James missed Regulus the moment their bodies uncurled from each other. Regulus had fallen asleep with his head on James’s chest, dark curls brushing his skin, and James had not dared to move. He had only lain there, listening to the soft, steady breath against his collarbone, his fingers tracing slow, reverent lines down the length of Regulus’s spine—memorising the texture of him, the fragile warmth of skin.
“I’ll write,” James had whispered, lips pressed to Regulus’s temple. “Every day, if you’ll let me.”
Regulus had smiled, a smile that was just for James. “I’d like that,” he’d murmured, and then—after a pause too heavy for morning—added, “but you shouldn’t.” His eyes—grey as a storm-wracked sky—darkened. “If my parents found out… if they even suspected… James, they can’t know.” He sounded pained.
James nodded, slowly. Because he understood. Of course he did. But understanding didn't make it easier.
So James spent his summer pining. Dramatically. The kind of pining that required props and staging. He sighed out of windows. He left books unread. He kicked at stones with the vague hope that he might physically dislodge the longing lodged somewhere beneath his ribs. He took to standing at the top of the hill behind his parents house staring into the distance like a windswept tragic hero. He sighed with theatrical conviction at least four times a day. He listened to the wireless and sighed some more. He reread the same chapter of Flying with the Cannons every evening and retained none of it—not a single tactic, not a stat—because the words refused to hold still in his mind long enough to form coherent meaning.
His father began dropping hints: “You’ve been very quiet lately Jamie.” His mother was less subtle. “Is it magical brain rot?” a raised dark eyebrow, “do I need to take you to work and have you tested?”
Sirius was no help in distracting James from his misery—snappish and strange, like a storm perpetually on the edge of breaking. He spent hours holed up in his room pretending to be asleep, was quieter and more withdrawn. James didn’t really notice. Nor did he notice that the reports on the wireless—those soft-spoken Ministry updates sandwiched between music and match results—were growing steadily more alarming. That the number of people going missing had tripped, or that most of them were Muggle Borns. That names were beginning to disappear from the Prophet, the way stars fade before a storm. He didn’t see it.
He was busy. Pining.
And writing.
True to his word he wrote a letter every single day. He figured that just because he couldn’t send them didn’t mean he shouldn’t write them. So everyday he wrote to Regulus. Sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about his dreams. Sometimes just about how much he missed him. And when the date of the Hogwarts Express began to inch closer on the calendar like some kind of blessed salvation—James felt a surge of joy so disproportionate it bordered on religious. Never in his life had he been so thrilled at the prospect of returning to school. Because in a matter of days, he would see Regulus again. September First dawned, and James wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Some cinematic, slow-motion reunion on the platform, maybe—longing glances through steam, the ghost of a smile passed between them as they boarded. A brush of fingers in the corridor. Something.
He got absolutely nothing.
In fact, he didn’t see Regulus at all on the train. Not in the compartments, not in passing. It was as if he’d ceased to exist. By the time the feast rolled around, James had worked himself into a quiet, vibrating state of anticipation. And when he finally spotted him—across the Great Hall, in the flickering candlelight—Regulus didn’t even look at him. And James was reminded, with hideous clarity, that the thing about secret relationships was that they were, in fact, secret. Which meant pretending not to know each other in public. Even when you were desperately, achingly in love. Especially then.
James couldn’t sleep that night. He lay awake, staring at the canopy above his bed, nerves stretched taut and restless. Eventually, driven by a half-formed hope—more instinct than thought—that maybe, just maybe, Regulus wanted to see him as badly as he wanted to see Regulus, he reached for the Invisibility Cloak. Slipped it over his shoulders. Crept out of the dormitory and down the shifting staircases until he reached the Room of Requirement. He wasn’t entirely sure what he expected. That Regulus would just magically sense he was there and show up? That he’d felt the same pull. That some hidden, invisible thread might have tugged him out of bed and toward the same space, at the same time. It was ridiculous. But James was desperate, and desperation had a way of making the absurd seem plausible. He waited until the clock struck one am. Pacing at first. Then sitting. Then standing again, listening to the quiet hum of the castle, the occasional creak of floorboards settling like old bones. Regulus never came.
