In the days that followed, James tried to shake the feeling—the one his conversation with Rosier had left hanging over him like a storm cloud. He threw himself into more manageable concerns: homework he half-payed attention to, Quidditch drills he could run in his sleep, and, most exhaustingly, the ongoing campaign that was Operation: Impress Lily Evans.
That last one could have qualified as a full-time occupation—albeit one with abysmal job security and absolutely no hazard pay.
It wasn’t for lack of effort. James was trying— really trying. But Lily Evans had an unerring talent for slicing through his bravado like it was mist. No matter how polished the joke, how noble the gesture, she saw right through him.
The thing was, James had some game. He was quick-witted, not bad looking, had a decent smile, and he’d been told that when he wasn’t actively being an arse, he was actually good company. If he’d turned this level of effort on nearly anyone else, it might have worked. He could totally be charming if he tried hard enough, and his jokes landed more often than not. He’d actually made a Ravenclaw sixth-year laugh so hard in the library the other day that she’d asked him out afterward.
But Lily? Lily was not impressed in the slightest. No matter what he did: for instance— on the Thursday just before Halloween he sent a conjured flock of paper butterflies flitting down from the arched windows just as she passed beneath them. They were delicate things—soft parchment wings, glowing edges, silent in their descent. A gentle cascade of rather impressive Transfiguration, if he did say so himself—subtle and a bit beautiful.
Lily stopped. Looked up. One of the butterflies landed briefly on her sleeve.
“Evans,” he called. “Thought you could use a distraction. You’ve had that same frown since Arithmancy.”
She looked over at him, unreadable.
“Are you… hexing the sky now?” she asked after a pause, brushing one of the butterflies off her robe.
“Only the nice bits,” James replied. “Besides, the weather’s dull. I thought it could do with some improvement. Like you do to most rooms, really.”
That got a reaction—a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Not quite. But not not a smile either.
“Is this what passes for flirting now?” she asked, still brushing at the butterflies, which were beginning to dissolve into shimmering flecks of nothing.
“Depends,” said James, stepping closer. “Is it working?”
She gave him a long, considering look. For a second, James had the wild idea that she might actually say yes—that this, of all things, might be the moment he turned it around.
Then she said, quite plainly, “You should’ve tried that in third year. Before you hexed Bones’s eyebrows off.”
James blinked. “That was… mostly Sirius.”
“You were laughing.”
“I have a very responsive sense of humour.”
“You’re a menace, Potter.”
“Yeah, but I could be your menace, Evans” he tried in a last-ditch attempt, paired with his most charming smile.
She didn’t respond to that. Just turned, a graceful pivot in her polished shoes, and walked off—leaving the faint scent of her shampoo and the quiet sound of James’s disappointment behind.
He stared after her in dismay. And then instantly began plotting his next move. Something to do with a serenading suit of armour. As it happened, that too failed spectacularly—and with a lot more witnesses.
James didn’t have long to wallow in his romantic failures, however. Quidditch season was in full swing, and Gryffindor’s upcoming match against Slytherin loomed like a storm cloud. Tension crackled in the common room whenever it was mentioned.
In the week leading up to the match there were several altercations between members of the Gryffindor team and the Slytherin team: all of which James and Sirius were involved in, and two of which ended with Avery and Goyle in the hospital wing.
The morning of the match dawned bright and chilly. The stands filled with red and green, flags waving, banners fluttering, and the occasional enchanted lion or snake slithering across a banner in defiance of school safety regulations.
James mounted his broom with a tight jaw and a jawline determined to prove something. He was going to win. He was going to crush it.
The game was fast, fierce, and filthy. He scored three goals in the first ten minutes and assisted another. The crowd roared. Gryffindor surged ahead.
James scored twice more, and it was looking good—Gryffindor in the lead and James feeling like he was on fire.
And then—then—
And then Rosier opened his mouth.
“Nice form, Tosspot,” he called, zooming past—and then, shooting him a shit eating grin, over his shoulder, he winked and added: “looking good.”
James was so surprise he nearly flew into the goal post he’d been aiming for, he dropped the Quaffle—and it was seized by Goyle, one of Slytherin’s chasers. Slytherin scored. James swore and pivoted looking for Rosier—he saw him on the other end of the pitch and took off after him with the intent of revenge. He raced across the pitch—then when he drew even with Rosier he angled his broom sharply to the left spinning out and kicking the tail of Rosier’s broom with everything he had. Down below a whistle sounded calling foul: but James didn’t care—the kick had the desired outcome and Rosier yelped and went spinning off in the opposite direction almost loosing his seat. James grinned in satisfaction even as Frank yelled something angry at him from several feet above. Worth it. Totally worth it.
Dorcas passed the Quaffle to James and he zoomed off down the field—just feet away from the goal post—and then he heard the whistle of a Bludger in pursuit, he dodge but was a second too late, and it slammed into his arm. There was a crack that James felt all the way through his being, and he dropped the Quaffle.
Gryffindor lost their lead, and Regulus caught the Snitch in a clean, downward dive that looked effortless.
