The Queens Arms

The days that follow stretch out into silence. Long, strange, hollow silence.
No attacks. No raids. No deaths.  Just a flat, featureless quiet that settles too neatly over everything—like someone’s laid a clean sheet over a corpse.

James watches Peter.
Thinks about Peter.
Tries not to.
Tries harder.

He tells himself he’s being cautious—that until he has something solid, he can’t move. No accusations. No mistakes.
He needs proof. Evidence. Something solid.

But nothing happens.

So he tests Peter.
A planted detail. A fabricated contact drop in Knockturn. Low risk. A whisper of a thing. Just enough to tempt, if you were listening—if you were looking for something to sell.

He waits.
Watches.
Nothing happens.

For a moment, James wants to believe that’s enough. That it was all some long, slow misunderstanding—born of stress, suspicion, war-paranoia. That Rosier was wrong.
Or better: that none of it happened at all. The note. The Queens Arms. All of it.
That maybe he dreamt it.

But he didn’t.
And the knowledge has taken root. Deep. Like rot in the foundation of a house.

So he tries again.

It’s just the two of them in the kitchen. Lily’s at St Mungo’s. Sirius—James doesn’t know where Sirius is anymore. They haven’t really spoken since Knockturn Alley, and that’s another thing he’s not ready to name, let alone deal with.

James is slicing an apple. 

“Hey,” he says, voice offhand, casual. “Did Moody mention the run out to Clifton Hill to you?”

Peter frowns. “No?”

James makes a noncommittal noise, cuts off another slice of apple. Waits. 

A moment passes and then Peter asks. “What about it?”

James shrugs, careful to keep his tone light. “Dunno. He was being vague—more cryptic than usual. I overheard him talking to Kingsley about it. Something about Aurors shifting equipment Friday.”  He paused, just long enough for it to seem real—and then, “was hoping you might’ve heard more. Y’know—Ministry ears and all. I’m not exactly Moody’s golden boy after the safehouse mess. Got the sense he’s keeping things from me.”

Peter frowns. Shakes his head. “First I’m hearing of it.”

James nods slowly. “Weird.”

Peter doesn’t say anything else. The silence that follows isn’t long enough to count. Not awkward. Not quite. Just a little too measured, just a little too careful. Most people wouldn’t notice. But James isn’t most people. And James is watching .

Friday morning, he kisses Lily’s cheek and tells her it’s a stakeout. “Nothing dangerous. Moody’s orders.” He lies like it’s a reflex. She gives him that worried half-smile, and it catches behind his ribs.

He Apparates to the woods. Walks the last half-mile.

The house appears through the trees, hunched and crooked like it’s trying to hide in its own shadow. 

He waits.

Movement. Barely perceptible. A flicker at the edge of vision.

Four figures. Maybe more. Hooded. Cloaked. Nestled at the tree line across from the house.

Waiting.

He doesn’t stay. Doesn’t try to get closer. Doesn’t need to. He turns. Walks quickly, carefully. Disapparates without a sound.

He doesn’t go home, instead he walks. Through streets that blur at the edges. Down lanes that mean nothing. The city folds itself around him and he lets it.

And he thinks.

About Peter.

He was five. Maybe six when they’d first met. His parents had invited the Pettigrews over for some summer thing—ice cream and jugs of squash, a paddling pool in the garden. Peter was smaller than him, sunburnt already, sandy blonde hair falling into large blue eyes. Shy. Clumsy. Clung to his mum’s leg like a shadow until she gently pried him off and pushed him forwards. 

Go on, Petey. Say hello to James. 

He remembers Peter looking at him and asking, in the most serious voice imaginable, Do you have any dragons?
And James—deadly solemn—had said, Three .

That was it. That was all it took. They were friends after that. Just like that.

Peter had been there for everything. Every Christmas. Every birthday. There when James got his first wand. The first time he lost his temper at Sirius, Peter had stuck by him for all  three days he spent sulking and refusing to talk to Sirius 

James had trusted him. Not as a soldier. As a brother.

