James stood with his arms crossed, trying to keep his face neutral. Tried not to let the nerves coiling in his stomach show—as Evan lifted the vial to his lips and swallowed. Moody sat opposite Evan, Kingsley on his left, a gold pocket watch in one hand and a scroll of parchment spread in front of him. Evan had been right in his guess that Moody would have Veritaserum on his person. James still wasn't entirely sure how he'd known that. It wasn't an easy potion to come by, even for Aurors. But somehow Evan had known. At the head of the table, between Evan and Moody, sat James's mother. James hadn't expected that. She had informed Moody, with brisk and absolute authority, that if Veritaserum was to be used under her roof then it would be used in an official capacity: on record, checked by a potioneer (James's father), and moderated throughout by a qualified Healer (herself).
A minute dragged past, and then another. James kept his attention fixed on Evan. His jaw was clenched. The urge to snap—to turn on the room and tell them all to stop staring—was almost physical. He didn't want to see this. Didn't want to watch Evan let himself be stripped bare in front of a room full of people who hadn't earned it. Hated the way Bones had taken a very deliberate half step back the moment Evan sat down, putting an extra foot of distance between himself and the dining room table, as though proximity alone might be dangerous. Hated the way Diggle was looking at him—Diggle, who was barely an Order member in any meaningful sense. Diggle who didn't go on missions, didn't do anything that could be reasonably described as useful, who had absolutely no business being here and yet was—staring at Evan like he was something on display. Hated the way Arthur Weasley had positioned himself in front of Molly, her face peering carefully around his shoulder. Hated the way Ketteridge's hand hadn't left the outline of his wand in his pocket since the moment Evan had stepped through the fire—like Evan was a rabid animal that might spring without warning, rather than a man sitting calmly in a chair, outnumbered twenty to one, who had come voluntarily, had swallowed a vial of truth potion to prove it.
James wanted to clear the room. To tell Moody to do this properly—privately, with fewer eyes, fewer people who had no business witnessing any of it.
"That's time," said Kingsley, looking up from his watch.
"How do you feel?" asked Effy Evan. "Any light-headedness? Nausea?"
"No," answered Evan.
Effy nodded. "Proceed."
"For the record," said Kingsley, pen poised, "please state your full name and date of birth."
"Évander Bellamy Rosier. The second of February, nineteen sixty-one."
Kingsley made a note. "Can you confirm that you have consented to the use of Veritaserum, and that you understand you are magically compelled to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"Yes."
Kingsley made another note.
"Describe the nature of your relationship with James Potter."
"Friends."
"When did you first meet James Potter?"
"School."
James frowned. He'd never seen truth potion in action before, but he was fairly sure that Evan's clipped, monosyllabic answers were not a normal response to Veritaserum. A suspicion confirmed when Kingsley set down his pen and looked up with a slight frown.
"Am I correct in assuming you have received some form of MCRT Mr Rosier?"
"Yes."
"What the fuck is MCRT?" asked Dorcas.
"Magical Coercion Resistance Training," answered Evan.
"Advanced Auror programme," Frank said quietly. "Designed to help you resist magical interrogation. Demands mastery of Occlumency as a baseline—most of us never get close."
"Does that mean he can lie?" Arthur Weasley asked. He didn't bother to lower his voice.
"No," said Evan.
"Means we can't trust him."
James didn't need to look to know it was Sirius who’d said that.
"It means," said Moody, swinging round to face the room, "that you lot need to shut your mouths. You want to know about Auror training? Put in an application." He turned back. "Why now?" Moody asked Evan. "Why betray You Know Who, why now?"
"Now I can."
"Couldn't before?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I was under oath."
Kingsley frowned. "You were under a magical oath?"
"Yes."
"Are you still bound by this oath?”
"Yes."
"Will further questions regarding the nature of that oath present any danger to yourself or anyone else in this room?"
"No."
"Describe the precise terms of the oath."
"I swore in blood to serve my house and name. To act in the best interests of my family, to protect and preserve the Rosier name by any means within my power."
