James didn’t remember the rest of the meeting. Didn’t remember anything Kingsley or Moody said after the name Rosier. Barely remembered leaving the meeting, but he must have because there he was walking up the garden path with Lily, unsure of how he got there—just moving on autopilot. The door closed behind them, and it sounded loud, too loud to James. Lily turned on him the minute they were inside.
“How could you?” she demanded, voice pitching high in the still air of the cottage.
James blinked at her, numb and completely at a loss as to why she was yelling at him. “Lil—”
“No,” she cut in, sharp. “How could you stand here and accuse Pete like that?”
Oh, thought James, that’s what she was angry about—he’d almost forgotten about what had happened before Moody had said Evan’s name, it felt like it had been days ago. Distant.
“You know him,” she said. “You’ve known him your entire life. And now, just like that—you accuse him of being a spy? You tell Moody he’s working with Death Eaters?”
“I didn’t say I knew—”
“You didn’t even talk to him. Didn’t ask. Didn’t give him a chance.”
James exhaled slowly, tiredly. He didn’t want to have this fight, not now. Not when his head was spinning and his chest was aching and all he wanted was to be alone. “That would kind of defeat the point, wouldn’t it, Lil. Not the best idea to tip off the person you think is spying for the enemy, is it.”
Lily shook her head, the words spilling faster now, brittle with disbelief.
“Merlin, James, do you even hear yourself? It’s like you don’t give a shit—now and in there as well. What the hell was that? He’s always been a follower. Really, James?”
“It’s true.”
“It’s cold, is what it is—I might expect that from Sirius, not from you. You were always his defender, you stuck up for him. This isn’t you—”
James’s jaw clenched. “I did what I thought was best.”
There was more steel in his voice than he meant—but in that moment he couldn’t really bring himself to care.
“What if it was me, James?” she asked. “Would you go straight to Moody the instant you noticed something off—or would you give me the decency of explaining myself? When did you stop trusting him?” she demanded. “When did you stop trusting me, or any of us?”
“Of course I trust you, Lil.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Are you sure about that? Because it doesn’t feel like you do. Not anymore.”
Anger flared hot and sharp in him—this wasn’t about Peter. This was about her, about them. Deep down, some very small rational part of him knew that his anger wasn’t really at her—it was pain, pain and shock—it was for Evan, and Lily didn’t know. She wouldn’t pick a fight with him if she knew, but she didn’t. It wasn’t her fault. It was his. He hadn’t told her—but James didn’t want to be rational right now. He wanted to lean into the hot burn of anger, because it felt good, felt better than the lump trying to claw its way up his throat, felt better than the burn behind his eyes.
“Merlin, Lil,” he said, letting his tone bite, “you act like this is fucking easy for me. Well, guess what. It’s not. I didn’t want to believe it was Peter—but you know what I want less? Anyone else I care about to die because I was too fucking cowardly to see what was in front of me.”
“You’re not the only one who’s scared, James,” said Lily. Her voice was angry—but her chin was trembling slightly, and some vicious, hateful part of him felt a small stab of satisfaction at the sight, because he was hurting and it felt good to see that pain on someone else's face, even if it wasn't pain over Evan, part of him could pretend it was; pretend he wasn't alone in this.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost people James. But you’ve stopped letting anyone in. Not me. Not Remus. You’ve barely spoken to Sirius in Merlin knows how long. Weeks, James.”
“I don’t know what you want from me. You want an apology—alright, I’m sorry I’m acting in a way you don’t like. There.”
“I don’t want an apology,” she said. “I want to know what the hell is happening to you. What’s changed so much that you can turn on Peter—of all people—so quickly? You’re turning into someone I don’t even recognise.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned on her heel and ran up the stairs, bedroom door slamming a few minutes later. James sank down onto the couch, letting his head fall into his hands. Today should have been a win, should have been a good thing. He’d finally named Peter—but it wasn’t. Nothing about today was alright because Evan was gone.
