At the end of June, Benjy Fenwick died. Blown to pieces by Death Eaters—what was left of him had to be scraped off a wall. He’d been a Gryffindor, two years above James and Lily. Loud, funny, popular. The sort of person who made a room feel warmer just by being in it.
James felt nothing.
Moody delivered the news like he always did—gruff, unsentimental, like reading a casualty report. James listened. Nodded. Let the silence settle. Around him, the room began to shift. Lily pressed a hand to her mouth. She was crying. Not sobbing—just leaking quietly. Sirius stood still, arms folded tight, jaw clenched. Peter buried his face in his hands and made a noise that might have been grief.
James watched them. All of them. Like someone watching through a window, or from underwater—present, but not touched. He wondered if Peter’s sadness was real. If betrayal left space for mourning. Maybe it did. Maybe Peter was crying for himself. James blinked and looked away. There was tea going cold on the table. That seemed more immediate than the fact that Benjy Fenwick was gone.
James didn’t know. Didn’t know why it hadn’t hit him harder. Hated that it hadn’t. Hated, more than anything, that the deaths were beginning to sting less. That he was growing used to them.
Lily spent the weekend in Surrey. She didn’t ask if he wanted to come, so he didn’t offer. That night, James stood in front of the open fridge, staring into its pale yellow glow with a sort of grim resignation. He wasn’t hungry, not really, but he knew he should eat. He liked cooking—was good at it, too. His mum had taught him early: it had been their thing, something that bonded them, and he’d always loved it. He looked at the chicken he’d put in yogurt and spices the day before. He should cook it. But the thought of it—the prep, the effort, the performance—felt pointless. Cooking had started to feel like everything else lately: like an obligation instead of what it had been, something he enjoyed.
Without Lily here, there was no reason to pretend. No one to perform for. No need to be the man who liked to cook.
He closed the fridge. Opened the cupboard—an unopened bottle of Ogden’s. That seemed like the preferable option. He found a glass, poured himself a whisky, and settled onto the couch. He was two glasses in when he heard the knock. Not a knock. A tap. Against the windowpane. There, perched elegantly on the sill, was the same sleek, dark barn owl that brought him the warning about Peter. Rosier’s owl. It stared at him through the window with its amber eyes. Slowly, James stood. Crossed the room. Opened the window. The owl didn’t move as he untied the small roll of parchment from its leg. He unrolled it.
Slanted cursive that James recognised instantly. Three words and a question mark.
Fancy a drink?
—R.B
James looked between the bottle on the table and the note. The man’s timing was truly impeccable, that much was undeniable. He shouldn’t—obviously. And yet he did.
The Queen’s Arms was quiet when he pushed open the door.
Rosier was already there. Sat at the bar, same as he’d been the first time James saw him. Elbows resting casually on the polished wood, a half-finished pint in front of him. James crossed the room and slid onto the stool beside him. Guinness, same as last time. James had never acquired a taste for it—too bitter—but it seemed to be Rosier’s beer of choice. He looked… not rough exactly. Still well-dressed: black shirt, dark trousers, same grey coat he’d worn the last time. But his hair was longer—like he’d missed a scheduled trim by a few weeks. He looked tired and there was stubble along his jaw. Not the carefully styled kind either. Just there. Like he hadn’t had time to shave in a few days. It dulled the usual razor-cut symmetry of his face just slightly and yet somehow, it suited him.
“Rough day at the office?” James asked.
Rosier turned to look at him then. His hair fell just slightly into his eyes, catching the light. The golden shadow on his jaw only made the blue of his eyes seem sharper. “Something like that, what are you drinking?"
“Lager,” said James.
Rosier nodded at the bartender, signalling for her attention.
“Got something for you,” Rosier said after he’d ordered.
James pushed down the irrational flicker of disappointment that rose in his chest. Stupid. Utterly stupid. It wasn’t like they were friends. Not really. Not the kind who met for a pint on a Friday night just for the sake of it. Ridiculous, and yet part of James had hoped this wasn’t war related, some part of him craved the normalcy of going to the pub with a mate. But that wasn’t Rosier, he reminded himself. They couldn’t be friends, they were on opposite sides of a war for Griffin's sake. Not friends. Not enemies. Allies maybe? Yeah that felt right. Two people who should want each other dead but for some reason, didn’t.
