Halloween passed without James noticing, and then it was November—the coldest in thirty years. Snow came early, dusting the garden by the end of the first week.
Inside the cottage, the atmosphere wasn’t much warmer.
James was stretched thin, on edge, Moody’s habit of dropping by unannounced, commandeering the sitting room for some reason or other had only become more frequent in the lead up towards Christmas. Too often that whirring blue eye lingered on James a beat too long, like Moody was weighing something James couldn’t see.
“I reckon I’m turning into as much of a paranoid sod as the old geezer,” James said to Evan in a Queens Arms in Lutterworth the first Monday of December. “Know he’s keeping an eye on me, know he suspects something but can’t work out what. It’s driving me up the bloody wall. It’s not like he’s freezing me out like he did when he thought I was the leak, but he’s always at my house. It’s driving me up the wall.”
“He’s running you tosspot,” said Evan around a swig of his Guinness. “Instead of leaving your suspect out in the cold—you run them as a controlled asset. Bring them in, give them access, lull them into a false sense of security while you gather intel, or build a case against them..”
James blinked at him, “you think?”
“I know,” said Evan with a shrug, “Aura hand book. Chapter eight, intelligence and counterintelligence, suspects and sources."
“You’ve read the aurora handbook?” asked James, taken aback.
“Yeah,” Evan shrugged, “—along with half a dozen other training and field manuals.”
“You wanted to be an Auror?”
“Fuck no,” Evan snorted. “Wanted to play Quidditch. Not that it was ever an option. Father wanted me in politics like him, problem was, wasn’t ever big the idea,” he frowned, “not a big fan of people really, or having to pretend to be something I’m not. Had enough of that in day to day life. Rather not make a career out of it.”
Evan shrugged again, “as it turned out got a nack for defensive magic, dueling, dark arts. Father was happy enough with that. Future was decided. Knew after I took the mark there was a good chance I’d end up facing down auroras.” He gave a faint, humourless smile. “Decided in sixth year that learning how the people I’d be up against thought. How they planned, was a better use of my time than studying for exams. Told Slughorn I wanted to be an Auror end of sixth year. Said I wanted to study early, get a head start, make a name for myself. Already had enough duelling trophies to make it believable. He called in a favour, got me copies of their tactical manuals and procedure guides, spent seventh year memorising as much as I could.”
James stared at him, unsure he should be impressed, or mildly terrified by Evan’s forethought and capacity for strategic thinking.
“You genuinely scare me sometimes, you know that?” said James. “Moody would bloody love you.”
Evan snorted. “Yeah, I bet we’d get on like a house on fire—right up until he sent me the same way as my old man.”
“So what should I do?” asked James.
“Not much you can do, to be honest. Don’t fall for it. Be careful.”
James did try—really, he did—but Moody had a knack for appearing at the worst possible time. He’d barely sat down opposite Evan at the Queen’s Arms in Burnley the following week when that familiar prickle ran down his spine. The wards. Someone was at the cottage.
Each person that crossed the wards felt different, almost like a signature,Evan had explained—when James had asked—that it was to do with the person’s intention. The blood magic wards picking up on each person’s intention and weather they meant harm or not. James had learned to read them—recognise them. He could tell Remus from Peter or Lily—and this signature? This one he knew well, this one was sharp, deliberate, unmistakable. Moody.
James swore under his breath, meeting Evan’s eyes across the table. “Moody’s at the cottage,” he muttered. “I’d better go.”
Evan nodded, then frowned. “Pick up some milk or something—give yourself a reason to be out. Stop him asking questions.”
James gave a short nod and pushed back his chair. His pint sat untouched on the table, condensation already pooling beneath it.
The air outside was frozen still, snow flurries drifting aimlessly. James stopped at a corner shop before Disapparating and reappearing in the hush of Godric’s Hollow. The snow was heavier here, falling faster, its faint patter just audible in the silence of the night. He pushed open the door and heard voices. Stepping into the living room, he found it already crowded: Frank and Robards on the couch, Moody in the armchair he seemed to have permanently claimed, Sirius, and Emmeline crammed onto the other couch, Kingsley standing by the fire.
“You’re late,” barked Moody.
“Ran out of milk.” James lifted the plastic carrier bag in one hand as explanation. “Wasn’t aware there was anything to be late to.”
“Order meeting. Get yourself a drink and sit down, lad.”
