Arcturus Black was not a happy wizard, far from it. All through the long night, he found himself trailing his heir through the seedier corners of London. The entire venture had left him questioning his choice of pointing Corvus as his heir. The indignity began the moment they slipped out of Grimmauld Place. Instead of apparating, instead of striding with dignity cloaked in wards, they had downed Invisibility Potions and… walked. Lord Black, patriarch of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, was walking down filthy London streets, invisible to wizard and muggle alike, following the faint shimmer of the weak tracking charm he had placed on Corvus. Every few steps, he muttered curses under his breath, thanking Morgana that the old portraits of his ancestors could not see him.
Corvus, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease. He moved through the shadows as if he had been born to them, slipping in and out of pubs and bars, Legilimency going through minds of suspicious men and women while Arcturus followed at a distance. At one point, Arcturus nearly shouted in schock when he saw and 'invisible man', his heir, his heir with impeccable wizarding etiquette punch a staggering muggle square in the face. The poor wretch, already weaving under the influence of cheap alcohol, collapsed on the pavement with a broken nose and a second punch left him with blooming black eye. Corvus, utterly calm, dragged the man into a side alley and rifled through his pockets, pocketing the wallet. To anyone who might stumble across the scene later, it would look like a simple mugging. To Arcturus, it was a shocking reminder that Corvus could wear civility like a mask, and remove it whenever ruthlessness was required.
Arcturus glared, unseen, until Corvus' voice reached him in a low whisper. "Grandfather, if you will. We have places to be." His words were directed toward a strange, clunky contraption standing on the side of the street. Arcturus climbed in after Corvus opened the side door for him. The Elder Black sat with great reluctance, muttering under his breath about indignities. Later, Corvus would explain that the contraption was called a car. Arcturus was unimpressed. The machine rattled, roared, and reeked of smoke. Its leather seats smely, uncomfortable and every turn of its wheels made the old patriarch long for the dignified convenience of apparition. "Noisy, impractical, and utterly absurd," he thought. Even the clumsiest wizard could apparate with more grace. And this nonsense about 'parking'? Pure idiocy. "Muggles truly waste their lives in the strangest ways," he murmured, drawing a quiet chuckle from Corvus.
Still, Corvus operated the 'car' with surprising competence, eyes fixed on the road ahead, hands steady on the wheel. "I found a dealer," he explained coolly as they moved through the dark streets. "He works for a local boss. We're going to visit the man himself and see who he answers to." His tone carried the ease of someone who had done this before, who understood that power often came not from spellwork alone but from pressing the right pressure points in a chain of command.
And so the night continued. Pub after pub, bar after bar, shadows and whispers and threats traded in alleys. Corvus used Legilimency to it's fullest. Arcturus said little, conserving his strength, his face set like stone as he observed his heir at work. There was efficiency here, cold and clinical, the same qualities he had once seen on seasoned Aurors long past. The boy was ruthless but patient, stripping away fog one layer at a time. When the sky began to pale with dawn, they had returned to Grimmauld Place, the stolen car abandoned at the riverbed of the Thames, where no one was likely to find it soon.
Back in the comfort of the study, both men restored to their robes, Corvus laid out the results of their first hunt. "We've traced the trail to a man named Mickey Green," he said evenly. "Tonight, we'll reach him directly. He runs a very large portion of Britains illegal operations of the drug trade. Every dealer we pressed tonight led back to his name."
The name stirred a flicker of recognition. Corvus remembered it from his past life. Mickey Green, the untouchable crime lord. Not even Interpol had managed to bring him down. In that life, he had died in Spain in 2020, decades from now, Cancer was his reason to kick the bucket. Yet he lived content in a villa paid for with poison. But here and now, Corvus had no intention of waiting. He would find Mickey Green, strip him of his power, and claim his empire piece by piece. Starting with London. Arcturus listened, silent, his expression unreadable, but there was a glimmer in his silver eyes that spoke of approval and perhaps, just perhaps, the faint thrill of pride at the cunning of his heir, regardless of the unpleasent process he endured through the night.
