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Chapter Text

Sirius

Patience had been the theme of Sirius’s day.

One of their secret warehouses was attacked early in the morning, reduced to dust before sunrise. Luckily, it wasn’t a crucial one — mainly building materials — but still. Inconvenient. Inconvenience meant meetings. Endless talk of oversight, risks, and blame.

Patience.

Talk of Sirius’s capabilities to solve such an issue.

Patience.

As if it were his fault. Bulstrode was the one who supplied the manpower for such security tasks – or any task for that matter. Sirius created the moving schedules in and out of the warehouse, perfectly curated to avoid drawing attention to the small, ruined building on the outskirts of Zaun. If the building had burned, it was because Bulstrode’s men failed. Yet it was Sirius who carried the weight, who cleaned the messes. Always Sirius. 

That’s why the heir of Black now crouched on the rooftops of Zaun, waiting for the Piltover supply airship to fly overhead to replace the crates of steel lost from this morning’s incident. 

Patience. Which was now running thin.

“It’s behind schedule,” Barty muttered, squinting at his cracked watch. 

“Could be weather.” Sirius let the irritation edge his words. “We’ll wait another hour.” It was a half-assed excuse; the air was still calm and warm enough to collect sweat under his black cloak. 

Crouch pocketed his watch and nodded. The Rosier twins echoed Barty’s compliance, shifting into more comfortable stances. 

The three figures before him mimicked shadows hidden underneath black cloaks identical to Sirius’. Evan Rosier was the only one still sporting the gold-painted skull mask; if the heat affected him, his body language revealed nothing. 

Sirius knew Barty Crouch the longest, nearly a decade now. Even so, Barty was much closer to Regulus, Sirius’s younger brother. Besides himself, the boy was the only one who could make Reg smile before his brother turned into a moody git. Their history gave Barty unrelenting confidence to be complacent on assignments, but it was tolerated only because he matched his arrogance with lethalness. 

Plus, the twins offered a nice balance, both level-headed and quiet for the most part, but just as deadly. Quiet was an overstatement for Evan Rosier; Sirius had yet to hear the boy speak once. Perhaps his tongue was cut out as a child, or maybe he had nothing to say. Evan tossed a throwing knife between his hands – the objects always left his grip with precision that even Sirius couldn’t replicate. 

Pandora, by contrast, was sharp, her wit flashing with the same intensity that burned in her eyes during combat. The twins were yet another connection made through Regulus, more victims of Piltover’s brutalities and the Undercity’s lack of protection at the time. She was the one to offer their services to Sirius in return for income a few years prior, and they’ve earned the title of usefulness.

Pandora whispered something to her brother before pulling away with a grin that revealed the slight gap in her smile. Meeting Sirius’s eyes, she winked and tucked a loose lock of snow white hair back into her black hood. 

A low hum reverberated through the rooftops, snapping Sirius’ attention. Through the clouds, the hulking silhouette of an airship pushed through the air above them. He put a hand up to signal to his team, who had all shifted into ready stances. As the back of the airship disappeared back into the clouds, Sirius unstrapped the driftplate from his back. He slid his mask down and launched himself into the night, steel slicing the wind. The metallic clanks behind him confirmed that the others followed in pursuit. 

The driftplates had been spoils from an attack a few months back, where he and his accompanying men were ambushed on a routine patrol. The element of surprise gave the Firelights the upper hand, but the onslaught was poorly planned — and Sirius was deadlier. He was reprimanded that day for losing a few of Bulstrode’s lackeys, but it was a win in his mind. Almost a dozen Firelights dead, and five driftplates Sirius and his team had been abusing since. The flying metal boards gave them an advantage in ground combat and other raids like the one they were on now. 

The cover of night made it easy to fly across the underside of the airship and sneak onto the deck. Gold and blue danced off the propeller that whipped the wind in a low purr.  The nice thing about Piltover’s cargo ships was the lack of security, but after this raid, it would be bound to tighten for future shipments. Black crept underdeck into the cargo hold, his team following silently behind. Sirius pulled his mask off once they deemed the coast to be clear,

“Remember, only attach the parachutes to the crates with steel. Evan.” Rosier’s pale lashes caught a glint of light as he nodded and vanished toward the stern. The rest of them made quick work of securing crates with plate-sized metal disks that sprouted claws into the heavy wood.

Parachutes would trigger with the push of the purple button in its center. Having a remote to trigger them all at once would’ve been ideal, but the techwright designer, Yaxley, couldn’t make one on such short notice. All the crates were dragged into rows away from the stern. Twelve in total. 

When Evan rejoined them, he slid the setonator into Sirius’s hand. “Right then,” Sirius checked his watch. They should be right above the river now. “On my count.”

They each lined up with a row of crates. Sounds of groaning wood suggested that the wind was stronger up here. They’d have to be quick.

“Three, two, one.”

Sirius pressed the detonator, ducking behind the crates to avoid the wood debris flying through the air following the explosion. The airship shook violently, the sound of the blast echoing through the sky and getting lost in the clouds. Sirius hastily regained his footing,

“Now!”

The quartet shoved the crates through the gaping hole now in the stern of the airship and into the night sky. Crouch and the Rosiers leapt through right after the cargo. Yells and footsteps of the crew echoed overhead, but it was too late. Sirius lingered just long enough to drop a pair of goggles and an old handgun — both in his possession courtesy of the Firelights — before leaping from the wreck.

Stronger winds threatened his balance on the driftplate, but Sirius leaned into it, narrowing his eyes against the rush. The dim city lights below revealed his crew sailing through the air, triggering the parachutes on each crate. He counted eight parachutes already airborne, four left. Sirius leaned forward, hovering through the air with precise grace — the remaining parachutes were triggered in a matter of seconds.

The cargo hit the river with hefty splashes, bobbing with the ripples of the murky water. Luckily, all of them seemed to have remained intact. Neon green lights emerged from the city canals, trailing behind small boats right on cue. He watched the silhouettes of his crew load the steel, the hulls dipping under the weight. Earlier, he convinced Bulstrode to lend him a few men to drive the boats back to a new warehouse under the condition that Sirius covered the difficult part. It wasn’t too hard a persuasion considering Sirius’ towering rank and a threatening reminder that the loss of the materials was originally Bulstrode’s fault anyway.

Crouch and the twins appeared next to him to watch as the boats sailed back into the canals of Zaun. Moonlight glittered in the river, highlighting a few debris from the airship following the blast. Above, smoke trailed from the wounded airship. Below, the river rippled with stolen wealth. All that remained was to wait and see if the brutes could successfully transport the cargo without fucking up.

Patience. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Regulus

Regulus hissed as bright purple liquid spewed from the beaker and nearly singed his arm. He etched a note to slowly mix in the silt for future reference. The concoction was meant to fortify lighter metals to provide better durability while adding little to no weight. It would be used in the forging process right after heat treatment. 

“Black,” a nasally voice interrupted, “the batch for today’s meeting is ready.”

“Good. Bottle them then leave, Severus.”

Severus’s straight hair fell over his brow as he nodded and turned back to his station. Regulus was initially annoyed when Severus was assigned to work for him, but he’d proven his usefulness to carry out the tasks that would make Regulus die of boredom. The assistant was a gift from Riddle for Black’s accomplishments in the laboratory, but Regulus couldn’t help but be insulted. 

Within the past three years in Riddle’s service, Regulus made more breakthroughs in chemtech than the rest of the inner ring had in the seven years prior. Various bomb compounds, the gas lamps that illuminated the streets a greenish-yellow (he didn’t particularly care for aesthetics), and a handful of shimmer variants didn’t even compromise a fifth of his contributions. Providing a spare to share his lab with was incredibly inconvenient, but one could not refuse Riddle’s generosity.