“Right,” James said, biting back several other responses—telling Moody not to bark orders at him in his own house, perhaps, or that it might’ve been nice to ask before commandeering his living room yet again. Instead, he stowed the milk in the fridge beside the half-full bottle already there and headed back to the living room.
Robards shifted, making space for him on the couch between her and Frank. James dropped into the seat, doing his best not to look as petulant as he felt. It wasn’t just that Moody had once again turned the cottage into unofficial headquarters without so much as asking—though that was enough to put him in a foul mood. It was the timing. He’d been looking forward to a pint with Evan, he’d had things he wanted to talk to Evan about—Moody being on that list—now with owls out, he was going to have to wait however long until Evan was able to meet again. James’s mood only soured when Moody produced a small silver knife and cup. He knew what was coming. The blade was different, but close enough to the one Evan used that James recognised it for what it was: ceremonial, made for blood magic. He offered his hand without a word. Moody cocked his head, studying him, then drew the blade cleanly across James’s palm, catching the blood in the silver cup.
“Hands out,” he growled to the rest of the room.
There was a ripple of exchanged looks. Sirius broke the silence first. “And what exactly are you planning to do with that?”
“Blood oath,” said Moody. “Same as last time. Need to be sure what I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room.”
Sirius’s eyes flicked to the cup, distrust written plain across his face. “Funny, last time you just waved your wand. Didn’t need a bloody knife and goblet like some half-rate dark wizard.”
“Didn’t have them on me,” Moody said flatly. .
“Argensang,” Kingsley, his voice low, curious, eyes stayed fixed on the cup and dagger, the silver already stained with James’s blood. “Why did you find one? I was under the impression they’d all been lost, or destroyed.”
“Most of them have,” Moody grunted.
“Argensang,” Sirius echoed, frowning. Then he froze, horror dawning slow and sharp. “No. No, fuck no.” He lurched to his feet, staring at Moody like he’d sprouted horns. “That!” he pointed at the cup and dagger, “that’s for blood magic! You’re not doing that on me. Not a fucking chance.”
James, whose palm had begun to throb, gave him a look and said, “He’s already done it Pads. What did you think he did last time—nick your blood for the fun of it? Merlin just do it would you so we get on with whatever this is.”
“Potter’s right,” Moody growled. “I’m not about to drag you through it kicking and screaming. But if you won’t agree, you walk out that door now. I’ll be damned if I risk another leak. This is how we lock it down. Only way to make sure nothing leaves this room.”
Sirius looked around the room. “You can’t all be fine with this—it’s dark magic!”
Frank cleared his throat. “Alastor wouldn’t ask if he didn’t think it necessary, Sirius.” His voice was tired, but steady.
Kingsley, still watching the cup and dagger with cool interest, rumbled, “I trust Alastor. And so should you.”
Vance shrugged—she cast James a wry look—“seems we’ve all already taken a blood oath. What’s the harm in another?” She held her hand out, Frank and Alice followed, then Kingsley, then the rest of the room in turn. Sirius’s scowl making it perfectly clear that he wasn’t happy about the arrangement.
“Repeat after me,” said Moody once the cup was brimming with blood, “I swear, upon magic and blood, to speak to no one of what is said in this room tonight. Not in part, nor in full. Not in hint, nor implication. I swear not to name it, not to mark it, not to allude to it in word, thought, or deed. I swear this vow, and I bind myself to silence by blood.”
It was the same oath, James recognised the wording as he repeated it, his voice blending into those of the others.
Moody gave a sharp nod. “Karkaroff’s talked.” His good eye swept the room. “More than we hoped for. You-Know-Who’s moving on the Ministry. Got people inside already. Karkaroff reckons a third of the Wizengamot’s compromised. Didn’t have every name, but enough. We’ve got six more confirmed Death Eaters. Old families. Some we knew, some we only guessed.”
“Rabat and Rodolphus Lestrange. Evan Rosier. No surprise, given the old man—”
James’s gut dropped. Cold dread slammed through him. Moody knew. He knew about Evan. James barely heard the next words over the roar in his ears.
“—biggest worry is Crouch—”
Frank swore. Roboards went white.
“Barty Crouch? That’s impossible,” she whispered.
“No,” Moody barked. “His son. Crouch Junior. Don’t know what it means yet. But if the boy’s in, father could be too. And that’d be very bad for us. Crouch has pull.”
