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Chapter Text

There was a certain kind of magic that didn’t need a wand.

James Potter had always known that.

Wands were fine for duels and fireworks and making Sirius’ hair blue, but there was something far more intoxicating about the kind of magic you made people believe.

A sleight of hand. Daring. Charm.

One that was taught to him by his father.

Something that made an audience collectively lean forward because they swore they’d just seen something impossible.

Don’t get him wrong, magic—the real kind—is still good. There’s a certain hum in your skin when you make a spell work, but tricks?

That was the kind of magic James lived for.

Tonight, the pub was crowded—a tucked-away wizarding joint in Knockturn Alley. The lights flickered yellow, half the patrons smelled like smoke and secrets, and every table reeked of alcohol.

Perfect audience.

James flicked his wand once, then made a show of putting it in his pocket.

He pulled from his sleeve a deck of cards—Muggle ones, smooth and warm against his fingertips. His hands played with it, spinning, turning, making a grand show of expertise.

He smiled. “Come in close.”

The audience, already in a daze, leaned in toward him.

“Okay, maybe not that close.” He leaned back slightly while still shuffling the cards. “I don’t want my clothes smelling like butterbeer after this.”

A few people laughed.

A few leaned closer, watching, waiting for something to give away the trick he was playing.

Too bad.

James smiled wider.

He let the cards rain down onto the table, one by one, then spread them in a single swipe of his hand—a perfect fan, red and black glinting in the low light.

Then, almost carelessly, he raised his eyes. “Pick a card.”

A woman near him giggled and picked one. James didn’t look. He didn’t need to.

He cut the cards into two sections and made the girl put her card on top of one section. After that, he combined the two sections together again and shuffled.

He spread the cards in his hand. “Is your card in here?”

“No?” The girl searched for her card, looking confused.

“Oh no, Potter. Losing your talent now?” a random guy in the audience shouted, making everyone laugh.

James smirked. “I don’t know, did I?”

He set the deck on the table before grabbing his drink and taking a sip. “You know... I told you all to look close.” He put his drink down again. “But every magician knows that the closer someone looks, the more they miss.”

He looked toward the girl. “It’s in the spaces between what you see that the real trick hides.”

He smiled politely at her. “Hey, miss, do you mind telling me what your name is?”

“I’m Margaret.” She smiled, flirting. “You can call me anything, though.”

James bit back a grin. “Ah—beautiful name, yes.” He tapped the deck three times with his index finger and smirked. “Margaret, do you mind checking your pocket?”

In her pocket was a card—Ace of Hearts.

“Is that your card?” James asked.

She looked at him, surprised. “Yes!”

The crowd cheered.

“While I do love your enthusiasm, I’m not done.” He looked at the girl. “Flip it.”

Margaret flipped the card, and there on its back was her name written on it. Gotcha.

“Ladies and gentlemen," He stood tall, and then bowed "The end.”

The crowd cheered again, making James’ ears ring. Applause and disbelief filled the room—and James lived for it.

Someone from behind him whistled. “Good trick, Potter.”

James looked over. “Regulus.”

“What is it? Some kind of teleportation spell?” he said, with an annoyingly beautiful smirk.

James looked the boy over from head to toe and smiled teasingly. “This may be an old saying, but a magician never reveals his secret.”

“You’re a wizard, James. Magic is literally in your veins.” He looked bored.

James ignored that. “Three of my shows? Wow, Reggie, you may be my biggest fan yet.” He walked toward Regulus with the smooth arrogance that was so uniquely him.

Regulus stepped back, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know if I can call you fooling Muggles in the same pub three times a show, Potter.”

“Yet, here you are.”

“Because this pub is the closest to the Ministry, remember?”

He was about to reply to Regulus’ remark when he saw something at the far corner of the pub—someone watching. Hood up. Motionless.

James blinked, and the figure was gone.

He looked at Regulus and smiled apologetically.

“Look, I love our back and forth, but I need to do something, okay? I’ll see you.” He ran toward the corner and found nothing.

He looked around, trying to find someone.

Nothing.

He went back to where Regulus had been standing, only to find him gone too.

What did you expect, James? That he’d wait for you?

He noticed the deck of cards on the table—the ones he’d used in his performance earlier.

The cards had settled, all except one.

It hadn’t been there before—a new one, bigger, older, edges gilded. Slightly transparent. Not a playing card at all.

He picked it up.

The surface shimmered like light through smoke.