The laboratory doors swung open, followed by a familiar gait that drew a groan from Regulus. Rows of glowing purple vials mounted on the walls rattled in their cases.

“You’re going to destroy my lab,” he said, not bothering to look up. Scattered footsteps suggested Severus made a quick exit. Hopefully not before doing what Regulus asked of him, or he would flog the greasy assistant personally.

“I don’t give a shit.” Sirius’s voice carried its usual arrogance. He strode over and leaned against the desk. Regulus could feel his movements being watched. “How do you see anything you’re doing in here?” 

“With my eyes.”

Sirius huffed. “What’s he got you working on?”

“Strength variant,” Regulus muttered, annoyed.

“Shimmer does that plenty already, no?”

Regulus rolled his eyes, “It’s not a shimmer variant. And not for people, for materials. Seeing as you keep fucking around on those driftplates, they might as well be indestructible.”

Sirius snorted.

“Were you able to intercept the shipment?” Regulus asked, finally looking up at his brother, who nodded in response. The low purple and green hue emitting from the ridiculous amount of vials in the room clung to the high points of Sirius’ face. Black curls fell right at his shoulders and got lost in his matching black leather jacket. Regulus always thought his brother looked like death incarnate. Not the kind that was loud and barbaric, but the kind that slithers and weaves, devouring in silence. Even so, Regulus would never be afraid of him. While Sirius’ dark presence might reverberate coldly in others, Regulus wore it as a blanket that promised safety. 

Although he despised being confined to the dingy, murky lab all day, Regulus never envied Sirius’ position. He was decent enough at combat himself, but he wouldn’t be in the inner ring of Death Eaters if it weren’t for his brains. A handful of the lower-ranking idiots credited his status to being the second son of Walburga Black — the business mogul who controlled the largest district of Zaun and oversaw chemtech distributions — an accusation that made him grind his teeth. 

Sirius’ talents were noticed by Riddle early and purposely redirected in the benefit of his operations, while Regulus’ were underestimated. It’s true, he could have resided in being coddled at Black manor after completing his primary studies, but Regulus got bored easily. Being underestimated proved to be an advantage in clawing his way upward. Everything must be earned in Zaun; no one was an exception.

Sirius’ gaze hardened, “Riddle’s going to be there today. At the meeting.”

“Must be important then.”  Riddle’s presence at meetings was rare, especially since most of them were stupid anyway and didn’t call for all Death Eaters to be present. If he was expected, it usually meant something very promising or severe had happened. Sirius would be the only one to know the answer ahead of time. If his brother was nervous in the slightest, he didn’t show it. Perhaps good news, then. 

Sirius rolled his neck and pushed off the desk, handgun clicking in the holster as he did, “C’mon, let’s walk there together. Don’t forget the tray.”

Regulus internally cursed at himself for dismissing Severus so quickly. The idiot could have carried the tray to the meeting room for him. 

The vials of shimmer clinked as they walked through the Ashlock Foundry. The seven-storied building was once a factory of some sort, but it now served as the main headquarters for Riddle's operations. The building was located deep in Zaun, in one of the poorer areas near the Lanes. Its location was a mediocre representation of the Undercity, but a necessary cover. The interior gave anyone who entered whiplash from how starkly it contrasted the nearby area. Hideous botanical wallpapers combined with the patterned rugs made the hallways an eyesore. Rich, mahogany tables and plush chairs were neatly littered throughout the rooms of the foundry; Regulus’ lab was no exception. The only parts of the building that reflected taste were the windows — Even Regulus could see the beauty of the stained glass windows that glittered in different shades of emerald green. The meeting chamber was especially magnificent, with glass covering the ceiling, designed in a way that looked like overgrown vines creeping up the walls. But there was a smell. It was dense and a bit smoky, and it clung to his clothes. Even the luxuries inside Ashlock Foundry could not fully repel the foulness of the lower Zaun districts. 

Regulus and Sirius were the last to arrive — save for Riddle. There were no greetings, only low mutters between members. He placed the tray down, feeling the greedy eyes of the other Death Eaters that loomed over him. The vials were plucked instantly, needles plunging into their skin with grotesque satisfaction. Regulus could feel the disgust coiled in his gut, but he’d long stopped letting it show. He and his brother were smart enough to know never to mess with shimmer themselves, tempting as it was at times.

Sirius took his seat to the right of the head, but Regulus would take his across the table and three chairs down next to Bulstrode, the brute who provided manpower for operations. He controlled The Lanes, the second largest district of Zaun, but his power still lagged behind his mother’s and the Black family. The bitterness often tainted his interactions at meetings because the seating arrangement was a constant reminder of his lower Death Eater status in comparison.

Riddle valued order and recognition of his power; none of his luxuries came free, and everything was a reminder that being in his service was the highest honor. Even the seating arrangement at meetings had a silver lining. Selwyn sat to Regulus’ left, farthest from Riddle. The two remaining small districts fell under his eye. As the underground liaison, Selwyn had a network of spies running through the Undercity and a handful in Piltover as well, to Regulus’ knowledge. Obnoxiously tapping his metal leg under the table across from Regulus sat Crouch Sr., the smuggling overseer and Barty’s father. He was a stocky man whose eyes constantly fluttered about, as if he physically couldn’t spare his focus on a single thing at once. Barty detested his father for being cowardly, and Regulus wasn’t one to argue with the fact. It was a miracle he was a Death Eater at all, although Riddle probably liked having a more susceptible mind close to his disposal. 

Yaxley, the techwright designer credited for all of the chemtech designs, sat in the next higher seat adjacent to Crouch. And then there was Sirius — The highest ranking Death Eater and the closest thing to a right hand Riddle would allow. 

Beyond Bulstrode to the head’s immediate left sat Walburga Black, overseer of Alcove District and head of the Sludgerunners, the illegal enterprise that specialized in manufacturing and distributing chemtech. His mother. 

The doors swung open dramatically, and everyone turned to acknowledge Riddle’s entrance. He was a tall, slender man who walked with a frightening calm. No hair clung to his bald, pale head. Instead, the attention was always drawn to his tar black eyes with dark yellow irises. Regulus would be lying if he said he wasn’t somewhat impressed by the man’s ambition. Riddle’s unattractive looks were evidence of the obstacles he had to overcome to climb to his position as the leader of Zaun — the unofficial name for the Undercity he plotted to sever from Piltover. Sirius and Regulus would make a game of guessing what specific doings graced him with his appearance. Regulus was certain Riddle was the victim of an explosion at some point, which would explain the missing nose and mechanical left hand.

“Reports,” Was all he said to kick off the meeting. 

Updates circled the table, but only some topics were of interest — a new secret trade route was finally done with construction, the Firelights’ attacks have gone down significantly, suggesting a strong decrease in numbers, and four successful smuggling operations since the last meeting. When it came to Regulus, he mentioned that the strength variant was still in progress, but was still ahead of schedule. Still, Yaxley gave a disproving click,

“Why not consult Vaska?” His voice was husky through the gold gas mask concealing his nose and mouth, “I have weapons designed that need the enhanced armour now.”

Regulus resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead gritted his teeth at the insult. Vaska, the crazy bitch of a scientist who first produced the shimmer formula, sends Regulus batches to experiment with per Riddle’s orders. The original formula of the drug would never be revealed to anyone, but that doesn’t stop Regulus from trying to figure it out anyway, purely out of spite. She was technically still under the command of Riddle but worked independently, on darker projects he would want to keep secret, Regulus assumed. Before he could respond, Riddle interrupted, his voice slick like ice,

“Vaska is under commission for a special task. Regulus’ servant will have the results by next month.” 