And now—

Now he thinks about the mission. The one that landed him in Cornwall.

The way the Death Eaters had seemed to know exactly where he was going to be. 

He thinks about how close he’d come to dying that day.

Peter had been in the room when Moody briefed him for the mission. Had nodded, had asked questions, had wished him luck. Had clapped his shoulder like it meant something.

James stops walking.

Peter knew. And James nearly died.

The grief rises before the fury.

This isn’t just betrayal. This is something worse.
This is someone who knew him— all of him.

Who’d seen the house he grew up in. Who’d slept in his bed during storms.
Who’d comforted him when James’s gran died.
Who'd laughed too hard at his jokes and given him a chocolate frog the night before their first ever exam, like it was some sort of good luck charm. 

The ache of it is staggering.

James doesn’t even know where the hurt ends and the anger begins.

All he knows is this:

Peter might have been the reason he nearly died.

He had proof now. Not just suspicion or instinct—actual, deliberate proof. He’d baited the trap. Peter had taken it. 

Which meant he had to tell Moody. That much was clear.

The problem—the part that sat heavy in his chest, that made his hands feel colder than they should—was how to explain it. Not just the trap. But the source. Because the truth started with Rosier. It started with a message from someone who shouldn’t have sent one, who shouldn’t have warned him, and yet had. And James didn’t know how to say that without saying everything .

It wasn’t even just about avoiding the backlash, the suspicion, the politics of trust within the Order. It wasn’t even that he didn’t want to make Rosier a target for the Order—it was more than that.  If Peter was a spy, there could be others. And if the wrong person caught wind of it—if word got out that Rosier had tipped him off, had interfered, had helped— got back to them, to Voldermort and the Death Eaters? Rosier was as good as dead. The Death Eaters would make sure of it. 

James had told himself it wasn’t about Rosier. Not really. That he just didn’t want to be responsible for someone’s death that he knew—someone he’d liked. That he wasn’t the kind of man who could do that, not even in a war like this. That was the reason he kept quiet. 

But that wasn’t the reason. Not the real one. It wasn’t just that James didn’t want Rosier’s blood on his hands. It was that James didn’t want him dead full stop.. And so here James was with the truth about Peter in his hands, and he couldn’t give it to Moody, wasn’t willing to not if it meant putting Rosier at risk. And that—that—was something James knew he should examine. But he didn’t know how—not yet and so he did what he always did when he didn’t like the options in front of him. He tried to come up with a way around them. A plan. A way to tell Moody about Peter without bringing Rosier into it. 

He went home with a grim kind of resolve. The decision sat in his chest like a stone: cold, unmoving, final. He would find a way to tell Moody. Soon. Carefully. Without dragging Rosier into it. Without naming names. He just needed time to shape the edges. Time to find the right language. A plan.

But the war didn’t wait and James didn’t get time. 

That night, he and Lily were summoned. Sirius was already there, booted and pacing. Remus sat near the window with a flask of tea, eyes shadowed but alert. And Peter—

James looked at him and felt cold.

Moody didn’t waste time. There was a job. Minor. Low risk. Nothing more than a retrieval. A batch of Magical Maintenance logs buried somewhere in the lower levels of the Ministry. Dry, bureaucratic records—ward fluctuations, Apparition traces, lingering magical discharge. But Moody thought one of the files might hold evidence of a breach near a defunct safehouse. The kind of thing that only looked like paperwork until it didn’t.

They’d go in Monday morning. First shift.

James and Sirius were muscle. Just-in-case.
Lily and Remus were the brains, Moody wanted someone who could parse magical data on the fly. And Peter—Peter had the Ministry clearance to get them in and was inconspicuous enough that no one would be tracking his access. 

All weekend James tried to work it out. A way to speak to Moody without saying too much. Without saying why he suspected Peter. Without saying how he knew.

But there wasn’t time.

He ran himself ragged trying to find an angle—an anonymous message, a way to fake a tip, something he could say that wouldn’t put Rosier at risk. Something clean. Something safe.

