The Order arrived in waves. James tried not to fidget as his parents' living room slowly filled. Several people shooting vaguely curious looks at him as they took off cloaks and stashed umbrellas.
Lily, Remus and Sirius were first. James’s eyes found Lily the minute she stepped out of the fireplace, still in her Healer's robes, straight from St Mungo's, hair pinned back, that particular crease between her brows that meant she was tired and pushing through it. The guilt arrived before he could stop it, swift and specific, and he looked away.
After, he told himself. Get through this first. Sirius frowned at him and asked bluntly what was going on. James told him he'd explain in a bit—Sirius didn’t say much after that, but James felt his eyes on him. Whatever it was that was eating Sirius, whatever his problem was—had been over the last six months, James was painfully aware that tonight was probably going to make it worse. He couldn't see any way out of this that didn't end with Sirius blowing up in his face.
Frank, Alice and Dedalus Diggle arrived not long after, Frank gave James a cheerful clap on, Dedalus Diggle shook his hand enthusiastically, the small wizard radiating the anxious energy of a man who knew something significant was happening and couldn't decide whether to be excited or nervous. Hestia Jones, Caradoc Dearborn, Edgar Bones, Tobias Quince and Ellis Ketteridge—all arrived together, a collective sort of air of tiredness hanging over them as they stepped one after another from the floo, all five were still dressed in their auror robes.
Emmeline Vance came in quietly and alone, found a space near the wall and took it without ceremony. Then Kingsley with Moody, magical eye moving independently while the other fixed on James with an expression that sat somewhere between suspicion and assessment and didn't move from him for long. Molly Weasley arrived with her husband—James felt the pang of loss at the sight of the small witch, he’d never known Molly well, she was a good five or six years older than him, but she had the Fab and Gid’s colouring, the same reddish-brown hair and warm dark eyes, James looked away quickly pushing away thoughts of the twins. Janet Robards and Sturgis Podmore arrived next, both serious and grim looking. And then Aberforth, the grumpy looking wizard claiming a seat in the corner, the other occupants of the room giving him a wide berth—whether on account of the profound reluctance to be there that he radiated or because he smelled rather strongly of goat, James wasn't entirely sure.
At some point James's father had begun offering people tea. This, through some alchemy particular to Fleamont Potter, evolved into biscuits, and then sandwiches, and before long there was a steady procession of people moving between the kitchen and the living room, collecting mugs and plates of food.
By nine o'clock the room was full—nearly the entire Order, bar Peter and the last two people James was waiting for. The air hummed with half a dozen overlapping conversations, people falling into pairs and clusters, the low buzz of a room full of people who didn't know yet what they'd been summoned for. James stood with his back to the wall, running through what he needed to say. The parts he needed to underline. The parts he was hoping to brush over, if he could get away with it.
Then at ten past nine the Floo roared to life once more and Albus Dumbledore stepped out of it, Minerva McGonagall behind him. Dumbledore looked around with an expression of mild, genuine pleasure, as though he had arrived at a party and was delighted to find so many familiar faces.
"Goodness," Dumbledore said pleasantly, "it would seem we're late—I do sincerely apologise. There was an unfortunate incident involving Dungbombs. Minerva can quite attest to it."
Several people laughed.
McGonagall brushed soot from her robes with sharp, precise movements, she turned to James—lips pursed, that look on her face, the one he knew so well it sent his brain instinctively cataloguing every arguably illegal thing he'd done recently out of sheer self-preservation.
"Mr Potter. I assume there is a good reason you've summoned us all here tonight."
James pushed off the wall, stepping into the centre of the room. He looked around at the faces staring back at him, some curious, some weary, but most just tired. “When I give the signal, a Death Eater is going to come through the Floo.”
Someone—Dorcas, James thought, let out a snort of amusement.
James ignored her, “I'd appreciate it if no one attempted to hex him—he just wants to talk.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the wake of his words. Then the silence broke—not all at once but in a wave, person by person, the moment the room decided he wasn't joking. Half a dozen voices rose together.