Servant? Severus? The boy was a tool compared to Regulus, like most people. Why the fuck would Riddle replace him for such a task? Rage flickered, but Regulus kept his tone flat, “My Lord?”

He ignored Regulus and brought his snake-like gaze to the entire table, “I bring good news today. I have secured the loyalty of someone very important. Someone with direct access to Piltover’s council.” 

Hushed murmurs scattered.

“A council member? Of Piltover?” Bulstrode asked, brows furrowed.

Riddle gave a truly hideous smile. “Precisely.”

Excitement surged through the Death Eaters. Regulus caught Sirius’s expression — unreadable and unsurprised. Riddle stood from his seat, silence following his movements. “Our new friend will act as my eyes and ears on the council, and will be a key part in eliminating Noxus as a threat in arms for the time being.”

Noxus was Piltover’s most valuable ally, mainly because of its powerful and ruthless military. As a child, his tutor explained that Noxians valued strength above all else — even their government was built on meritocracy. Riddle would only see Noxus as a threat if they were to turn on Piltover, and there would really only be one reason why they would need to impose themselves —

“With this movement, my plan to conquer Piltover will finally draw to its final stages,” he adopted a menacing tone that promised blood, “My nation of Zaun will be triumphant. Topsiders will pay for their insolence and mediocrity. And of course, you, my Death Eaters, will drown in the riches of the Upper City’s finest. ”

Thuggish hollering sounded throughout the room. Bulstrode slapped his hands against the table, and Sirius had a wicked grin on his face. This was it. It was bound to happen at some point. Regulus knew Riddle wouldn’t aim so low as just to sever Zaun from Piltover; he needed all of it. Suddenly, the past year came into clear light. Yaxley had been pushed to design all sorts of maniacal weapons and artillery. Walburga was tasked with expanding the Sledgehammers tenfold. Even Regulus had been pushed to spend more hours in the lab the past year. A hiss sounded from the head of the table,

“Even with Noxus’ artillery neutralized,” Riddle braced his gloved fingers on the table, “Topside still remains ahead in technological advancements. My source on the council claims there have been no great advancements in their weaponry, but I want a closer eye kept.”

Riddle snapped his neck to look at Regulus, 

“Regulus, you will be sent to Piltover Academy under the sponsorship of our new council friend. With his resources, you will get close enough to the ‘Golden Boy’ to report back his technological advancements.” A mocking sneer coated the mention of the renowned inventor.

If his jaw wasn’t clenched, it would be resting on his lap. It’s true that Piltover steadily drew farther ahead in terms of technology with the invention of the Hexgates — Large towers that teleport airships across the continent — courtesy of James “Golden Boy” Potter. Their creation transformed Piltover into a global shipping lane, which granted them continuous prosperity and power that only grew in the past two years they’ve been in use. Of course, the Undercity saw little to no of its benefits. Even with the growing supply of chemtech, if the two cities were to go to war at this moment, Zaun would perish. 

His palms threatened to draw blood from how hard he dug his nails into them. James Potter. Piltover’s darling. With no direct support from Zaun. How long would he be away? He refused to look at Sirius, whose gaze weighed heavily upon him. 

Fucking control yourself, Regulus.

“You will depart in a week with details to follow.” Riddle rolled his next and turned. Sirius stood to follow suit. “Dismissed.”

Chapter Text

Lily

“Sheriff. Officer.” The enforcer pushed back the barricade to allow Lily and Sheriff Moody into the crime scene. Lily took in the airship before her, charred and broken. 

The attack late last night was heard throughout the eastern border of Midtown. Enforcers fled to the scene to find an airship engulfed in flames, making an emergency landing. A third of the crew was hospitalized with broken bones or severe burns, and two died upon impact from the crash landing. Those healthy enough accounted for four cloaked figures escaping on hoverplates that emitted the signature green of the Firelights in their trail. 

A hole in the stern of the ship invited her inside for a closer look. The crew was lucky the explosion nearly missed the propeller, or none of them would have stood a chance. Wood groaned in protest of her heavy boots. The smell of smoke still clung to the burnt walls and splinters that sprinkled from the ceiling. 

“Evans.” Moody’s gravely voice pulled her deeper into the hold. “Come take a look.”

Her sheriff squatted over a handgun bearing gear markings familiar to weapons found at other crime scenes, usually small skirmishes on the outskirts of the Undercity.

“Thoughts?” He scuffed.

“A handgun but no bullet holes.” She brushed soot from the weapon. “A pair of goggles also deserted as if they left in a rush, but the crew had no idea the intruders were below deck until after the explosion — And by that time they were practically gone.”

“Getting sloppy, you reckon?”

Her gaze traveled along the rest of the hold. Crates were spread across, some broken off by the attack or partly lost to the sky from the explosion, others seemingly untouched. An inventory report stated that about sixteen crates were completely unaccounted for — all that carried steel, three wood, and one glass.

“It’s contradicting. Sloppy, yes. But also precise in what they were after. If their goal was solely to give the crew a bad night, they could have easily hijacked the airship. But instead, the missing crates seem calculated in a way.”

His prosthetic eye whirred as he contemplated her words. “What are you insinuating?” 

“I… I’m not completely sure yet.” 

He grunted in response and left her alone in the cargo hold to find the enforcers guarding the scene. Lily spoke the truth; she, in fact, didn’t know what to think. There was enough debris found in the river to suggest all the missing cargo was destroyed, but the attack’s motive lacked substance. Even if she believed the specific crates missing were deliberate, there would still be the problem of explaining exactly how the materials safely left the ship.

A voice constantly told her that it was all too easy. Every scene of an unexplainable event more often than not trailed back to the Firelights, most of the time by physical evidence left behind. It’s like they were so desperate to get caught, yet any lead to find them in the Undercity left them cold. She didn’t buy it. Yet, any request for resources to investigate the matter further was rejected as soon as it reached the council. Lily blamed it on her lower status in the enforcement, but it would be years before they considered promoting her. Still, didn’t the council care about keeping order in the Undercity? 

There was something bigger at play that laughed whenever she wrote off another report condemning the Firelights, and if unveiling it would finally put an end to the voice in her head, then that’s what she would do. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

James

James’ legs dangled over the edge of Piltover Academy’s Engineering building as he watched the sun rise over Piltover. It was his favorite time of year — classes would not be in session for another two weeks, which allowed him to relish in the quiet, cool morning.  The wide river separating Piltover from the Undercity was painted orange by the morning light, and the metallic gold trim of each building gleamed — the city looked like a mound of treasure. He admired its beauty.

Electric blue beams that pulsed from the Hexgates in the distance suggested that the morning transports started, a cue he took to start his workday. Even though he was coming up on his second year as an alumnus from the Academy, the board was gracious enough to provide an upgraded lab for him to work in. He would be required to attend a few of the school’s events throughout the year, but it was a small price to pay. 

Silence greeted him upon entry to the lab. James decided it would be a brainstorming day, which meant quality time with his notebook and his thoughts. Peter, his best friend (and hired assistant), would inevitably come, which meant free rein to work through his ideas in the form of talking his ear off.

“I’ve just interrupted your thinking, haven’t I?” A warm, powerful voice sounded from the entrance. A voice that made James smile.

“It’s all right, Mum, I only just got here myself.” 

Her heels clicked on the stone floors. Effie placed a kiss on top of his head and sat beside him on the long bench.  “It looks quite beautiful, doesn’t it?” He followed her eye line out the window, where the sun had just begun kissing the rest of Piltover’s streets. James nodded in response.