He found nothing and by Sunday night, he was left sitting between a rock and a hard place. Come clean to Moody, tell him about Peter and how James knew. Tell him about Rosier. Or say nothing, go on the ministry run like nothing was wrong. 

He told himself it would be fine.

Peter would be with them. He wouldn’t risk his own neck if he’d set something up—he wouldn’t be that reckless. Besides, it was the Ministry. Secure. Controlled access. It would be safe.

It would be fine. It had to be.

He told himself if he could just get through this—if they could get in and out without incident—he’d have more time. A few more days. Enough breathing room to tip Moody off without endangering Rosier.

In the end he chose to go. 

He and Sirius arrived in the Ministry just after lunch, a few minutes behind schedule, they’d come straight from a supply drop which had taken the better part of the morning. James hadn’t eaten since breakfast: marmalade toast scarfed down at seven am on his way out the door. He was starving and feeling grumpy. Lily, Remus and Peter were meant to meet them there. He looked around, Lily was there waiting, Remus too—but no Peter. In his place, Edgar Bones, a stern looking man James had only met a few times. He worked for Magical Law Enforcement. An Auror like Moody. 

“Change of plan,” Bones said before he could ask. “Pettigrews got the stomach flu. So you’ve got me  instead.”

James’s blood went cold.

“Peter’s sick?”

Edgar nodded. “Alistor sent an owl this morning.”

James felt panic hit his gut instantly—the deep, uneasy knowledge that something was wrong. He stayed close to Lily as they made their way through the Ministry’s lower levels. Edgar walked ahead, easy and confident. The records room was empty when they arrived. The files were where they were meant to be—sealed, dusty, utterly unremarkable. Lily crouched down beside one of the low cabinets and began scanning quickly, muttering under her breath, her quill darting across a notebook. Remus beside her, occasionally making low comments as they both worked. James kept glancing at the doors. At the ceiling. At every vent and corner and reflective surface. His wand stayed loose in his hand, ready.

Sirius leaned against the far wall, made some joke about the carpeting in Magical Maintenance. Edgar laughed, faintly. James didn’t, he was too busy waiting for something to happen. Every shift in the building made his nerves twitch. The squeak of a filing cabinet drawer. The distant whoosh memos in the hall outside. A door shutting too hard somewhere nearby. He counted the exits. Visualising how fast they could move if they had to. Who he’d grab first.

When the maintenance cart rolled past—James flinched, wand half-raised.

Sirius frowned. “You good, mate? Seem a bit twitchy.”

James’s mouth was dry. “Got a bad feeling,” he muttered. He didn’t elaborate. Lily and Remus finished within half an hour, and Edgar bayed them goodbye when the lift clanged open on the fourth floor, striding off towards Magical Law Enforcement with purpose. James could feel Sirius watching him as they continued up, his nerves were frayed—everything felt too loud and too bright. The golden gate opened with a metallic groan, revealing the glow of the Ministry atrium—the cold golden sheen of the tiles, the sterile gleam of enchanted glass. He stepped out with Lily beside him, Sirius a half-step behind. There were maybe a dozen Ministry employees milling around, quiet, bored, sipping tea from floating mugs. Everything smelled of polish and parchment. Normal.

But the feeling didn’t go. The itch under his skin. The tautness behind his ribs.

And then the first Floo gate erupted.

It wasn’t the usual soft swirl of green—it was a blast , violent and sudden, flames licking upward as a figure in black stepped out. Then another. Then another. They poured through every grate—hooded, masked, fast. Their wands were already drawn.

James barely had time to register what was happening before the first curse tore across the atrium, striking the ceiling and sending down a hail of stone. Screams erupted. Papers flew. Someone shouted for security.

James didn’t think. He grabbed Lily and pulled. “ Move— ”

They hit the floor as a stunner cracked overhead. Sirius was shouting—backed into a column, spelllight bursting from his wand like fireworks.

Ministry employees scattered in all directions. One man collapsed near the fountain, the ground around him slowly turning red as blood pooled. Another woman tried to run for the lift and was hit square in the back by a curse James didn’t recognise—her body convulsed and dropped.