The design was beautiful: a figure in red and gold, one hand raised to the sky, the other pointed down. Above it, was a Sun. 

The Magician.

A small engraving glowed faintly beneath the name.

Luminous.

James turned it over.

A single phrase burned across the back, appearing letter by letter as if inked by an invisible quill:

 “You are cordially invited to a performance that will change everything.

The Luminous Theatre, Saturday, 11 p.m. sharp."

The card pulsed once, as if alive. Then went still.

The air felt different—alive with the kind of energy he hadn’t felt since he and Sirius tried to charm the entire Black lake red in seventh year.

He grinned.

“Alright,” he muttered, slipping the card into his jacket. “Another show, then.”

And as he walked out into the rain-soaked street, the pub behind him erupted into laughter—the kind that covered how easily an illusion could slide into something real.

Chapter Text

There were four rules to Remus Lupin’s act.

Rule one: Never call it Legilimency.

Rule two: Always make them laugh before you make them doubt.

Rule three: Make them want to believe you.

Rule four: Talk shit.

He’d done this a hundred times.

But the crowd in Soho—half-Muggle, half-wizard, all skeptical—was his favorite kind.

L

A pub had cleared out a corner for him, makeshift stage under flickering fairy lights. People leaned forward with drinks in hand, already amused, already certain they wouldn’t be fooled.

Perfect.

Remus rolled up his sleeves and scanned the audience. “Let’s make this quick. I’ll guess your name, your childhood trauma, and your biggest secret. If I get all three right, you owe me a drink.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

He pointed to a smug-looking wizard near the front. “You. You think you’re safe because I can’t see your mind, right? Wand- weapon. Weapon, in your coat, girlfriend beside you, pretending not to be bored—oh, and your name’s—”

He hesitated, smirking. “—Theo. Short for Theobald, which you never tell anyone because it sounds like an old man who collects frogs.”

The wizard’s grin faltered. The girlfriend burst out laughing.

“Tell you what. Let’s make a deal. I’ll get inside your head—just a little. Nothing you won’t want me to find.”

“Good luck,” the man scoffed.

“Perfect.” Remus’s tone softened, hypnotic. “Then do me a favor. Look right here—” He lifted his hand, index finger tracing small circles in the air. “—and don’t blink.”

The man frowned, following the motion automatically.

“Good,” Remus murmured. “Now take a deep breath. Don’t think about it—just do it. Feels good, doesn’t it? You can feel the air slow down… your eyes getting heavier… you can still hear me perfectly, but everything else fades away.”

The crowd went still.

Remus’s voice thinned into a purr. “Now, when you hear me say ‘stop.’ you'll sleep.”

He snapped his finger. 

The crowd whooped. “Oh. I guess it doesn't work.” Remus tilted his head. “I guess I'll just continue the guessing game.”

He circled them like a predator. “Now, Theobald. I guess you came here tonight to test me. She came here hoping I’d humiliate you. You two will break up within a week.”

The girl gasped. “How do you—”

“Because,” Remus said, cutting her off softly, “Magic.”

The room erupted. People clapped, whistled, gasped. A few threw cash on stage.

Remus smiled faintly and took a slow sip of his drink. “Magic,” he said, again, setting the glass down, “isn’t about power. It’s about permission. He gave me his the moment you looked at me.”

The wizard glared at him, “you got the name.” he smirked, mocking Remus as if he had the upper hand. “That's easy. You didn't get the trauma and secret.”

Remus smiles at him, patronizing. 

“Spiders." 

“What?" 

“You are afraid of spiders. Probably got bitten when you're young. A big spider at that. And your secret?” He scrunches his nose in disgust. “You get wet dreams about them attacking you.”

The crowd lost it.

Theobald—stood up from his seat, smoke coming out from his big nose. He leapt onto the stage, aiming a hard punch at Remus but before he could touch him, Remus smiled.

“Stop." 

And stop, he did. 

The man was now standing limply. Asleep. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, you can find me in the booth a few streets from here. Let's take a peek at your futures, alright?” He faced the man and said, “when you wake up, you'll forget all the things I said about your spiders." 

Remus snaps his fingers, waking the man. 

“Thank you." He bowed.

His little ‘thank you’, whilst bowing drowns under the sea of cheers, disbelief, and confusion(from Theobald).

***

The first thing Remus Lupin learned about divination was that no one truly wanted the truth.

The second was he was shit at the real deal. 

Doesn't matter, he's good at making them believe, anyways.

