September came, and James returned to Hogwarts for his fourth year. By the second Monday of term, the Gryffindor common room had settled into full-blown pre-season chaos—because Quidditch try-outs had started. With a Chaser spot up for grabs on the Gryffindor team (which James was hoping would go to Marlene McKinnon), a Seeker and a Beater position open for Slytherin, a new Keeper needed for Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw in desperate search of two competent Beaters, the entire school was electric with speculation and competition.
James was slouched in an armchair near the fire, pretending to start his Potions homework while mostly just doodling cauldrons with angry faces in the margins. Across the room, someone was loudly arguing about broom models, and a second-year who had just tripped over a stack of training cones was being laughed at mercilessly by his peers.
Sirius threw himself down beside James with the grace of a collapsing wardrobe.
“You alright, mate?” James asked, not looking up.
“Regulus,” Sirius snarled, the name spat like it had personally insulted him.
James smirked. “Set fire to your robes again?”
Sirius glowered. James was referring to the previous weekend, when Sirius had stormed off toward the dungeons with murder in his eyes—something about a Howler from his mother. He’d returned an hour later looking rather singed and refusing to say a word about what had happened and why he smelt like burnt hair and bonfire. Sirius had waved off their questions, muttering darkly about snakes and then something unintelligible about biscuits. James was still trying to work out whether that was metaphor or Regulus had somehow weaponised baked goods.
But now Sirius shook his head. “No. And that wasn’t just him. He cheated—two against one is not a fair fight. Look—anyway—this is worse. Way worse. He made the damn team.”
That gave James pause.
“The Slytherin team?” he asked.
Sirius gave him a withering look. “No, the bloody Hufflepuff team. Yes, the Slytherin team.”
James considered that—he didn’t know very much about Sirius’s brother. Other than witnessing the occasional shouting match in the corridors or hearing Sirius’s long and creative rants that involved extremely colourful insults as to his character and abilities. James—like Remus and Pete—had quickly learned that bringing up Regulus was a reliable way to ruin Sirius’s mood and turn him into a generally unpleasant nuisance to be around, so they usually avoided it altogether.
In the three years since Regulus had followed Sirius to Hogwarts, James had probably exchanged a grand total of ten words with him. He was quiet—at least when he and Sirius weren’t tearing strips off each other. Polished, too, in a way Sirius never bothered to be. Shirt always buttoned. Tie always straight. Perfect, pin-straight posture.
James got the impression that Regulus was the kind of boy who’d never get caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. The kind of boy who wouldn’t even do anything he wasn’t supposed to. Part of James had always been tempted to ruffle his perfect hair just to see what would happen. But he never had. Not because he was afraid of how Regulus would react—he thought that would probably be highly amusing—but more because he wasn’t sure how Sirius would react, and that was more worrying.
He didn’t say any of that. Instead, he asked, “Is he any good?”
“He’s Regulus,” Sirius said, as if that were answer enough.
James wasn’t entirely sure what Sirius meant by that, but he didn’t push. Instead, he offered his best attempt at a consoling smile.
“At least this means you can aim Bludgers at him and not get detention for it.”
That earned him a smile—brief, but real. “Oh he’s not the only one getting a Bludger to the face this term.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully, “smug French twat won’t know what hit him—see how cocky he is with a broken leg—”
James raised an eyebrow. Technically, both Black brothers were part French—though Sirius only ever brought it up when he was mocking their heritage. But something in his voice didn’t quite match the way he usually talked about Regulus, half bitterness, half anger and just a touch of something James thought might have been hurt. No, Sirius’s expression now was pure menace. The kind he usually reserved for Snape.
And smug? That didn’t fit.
Regulus was—aloof, cold, and far too pretty for his own good—but not smug. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. He just looked at you like you weren’t worth the effort.
“Might need some context here,” James said, curiously. “Are we still talking about Regulus?”
“Evan bloody Rosier,” said Sirius with a scowl.
“Who?” asked James, raising his eyebrows.
“Slytherin’s shiny new Beater. He’s the year below us—and he’s a deranged, fire-happy gremlin with the empathetic range of a wet towel. I’ve known him since I was four.”