“Left!” Sirius bellowed.

James turned and blasted the attacker coming up through the side hall. Smoke curled from the hem of his cloak. The air was thick—acrid, burning, pulsing with residual magic. Sirius and Remus were back to back, moving as if by instinct, wands raised, casting in tight, coordinated bursts. Then there were Aurors—dark red robes cutting through the smoke like blood through water—and Moody, limping hard across the atrium, wand raised, shouting orders even as he cast.

“We need to get out of here!” James shouted over the roar of spells, grabbing Lily’s wrist and pulling her into motion.

They ran, dodging blasts of light that seared the air around them. Sirius and Remus on their tail. They were almost there when someone stepped into their path—wand already raised. James ducked, shield charm already halfway out of his mouth. He wasn’t a duellist. Never had been. He was good in the field, fast, resourceful, and damn good at getting out alive—but wand-to-wand? Defensive magic had never really been his strong suit. 

Lily didn’t hesitate. Her stunner cracked through the air moments after his shield, precise and controlled. The Death Eater dodged, fired back. Between the two of them they took him out—James with a hasty bombarda , Lily with another stunner. The spells collided mid-air, smashing through the Death Eater’s defences and flinging him backwards across the room.

They moved again. James’s chest was heaving. He could see the Floo grates now, see Sirius and Remus ducking through the nearest one. Moody was locked in a brutal duel not far off, one attacker already down, but the other—he moved differently. Too clean. Too sharp. Matching Moody, move for move. Neither giving ground.

Smoke was curling from the ceiling vents. The whole atrium glowed with wild firelight, bouncing off the marble floor in mad, broken colours.

They were almost there. Almost out.

Lily’s foot was already stepping into the green fire when it happened.

Something slammed into James from the side—a full-body blow, all cloak and momentum—and he was knocked flat. He barely had time to think, just enough to shove Lily forward, into the fire. She twisted mid-step, eyes wide in horror, her hand reaching for him.

“James!”

Then she was gone in a rush of green flame.

And he was on the floor.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs. His spine cracked against the marble. A shock of pain burst through his shoulder, something crunching—white, sharp, immediate. His wand skittered across the floor. He tried to push the weight off him, but the body atop him—Death Eater, maybe stunned, maybe dead—was heavy and unyielding. It took everything James had to shove him aside and roll, gasping, his vision swimming with pain.

He scrabbled for his wand, and then staggered to his feet, shoulder limp, chest heaving. Light screamed through the air—red, blue, green—spells tearing holes in space. A wall collapsed at the far end of the atrium. Somewhere, someone was screaming.

James tried to orient himself.

Didn’t get the chance.

A figure was walking toward him—long black cloak, wand raised, steady steps. James tried to lift his own wand, but his wand arm wouldn’t move properly, pain shooting down his arm when he tried. He was too slow. 

“ Crucio. ”

Pain tore through him. Not fire— worse . It was white-hot wire threaded through his bones, nerves yanked one by one, body lit from inside by something wrong . His vision exploded into sparks. The world collapsed. He didn’t feel himself hit the ground. Didn’t hear his own scream. There was only pain—limitless and consuming.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

He was shaking. On the floor. Something—someone—hooked an arm under his armpits, around his chest, dragging him up and back. His limbs flailed weakly, muscles refusing to obey, as he was hauled away from the duelling and smoke.

Then green flame.

And spinning.

His stomach lurched as they whirled through the Floo—fast, dizzying, and choking. Whoever held him didn’t let go.

They landed hard.

James hit first, then another body thudded down beside him. He scrambled backward on instinct, dragging himself away with his good arm, coughing hard, lungs thick with soot and smoke and panic. The body beside him was cloaked in black robes, the eerie bone-white mask still in place, hollow eye sockets staring straight back at him. For one frozen moment, James panicked. Then he realised the person wasn’t moving. 

Dead, or unconscious. He couldn’t tell.

Relief—but before he could move, he heard it: the dull thud of boots on hardwood, the rustle and drag of more black robes. Another Death Eater. This one upright. Moving. Definitely alive.