Eventually, James pulled out the map. Checked it. Once. Then again.
The dot marked Regulus Black sat motionless in the Slytherin dormitory, unmoved and unmoving.
James exhaled slowly. Folded the parchment with care and slipped it back into his pocket. The walk back toward Gryffindor Tower felt longer than it should have—his feet dragging with the weight of disappointment he hadn’t wanted to admit he was carrying.
He had just reached the fifth floor corridor when a pair of luminous yellow eyes blinked into existence in front of him.
Mrs Norris.
James froze.
“…Shit.”
She yowled—long and loud—and James’s stomach dropped. A beat later, he heard it: the unmistakable shuffle-drag of Filch’s footsteps echoing down the corridor.
James bolted.
He knew better than anyone that while Mrs Norris couldn’t see through invisibility cloaks, she could most definitely hear through them—and smell. The cat let out another shriek and gave chase, claws skittering against the stone. He darted left, then right, then down a narrow stairwell he was fairly sure hadn’t existed last year, cloak flapping behind him. Somewhere near the third floor, he lost her—at least, he hoped he had. He ducked into the first dark space he could find just to be sure: a broom cupboard . He yanked the door shut behind him, leaned against it, and let out a long, relieved exhale. The cupboard was pitch black and smelled like floor polish and damp mops. He shrugged off the Cloak and reached for his wand to light it—
—but didn’t get the chance.
Because the cupboard, it turned out, was not empty.
He realised this fact as someone grabbed him by the front of his robes and slammed him backwards against the door with enough force to knock the wind out of him. James barley had time to be surprised before there were hands on him—one on the back of his neck, the other anchoring hard at his hip.
Then: lips. Pressed to his. Firm, warm, hungry.
James’s brain stuttered to a stop. He’d never been surprise-kissed before. And later, that would be the excuse he clung to: that he’d been ambushed, blindsided, caught off guard. That his body had simply taken over, obeying some Pavlovian response to being kissed. That it had been six weeks—forty-seven days—since he’d last been kissed, and he was suffering from withdrawals, and that was why he reacted the way he did. He almost convinced himself for one delirious second that it was Regulus kissing him.
But it wasn’t. And James knew that.
The hand sliding under his shirt, fingers raking up his spine in one smooth, possessive motion? Definitely not Regulus’s hand. The scent was wrong too—not bad, not at all—but different. Not the clean, cool notes of Regulus’s soap. This was smoke and something warm and spiced—cologne, clove and sandalwood.
But the real giveaway?
Regulus didn’t kiss like this.
Regulus kissed like silk—slow and careful, the kind of softness that felt deliberate. Even when he was desperate, there was restraint in it. A kind of reverence, and he had never once slammed James up against anything.
No, this was not Regulus.
This? This was something else entirely—teeth: a sharp tug to his bottom lip that made thinking impossible. James’s hands moved before his brain caught up—fisting into hair, short too short to be Regulus’s but soft. Really soft. And when the teeth gave way to a tongue—hot, coaxing—James didn’t even decide to open his mouth. His body just did it for him. It was a really good kiss. The kind of kiss that made you forget your name. The kind that short-circuited thought. The kind that rewired need into something primal. And then there was a thigh between his legs, hips pressing against his and James made a noise—a groan—low and totally involuntary—into the other person’s mouth.
And then—he froze.
The sound broke him. Cut clean through the fog of arousal like a blade.
He was kissing someone who wasn’t Regulus. That was bad. Very bad. The other person must have realised something similar at the exact same moment—they tore away just as fast, breath jagged in the dark. They spoke at the same time.
“What the—” the other person began.
At the same time James blurted. “Who—?”
James fumbled for his wand, nearly dropping it in his haste, and cast a shaky Lumos. The cupboard filled with pale light—and Evan Rosier blinked back at him from beside a stack of mops. “Tosspot?”
James, still hovering somewhere between post-kiss stupor and full-blown existential crisis, managed a handful of words—none of them especially coherent.
