James woke to birdsong. He was still in the armchair, he rolled his neck where it had cricked and then his eyes fell on the couch. Evan was asleep—legs long, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loose across his chest. They hadn’t finished the bottle this time. Hadn’t slammed it back. Just drank slowly and steadily. Some of their talk had been serious—sharp-edged things about love, loss, the war. Some of it had been stupid. Nothing at all. The hours had slipped past like water. James figured he must’ve nodded off around four. James stretched and yawned, the kitchen clock read just shy of nine—he padded upstairs, rummaged through the bathroom cupboard until he found hangover potions. He downed one, grabbed a second, and headed back down. Kettle on. Tea made. Bacon in the pan.
By the time the bacon was crisp and the eggs stopped hissing, Evan emerged—leaning against the kitchen doorway, hair tousled, shirt creased, blinking sleep from his eyes.
James handed him the second hangover potion.
“M’hero,” came the muttered response, voice hoarse as the potion was knocked back without hesitation.
They ate without saying much. Dry-up breakfast—heavy on carbs and grease. Proper hangover fare. It should have felt strange, sitting across the table from Evan Rosier, still a bit hungover despite the potion, the summer sunlight streaming in through the window, it should have felt awkward, but it didn't.
James asked about the perimeter wards on the cottage.
They’d had a long, rambling conversation about wards at some point around two a.m—one of those slightly hazy, half-drunken spirals that had gone deeper than expected. Turned out Evan knew a lot about wards. Not just how to break them but how build them, layer them—history and technique. It had been a bit surprising actually—it wasn’t that James didn’t think Evan was clever—he knew he was—it was just that he’d always taken him for more of an action over theory sort of bloke, good at strategy, problem solving, but not the kind to spend hours pouring over books—but clearly James had been wrong, at least in this instance, Evan knew more about wards than anyone James had ever met. Seemed genuinely fascinated with them—defensive magic in general actually.
“You want me to take a look?” asked Evan around a mouthful of bacon and potato scone.
James shrugged. “Yeah, if you’re up for it. I’d be interested to know what Mad-Eye actually did. Not that I don’t trust him, but... I’d like to understand.”
After breakfast, they cleared the plates—same rhythm as the night before, wordless and easy. Then James followed as Evan moved through the cottage with practiced precision. James watched, curious, as he poked at windowsills, and frowned into what—to James at least—appeared to be completely empty air. Out in the garden, the light was bright–the air full of birdsong and bees. Evan squinted, one hand raised to shade his eyes as he walked around the edge of the garden, and then to the front of the cottage and down the path, pausing here and there to frown into the morning sun at something James couldn’t see.
“They’re not bad,” Evan said eventually, turning to face James as he leaned on the garden gate. “Better than most. Room for improvement, though.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Anti-Apparition perimeter’s too shallow. All your external alarms are sound-based—easy to muffle or redirect. Muggle repellents are fine but I'd add some anti scrying wards too, few others as well.” He pushed off the gate, glanced around again, and then focused on James, expression thoughtful. “Could add a few more, if you’d like.”
“Go ahead,” James said, without hesitation.
Evan nodded, and what followed was—if James was honest—bloody well impressive.
Evan worked quickly, precisely. His spellwork was tight, economical. He explained as he went: a complicated flourish of his wand that made shadows dance across the walls, “this’ll block most scrying—won’t stop if someone’s watching the area. If I were trying to find you, I’d be watching the houses nearby. Looking for patterns. Movement. Might not be able to see the cottage, but you can still see what’s missing and sometimes that’s enough.” Then as he he bent over the hearth and etched a small sigil into the stone with the tip of his wand. “Putting a rune chain here to prevent unauthorised patch-ins. Stops people linking into your fire externally,” a quick look up and flash of a gin, “well most people anyway. Probably wouldn’t stop me but should keep out your average floo hacker.”
After about an hour, Evan seemed more or less satisfied—or at least James thought he was, until he turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Need your permission for the next bit,” he said. “Not dangerous. But spose should tell you—technically speaking not legal. Personally wouldn’t call it dark magic. Some of your Order lot might feel a bit different though. You alright with that?”
James studied him for a moment. There was no hesitation in Evan’s voice, no apology. Utterly casual. James probably shouldn’t have agreed, but he was curious—and well—if Evan said it wasn’t dangerous then what was the harm? It wasn't exactly like James was a stickler for the law, or any type of rules really. He shrugged. “Yeah, alright.”