The figure knelt beside the fireplace, wand flicking once, twice—quick, clean motions. The green flames sputtered and vanished.

Then the Death Eater turned. His attention shifted to the man on the floor—his fallen companion. He moved efficiently, almost carefully, sliding one arm beneath the limp shoulders, the other under the knees. With a grunt, he hauled the man up into his arms and stood, staggering slightly under the weight.

For a moment, he looked back. Mask still in place. Black eye sockets empty but James felt the eyes watching him from behind the bone-white grin of the mask. James’s wand was still in his hand, fingers curled around it tight enough to ache. But he couldn’t lift it. His shoulder was useless—numb with pain and trembling. More than that, his body was shaking all over, raw from the cruciatus. His magic flickered, thin and erratic. His vision swam.

The Death Eater turned away. He walked with deliberate steps, breath harsh under the mask, boots thudding heavily across the floorboards. He didn’t look back again.

James watched him go, and then, slowly, he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings. Hardwood floors. Filtered light through tall, narrow windows. Two sleek leather couches. A coffee table. A bookcase—it was a living room.

Or something like one.

Spacious. Open. A high ceiling crossed with exposed black metal beams. Red brick walls. And beyond the tall windows—blue sky.

He tried to stand. Got halfway before the pain caught him—a white-hot thread lancing up from his shoulder into the side of his neck, bright enough to make his eyes water. He stumbled, caught himself on the arm of the nearest couch, and swore under his breath. He tried again, the room spinning as he made it to his feet. 

Footsteps above. The sound of boots on metal, almost as if someone was descending a set of stairs. The masked figure reappeared—leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching James from behind the gaping black eyeholes.

James, sounding far steadier than he felt, followed his instinct. “At least take the mask off. It’s creepy as hell.”

A low snort. Then a gloved hand lifted, passed over the mask—
and it dissolved in a curl of black smoke.

Golden hair, dusted grey with ash.
Olive skin, streaked with blood.
A gash cut across one sharp cheekbone—not deep, but enough to bleed. He’d wiped at it hastily, smearing red across his left cheek.

Straight nose. Strong jaw.
And very blue eyes, steady now, fixed on James.

“You alright?” Rosier asked.

James had been pretty sure he knew who was under the mask—but still the sight of Rosier sent a rush of relief through him, sharp and dizzying.

“Shoulder’s dislocated,” he said. “Wand arm. Can’t fix it myself.”

Rosier grimaced. “Healing spells aren’t exactly my speciality,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. He moved across the room, stopping just in front of James. His eyes dropped to the injured shoulder, tracking its angle, and his brow furrowed—creased.

James—who was rapidly coming to the conclusion that standing had been a deeply flawed decision—swallowed hard and took a steadying breath.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” he said. “But I can’t do it on my own.”

Rosier hesitated. “I’m not joking, Tosspot. Anything beyond a warming charm and I’m liable to set your arm on fire. Fixing your shoulder is way out of my range.”

“I didn’t say use magic.” James took a slow, ragged breath. 

A pause and then: “What do I do?”

“Okay gloves off,” James said and Rosier pulled his black leather gloves off, tossing them towards the couch. “I'm going to need you behind me,” Rosier moved, “take my right wrist. Carefully. Support the weight,” instructed James, Rosier did. Fingers warm on James’s wrist. The pain had dulled into something hot and constant, a wrongness he could feel all the way down his spine. “What I need you to do is raise my arm, slowly—ninety degrees from my body. Palm facing forward. No sudden movements.”

Rosier adjusted his grip, pulling James’s arm outwards until it hovered at a right angle. James hissed, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Now put your other hand on my shoulder blade. The back—feel for the edge of the bone. There should be a lump. You feel it?”

Rosier’s fingers moved over James's shoulder and then stopped. “Think so, yeah.” 

“That’s the head of the humerus,” James said faintly. “It’s out of the socket. You’re going to rotate the arm outward— slowly —until the tension changes. Then lift. Slight upward pressure. It should... it should slide back.”