“Filch—cat—I was—you kissed me.”
“Why the fuck did you kiss me back?” asked Rosier, blue eyes wide.
James blinked. The cupboard suddenly felt much smaller. Cramped. Airless. They were far too close. Well—not as close as they’d just been. His face was hot. That thought didn’t help.
“I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammered. “It was an accident.”
“Right,” said Rosier. “You accidentally stuck your tongue into my mouth. Got it.”
James made a strangled noise. “It was dark! I was surprised. It was—instinctual, or something. You ambushed me!”
Rosier snorted. Was he—blushing? “Clearly, I was expecting someone else, moron.”.
“And clearly,” snapped James, “I wasn’t expecting to get snog-attacked in a bloody cupboard!”
“Snog-attacked? Really? That's what you're going with?"
James cringed. The words sounded more ridiculous out loud. And worse, he could still feel the kiss—the phantom press of lips, the lingering heat in his spine, the way his heart hadn’t yet calmed down. His brain, proving itself a traitor, chose that moment to catalogue Rosier’s face in detail.
The eyes, very, very blue eyes. Those cheekbones. The mouth… full lips. Soft.
Rosier was—well. Fit. Really fit. How had he never noticed that before? James blinked hard, like it might physically dislodge the thought. Oh no. Oh no no no. That was not what he was supposed to be thinking right now. This was bad. James had a boyfriend. A boyfriend he was in love with. A boyfriend who, crucially, also happened to be Rosier’s best friend. This was, in every conceivable way, a catastrophe. What was he going to tell Regulus? Did he have to tell Regulus? It wasn’t like he’d meant to snog Rosier. It had been an accident. A tragic, very confusing, warm-lipped accident. James suddenly found it almost impossible to meet Rosier’s frankly far-too-blue eyes in the tiny, suffocating space. He cleared his throat, stared determinedly at his shoes, and wished the broom cupboard was ten times bigger—or, ideally, that it would cease to exist entirely.
“Could we maybe, er… pretend this never happened?” he said.
And then immediately felt awful. What if Rosier didn’t want to keep it quiet? What if he thought James was trying to hide it? What if he assumed James made a habit of snogging people behind Regulus’s back? What if he told Regulus? Worse—what if he told him James had asked to pretend it never happened?
Rosier raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Worried about telling Reg you snogged his best mate?”
James wanted the floor to open and eat him. “It was an accident,” he muttered, again, utterly mortified.
“No arguments here.” Rosier leaned back casually against the cupboard wall, hands shoved in his pockets. “Last thing I need is Reg hexing my balls off for accidentally snogging his boyfriend.”
There was a beat.
“Great. Thanks,” James said, voice strangled. “So, er… let’s never ever talk about this ever, ever again yeah?”
Rosier gave him a long, unreadable look. Then shrugged. “Alright.”
James nodded, relieved. And then, like an idiot, asked, “Who did you think I was?”
“None of your business,” Rosier said flatly.
James opened his mouth to argue—because actually, given the tongue situation, he did think it was his business—but then remembered the part where they’d just agreed to erase the entire thing from memory. He shut his mouth again. They stood there for another moment. The cupboard felt smaller than ever.
"Well," James said eventually, jerking his head toward the door. “I’m going to just—go, then.”
“Right,” said Rosier, and then raised an eyebrow at him–“same time next week then?”
James choked. Rosier smirked. “Relax, Tosspot. Joking. Now piss off before the person I actually planned on snogging shows up and things get even more awkward than they currently are.”
James nodded, too fast, turned on the spot, and all but fled—like a man escaping the scene of a crime. He didn’t stop moving until he was safely back in Gryffindor Tower, heart still pounding like he’d outrun a Hungarian Horntail. James threw himself down on his bed and absolutely, categorically, did not think about the kiss.
Except, of course, that he did.
The dormitory was quiet. Sirius was snoring in the bed opposite—James lay on his back and stared up at the canopy above, willing his brain to shut the hell up.