James stared. Sirius, apparently, wasn’t finished.
“Thinks being quiet makes him mysterious. It doesn’t. He’s not mysterious—he’s a human shrug with cheekbones.”
“A what?”
“A human shrug, James. You ask him a question, he gives you this look—” Sirius made an exaggerated sullen, unimpressed face to underline his point. “Like the world’s too boring to bother speaking. And everyone thinks that’s cool—”
There was something about the way he said everyone that caught James’s attention. The sharpness of it. The implication. And suddenly it clicked: Sirius didn’t mean everyone. He meant Regulus. Regulus thought he was cool, and that bothered Sirius.
“And he’s not cool,” Sirius snapped. “He’s the walking embodiment of irritating. Like if a smirk grew legs. Struts around like Hogwarts should thank him for existing. He’s a biscuit-thieving psychopathic little shit who will hit you over the head with your own broomstick if given the chance.”
James coughed into his sleeve, trying to cover the laughter that was threatening to break out at the look of indignation on Sirius’s face. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“Because it happened. More than once.”
Sirius was fully in the zone now, eyes gleaming with the righteous fury of someone deeply wronged.
“He once made Regulus laugh so hard he cried—and I still don’t know what he said. Wouldn’t repeat it. Just gave me that look. All eyebrows and disdain. Like, you wouldn’t get it. And I know it was about me.” Sirius scowled and then added—deadly serious: “And he set my bed on fire. When I was eight. With me in it. I nearly died! Burnt alive in my own bed! He’s got less integrity than a Flobberworm, matchsticks for morals, and the soul of a cursed garden gnome.”
At that moment, Remus slid into the chair beside him, catching only the end of Sirius’s monologue. He raised an eyebrow. “Who’s got the soul of a cursed garden gnome?”
James lost the war with laughter—“Slytherin’s new Beater,” he managed, breathlessly—shoulders shaking. “Sirius is apparently being bullied by a third-year.”
Sirius glowered. “Don’t mock me. Just wait.” He jabbed a finger at James, urgent and annoyed. “You won’t be laughing once you’ve met the psychotic bastard. He’s bad enough as it is—no saying what he’ll be like with a bat and school-sanctioned violence.”
James leaned back, still grinning. “I don’t even know who Evan Rosier is.”
“Count your blessings,” muttered Sirius darkly.
But James was curious now. A part of him, already too fond of disasters, was looking forward to finding out.
He didn’t think about the name again—until a month later, when Gryffindor faced Slytherin in the season’s opening match.
James walked with the rest of the Gryffindor team to the centre of the field, broom slung over his shoulder, boots slipping slightly on the dew-slicked grass. He glanced toward the Slytherin formation as they emerged from their end—dark, precise, their line cutting forward like a blade.
Frank Longbottom, Gryffindor’s captain and Keeper, stepped out to meet Emmeline Vance, Slytherin’s new captain. The handshake they exchanged was firm, expressionless, and supervised by the ever-thunderous Professor Marchbanks, with his deep-set frown and voice like rolling granite.
“I want a nice, clean game,” he barked, eyes swinging from one captain to the other like a pendulum that had seen unspeakable things. “No blood. No bones. And if I so much as hear the words Bat-Bogey, you’ll be benched for the rest of the season.”
James stifled a grin—he was fairly certain that last part was directed at him specifically.
He shifted sideways, craning around Frank’s bulk to glance at the Slytherin line-up. His eyes landed immediately on Regulus.
He looked more or less how James remembered him from the year before—same dark curls, same sharp cheekbones, same grey eyes. Regulus’s robes sat perfectly. His posture was crisp, chin up, expression unreadable. He was taller than James remembered, still shorter than him, and probably Sirius too. Regulus met his eyes and James looked away, feeling a bit embarrassed at being caught looking.
It was then that he noticed the boy standing just to Regulus’s left—taller, broader-shouldered, and staring at James with a familiar smirk.
Blond hair bright under the early October sun—longer than it had been the last time James had seen him, evidently he’d grown the buzz cut out over summer. Blue eyes. Too blue.