“Let’s hear it, then?”
Rosier exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face, fingertips scratching at the stuble. “Got a list of your safehouses,” he said, voice flat. “Instructions to hit them all.”
James’s grip on his glass tightened. “How many?”
“About a dozen.”
Shit. That was more than James even knew about. He wanted to ask why, why Rosier was telling him, but he didn’t—it felt precarious to draw attention to it somehow. Like if he put the thought into words it might shatter the odd version of reality that currently existed in which Evan Rosier was passing him information, so instead he asked: “you got names? Addresses?”
Without a word, Rosier reached into the coat that hung on the back of his stool and pulled out a scrap of parchment. He slid it across the bar.
“Full disclosure—there might be more,” he said. “But these are the ones I’ve been given. And honestly?” He shrugged. “Doubt it. They tend to send me when it’s something like this. Magical defences, hidden locations. That sort of thing.”
James glanced down at the parchment but didn’t touch it. “Because you can conjure Vellfire.”
Rosier shot him a sideways look.
“I saw you do it at school,” James continued. “And again at the safehouse in Scotland. I looked into it after. From what I understand—it feeds on magic. Assume that means wards too.”
“Pretty much,” Rosier said.
James shook his head. “How the hell are you still alive?”
Rosier shrugged. “It’s not that dangerous. Not if you understand it.”
“That’s not what the literature says,” James countered. He had read up on it, after the safe house, and one line in particular had stuck: Most who conjure Vellfire do so once. Never twice. “How do you control something that eats magic?”
“Easy. Don’t control it with magic,” Rosier said.
James frowned. “Then what—”
“Willpower,” said Rosier, lips twitching—the beginning of a smile. “Intent. You bend it by force of will. It’s not really a spell—it’s more like… negotiation. It’s alive, in its own way. You give it shape, give it something to consume, and it follows that. Most of the time.”
“And if you lose focus?”
Rosier turned to look at him directly. There was something bright and reckless behind his eyes, like a live wire humming just beneath the surface. “Hasn't happened yet, working off the assumption it won't.” He smirked, “Fiendfyre on the other hand—that’s a whole other ball game.”
James blinked. “Please tell me you haven’t—”
“Not yet.” Rosier’s smirk widened into a full grin—dimples and all. Bright. Blinding. “One day though.”
James shook his head. “You’re a proper nutter, you know that?”
Rosier laughed, low and warm, like he took it as a compliment. “Been called worse.”
James picked up the folded parchment, turning it in his hands. “Going to be a bit tricky explaining how I got hold of this, not without implicating you.”
“How are you at Floo-hacking? Could say you intercepted a call.”
James snorted. “Yeah, no one who’s met me would believe that for a second. Not a fucking chance, mate.”
Rosier frowned. “Shame. Good skill to have. I could teach you, if you’d like. It’s not actually that hard to patch into a fireplace without detection. Or trace a call line. Bit of basic alchemy, touch of arithmancy, decent sense of geography. Nothing you can’t learn if you’ve got half a brain.”
“Seriously? I mean—yeah. That would be great.”
Rosier nodded, as if it were no big deal. “Got some free time in a couple weeks. If we’re both still alive, I’ll show you.”
James blinked.
Just like that, Rosier was offering to teach him dark-adjacent spycraft over a pint—like it was some bloody after-hours chess club.
“In the meantime,” Rosier continued, entirely unfazed, “why not pin it on the Ministry? You’ve got people inside, right? Make it look like the intel came through one of them.”
James considered it. “Could work,” he said slowly. “Especially if it came from an outlying department. One no one’s really paying attention to.”
“Exactly,” said Rosier. “You got anyone in Magical Creature Regulation? Or the Weather Department? Something like that would be ideal. All you need is a small trigger—something that flags attention in one of those outer-ring divisions no one’s watching too closely. Then make sure it’s one of your people who ‘finds’ it.”
James nodded. It would work. It was clever. Use the bureaucracy. Get someone else to do the heavy lifting—someone unaffiliated with either of them. Plausible deniability, wrapped in red tape. He set his empty glass down on the bar. “You want another?”
Rosier tipped back the last of his drink, swallowed, and set his own glass beside James’s with a quiet thunk .
“Definitely.”
They had another drink. And then another.