Lily’s words hung in the air like something physical. James sat still for a long moment, elbows on knees, breath shallow.
He didn’t go after her—perhaps he should have—but he didn’t have it in him. So he just sat, and when night crawled in he didn’t go upstairs, didn’t join her in bed. Instead, he lay out on the couch. Staring blankly up at the ceiling.
It was his fault.
He should have told Evan. Should have warned him the moment Moody left. Should’ve said to hell with the risk and done it anyway. It’s what Evan would have done—had done, more than once. James’s chest felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out. He didn’t even realise he was crying until his vision began to blur, his sobs coming quietly, shaking his body as he lay silently crying on the couch. It felt like losing a friend. Because, James realised, that’s exactly what it was.
Not an ally. Not a near-friend.
Somewhere between that first drink at the Queen’s Arms and Chinese food in the converted warehouse in East London, Evan Rosier had become a friend.
A real one.
James had thought he couldn’t feel this anymore. Thought he’d bled himself dry already—for Gid and Fab, for Marlene, for Mary, for Regulus.
He was wrong.
He had lost the only person he hadn’t been lying to. That realisation hurt in a way James hadn’t known he could still hurt.
At some time around four in the morning he fell into a fitful sleep, punctuated with images of Evan. And when he did wake the next morning to the sound of the Floo roaring as Lily left for work, the images stayed. Stayed throughout the day—following him around the cottage like a ghost—the eleven-year-old who’d called him tosspot with crisp disdain. The boy perched on a bucket in the broom shed. The boy stood in the corridor outside the Divination classroom, hair sticking up on one side—the boy who’d told him he couldn’t help Regulus, but it was nice that James cared.And then Evan sitting on another bucket in the room at the base of The Astronomy Tower years later, teaching him Blackjack, running Quidditch drills on a dusk-lit pitch, standing in a broom cupboard after a kiss that shouldn’t have happened, embarrassed as Evan smirked back at him. And then he thought of Evan now—or rather, how he had been in the months since James had met him in the Queen’s Arms. Evan in Death Eater robes, sipping tea from a ridiculous novelty mug. Ash in his hair. Blood on his cheek. Evan spinning his Guineas glass in his hands as he thought through a problem. Lighting a cigarette with a silver Zippo. Kneeling on the kitchen floor, grinning up at James as he wiped a silver dagger on his sleeve. Slouched on James’s couch, boots kicked up on the table. In James’s kitchen, elbow-deep in suds as he did the dishes.
On the second day, James went back to the Queen’s Arms.
He hadn’t planned to. Didn’t mean to. But he couldn’t stand sitting alone at home anymore. Lily wasn’t talking to him, and James wasn’t particularly in the mood to apologise—not yet. Not after he’d walked into the kitchen to find her reading that morning’s Daily Prophet . Evan staring back at him from its front page, expression a study in nonchalance, eyes too blue, that impossible, unreal blue—even in ink.
A blocky headline above the photograph read: DEATH, DEBT AND DARK LEGACIES: By Rita Skeeter | Continued on Page Five
James walked out of the room. Out of the cottage. No destination in mind, only the sudden and overwhelming need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Lily called after him. He didn’t answer. The front door slamming behind him.
The bar didn’t open till eleven, and so he walked—walked along the wooded lanes, now turning orange and gold with the arrival of autumn. Along the promenade where the waves crashed against the railing. Sat on the wall watching the grey sky melt into prayer water.
Around midday he returned to the pub, slid onto a stool—the same one as before. The same bartender was working—the girl with the bright smile and West Country accent. The girl Evan had Imperiused. He ordered a whisky. Jameson. She poured it, then cocked her head.
“Where’s your friend? Blonde one you usually come in with?”
James’s throat closed. He swallowed hard. “Not coming.”
She frowned, clearly reading something in James’s face. “Something happen to him?”
“He died,” said James roughly, unsure of why—perhaps just because he needed to say it to someone.
