Two weeks passed with no word from the Order about the rat, and James began to wonder if he’d hidden the tipoff too well. Irritation and disappointment scratched at him like an unreachable itch. He was restless—distracted, short-tempered, snappier than usual. The cottage felt small again, claustrophobic. When Lily told him she was going to Surrey to visit Petunia and asked if he wanted to come, he said no. James didn’t like Petunia, and she didn’t like him. He liked her great walrus of a husband even less—the man grunted more than he spoke and looked at James like he was something tracked in on his shoes. But that wasn’t the real reason he stayed behind. He might have gone, if he hadn’t wanted the weekend to himself. If he hadn’t been toying with the idea of sending Evan an owl.
James needed help. He needed to talk through the Peter situation, the way they had about the safe houses. And a weekend without Lily—no one there to ask where he was going, or who he was meeting—that was the perfect opportunity. If he was honest with himself, truly honest, which he rarely was, it wasn’t just that. He wanted to talk to someone who made him laugh. Go for a drink. Feel, for a few hours, something close to normal. And lately, the only person who made him feel that way was Evan Rosier. He tried not to think too hard about that part—about the fact that the desire to reach out was only partly about need and mostly about want. That this time, it was him asking. Him initiating. And that the Peter situation, however pressing, was mostly a convenient excuse. Because what he really wanted was the company that came with it.
Friday night found him at the bar in The Queen’s Arms, drumming his fingers against the dark wood as he waited. The same girl was working—the one who’d been behind the bar the first time James came in. The one Evan had Imperiused. She greeted James cheerfully as she took his order. The place was fairly busy, but she still stopped to chat, which James suspected had less to do with him and more to do with Evan’s famously generous tipping (the hope that he might turn up again). That suspicion was confirmed when Evan slid into the seat beside him fifteen minutes later and was met with a positively radiant smile. He was clean-shaven now, his hair freshly cut: still a bit of length on top, but cropped neatly around the ears and neck. Sharp. Polished. Respectable. James gave him a once-over. He looked, James thought, entirely too put-together. Bit of a shame really, he’d suited the longer hair. And the stubble.
“So,” said Evan. “Is this business, or did you just want to buy me a drink?”
James grinned. “Bit of both, I reckon. Thought I’d run something by you—assuming you don’t mind being consulted.”
Evan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well, colour me intrigued, Tosspot.”
James told him. About the radio. About slipping it into that Muggle shop and making sure it was Arthur Weasley who found it. About how he’d folded the tip about Peter into the same breadcrumb trail that had led the Order to one of the safe houses from Evan’s list. And how he’d been waiting since—for some sign that the other part of the message had landed. The part that mattered most. But nothing. No word. No shift. Just silence.
The bit about the radio and the Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts earned him a crooked smirk.
The rest, a faint frown.
“They might be sitting on it,” Evan said after a moment. “Could’ve clocked it and decided to keep it quiet. Whatever nonsense passes for strategy with your lot.” He reached for his glass, took a slow sip. “Wouldn’t hurt to reinforce it, though. If they got the message, it’s confirmation. If they didn’t—well. You’ve still got to get it across.”
“Right,” James said, dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s the part I’m struggling with. The how.”
Evan frowned. “You need something indisputable.”
They batted ideas back and forth, and somehow—despite the gravity of it—it reminded James of long nights in Gryffindor Tower. Him and Sirius on opposite ends of the sofa, parchment between them, half-sketched plans and whispered arguments about which corridor gave the best echo for enchanted fireworks. James hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it—missed this . That feeling of sparks catching, someone matching him step for step, thought for thought.
It was almost… fun.
“What we need,” said Evan, somewhere around his third pint, “is a witness.”
“Right,” James said slowly, frowning into his glass. An idea was beginning to take shape. He looked up. “How’s your acting?”
Evan shrugged. “Had to look the Dark Lord in the eye at sixteen while pretending I wasn’t about to shit myself.”
It wasn’t funny, not really . But the delivery was so dry, so Evan , that James couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him.
“So,” he said after a moment, shaking his head. “Pretty decent then.”
Evan tilted his head. “How come? You want me to mask up and crash one of your stakeouts? Conveniently drop a load of damning intel as I flee into the night?”