She nudged his arm, “My favourite part of the city is walking around and being reminded of you whenever I see the Hexgates between the buildings.”

He snorted, “Well, my favourite part of the city is the bathhouses.” 

Effie scoffed, “Really? You don’t smell like it.”

James left his mouth agape in mock offense, which warranted a hefty laugh from the woman. The silver streaks in her dark hair looked especially bright against her brown skin. His mother was a beautiful woman, but stress from her position formed lines around her eyes. 

“How’s work?” He asked. “Everything running smoothly?”

She breathed a sigh but kept a small smile on her face, “A few members on the council have been a bit difficult of late, but that’s politics for you, eh?”

“Right,” James chuckled. 

“How about you, dear? Is Peter giving you any trouble?”

“No, no, everything’s great, mum. Thanks.”

Effie hummed contentedly. Outside, Piltover stirred with the sounds of footsteps, wheels, and voices.

“Well, dear, I’ve got to run now. The council meeting won’t start without me.” Her long dress rustled as she stood.

“On your way then, Councilwoman Potter.” James saluted his mother, who smiled in amusement. He watched her leave the room, feeling lighter.

Chapter Text

Sirius

As children, Sirius and Regulus would sneak into The Last Drop and steal from a bowl of sweets that sat atop the pub’s bar table. It’s not that their mother never kept them fed, quite the opposite, actually. Sirius just wanted the thrill of doing something he wasn’t supposed to — and wherever Sirius went, Reggie followed. At the time, the brothers thought themselves masters of the craft, having never gotten caught. It turns out Rosmerta, the barmaid, would purposely look the other way while the underage boys grabbed a handful from the dish she made sure was always filled. Now, ten years later, Sirius and Regulus sat at the bar with confidence, no longer glancing at the sweet dish still full for the taking. Two large pints of beer plopped in front of them.

“On the house,” Rosmerta winked. The woman hadn’t changed over the years. Thinner now with a few grey streaks in her frizzy, orange curls, but her smile and eyes still radiated youth. 

“Thanks, Rosie.” Sirius grinned. 

Next to him, Regulus knocked back a large sip. A scowl contorted his face, which, if no one was speaking to him, usually meant he was thinking.  

“Thinking about your assignment?” Sirius knew his brother well enough not to ask if he was nervous. Fear was to be shaped into ambition, per the Black family values. Very dramatic in Sirius’s opinion. But Reg was calculated, the smartest person he knew. Sometimes he benefited from an outlet for his thoughts, even if Regulus himself didn’t know it.

Regulus sucked on a tooth, “Makes sense he’d choose me, if I think about it hard enough. Though I dunno how my… lab will cope.”

His vagueness was a precaution for being out in public, but Sirius knew what he meant. Regulus changed Chemtech and even the shimmer operation entirely. His advancements generated more power for Riddle than anyone would have anticipated. It was impressive, truly.

“I bet your assistant boy will shit himself once he gets the news.” 

Regulus tilted his head back and groaned, “Don’t remind me.”

Sirius chuckled. Sounds of glass and chatter rose as Zaunites piled in for the evening rush. A moment passed before Regulus spoke again, this time in a lower voice. “Do you think he’ll succeed? In his plan?”

“Yes.” There was no further thought about it, really. Riddle had the other Death Eaters unintentionally gathering supplies for such a plan for almost an entire decade. One thing he learned being at Riddle’s side for the past eight years is that no one truly knew the length of his ambition or intelligence — Sirius was probably the closest. Plus, the element of surprise would come in handy. 

The Undercity would be better for it, anyway. As a child, even his mother’s high status couldn’t shield them from all the atrocities Piltover brought to them. If he bothered to, he could force himself to remember the smell of the ashes that lingered in the air for days after Piltover enforcers would march through the streets, leaving nothing but destruction and carnage. The damage always cut deep — Entire buildings and countless businesses were destroyed by intentional fires, and children screamed in the wake of their freshly killed parents. Regulus cried in his arms the day their own father was found crushed beneath the rubble.

Riddle was brutal, yes. But there was a level of respect among the fear that his name invoked. No one could deny that, since his rise to power nine years ago, the number of times enforcers plagued their city had become almost nonexistent. Although never explicitly told, he learned through pieces and fragments of overheard conversation that Riddle had struck a deal with Councilman Dumbledore that kept enforcers out of Zaun. In return, his new addictive drug at the time, shimmer, wouldn’t see the streets of the Upper City. Even with the change, Sirius still loathed Piltover with all his heart. He didn’t care about the politics. All he cared about was that Piltover had taught him to hate. It was a feeling that fueled him for years — to fight better, to be smarter, to have the power so he and his brother would never live in such conditions ever again.

“What do you think it’ll be like when he succeeds?” Regulus met his gaze. His eyes adopted a rare look that aged him back a decade. Sirius took out a cigarette, earning a pointed look from the barmaid. 

“It’ll be fucking glorious.”

His brother scoffed and took another swig of the pint. They sat in comfortable silence for the next few minutes, stealing amused glances whenever a drunkard made a fool of themselves or a particularly handsome escort walked by with lingering eyes. The Last Drop was one of the few places left that resembled the Undercity before Riddle. It stood in the Alcove district and was lucky enough to have never suffered severe damage from the enforcers. While the building remained the same, the people were different, now usually coming in with glossy eyes and breaths tainted with shimmer’s acidity. 

Barty eventually burst through the pub doors, loud and obnoxious as ever. 

“Alright lads?” He practically yelled for all of Zaun to hear. Liquor swished in the bottle he clutched. The other customers knew not to pay them mind; messing with Death Eaters suggested messing with Riddle himself. Sirius nodded a greeting as Barty clapped a large hand on Regulus’s back, forcing a bit of drink out of his lips. 

“Bastard,” Reg snarled, stifling a grin. 

“Take my seat, Crouch,” Sirius pushed out his stool, “I need to head out for patrol anyway.”

Barty bowed dramatically, a wicked smile on his face, “Bless you, Cap’n Black.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and left a tip for Rosmerta. He made sure to give Regulus a hard clap on the back on his way out, echoing the Crouch boy. The act warranted a series of curses in response, but he left amused anyway.

Regulus would never openly talk about where his loyalty lay — being a Death Eater already came with the answer. But his brother had doubts, Sirius could see. Not the kind that would spark betrayal, but the kind that couldn’t see the importance of taking Piltover. But Sirius knew its value, and that’s all that mattered. Because wherever Sirius went, Reggie followed. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The obliviousness of enforcer spies never ceased to make Sirius laugh. Selwyn’s eyes and ears reported a strange conversation near the south side of Zaun yesterday, a bloke asking the type of questions only an agent would need to know — or would bother asking. 

Zaun was large, but Sirius liked to think that if he were to coincidentally cross paths with an undercover enforcer, he would know instantly. Their clothes may look and smell of the Undercity, but they couldn’t conceal their mannerisms. They weren’t unsure of themselves, but rather too sure of themselves — A tense in their shoulders while walking past the locals, or a lingering grimace at the addicts crawling in the alleys. Catching them was one of Sirius’s favorite assignments. 

He’d been following the man for a few minutes now, waiting for an opening to strike. The agent wore a faded, purple sweater and black pants that fell short above his skinny ankles — he weaved through the bustling streets quickly and undistracted. A subtle bulge in his torso hinted at a concealed weapon, probably a handgun. It was a good habit to never underestimate an opponent, but idiots like this made it so easy. The spy ducked into an alleyway. Perfect.

