James was running for his life.
Metaphorically, but also literally—sprinting through a field in Dorset, lungs burning, boots slipping in the churned mud, curses slicing through the air behind him like lightning. A mission gone sideways— spectacularly sideways. No time to think. Only to run. He Apparated blind, and then again, and again—each time moving deeper into nowhere. Backwater towns, forgotten edges of counties. He passed through the margins of the country like a ghost. He changed clothes in the woods behind a church in Wiltshire, fingers numb as he vanished the blood from his sleeves, and transformed his robes into jeans and a plaid shirt.
He didn’t dare go home.
Didn’t dare send word.
Didn’t dare contact the Order.
The number of people who’d known about the mission had been small.
Too small.
By the time the panic started to fade, James realised his magic was faltering. His last apparition nearly splinched him. He stumbled out of the darkness into a place that didn’t look real. He’d been aiming for St Ives, but he was fairly sure that wasn’t where he was. Although judging from the salty air and warm night—he had, at least, made it to Cornwall.
A quiet coastal village. The kind with whitewashed cottages and a crooked stone bridge. The kind where the sea was always visible at the end of every road and the stars were visible over snow covered roofs. He found an inn and paid for a room in muggle notes. He’d learned that trick early. The muggle world was a better place to disappear than the wizarding one. No enchantments. No traces. No name to watch on a Floo network. James decided he’d contact Moody tomorrow. That laying low for a night was smart. Maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, whoever had set him up would believe he hadn’t made it out.
The receptionist at the inn was chipper, relentlessly so, her cheer bright enough to scrape against James’s nerves. She informed him that breakfast was served daily in the conservatory but, regretfully, the inn did not do dinner. For that, she suggested a pub, just down road— best steak and ale pie on the coast, she claimed with the cheery conviction of someone who had never tasted war.
James murmured his thanks, nodded where it seemed appropriate, and left.
The pub looked like something from a postcard. Thatched roof and a creaking wooden sign with ornate gold lettering that read The Queen’s Arms . It was the kind of building that made you forget there was a world outside it, a world tearing itself to pieces.
He stepped inside.
The smell hit him first—yeast, smoke, and slow-roasting meat. It was warm, cosy. Old timber beams arched overhead, crooked pictures hung on the walls—sailing ships, hunting dogs, a faded landscape or two. The dark floorboards were uneven, warn in by feet and the scrape of bar stools. The air held the faint hum of voices and clinking glasses and something that felt dangerously close to comfort.
James found a seat near the back near the fire. Ordered a pint. And the steak and ale pie, because why not?
It turned out the receptionist had been right.
It was good. Really good. It reminded him, strangely, of Hogwarts.
Of the Great Hall.
Of laughter.
Of warmth.
Of feeling safe.
He ate slowly, methodically, letting the salt and ale and buttery crust trick his body into believing everything was fine.
He watched the other patrons as he ate. A pair of women at the next table—forties, maybe—sharing a bottle of rosé and enough local gossip to fuel a village. Two old men at the next table, leaning in close over pints of bitter. Two lads around James’s age playing darts in the far corner, laughing too loud. They looked relaxed. Happy. Young and care free. James envied them with a kind of quiet ferocity. It almost hurt to look at them. He turned his focus to the bar, dark polished wood and gleaming taps. A man sat alone. His back was to James, a dark coat slung over the back of his stool. Fair hair. Broad shoulders. Head bowed, hands curved tightly around a lowball glass. He wore a long sleeved fitted black t-shirt, black jeans and heavy looking black leather boots. He didn’t look like he belonged here—not to this picturesque village.
A tourist, maybe. Someone on holiday?
But no, that wasn’t right: there was something in the slump of his shoulders that didn’t say holiday. It said escape.
The man singled to the girl behind the bar. Said something. She nodded. Poured him a drink. Neat. James watched him throw it back with practised precision.
James frowned.
There was nothing overtly dramatic about the man. Granted the black on black outfit stood out a bit but apart from his fashion choices he seemed normal enough. Just a man drinking in a pub, and yet something about him held James’s gaze. The man raised his hand again. Ordered another. He threw that one back too. James watched him drink two more—methodical, determined. Drinking to get drunk. By the time James drained his own pint, the man had knocked back at least three more. Maybe four. He missed be well on the way to pissed and yet he remained still. Hardly moving apart from when he required a refill. Head bowed, elbows resting on the bar.
Eventually, the bartender—the same curly-haired woman with the West Country lilt and bright blue nail polish who’d served James—shook her head.
A firm, polite smile. Apologetic, but unmoved.
James couldn’t hear what she said. He didn’t need to. The message was clear enough.
You've had enough.
It happened so fast James almost missed it.
A flick of the wrist. Low, sharp, a wand sliding out of a sleeve. There and then gone again.
James’s body tensed.
The bartender startled—small, involuntary. Blinked. Her rhythm faltered, glass catching awkwardly in her hand. For a breath, she seemed unsure of her own limbs. Then she smiled.
Too wide. Too still.
She nodded, turned, and reached for a green bottle on the back bar. Poured a hearty measure into a glass. Set it down in front of the man. Left the bottle, too. Then returned to polishing glasses, was if nothing had happened. But James knew better. Knew that look. The vacant eyes. The slack face holding a smile it didn’t mean.