“I was thinking something a bit less dramatic, actually. What if someone overheard something? Something that looked real.”
Evan snorted. “What—two masked blokes knocking back pints in the Leaky?”
James chuckled—then paused. “Actually, that’s not bad.”
Evan gave him a flat look. “I wasn’t being serious, Tosspot. It’s a terrible idea.”
“But what if they’re not masked?” James said, an idea taking shape. “What if they’re just two dodgy-looking blokes getting pissed and letting things slip somewhere they could be overheard?”
Evan arched a brow. “Better not be calling me dodgy-looking.”
James rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t be you. Neither would I. We use Polyjuice—find a couple of Muggles who look like they might pass for petty thugs.”
Evan leaned back on his stool. “Alright. I’ll bite. Go on.”
“The Hog’s Head. Seedy enough that it’s exactly the kind of place a pair of low-level Death Eaters might drink. And the bloke who runs it? Aberforth. Dumbledore’s brother. He’s Order. We talk just loud enough to be remembered, let him overhear something, maybe get suspicious enough to pass it on. Then we disappear. Easy.”
Evan considered this. “Just so I’m clear—you want us to dress up as Death Eaters and waltz into a pub run by a Dumbledore ?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
Evan stared at him a moment longer, then shrugged. “Alright. When?”
James did some mental maths. “Depends how fast I can get my hands on Polyjuice. Brewing it’ll take too long. I’ll have to buy pre-made. Might be a problem.”
Evan frowned. “I might be able to speed that up.”
“Yeah?”
“Free tomorrow night?”
James grinned. “Absolutely.”
“Tomorrow night it is, then.” Evan drained the last of his pint, setting the glass down with a soft, deliberate thud. He didn’t look at James right away. Just leaned back, fingers tracing the rim of the empty glass.
“One condition. “ A tilt of the head. “I want something in return.”
What could Evan possibly want from him? James didn’t think he had much to offer—not to someone who could work blood magic, conjure cursed fire like it was a parlour trick, and break wards meant to hold against everyone short of Dumbledore. Information, maybe? Something on the Order? The thought made his stomach twist. He didn’t think Evan would ask—but then again, he hadn’t thought he’d be sitting in a pub with him either.
Evan smiled sharp—teeth catching the low light, a low laugh curling in his throat.
“Don’t look so worried. I meant dinner.” He leaned back in his chair, smug. “Been thinking about that chicken you made for weeks.”
James laughed, the relief loosening something in his chest. “You’re on.”
They stayed for one more, then left with a plan. They would meet at six the following evening on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, near the Shrieking Shack. James was to find a pair of suitable Muggles they could transform into; Evan would bring the Polyjuice.
James Apparated home just after ten—late enough that the lane outside the cottage was quiet, the wards humming faintly as they registered his return. He let himself in without turning on the lights, nudged off his boots by the door, and flung his jacket over the arm of the sofa. He made tea more out of habit than desire, carried it to the kitchen table, and sat in the dark.
It felt good, in theory, to be doing something—making plans, setting things in motion. But now that he was alone, the doubt crept in. A lie, and then another. Evan saving his life—once, twice. A warning. James in Evan’s home. Evan fixing his shoulder. A night of drinking that turned into talking in the living room. Breakfast the next morning. Evan kneeling on the kitchen floor, doing magic with James’s blood.
Where was the line?
James wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the night he saw the Mark and didn’t do anything. Maybe it was when he’d shown up at the Queen’s Arms for the second time. What he was fairly certain of was that, wherever the line had been, he’d walked right over it weeks ago.
And yeah, he might’ve felt guilty—about lying, about hiding this—but he’d done it anyway. And he’d realised, when he told Remus—at least in part—about Regulus, that the lying hadn’t started with Evan.
No, James had been lying for a long time.
Long before that night at the Queen’s Arms. Before the war. Before Lily. It had started with Regulus, and it hadn’t really stopped. Even after it ended, the silence had remained. He’d kept lying—about something fundamental. About who he was. He lied to Lily. To Remus. To Sirius. And maybe that was why this was so easy. Why it came so naturally. Because he’d never really stopped. He tried to imagine telling them. Telling Lily. Telling Remus. Telling Sirius. Telling them about Evan. About what he was planning tomorrow. He couldn’t. There wasn’t a version of the story they’d understand—at least not one that didn’t involve more lies.