The people wanted comfort wrapped in mystery.

They wanted hope—and he could fake that better than any crystal ball ever could.

He didn’t belong in this alley, not really. But it was quiet here, and the quiet was cheap. 

It's also a good source of income for someone who disappears every full moon.

The corner stall he rented reeked of incense and spilled tea, but it suited him. One rickety table, one chipped cup, one man pretending he can see more of the world.

The bells chimed, and another stranger slipped inside—hooded, hesitant. Remus gestured toward the seat opposite him.

“Three Sickles,” he said softly. “Unless you’re asking about death. That one’s free.”

The stranger hesitated, “Can you really see the future?" 

Remus studied them—curious. He poured the tea into a basin with warm water, swirling it counterclockwise with his hand until the leaves formed a shape that wasn’t quite ‘random.’

“A choice,” Remus murmured. “You’re standing between two paths—one gold, one black. You already know which one you’ll take.”

Vague enough. Hopeful enough.

Dark enough.

The stranger's lips twitched, “Maybe." 

Well, looks like he needs to use real magic.

Oh well.

Remus looked deeper, past the rippling surface, letting Legilimency slip through the cracks of the stranger’s mind—only for something to look back.

A mirror.

"Or maybe it's yours,” they continued.

He gasped and blinked. The stranger was gone. The chair was empty.

Steam curled from the basin in slow, deliberate spirals, and floating at its center was a tarot-like card—half soaked, yet perfectly intact.

He picked it up carefully, thumb brushing the surface.

The design was intricate: a figure cloaked in deep blue and silver, a blindfold covering their eyes, yet a faint light shimmered beneath it as if the truth itself strained to be seen. One hand hovered over a still pool, ripples frozen mid-motion.

The other reached toward a full moon that hung just above.

The Seer.

A small engraving glowed faintly beneath the name.

Luminous.

A whisper, soft as breath, rippled through the room.

“Look closer.”

He stood abruptly, scanning the shadows, but no one was there. Only the faint scent of smoke remains.

Remus closes his hand around the card and blows out the candles, muttering to himself—

“Some tricks,” he said, “are better left unseen.”

Chapter Text

A verse.

Ripped out from the myth.

A mirror hidden from the eye.

Looking back to the name you've seen.

A verse:

H

The Fool dances on the edge of ruin and fortune,

a coin forever spinning in unseen hands.

He steps where others tremble,

blind to the fall,

blinder still, to the wings that catch him.

He laughs at the abyss and calls it home,

turns loss into luck,

and luck into legend.

For though his feet may wander and his eyes may stray,

fate follows him like a shadow that owes him debt.

And when all others have played their final cards,

it is the Fool who remains—

smiling, stumbling, surviving—

as the world folds its hands and calls it chance.

***

Peter Pettigrew is no fool.

He knows that there are people born brighter than constellations

And some who were meant to feast in the dark.

He was neither.

When he was just a boy, his mother used to bring him to carnivals. She would buy him sweets and make him sit as she played games that left people cheering with joy or seething with what his small mind could describe as anger.

He didn't understand. It's just games.

James and him play lots of games in their backyard, yet they don't really go red like those people.

They used to act like it's the end of their lives. One spin, gone. 

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Not his mum, though. 

She's a winner. 

She plays games like she's gardening. Smiling. Calm.

Sniffing flowers that got them jackpots. Aces.

She used to tell Peter, “Lady luck is on my side, Pete.” She'll kiss his forehead and smile. 

“And so are you, my little lucky charm.”

The Cramer's Carnival smelled like dust, plastic, and gasoline. With fairy lights, and candy apples. The whole place seemed inviting. 

Friendly. 

Yet no kid can be seen. 

Peter spotted a worn out booth, surrounded by happy masses. He went inside and sat at a battered table, sleeves rolled, wand tucked away. A few witches and wizards circled him, trading smirks as he placed his first bet.

“Uh- how much?" He forced a stutter, making himself smaller and smaller, until the others felt like they were bigger. Smarter.

“Any amount will do." The game maker said, fake politeness oozing from their teeth. “No pressure." 

Any amount. 

Yet, as the other players place galleons that could feed multiple families with how much they are, a new player will be pressured to put more than intended to ‘fit in.’

He put in a hundred.

The dice rolls. One. Two.

Three—loss.

“Again." 

One. Two.

Three—loss.

“Again." And again. And again.

And one.

Two.

Three—loss.

“That’s more than a thousand galleons gone, mate.” One snickers. “You sure you know how this works?”