Rounding the corner in pursuit, an arm struck out level with his nose – too slow. Sirius blocked and ducked ow, driving his fist into the spy’s ribs. The man grunted, fumbling a pistol into view, but the weapon didn’t even register in Sirius’ mind as a threat.

The stranger gasped as he took an elbow to the throat. In the same movement, Sirius grabbed his arm and forcefully kicked the gun out of his grip, a crack sound resulting from it. The spy dropped to his knees, one hand still gripping his throat and the other now twisted at a disturbing angle. A strangled cry came from his lips that made Sirius’s insides buzz with anticipation. He ripped off the enforcer’s purple hood and pinned him to the ground with a knee to his chest. Sirius pulled his mask down and smiled. It usually made them squirm, which he liked. 

“How many more of you are there?”

The man had wild, brown eyes and spotty skin. His thin mustache barely touched his small upper lip. Honestly, for being so pretentious, topsiders were sometimes just as disgusting and unkempt as the homeless of Zaun. The spy’s spit landed hot on his cheek.

Motherfucker.

Sirius’ knuckles met cartilage with a wet crack, snapping the man’s head back onto stone. Blood ran down in uneven streams, dark against his skin. Sirius’ chest heaved — Pure, hot rage coiled inside him, but the sight of crimson dripping over the spy’s upper lip loosened something tight in his ribs.

“Do that again and I’ll fucking kill you.” The enforcer was still blinking away tears from the blow to his face. “How many more of you are there?”

“F-Fuck you.” His voice was weak and shaky. Apparently, Piltover sent just anyone these days. Sirius rolled his eyes and knocked him out using the butt of his gun. It only took a few minutes to restrain and strap the limp body to Sirius’ driftplate. 

Riddle’s personal headquarters were underground, only accessible to the highest-ranking Death Eaters. Despite its location, the ceilings were high, supported by large wooden beams that were decorated with fine tapestries. Riddle made no effort to look up from his wooden desk as Sirius dropped the body on the lush, red carpet and took a seat in a chair across. A few breaths passed before an apathetic sigh finally acknowledged his presence.

 “How many is that this week?”

“Three.” Sirius frowned. “Their appearances are increasing. Do you think they suspect anything about your operations?”

Riddle carefully set his pen down and finally analyzed the body dirtying his carpet. 

“No. But it could mean the Council is working on something themselves and wants to make sure we don’t suspect anything.”

“Wouldn’t Malfoy tell you?”

Lucius Malfoy, Riddle’s new connection on Piltover’s council, was one of the more corrupt council members. It wasn’t too difficult to sway his allegiance with promises of more wealth and power, but mere words of loyalty meant little from his type of character. 

Riddle clicked his snake-like tongue, “Our friend’s fidelity is fresh. While he’s been useful up to this point, blind trust is not something I willingly give to anyone. His movements still need to be monitored.”

Another reason Reg is being sent away.

Sirius’ jaw tightened. It had been Walburga who offered up Regulus when Riddle privately revealed his plan days prior to the formal announcement. Naturally, Sirius’s initial reaction was to object, which was only met with condemnation. Their logic was cruel but sharp — Regulus was his weakness. His greatest liability. The heir of Black could not serve fully while tethered to his brother’s fate. It would be better if he were away, Sirius had convinced himself, if anything, to reduce any speculations of Regulus’ loyalty as the plan unfolded. 

The thought of him alone and out of reach in Piltover gnawed. Eventually, he grew tired and stood from his seat. “Should I kill him?” he asked, nodding to the carpet.

Riddle waved a hand, focused back on his papers, “Send him to Vaska. She’ll want more subjects.”

Sirius nodded in confirmation and grabbed the body, heading towards the exit.

Chapter Text

Regulus

“So you’ll be gone for a few weeks… to a few months?!” 

Barty’s outrage came punctuated by each punch. The metal of the punching game machine groaned as his fists connected with the padded areas that jutted out of it. Regulus despised the machine; it was far too noisy and loud for his liking. Plus, the flashing red and yellow lights emitting from it gave him a headache. He’d planned to tell Barty about Riddle’s assignment at the bar, but decided it would be easier to just tell all of his friends at once. 

Since none of them were Death Eaters, specifics were off-limits — no mentioning that it was a crucial part in Riddle’s desire to start a full-scale war. All his friends knew was that Regulus would be leaving in three days for an undefined stretch to monitor Piltover’s technological advancements.

“It could be years, technically,” Pandora said matter-of-factly. She lay sprawled along a table, white curls fanning into a halo. Regulus arched an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s true,” she rolled to face him. “It’s not like Piltover will just stop making advancements. As time moves, they’ll keep moving. Reg will just have to keep sending updates.”

Regulus stared past her at the wall, jaw tight. Obviously, Dora was right. Riddle had given no return date. He could be stuck in Piltover by himself until the war actually started — when the first shot was fired. His teeth ground in frustration. Would the Death Eaters even care if he was still there when the attack came? Sirius would. But there was only so much his brother could do, Regulus knew. It would be enough.

Evan’s dagger sank into the moving wooden target with a thud. Even from thirty paces away, each knife released from his grip always found its target dead center. Behind Regulus, the machine erupted again, suggesting that Barty started a new round with extra aggression from the sound of it. The dramatics warranted an eye roll. 

The “Arcade” is what they called the place. It was an abandoned, smoky bar, crammed with skill games. The four of them, and occasionally Sirius, would hide in it as children when enforcers prowled the streets. It was off the map, so they were safe from any kind of interaction. Sirius used to hold every high score on the punching machine, but since he stopped coming, Barty took the opportunity to finally dethrone him. Crouch cracked the meter long ago, now he just uses it to blow off steam.

“You’re scowling.” Pandora now sat upright. Regulus scowled harder. 

“C’mon,” she motioned for him to stand, “Shooting competition. Evan, clear the targets.” 

Her twin gave them an annoyed look and trudged over to retrieve his knives. Regulus reluctantly walked over to the waist-high wooden barrier separating them from the targets. Pandora handed him a rusty, paint-chipped gun identical to the one in her opposite hand. 

Regulus sighed, “Do these even work?” 

“Guess we’ll find out,” his friend grinned, the small gap in her teeth prominent. After Evan slung himself back over the barrier, Dora counted down from three.

“Go!”

To Regulus’ surprise, the guns still worked. Neon pink paint pellets left his barrel like shooting stars, splattering on the moving wooden targets. The game was simple: cover more surface before the ammo clicked dry. It used to be his and Evan’s game, but after taking up throwing knives, Dora took over. They were well matched in the past, but Regulus rarely shot anymore these days.

To his annoyance but not his surprise, Pandora’s bright blue pellets found the center of each target in a matter of seconds, and she was now on a mission to use her remaining paint to cover all of Regulus’ hits.

He cursed as his last few pellets merely grazed the outer edge of one of the targets. The empty clicks of Pandora’s gun signaled she was finally out of ammunition as well. Powder blue covered most of the smaller targets; the bigger ones were a mess of neon purple from the mixture of the two colors. Still, it was obvious who won. 

Evan scoffed behind him. Regulus shot him a glare. Dora chuckled and put her gun down, “Looks like you need to get out of the lab more, Black.” 

Barty gave a low whistle as he finally stalked over from the punching machine.

“I’ll kill you all.” Regulus snarled, throwing his gun down.

“Not with that aim, you won’t.” Barty snorted. Evan and Pandora barked identical laughs. A grin threatened the corners of Regulus’ lips. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Muted footsteps and chatter threaded through the long halls of the Foundry. It was significantly quieter on the highest floor of the building, far from the machinery on the lower floors that was in a constant hum. The smell of grease sometimes burned Regulus’ nostrils while working in his lab on the third floor, but the only scent attacking him at the moment was a musky smell laced with cigarette smoke. He inhaled it deeply and pushed open the large, wooden doors to Riddle’s office. 