And if he told them the truth? All of it?
He didn’t know how to begin defending that. Not really.
All he knew was that he was working with a Death Eater. Willingly. And it didn’t feel like wrong.
It felt like relief.
Like something that made sense, for once.
He sighed—low, tired—and tried to push the thoughts away. He went to bed before midnight.
Evan was already there when James Apparated into Hogsmeade the following evening, leaning against the wall with a cigarette in hand. He glanced up as James approached, sunlight catching his hair and turning it briefly to molten gold. He smirked, ground out the cigarette under his heel.
“All right, Tosspot?”
James stopped in front of him and pulled the vial containing two hairs from his pocket, holding it up. Evan nodded and drew two flasks from inside his cloak, uncorking them with a practised flick.
“Do I want to know where you got this?” James asked, mildly curious.
“Probably not,” said Evan dryly, lips twitching.
James dropped a hair into each flask. Evan raised his in mock salute. “Cheers.”
They drank.
The potion was foul—thick, clotted, and bitter. James gagged as it slid down his throat. A second later, the shift began: bones pulling tight, skin prickling, face warping. He shrank slightly—just a few inches—but it was enough to throw off his balance. His toes jammed painfully against the ends of his boots.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
A few quick charms fixed the sizing issue. When he looked over, Evan had finished transforming too—buzzcut, thick neck, a curling tattoo just visible above the collar. He rolled his shoulders and grimaced.
“Well,” Evan said dryly, his voice strange in the borrowed mouth, “that was deeply unpleasant.”
They set off toward the village, boots scuffing against the packed earth of the lane. Hogsmeade was quiet at this hour—only a few locals still milling about, most shops already shuttered for the evening. They passed a darkened apothecary, and Evan paused, catching sight of his reflection in the warped glass. He tilted his head, studying the unfamiliar face with interest.
“What do you think about Rodger?” he said, arching a brow. “I reckon I look like a Rodger.”
James let out a short snort. “Didn’t realise we were giving ourselves names.”
“Just getting into character,” Evan replied squinting at his reflection, and running a hand over his buzzcut. He turned to James, “you look like a Richard to me—or maybe more of a Dick.”
“Thanks,” said James, deadpan.
Evan smirked in return.
The Hog’s Head was nearly empty—just a pair of hags hunched in the corner and a filthy-looking man slouched at the bar, snoring into his tankard. They slipped easily into the parts they were playing, adopting the loose swagger of men already a few pints deep. Without prompting, Evan launched into a loud tirade about the “bloody injustice” of being chucked out of the Three Broomsticks while “perfectly bloody sober” —his voice thickened by a heavy northern accent that was half Sheffield, half complete piss-take.
James had to duck his head to hide the grin tugging at his mouth.
They made their way to the bar and ordered a round of Firewhiskies, ignoring the unwelcoming glare Aberforth shot them. They took two stools, and James fell easily into rhythm—exchanging rowdy, exaggerated banter with Evan, their voices rising just enough to carry. They did knock back a couple, but after his second, James discreetly withdrew his wand beneath the bar and vanished the contents of his third. The burn of the first two still lingered, curling warm and sharp in his stomach.
Evan held out longer—three more before he followed suit—and James, not for the first time, found himself a bit taken aback by Evan’s apparent tolerance for alcohol. The man held his liquor better than a mountain troll. After nearly an hour—long enough for their abrasive performance to sink into memory—James was fairly sure they’d achieved the desired effect. The hags in the corner were shooting them glances of pure contempt, and Aberforth had developed the expression of a man bitterly regretting ever opening a public establishment. He was polishing a glass with the kind of grim determination that suggested he was fantasising about homicide.
James decided it was time. He dropped his voice—not so much that it became inaudible, but enough to suggest the illusion of secrecy. The kind of quiet that carried.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, “it’s bloody insulting, is what it is. Like I haven’t earned a place higher up—and then he has the nerve to tell me I’ve got to play delivery boy—”
“—to a half-blood, no less,” Evan cut in, perfectly timed, his tone thick with disdain. “That’s the bit that gets me. The way they’re handing things out these days—might as well give a wand to a bloody Mudblood and ask it to run strategy.”