Kingsley opened his mouth—evidently to ask another question but Moody spoke.
"Blood magic," Moody said. "Old tradition. Not legal in Britain. Still practiced in bits of Europe. Magical compulsion meant to keep the kids in line—can’t act against the head of the family’s orders or wishes. Reason he can now is because I killed Marcus Rosier." He fixed both eyes on Evan. "Made you head of the house. That right?"
"Yes."
Kingsley frowned; "James led us to believe the intel we received regarding our compromised safehouses came from you—that it was you who warned him about Peter—and you who you aided him in planting evidence that lead to Peter’s discovery, but by my calculations that was several weeks, if not months, before Alastor killed your father—how was it possible you were able to aid use while still under oath?”
“Wasn’t intentional,” said Evan.
“Your aid was accidental?” asked Kingsley, frown deepening.
"Not accidental,” said Evan. “Incidental.”
It was clear from Kingsley's expression that this distinction had not helped. From the low ripple of voices behind James, it hadn't helped anyone else either.
"I'm afraid I don't follow," said Kingsley.
"I wasn't trying to help the Order—nor did I particularly want to," said Evan. "The fact that it benefited you was a byproduct. An outcome that had nothing to do with my intentions."
Moody was staring at Evan with an expression that made it clear he understood perfectly. He shook his head slowly. Then he turned to Kingsley. "Blood magic doesn't give a damn about outcomes. Intent is what matters.”
Kingsley considered this. "But surely intent and action cannot be entirely separated. In order to pass information, to make the choices he made—there must have been some intention driving them."
"Course, can't act without some form of intent," said Moody. "His just wasn't to help us." He leaned back, and something in his expression had shifted—a man working through a problem. "Had to have considered himself in opposition to us the entire time he was feeding Potter information—otherwise he wouldn't have been able to do it." He glanced at Evan, and the look was considering. The way you might look at something that had turned out, against all expectation, to be remarkable. "Shouldn't be possible, walking a line like that. Takes someone who knows their own mind better than most people ever will." A beat. "Wasn't about the Order at all." He looked at Evan directly. "I'd wager helping Potter served the Rosier name in your head— that you'd have killed the rest of us without pause, considered yourself loyal to He Who Must Not Be Named right up until the second your father died and you got to decide for yourself what serving your name actually meant." A pause. "That about right?"
"Yes," said Evan.
Several hands moved to wands.
"Put them away," said Moody, without looking round.
"He agreed he’s loyal to You Know Who," protested Kettleridge—though he did lower his wand a little.
"And that he'll kill us," Dorcas added flatly. She did not lower her hand.
"No," said Moody. "He agreed that he was loyal. Would've killed us. Past tense." His tone suggested he found this distinction perfectly sufficient.
It did very little to calm the room. Moody, however, didn't appear to care—or even particularly notice. His attention had already moved back to Evan, and the look on his face was focused. Hungry. The look of a man who has just confirmed that what he's found is exactly as valuable as he was hoping it would be.
It was Dumbledore who spoke next, his voice carrying gently over the mutter of the room. "Mr Rosier. I'm afraid not all of us possess Alastor's understanding of the intricacies of Blood Magic." A small smile. "I wonder if you might help us understand — what exactly was the intention behind the ways in which you aided Mr Potter?"
"James—-"
One word. Just the one. Evan's jaw clenched. A muscle worked in his throat. His fingers tightened on the arm of the chair, and James watched him fight it—watched the potion drag the answer out of him against his will.
“When I told him about those safe houses, I did it to make sure he wouldn't be stationed at any of them. When I went to the Hog's Head, I went because his plan was dangerous and he needed backup. When I warned him about Pettigrew, I did it to protect him. Helped him plant evidence to throw suspicion off of him. I was trying to keep him alive."
Forgive me," said Dumbledore, his voice thoughtful, measured, "but surely attempting to keep James alive—a known Order member, someone your family would have considered a blood traitor in the most literal sense—must have constituted a breach of your oath. I confess I struggle to understand how it did not."