"Please tell me you’re fucking joking?" Dorcas in utter disbelief.
"James, what in Merlin's name—" Remus, quiet but sharp beneath the noise.
"A Death Eater." Diggle voice carried, high and strained. "There's a Death Eater coming here?"
"Who?" That was Podmore. "Potter, who are you talking about—"
"Now hold on just a moment—" Arthur, reaching instinctively for his wife's arm.
"---wants to talk?" Frank. "Do you mean—"
"I'd like to know who authorised this," Robards, louder, cutting across, "Alastor did you—"
"You really mean to say that—" Ketteridge.
An ear-splitting whistle cut through the din and everyone fell silent. Moody lowered his fingers from his mouth.
A beat. Then—
"I think I speak for the room, Mr Potter," said Dumbledore mildly, "when I say that you have our attention. Please—do continue."
James nodded. This was the part that mattered—the part he and Evan had spent the better half of the morning picking apart, turning over, testing for weak points. Stick to the truth, Evan had said, as much as you can, we know Moody suspects you of something, don’t know what he knows or thinks he does—better for both of us if you don’t get caught in a lie. James had agreed, however, there were some things he wasn’t willing to share, not unless he had to—the real reason he hadn’t told the Order about Evan, a reason that had everything to do with his past with Regulus, and then why he had continued to keep Evan a secret long after it had stopped being about Regulus and started being about Evan and he meant to James. Which was something he was doing his level best not to think about at all, because this was what mattered right now. Getting this right. Laying the groundwork before Evan walked came through the fire. How he told his story mattered, where he started, which threads he left dangling and which he tucked away—all of it mattered. Evan’s safety depended on it. James took a deep breath through his nose,looked around the room and began.
"As some of you may know, I was attacked at the beginning of last year. A mission went wrong." He kept his voice even. "Moody pulled me off duty afterwards—told me he thought there was a spy in the Order, that it was better if no one knew I'd survived. That he could use it." A beat. "That plan fell apart when Death Eaters found the safe house I was stashed in. I happened to be outside and I saw them coming. Didn't have time to run, so I got behind a wall in the garden and stayed there." His eyes moved around the room—not lingering on any one face for too long but meeting each set of eyes, willing them to listen—to understand . "Told you that I got lucky, thing is I did—really lucky, a lot luckier than I told you, because the thing is I didn’t get away on my own. One of them found me—helped. I thought I was going to die but instead he put a Disillusionment Charm on me then distracted the others while I ran.”
James let his words land. The room was very quiet—as if the air itself was holding its breath.
"There's a lot I could say here. Arguments I could make for why I didn't tell the Order when I should have." A beat. "I'm not going to bother. All I can do is tell the truth now."
He kept his voice level. Unhurried.
"War is complicated—it's fought between people, and people are messy. I didn't report what had happened because the Death Eater who helped me wasn't wearing a mask. I knew him. Went to school with him. Liked him—had done since I was twelve years old. And I didn't want to hand him over. I also didn't know what to do with the fact that he'd helped me at all."
Across the room, Moody had leaned forward, both eyes fixed on James intently. A chill ran down James's spine. He knows, somehow, he knows, the thought hit James hard—there was no surprise on Moody’s face, no, instead there was a grim satisfaction, the expression of a man who has just been told he’s right.
James looked away from him, cleared his throat.
"So,” he said, “I went to find out why he did it. I asked for a meet, didn’t think he’d show but he did. I didn’t trust him at first, not completely, and I think he probably didn’t trust me either but he kept showing up."
"Assuming all this is true." Robards's voice cut across the room—not loud, but with the particular quality of someone accustomed to being listened to. "You've been running an unauthorised operation with an active Death Eater for—how long, exactly?" She didn't wait for an answer. "For all we know you're under the Imperius and this entire evening is a setup. So I'll ask you plainly, Potter—give me one good reason why I shouldn't cuff you right now."
"Let the boy finish, Janet."
James nodded to Moody in thanks, and the Auror grunted.