James leaned back in his chair, tapped his empty glass against the bar, and gave a derisive snort. “Doesn’t matter though. They’ll all bleed in the end.”
Evan raised his glass and smirked. “Here’s to that.”
James puffed up his chest in his best impression of Slughorn, adopting the air of someone trying to seem more important than he was. “Got one of theirs , don’t we? And they’re none the wiser—”
Evan cocked his head, interest laced with just enough scepticism to make it believable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
James smirked—the kind that said he knew something he probably shouldn’t be saying, and wanted everyone to know it.
“Just saying—I won’t be stuck doing this shit forever. I’m moving up. Doing proper work. Strategic shit.” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice further. From the way Aberforth had paused mid-polish, James knew they had the man’s attention.
“Got someone tucked in with the blood-traitors,” he said. “Properly in. All smiles and honour and ‘for the cause’—and the daft bastards haven’t got a clue.”
Evan snorted. “You’re full of it.”
James shrugged, cocky and indifferent. “Believe what you like. But it’s true. Been feeding us intel for months. Proper sly, this one.”
He leaned back again, stretching his arms, letting the moment hang.
“And the best part? He’s one of their own. Knows the lot of them, does our little rat. Can name every bastard in their little tea club. One word, we’ll take the whole fucking thing down. Just waiting for the right time.”
Evan narrowed his eyes slightly, lowered his voice with the kind of feigned caution that suggested reluctance to be overheard. “And they told youthis?”
His tone struck the perfect chord—just enough disbelief, just enough envy.
James grinned like a man with secrets too big for the room. “Told you, I’m moving up. Stick with me—you’ll see big things.”
Evan gave a small cough into his whisky, and James caught the twitch of his mouth behind the rim of the glass. He was fairly sure it was a laugh, buried beneath the show of surprise, and he played along—straightening in his chair, dragging out the moment with a slow, smug nod, like he was basking in the glow of his own imagined importance.
Then Evan set his glass down with a clink and leaned back, expression serious.
“S’pose the next one’s on me, then,” he said, voice laced with just a touch of envy, and grudging respect. “Wouldn’t want to get left behind when you ascend to the inner sanctum.”
James slapped him on the shoulder. “Very generous of you, Rodger.”
“Least I can do,” Evan replied, glancing sidelong at James as he leaned on the bar. “Figure it’s only a matter of time before you’re knee-deep in glory. Probably get yourself a title. Lord Dick of Deception , innit.”
James snorted—a laugh that was not even remotely fake—and raised his glass, doing his best to look smug and self-satisfied.
They kept up the act for another round. Evan peppered the conversation with names—James assumed chosen for effect. Malfoy came up first: “fucking posh prick, thinks he’s Merlin’s gift,” followed by a glowing complaint about someone called Carrow , whom Rodger apparently admired for his “ dedication to the cause .”
James had to admit—it was clever. It sold the performance: two minor thugs with too much to drink and too much to prove, talking themselves up, pretending they were more important than they were. Stupid enough to brag in a pub. Stupid enough to let something slip.
They ordered another.
The most important part was done, and now it was just about lingering long enough not to look suspicious. James let himself relax. Actually enjoyed the burn of his Firewhisky this time. Let the warmth hit his chest and sink into his limbs.
That was his mistake.
The pub door opened just after eight. James didn’t look up—not until Evan did.
It wasn’t the glance that warned him. It was the change in Evan’s expression: eyes narrowing, jaw tightening, a flicker of something cold passing over his face before it smoothed back into Rodger’s easy smirk. He glanced at James, held his gaze a second too long.
James turned—and instantly wished he hadn’t.
Albus Dumbledore had just walked into the pub. He was wearing a midnight-blue travelling cloak, the hood pushed back, his hair tied loosely at the nape. James stared for half a second too long before forcing himself to look away, dragging his gaze back to Evan—who was already watching him, expression level, unreadable. He didn’t say a word. Just turned back to his drink with practised ease, casual as anything. But under the bar, his knee knocked lightly into James’s.
A question. What do we do?
James didn’t hesitate. He slung an arm over Evan’s shoulders, leaned in with a grin, and said something loud and inane about Quidditch—last week’s Harpies match.
Play it cool.