When Evan spoke, his voice was perfectly flat. Emptied of everything. The voice of someone who has removed themselves from the room.
"My father had no knowledge of James. Never issued a direct order concerning him. As long as that remained true, keeping James alive fell within the bounds of my oath." A pause. Like he was trying to stop there and couldn't. "I was the only living male heir and I would sooner have died myself than watch him die." He said it the way you might read something aloud from a document. Flat. Final. As though the absence of emotion in his voice could make the words mean less than they did. "The magic understood that. Therefore so long as my father did not directly order me to kill him, the oath allowed me to help James however I saw fit."
"I see," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "And—"
"Enough!"
Effy's voice was sharp enough to make half the room flinch.
"Evan agreed to answer Kingsley and Alastor's questions. Not the room's." Her gaze swept the table with the particular authority of someone entirely accustomed to being obeyed. "Not yours, Headmaster either. There will be no further questions from anyone other than the agreed parties while he is under magical compulsion. Is that clear?"
"But of course," said Dumbledore. He inclined his head towards Evan with every appearance of genuine warmth. "My sincere apologies, Mr Rosier."
Effy turned to Moody and Kingsley. "I suggest you move on."
Moody didn't respond immediately. Both eyes fixed on Evan—the look of a man working something out, turning it over, deciding what he thought of it.
"Mr Rosier,” asked Kingsley, “is your current offer to assist the Order genuine?"
"Yes."
"Are you loyal to He Who Must Not Be Named in any way?"
"No."
"Do you have any intention of passing information, or of using your connection to Mr Potter to bring about the downfall of the Order?"
"No."
“Do you intend to harm any member of the Order?”
“No.”
Kingsley made a note. Then, with the careful neutrality of a man who had learned to keep his personal feelings out of official proceedings: "Do you believe wizards to be superior to Muggles?"
"Yes."
Several people stiffened. Someone muttered under their breath. Kingsley's expression didn't change, but something around his eyes did—he looked James thought—diapointed.
"The Order fights as much for Muggle and Muggle-born lives as for pure-blood wizards, Mr Rosier. Is that going to present a conflict?"
"No."
Kingsley frowned. “You understand you will be expected to work alongside Muggle Borns and other individuals you may have prejudices against?”
“Yes.”
“And that does not bother you?”
“No.”
Moody made a sound that James had never heard him make before. It took him a moment to realise the Auror was laughing.
"You're asking him the wrong damn question. He doesn’t think like you do." There was rough amusement in Moody's voice—as though, for reasons James didn't entirely follow, he found the situation genuinely funny. "You know why blood magic was outlawed? Official line? Unpredictable. Dangerous. It’s not. Magic is fine. It’s people. People are unpredictable. People are dangerous. Blood magic works off emotion, off intention, off what a person actually wants—not what they tell themselves they want. Most people don't know why they do half the things they do. Lie to themselves constantly."
He paused. When he continued his voice had shifted—quieter, and somehow heavier for it.
"Not him though. He got around what should have been a binding oath because he understood that as long as he didn't believe he'd broken it, he hadn't. That's a line most people can't even see, let alone walk." Another pause, shorter. "Thing about morality, thing that people don’t much like: is that it’s subjective. Ethics are subjective. Human understanding is subjective. You spend enough time on the battlefield—and I mean really on it, living it—you learn that the only real absolute in this world is death. Everything else is negotiable. Everything else is a story you tell yourself to keep going." He glanced at Evan—and this time the look wasn't brief. It settled. Something like understanding in his one dark eye. "Kid's a fighter. A killer. Ask him about equality and he's going to give you a tactical answer—power, advantage, survival—because that's the only language that matters on a battlefield. He says he's superior to a Muggle, he's not giving you an ethical position. He's giving you an honest assessment of the situation." A beat. "Chances it’s him walking away and the Muggle that's dead? Hundred to one. When you deal in life and death that is superiority. Not ideology." He turned back to Kingsley, and his voice was level, final. "You want the kid to give you a philosophical answer, ask him a philosophical question."