It was difficult to determine whether Riddle was in the building frequently during the day. Regulus couldn’t remember the last time their paths crossed. The office was rather simple, draped in dark green rugs and paintings. Tall windows cast a blanket of light in the room that contrasted Riddle’s pale and unearthly presence. Regulus half expected him to disintegrate in the sun. 

“My Lord.” 

Riddle didn’t turn from where he stood by the window, looking over Zaun, “Have you finished preparing the lab for your absence?” 

“Yes. Severus was reminded of your timeline. He’s been told to route any needs from Vaska through Sirius, so as not to interrupt her…work.” 

Regulus had only met Vaska a handful of times throughout the past few years; the memory of each interaction had him curl his upper lip in disgust. She was like a bat that stayed in her cave, looming over her creations. The single glimpse Regulus caught of her former laboratory — the room that now belonged to him — made his gut coil. Various tanks were filled with bright green or purple substances, each carrying a lifeless, floating animal. Each was distorted in some way, with an extra leg or bones that protruded from the flesh in a line down the spine. 

The only helpful thing Vaska accomplished for the cause was the creation of shimmer; other than that, she was merely a ghost whose name was occasionally thrown around in meetings. Regulus had no clue of her new laboratory’s location, which gave him zero insight as to what the hell Riddle’s been putting the woman up to. He would try prodding her lanky boy of an assistant who would deliver supplies, but Regulus was sure the boy was mute. Or maybe deaf.

Riddle’s slimy voice slipped between his thoughts, “And are you prepared for your assignment?” 

“Yes, my Lord. I’ve looked over the details that you sent.” 

Riddle let out a hum that sounded more like a snarl, finally turning from the window. It was unnerving how tall he was. Regulus was forced to look up as he stalked closer. 

"I’ll admit, Regulus. You’ve grown into yourself from when I met you as a young boy. Who could have predicted the timid child who clutched at his brother’s trousers would have become such a valuable asset? Even so, you’ve always struck me as someone who respects order," he said, voice low. “Control. Precision.”

He took a measured step forward, then another. “A good trait. But dangerous… if misdirected.”

Regulus remained still.

Riddle stopped a pace away, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted just slightly — like a serpent poised to strike but not yet hungry.

“I trust the mission is clear to you. I crafted it with you in mind, after all. Not Sirius.” His upper lip curled as he finished his sentence, “You.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“That is not a courtesy. That’s a burden.” Riddle’s eyes narrowed, their yellow irises absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. “You carry the weight of my interest now. Of my plans. That means you don’t get to fail.” Silence curled in the space between them. 

“You see, loyalty isn’t something I define by outcomes,” Riddle went on. “It’s defined by choices. One misplaced word. One flicker of hesitation. One seed of disobedience.”He took another step, his breath hot on the bridge of Regulus’ nose. “Yes, you have proven yourself to be a valuable asset,” Riddle said. “But know that your skills have only been made possible with my resources. Resources I could give to any young man who crossed my path. Like, say, that servant boy I gifted you.”

His head dipped next to Regulus’ ear, voice dropping to a low whisper.

“Everyone here is replaceable.”

Regulus’s jaw tensed. The threat was clear. He would be in Piltover practically unsupervised for however long. A toe out of line or an unsatisfactory job done would mean consequences. Not only in Regulus’ position, but in Sirius’. In Barty’s. Pandora. Evan. Even his mother’s, if Riddle thought he cared that much. 

“You leave in three days. Perform well. Or don’t. I always find ways to extract value.”

Regulus inclined his head once and turned for the door — any doubts he had about his survival in Piltover were extinguished. Now, there was no choice but to help start and finish this war.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

One of the perks of Sirius’s job was that it kept him busy. He didn’t need time to himself. Plus, it always gave an excuse to be absent from the occasional dinners his mother would host. Calling them family dinners seemed too casual, so Sirius thought of them more as a less intense Death Eater meeting. Even when their father was alive, there was never any talk of personal matters, only of their duties and how well they were being fulfilled; Sirius needed to focus more on his studies. Regulus was to spend less time with the Crouch boy. Both of them were to begin acting more in tune with their status. 

Sirius could’ve chosen to skip this dinner as he had so many times before, but it was Regulus’s last night before leaving for Piltover — who, of course, never missed the stupid dinners. The least he could do was share the burden of their mother for one night. As a compromise, he let himself be late.

The front door opened to the familiar face of their house servant, Kreacher. The knee-high servant’s wrinkled pink skin sagged around his long ears and nose. His kind had no proper name; Zaun held too many peculiars to bother naming them all.

“Welcome, Master Black.”

Pushing past Kreacher, Sirius breathed in the familiar scent of Black Manor and walked down the long, dark hallway to the dining room. By the state of the table, it seemed he had just missed appetizers. Pity. He was hoping they’d be preparing dessert already. 

Regulus’ eyebrows shifted in faint shock before settling back into stone. Walpurga’s high cheekbones gleamed pale in the chandelier’s light. She was once beautiful, but the past fourteen years without her husband carved an intensity in her features that scared him as a child. Her brown eyes were barely visible, the way she had them narrowed at him,

“What a surprise.” No hint of amusement or even anger in her tone. Merely a fact.

Sirius took a seat across from his brother and nodded in return. “Mother.” 

“We are honored that you found time within your schedule to visit your family.”

Ah, there it was. Regulus rolled his eyes, lucky that their mother was too focused on Sirius to notice. Sirius forked a chunk of meat from the plate in front of him. He made sure to talk while chewing to piss her off more. “The pleasure is mine.” 

The Black family had never been simple. Sirius couldn’t say for sure if his mother loved their father, but there was no denying that his death changed her. When word spread that the former mogul of Alcove District, Orion Black, was killed, other families circled like vultures, hungry to claim his power. Those weeks of uncertainty made death feel more real to Sirius than ever before. It was also the only time he could remember his mother truly afraid. She’d taken to stowing Sirius and Regulus away with Kreacher, promising to return only when she succeeded in establishing her rightful authority as the new head of the district. Her absence stretched long enough for Sirius to assume that she may have died — he even considered running with Regulus to Piltover until a pristine car with white-gold trim approached, the driver asking for the Black heirs. 

Riddle came into their lives a few years later, a calculated and power-hungry crime lord who had already established a decent following. Whether he promised Walburga a desirable future or she saw someone worth investing in, her cause became one with his. As Riddle’s hold on the Undercity grew stronger, Sirius realized he had become another one of the Lord’s investments, showered with lavish weapons and tutors. Only he quickly learned that gifts from Riddle were never free. 

Walburga sneered across the table. “Your arrogance astounds me. You strut in for the first time in months, relishing in your position when you too easily forget who put you there—” She stabbed a vegetable aggressively, “ — Who put that disgusting jacket on your back, and whose house protected you from those wretched enforcers.” 

He could argue that food and shelter were the bare minimum, but Regulus gave him a pointed look that Sirius knew too well. Not tonight, please. 

Swallowing his pride, he hoped his tone had a hint of sincerity, “I apologize, mother.”

She scoffed, still unsatisfied but thankfully not in an arguing mood. Dinner continued in a familiar, brittle silence, disturbed only when Kreacher cleared the empty plates. Regulus was distracted; his nail scratched quietly on the silverware clutched in his hand. Underneath the table, Sirius grazed his boot against Regulus’ to wake him, a habit they adopted as children. At the touch, Reg’s attention immediately found their mother,

“Whose idea was it, really? To choose me?”