“Oh, love,” said the girl, sympathy flashing across her face. She reached across the bar and squeezed his hand. Then she turned and poured a hefty double—something off the back bar. “Here, have a drink for him on me—he was a good one,” she smiled a little wistfully, “a looker too. I’m sure he’ll be missed.”
James accepted the glass, nodded in thanks. He drank himself past the edge of clarity—it didn’t help. Just made the ache in his chest worse.
The cottage was quiet when he stumbled in, sad and angry at himself. He wondered into the kitchen, opened the fridge and then-while looking at the container of left overs he'd been considering eating, was struck with the sudden gut wrenching realisation that he still owed Evan dinner. A dinner he'd never collect on. The contents of the fridge swum before his eyes as a lump clawed its way up his throat. He didn’t go upstairs after that, couldn't face it. Couldn't face pretending to be okay, so instead he collapsed onto the couch, boots still on, and let sleep take him like a wave crashing over rock.
When he woke the next day, it was late.
His head splitting. Mouth dry.
The kind of hangover that felt like a curse.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what day it was—whether it mattered.
Lily was gone, probably already at the hospital—there was a blanket draped over him which he assumed was her doing.
He pulled himself together as best he could. Tried to hold it in the way he had with Regulus—push it down far enough that he could manage a smile when she came home. Manage an apology. She looked at him with quiet caution, asked where he’d been the day before. He told her he’d just needed to get out. That it had all been too much—Peter, the fight they’d had. That he’d needed to clear his head. He apologised. Apologised for disappearing. And then for the fight—the one about Peter, the one that hadn’t really been about Peter at all. She nodded, the edge in her eyes softening.
That evening, a note arrived from Moody. Instructions.
James was wanted on a job. Not the stakeout in Northumberland. Something else. Something with Sirius. He took it as a sign—Moody must believe him. Must have confirmed Peter was the leak. James was back in the fold.
He should’ve felt relief.
He didn’t.
Only tired.
Neither he nor Sirius spoke much. James knew he probably should have—they should talk about Peter at the very least. James had had months to come to terms with Peter’s betrayal; Sirius hadn’t. He should try to fix whatever was broken between them, talk to his best friend. But he didn’t have it in him. Not tonight.
They swept the property Moody had assigned them—nothing major. Burnt-out wards, signs of recent occupancy.
No one home. Just dust, scorch marks, and the sharp, bitter smell of burnt sage.
After they’d finished, Sirius turned to him.
“Drink?”
James hesitated. He didn’t particularly want to be around anyone, really. But he didn’t want to go home either. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Alright.”
The Leaky Cauldron was quiet. The weather had turned over the weekend—the last remnants of summer gone. Cold, damp and grey—drizzle had settled over the city like a veil.
They slid into a booth at the back. James ordered two double Firewhiskies.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Planning to get me drunk and take advantage?”
James didn’t answer. Just snorted and downed his drink in one.
Sirius studied him. “You alright, mate?”
“Fine.”
But James could feel Sirius's eyes on him, intent, watchful.
James ordered another round without asking. Ignored the weight of Sirius’s stare as he tossed back the drink, hoping the burn might help. Briefly considered another—but the way Sirius was watching him made it clear that would be pushing it. He already felt off, knew he was acting it too. Couldn’t summon the energy to care much—but he could at least avoid getting properly shit-faced in front of Sirius. He reached into his pocket, meaning to pull out coins—but his fingers caught on cardboard. He withdrew his hand and looked down.A pack of cigarettes. Blue.
Gauloises Blonde
Evan’s cigarettes.
The ones James had pocketed weeks ago when Lily had found them under the couch. The ones he’d meant to give back.
James stared at the pack in his hand, and then slid one out. Lit it with a flick of his wand. Inhaled. Held. Let the smoke curl out slow.
Sirius raised an eyebrow at the pack. “You mind?”
Evan would’ve minded. Would’ve said no just to piss Sirius off, probably. But he was gone, was past caring. So James just shrugged, passed it the packet over.