It was no use. He could still feel Rosier’s fingers on his back—the skin tingling where his fingers had raked over James’s skin. Nails digging in—James wonders if they’d left marks. Then pushed the thought roughly away when it caused both a stab of guilt, and something else too, something that made a second stab of guilt run through him. Apparently, Rosier wasn’t just good at Quidditch and duelling. He could kiss too. Really kiss.
James hadn’t meant to kiss back. Of course he hadn’t. It had been instinct. Muscle memory. A misfire. It wasn’t like he wanted to kiss Evan Rosier.
He was with Regulus. Had been for months now. He loved him. Properly. That quiet, trembling sort of love that lived under his ribs and ached when Regulus wasn’t near. That real kind of love, the kind that made you soft and stupid and hopeful.
This thing with Rosier? It wasn’t anything. Just a cupboard accident. A weird moment. Something you laughed about years later over a pint—except they probably wouldn’t, because they weren’t friends. They barely even spoke. And James fully intended to graduate without ever doing so again. Or looking Rosier in the eye. Or at any other part of him, really.
A fresh wave of memory broke over him, humiliating in its detail: the shove, the scrape of teeth, the pull of his bottom lip. The pressure of a thigh between his—
Nope.
Absolutely not. He shoved a pillow over his face and groaned into it, as if sheer force might smother the memory. He tried to distract himself, grasping at safer lines of thought. Like: who the hell had Rosier thought he was kissing?
Had to have been someone James’s height. Definitely male. Which meant—
James sat bolt upright.
Definitely male. Rosier had been waiting for a bloke.
There was no way he could’ve mistaken James for a girl. Not even in the dark. Which meant—James blinked, slow and stunned. Rosier was like Regulus. Like him. He’d never really known anyone else like them before. Maybe that was why Regulus trusted him. Why Rosier had treated their relationship wasn’t something shocking or strange, just a fact. Just normal. James fell back against the mattress, the weight of the thought pressing into him all at once. It didn’t make him feel good, exactly—he was still far too mortified for that—but it made him feel… something. Not bad. Something like relief. Like they weren’t alone. He exhaled, slow and shaky. Rolled onto his side. Eventually, sleep came—not easily, but it came.
In the end, the broom closet incident proved less consuming than James had expected.
In fact, he managed to forget about it in a matter of weeks. Not because of any particular strength of will—but because something worse had begun to settle beneath his skin. Something quieter. Heavier. More persistent.
He didn’t notice it at first. The first days back with Regulus were dizzying—too full of touch and heat and breathlessness to allow much room for anything else.
They stole kisses in shadowed corners. Met behind locked doors, hands reaching before words could form. The soft click of a latch slipping closed, the frantic hush of mouths finding each other like they’d been apart for years instead of weeks. Fingertips shaking at buttons and belts. It was desperate, hungry, electric—and James had felt like he could finally exhale after a summer of suffocating.
He told Regulus how he’d thought of him every single day.
Said it against his mouth in the dark, in a voice hoarse with want and something else—something that might’ve been fear. He admitted he’d written him letters. Dozens of them. Every night, like a ritual, pen digging into parchment just to feel a little closer.
“I couldn’t send them,” James whispered, “but I wrote them anyway. All of them. I—I needed to.”
He thought Regulus would laugh, soft and low, maybe kiss him again just to shut him up. He imagined those storm-grey eyes soft and tinted with silver as Regulus smiled. But instead Regulus pulled James closer, fingers curling into the fabric at his back. His voice was quiet. Steady. “I want them,” he said.
James blinked. “What?”
“The letters,” Regulus said. “I want all of them. Will you give them to me?”
James nodded, embarrassed. “Alright,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you want them.”
Regulus did smile at that—but it was a strange sort of smile. Not unreadable exactly, but shadowed. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“They’re mine, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Yes,” James said. “Just like I am.”
Regulus didn’t answer. He only held him tighter, like he could press the words into his skin and keep them there. For a moment, James felt weightless with it. Steady. Certain. Like maybe love was enough after all.
But the moment passed.