James talked through a few ideas—ways of getting Rosier’s intel into the Ministry without raising suspicion, ways of making it look like a lucky break instead of what it was, a tip off from the source. And as he talked—the roadblocks that had been grinding him down for weeks—the snags, the silences, the trapdoors of doubt, it all suddenly felt more manageable. Less like a wall, more like a puzzle.
Rosier was clever in a way that didn’t announce itself, not clever the way Remus was, or Lily. Or the way Regulus had been. James couldn’t picture him pouring over books for fun in his spare time but he was pragmatic—strategic, shrewd and sharp in a way that almost reminded James of Sirius—only there was no ego, no grandeur to the way he presented his thoughts, none of Sirius’s dramatic flair. The kind of clever that could corner you three moves ahead before you’d even realised you were playing. It was...useful. Almost fun. Reminded of school in an odd kind of way, of planning pranks with Sirius, the way they had bounced ideas back and forth in front of the common room fire until the early hours of the morning. Then, without James noticing it—somehow—the conversation drifted. Slipped sideways out of war and tactics and into Quidditch. A debate over broomsticks, of all things. James, predictably, declared nothing beat the precision of a Cleansweep Eleven. Rosier rolled his eyes, accusing him of being a traditionalist. Swore by the Comet Two-Sixty—claimed it had better cornering, if you actually knew how to fly.
James shook his head, grinning. “You know, I always thought you flew like a Chaser,” James said, “I remember thinking it the first time I saw you on a broom.”
Rosier shrugged. “That’s ‘cause I was. Always preferred Chaser to Beater, to be honest.”
“Seriously? But you were a brilliant Beater.”
“Reg and I made a pact in second year—both make the team, or neither of us does. Only two spots open: Beater and Seeker. He was the better Seeker. So.”
“So you took the bat.”
Rosier raised his glass. “Took the bloody bat and stuck with it for four years.”
James laughed—real and bright. “Fucking hell. That’s mad.”
Rosier flashed him a gin. The tension that had clung to him when James first arrived had slipped away somewhere between the third and fourth round. The grim, wary weight in his shoulders eased. He was looser now. Lighter. Quick with a joke. Quick with a smirk. The bar called last orders. They lingered over the last of their drinks, finishing slowly, and James got the feeling that Rosier was no more ready to leave than he was. Eventually, after more than a few pointed looks from the staff as they began to stack the chairs, they stood and made their way out of the pub. The night air was warm as Rosier pulled a cigarette pack from his coat. He didn’t ask. Just slid two between his lips and lit them both, handing one to James. James watched as he flicked the silver lighter closed. “Why do you use that? Instead of your wand?”
Rosier didn’t answer at first. Just reached into his pocket again, drew the lighter out, and handed it over wordlessly. It was heavier than James expected. Silver, real silver—not polished, but solid, worn smooth at the edges like it had lived in that pocket for years. He turned it over in his hand. On the far side, just visible in the dim light, was a small engraved design: a five-pointed star interwoven with a rose. Sharp lines and delicate detail. Personal.
Rosier’s voice was quieter when it came. “First time I did magic, I was five. Set fire to one of Reg’s picture books. He was trying to show me something—letters, I think. Wasn’t very good at reading, found it difficult. I got frustrated. Next thing I knew, it was burning.”
James smiled faintly.
Rosier shrugged. “Set a lot of things on fire by accident. Curtains. Carpets. The hedge maze at the back of my parents’ estate. It was also the first thing I learned to control. Could conjure flames before I had a wand. Before I could do anything else.”
He paused, drew on his cigarette. The ember flared briefly in the dark.
“Reg had nightmares. First year. Couldn’t sleep. I used to conjure a flame in a jar, leave it on his nightstand. Just so he’d have light.” He nodded toward the lighter. “He gave me that for my fifteenth.”
James turned the lighter once more in his hand, then passed it back.
“You miss him,” James said.
It wasn’t a question.
Rosier took the lighter, tucked it back into his coat pocket. His expression didn’t shift—not much—but something in him stilled. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. Stripped down.
“Every fucking day.”
A pause. He looked out toward the street, where the night had settled soft and still around them.
“Love my sister. Would do anything for her. But I always wanted a brother, you know?”
