The air smelled of algae and city grit. James drew his cloak tighter against the morning chill as he made his way down the embankment toward the canal, the first grey light stretching thin across the water. A low bridge loomed ahead, its stone arch slick with damp and graffiti. Beneath it, half in shadow, stood Alastor Moody.
The silhouette was unmistakable—long coat, broad-shouldered, the glint of his magical eye already whirring, sweeping the embankment even before James came into view.
“Moody,” James said quietly, stepping under the bridge’s shelter. His voice echoed softly off the stagnant water.
Moody inclined his head a fraction in greeting. In the half-light, his face looked even more carved with exhaustion than usual, his features heavy with fatigue. Whatever news he carried, it wasn’t good.
“You alright, lad?” Moody asked, voice low and rough. One eye pinned James in place while the other kept circling the dark.
James gave a humourless smile. “Nothing a night’s sleep and a couple Ogden’s won’t fix.”
Moody’s mouth twitched as if considering a smile, but the moment passed. “You gave us a scare. Thought we’d lost you.” He scanned the towpath, then turned fully to face James. “Four safe houses were hit last night. Four.” He held up four fingers, scarred and blunt. “Two of them were ones I fed false leads about. Meant to draw a nibble. The other two? Yours included. Shouldn’t have happened.”
James felt his stomach knot.
Moody’s gaze sharpened. “We’ve got a problem. Suspected for a while. This confirms it. Someone’s flipped. There’s a spy in the Order.”
James swallowed. “Do you know who?”
Moody shook his head once, grim. “Not yet. But I bloody well will.” He cleared his throat. “Walk me through it. Everything.”
So James did. “They came around midnight. Cut through the wards like they weren’t even there. I got lucky, saw them coming up the hill. Managed to get into the garden and hide just in time.”
“How many?” Moody barked.
“Four,” said James. “They blew the door open and realised pretty quickly the place was empty. Started combing the grounds.”
He didn’t mention the fire—green and unnatural. He didn’t know why he kept that part back. Only that something in him refused to give it up, so he kept it to himself along with the person who’d conjured it.
“I overheard two of them talking. They didn’t seem to know who they were after. Or care much. I got a name. Two, actually. The one barking orders was Rookwood. The other—Lucius.”
Moody swore under his breath.
James raised an eyebrow. “That mean something?”
“Lucius Malfoy.” Moody’s mouth twisted around the name. “Been circling him for a while. Slippery bastard. But Rookwood—” His lip curled. “That’s a surprise. Not the good kind either. He’s Ministry. Office of Defensive. High clearance. Thought he was clean. Clearly not.”
James felt sick. “He’s an Auror?”
“Politician,” said Moody, disgust curling his mouth. “At least now we know. You get anything on the other two?”
James didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
Moody gave him a long look—his magical eye spinning, the regular one narrowed in scrutiny. Then he nodded. “Shame. Still. Rookwood’s enough for now. Anything else?”
James shook his head. “That’s it.”
Moody grunted. “Get gone, then.”
James nods.
Lily threw her arms around him the minute he stepped through the door to the cottage. Sirius, Remus and Pete were all there, and Sirius pulled James into a tight hug second Lily let him go.
“You unbelievable git,” Sirius muttered, voice rough – as James hugged him back. “We thought you were dead. Missing for a fucking week Prongs. Lily filled us in. You ever fucking do that again and I’ll kill you myself.”
Lily scooped her wand up from the floor, smoothing a hand over her hair as she pulled herself back together. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said softly. “I think we could all use some tea.”
The moment the door swung shut behind her, the air in the room shifted.
Sirius didn’t let go right away. When he did, he stepped back just enough to look at James properly, grey eyes sweeping over him, sharp and searching.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, voice low, but tight. “Where have you been?”
James didn’t answer straight away.
Instead, he sank onto the edge of the couch, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Mission went sideways,” he said eventually. “Death Eaters waiting for me. Almost didn’t make it out.”
Sirius didn’t blink. Remus sat down beside Peter, his brows furrowed. No one interrupted.
He didn’t say anything about Rosier. Didn’t mention Cornwall. Not the whisky. Not the mark on Rosier’s arm. Not the drunken decision to climb into bed next to an unconscious Death Eater. He didn’t say anything about Regulus. About how Rosier had looked when he said he was gone. About how much it had hurt to lose him all over again.
“I was here. For a bit. Few days. Moody told Lil to lie to you all. He said it was important—part of some plan he wouldn’t explain. Then he moved me to a safe house. I was there for two more days.” He looked up at them, “until it was attacked last night.”
Remus’s jaw tightened.
Peter swallowed hard.
“How’d you get away?” Sirius asked. His voice was quiet, but the tension in it was sharp.