Sirius lit one. Inhaled. Then made a face. “Never liked French frags much. Didn’t even know you could get Gauloises in England.” He handed the pack back. His eyes didn’t leave James. “Odd choice.”
James flicked ash into the tray. “I like them.”
“Since when?” Sirius asked—and his voice had changed. Something edged. Sharper.
James raised an eyebrow. “What, you taking up a new hobby? Worrying about my nicotine preferences?”
“I don’t give a toss what you smoke,” Sirius said acidly. “I care that you’re not acting like yourself. That shit at the meeting—what the hell was that? If you thought Peter was up to something, why wouldn’t you talk to us first? To me, Rem—”
He paused. Stared at James for a long minute, and then asked: “what the hell is going on with you? You’re off, mate. Way off.”
The anger hit fast. Hot and unbidden. The same anger that he’d felt at Lily—anger at the loss of Evan, anger that they didn’t care—wouldn’t care what James had lost.
He should have swallowed it. Should’ve let it pass. But it felt good—felt better than the pain he’d been living in for the last three days. So he didn’t hold back. He stubbed out the cigarette. Turned to Sirius.
“I’m sorry I’m not the person I was before,” James said, voice sharp enough to cut. Sirius flinched. Good, thought James, viciously. Let him flinch. “Sorry I can’t keep pretending everything’s fucking fine like the rest of you seem to. Maybe I’m just not as strong as you. Or maybe I’m just tired. Because it’s fucked, Pads. All of it. I hate it.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “And yeah, it’s getting to me. So cheers for the observation. That really helps. Exactly what I needed—another reminder that I’m not holding it together.”
It was a dick move. James knew that.
Something flickered in Sirius’s eyes—uncertainty, and then guilt. James felt bad. Not for lying. He was used to that now. No—he felt bad for how easy it was. For how good he was at it, at deflecting. How easy it had been to turn the suspicion in Sirius’s eyes into guilt.
And the worst part?
He could’ve told the truth.
Evan was gone. It didn’t matter anymore. There was no reason not to come clean—about the drinks, the meetings, all of it. But the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Not until hours later, lying beside Lily in bed, listening to the sound of her breathing in the dark. By then, the lie was already settled in his chest. Heavy. Familiar.
James went to Diagon Alley the next morning. Lily needed a baby shower gift for her sister, and he didn’t have anything better to do. Besides, she’d asked him to come—and now that his anger had cooled, he was back to feeling hollow. Back to feeling like he was failing her, failing Sirius, failing them all.
So he went.
They were in Flourish and Blotts. James stood by the cookery section, thumbing aimlessly through a book with a garish illustration of a floating roast chicken on the front. Lily was somewhere behind him, in the children’s aisle, murmuring to herself as she debated between a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard and a book with a plush green dragon on the front that squeaked in three languages when you prodded its belly.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind James. Soft. Feminine.
He turned. The witch was petite, neatly dressed in perfectly tailored dark blue silk robes. Her pale hair was pinned up in an elaborate updo, lips painted a deep cherry red. She was beautiful, but that wasn’t what caught James’s attention. It was her eyes—a deep, impossible blue, as if someone had charmed them into a colour that shouldn’t exist in human eyes. Utterly striking, utterly unforgettable and—horribly familiar. James knew those eyes, had been thinking about them for the past three days straight.
“Would you mind?” she asked, tilting her chin up towards the shelf above his head. Her gloved hand gestured to a book with a pale green spine. “It’s a bit out of my reach.”
James stared for a beat too long, then—catching himself—nodded and reached for the book without speaking. His fingers closed on it mechanically.
“Thank you.” Red lips curled at the corners—part amusement, part something sharper. It wasn’t quite a smile. Not really. More a smirk wrapped in something private and knowing. Half invitation, half warning. The resemblance was uncanny. Same full lips. Same high cheekbones and straight nose. It had been years. At least five, but the memory came back sharp and sudden: a courtyard during sixth year—a duel, a hand reaching out to stop James from interfering, an arm looped through his like they were old friends, like she had every right to touch him.