Slytherin won.
Now he was trudging up to the hospital wing, his wrist cradled awkwardly against his chest, held steady by Sirius, who was providing a steady stream of commentary.
“It was Rosier! I saw it. He hit it right at you. Deranged, bat-swinging maniac,” Sirius muttered, practically vibrating with rage. “I warned you! He is feral. I don’t even think he likes Quidditch. I think he just likes pain.”
James didn’t argue. His wrist felt like someone had shoved hot iron through the bone. He was cold, bruised, and spiralling into a deep and justified anger.
“He’s unhinged,” said Sirius. “And also possibly dead inside. The bloke has never once known a human feeling that wasn’t either smugness or the desire to set something on fire!”
They pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, and James exhaled like a dying man reaching land.
“I hope Madam Pomfrey gives me something really strong,” he whined, letting Sirius steer him to the nearest bed. “Like, enough to make me forget we lost.”
James lay back, wrist still throbbing, pride in tatters, and decided—firmly—that Evan Rosier could rot. Preferably in a very small, soundproofed box with a swarm of angry wasps.
James spent the next ten minutes with his arm propped on a conjured cushion, waiting for Madam Pomfrey to return with whatever miracle spell or bone-knitting potion she deemed fit for the occasion.
Remus and Peter showed up halfway through, bearing contraband chocolate.
“Rosier is a menace,” Sirius was saying as Madam Pomfrey finally arrived with a grim expression and a muttered complaint about the violence of Quidditch. “I’m telling you, the next time I see him, I’m going to shove his broom up—”
“Language,” warned Pomfrey, waving her wand over James’s wrist.
“—up his nose,” Sirius amended without missing a beat.
James didn’t even try to stop the laugh that escaped. It hurt—sharp and immediate—but it was worth it.
Madam Pomfrey fixed his wrist in under a minute, she then gave him a stern lecture about reckless flying and what happened to boys with no sense of self-preservation, before telling him to stay put for ten minutes, just to make sure the bone had set properly.
Sirius kept up a steady stream of Rosier flavoured slander right up until the doors to the hospital wing swung open and subject of his rant strolled in.
Rosier was still in his Quidditch gear, his hair a windswept mess. He took in the scene—Sirius’s glare, James’s bandaged wrist, the general air of offended Gryffindor loyalty—and then he started walking toward them. He didn’t even glance at Sirius. Didn’t acknowledge Remus or Peter. His blue eyes locked on James and didn’t waver, even as he came to a stop in front of the bed.
“Hey,” said Rosier, addressing James directly, as if the others weren’t there. “You alright?”
James opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t get the chance.
Sirius was on his feet in an instant, scowling hard and stepping forward with all the menace of a storm-cloud. “Oh, absolutely bloody not—”
“Language,” Madam Pomfrey snapped again, poking her head out from her office and scowling at Sirius.
“Absolutely bloody not,” Sirius hissed, quieter now but twice as furious. “Piss off, you psycho little shit, before I hex your eyebrows blue—permanently this time.”
Rosier turned his head slowly. Gave Sirius a look—flat, unimpressed. His eyes flicked up to Sirius’s hair.
“Getting long, isn’t it?” he said, voice almost lazy. “What was it last time—six months to grow back?”
Sirius went pale. “You wankstain,” he snapped, jabbing a finger into Rosier’s chest. “Try that again and I’ll make sure the Rosier name dies with you.”
Rosier glared and slapped Sirius’s hand away, then he turned his attention back to James. “Not going to pretend I wasn’t aiming for you." He shrugged, “You know what they say—all’s fair in love, war, and Quidditch.”
James, who’d been fully prepared to stay pissed off, felt his irritation slip sideways into something else. Because Rosier wasn’t smirking. He didn’t look smug. He looked—if anything—sort of apologetic.
“What's the damage?” He asked, eyes flicking to James’s wrist.
James gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just a break. Think I’ll live— it’s all good.”
Rosier’s mouth twitched—half amusement, half something James couldn’t place.
“Glad to hear it.” He held James’s gaze for a beat. Then ducked his head. When he looked up again, there was a real smile there, brief and bright, like a match flaring.
“Meant it by the way. That first goal was clean…” He paused, and added. “You really made the Quaffle sing.”
And just like that, James was back in the broom shed. A boy on a bucket, a smirk in the dark, a bewitched Quaffle warbling A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love. A moment he’d almost forgotten about.
James—caught off guard—laughed. It escaped before he could stop it. His laugh was cut off abruptly when Sirius lunged for Rosier. Rosier stepped back just in the nick of time. And then ducking a stinging hex, fast and fluid, scarpered for the doors in a blur of motion and green Quiddich robes.
Gone.
Sirius let out a furious exhale and collapsed into his chair dramatically.
“Unbelievable,” Sirius muttered. “Absolutely unbelievable. That smug, undercooked sociopath strolls in here—to your hospital bed—and tosses off that limp excuse for an apology like he’s handing you a bloody favour. What a wanker.”
James didn’t respond.