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. James realised, distantly, that he had just heard the Auror string together more words in one go than in all the months he had known him combined. He wasn't sure what struck him more—the length of it, or the way the discomfort Moody's words had left in him was mirrored on the faces of nearly everyone else in the room.
Everyone except Evan, whose expression was perfectly neutral. If Moody's assessment of his character had landed anywhere, it didn't show.
"I see," said Kingsley, when the silence stretched to breaking point. The slight crease between his brows suggested that perhaps he didn't entirely.
To be fair, James wasn't sure he did either.
Moody grunted, he turned to Evan.
"You think Muggles deserve to die or be enslaved on account of their lack of magic?"
"No."
"Think a person is more deserving of happiness, safety, or freedom based solely on their status?"
"No."
"Any reason a witch or wizard shouldn’t choose to marry or reproduce with a Muggle?"
"No."
Moody turned his head towards Kingsley. Raised an eyebrow. "Morally and philosophically satisfied?"
"Yes," said Kingsley, with a slight archness that suggested he had noted the tone of the question and chosen to rise above it. "I think so."
"Right." Moody leaned forward, elbows on the table, attention settling back on Evan like a weight being set down. "Got some things I want to know then." A pause. "Selwyn. He one of yours?"
"Yes."
"Travers?"
"Yes."
"Jugson?"
"Yes."
"Crouch Senior?"
"No."
"Rookwood going to make a play for Minister?"
"No. He's out of favour—failed to push the werewolf mandate through the Wizengamot."
Moody's dark beady eye narrowed. "He Who Must Not Be Named wanted that mandate passed then?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To appease the pure-blood families. He doesn't have a particular issue with half-bloods when they're useful to him. I don't think it's personal."
Moody absorbed this. "So if not Rookwood—who's he got in mind for Minister?"
"Abraxas Malfoy."
Moody scowled. Then moved on. "Leandro Di Caravarra. Arrived by international Portkey ten days ago. You know anything about that?"
"He was here on behalf of his brother. Don Salvatore. Leandro was here to negotiate terms of an alliance."
"Is he still here?"
"He's dead. I killed him."
.A sharp intake of breath from someone, Robards James thought. A beat of silence. Moody's eyebrows rose. Surprise
"Why?"
"I was ordered to. Don Salvatore wanted an alliance of equals. The Dark Lord is not interested in equals—he wanted to make an example of Leandro should any of the other European families challenge his authority." Evan's voice was perfectly flat. "I was the most expendable of the people he believed would survive the attempt."
Moody was quiet for a moment. Both eyes on Evan. "He was testing you."
"Yes."
"Leandro Di Caravarra was an exceptional duellist. How'd you survive?"
"I'm a Grandmaster duelist. Won my title last year."
Something passed across Moody's face. The look of a man who has just had a suspicion confirmed. He nodded once.
"Who are the other families He Who Must Not Be Named is going after?"
"Bruneval and Beauchêne have already pledged—both had ties to Grindelwald, weren't difficult to convince. The Malheurs, the DuPrés, and the Delacours are undecided. Lucius Malfoy and I have been ordered to Paris to make the case."
"Why you two specifically?"
"I have family ties to the Malheurs and the DuPrés. Lucius to the Delacours. If either of the first two signs, the Delacours will follow." A beat. "They always do."
"Alastor." Kingsley tapped the stopwatch against the table. "Twenty-seven minutes. If you have any final pressing questions, now's the time."
Moody was quiet for a moment. Both eyes still on Evan. "Think that'll do," he said finally. "Can't say I like the way this came about." A pause. "But I'm not unhappy to have you with us."
Evan nodded once.
Effy cleared her throat. "Evan—James will show you to the library—wait out the last of the Veritaserum in there. I'll come and check you over shortly."