And when it did, James was left with a strange hollowness in its place—like the silence that follows a song you hadn't realised was ending. He told himself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just the aftermath of wanting, of summer without Regulus. Some lingering distance that would fade, a residue of too many weeks apart. But then he started to notice things. Little things. Regulus was quiet. Quieter than usual. He would sometimes go still in the middle of conversation, eyes fixed on nothing, like he was listening to something James couldn’t hear. Like he was somewhere else entirely.
It wasn’t that Regulus didn’t want him. If anything, their moments together had grown fiercer—frantic, bruising, urgent. He kissed like he was starving, like every touch had to last. Like he was afraid it might be the last.
But when they weren’t touching—when they were just there, together—James could feel it. A slow, creeping chasm between them that widened week by week. James didn’t know how to name it. Didn’t know how to ask what was wrong.
He tried—clumsily. “Hey,” he murmured, lips brushing Regulus’s shoulder, “are you alright?”
Regulus kissed him in answer. Said softly, “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. James knew that.
Regulus was pale. Not the kind of pale he always was—elegant, composed—but hollow. His skin too thin over bone. His eyes darker, ringed with exhaustion. There were nights when they fell asleep together in The Room of Requirement and Regulus would wake with nightmares, he wouldn’t ever tell James what they were, just cling to him afterwards with shuddering breaths. And James was terrified. It felt like Regulus was slipping through his fingers. Like he was watching him disappear, slowly, silently, before his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to hold on. He just knew—deep in his chest, in the place where instinct lived—that something was wrong. Very wrong. And whatever it was, it got worse the further they got into the term.
Sirius and Mary broke up in mid-October in a row so loud it echoed down three corridors.
James had never heard the phrase “emotional sabotage” shouted with such variety or volume in his life. Mary stormed off in tears. Sirius didn’t speak to anyone for three days and, when he did, he was a complete arse about everything—snapping at Remus, picking fights with Peter, barely glancing in James’s direction.
James didn’t have the energy to mediate. He was already using both hands, and all his remaining focus, to try and hold his relationship with Regulus together—without an instruction manual, without guidance, without any real idea of what it was that was breaking between them. And beyond that, there was more. Rumours, now, weren’t just rumours, they had thickened into reality. There were disappearances, whole families vanishing overnight, Muggle-born students pulling out of school quietly, unannounced. James kept hearing the same fragments of hushed conversations. The same awful, nameless name again and again.
He who must not be named.
The Dark Lord.
Most of it came in whispers. Nervous, furtive. But not all. Some students—usually older, usually from certain families—seemed to revel in it. Smirking in corridors. Passing knowing looks across tables. Saying nothing, but saying everything.
The only truly good thing left was Quidditch.
It was James’s final year. His last shot. And he was going to win the Cup.
He threw himself into training with a kind of ferocious precision, the manic focus of someone trying to outpace their own unraveling. He scheduled practices three times a week, ran drills until his team could barely stand, revised playbooks until his hands cramped and his eyes blurred. Gryffindor was strong this year. He was strong. They’d made the finals two years running. This year, it was going to be theirs.
It had to be. It was the only thing he could still control.
Which is why, at ten to seven on a Thursday night in mid-November—an hour and a half after practice should have ended—he was still on the pitch. The final light of day sinking out of the edges of the sky, stars beginning to shimmer in the chill.
“I swear to God,” Marlene shouted from overhead, her voice echoing across the empty pitch, “either we’re done in the next sixty seconds or I’m flying straight into that goal post and ending it all.”
“Third option,” Dorcas called back, circling just behind her, “we kill James and seize control of the team. Bloodless coup. I nominate myself captain.”
“One more, I promise,” James called up, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Last run-through and then you’re done.”
The girls groaned in unison but looped back into position, muttering darkly as they went. James watched them fly, lips twitching despite himself. Dorcas was dragging her left turn again. Marlene’s broom was listing slightly on the pitch’s curve.
He made a mental note to recalibrate both tomorrow.
He was backing toward the edge of the pitch, still calling out something about broom spacing, when his heel clipped something solid.