“We have people on Crouch,” came Kingsley’s deep rumble. “He’s had his eye on the Minister’s post for two years now. Suffice it to say, we can’t let that happen if he’s compromised. But it means we tread carefully. Prepare for the worst-case scenario—prepare for a Minister for Magic under You-Know-Who’s thumb.”
James stared at Moody, his brain ticking over. Why had Moody hauled them all in? The grizzled Auror did not hand out information for the sake of it; there had to be an ulterior motive. He tried to spin possibilities in his head. Vance cleared her throat and gave voice to the thought before he could.
“I’m assuming there’s a reason for this meeting,” she said, eyes sweeping the room. “Frank, Robards and Kingsley are Auroras, I get why they’re here, but why us?” she gestured at James, Sirius and herself.
Moody huffed, a sound that might have been amusement or sheer impatience. “You’re all pure-blood,” he said flatly. “Old families. Firstborn heirs. Every one of you is entitled to a seat on the Wizengamot.”
“You’re kidding,” Sirius said, incredulous. “None of us has the faintest interest in politics. What, we just stroll in and sit down?”
“No, Black, I’m not kidding,” Moody snapped, his tone hard as stone. He rattled off names like charges in a courtroom. “Blacks. Potters. Longbottoms. Robards. Vances. You’ve all got one thing in common—the right to claim seats. It’s time you bloody well did. We need every vote we can count on. If they’re stacking the Wizengamot with theirs, we match them seat for seat.”
The rest of the meeting blurred into strategy. Moody outlined what he wanted from them in the Wizengamot: which bills to block, which motions to back, and—more pointedly—which men to watch. Every name was young, newly seated, and newly confirmed through Karkaroff’s confession: Evan Rosier. Thaddeus Mulciber. Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange. Octavius Avery. Corvinus Yaxley. Tiberius Prince. Moody spoke as if drawing lines on a battlefield, each name marked as enemy ground.
Frank interrupted once. “If I’m spending what little time I have left after patrols on this,” he said, “Alice deserves to know why.”
Moody allowed it, but with limits. Husbands, wives, fiancées—no one else. “The rest of the Order doesn’t need to know,” he said.
They went on for hours, talk of votes and committees and influence, until James’s head ached with it. When Moody finally dismissed them into the cold night, the words still rang in his ears—names and oaths, and Evan’s among them.
Twice now he’d been bound by blood, and the thought of it festered. He didn’t know the boundaries of those oaths, what counted as breaking them, what would happen if he did. He wanted to tell Evan—to warn him, to protect him—but the oath coiled around his throat like a curse.
It kept him up that night. The memory of Karkaroff, of Evan’s father, of thinking Evan was dead. The first time silence had almost cost him Evan. And now here he was again—knowing something and unable to say a word. The problem wore at him all week. It got into everything—his work, his sleep, his voice. Even when he was home, his mind stayed elsewhere. He caught Lily watching him more than once, her expression tight with concern.
On Sunday evening, as he sat staring at the half-folded newspaper on the kitchen table, she leaned against the counter and said softly, “You’ve barely spoken in days. What’s going on?”
James blinked, as if dragged up from deep water. “Nothing,” he said, too quickly. “Just tired.”
Lily’s expression faltered, concern cooling into distance. “Right,” she said quietly, and turned away, her back to him as she busied herself with the kettle.
Monday dawned cold and sharp, December less than a week away and the bite of Christmas already in the air. James sat in the grand hall, trying—and failing—not to nod off. The chamber was too warm, the air close beneath the gilded dome, and the heavy plum robes draped over his shoulders only added to the suffocation.
The Wizengamot chamber was built for grandeur, not comfort. Tall arched windows lined the circular walls, their glass charmed to dim the daylight into a permanent twilight. Silver braziers hung suspended in the air, casting flickering light across the tiers of polished oak benches that rose around the central floor. At its heart stood the speaking podium, sunk into the stone so that the spectators looked down upon whoever spoke—a block of dark wood carved with the Ministry’s crest.
Barty Crouch Senior presided above it, perched on an elevated chair of the same wood. His gaze was cold and hawkish, the rhythmic tap of his quill against the parchment rest a silent dare to anyone thinking of wasting his time. Someone—a short wizard with a long ginger beard, whose name James had already forgotten—stood at the podium, reading in a droning monotone from a scroll so long its ends brushed the floor.
James blinked hard, forcing his focus back to the words. Something about proposed amendments to the regulation of international Portkeys—trade routes, customs inspections, new tariffs for travel through French channels. A bureaucratic nightmare, every syllable of it.