Rosier was silent for a second. “This is going to hurt like a fucker isn’t it?”

“It is,” confirmed james. “But it’ll work. On three. Ready?”

“Not really,” came the response. 

“Good,” managed, James closing his eyes. “One... two... three —”

Rosier rotated the arm outward—James let out a strangled noise, low and guttural. Sweat slicked the back of his neck. Then, as instructed, Rosier lifted—just a few inches upward, toward the plane of the shoulder. For a moment, it resisted.

With a sickening pop, the joint shifted.

James’s whole body jolted. Pain seared through him like fire on raw nerves, bright and hot and absolute. His knees gave out, and he crumpled.

Arms caught him—firm, steady.

“I’ve got you,” Rosier said. His voice was low, unexpectedly gentle in James’s ear.

James let himself lean into it—the relief of someone else taking his weight. He was off-balance, everything blurring at the edges, pain ringing dull and hot through his shoulder. He didn’t resist as Rosier guided him down, steady and sure.

The couch caught him. He sank into it, breath shallow. His vision swam—bright spots flaring like insects behind his eyes. He blinked hard, willing the dark to clear.

When the room finally settled, Rosier was crouched in front of him. Close. Brows drawn in a frown, watching him. “Still with me, Tosspot?” he asked, scanning James’s face with something close to concern.

James managed a nod. “Just... give me a second.”

Rosier stood, and stretched with a faint crack of joints. “How did you know to do that?”

“Mum’s a Healer,” James said, wincing as he flexed the fingers of his right hand. “And I’m very fond of reckless flying. Not my first dislocated shoulder.”

Rosier huffed—a half-laugh, half-exhale—and gave James a long, amused look. For a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, nearly a smile.

Then he said, “Wait here,” and turned, disappearing back through the door he’d used earlier.

James leaned back, taking in the room with clearer eyes.

It was minimal. Beautiful. Industrial, but warm—all red brick walls and exposed steel beams. Minimal. No clutter.

It was a stunning space.

But it didn’t feel lived in. Not really.

There were no picture frames on the shelves, no shoes kicked off in the corner. No art on the walls. Nothing personal. No trace of the mess that made a space feel inhabited.

The only clue—small, almost apologetic—was a stack of Quidditch Monthly magazines on the lowest shelf of the bookcase. Crisp spines, evenly stacked. The one quiet mark that someone actually lived here.

Then Rosier reappeared carrying two large steaming mugs which he set down on the coffee table.  “Saw you take the Cruciatus,” he said. “Looked like a solid couple of minutes’ exposure.” He reached into his robes and pulled out two small glass vials, passing one over. “Muscle relaxant. Should take the edge off. You’ll still feel it, but it’ll stop everything from locking up. Take another one before you sleep.”

James took it without argument and downed it in one go, grimacing at the taste.

Rosier uncorked the second vial. “Pain potion. That one’s self-explanatory.”

James drank that too. It burned going down, but not in a bad way.

Then Rosier passed him the mug.

It was warm in his hands.

He looked down.

The mug was white ceramic, printed with a cartoon Hungarian Horntail breathing fire at an alarm clock. Above it, in curling script, it read:

Dragon Myself Out of Bed. 

James stared at it and then up at Rosier who had slumped onto the opposite couch,  he took a sip from his own mug—blue enamel, with the Falmouth Falcons crest printed in silver. Beneath it, aggressive block lettering declared:

We Aim to Fowl.

There was something utterly absurd about the situation.

Rosier sat opposite him, boots kicked up on the sleek glass coffee table like he owned the place—which, James supposed, he probably did. Black Death Eater robes, dried blood still streaking one cheek. He looked like violence made flesh. He looked objectively scary— or he would if he wasn’t cradling his mug in both hands and staring into it's depths as if it held the answers to the universes's most troubling questions. James kept staring, as if the image might resolve into something coherent if he looked long enough. It didn’t. 

There was no frame for this. No script.

Evan Rosier: Death Eater, and apparently, owner of at least two novelty mugs. 