"He's been helping us for almost a year already," said James. "That Muggle radio reported to the Department for Misuse of Muggle Artefacts? That was me, I planted that—the intel it contained, the list of our safe houses that were compromised, that came from him."
Arthur Weasley made a surprised sound. James wasn't looking at him. His eyes were on Moody—on the way the corners of his mouth had turned down just slightly, the expression of a man who'd been caught out and wasn't pleased about it. Good. Whatever Moody had known or suspected, he hadn't known about James's involvement in that. James could see him recalculating already—could practically watch the calculations running behind that weathered face, the possibilities, the angles, what a Death Eater with inside access could mean for the Order, for the war. For Moody's particular and longstanding ambition to win it by whatever means proved necessary.
James looked away from him, directed his attention to Aberforth. "That was him in your pub—mouthing off about a spy in the Order."
Aberforth grunted. "Thought it was a little too neat to be coincidence," he said. He sounded neither pleased nor angry. If anything, faintly amused.
James turned to Frank and Alice next. Frank's expression had already shifted—jaw tight, something working behind his eyes. Alice was very still in the way she got when she was thinking hard and fast, they both knew what he was going to say next—James could see it in their eyes.
"That Patronus—the one that brought the Order to you. That was him—” this was said as much to Frank and Alice as it was to the rest of the room. "He’s the reason all three of us are standing here today."
He looked back at the room at large. “He's the reason we know about Peter—it was him that told me about Peter—without that piece of information who knows how many more of us might be dead. I’m not asking you to trust him instantly, just hear what he’s offering."
He was careful about where he looked—deliberate about it. Not at Sirius. Not at Lily. Not at Remus or Dorcas, he couldn’t not yet—didn’t want to see what might be on their faces. So instead he moved his gaze around the room with quiet purpose instead—Kingsley, Frank and Alice, Dearborn, Bones, Quince, Ketteridge, Podmore—James saw it happen, face by face. The moment the arithmetic resolved. The shift from disbelief into something colder and more calculating—the particular expression of people who had been losing a war for long enough to recognise what a turning point looked like.
He turned back to Robards.
"You can arrest me if you want." He held her gaze. "But you won't. Because you know we need him."
Robards held his gaze for a long moment. Then she looked away—jaw tight, mouth set in a hard line.
"Perhaps a vote," said McGonagall, drawing herself up slightly. "All in favour of hearing what Mr Potter's—" a brief pause, the smallest compression of her lips, "—contact has to say, raise your hand."
One or two people began to move.
"Put your hands down," said Moody. His voice was flat—the voice of someone who has run out of patience. He turned to McGonagall. "With respect, Professor—we are not voting on whether we want to win the damn war or not. That is what this comes down to. Anyone in this room who can't see the value of what's being offered is welcome to see themselves out." He looked around. A slow, deliberate sweep. "Now."
Nobody moved.
"I fear Alastor is right, Minerva," said Dumbledore quietly. "We cannot afford to refuse help where it is genuinely offered."
"Give your signal, Potter," said Moody.
James nodded. He took a breath, steadied himself, and then—trying very hard not to wince—said, to no one in particular:
"Fill my cauldron, fill it deep, with a love too hot to keep—stir me slowly, stir me right, brew me something strong tonight."
A confused silence radiated through the room for several long seconds. James felt the charm activate—a faint tingle against his wrist, there and gone, and then the slow bloom of warmth as the back of the watch heated against his skin. Confirmation. Message received.
"That's Celestina," Molly Weasley whispered, not quietly enough, to her husband.
"I must say I always did prefer her first album," said Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling. "I take it our guest is on their way, Mr Potter."
James nodded.
The trigger phrase had been Evan's idea. The logic was sound—the chances of James, or anyone else in the Order, spontaneously reciting the lyrics to A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love and accidentally summoning him were, as Evan had pointed out, about as slim as you could get. And if standing in front of the entire Order and asking to have his cauldron filled was utterly mortifying—well. Given the all too innocent way Evan had suggested it, James was fairly sure that was entirely intentional. He also, reluctantly and privately, agreed that he probably deserved it after the whole almost kiss fiasco.