“Whose do you think?” Her tone suggested the answer was obvious. Sirius’ fists clenched to stifle the sensation of guilt tugging at his stomach. “You’ve earned your place in the Foundry, but chemtech is no longer the priority. You will be of much better use in Piltover.”

Regulus’ nostrils flared, “Was I not doing enough? Have my contributions not gained you more power? What’s the point—”

“You forget,” Walburga snapped, “this assignment is not a punishment, Regulus. It is an honor.. Perhaps it will even remind you where your true values lie.”

 Regulus scoffed. “So what’s the plan, then, mother?” The word left sharp and weighted. 

Her answer was silence, her dismissal deliberate.

“What did he promise you?” Regulus pressed. “When he remakes Zaun?”

She shook her head, unimpressed. Muscle memory had the familiar gold-rimmed injector suddenly appear in her hand. The sight of it must have been his last straw because Regulus stood abruptly and geared for the exit. Sirius echoed the movement,

“Reg–” he started, 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you knew.” The words landed heavily. Sirius wasn’t sure what face he made because his brother quickly shook his head, “I know, I know you can’t — just leave me tonight.” The slam of the front door lingered in the dining room. 

Regulus was angry, understandably so. He was always the better son, quiet in his objections and calculated in his rebellious acts. His place in the laboratory was deserved, yet his own mother chose to send him deep into the viper’s nest, unknowing that the true reason was because of Sirius.

Behind him, Walburga’s silverware scraped softly against her dessert plate. “Yaxley has a new holster designed. I’ll have him send one to you.”

Sirius stared at the untouched tart in front of Regulus’s seat for a moment before quietly leaving. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

LILY

Lily opened her front door to a pair of sheepish smiles she knew all too well. “What’re you—”

“Afternoon, Evans!” Peter pushed the door open fully and began untying his shoes.

“I hope you don’t mind,” James said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We had lunch in the area and thought we’d stop by.” 

She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “No worries, it’s good to see you.” Stepping into her apartment, James was immediately greeted by her tabby, Violet. She quickly produced three mugs of iced tea to combat the late afternoon heat. The boys spared no time making themselves at home; Peter already sprawled across the couch while James took to unsubtly snooping around the living room for any changes since their last visit. 

It came as a shock to everyone when Lily decided to pursue the Enforcer Academy right after graduating from Piltover Academy with high honors. Realistically, her molecular biology background offered few job prospects beyond confining lab research, and she needed something more fulfilling. Work that had meaning.  James had offered her a place in his lab more than once, but by then she’d discovered she was a crack shot — and that the field suited her. Sometimes the “what-ifs” threatened to drown her, but proving to her parents that she was indeed capable of hurting a fly was its own satisfaction. 

Peter yelped when Violet hopped on his stomach, then quickly succumbed to petting the dark blue cat. “How’s work treating you?” he asked in between strokes.

Lily sighed, “Not bad, Moody’s been taking me out for more detective work.”

“But?”

“I don’t know. I’m not bored, but I feel like I could be doing more, I guess.”

James’ voice drifted from down the hall, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Lils. He keeps picking you for a reason!” Lily felt her cheeks stain crimson. 

“He’s right,” Peter added, “Plus, I don’t think I’d personally want to do any of the nitty-gritty stuff anyway.”

The “nitty-gritty” is exactly what would fix her predicament, but she wasn’t in the mood to explain. There was no need to deflect from the subject anyway, since Peter began catching her up on everything that had happened in his life since she last saw him. By the time the ice melted in her cup, she gathered that he had successfully launched two of James’ last projects, botched a speech at the citadel’s science convention, and his twelve-year-old sister, Filomena, was starting secondary school in less than a week. 

Lily stared at the graduation plaque on her fireplace mantle. “I can’t believe she’s twelve already.” 

“Me either, she was just—”

“Evans!” James reappeared in the living room for the first time since he arrived. Peter groaned. “What’s with the murder board in your room?”

Her head slung back, “Why were you in my room?” 

“Unimportant. But I like the new curtains.” He grinned.

They followed her back into the bedroom, where a large board lay on the ground, littered with photos, news clippings, and various marks in vibrant red pen. In the center lay the Firelight goggles from last week’s airship crime scene. She would be heavily reprimanded if someone noticed them missing from the evidence room, but it was a problem that would be addressed should it arise. Peter let out a low whistle at the sight. “I don’t know if you want me to get into it.” 

Although his hands hid in his pockets, James twitched with excitement — It reminded Lily of Violet whenever she opened a bag of treats. Similar to how she would react to the cat in that scenario, she also found herself succumbing to his giddiness. 

She launched into her rant — case after case tying back to the Firelights, the smuggling attempt months ago with shimmer shipments nearly lost through the Hexgates, the latest airship attack. Her friends nodded, sharing her unease.

“But then I found these reports,” She unpinned a small stack of papers from the board and handed them to the boys, who had taken a seat on the carpet in the midst of her explanation.

“Are you supposed to—” James started.

She waved him off, “And they show a record of patrols that were deployed in the Undercity. What do you notice from the reports ten years ago to all the years after?”

“The patrols have gone down significantly.” James pushed up his glasses and extended the paper back to her. Vanished would be a better word for it, she thought. Obviously, the rate of Firelight attacks rose since the number of Undercity patrols diminished, but they were more sporadic and lacked structure. There were more reports she was tempted to copy and take home, but those were harder to access from her position. 

“Whether it’s truly the Firelights or not,” Lily said, “I think there’s a single mind behind it all. Just one person who pulls all the strings in the Undercity.”

Peter pulled at the strings of her carpet. “How are you going to prove that?” 

‘Evidence’ was the obvious answer, but she knew his real question was how she was supposed to get it. “I’m working on it.” 

The facts were that her past attempts to include Moody in her conspiracy proved to be useless, and she was too low in rank to ask for the Council’s support directly. While the paperwork snagged from the enforcement proved to be valuable, it was a dead end unless she actually investigated the matter physically. At that moment, Lily realized she was left with only one option: To go into the Undercity herself and find the unknown ringleader. 

James and Peter were still making suggestions on her behalf, which she politely listened to, but didn’t measure up to the plan she had already started concocting in her head. The three found their way back to the living room with fresh drinks to sip on. Eventually, Violet began to purr in anticipation of dinner, which her friends took as a sign to head out. She bid them farewell with sincere hugs. Before James released her, he dropped his voice to a whisper,

“If you plan to do anything stupid, please let me help – or at least let me know.”

She took in his honey brown eyes and smiled, “Of course, Potter.” Her heart skipped a beat.

Chapter Text

Regulus

Regulus’s pack ended up being much lighter than expected, which proved to be beneficial in his trek up to the bridge to the Upper City. Then again, it was hard to make a packing list when the duration of his stay ranged from a few weeks to the rest of his life – should Riddle’s plan succeed. When Riddle’s plan succeeded, Regulus corrected himself. I will make sure he succeeds. 

Any thought otherwise had been crushed during his last meeting. 

Loyalty isn’t something I define by outcomes, it’s defined by choices.

Did Riddle really doubt him? After years of service, after everything he had given? Even Walburga at dinner —

Perhaps it will even remind you where your true values lie.

Regulus clenched his jaw. He had never wavered. Followed every order and delivered results no one could replicate. Was it because he didn’t grovel at Riddle’s feet like the others? Because he didn’t fawn the way Sirius did?

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered, now.  Regulus just needed to be useful on this assignment. Get in a position to follow Potter’s advancements closely, and keep Malfoy in line. The second objective was bound to be a bigger headache, because even if Regulus played his role to perfection, one slip-up or hesitation from Malfoy would still condemn him. 