Evan chuckled on cue. Message understood.
James watched from the corner of his eye as Dumbledore approached the bar, exchanged a few low words with Aberforth, then moved to a booth in the far corner, settling in with a glass of red wine. He glanced sidelong at Evan, then said—just loud enough to carry, “What do you say, Rodge, old chum? One more for the road?”
Evan didn’t answer immediately. He gave a slow, deliberate squint, the kind that said seven firewhiskies in and still going strong , then let out a theatrical sigh.
“You know me, Dick. Never could say no.”
He waved Aberforth down again, earning a look of deep and abiding resentment as the barman poured two more Firewhiskies. Evan slapped a handful of galleons on the counter—no drama, no fuss. Just two drunk blokes, loud, obnoxious, very much part of the furniture.
Then the door creaked open again.
James didn’t look. Not immediately. He forced himself to stay still, to stare into his glass, tracking movement only at the edge of his vision.
A figure stepped inside—worn grey travelling cloak, patched at the hem. He turned his head slightly, pretending to look at Evan while watching past him instead.
And then he froze.
Remus.
Remus making his way towards Dumbledore.
It was time to go.
He knocked his knee against Evan’s under the bar once more, then drained his glass and slammed it down. They stood. James didn’t have to fake the stumble; the Firewhisky had hit harder than he’d realised while sitting.
They left with a realistic amount of swagger, exchanging a few loud, slurred comments as they staggered out into the night. They kept up the act until they rounded the corner—then both straightened, heading for the line of trees at the edge of the village.
James’s head was spinning—not just from the drink, but from the question gnawing at him.
Why was Remus meeting Dumbledore?
Maybe it wasn’t Order-related. Maybe it was personal. Maybe it was none of James’s business.
He trusted Remus. Of course he did—trusted him with his life.
And yet.
Three months ago, he’d have said the same about Peter.
As for Dumbledore—he trusted the old man in theory . Trusted that he was on the right side of the war. That he wanted to win. But James had never quite warmed to him. There was something about Dumbledore—something unreadable, too all-knowing—that made James wary. Made him feel like a schoolboy again, always half a step from detention and doing his best not to get caught.
It wasn’t that he thought they were up to something . That wasn’t what worried him.
What worried him was the sudden, sharp thought that it might have been about him .
What if they knew about Evan?
What if, somehow, some way, they’d figured it out?
He risked a glance at Evan—still wearing a stranger’s face. No one could’ve recognised them. They were safe.
Surely.
Still, something twisted in James’s gut. A sharp, involuntary clench.
Concern—unwelcome, unavoidable.
He shouldn’t have dragged Evan into this. Shouldn’t have asked for his help. He’d put him in danger, real danger—and that knowledge sat heavy in his chest, like bad whisky. If he couldn’t picture explaining Evan to Lily—or to Remus, or Sirius—he certainly couldn’t imagine explaining him to Dumbledore or Moody.
“Right,” James said, quick and flat. “Let’s get out of here.”
His vision was already beginning to blur—he was losing Dick’s annoyingly perfect eyesight. A sure sign the Polyjuice was wearing off.
Evan extended an arm. James didn’t hesitate. He took it, and let the dark crush of Apparition fold in around them. They landed hard. James stumbled. The world blurred—a smear of red brick and black water. Evan caught his elbow.
“You alright, Tosspot?”
“Can’t see a bloody thing,” James muttered, digging in his pocket. He found his glasses and jammed them on.
Everything shifted—internally and externally—as his own body reasserted itself. His face twitched as bones realigned, his jaw cracked unpleasantly. He grimaced, blinking at his surroundings. They were standing by the canal, industrial London stretching out in quiet rows. Red-brick warehouses, shuttered windows. James recognised it from the day of the Ministry attack.
Evan’s neighbourhood.
“You hungry?” Evan asked.
James’s stomach answered for him with a low growl.
“Yeah,” he said.
Evan checked his watch—silver, sleek, expensive. “Chinese place round the corner’s still open. Another half hour, maybe. Food’s decent. Does takeaway. Probably a good idea to get out of the open now we’ve got our real faces back.”
James hesitated. The thought of food—hot, greasy, filling—was too appealing to resist.
“And Crouch?” he asked.