James did a full-on double take. Bucket Boy was standing across from him in full Quidditch kit like he’d just stepped off a recruitment poster for the Menacing Yet Impeccably Groomed League.
Bucket Boy was Evan Rosier—Sirius’s arson-happy nemesis and Slytherin’s new Beater. And he was smirking at James with a self-satisfied expression: the kind that said, see—I told you I’d make the team.
The sound of the whistle cut through James’s stupor. He kicked off and shot upward, wind whipping at his robes as the sound of the whistle still echoed behind him. He gripped his broom tighter, adrenaline hitting all at once—sharp and clean, like diving into cold water.
The game surged into motion. Marlene veered left, calling for the Quaffle, and James responded on instinct, looping round to flank her, eyes scanning for an opening. The first goal of the match was his—crisp, clean pass, cut-through, and a quick shot that skimmed right through the hoop.
From somewhere to his right, a Bludger cracked against wood. James twisted in mid-air, dodging automatically—and caught sight of Regulus Black. He was higher up, hovering at a deceptively casual angle. The sunlight glanced off his hair, throwing a warm sheen over black curls, and for a moment James watched him without meaning to. He was still. Patient. Coiled.
Coiled was the word, James thought, circling back into formation. Like a cat about to strike.
A Bludger whistled past his ear, snapping his attention back to the game. James ducked, spun his broom—and saw blond hair and green robes.
Rosier flew like a Chaser. Swift and sleek, with none of the usual bludgeoning weight of a Beater. No wild swings, no lumbering charges—just clean arcs and surgical hits. And worse than that: he didn’t even look like he was trying that hard. He was good. Annoyingly good. Both of them were—and they flew well together.
Rosier guarded Regulus—flying defensive perimeter whenever Regulus dipped lower to scan for the Snitch. The pair adjusted formation without being signalled, flying like people who knew each other inside and out—flying the way he and Sirius flew.
The match was close. Too close.
Gryffindor won—but only just.
Afterwards, as James walked off the pitch, still flushed with windburn and the heady echo of adrenaline, he found himself thinking it was a shame that Bucket Boy had turned out to be Evan Rosier.
Lying in bed that night, muscles sore, James stared at the ceiling—the thought returned. James tried to shove the whole thing out of his mind. But he couldn’t—there was a strange sort of regret that sat in the pit of his stomach. Not loss exactly, but the loss of potential maybe? It wasn’t like he’d wanted to be friends with a Slytherin, obviously. But he wouldn’t have minded bumping into Bucket Boy again. Another shared detention. Maybe a prank or two. Maybe they’d have ended up collaborating on one, just to cause chaos. That might’ve been fun. That might’ve been alright. Not-quite-friends but not enemies, co-conspirators, allies maybe.
James thinks he would’ve liked that.
And he thinks it might have been possible with Bucket Boy.
But that wasn’t possible with Evan Rosier.
Not when he knew how much Sirius hated him. Not when he flew like that with Regulus Black. Not now he was Beater on the Slytherin team.
The term rolled on, as it always did. Matches against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw came and went—a blur of foggy mornings, bruised knuckles, and tightly scored wins.
James played well. Very well.
And Bucket-Boy faded into distant memory, replaced by Evan Rosier: a fixture on the Slytherin team sheet, and the occasional source of foul-tempered commentary from Sirius.
James stopped thinking about him.
Not unless Slytherin was playing.
And even then, only briefly—just long enough to grudgingly admit he was a bloody good Beater.
Meanwhile, off the pitch, James’s attention belonged entirely to Lily Evans.
It started innocently enough—one afternoon in Transfiguration, when the light hit her red hair just right and he noticed, with startling clarity, just how pretty she really was. After that, it was a fast, slippery descent. And soon enough, James was fully—catastrophically—entrenched in what Sirius called “the Evans disaster” and what James stubbornly insisted was “a slow-burn love story for the ages.”
