“What the fuck? Are they communicating by cups and strings? Why aren’t we picking up anything?”

“No idea.”

James slammed the report onto the table. Across the room, Albus was talking quietly with the special forces, his posture calm and unreadable. Frustration coiled in James’ chest. He ripped off his jacket and tossed it onto the nearest chair, then stormed out of the tent for a cigarette, staring at the bank like it might somehow answer his questions.

In the distance, three armed trucks rolled onto the perimeter—special forces. James felt something cold and hard settle in his gut. Oh hell no. Albus was planning to enter the bank. He stamped out his cigarette with his heel and barreled back into the tent.

“Why the fuck are those trucks here?” James demanded.

Albus’s voice was unnervingly calm. “We’re entering. Right now.”

“Only if I give the order, fucker! I’m the one in charge!” James snapped, fury hot and raw beneath his skin.

“These are orders from above, Mr. Potter,” Special Agent Snape cut in. James looked from Snape to Albus. “Can someone tell me what the actual hell is going on? Or do you want me to call the Minister of Interior Affairs personally?” The officers around them turned, watching.

Dumbledore’s face tightened. He pulled James outside, away from the crowd and prying ears, and lowered his voice to an almost whisper. “There’s a high-priority hostage inside the bank. Do you know what that means, Mr. Potter?”

“Every hostage is high‑priority to me. I’m sure that’s not the case for Intelligence—so enlighten me,” James shot back.

“It’s the Swedish ambassador’s daughter,” Dumbledore said. “If we wait, the entire country will know by tomorrow that she’s been taken. Today she’s just a hostage; tomorrow she’ll be their bargaining chip, their primary target. Every gun in that building will be trained on her. We have to go in. Now, Inspector Potter.”

****

“They’ll go in,” Regulus said, his voice cutting through the stillness of the classroom. “They’ll go in—because of our little lamb.”

He held up an A4 photograph with unwavering hands of a brunette teenage girl. “Hannah Abbott.” He passed the picture down the row.

“They’ll think we don’t know,” he continued, shoulders squared, chest forward, pacing the length of the classroom with slow, measured steps. “They’ll think they’ve hidden from the public that the Swedish ambassador’s daughter has been taken hostage. But we know. And for that alone, we can predict every move they’ll make.”

He stopped in the center of the room and planted his feet. “So, they’ll enter the first night —before 4:15 a.m.— and they’d better do it without hesitation; it will play to our advantage in the first battle.”

****

James walked into the tent, Albus close behind him. Snape’s voice cut through the comms: “Special Units One, Two, and Three. Get ready to enter now.”

James held his breath, every instinct screaming against what was about to happen. He didn’t like this, not one bit. Radios crackled, voices barked instructions, engines roared to life.

“Team One, barricade the main entrance. Watch the rooftop and the upper windows.” Snape instructed.

———

Regulus scanned the monitors, eyes narrowing as armed trucks advanced toward the building. He picked up the phone and dialed the bank. On the second ring, Barty picked up.

“Barty, they’re coming.”

“We’re on it,” Barty replied, hanging up and striding toward the main hall. “Ladies and gentlemen—showtime!” he shouted.

The hall erupted into motion. The team split into two groups: one, led by Barty, moved toward the main entrance as backup in case anything went sideways; the other, led by Sirius, headed for the loading dock. The remaining hostages stayed behind, monitored by Frank.

The nation’s security forces moved exactly as Regulus had predicted.

He had told them how things would unfold months ago, one afternoon after an exhilarating football match. They had played without a second thought, carefree, without the threat of death breathing down their necks.

****

“They’ll try to enter through four access points,” Regulus said, pacing before the scattered team, still catching their breath from the game. “The main entrance, the loading dock, the emergency exit, and the rooftop.” He listed

“But they’ll wait. They’ll wait for the tactical team to set up surveillance and assess the situation inside. And they’ll do exactly that—from the loading dock.“ He continued, his voice calm but absolute and radiating certainty.

****

The agents crouched behind the giant steel door at the loading‑dock entrance. Sirius, Dorcas and the twins — along with five hostages — took cover; masks clinging to their faces like a second skin.

The high-pitched whir of the drill sliced through the air, sharp and unrelenting. Everyone flinched.

“Ready?” Sirius’s whisper barely rose above the noise. The twins gave tense, curt nods. Dorcas shifted on her heels, restless with anticipation. The hostages gripped their fake guns so tightly their knuckles were white, every tremor of fear visible.

“Now.” Sirius ordered, and they moved as one, each step measured, deliberate, toward the door. Standing before it, the world seemed to narrow to the whirring drill and the pounding of their own hearts.

———

“Get the scope inside,” Snape ordered. Once the drill opened a tiny hole in the steel door, they inserted a miniature camera through it.

Everyone in the tent held their breath, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the monitors as they waited for the footage from inside the bank to appear.

“James! There’s an incoming call from a hostage!” Alice said, urgently. “It’s Hannah Abbott.”

Albus and James exchanged a look, “Turn the volume up!” James ordered, leaning forward to a computer screen showing the teenage girl.

“My name is Hannah Abbott, my father is the Swedish ambassador. I’ve been taken hostage at the Bank of England,” her voice trembled. “I’m making this call from inside the bank.”

“I can’t believe they’re showing that live!” Alice muttered, shaking her head in utter disbelief.

“Kill that live feed immediately. Now!” Albus barked at the officers, who started frantically working the keyboards. “Right now!”

“We’re dressed exactly like the kidnappers,” Hannah read from a paper clutched between her shaking hands; a gun was pressed to her temple, the muzzle visible at the corner of the screen. James felt a wave of dizziness. The tent dissolved into chaos — papers rattled, chairs scraped back, and Albus barked orders left, right, and center.

“Colonel, we can see inside,” Snape said, eyes fixed on his monitor. James and Albus straightened and moved closer to the screens.

“What the fuck?” James whispered. The screen showed nine people in red coveralls and Dalí masks. Behind a pile of sandbags, one of them crouched, manning a mounted machine gun, while the eight others flanked him, each raising an M16.

“I repeat: we’re wearing the same masks and coveralls as the kidnappers, and we have guns,” Hannah’s voice echoed. But James’s focus was entirely on the image before him.

“Zoom in,” James ordered, voice tight with disbelief. “It’s a mounted Browning machine gun.” helplessly stunned.

“Those motherfuckers,” Albus muttered behind him.

“They’re mixed with the hostages — everyone’s dressed the same. It’s impossible to know who we’d be firing at!” Alice said in distress.

“If the police come in, they’re going to shoot. Please—please don’t come in,” Hannah sobbed on the screen, her hands trembling and her voice quivering.

“Call it off!” James yelled, “Call it off right fucking now, Albus!”

Snape turned to Dumbledore— he nodded once and then Snape ordered, “Abandon all positions. Abort the operation.”

———-

Regulus released a deep breath as he watched the forces retreat from the bank.

Everything had gone exactly as he predicted. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, betraying his quiet satisfaction.

They’d won their first battle on their very first night — with nothing more than common sense.