Evan’s expression didn’t flicker. Nothing given away. “Not around.”
James nodded and fell into step beside him.
The Chinese was tiny, fluorescent-lit, with laminated photos on the wall and a counter covered in old takeaway menus. The woman behind the till looked up, barely blinking at the sight of two men in weather-beaten robes. She gave Evan a warm nod—as he rattled off a well-worn order, waving off the change with a flick of his wrist.
Another very generous tip.
Had Evan Imperiused her too? James decided tonight wasn’t the night to ask.
Evan led them back through the red-brick maze to one of the warehouses. From the outside, they all looked identical—flat-faced, industrial, windowless at street level. James wouldn’t have been able to pick the right one if his life had depended on it.
A heavy iron door groaned as Evan pushed it open.
Inside, it wasn’t the sleek, converted space James remembered. It looked derelict. Empty. Wide open to the rafters. Moonlight fell through a jagged hole in the roof, pooling silver on the floor. A couple of pigeons blinked sleepily from a high beam. In the corner, what looked like a pile of old blankets might’ve been a person—someone sleeping rough.
James had just enough time to look around in confusion when the air shimmered—just like it had at the cottage. A faint ripple, as if the room itself exhaled.
And when it settled, they were standing in the foyer James remembered.
Clean. Spare. Polished concrete underfoot.
They climbed two flights of iron stairs, their footsteps echoing in the dark. At the top, Evan paused at a thick black door and laid a hand flat against it. A sequence of locks disengaged—sharp clicks, one after another—and the door swung open.
The hallway beyond was unchanged: exposed brick, high ceilings, warm with low lighting.
James followed Evan into the kitchen he’d only glimpsed before. Now that he saw it properly, it was... gorgeous. Spacious. The same rich red brick as the living room, offset by dark wood floors and gleaming stainless steel. A long kitchen island ran the length of the room, anchored by a cast-iron woodfire stove on one side and a sleek, modern range on the other. A double-door silver fridge stood opposite. It was the kind of kitchen James had always wanted—room to breathe, to move. He eyed the woodfire stove with open longing. The things he could do in a kitchen like this.
Evan, meanwhile, had dumped the takeaway bags on the island and was unpacking cartons, grabbing plates from an overhead rack. He bent to the fridge and came back with two bottles of beer, sliding one across without looking.
James caught it, amused—and glanced into the fridge itself. Practically empty. Beer. Milk. A scattering of condiments. Apparently Evan didn’t cook. Or even eat much, from the looks of it.
James glanced around, curiosity tugging at the edge of his thoughts. He hadn’t seen any sign of a house-elf. No movement, no presence—not even a neatly folded tea towel that might hint at one. The flat was immaculate. Too immaculate. Not unloved, exactly, but… unlived. He couldn’t picture anyone spending much time here. It was too tidy. Too minimal. Nothing out of place. Beautiful as it was— it didn’t feel like a home. It felt like an escape. Like armour. A shame, really, James thought. It could be a home. A proper one. There was warmth in its bones, potential in the light and space. If it were just a bit more lived in—if someone let it be lived in—it could be something else entirely.
At least, the parts he’d seen.
They ate in the living room. Evan ignored the dining table entirely, heading straight for the couches and coffee table. James took one; Evan dropped onto the other, kicked off his boots, and propped his feet on the table, balancing his plate on his lap. James hid a smile at the sight of Evan’s sock-clad feet. He couldn’t quite say why it amused him, only that it did. His parents had raised him well—manners, posture, good linen napkins. And while the Potters were one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain, they still ranked a step below the Rosiers or Malfoys in the unspoken hierarchies of old blood.
And yet here was Evan Rosier—heir to a name that probably still held land granted before the Statute of Secrecy—lounging like a teenager, feet on the table, completely unbothered. All the breeding in the world, and absolutely no regard for it. There was something almost endearing about the irreverence.
The food was actually decent. Better than James had expected. What caught his attention more, though, was the spice—subtle at first, but definitely there. Evan had chosen dishes with a bit of a kick.
James approved, found himself curious just how far that tolerance went.
And, more than that, oddly keen to test it.
“Still want to learn how to Floo-hack?” Evan asked once they’d finished eating.
James nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Evan leaned back a little, casual. “So. Bit of background. Might know this, might not. Floo travel relies on a network, yeah? Every fireplace connected to that network is tethered by runes.”
James nodded—he knew that much.
“There’s layers to it, but the main thing is this: every time someone uses the Floo—whether it’s a call or full corporeal travel—it leaves a signature. Think of it like a thread. Thin as anything, but still there. He took a sip of beer before continuing. “That’s what makes Floo dangerous—it’s traceable. But it’s also what makes it useful. You can follow those threads, learn how to read them, see who’s moving where. And, with a bit of training, you can piggyback off someone else’s magical signature. That’s where it gets really fun. That’s how you move round the network undetected.”
“How do you find the thread?” James asked.
“Net runes,” Evan said. “They pick up the residual magic of whoever’s passed through. Like listening for echoes in a cathedral—except the cathedral’s on fire.”
“And it’s… safe?”
Evan gave a half-shrug, unreadable. “Depends how you define safe. It’s illegal, obviously. Listening in on someone’s call? Minor offence—bit of a slap on the wrist. Patching into an off-network fire? That’s a felony. But it’s hard to prove unless they catch you in the act. And if you’re riding someone else’s route, travelling through on the tail of their thread? Damn near impossible to prove.”
He paused to drink again, then added—almost cheerfully, “So yeah. Not legal. But dangerous? Not especially.”
James raised an eyebrow.
“I mean,” Evan amended, “maybe a bit. But no more than regular Floo, really. The risk isn’t you —it’s what you’re walking through.”
He shifted slightly, eyes glinting.
“It’s cursed fire, see. That’s how it really works. The network’s just a muzzle. Floo powder’s the bait—what’s at the heart of the Floo Network is Ignis Perennans. ” The Latin rolled easily off his tongue.
“Old fire,” he went on. “Roman name—though more likely they found it than invented it. Bit of an unruly bastard. But interesting. See, it doesn’t burn in one place like most cursed fire. It burns everywhere. All at once. Every hearth. Every space. Every when . It’s the same flame in all of them.”
James blinked. “What?”
“You’re not travelling through the fire. You’re stepping into it. Into something that exists outside time and space, and letting it spit you out somewhere else. It doesn’t obey normal magical laws—it just reacts to certain elements. That’s what Floo powder is. Ground-up catalysts. Lead, pewter. Things it likes to eat.”
Evan gestured vaguely with the neck of his bottle. “Think of the Ministry’s network like an elaborate leash. They embed rune-paths in every registered fireplace, force the fire to move only through designated doors. So you step in one, and out the other. But if you know what you’re dong you can bypass that and choose where you end up, sort of like jumping over the fences they’ve built. Coax the fire out. Give it something it wants. Feed it the right combination of metal, just enough to wake it—and then slip through the ministry realises you don’t belong.”
Evan leaned back, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. He gave James a slow, almost wicked smile.
“Thing is, it’s alive . That’s the bit people forget. They think they can control it—shape it, trap it like a tool. But you don’t control it. Not really. You bargain with it.”
There was a pause. His too-blue eyes were shining, lit from within. The same look he’d worn in the pub, when he’d talked about Fiendfyre—that quiet, unspoken thrill. His smile wide—white teeth, dimples. Danger. It’s this , James realised. This was what made Evan Rosier tick. Not politics. Not bloodlines. Not power or gold or ideology.
This.
Wild, unruly, barely-contained magic. This was the place where the nonchalance that made up most his outward demeanor cracked/ This was who Evan Rosier was, underneath the dry wit and sarcasm was something else. And the thing that seemingly brought it out? Fire. Fire and wards, and ancient, unpredictable magic.
James found himself leaning forwards, intrigued as Evan continued speaking. Because James, for better or worse, had always poking at things he wasn’t supposed to. Had always liked the edge of things. And right now, he wanted to see how far that fire ran under Evan’s calm exterior. Just how much danger was waiting beneath the surface. There was something a little thrilling about the glint in Evan’s eyes. The same thrill as a freefall Quidditch dive, or sneaking a firework under McGonagall’s chair and timing the fuse just right. The kind of risk that made James’s blood hum.
He couldn’t help himself.
Like a moth to a flame, he wanted to prod it.
Just to see if he could without getting burnt.