James lifted his own mug. The ceramic was warm in his hands, grounding. The tea was strong and sweet, laced with firewhisky. 

It tasted like salvation. Like comfort.

And James had no idea what to do with that.

He sat back, eyes still on Rosier. He looked tired. Not wounded, not fragile—but worn thin at the edges, like a photograph too often handled.

This should have felt wrong. Every instinct in James's body should have been screaming.

Instead, there was only silence. 

He took another sip.

Still sweet. Still warm. Still ridiculous.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Rosier said, “take it you didn’t get my message then?”

James blinked. “What message?”

“Tried to give you a heads up. Sent an owl this morning.”

James shook his head. “I left early. Just after seven.”

“Fuck.” Rosier swore softly. “Must’ve missed you. Sorry.”

Rosier ran a hand through his hair, dislodging some of the ash that clung to it.

It fell perfectly back into place.

And for a second James hated him for it. Why couldn’t his own hair do that—why did it insist on sticking up in seventeen directions no matter what he did? He was covered in bruises, half-broken, and Rosier looked like the bloody cover of War Crimes Quarterly . Another, decidedly more important thought occurred to James then, the other Death Eater—the one Rosier had carried out of the room. A theory formed from scattered memories. A voice complaining about being hungry as James crouched hidden behind a stone wall, a broom closet and a kiss that wasn’t for him but was meant for someone around his height and build, and then a snippet of a conversation, an argument one that had sounded personal—had sounded as if it meant something to Rosier, one that James wasn’t meant to hear—he tested the theory.

“Crouch okay?” 

Rosier’s mouth twitched. An amused glint passed through his eyes.

“Stunner to the head. He’ll live.”

James nodded, satisfied that he’d guessed right.

The confirmation settled heavily in his mind. Barty Crouch. That he was a Death Eater felt significant—like a crucial piece of a larger puzzle—but James wasn’t sure where it fit. Not yet.

Crouch senior was high up in the Ministry. James wondered, briefly, if the corruption ran deeper—if the father had turned too. The thought twisted in his gut. He considered asking, but stopped himself.

He wasn’t sure how far this strange truce between him and Rosier extended—or how fragile it might be. Now didn’t seem like the time to test it.

Instead, he drained the last of his tea, letting the warmth of the whisky settle through him, calm the burn still threading through his nerves. He slouched back into the couch, letting it take his weight. Letting himself breathe.

When the mug was empty, he set it down carefully on the table. Then, slowly— reluctantly —he pushed to his feet. Every muscle objected.

“I should go,” he said. A pause. Then, more pointedly: “before your boyfriend wakes up.”

It wasn’t necessary. Not really.

But James wanted to know.

Wanted to see if he was right.

Rosier gave James an amused look. Not an admission but not a denial either. 

James nodded towards the grate. “Floo?”

“Not connected. Had it illegally patched for today, just in case I needed a quick exit. Could patch in again, but they’ll be watching the network after the Ministry hit. Safer if you Disapparate.”

Rosier stood. Stretched, grimaced faintly. “Anti-Apparition wards are up over most of the building. You’ll need to go down to street level. I’ll show you out.”

James followed him, looking around curiously as they passed an open-plan kitchen, the stainless-steel island gleaming coldly. Tall windows, stone counters, iron beams—then down a long hall and an iron spiral staircase that wound up to a second floor. At the end of the hall, a heavy steel door waited. Reinforced. Industrial. More locks than James could count.

Rosier ran a hand over the surface.

A series of heavy clicks and one by one, the bolts slid back. The whole thing had the weight of a bank vault. With a final thunk, the door creaked open to reveal a stone stairwell. Bare concrete. Stark walls. They descended two flights, footsteps echoing with every step.

The foyer was all brick and iron. High ceilings, low light. 

Rosier led him to another heavy door. More locks. More bolts. Another sequence undone. Then he stepped back.

“You good to Apparate from here?” he asked.

James nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“Thanks for saving my life. Again.”

Rosier smirked. “Don’t mention it, Tosspot. ”