Another beat of silence. Then, almost like an afterthought:
“He's always been that to me, or was—I guess. Doesn't feel real that he's gone. Forget sometimes.”
James nodded, he understood what it meant—to wish for a brother. To find one in someone else, someone who wasn’t blood. That’s what Sirius had been, since the very first day they’d met. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose Sirius.
“You heading home?” James didn’t know why he asked. Where else would Rosier be going?It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to know the answer—it was more that he wanted to keep the conversation going. Just a bit longer. He didn’t want to go back to the quiet cottage. Didn’t want to step back into the hush of rooms that felt emptier than they should. Being with Rosier felt like a reprieve from the creeping numbness that curled around his insides, thick as fog. With Rosier, he could say Regulus’s name, and that pushed the low ache away, like somehow being with someone who'd loved him even more than James had made it hurt less, but it was more than that. It wasn't just Regulus— Rosier made him laugh. Laugh at the war, laugh at the pain, laugh out how shit everything was. It made him feel—well. Not quite like the person he’d been before the war. But something closer.
Rosier looked away, exhaled a slow stream of smoke through his nose. “No. Might head back to London. See if I can find somewhere still open to eat. Or just drink.”
James wanted to ask. Ask about the way the corners of his mouth turned down, about why he wasn’t going home, wanted to know—but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “You like Indian food?”
Rosier frowned. “Not sure. Don’t think I’ve ever tried it to be honest.”
It was a stupid thing to offer. Reckless. Dangerous for both of them. An invitation Rosier would—should—say no to. But James gave it anyway. “Got a bottle of Ogden’s at home. Was going to make Murgh Makhani. You want to join?”
Rosier gave him an amused look. “How you planning on explaining me to your wife Tosspot?”
That gave James pause, he was a little surprised that Rosier knew about Lily, even if his information was a little off. “Lily's not home,” he said after a few seconds.
Rosier considered him for a long moment and then stubbed out his cigarette blue eyes locked onto James’s. “Fuck it why not. I know what one of those things you mentioned is. Willing to find out what the other is.”
James smiled. “It’s chicken.”
“Sounds good.”
James held out his arm. Rosier took it without hesitation. A second later, the world folded in around them, all crushing pressure and darkness. They landed just outside the garden gate. The moment they crossed the threshold, James shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. Rosier followed suit, glancing around with open curiosity. James watched him for a moment—then looked at the house, trying to see it through unfamiliar eyes. The sitting room was all mismatched comfort: old armchairs with frayed arms, a couch strewn with too many cushions and woollen blankets. The dining table was half-buried under books and bits of parchment, one of Lily’s heavy medical texts lying open beside a cold, abandoned cup of tea. A pair of boots—his—and Lily’s heels, sat by the door, slightly askew. Moonlight filtered through the front windows, falling across a line of potted plants on the sill and a Chudley Cannons calendar pinned slightly crooked on the wall. He remembered the sleek minimalism of Rosier’s flat, the empty space and high ceilings, the distinct lack of clutter, and felt a bit embarrassed. He pushed the thought away and headed for the kitchen. Rosier followed him, leaning back against the kitchen counter as James got glasses and poured them each a solid measure of firewhisky and slid it across the counter. James then started pulling things out of the fridge, the chicken, some coriander—Rosier watched with interest.
Not speaking. Just watching.
James tried to ignore it. Turned on the stove. Still silence. He glanced up once, found Rosier’s gaze fixed on him. Curious. Not scrutinising, exactly, but alert. Interested. His head was tilted slightly, like James was performing some rare piece of magic he didn’t want to interrupt.
The attention made James feel…odd. Self-conscious. He’d cooked for people all the time. Sirius, Remus, Peter, Lily. His Parents. He never felt observed like this, like it was something worth watching.
“You cook a lot?” Rosier asked eventually, voice quiet, low.
“Yeah,” said James, “always liked it.”
Rosier nodded, took a slow sip of his Firewhisky, and went back to watching. He didn’t say much, asked the odd question but mainly just watched.
When everything was ready, James plated up—piled rice, murgh makhani, and still-warm roti onto mismatched plates—and they took their food into the living room. Didn’t bother with the table. Just dropped onto the couch, plates on knees. James watched Rosier closely as he picked up a bite, folded it into the roti and took a bite. And then another. There was a pause. Rosier looked up.