Imperius.
He shifted slightly, his wand sliding into his hand without conscious thought. Could it be one of the Death Eaters who’d tried to kill him? Had they tracked him here somehow? But no—the man had already been in the pub when James arrived, and more importantly, he didn’t look like someone out for blood. Just booze. James had watched him drink straight spirits steadily for the past hour; even if he had an iron constitution, the bloke had to be well and truly pissed by now—certainly not in any state to leap up and attack. Still, James hesitated. A Death Eater getting drunk in a Muggle pub seemed unlikely, but then again—someone who used an Unforgivable Curse so casually had to be dangerous, Death Eater or not.
James watched, equal parts wary and perplexed, as the man reached into his pocket—not for a wand, but a lighter. He bent his head, shielding the flame with a practised hand, and lit a cigarette. From behind the bar, the girl—placed an ashtray in front of him without a word. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw one of the old men from the nearby table rise and head towards the bar. He tensed instinctively, fingers curling around his wand as he stopped beside the blond man. For an instant, James braced for violence. But the seated man didn’t react. No flick of his wrist. No curse. Instead, he just nodded in response to whatever the older man said. Then handed over his packet of cigarettes. The older man took one, and then accepted the proffered light, a nod of thanks, and he returned to his table without incident. James’s grip on his wand eased. He studied the man at the bar more closely. The hair—dark gold—caught the warm light from the lamp on the far wall, glinting faintly with each movement. His shirt clung to broad shoulders, the fabric stretched taut across a frame that suggested strength, even in his current slump. Hard to tell sitting down, but James would have wagered he stood about his own height. James narrowed his eyes, shifting slightly in his seat: ending it to the left in an attempt to get a glimpse of the man's profile.
Then, as if sensing the scrutiny, the man shifted. Turned on his stool. He looked directly at James. Recognition hit like a blow. The cut of his jaw. The sharp, straight line of his nose, sharp cheekbones, full lips. He held James's gaze for a second, and then simply turned back to the bar and his drink. James’s chair scraped sharply against the floorboards as he stood. He crossed the space without thinking, driven by something deeper than logic, until he came to stand at the man’s side.
“What the hell are you doing, Rosier?” James asked, voice low.
“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing Tosspot?”
“It looks like you’re trying to drink yourself into an early grave,” James said, leaning in, keeping his voice pitched for their ears alone, “and committing pretty serious crimes on the way down.”
“Sound observational skills you’ve got there,” Rosier murmured. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”
James exhaled sharply through his nose. His gaze dropped to the bottle between them. Jameson.
“So what—Azkaban’s a fair trade for a bottle of piss-poor whisky? You completely lost the plot?”
Rosier gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Didn’t want to get the girl sacked for handing over the good stuff.”
James stared at him, disbelieving.
Rosier turned his head and stared back. Up close, the blue eyes were unfocused, the glassy gleam of alcohol evident. But beneath it, there was something else. A hollowing. An absence, disturbingly blank. Nothing in his face. No smirk. No raised brow. No glimmer of the wry, sharp-edged humour James remembered. Just a dead-eyed, glass-flat stare.
Something twisted low in James’s gut. Dread, maybe. Or recognition. He knew that look. Had seen it in the mirror. Understanding crashed over him. He cleared his throat. The words felt wrong as he said them. Too human for the space between them. “I heard about Regulus,” he said quietly. “Heard he was missing.”
A beat. No shift in Rosier’s expression.
“Not missing,” said Rosier. Flat, but precise. “Dead.”
James felt the words hit somewhere deep behind his ribs, where grief already lived like a second heart. And he realised with a horrible clarity that he’d known. Somehow–deep down. He’d known. Not in a way he could explain—not with proof. But he’d felt it. Like something tearing quietly inside him. He exhaled shakily. Scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers dragging through his hair. Let the pain crest and break like a wave.
"Fuck," and then, because he didn't know what else to say. "Are you alright?" It was a stupid question. It was obvious that Rosier was not alright.
"No," said Rosier, "I'm not." Blank-faced and hollow eyed. Then, with clinical detachment: “So either fuck off and leave me be—or sit down and drink.”
James sat. The choice was made for him. Already done.
Rosier raised a hand, and the bartender placed a second glass on the bar. He poured, slow and deliberate, the liquid sloshing heavy against glass. Without a word, he slid it across. James took it. Didn’t think about the implications. The Imperius. The fact that sharing this drink probably made him complicit in—something. Probably a lot of somethings.
He didn’t care.
Not tonight.
The whisky burned all the way down. Rough. Unforgiving.
It was the best thing he’d felt in weeks.
When James could finally speak—when the whisky had dulled the sharp edge of his guilt just enough to give his throat shape—he asked.
A question he didn’t want to ask.
Didn’t want to know.
But needed to.
His voice cracked around it.
“Why—?”
The word snagged in his throat. James swallowed hard, took another swig, chased the question down with fire.
“Why did he join?”
Rosier didn’t look at him. Just stared into his glass, jaw tight, shoulders rigid beneath the thin stretch of his shirt.