Most of his free time was now dedicated to increasingly ill-advised attempts to impress her. None of them worked. He tried everything—wit, bravado, loud declarations in the corridors, heroic Quidditch dives that nearly cost him his collarbone (twice), and, once, a disastrous serenade involving six enchanted trumpets and a rogue Kneazle.
Lily remained unmoved.
The year passed in a blur of mild public humiliation, excessive hair-raking, and the kind of heartfelt sighing that made Sirius threaten to hex him into silence. James barely noticed anything else. Not the shifting rhythm of his friendships. Not the way Peter was starting to get left behind. And certainly not Evan Rosier, who remained right where James had convinced himself he belonged—on the periphery of his life.
Until the start of fifth year, when James found himself purposefully seeking him out—for a reason he never would’ve expected.
Because of Regulus Black.
Because the summer between fourth and fifth year was the one that changed everything.
Sirius arrived on the Potters’ doorstep on the second of August. No trunk. No owl. No shoes.
Just a split lip, a bruised cheekbone, and a look in his eyes that James had never seen before—tight, flinty, and edged with something brittle.
He didn’t speak at first. Not when Effy Potter pulled him inside with gentle, practised hands and conjured a chair by the fire. Not when Monty disappeared to fetch a blanket and a glass of cold water. Not even when James asked, quietly, “Pads, what happened?”
He only spoke when Effy tried to heal the welt that slashed across his forearm.
“Don’t bother,” Sirius muttered. “He’ll just do it again.”
James had never seen his mother angry like that.
Effy Potter was many things—sharp, unflinching, and unnervingly perceptive—but above all, she was a Healer. A good one. Head of Accident and Emergency at St Mungo’s for over a decade. Revered by her peers, feared by the junior staff.
James had always found that funny—his mum, terrifying—but looking at her then, he understood. She straightened slowly, turned to Monty, and said they’d be paying a visit to the Black family home that evening.
She returned with a trunk of Sirius’s things, a grim expression, and the quiet confirmation that he would be staying with them. Indefinitely.
For the remainder of the summer, Sirius burned with a reckless energy that masked something deeper—something fractured. He insisted he was fine. James knew he wasn’t. He never mentioned Regulus, not once. But when a sleek, unfamiliar owl delivered a letter midway through August, Sirius took one look at it and then tossed it into the fire without opening it.
James didn’t ask—but he was almost certain it had been from his brother.
Then came the train.
Regulus was waiting on the platform. James didn’t know exactly what was said—his French had never been brilliant—but he heard the fury in Sirius’s voice, and saw the way Regulus flinched before turning and walking away.
And now, back at school, James couldn’t stop thinking about him, about Regulus Black. About the look on his face. The way his eyes had widened at Sirius’s words, like he’d been hit.
And the realisation that came later, as James lay awake in bed at night through the first few weeks of term: Sirius hadn’t been alone in that house.
Regulus was still there.
And if that could happen to Sirius—
Then it could happen to him too.
The thing was, Regulus didn’t look like someone who was hurt. He looked immaculate, as always—crisp robes, polished shoes, not a hair out of place. But there was something in the way he walked. A tightness in his shoulders. Something brittle. And once James noticed it, he couldn’t un-notice it.
Why he sought out Rosier and not Regulus wasn’t entirely clear even to James. Maybe it was because James had never actually had a proper conversation with Regulus. Or maybe it was because he felt a bit embarrassed about wanting to check and see if he was alright. Or maybe it was because he felt a bit embarrassed whenever he looked at Regulus full stop.
Whatever it was, going directly to Regulus seemed like a much too direct and intimidating prospect for something he was fairly sure he probably wasn’t meant to do.
Whereas—Rosier, he just seemed a bit more approachable. And maybe less likely to hex him. And, according to the map, Rosier had Divination before lunch on Tuesdays—which so happened to be James’s free period.
So James made a decision.
Rosier it was.
Which was how he found himself loitering in the corridor outside the trapdoor to the Divination classroom during his free period, waiting.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The trapdoor creaked open, and Evan Rosier descended the ladder with the careless grace of someone who’d never once hurried in his life. He paused at the bottom, head tipped back slightly, as though expecting someone to follow.