James shrugged. “I was outside when they showed up. Saw them coming—hid before they reached the house.”
He didn’t say more. Didn’t admit that the only reason he was still breathing was because someone who should’ve killed him hadn’t.
There was a beat. A long, weighted silence.
Then James said, lower this time: “Moody thinks there’s a spy in the Order.”
Sirius swore—low, brutal, and vicious, the kind of words that vibrated through the floorboards.
Remus didn’t speak. Just pressed his lips into a hard line, his eyes dark.
Peter went pale. The kind of pale that made it look like all the blood had left his body at once.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Lily swept back in balancing a tray of tea and a tin of biscuits with her wand, the soft clink of cups and the faintly floral scent of the Earl Grey she preferred momentarily breaking the tension. She handed a mug to each of them—Sirius with a murmured “thanks,” Remus with a small, grateful smile, Peter’s hands shaking as he took his.
There were too many silences in the days that followed. Too many conversations that ended before they began. Word had spread—quietly, inevitably. No one said much, but everyone in the Order knew something. Enough to be afraid. Sirius was tense. Stressed about the spy. They all were. But for some reason it seemed to be affecting him worse. He was quiet and brooding. Then Sirius’s parents died. First his mother—then, two weeks later, his father.
James knew Sirius wouldn’t mourn them. Had hated them. Was glad they were gone. But James felt it, not in their deaths, the loss wasn’t in the grief—it was in the fact that now Sirius was alone. Truly alone. The last of his family. And he didn’t even know. Not telling him about Regulus felt like betrayal. Like James was hoarding a secret too heavy to carry alone. And with every day that passed, with every word left unsaid, another inch opened between them. Between him and Sirius. Between him and Lily. Between him and everyone.
The briefing came midweek: Diagon Alley. Surveillance only. Something about a string of purchases—rare ingredients, dark-aligned artefacts—made in a pattern Moody didn’t like. Said he suspected Knockturn Alley was involved. James suspected Moody always suspected Knockturn Alley.
Still. They were sent to follow it up. Sirius, James, and Peter. Officially to observe. Unofficially—well, James didn’t even care. It was the first mission he’d had since the sideways, the one that ended up with him in The Queens Arms. He would take anything he could get, any excuse to be out of the cottage, away from Lily’s trusting green eyes. The ones he couldn’t quite meet, not since Regulus had been announced missing. Not since James had started lying again.
The three of them Apparated into a side-street near the Leaky Cauldron just before dusk. The sky was iron-grey, spitting early summer rain in the way only London could. They moved without speaking. James led them past Flourish and Blots first—wand tucked up his sleeve, eyes scanning the street. There was nothing unusual. Just the usual post-work bustle: shoppers ducking between shopfronts, witches in heeled boots and rain-slick cloaks, a wizard arguing with a squat delivery owl outside Flourish & Blotts.
“Me and Pete will sweep Knockturn first, from the west entrance,” Sirius said quietly. “ames—want to come in from the other side?”
James nodded. “Right.”
They split at the turnoff by Madam Malkin’s. Sirius and Peter disappeared down the narrow mouth of the alleyway, swallowed by shadow. James turned back toward the main square, boots splashing softly through the shallow puddles, pretending the rain didn’t bother him. He looped down past the apothecary, cut behind the Owl Post, and ducked through a side street that would feed him into Knockturn from the east. The lanterns were dimmer here. The shop signs hung crooked. Everything smelled faintly of soot and mildew and something more metallic, like rusted iron left out in the rain.
A door slammed somewhere behind him. A cat hissed.
He was halfway past a narrow recess between two shuttered shops when a figure stepped into his path—sudden.
James collided with someone solid. Stumbled slightly. “Sorry,” said James even as a hand caught his shoulder to steady him.
“My fault,” said Evan Rosier—blue eyes meeting his. He looked—well, dry, for one thing. Not a hair out of place. His robes were dark and immaculately cut, sharp at the shoulders and tailored in a way that said expensive without being ostentatious.
James blinked. Fifty thoughts ricocheted through his head in a single second. Rosier was watching him—expression carefully neutral. And for a second, two wildly different images swam before James’s eyes. The Death Eater who had saved his life. The boy from school.
Rosier cocked his head. Eyes intent—like he was waiting to see what James would do. James considered his options. Confront him here, in the middle of Knockturn Alley, demand answers? Ask him why he’d done it—why hadn’t just handed James over—that must mean something right, but what? James opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say—but something—he knew he needed to say something. And then movement over Rosier’s shoulder caught his eye.
Sirius.
Striding toward them his cloak flaring like a flag of war. Peter trailed behind him by half a step, hands buried in his pockets, face drawn and pale under the dull evening light.