To his left, Sirius’s head had dropped forward onto his chest. He was snoring faintly, the sound muffled by the velvet collar of his robes.
James jabbed him sharply in the ribs. Sirius startled, blinking blearily before shooting him a murderous look.
“What?” he muttered under his breath, rubbing at his side.
“You were snoring,” James whispered back.
“Better than listening,” Sirius grumbled, slouching lower in his seat. He tugged at the collar of his robes as though it were choking him. “Who even cares about international Portkeys?”
The truth was, Sirius wasn’t wrong. It did feel pointless. They’d been in session all day, and as far as James could tell, nothing of consequence had been said—or done—just one pompous wizard after another droning on about tariffs and regulations.
After what felt like an impossibly long time, the short ginger wizard finally rolled up his scroll, bowed stiffly toward the elevated chair, and stepped down from the podium. His replacement rose from one of the higher benches and descended the polished wooden steps to the floor.
James leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. The man was tall—about his own height—with sharp features and dark eyes. Handsome, composed. A sharply tailored suit showed beneath the heavy plum robes, his dark hair combed neatly back. He moved with an easy confidence, smiling as he took the podium.
“Good afternoon, esteemed witches and wizards of the Gamot,” he began. “I promise I’ll keep this brief. Now, Mr Cattsworth has presented a very… thorough case—heroic in its detail. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I feel older than I did when I arrived this morning.”
He winked toward the ginger wizard, who scowled and tugged irritably at his beard as a ripple of laughter moved through the chamber.
“But, if I may,” the speaker continued, his tone shifting smoothly, “I think most of us here are less interested in the theory of regulation than in its impact—on our lives, and on our country.”
A low murmur of assent rolled through the benches.
“Because yes—while security is of the highest importance in these trying times—so is our freedom as a nation.” He spread his hands in a gesture of easy reason. “Ask yourself this: do we really want to tighten our borders? To make it harder for good, hardworking witches and wizards to move freely, to trade freely, to live freely? Do we want to send the message that our Ministry doesn’t trust its own citizens?
“Mr Cattsworth promises protection. I see restriction. He promises safety. I see suffocation. What Britain needs now is confidence, not fear. Efficiency, not red tape. Freedom, not chains.”
Sirius, who’d apparently woken up just in time, muttered something rude under his breath—but James barely heard him. His attention was fixed on the podium.
On Barty Crouch Jr.
He watched as Crouch worked the chamber like it was his own drawing room—every phrase measured, every pause perfectly judged. Agreement spread through the benches like a tide, heads nodding, murmurs rippling outward.
High above, Barty Crouch Senior looked on with a kind of cold pride. Hawk-eyed, expression unreadable, but visibly pleased as his son commanded the floor below.
And the thing was—Crouch’s argument sounded good. Too good. Logic so polished it was almost impossible to refute. He spoke with warmth and conviction, dark eyes sweeping the benches, his smile wide and inviting. For a moment, James felt the pull himself—the instinct to nod along, to believe that what he was hearing was sense, was truth.
Crouch leaned forward to conclude, voice dropping to a near whisper—intimate, confiding, as though addressing each of them alone.
“I trust this Gamot knows the difference between freedom and the chains of bureaucracy. And I trust, too, that every witch and wizard here holds this nation’s best interests at heart… and that you will make the right choice when the time comes.”
He stepped down to steady applause, acknowledging it with modest nods as he made his way back to his seat. James kept watching. Watched as Crouch bent toward the man beside him—a tall man with long flowing white-blond hair—and murmured something that drew a sharp, knowing smirk from him.
The next speaker was already on the floor, but he was duller by far, and James’s attention drifted. His gaze kept sliding back—again and again—to where Crouch sat.
He’d never spoken to him much at school, maybe not at all, but he recognised him well enough. Hard not to. James had spent too many dinners pretending not to stare at Regulus across the Great Hall not to notice the Ravenclaw who sometimes drifted down to the Slytherin table, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Regulus and Evan.
A memory surfaced—summer heat pressing close on the Astronomy Tower, Regulus perched beside him with a textbook balanced on his knee. James had been doing his best to distract him, grumbling that it was far too late to still be studying.
Regulus had nudged him away without looking up. James had pushed back, told him he studied too much.
That made Regulus smile, brief and sly. “You should meet Barty,” he’d said.
James had seized the opening, leaning closer, eager to turn the evening away from books and toward snogging. “Why? So he can bore me to death as well?”