Plastic. Hard. Round.
He stumbled, arms windmilling, foot catching a rim—
“ Bloody—hell— ”
—he hit the ground with a thud that knocked the breath from his lungs. The grass was damp, the evening chill biting through his robes. He stared up at the sky, for a moment, the wind knocked out of him. Then rolled onto his elbow and glared at the object that had ambushed him.
A bright yellow bucket. Full of three very still practice Bludgers.
“Elegant,” came a voice from nearby. Dry. Amused.
James turned his head. Rosier was crouched a few feet away, tying the laces on his boots. Bat balanced across his knees. Broom propped against the bench behind him. He looked exactly as he always did—calm, neat, vaguely unimpressed by the world around him.
James sat up, brushing damp from his sleeves. “What the hell is it with you and bloody buckets?”
Rosier stood, fluid and easy. “No need to blame the bucket Tosspot. You’re the one walking around backwards.” He crossed over to where James was still sat in the grass and extended a hand. James hesitated—then took it. Rosier pulled him up without ceremony.
“I’ve got the pitch at seven,” he added, nodding toward the bucket.
“Right,” James said. Automatically. Then, after a beat, “Sorry. Didn’t realise anyone was booked after us.”
Rosier shrugged. “Finish if you need. I’m not in a rush.”
Behind James, boots hit grass—hard.
Dorcas landed with theatrical fury, her scowl was immediate and sharp. Marlene followed a second later, slower, her grip on her broom tight, eyes fixed on Rosier with unease.
“Problem, Cap?” Dorcas asked, giving Rosier a suspicious look.
James blinked. The mood shifted—like someone had cast a Disarming Charm on the lightness of the air.
“Er—no,” he said. “All good. Back up there. One more time. Rosier’s got the pitch after us—let’s not keep him waiting.”
The girls exchanged a glance. Quick. Wordless. Something passed between them. But they didn’t argue. Just mounted their brooms and kicked off again rising back into formation.
Rosier tipped the Bludgers out of the bright yellow bucket, flipped it over, and sat. Elbows resting on his knees. Bat balanced across his lap. His hair caught the last traces of sunlight, golden strands flaring briefly in the dusk before the light faded for good. James glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time he’d seen Rosier up close since the broom closet incident. And he looked… different.
Worn. A bit pale. His usual ever present tan had faded into something duller and there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. James looked away before Rosier could catch him staring. There was a long moment of silence. Just the wind and the beat of broomsticks overhead.
Then: “That one of Wojcik’s?” Rosier asked.
James nodded, eyes still on the girls. “Meant to be. Dorcas’s nearly got it—Marlene…” he trailed off, exhaling. “Not so much.”
“Might help if they could see it in play,” said Rosier, and then looked up at him. “Want me to fly it with you?”
James looked down at him in mild surprise, it was a chaser play: and not a particularly well known one. “You know it well enough to fly it?”
Rosier nodded. “Yeah.”
James considered the offer. If Marlene and Dorcus could see it in action they’d get it. It would be helpful and on top of that he’d been on the ground for the better part of two hours—shouting drills into the wind, watching formations come apart midair. Getting some time in the air himself would be nice. But more than that he was curious. Curious what it would feel like not to play against Rosier, but with him.
Rosier was still watching him. James gave in to temptation. “Yeah,” he said. “If you think you can.”
Rosier smirked at him and stood. James gave the signal, and the girls descended—Marlene more wary than annoyed, Dorcas visibly fed up. They landed with matching thuds and matching scowls.
“Okay, that wasn’t bad,” James said.
“Wasn’t good either,” Rosier muttered.
James shot him an amused look, then turned back to the girls. “What he means is that it’s a hard play to get right without seeing it. I won’t ask you to run it again tonight—I know you’re both knackered—but just watch for a minute, yeah? And then we’ll call it a night.”
Dorcas crossed her arms. “Watch what, exactly?”
James gestured toward Rosier. “Me and Rosier’ll are going to fly it for you.”