Around him the room exchanged glances—some amused, more than a few confused. Dedalus Diggle was looking around as though expecting someone to materialise from behind the curtains. Moody was not looking around at all. His arms were folded and his magical eye had fixed itself, unblinking, on the fireplace.
Green light filled the room, bright and sudden, and Evan stepped out of the fireplace.
He'd changed in the hours since they'd parted—all black, heavy boots, the kind of fitted long-sleeved top James had privately begun to think of as a staple of Evan's off-duty Death Eater wardrobe. No cloak, no robes, nothing ceremonial. Just Evan, deliberate and still, looking at every single person in the room like he was taking inventory. If you knew to look—and James did—you could just make out the faint outline of bandages beneath the leather strap of his wand holster but even so, he looked downright intimidating.
It was movement in his peripheral vision that caught James's attention first—sudden, fast, crossing the room at a pace that had his hand flying to his wand before his brain had caught up.
Emmeline Vance was already halfway across the room. She hit Evan like a freight train. Both arms around his middle, her face buried in his shoulder, and the sound she made—half-sob, half-oath—was so raw it seemed to surprise even her.
"You absolute bastard," she said into his shoulder, muffled and fierce. "You complete and utter fucking bastard—I thought you were—" She stopped. Pulled back just enough to look at his face, her eyes red-rimmed and furious and bright with relief. “How dare you—”
"You better be fucking kidding."
It came out loud—too loud, cutting across the room like something had snapped. Sirius was already on his feet, already moving, and the expression on his face was the one James knew meant all rational thought had vacated the premises.
"Sirius—" James said.
"No—" He rounded on James first, furious, and then back to Evan as if he couldn't decide which of them he wanted to shout at more. "No, are you—are you having me on right now? Him? Him, James—" He gestured at Evan with the kind of wild energy that suggested the gesture was standing in for something considerably more violent. "You don't know what he is—you don't know what he's done, what he's capable of—whatever he's told you, whatever you think—"
"Black—" Moody barked but Sirius either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.
"No—" He rounded on James first, furious, and then swung back to Evan as if he couldn't decide which of them he wanted to shout at more. "No, are you—are you having me on right now? Him? Him, James—" He gestured at Evan with the kind of wild energy that suggested the gesture was standing in for something considerably more violent. "You don't know what he is—you don't know what he's done, what he's capable of—whatever he's told you, whatever you think you know—"
"Black—" Moody barked.
Sirius wheeled on him, and there was nothing remotely cautious about it. "You cannot seriously be considering this—" he said, voice cracking at the edges with the force of keeping it below a shout, "—he is a psychopath, an actual, genuine, clinical psychopath—you sit there and you listen to him and you'll deserve everything that comes after—"
“Sit down,” said Moody, “before I make you.”
For a moment James thought Sirius might draw his wand on Moody. He was vibrating with it—anger, and something else, something James didn't entirely understand. The kind of vicious desperation that Sirius used as a shield when he was on the verge of crying.
Then Remus said his name. Just once, very quietly.
Sirius sat—hard, like his legs had given out rather than bent.
Moody's magical eye swivelled to Evan.
"Evan Rosier, isn't it?" he asked
“Yes," said Evan, then added dryly, “pleasure to meet you, formally.”
Moody grunted.
"Mr Rosier." Dumbledore's voice was pleasant, unhurried, from his seat in the armchair by the window, fingers laced loosely together in his lap. "Perhaps you might tell us, in your own words, what it is you're proposing."
Evan looked at him steadily. "I can get into the Dark Lord's innermost circle," he said. "That is what I'm offering—intelligence, from the inside, whatever I can obtain. And when the time comes, I'll fight. I'll help you kill him."
The room was very quiet.
"How old are you." Robards's voice cut across the silence—flat, sharp. Not a question. A calculation.
"Nineteen," said Evan. If the question bothered him he didn't show it.
"You expect us to believe Voldemort would bring someone barely out of school into his inner circle," asked Robards.