“Fucking hell, Tosspot,” he said. “This is better than sex.”
James laughed. And then, feeling pleased, dug in himself. When they were finished, Rosier stood, gathered up the plates, and carried them into the kitchen. James followed. Watched as he ran the tap, squirted a bit of washing-up liquid into the basin. Steam rose in slow spirals. Rosier rolled up his sleeves and began to wash their plates. James’s eyes drop to Rosier’s left forearm. It wasn’t like James didn’t know it was there, hadn’t seen it before—and yet it was hard for him to drag his eyes away from it. The dark mark was visible through the suds in the bucket, black ink stark. The serpent coiled through the skull, ugly and garish against golden skin. James watched the movement of his forearm, the way the muscle shifted beneath the skin. Watched the Mark flex and stretch, like something alive—the absurd banality of the moment struck James all at once. A Death Eater standing in his kitchen, scrubbing one of his chipped plates, hands in the sink like he belonged there.James didn’t say anything. Just picked up a tea towel and started drying. They moved easily around each other. Passed utensils, glasses. Something about the rhythm of it—the clink of ceramic, the hush of water—made the whole thing feel weirdly normal.
Domestic.
A Domestic Death eater washing dishes in his kitchen, James shook his head slightly, and tried to hide the grin that the absurdity of the moment brought to his face.
They moved back to the living room after the dishes were done. James took one of the armchairs; Rosier sprawled across the sofa, kicked off his shoes, and propped his socked feet on the table—dark grey, finely woven, clearly expensive. If Lily had been there, James thought, she might’ve tutted and lobbed a cushion at him. But she wasn’t. And he didn’t mind. Rosier looked settled. Whisky in hand. Quiet. Still. He fit the room like he'd been drawn into it—legs stretched long, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the lamp burnishing his hair as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass like he was waiting for something to appear in it.
“I’m a bit surprised you heard about me and Lily,” said James.
Rosier raked a hand through his hair, shrugged one shoulder. “Kept tabs on you.” His tone was light, but his eyes weren’t.
The answer made James pause, it hadn’t been what he was expecting.
“You did?” he asked, “why?”
Rosier shot him a small crooked smile. “Not a lot of people I like, can probably count them on two hands. Would’ve wanted to know if anything happened to you. So would Reg. He couldn’t do it, too hard for him, so did it for him.” He exhaled—not quite a sigh, more a breath pushed out hard. When he looked at James, there was tiredness in it. “He wanted you to be alright. Safe. It was important to him.”
James looked down into his glass. “He told me he didn’t love me. Said he never had.”
Rosier didn’t flinch. “He told you what you needed to hear so you’d let him go.”
James nodded. The whisky caught at his throat—sharp—yet it could not sear away the ache, or the lump Rosier’s words had summoned. He set the glass down, let his palms rest against the grain of the arm-chair, and breathed.
Silence unfurled between them, deliberate and unbroken. The lamp cast a low, amber halo across Rosier’s profile—high cheekbone, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, a blue gaze fixed not on James but on the slow, steady orbit of whisky in his glass. He turned it by fractions, as though marking time rather than drinking it.
Grief, for once, asked nothing—no justifications, no performance. It settled over the room like dusk, soft-edged and absolute. James let it rest on his shoulders. Rosier bore it beside him without word or gesture, without flinching or reaching for more.And for the first time in two years—for the first time through all the losses, all the funerals—James didn’t feel alone. Which was strange, because he hadn’t been alone for the others. Lily had been there. Sirius. Remus. He had been surrounded. But even in their presence, he’d felt solitary—like he owed each of them something he couldn’t quite name. A brother for Sirius. A friend for Remus. A fiancé for Lily. Grief became another performance: holding steady, holding it in, being alright because someone needed him to be. But Rosier didn’t ask anything of him. Didn’t expect a shape, a role, a mask. He didn’t try to help or offer comfort. He didn’t speak at all. He simply sat there, feet on the coffee table, glass turning slowly in his hand, and let the silence be what it was.
And somehow, that was enough. Enough that James didn’t feel the need to pretend—to be fine, to be coping, to be moving forward. He could just sit there, with all of it. With the sadness, the weight, the hollow echo of what they’d both lost.
Quiet. Grieving. And, for once, not alone.