“The nerve! To come in here and gloat,” Sirius said with a scowl. “Trying to rub it in. Shithead.”
James glanced down at his wrist. Flexed the fingers experimentally. Then looked toward the doors, now quietly shut.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t explain. But the truth sat quietly in the back of his mind, stubborn as ever.
Rosier hadn’t been gloating. He’d been apologising. And James—though he’d never admit it aloud—was glad he had.
Christmas came and went in a blur of tinsel, snowball hexes, and Sirius loudly declaring war on any form of holiday boredom.
They returned from the break feeling vaguely refreshed, determined to focus on Quidditch, and in James’s case, his ongoing campaign to win over Lily Evans.
Unfortunately, Lily remained largely unimpressed, and Professor McGonagall docked him ten points before breakfast on the first day back for what she described as “excessive theatrics and poor judgement,” and he described as, "a deeply romantic gesture."
Time marched on. The castle shifted into the sluggish rhythm of late winter. January blurred into February.
Outside, the lake froze. Inside, the air was thick with essays, Quidditch drills, and OWL preparation.
And James, in between all of it, found himself watching Regulus Black.
He didn’t have a lot of friends, his circle seeming to consist mainly of Rosier’s sister, and another Ravenclaw boy, tall with dark hair and eyes, whose name James learnt was Barty Crouch.
And Rosier, of course.
Rosier was there. Always there. Often sprawled sideways in a chair like it offended him to sit normally, often with one boot kicked lazily over the other, and that habitual look of disinterest on his face.
James didn’t watch him—not really. But sometimes his eyes snagged on Rosier anyway—when he laughed unexpectedly, or said something that made Regulus smile, made him look almost human for a second.
But mostly, it was Regulus.
James wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Signs of something. Proof of what Rosier had said, maybe. A crack in the veneer. Some evidence that Regulus was not alright, that James’s vague sense of unease had grounding.
He didn’t find it. Regulus looked the same as he always had: polished, contained, aloof.
But now James watched the way he held his shoulders when Sirius was in the room. The slight delay before he responded to a joke. The way he never sat with his back to a door.
James told himself it didn’t matter. He had Quidditch to think about. OWLs to pretend to study for. Lily Evans to moon over.
And he did moon. Excessively.
But still, every so often—between one Lily-related humiliation and the next—his gaze drifted across the Great Hall.
And more often than not, it landed on Regulus Black.
And on occasion, the boy sitting beside him.
Winter turned to spring, and in early April, something happened.
Something bad.
It started with Sirius trying to teach Snape a lesson.
It ended with Snape almost dying.
Dumbledore called it reckless.
McGonagall called it idiotically stupid.
Peter called it a mistake.
Remus called it a betrayal.
Sirius didn’t call it anything.
And James never forgot it.
Snape didn’t tell the whole truth—not publicly. But word got out.
Rumours spread in low murmurs and sharp glances, the kind that stuck to the walls of the castle and didn’t come unstuck.
Sirius was stripped of his place on the Quidditch team.
McGonagall told him, flatly, he was lucky not to be expelled. Remus didn’t speak to him for a month. Not until just before OWLs. Even then, it was strained—every word felt like it was weighed before being handed over. Peter tried to make peace, as always, but his jokes rang thin and brittle, like glassware handled too roughly.
James tried to pretend it hadn’t changed anything.
He laughed in the dormitory, practised with the team, sat through his exams.
But something was off-kilter.
Like a picture frame slightly askew that no one could bring themselves to fix.
What haunted him most was the look on Snape’s face.
The pure terror when James had pulled him back.
At first, James was angry.
He told himself it was Snape’s fault. He shouldn’t have followed. He’d brought it on himself.
That anger festered and curdled—until it spilled over by the lake after their second-to-last exam.
James hexed him. Showed off. Humiliated him.
Snape didn’t retaliate. Lily did.
That night, James lay in bed and felt the weight of it all settle.
Because it wasn’t Snape’s fault. Not really.
And the anger he’d hurled at him wasn’t really about Snape at all.
It was about Sirius.
About what Sirius had done.
About what it meant that James hadn’t stopped him sooner.
And that was the worst part.
Not the guilt. Not even the humiliation.
It was the quiet breaking of something between them—something deep and wordless—that James didn’t know how to mend.
There was still loyalty. Still friendship.
Still the same familiar rhythms: the inside jokes, the banter, the way Sirius could throw himself into a conversation like it was a battleground and make everyone else fall in line.
But there was also… space.
Something strained.
Something James couldn’t name.
The unshakeable confidence James had always had—that they were right, that they were good, that the Marauders were the side to be on—started to crack.
He’d grown up thinking that if you were clever, brave, loyal, and willing to stand up for what you believed in, then that meant you were a good person. The lines were clean and cut.
But what if you could be brave and clever and loyal, and still cross a line you didn’t know was there until it was too late?
What if good intentions weren’t enough?
Somewhere in that quiet, uneasy space, something new crept in.
A question that stuck like grit in the gears.
What did it actually mean to be good?
And was he—James Potter—a good person?