"No." The corner of Evan's mouth turned down slightly. "I expect you to believe that he'd bring me into his inner circle." There was an edge to his voice—not anger, but something sharp. "My father served the Dark Lord for more than three decades. Since they were boys together at school—one of the few people alive who knew him as Tom Riddle."
James had never heard that name before, and neither had anyone else from the expressions on their faces— or so James thought until he noticed Dumbledore, the headmaster had leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the arms, fingertips meeting in a steeple, and was watching Evan with an expression of quiet, absolute attention.
"I’ve had this mark for almost four years," Evan continued. "In that time I have proved my worth. Not only will the Dark Lord accept my presence amongst his inner ranks now that my father is dead—he will expect it."
Silence.
James looked around the room. Remus had gone very pale. Kingsley looked vaguely ill. Molly Weasley had her hand pressed over her mouth. Moody was watching Evan with an expression James could only describe as hungry.
And his mother—
His mother looked furious.
James didn't understand it—it wasn't as if she hadn't known what Evan was, and yet she was staring at him with quiet fury. James tore his eyes away from her.
Dumbledore was speaking.
"There are some legacies," he said, "that are thrust upon us long before we are old enough to refuse them. I can only apologise for that which landed on your shoulders." He paused, and smiled—warm, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. "That being said, I am not sorry it has brought you before us now. I believe I speak for everyone present when I say that the Order will consider itself extraordinarily fortunate to count you among its allies."
Evan inclined his head towards the headmaster.
"I wouldn't get too excited." Sirius's voice had gone cold—hard in a different way than before, the heat burned out of it, leaving something flatter and more deliberate. He was watching Evan the way you'd watch something you expected to bite you. "You don't know what he wants in return yet."
"Now that you mention it, Sirius," said Evan calmly, with a smile that wouldn't have been pleasant even if James hadn't been able to read the cold hard dislike in his eyes, "I do have a few requests."
James shot a sideways look at him. They hadn't discussed conditions. Whatever Evan was about to ask for was news to him.
Dumbledore inclined his head. “Naturally.”
"I want a guarantee that you will provide protection for my sister, should she require it."
James relaxed slightly. That one he'd known about.
"Of course," said Dumbledore. "Is that all?"
"No." Evan's eyes moved around the room, unhurried. "I work with James. You need to reach me—you do it through him. Information goes through him. Instructions come through him." A pause. "That's non-negotiable."
There was a silence. Dumbledore's expression remained pleasantly attentive. "You place a great deal of trust in Mr Potter."
"I do," said Evan simply. "You, on the other hand, I don't. Unless that changes—everything goes through James, or I walk back through that Floo right now and we forget this conversation happened."
"Fine," said Moody. "Potter's your handler. What else?"
"Full immunity," said Evan. "For myself and for James."
"That's—" Robards stopped herself. Started again, more carefully. "That's not a small ask. Nor is it strictly within our power to promise."
"You're a Death Eater," said Bones. Not accusatory—matter of fact, the voice of a man accustomed to courtrooms. "Should we win, immunity of that scope would require Ministerial authorisation at the very least. Possibly a Wizengamot ruling."
"I'm aware," said Evan.
"Then you'll also be aware," said Kingsley, measured and deep, "that what you're asking for is effectively an unconditional pardon. You're asking us to make promises we have no guarantee we can keep, in exchange for intelligence we have no way yet of verifying." He paused. "That is a considerable amount of faith to ask of this room."
Evan looked at him steadily.
"Do you have any idea what the Dark Lord would do to me if he knew I was here?" His voice was conversational, almost mild. "The example he would make of me if he discovered what I was offering? He wouldn't just kill me." A pause, quiet and precise. "He would kill every person I care about and make me watch first." He let that sit for a moment. "So no—I don't think asking for assurance that I won't risk everything, only to end up in a cell in Azkaban, is too high a price." His eyes moved around the room. "Give me this, and in return—as an act of good faith—I'll submit to questioning under Veritaserum. Right now. Whatever you want to ask."