After a while, Rosier turned his head. His eyes found James’s, then dropped to the hand cradling his glass.
“No ring,” he said, voice low, almost idle.
James followed his gaze to his bare finger. “We’re not married,” he said. “Engaged—have been for over a year.” He hesitated, then added, “It doesn’t feel right. Planning a wedding... flowers, cake, vows—while people are dying.”
“Funny,” said Rosier, head tipped, eyes too blue in the low light. “I’d have thought war would speed that sort of thing up, not slow it down."
James shifted, avoiding the weight of Rosier’s gaze.
“You sure it's the war?” Rosier asked after a beat.
“No. I'm not.”
The words surprised him—came out quieter than he meant, and heavier. Like he’d pulled something loose by saying them aloud. James looked back down at his hand. Light brown skin, bare fingers. He tried to picture a ring. Couldn’t.
“You love her?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Blunt. Direct. On anyone else it might’ve felt like a challenge, but from Rosier it was oddly grounding. He cut through the noise, the narrative James usually wrapped around things, and in doing so gave him permission to stop pretending—to be honest without needing to dress it up.
James stared into his glass. “Think it’s me. I’m the problem. I’ve changed.”
Rosier’s expression didn’t shift. “Seem the same to me.”
James let out a short, humourless laugh. “Really?”
"Yeah," said Rosier, as if he didn't need to think about it. Easily. Sure. The answer felt at odds with how James felt, like he was a shell of himself, an imposter, like everyone was watching him with uncertainty because they could tell somehow. Tell he wasn't really him, that he was just pretending.
“I thought it would help,” James said, a truth he hadn't even really admitted to himself let alone anyone else. “Getting married. Lily. All of it. Thought it would give everything a shape. Something solid. Something to hold onto.”
"Did it?"
James sighed. "No."
Rosier considered him for a long moment, and then asked, “you love her more than you loved Reg?”
The question landed without force, but it echoed. James sat with it for a while before answering. “Not sure it’s comparable to be honest. It was different. With Reg, it was… intense. Overwhelming. Like I couldn’t breathe half the time from how much I felt.” He paused, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass. “Lily was never like that. With her, it’s just easy. Or—it used to be anyway.”
Rosier frowned slightly, as though he didn’t quite understand. “Not sure I’d know what to do with easy love,” he said. His voice had gone quieter now, wry at the edges. “Think for me, it has to burn. Has to leave a mark. Otherwise, how do you know it's there?”
James turned Rosier's words over, letting them settle.
“You still want it?” asked Rosier after a while.
“What?”
“Marriage.” He set his glass down with a soft clink. "If the war ended tomorrow, would you do it?"
James leaned forward, took the bottle, and refilled Rosier’s glass—then his own. “I don't know,” he admitted. The words landed heavier than expected, but in a strange way, they made the air feel clearer. Like admitting it made him feel lighter. He glanced up. “Never questioned it. Figured it was just something I was supposed to do. Like it was... inevitable. Something that happens when you love someone. You know?”
Rosier snorted. “Not really.”
James raised an eyebrow.
Rosier’s mouth curled, wry and amused. “Can’t marry a man Tosspot, not legally. Got no desire to have a wife so marrage always seemed like something to avoid if possible.”
James nodded slowly. “So... you don’t like women at all, then? You’re—” he cleared his throat, the word catching for no reason he could name, “you’re like Regulus?”
Rosier grinned—sharp, unrepentant. “Bent as a nine-bob note, yeah. Pretty much.”
James wasn’t entirely sure what a nine-bob note was, but he nodded anyway. Then, after a moment, the question slipped out before he could stop it. “Would you, though? If you could marry the person you wanted to?”
Rosier went quiet. Considered it properly. “Maybe,” he said at last. “Not something I’ve thought about much. Never been on the table, so what’s the point. But... yeah. For the right person I’d do it all.”
James didn’t respond right away. He took a slow sip, let the whisky burn. He wondered—without meaning to—what Rosier’s words meant in regards to Crouch. Wondered if he wasn’t the right person, or if he was but wouldn’t want to marry Rosier.
They drank in silence for a while. The kind that didn’t press too hard or need to be filled.
And somehow, even with everything left unsaid—Regulus, Lily, the war, the mark on Rosier’s arm—it didn’t feel heavy.
It just felt real.