“He didn't think he had a choice.”
James nodded, swallowed hard. "When?"
"Think you know the answer to that."
James closed his eyes. Pain and understanding washing over him. Seventh year. When Regulus had started pulling away. That Christmas, the one that had been the end of them. “I let him go and I knew—knew something was wrong, but I just—”
“You didn’t let him do anything,” Rosier said, cutting across him.
His tone wasn’t angry. Just flat. Factual. Rosier’s thumb ran once along the rim of his glass. The next words came low. Spoken like a truth that had nowhere else to go. James felt the words sink into his skin like cold water. Felt the devastation behind them.
“You made him better.” A pause. “Made him brave.”
Rosier looked up then, and those too-blue eyes were wrecked. Stricken. His mouth twisted down at the corners. “He would’ve rather died than drag you into our world. You didn’t fail him. I did .”
James’s stomach twisted horribly. The implication of Rosier's words settling in his gut like stone. He swallowed the reaction down. Stuffed it deep. Pressed it tight then picked up his own glass and drank. He drank to Regulus. To the boy with storm-grey eyes. To the boy who had broken his heart. To the boy he’d loved, to the boy who was gone.
They sank the bottle.
The pub thinned out. Chairs scraped, doors swung shut. But neither of them moved.
Rosier lit another cigarette. Then slid the pack across the bar without looking.
James took one. Picked up the lighter Rosier had left between them—heavy, silver. He lit up, the smoke catching sharp at the back of his throat. It hurt. It helped.
The girl behind the bar called last orders. James glanced sideways. Honestly, it was a minor miracle Rosier was still upright. Let alone managing to dig out his wallet and lay three crisp fifty-pound notes on the bar. The girl blinked down at the notes. “That’s too much—” she started, lifting two of them to return.
Rosier waved her off. “Keep it. Sorry for the—” he paused, sighed. “Just, sorry.”
The girl looked unsure for half a second. Then, when it became clear Rosier wasn’t taking the money back, she smiled, thanked him, and tucked the notes away with the air of someone who couldn’t quite believe her luck. It became apparent as they left the pub that while generous tipping and apologising were still in Rosier’s reach of ability, apparition was completely out of the question. Walking? Also not his strong suit. James, blessed with that rare, brutal clarity reserved for the less drunk man in a two-man disaster, came to the inevitable conclusion: that he was going to be responsible for getting Rosier somewhere with a bed in which he could sleep it off. Which was how he found himself with Rosier’s arm slung across his shoulders, half-carrying, half-dragging him up the winding road towards the inn.
Getting them through the front door was a challenge.
Getting them up the stairs was a bloody ordeal.
Rosier was nearly as tall as James, and—judging by the deadweight of him—built like a bloody brick wall. The man weighed a fucking ton.
But James managed it.
Somehow.
Rosier all but collapsed forward onto the bed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Could’ve at least bought me dinner first.”
James, snorted—and then made for the bathroom. He splashed water onto his face—and then stared into the mirror, his reflection looking grimly back at him. The weight of grief and loss dulled by whisky, but still there. Deep inside his chest. There was something else too—something he’d chosen to ignore, because of the pain in Rosier’s eyes. Because the guy was pissed and probably hadn’t meant to say it, something that James wanted to be a drunk slip, didn't want to be true, but had a horrible sinking feeling, probably was.
Our world.
Rosier had said Ours. Not Regulus’s world. Theirs.
James walked back into the bedroom. Rosier had kicked off his boots, and was sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep.
James stood there, staring down at him.
The lamp on the bedside table cast his hair in a wash of gold. The sharp lines of his face dulled by exhaustion. Not soft. Not exactly. But defenceless. Hollowed out.
Something about the sight snagged at James. Tugged, low and sharp.
And all at once, he remembered—with painful, crystalline clarity—the eleven-year-old boy who’d first called him a tosspot.
Slowly, James crossed the room. He knelt beside the bed, on the far side. He reached out fingers closing around Rosier’s wrist. He turned it, carefully and pushed up his left sleeve to expose a tanned forearm, warm beneath James’s fingers. He hadn't want to be right. But he was. Black ink etched sharp and unforgiving into skin the colour of late summer.
He should leave.
Go now while Rosier was out cold.
That would be the smart thing to do. But he was sad, drunk and above all—tired. Tired from nearly dying that afternoon, tired from his dash across the country, tired from the ache of grief, tired from all of it. Bone numbingly, head splittingly, exhausted.
And tangled up with the indisputable fact that Evan Rosier was a Death Eater—marked and almost definitely dangerous—was the quieter, more stubborn knowledge that he was also the boy from the broom shed. The same one who’d taught James to play blackjack, who’d made him feel normal for being in love with a boy, and who’d been the only person to ask him if he was alright when he was falling apart. And so James did something that he couldn't begin to justify to himself, something unbelievably stupid, perhaps the most stupid thing he'd ever done. He walked back around to the other side of the bed. The empty side, pulled back the covers and got in beside the unconscious Death Eater. James had just enough time to think that exhaustion, grief and whisky made for very strange bedfellows—and then he too was asleep.