Peter grinned sheepishly. “It’s my first time playing. Clearly not good at this game.”

Laughter erupted. Someone clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to sting. He laughed too, because that’s what you did when you were harmless and pathetic.

He played another round. Lost again.

Someone tossed his empty pouch back at him.

“Tell you what? Here.” A man smirked. He gave Peter ten galleons. “Buy yourself a drink before leaving this place, eh?" 

Peter shrugged, patting his coat. “Oh. Thank you?”

He stood, stretching. “I’ll take the loss.”

The game maker huffs out a smoke. “Yeah. Luck seems to run away from you, mate." 

Peter halts on his step.

"Yeah. Luck.”

He continued walking.

He left under the weight of their laughter.

Until one of them reached for his lighter to light up another cig.

It wasn’t there.

Neither were their coin purses. 

Or some of the enchanted dice. Or the man they'd laughed at for being a fool.

The laughter stopped.

Fools.

See, gambling is a risky game.

For Peter, that is.

Take the risk out, and double the money?

That,

Is the art,

Of thievery.

Or well, Magic.

Outside, Peter laughed.

He turned the small pile of stolen items over in his hands, admiring the work. He flicked one galleon and it hovered midair, spinning perfectly flat—then burst into a shimmer of dust.

He caught something in that dust: a card glinting faintly between the specks, like it had always been there.

The design goes: a figure of a jester across its surface, one hand holding a mirror, the other a mask. A half-moon above it was glowing, giving the mirror a slight glint.

The Trickster.

A small engraving glowed faintly beneath the name.

Luminous.

Below it, etched in delicate silver:

The Trickster.

He smiled faintly.

“Good trick.” He murmured. “Didn’t even see the sleight.”

Then he slipped the card into his pocket, walked away with nothing in his hands—and everything in his coat.

Chapter Text

The engine roared through a hidden underground tunnel twisting in the dark. Water glinted on the uneven floor, and the air smelled of damp stone, dust, and faint traces of old magic—just enough to give the place a mysterious edge. 

Perfect for a stunt.

Sirius Black leaned forward on his black motorcycle, hair flying behind him, a grin daring the shadows themselves. Night hid mistakes, and he wanted everyone watching to think he might make one.

Along the tunnel edges, people watched from crates and scaffolds. Wizards, thrill-seekers, and a few curious Muggles leaned forward. 

They had come for danger, and danger was exactly what Sirius planned to give them.

He kicked the engine. Sparks flickered off the tires, bouncing across the wet stones. He leaned into the first curve. The bike wobbled just slightly—enough to look unstable—and the audience gasped.

“Watch this,’’he muttered. ‘

'Watch me.’ he thought 

Ahead was a large puddle, perfect for the finale. He aimed straight for it. Water sprayed high, creating a beautifully chaotic image. The bike tilted violently. Screams and gasps echoed from the spectators.

Then, carefully, Sirius twisted the handlebars and leaned into the slide. A tiny bump in the stones lifted the front wheel slightly. Sparks from scraping metal and a quick flick of his wand made a shimmer in the air—purely for effect.

The bike slid sideways a few feet, skidding close to the wall. Water sprayed everywhere. Dust and mist filled the air. The audience thought he was about to crash. 

But he wasn’t. 

He won't.

 At least not yet.

He drove the bike a in a circle, increasing the speed every minute. The audience watched i awe as the bike turns into a perfect blur of smoke, dust, and tail lights. The roar of the motorcycle continued on for a few more seconds, until a louder more unrestrained one took over. Sirius cursed as the bike rides head first  towards the wall of the tunnel, causing a few audience near it to run from the possible impact.

And oh how they were right to do so.

The motorcycle bounced from the wall into the floor, taking its rider with it.

The audience screamed in panic as they watched the accident happen in front of them. Some were screaming to call the ambulance. And others are frozen in their spot, not knowing how to respond after seeing such thing.

When the smoke finally clears up, there, in the middle, lies the motorbike.

The rider, no longer with it.

The audience looked around, thinking he was simply flung away.

But no traces of an injured Sirius was found.

Until.

"Yeah, he's dead." 

The audience looked towards the entrance of the tunnel.

Sirius Black. 

In all his glory. Uninjured. 

Wearing a different outfit, than what he has earlier.

The next cheers could be heard by the deaf.

Sirius laughed, loud and unrestrained. 

Danger sold. 

***

The Black manor always felt too still before dawn.