--
By the following night, Corvus and Arcturus had traced their way steadily through Mickey Green's lieutenants. One by one, the men had been exposed to the miracle called mind arts and each and every one of them bloomed like a flower. The wallets of mid to high tier ones neatly lifted by Corvus and tucked away for later use. Each small victory was another breadcrumb leading toward the crime lord himself. Corvus' plan was methodical. Those wallets would later find their way into Mickey's bedroom, planted evidence that would frame his own men should the authorities ever come sniffing around the unsavory would deal with it internally.
Still under the cover of Invisibility Potions, the two Blacks finally reached Mickey Green's estate, a gaudy house on the outskirts of London with cameras bristling at every angle. Corvus moved first, carefully disabling them. Inside, they glided unseen through hallways thick with cigarette smoke and stale alcohol, avoiding guards and household staff with ease. When at last Mickey stumbled into his bedroom near dawn, tipsy and muttering, the two intruders were waiting. They watched as the man collapsed onto his bed, shoes still on, his snores rattling the room. Corvus scanned every corner carefully, destroyed the few recording devices hidden among the clutter. Only when he was sure no eyes or ears remained did he move.
Looming over the sleeping crime lord. He woke him with a heavy punch to the jaw, enough to snap him out of his stupor without breaking anything permanent. Mickey bolted upright, blood at the corner of his mouth. Before he could say a word, Corvus placed a neatly folded handkerchief in his hand. "For the mess," he whispered.
Blinking in confusion, Mickey snatched the cloth, eyes narrowing with fury as he recognized he was punched. His rage boiled over, and he spat out, "The fuck.."
That was all it took. The words lit the portkey that Corvus had planted earlier, bound to activate on that exact phrase. A flash of light engulfed the room, and Mickey Green was gone. Spirited away to a lovely cage at Grimmauld Place.
Corvus wasted no time. He whispered a string of dark, subtle spells, erasing any lingering traces of their magical presence. With precise care, he scattered some of the stolen wallets of Mickey's lieutenants in the room, dispersed the room a little to make it appear as there had been a violent struggle. He overturned a chair, knocked over bottles, and scuffed the carpet. It would look to any investigator as though Green had been dragged off by his own men.
Finally, both Blacks downed fresh vials of Invisibility Potion. Silent as shadows, they slipped from the house and back into the night, leaving no trace of their presence save for the false trail Corvus had woven so carefully. By the time they reached Grimmauld Place again, the plan was already unfolding in Corvus' mind. Mickey Green's empire would not collapse, it would simply change hands starting with Mr. Green's mental faculties.
--
They returned to Grimmauld Place by mundane means, careful to leave no magical residue, no portkey traces, no telltale of anything other then a regular, very muggle kidnapping. They moved towards the small room next to the ritual chamber where the cages waited. A single torch burning, painting the stone in tired yellow.
Mickey Green sat in one of those cages now. The drunk swagger had gone from his body. his eyes were flat, small and dangerous. When he saw them, he managed a tired, crooked grin. "So this is it, innit? You lot got me proper," he rasped. "Thought you'd make it quick, yeah? Don't drag it out."
Arcturus conjured an armchair in the corner without a word and slid into it as if he'd been expecting the entire performance. He called for Kreacher, and the elf popped in with that nasty little crack, clutching a tray and a steaming pot of tea. Corvus, for his part, opened the cage with a deft flick and gestured, a simple, silent invitation to the table he conjured between them. Mickey was pretty sure he did not drink enough nor sniffed anything to have such hallucinations. With this in mind he was sure there was something strange going on. Better be careful he thought. He approached with the timid steps of a man who's learning not to trust the ground.
"Look, mate," Mickey said, trying for amiable, the voice thick with London vowels. "I dunno who you two are. Some kind of… charity? Look, if you got the wrong geezer, you gotta let me go, zap me back, yeah? I'll wake up and that'll be it, right? Bit weird, but it's.. it's fine, innit?"
Corvus sat, eyes like a blade. "Mr Green, or should I say `Greeney' as your associates call you. Let us be clear. You will tell us the total of your holdings. All accounts. Official and otherwise. The exact figure."
Mickey gave a dry laugh. "Three million, tops. That's what's in the books. Clean, tidy. Nothin' more."