Marlene’s head turned sharply. “You’re flying with him? ” she asked, voice low but not low enough not to carry.
“Relax, McKinnon,” Rosier said. “Promise I won’t hex your captain mid-air.”
James rolled his eyes, mounted his broom and kicked off, Rosier just behind him.
They rose together into the twilight, the sky a deep bruised blue, last light clinging to the treetops. The air felt colder now. Thinner.
“Front or centre?” Rosier asked.
“Take front,” James replied without hesitation.
They ran the formation once at half-speed, mapping each turn and transition. Rosier was clean. Controlled. No wasted movement. No showmanship, either—just precision. He hadn’t been lying, he did know the play. Well. They ran it again, this time at full speed. That’s when it got fun. James knew Rosier was good—he hadn’t been expecting him to fly chaser as well–if not better than he flew beater. James actually had to work to keep up. Every turn was met with a counter-turn, every movement mirrored or complemented in perfect sync. By the time they touched back down, James was grinning. His heart was still pounding. His blood felt alive. It was the most fun he’d had on a broom all year.
Rosier landed a beat later. He looked—light. Brighter than before. Like he’d enjoyed it too.
“Not bad,” James said, still catching his breath. “For a beater.”
Rosier snorted. “What, like flying chaser is hard? You do it—obviously it doesn’t require that much skill.”
James, still high on the feeling of wind and open sky, punched him in the arm. “Oi, watch it Bucket Boy. ”
Rosier gave him an amused look. “Bucket Boy? You alright in the head, Tosspot?”
“Not even a little,” said James cheerfully, and then—with more sincerity. “Thanks for the help.”
Rosier grinned at him. “Anytime.”
James shouldered his broom. Waved at Dorcas and Marlene, and started off towards the castle. He’d barely gone ten paces before the sound of boots crunching grass fell in beside him—Marlene on his left, Dorcas on his right.
Marlene tucked her broom under one arm, her expression unreadable, except for the slow sideways glance she gave him.
James caught it. “What?”
It was Dorcas who answered. “You two seemed pretty chummy back there. You’re not fraternising with the enemy are you Cap?”
James rolled his eyes. “Don’t be bitter just because I made you do extra drills.”
“I’m not bitter,” said Dorcas, with theatrical offence. “I just don’t think sharing our tactical playbook with Vance's right hand man is the best long-term strategy.”
James scoffed. “It’s a basic formation. What’s he going to do—report back that I taught you both a defensive sequence that’s been in circulation since the forties?”
Dorcas gave him a look. “Still. Since when do we fly with Snakes?”
James opened his mouth, but Marlene beat him to it.
“What if he had hexed you in the air?” she asked, quieter. “Or knocked you clean off your broom? You do remember when he broke your arm two years ago?”
“He apologised for that,” said James with a shrug, “besides I kicked his broom first. It wasn’t entirely unwarranted.”
Marlene’s brow stayed creased. “Still. It’s Rosier. ”
James huffed. “He’s not a bad guy, Marls. Plays rough, sure—but he’s fair which is more than I can say for most of Slytherin.”
Neither of them replied.
But over dinner, both Marlene and Dorcas kept shooting him looks. Not overt. Not confrontational. Just… looks. James ignored them, he didn’t see what the big deal was.
Sure, Rosier was in Slytherin. But it couldn’t just be that. James and Vance had reached a kind of working truce by now—had even agreed to a no-hexing policy before matches, which, in James’s book, was basically international diplomacy. And it wasn’t like he’d done anything by flying with Rosier.
It was just flying.
Good sportsmanship.
Team-to-team cooperation.
He and Rosier weren’t friends or anything. They just… weren’t enemies. That was all.
And if they happened to nod at each other in the corridor sometimes? Well—fine. That was just common decency. A civilised nod. The kind that said:
We’ve both ended up in detention a few times.
We might play for different teams, but we’ve also flown a perfect formation together.
You’re my secret boyfriend’s best friend and I absolutely, categorically, never think about that one time I accidentally kissed you in a broom cupboard.
That kind of nod.
Perfectly normal.
Really.