It also didn’t help that he had already decided Malfoy was an idiot. A spoiled, platinum-haired councilor propped up by Pitlover’s wealthiest, whose seat on the council was preserved by generational wealth that multiplied through Hexgate trade. Having money to spend was never an issue for Regulus, but the thought of racking up a tab from his sponsor amused him. 

The ridiculous cover story involved poverty-stricken Zaunite, Regulus, who was graced with Malfoy’s generosity to finish his education at Piltover Academy. The finer details would be left for Regulus to fill in on his own creativity. Perhaps it was better that he packed lighter then. Poor children don’t have many things, anyway. 

The bridges were always crawling with enforcers, which is why it was agreed that Malfoy would send a driver to meet him halfway. Until then, Regulus stayed hidden in the safety of Zaun’s obscurity. Piltover’s higher geography made its buildings loom over them, casting a shadow made of its golden riches and prosperity. 

To fend off boredom, he allowed himself to picture the next few weeks of his life. Regulus wasn’t planning on parading his Undercity origin, but perhaps it would prove useful to discourage the other students from bothering him. Riddle ensured his studies would be focused on chemistry to provide the best chance of gaining attention from Potter — a flimsy plan, but the only one he has at the moment. What if Potter retired from affiliating with students this year? How old was he, anyway?

“You weren’t going to say goodbye?” Sirius’ voice sounded behind him.

Regulus turned halfway. “I knew you would come,” he answered.

His brother stepped closer, arms folded. Though a few inches taller, the grim look on his face made him appear smaller. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

Silence clung to the air between them for a breath before Regulus replied. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.” 

Sirius fell in line beside him, eyes fixed on the bridge’s bustle. Laughter drifted from a cluster of enforcers, which made his teeth grind audibly. 

“Do you have to do that?” Regulus muttered.

“Do what?” Sirius’ tone dropped defensively. 

Regulus sighed. It wasn’t worth the discussion, especially after his outburst the night before. “Never mind.”

His brother studied him. “Do you not remember what they did, Reg? Do you not hate them?”

“I do.” 

Of course he did. He would never forget the raids. The enforcers who pillaged his home. The inflated Topsiders that never cared enough to help them. Yet something ached in his chest seeing the lengths of Sirius’ malice, of his confidence in a world where Riddle and Zaun were its center — in watching the hatred consume him. 

And Regulus blamed Riddle for it. For taking advantage of someone at such a young age, to twist his hatred to his benefit. With Regulus gone, would Sirius finally drown in his ambition for retribution? Finally serve Riddle wholly while completely blind to anyone else, including Regulus? The truth was that Regulus was afraid. Afraid that he would lose the one constant in his life. Riddle would sacrifice Sirius without a thought, and Sirius would let him. 

Gravel crunched under the tires of a dark blue car. Its gleaming and square exterior reflected the city it came from, and the tacky taste of its owner. The driver cracked the window. “Regulus Black.” 

Sirius gripped his shoulder and tried a grin, “Give that pompous prick a hard time. If you need me, just blow something up.”

Regulus nodded, committing his brother’s face to memory. Sirius must have felt it, because he pressed their foreheads together.

“Be smart. Be safe, Reg.”

“You, too. Please.”

Sirius laughed quietly, then let him go. 

Regulus sank into the back seat and flared his nostrils at the strong scent that greeted him. The driver huffed and immediately shifted the gear to leave. He didn’t bother to look back, Sirius would already be gone. Instead, he watched Zaun recede in the mirror until it disappeared. 

If Sirius couldn’t give up his view of the world, then perhaps their mother was right. If Regulus wanted any chance of returning, he couldn’t afford to be distracted. If that meant convincing himself to believe in Riddle’s empire, then so be it. 

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James

James’ heart was crushed beneath his stomach. And his feet were aching. The view from the top of the Hexgate tower was gorgeous, but it also towered higher than any other building in Piltover. While the height of Piltover Academy’s engineering building was generous, it never warranted such a physiological reaction. He was grateful that Peter had always accompanied him in the past to supervise the Hexgate during its construction, but their visit today was for a different reason. 

His brain had been in a constant churn for the past week since coming up with the idea — to harness the power of the Hexgate in a form that could be used safely. It took James years to stabilize the power of the Hex Crystals that now power the Hexgates. But, since the towers required such a large sum of energy to transport shipments, dulling the Hex Crystal’s power to be used by a single person would prove to be harder. With Peter’s help — well, emotional support — James combed through his past notes on the crystals but always came up lacking inspiration. So now the pair walked through his invention at Peter’s suggestion to “boost his memory”.

Workers walked past and gave them polite nods. Whether they recognized James as the man behind their work, he didn’t care. Just seeing them filled him with pride — how his creation gave them opportunities for work, how Piltover now bathed in good fortune. Peter found a bench at the far side of the open terrace and handed him half of the sandwich he’d brought. 

“Let the food stimulate that machine of yours.” Peter tapped the side of James’ temple; he couldn’t help but laugh in response.

They watched as shipments disappeared in electric blue pulses, beamed to various corners of the continent. It was like watching a heartbeat. James wasn’t feeling any new inspiration toward his current dilemma, so instead, he let his mind skip the step of making the Hexgems and wander towards what he could create after. The best idea he conceived was a new method for creating hovering items — controlled, rhythmic pulses inspired by the Hexgate. Hoverboards were too simple; James wanted something more practical and helpful. Maybe a hovering table, one that moved easily at a level height for trade workers. Yes, that would be a good idea. 

Eventually, Peter grew restless, and the pair decided to head for the spa house. James didn’t lie to his mother when he said that the bathhouses were his favorite part of Piltover. Well, maybe not his favorite, but definitely one of them. The workers gave a familiar greeting and immediately led them to James’ favorite bath suite. Peter groaned as he sank into the warm water of the bath adjacent, immediately stretching back on the stone edge.  

“You know, this is the first time I’ve seen you sit still in weeks.” 

Eyes closed, James smiled, “I’m sitting still and thinking. Two achievements at once.” 

“You’re not supposed to think here. That defeats the whole point of the bathhouse.”

James cracked an eye open. “What do you expect me to do then? Stare at the ceiling until my brain rots?”

“Yes. Preferably. Though I was hoping you’d realize not everything in Piltover needs your genius tinkering.”

“Blasphemy. Even this place could be improved with better steam valves.”

Peter groaned and flicked a handful of water across the narrow tiles separating their baths. “New challenge — Go ten minutes without needing to think of something to invent. Makes us average people look worse.”

“Not my fault, everything around me begs for improvement.” James laughed, brushing water from his face.

“Mhm. And yet, somehow your table manners have yet to improve.” 

Now it was James’ turn to chuck water at his friend. “Oh, piss off.”

Peter shook his head, a small smile forming at his lips. “Honestly, I don’t know how you haven’t collapsed by now. You never stop. Especially since graduating.”

James returned his gaze to the tiled roof. “If I stop, I’ll think too much.” He said quietly.

“You know, the world doesn’t fall apart if you breathe once in a while. Not everything has to be saved today.”

Their eyes met, and he found himself echoing Peter’s soft smile — faintly, but real nonetheless. “Good thing you’re here, then. To make sure I don’t drown myself in my own brilliance.”

“Exactly,” his friend snorted, “I’m your lifeguard. Except with less pay and more headaches.

James grinned, “And worse hair.”

“Bastard.” 

Both laughed, the sound echoing gently off the tiled walls. The moment lingered, a steady and lighthearted feeling.