Every sound was a warning—the click of a heel, the flutter of a portrait’s sigh, the distant rumble of something unsaid.

Sirius liked breaking that silence.

He liked seeing the house twitch when it thought it was asleep.

This morning, he slipped barefoot through the halls, past the rows of portraits that watched him like vultures, past the locked doors and their whispered curses. His uncle Alphard had given him the coin the night before—small, unremarkable, heavy with the kind of charm that hummed when you touched it.

“Not everything that shines needs to burn,” Alphard had said, low and quick, slipping it into Sirius’s hand before Walburga could see. “Learn that early, and you’ll survive this place.”

Sirius hadn’t slept since.

He’d spent the night turning the coin over in his palm, watching the way moonlight caught the edges. And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he woke Regulus.

The garden was cold, slick with dew. The east side, the one their parents never used—too wild, too alive. That’s why Sirius liked it.

He crouched on the grass, the coin warm in his hand, and said, “Watch carefully. This is a real trick.”

Regulus looked at him with those wide, serious eyes. Always so still. Always waiting. 

Sirius made the coin roll over his knuckles, pretending confidence he didn’t fully feel. Then he closed his hand. “If I’m good—”

He opened it. Empty.

Regulus’s face fell in shock.

Sirius couldn’t help grinning—that spark of wonder was worth every scolding he’d ever get. He tapped his brother’s shoulder and dropped the coin behind his ear.

Regulus gasped, clutching it like treasure.

“It’s not about making something disappear,” Sirius said, hearing Alphard’s voice echoing in his head, twisting it into his own. “It’s about knowing where people aren’t looking.”

He leaned in closer, voice softer, quieter—words he knew Regulus would carry even if he didn’t know why. “That’s all magic is, really. Everyone stares at the hand that shines. No one sees the one that moves.”

For a heartbeat, Sirius could almost feel the manor watching them—judging, sneering, promising that this joy wouldn’t last. 

That the family would crush this light out of them, too. 

They always did.

But Regulus laughed—really laughed—and Sirius thought, let it come.

He’d teach him this instead.

How to misdirect.

How to survive.

How to make the darkness look the other way.

Let it come. 

I'll drive the danger away.

**”

The tunnel was still humming when the cheers faded. 

The crowd scattered, still laughing, still shouting his name, while Sirius swung his leg off the bike and let the engine die. The echo lingered—that satisfying thrum of metal, mud, and magic.

He crouched beside the motorcycle, checking the damage. Nothing serious—hah!—a scrape on the frame, a bit of mud on the tires. A bruise was forming on his forearm from the slide, but he liked that.

Proof he’d done something worth feeling.

Someone had dropped a cigarette in the puddle nearby, its ember dying with a faint hiss. The smell of wet smoke mixed with fuel and stone.

He exhaled, a shaky little laugh. “That’ll wake you up.”

For a moment, he just sat there—elbows on his knees, heart still racing, watching the shimmer of the tunnel lights bend in the water. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to do any of this.

But he’d rather die doing something stupid and brilliant than rot being proper.

He'd rather chase danger, than be a lifelong puppet for his parents.

He wiped the grease from his hands on his jacket, ready to leave. That’s when he noticed it—something faintly gleaming in a crack near the puddle.

At first, he thought it was just a coin. He reached for it, half-curious, half-bored—and froze.

It wasn’t metal. It was smooth, warm like it had a pulse.

The card glowed gold, edges whispering with light.

The figure on it wore a crown of stars, one hand reaching toward a blazing sun, the other stretched across a glowing horizon. Boots hovered above swirling clouds, wings flickered faintly behind.

The Starborn.

Below, faintly shimmering: Luminous.

Sirius turned it over once, twice. Besides some writing he can't be bothered to read right now, no trick. 

He slid it into his coat pocket, glancing once more at the puddle.

The reflection wavered—himself, the card, and something darker standing just behind. A silhouette too still to be a trick of light.

He blinked. Gone.

He grinned anyway. “Creepy,” he muttered, kicking the bike back to life. Sparks leapt along the tunnel, chasing him like fireflies.

At the tunnel’s exit, the air cracked with thunder as he accelerated into the night.

He didn’t look back. Thrill demanded motion, and Sirius Black never lingered in the shadows.

He roared into the darkness, leaving sparks, the smell of ozone, and one undeniable fact behind, some cards weren’t just meant to be seen—

some were meant to be followed.

And oh does he love following paths he wasn't meant to take.