“Miss Rosier?” he asked and her smile deepened, edged now with something sardonic—so awfully like her brother’s that it made James’s stomach churn.
“Dora, please,” she corrected smoothly, tucking the book beneath her arm.
James opened his mouth to speak— “I’m—”
“James,” she interrupted, her tone light, almost breezy—but the glint in her eye was anything but.
James stared at her, throat dry. Her smile held. Sharp. Elegant. And knowing. All too knowing. And he had the sudden, crawling sense that she knew everything— everything —about him. All the secrets he hadn’t told anyone. The things he hadn’t admitted even to himself. His shame. His guilt. His grief. Laid bare. And worse—that she found it all rather amusing. He swallowed. Pushed the thought aside. He should say something. About Evan. He meant to say something. But what? What could he say that wouldn’t feel presumptuous? Did he even have the right to speak Evan’s name in front of her, when he might have been able to save him? How would she look at him if she knew it was his fault her brother had died—that he could’ve warned him, and hadn’t?
James felt sick.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said at last, voice low, hesitant.
“Don’t be,” she said brightly.
She patted his arm with familiar fondness. James looked down at her hand—long, red, manicured nails rested on his arm. Something almost predatory about them, like talons dipped in blood. A slight shiver ran down his spine as he looked back up at her. She was still smiling at him, bright and sunny.
“My father was not a good man. The world is, frankly, better without him in it.”
The words ricocheted around his skull. Her father ? “Your father? I thought—”
“I know you did,” she said gently. “Of course, if you’d read the Prophet you’d have realised sooner, but I completely understand why you didn’t. Awful excuse for a newspaper—and between you and me, I’m rather glad you didn’t read it. That horrid woman said some very nasty things about me, and I’d have hated for that to be your first real impression. These things do tend to stick in the mind, you see.”
James stared at her, half in shock, half disbelief, his brain snagging on the implication of the words, scared he'd somehow misunderstood her, that she didn't really mean what he thought she did.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I just—"
"My brother is perfectly fine I assure you," she said as if reading his thoughts directly from his mind, she glanced over his shoulder—just briefly—and then fixed him once more with those impossible blue eyes. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Do be a dear and don’t mention this little chat to him the next time you see him. He does so hate it when I meddle, but you see I couldn't have you carry on the way you were. Besides I've been simply dying to meet you for years, it's such an awful drag having to wait around for ones friends to catch up you know.”
She stepped back. “Now, you really should run along. Your fiancée has found her book, and I’m in no mood to be hexed today.”
She gave him a gentle push, and James—still too stunned to do anything else—went. He made his way towards Lily, who was watching him with a frown.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Dora Rosier,” said James, too dumbfounded to come up with a lie.
Lily raised an eyebrow. “What did she want?”
“A book, I think.” James shook his head, caught halfway between utter bafflement and sheer unbridled relief. He smiled—couldn’t help it—as the realisation began to sink in. Evan was alive. “Honestly, it was a bit hard to tell. Very odd witch.”
Lily gave him a long, searching look but said nothing.
James cleared his throat. “Fancy an ice cream?”
She blinked. “Now?”
“Yeah,” he said decisively. “Feels a day to have ice cream.”
She glanced out the window. It was raining—the kind of persistent rain that soaked through your cloak no matter how fast you walked. But James didn’t care. He grinned down at her—and she hesitantly shrugged.
And so they went.
They stood under the awning at Fortescue’s, sharing a dripping bench and eating strawberry and pistachio cones like it was high summer. James didn’t care about the cold. Didn’t care about the rain.
The world felt lighter. Brighter.
Because Evan was alive.
And James had been an idiot.
He’d jumped to conclusions—the worst kind. Had let grief run ahead of fact. Had heard a name, assumed the worst, and been too gutted to ask questions. He could’ve spared himself three days of guilt, of grey mornings and aching loss, if he’d just had the presence of mind to ask which Rosier Kingsley had meant.
Evan was alive.
James let the thought settle again—savouring it like the last bite of his cone.