Regulus had closed his book with deliberate care, grey eyes glinting. “He’s clever. Not just with work—with people. He sees what they want, how to move them.” His tone had softened then, a flicker of real admiration slipping through. Then his mouth curved, one dark brow arched. “And he enjoys breaking rules almost as much as you do. Just… less loudly. I think you’d get on rather well, actually.”
James had grinned. “No one’s as clever as you.” And he’d leaned in, determined to prove it.
The memory faded, leaving James once again in the chamber, his gaze fixed on Crouch.
He tried—briefly—to picture him elsewhere. Crouch in Evan’s flat, where James had so often sat himself: Evan sprawled on the sofa, feet up on the table, drink in hand—and across from him, in the chair James usually took, Crouch instead.
He wondered what they talked about.
The thought snagged and sat uneasily in his mind, following him as the Wizengamot finally adjourned and he and Sirius filed out into the polished corridor beyond. The marble gleamed under lantern-light, tinsel strung along the bannisters in a half-hearted nod to Christmas.
“What’s your take on Crouch?” James asked as they waited for the lift that would carry them up to the Ministry’s upper levels.
“Prat,” Sirius said immediately, then scowled. “Gave me detention in seventh year for not wearing a tie.”
James blinked. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious,” Sirius said darkly. “Mates with my brother, too. Not surprised he’s one of them. Bloke’s a power-hungry dickhead.”
The lift clanged into place, and they stepped inside. Still, James couldn’t shake the image of Crouch—his voice, his composure, the effortless way he’d drawn the room around him. It lingered, looping in his mind all the way home.
It was strange. He’d never really given the bloke much thought before—at school, Crouch had just been one of Regulus’s lot, a familiar face in the corridors, nothing more. But now, walking up the garden path to the cottage, James found he couldn’t push him out of his head.
He opened the fridge, pulling out ingredients more from habit than intent, his thoughts circling back to what little he knew. Crouch had been a Ravenclaw, a prefect, close with Regulus—and with Evan. That alone was odd. The obvious link must have been Dora Rosier; if James strained his memory, he could almost picture it—the four of them together, heads bent over books in the library, crossing the courtyard shoulder to shoulder.
He wished now that he’d paid more attention.
Another memory surfaced, unbidden. Seventh year.
James, hidden in an alcove off the courtyard, overhearing a conversation he hadn’t meant to catch. Evan’s voice—raw, desperate—begging Crouch not to do something. Asking him to wait. Crouch’s reply sharp, irritated, calling him a hypocrite.
At the time, James hadn’t thought much of it—except that it had fed a faint suspicion. That maybe it was Crouch Evan had been waiting for in that broom cupboard—the one James had spent most of seventh year trying not to think about, for fear he’d die of embarrassment. But now, with everything he knew, the memory twisted, darkened. More of it came back. And through the lens of time—and of knowing Evan—it changed shape entirely. Evan’s voice again, younger, breaking, desperate. Pleading with Crouch to wait. Telling him he was trying to protect him.
The thought struck him suddenly—the Mark. What if that was what they’d been arguing about? The timeline would fit, at least for Evan.
James couldn’t picture the Evan he knew now ever sounding that desperate. Couldn’t imagine him begging. Not unless it was something serious, something like his boyfriend taking the dark mark. Something about the thought pulled at James, low and sharp in his chest. He found himself disliking Crouch for it—for making Evan sound like that, for making him plead.
It was irrational. He knew that. He didn’t know why Crouch had taken the Mark, or even when. Didn’t know why Evan had, either. For that matter. Not really. Not beyond the quiet assumption—one he hadn’t realised he’d made—that Evan had done it to protect someone. Someone he cared about. When had he come to that conclusion? He wasn’t sure. Only that, somewhere between pints and impromptu rescues and late dinners in the kitchen, he’d decided it must be true.
Maybe it was that night in the Queen’s Arms, the second time they’d met properly. The night James had asked him to say it—to tell him he hadn’t had a choice, that he wasn’t really one of them. And Evan had only looked at him, almost pitying, and said quietly that there was always a choice.
James had never asked again.
He wondered now if Evan would tell him—if he asked.
And then realised, with a slow, creeping discomfort, that he wasn’t sure he cared anymore. The thought struck him hard in the gut and left him staggering, wondering when his moral compass had slipped so far—so far that Evan’s reasons no longer mattered to him.