Evan stood, then looked at James expectantly. James swallowed and forced his body to move—to cross the room. He didn't look at Evan as he passed. Didn't trust his face, or what might be written there. There was too much going on. Too many thoughts and emotions fighting for dominance, and far too many people in the room. He heard Evan's footsteps on the stairs behind him as he took them two at a time to the second floor, pushed open the library door, and stepped inside.
Then he turned around.
"You're going to France."
Why that one came out first James wasn't sure. Perhaps because the others were too tangled. Perhaps because the nausea of having heard I would sooner have died myself than watch him die said aloud, flat and stripped bare in front of a room full of people who didn’t understand what that meant to James, was still sitting thick and heavy in his stomach and he didn't yet trust himself with anything that mattered more.
"Yes," said Evan.
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
James's stomach tightened. "Were you going to tell me?"
"This was more important."
“More important?” Anger spiked hard and fast in James. He was vaguely aware he was picking a fight—because it was easier, because the alternative was saying what he really meant. Easier than asking how he was meant to keep letting Evan leave, with no idea whether he was coming back. "Where do you get off deciding what's important and what's not?" he snapped.
"Evans was going to tell Moody. About me. You weren't going to tell him. So she would have." For the first time that evening there was genuine emotion in Evan's voice—real feeling bleeding through the flatness, hot and unmistakable. He sounded furious. And he was looking at James in a way he never had before. "She was going to tell Moody you'd brought me here after Di Caravarra gutted me. He would have assumed the worst. Would have brought you in for questioning—and unlike me, you haven't spent years being repeatedly dosed with Veritaserum until you learned how to answer only exactly what's necessary. You would have told him everything. Every secret. Including the fact that you have deliberately passed me Order intelligence." Evan took a step closer, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. "He would have tried you for treason. And while I am very good at what I do, I am not good enough to break you out of Azkaban single-handedly. So, yes. This was more important than me going to France."
James stared at him.
A muscle in Evan's jaw worked. Then he looked away. "Not much I wouldn't tell you of my own accord, if you asked.” The anger was gone, now he just sounded worn. Resigned. “But I'd still rather it was my choice. Don't have a lot of that right now." A beat. "Didn't want to tell you about Evans. Or Moody. Not yet. Might have used it to my advantage further down the line—not sure. Definitely not being noble about it. Had enough of that. More than capable of fighting dirty, willing too—might have done if things hadn't gone my way. But wanted you to choose first. Make up your own mind without me doing anything underhanded. Telling you about something that hadn't happened yet—something that intended to stop happening? Pretty fucking underhanded, as far as I’m concerned."
The silence that followed lasted a long time.
James’s mind was full. Too full—questions crowding in on each other, jostling, all of them wanting to be first. He desperately wanted to understand. To understand the exact meaning of everything Evan had just said, said about him—about all of it. Wanted to ask if it meant what James thought it did, what he wanted it to mean. But he didn’t. Because while he didn’t understand a lot of what Evan had just said, what he did understand, was what Evan wasn’t saying. What he was asking: not here—not like this—give me the chance to say it in my way.
So, James kept his mouth shut and said nothing.
They stood there for a long time. Neither of them said anything. Then Evan sighed and ran a hand over his face. He suddenly looked very tired. "Can still talk to me, Tosspot. Rather you did, in fact." A beat. "Fucking hate the feeling of truth potion."
"I don't want to accidentally ask you something," James admitted. "Not when you can't choose not to answer."
Evan nodded. "How about I ask something then?"
"Yeah," said James. "Go for it."
"Alright." Evan considered him for a moment. "Why did Sirius call you Prongs before? Heard him use it at school a couple times too. Always wondered."
James blinked. Then he grinned—not because it was funny, but because it was unexpected, and because it was a relief. Something safe. Something entirely untangled from the complicated mess currently going on inside him. Something he could give Evan that wasn't words—because James had always been better at showing than saying, better at gestures than language—and this was something he could give. Something he didn't give most people. Something that had, until recently, belonged only to Sirius, Peter, and Remus. A part of himself he could choose to show Evan freely—not out of necessity, not because of the war or the violence or the business of staying alive. Just because he wanted to.