A few seconds later, a pair of shiny black Mary Janes appeared, followed by grey tights and a petite girl with two long, neat French braids. She lingered on the third rung, then jumped the rest of the way—Rosier caught her without looking, steady and easy, like it was a routine they’d rehearsed a hundred times.
His tie was missing. Shirt untucked. There was a dazed, just-woken quality to him, like he wasn’t entirely convinced he was awake yet. He leaned into her, yawned into her hair, and she rolled her eyes and swatted at him.
The ease of it—the natural, unconscious closeness—made James falter.
Girlfriend? Or friend? he wondered, as they began to walk toward him.
James studied them as they approached, and the resemblance struck him all at once. Not just the hair—hers a little lighter—but the straight nose, the same high cheekbones, the identical too-blue eyes.
Not a girlfriend. Not friend. Siblings. Had to be.
The girl saw him first. Her eyes lit with recognition—or at least, curiosity—and she smiled, bright and warm, like she knew him.
She nudged Rosier, nodded toward James.
Rosier looked up, still faintly foggy. His hair was sticking up slightly on one side.
“Can I have a word?” James asked, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt.
There was a pause. Rosier studied him for a moment, then shrugged and turned to the girl.
“Save me a seat, yeah?”
She nodded, shot James another sunny smile, and wandered off toward the Great Hall with the other students.
Rosier followed James into a side corridor—quiet, mostly unused.
“That your sister?” James asked. Then, before he could stop himself: “You’ve got the same eyes.”
Rosier nodded. “Twin,” he said simply, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “What can I do for you?”
His tone was mild, curious and maybe even a little amused. A faint smirk playing about his mouth.
James shifted. “It’s about Regulus.”
Something in Rosier changed. He didn’t move, but his posture tightened, the drowsy air gone. His expression shuttered.
“What about Reg?” Rosier asked, voice flat.
James hesitated, then raked a hand through his hair. “I just… wanted to check if he’s alright.”
Rosier didn’t answer.
James pressed on. “I know things between them—between Sirius and him—were never good. But they’re worse now. Since Sirius left.” He exhaled. “I don’t know Regulus. But I know Sirius. I know why he left. And Regulus is still there. I figured someone should check. Thought maybe you’d know—and if you didn’t, maybe you should.”
Rosier’s arms stayed folded, but his eyes sharpened. Watching. Weighing.
“I know,” he said finally, carefully. Then, looking down: “Trust me, I know.”
There was a pause. Then he looked up again and met James’s eyes.
“Reg’s enduring,” he said quietly. “Best that he can.”
James waited, but Rosier didn’t elaborate.
“Is it bad?” he asked.
Rosier was quiet for a moment longer, then shrugged. “It’s not about bad. 'Bad' only means something in relation to 'good.' One’s meaningless without the other—and it’s always a sliding scale between the two. Good and bad are relative. Which makes them more or less irrelevant.” His voice didn’t change, didn’t harden. “What matters is what someone decides they can and can’t survive. Sirius made that decision. And there’s no place for Reg in it.”
James blinked, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t certain he understood completely—but something about the way Rosier said it hit him in the chest. Or maybe it was the tone. Not sharp. Not bitter. Just flat, and contained. Measured.
“You can’t help him,” Rosier said after a beat, quieter now. “He won’t leave—and that’s the only thing you could do that might help.”
There was no heat in it. No anger. Just resignation.
James nodded slowly. Rosier turned to leave, then paused beside him.
For a moment, James thought he saw it—something unguarded flickering in those too-blue eyes. Not pity. Not blame. Something closer to grief, a deep and unfiltered sadness. It was completely unexpected and it made something in James’s chest tighten painfully.
“Nice that you care though Tosspot,” Rosier said quietly. “Sorry it doesn’t make more of a difference.”
And then he was gone.
His footsteps faded down the corridor like nothing had happened at all.
But James stood there for a long time.
Not thinking—exactly. More like wondering. Wondering what, precisely, Rosier had meant, and why it left him feeling strangely hollow. Not quite hopeless, but something close. As if the air around him had thinned without warning, leaving everything faintly off-kilter.