James’s body locked up on instinct. The sudden sensation of being caught red handed, caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing, caught with his trousers down, swept over him. He swallowed, tried to shake it off—he wasn’t doing anything wrong—well, apart from standing in an alley with a death eater. But no one knew that Rosier was a Death Eater.
No one. Except him.
Sirius stopped. He didn’t speak right away. His eyes flicked over James, once, then settled—sharp and unreadable—on Rosier. Rosier didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just turned his head slightly in acknowledgment, unimpressed.
“Sirius.”
His voice was even. Detached.
“Evan,” said Sirius, and James could feel the tension radiating off him like a heatwave. He recognised that posture—the squared shoulders, the narrowed eyes. That brittle stillness that meant Sirius was one wrong word from lashing out. He was coiled tight. Ready. Spoiling for a fight.
“Sulking in Knockturn Alley,” Sirius added, his voice low and razor-edged. “Why am I not surprised?”
Rosier smiled.
It wasn’t the usual smirk—the dry, amused curl James had come to expect. Nor was it that rare, too-bright grin that somehow made him look simultaneously angelic and, totally demonic.
No, this smile was different.
Polite. Empty.
It didn’t reach his eyes. And it didn’t belong on his face.
James felt a strange unease settle in his chest—when exactly had he come to know Rosier’s smiles well enough to tell the difference?
“Just passing through,” Rosier said.
“I find that hard to believe,” Sirius all but growled.
Rosier didn’t blink. “Not really my concern, what you find believable.” His tone was even, bored. “If you’ll excuse me—I’ve got debts to settle with half the tailors in Diagon Alley. Dora’s been on an owl-order spree. Truly astonishing how many pairs of shoes one witch can justify owning.” He paused then, eyes still fixed on Sirius. “The things we do for our siblings.”
Sirius stiffened. James saw it—shoulders drawn tight, chin lifting in that instinctive, brittle way he did when something actually hurt. Peter shifted beside him, clearing his throat, laying a tentative hand on Sirius’s arm as if to tether him in place.
Rosier’s eyes slid briefly to Peter, a slight frown and then he turned to James. Gave him a quick nod. “Always a pleasure, Potter.”
Rosier’s voice was clipped, civil but cool, he turned and disappeared down the alley. Sirius watched him go.
“Fucking slimy prick,” he muttered, voice rough, like gravel caught in his throat.
They swept Knockturn twice. Once fast, once slow. The street pressed in around them—all crooked lines and shadowed windows, the slick stone underfoot cold enough to bite. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. It was like the place had exhaled and forgotten how to breathe again.
James stole a glance at his Sirius as they walked, his jaw was set, eyes narrowed.
The drizzle continued. Thin, steady, and unrelenting.
They didn’t find anything.
Peter, bless him, tried to fill the space. He talked about the Cannons’ last match, and about a new bakery near the Ministry, and about how he’d heard rumours someone was siphoning potion ingredients from St. Mungo’s. James nodded. Gave replies where needed. But his eyes kept drifting sideways to Sirius, who remained quiet, mouth set in a grim line. There was a subtle, nauseating tug in James’s stomach that he couldn’t quite shake. Guilt, probably. Or unease. Or both. He did his best to ignore it.
They wrapped the mission near sundown and parted ways just off the main road, apparating out with little more than a muttered farewell. Peter left first. Sirius and James went together.
They landed just outside the garden gate of the cottage. The air smelled of damp grass and woodsmoke. There was a light on in the kitchen window. Lily, waiting.
They were halfway up the garden path when Sirius stopped walking.
James turned. “What is it?”
Sirius didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, still as stone, eyes fixed on him. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Prongs?”
James blinked at him. “What?”
A long silence stretched out between them, Sirius’s grey eyes didn’t leave his face—searching, as if looking for something. And then finally. “What were you doing with Rosier?”
James blinked. “Nothing,” said James honestly, “I bumped into him, quite literally—and then you and Pete showed up.”
Sirius’s expression darkened, his eyes still fixed on James. “That’s all? You weren’t talking?”
“Er no?”
“Right,” said Sirius, still with that dark expression. James tried not to squirm under the weight of it—there was something uncomfortably like suspicion in his best friend's face, and James didn't know why. He wasn’t lying, well not about that anyway. Sirius looked away, finally. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” he said, voice flat. “Give Lily my apologies about dinner.”
“Sirius—” James started.
But Sirius was already walking. Shoulders rigid, back straight. The pop of Apparition cracked softly against the dusk, and then he was gone.
Silence settled over the garden like a second skin—damp leaves underfoot, the faint creak of the gate swinging shut behind him. Somewhere in the hedgerows, an owl called out. The sound echoed longer than it should have.
James exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. The door to the cottage opened. Lily stood in the threshold, silhouetted in the warm light of the hallway, her cardigan pulled around her shoulders. She took one look at his face and frowned.
“Where’s Sirius? He’s not staying for dinner?”
“No,” said James, moving towards her. “Not tonight.”
Lily stepped aside to let him in. “You okay?”
He hesitated. Then shrugged. “Fine.”
James didn’t say anything more. He let the door fall shut behind him and tried not to think about the fact that Evan Rosier’s name was still sitting sharp and silent on the back of his tongue.
That night, James lay awake while Lily slept beside him, her breathing slow and steady, oblivious to the storm churning under his skin. Things were slipping out of his control—and fast.
He’d seen Rosier twice now since The Queen’s Arms .
When James first decided not to tell Moody, he’d done so under the quiet assumption that it would be a one-off—that he’d never see Rosier again, and the lie would fade harmlessly into the past. But here he was, days later, already tangled deeper in the mess he’d made.
Cornwall had been one thing. He could almost justify keeping that quiet. But the safe house? That had been different. That hadn’t been chance. That had been risk. Exposure. Contact.
And now he was stuck.
Telling Moody after the first encounter might have been excusable—risky, yes, but still within the realm of salvageable. But now? Now he was actively concealing intelligence. Now Rosier knew that James knew. And more than that—he’d saved his life.
James didn’t know what to do.
Didn’t even know if doing anything was still possible.
Rosier must know by now that James was in the Order. He had to—after the safe house, after the ambush. And that was dangerous. Unpredictable. But then again... he’d had a wand to James’s head and chosen not to use it. That had to mean something.
But what?
Why let him go? Why not hand him over? Or kill him himself? Was it loyalty to Regulus, some old ghost neither of them could quite lay to rest? If they met again in the field—would Rosier strike him down? Would James , if given the chance?
His thoughts spiralled—doubt, confusion, guilt—all looping over themselves in the dark.
He was lying again. To everyone.
Just like he had with Regulus.
He turned over onto his side, careful not to wake Lily, but she stirred anyway—just enough to murmur something incoherent and shift closer, her arm falling across his chest. He lay still beneath it, heart pounding like it didn’t belong to him.
She trusted him.
They all trusted him. Moody, Sirius, Remus, Peter, Dorcas—every single one of them thought James Potter could be counted on. And here he was, hiding the existence of a Death Eater.
What did that say about him?
His brain wouldn’t shut up. Couldn’t rest. He kept replaying it: the snap of twigs in the garden, the weight of dragonhide boots on stone, the look in Rosier’s eyes when their eyes met. He hadn’t hesitated. He’d raised his wand—and hidden James.
Why?
He didn’t want to turn Rosier in. That was what haunted him most. He should have. He should . But something in him rebelled against the idea. Perhaps it was some remnant of love for Regulus, or loyalty—but he didn’t think it was just that, no this was something murkier and much harder to name.
He was lying to his friends. To his fiancée . To the Order.
He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling.
There was more, too.
The look on Sirius’s face. The suspicion. It kept returning to him in flashes—too quick to analyse properly, too sharp to ignore. Sirius didn’t know. He couldn’t know. There was no way. But something was off.
It made his skin itch.
James had spent half his life reading Sirius like a book. Now, for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he could. That terrified him. The thought coiled like a snake in his chest.He didn’t know how long he lay there, motionless beneath the weight of Lily’s arm, the ceiling blurring as his eyes refused to close. His mind was fracturing, splitting into pieces that didn’t belong together anymore. One part of him wanted to tell the truth, to pull the pin and let it all unravel. Another part didn’t. Wouldn’t. Refused. He wanted to believe that intention mattered—that protecting someone, even someone like Rosier, could still fall under the banner of good. But didn’t they all think they were doing the right thing? That was the part that frightened him. Not the lie, but how easily he’d told it. How easily he’d justified it. How deeply he wanted to keep justifying it.
Because he didn’t want Rosier dead. Because something in him didn’t think he deserved to die. Not the boy from the shed, the boy with the bucket.
A question surfaced—quietly, insidiously—one he hadn’t let himself think about in a long time.
What did it mean to be good?
The question wouldn’t go away. It echoed, over and over, through the dark.
The owl came the next day late. Lily was already at the hospital. James was going over a pile of reports for Moody. Sat at the kitchen table with papers spread out in front of him. A tap at the kitchen window—a sleek, dark, barn owl. James opened the window, brow furrowing.
Neat slanted writing. Unfamiliar.
Careful Tosspot. You’ve got a rat in your ranks.