Corvus nodded as if noting weather. He leaned forward, his wand aiming to the drug dealer bneath the desk and spoke one cold word, the faintest incantation of Crucio in the way he'd practiced, enough to snap the nerve but not to break him. Mickey's face contorted. A sound like an animal tore from his throat. For a long, hollow seconds, the room was full of it. When Corvus stopped, Mickey was gasping.
"Forty million," he croaked. "Forty… bloody hell, forty million. Two mil legal, ten in Swiss, twenty eight off the books. Properties, fronts. That's the lot. I swear it."
Corvus' expression did not move. He turned to Arcturus, voice calm. "At five pounds to a galleon, he sits on eight million galleons, Grandfather. Thirty years' work, starting from nothing."
Arcturus' hand tightened on the arm of his chair. He looked almost ready to exlplode, fury sharpening the lines of his face. "Eight million," he repeated, as if tasting the number. "My house has bled and built through centuries, and this gutter rat has amassed more in three decades than we have tucked away in quiet vaults. This will not stand. We will take it."
Mickey's bravado had left him. "You can't, mate this is my lot, my people. There's men, I got men.." He flinched as Corvus lifted his wand a fraction.
"We know about your men," Corvus said flatly. "We took some of their wallets and placed them in your room. It looks like a struggle between you and them if anyone ever comes poking about. That will buy time. For the rest, you will tell us every contact, every supplier, every port and safehouse. You will start with London and then move outward."
Mickey laughed, a brittle thing. "You lot are mental. If I squeal, I'm dead. They'll skin me alive."
"It seems," said Corvus, "we need to put some fear in you after all. For every lie, ten more seconds under the same spell you experienced some moments ago will do it, Mr Green," he added while smiling. "Start with your lieutenants. Names. Numbers. Addresses. How the shipments run. Who fronts the muggle businesses. If you're clever, you will tell us everything and you will be useful. If not.." He let the sentence hang like a knife.
Arcturus added, voice low and dangerous, "He can read you. He has the time to pry into your mind enough to know everything about you." He turned to Corvus, "Don't make forced drama." He smiled thinly.
Over the following hours, Mickey talked. His voice slurred less as he realised resistance was useless. The Cruciatus had broken more than his composure. He spoke in the rough, slang laced cadence of east London: "Right, so, Davie runs Southwark, shifts the kids to the drops.. two flats, one on Brook Street, one by the docks. Tomas in Wapping, he's storage. Cash comes in on the ferries, Channel lads bring it in, sell bits off. Product's Spain, Portugal, a bloke called Costa. Phones? All burners. Want numbers? Got a book in a flat. Elaine at the courier's, sweetheart if you know how to chat her up. She keeps the shipments tidy…"
Corvus listened, prompting only when necessary. He wrote nothing, no papers, no parchment. Everything went fast into his mind, he was filing it with context, patterning it, turning it into usable paths. He asked about laundering methods, shell companies, bribed officials, and specific times when shipments moved. Mickey named docks, storage containers, and the fronts. A florist, a towing service, a rundown import export office.
When the crime lord had exhausted himself, mumbling into the handkerchief Corvus had given him, Arcturus rose. "We need men," he said turning to Corvus. "Do what you need to make sure he stays loyal. In the mean time make him arrange some ingots. I will see if we can put squibs to better use." Arcturus was already hooked, line and sinker included.
Corvus stunned Mickey, then prepared the ritual. It was an old binding, simple compared to the Dark Mark but brutally effective. Runes glowed as he rewrote Mickey's sense of self. Corvus became his most trusted partner, the one who had saved his life from treacherous men. His empire, he now believed, would crumble without this mysterious ally. Corvus was owed twenty five percent of all profits, always in gold bars.
Before releasing the drug lord, Corvus adjusted the memories of his lieutenants as well, weaving scenes of betrayal and blood. To the underworld, it would look like Mickey had been attacked by his own ambitious men, who died in a bloody shootout. His miraculous survival was thanks to the intervention of a lifelong "partner" few had ever seen.
Mickey Green returned to his world bruised and shaken, but bound, loyal, and changed. The empire of blood and powder was no longer his alone.