James reached inward—-felt the familiar low thrum of power he associated with the stag form, and grabbed onto it. He felt his body shift, his centre of gravity drop and redistribute, the room blurring and then sharpening again as the animal's senses folded over his own—the greens deepening, the smells thickening—and then he was looking down at Evan from a slightly greater height than before.
Evan was staring back at him. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open. For a moment he just stared. Then something shifted in his face—and he laughed. A real one. Warm, unguarded and a little started. As if Evan himself was surprised by it. The kind of laugh James had only seen a handful of times from him.
"Fuck me," he said, shaking his head slowly. "You've got hooves." He looked up. "And antlers."
James made the sound that was as close as a stag could get to a laugh—somewhere between a snort and a huff—deeply satisfied with himself, and he stepped forwards and nudged Evan firmly in the shoulder with his nose.
"Afraid I don't speak Deer, Tosspot," said Evan, eyebrow raised, amusement still playing around his mouth.
James snorted and did it again, this time dropping his head lower, pushing his nose into the curve of Evan's hand. Evan looked down at it for a moment. Then, apparently getting the message, he lifted his hand and scratched slowly between James's antlers. Something deep inside James went very still. He closed his eyes. Content, in the best possible way.
There was a knock at the door. Evan dropped his hand from James's head. James missed the contact immediately. His thoughts—went straight to how he might get Evan to resume, because that seemed considerably more important than whoever was at the door. At least until it opened and his mother stepped in. She stopped. Her eyes moved from James to Evan and back again, unhurried.
"Evan," she said, after a moment. "Am I correct in assuming that the stag currently standing in my library is my son?"
"Yeah." Evan's lips twitched. "Was, anyway. A second ago."
James, with some reluctance, reached for his human form. Things were always easier as the stag—his emotions quieter, his thoughts less tangled, everything reduced to something more manageable. But the ability to speak seemed like it was probably about to be required of him. He felt his body shift, the brief dizzying lurch of his weight redistributing back to two legs, and the sudden and genuinely regrettable loss of the stag's eyesight.
"Alastor is leaving," said his mother. "He’s waiting downstairs to speak to you." She gave him a measured look. "He's not the only one."
The weight of everything—humanity, the last several hours, all of it—settled back onto James with depressing efficiency. "Right," he said. He cast a sideways glance at Evan.
"Are you—" he caught the question before it could escape.
"Still under the delightful effects of truth potion?" Evan finished dryly, and then raised an eyebrow. “Don't think so."
James nodded. Then looked at the door. No part of him wanted to go back downstairs. He was exhausted, and there was a distinct possibility—more likely a probability—that Sirius was going to hex him the moment Moody's back was turned. Or possibly just hit him. Probably never speak to him again regardless. And Lily— James didn't even know where to begin with Lily. He had to talk to her. Knew that. Didn't mean he wanted to. What he wanted was to crawl into a warm bed and sleep for at least twelve hours, or alternatively turn back into the stag and curl up beside the fire. That option had a lot going for it, actually. The memory of Evan's hand between his antlers surfaced uninvited—along with the distinct recollection of how good Evan had smelled to his heightened animal nose—James pushed both of those thoughts away briskly. Not the time.
"Guess we'd better head back down, then—"
Effy cleared her throat. "Evan, if you don't mind, I'd like to check your vitals before you do anything else. Veritaserum can be unpredictable under the best of circumstances, let alone given everything you've been through this past week—and it doesn't mix well with pain potions or blood replenishers." She gave him a stern look. "Both of which you'll still be on for at least another three days."
Evan looked at James. One eyebrow raised. A silent question.
James didn't want to go downstairs full stop—he really didn't want to go alone—but he was aware he was being a coward. Evan had almost died. Had faced who knows what in the twenty-four hours they’d been separated—and then sat in front of the entire Order and subjected himself to Veritaserum. James could manage going downstairs to face his friends and his fiancée.
He gave a short nod. "I'll see you down there."