Evan nodded, then conjured a small silver blade and a matching cup. The metal caught the light with a dull gleam. He held out his hand, waiting—an invitation for James to place his own in it. The blade was cold against his skin. The cut was shallow—sharp, clean—and blood welled up almost immediately. James let Evan tilt his hand, catching blood that trickled from cut with the small silver cup. He watched as Evan knelt on the kitchen floor, silver cup in hand, and dipped his finger into the blood—he began draw. The shape was intricate, ancient-looking—something that didn’t belong in the warm domesticity of the cottage. It felt old. Powerful. Evan closed his eyes, brow furrowed. The words weren’t English—James thought they might be French, but not any French he’d ever heard before—they flowed through the space, rich and fluid. The air shifted. Hummed. Power—raw, unfiltered—like a second pulse, brushing against James’s skin, not metaphorically, but physically , like silk dragged over bare arms, wrapping around the walls, the windows, the beams overhead. Sinking into the stone. Into the bones of the house. James didn’t move. Barely breathed. His eyes were wide, fixed on Evan, on the sigil glowing faintly on the floor. He realised—with a creeping sense of awe—that he was watching blood magic. Real blood magic. Not just a footnote in a textbook. This was something ancient. Elemental. Something that reached past everything he knew and straight into the marrow of what magic was. The air shimmered around them and then the whole cottage gave a subtle, almost imperceptible shudder—like something had locked into place.
Evan opened his eyes, surveyed the room with a faint air of satisfaction. “That’ll do for now,” he said, wiping the silver blade on his shirt sleeve, apparently unbothered by the smear of James’s blood across the fabric.
“Most wards are rudimentary,” he went on conversationally. “Motion, pressure, sound, basic magical trace. Might buy you a few minutes against someone powerful if you’re lucky. But if someone really knows what they’re doing—and I do—that buffer disappears. And those minutes? They become second. Minutes and seconds are the difference between getting out alive and bleeding out on your living room floor.” He looked up then from where he still knelt on the kitchen floor, blue eyes catching the low light, mouth curling into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dark Lord could walk right into most of wizarding homes in England without even waking the family Kneazle. I probably could too.”
A beat.
“Well—maybe not without waking the Kneazle,” he amended, dryly. “But I’d be in quick enough that you'd still be in trouble.” He stood, brushing off his knees. “Most wards are defensive. A locked door, a doorbell—metaphorically speaking. Personally, I prefer mine offensive. Anyone tries their luck uninvited? Best case they leave with some grievous bodily harm. Worst case they don’t leave at all. My kind of wards.”
A shrug, as though this were an entirely reasonable standard of home security.
“Downside is you might return from holiday to find your third cousin Harold splattered across the parlour because he popped in unannounced. Spose it’s about your priorities when it comes down to it.”
James glanced down at the now-empty patch of floor, where only minutes ago his blood had soaked into the stone, and wondered if he should be more concerned. Evan followed the look, and then snorted in amusement. “Relax. Didn't do anything lethal. Figured you wouldn’t want anyone dying on your door step. I just tied the layers together. Think of it like—stitching. Or weaving, if you’re feeling poetic. Separate wards are flimsy under pressure. Interlace them properly, though, and they hold a lot better.”
James, who very much didn’t like the casual mention of anyone dying anywhere near his doorstep, nodded slowly toward the floor where the symbol had been. “So what does that bit do then?”
“It keys the system to you,” Evan said. “Your blood, specifically. If something triggers, you’ll know. Viscerally.”
“Viscerally,” James repeated. “That’s... comforting.”
“Isn’t it?” Evan replied mildly.
James considered him. “So how does it work? The blood part?”
“Most magic works off energy, shaped by language and channelled through wands,” answered Evan. “Blood magic’s older than that though. Older than Latin, or wandmaking. It runs on intent, on your essence. It recognises you, your blood, as the source of the magic— what I did here," he gestures to the floor, "basically an alarm, if someone means you harm—you’ll feel it the second they cross the threshold, before they even get a chance to speak a word.”
James was quiet for a moment, letting it settle. He didn’t know much about blood magic—it had always seemed more like myth than method. Existing at the edges of magical history, faded and half-forbidden. And now here he was—standing barefoot in his kitchen, probably one of the few living wizards in Britain who could say, with certainty, that he’d seen it performed.
Evan shot him a grin—sharp, crooked, entirely unrepentant. “Also, Blood Magic is mostly resistant to Vellfire. Similar magic see, in a manner of speaking at least, both work on intent and emotion. Doesn’t burn the same way other magic does. Precaution in case they send me after you.”
“Is that likely?” asked James, again, unsure if he should be amused or concerned by the glint in Evan’s too blue eyes.
The grin widened, bright enough to rival the morning sun spilling through the window. Dimples, teeth, and a low, amused laugh. “No, but just in case someone gets clever and Imperiuses me. Would hate to wake up and find I’d murdered you after spending all that time fortifying your bloody windows.”
James shook his head, fighting back a grin of his own. “Mate, you know you're actually unhinged right?”
Another chuckle. “Has been brought to my attention once or twice, yeah.”
Evan left just before eleven. No awkwardness. Just a casual, “try not to get murdered, Tosspot."
James watched him disappear down the garden path before closing the cottage door and shaking his head to himself. Evan Rosier—wicked smirk, sardonic dry sense of humour, slightly terrifying knowledge of the dark arts, and the kind of bloke who'd hang around after a night of drinking to fortify your wards for you—apparently. He blatantly defied all reason and common sense considering the mark branded into the skin of his left arm. The more James tried to piece together the puzzle pieces, the less sense they made. The less sense any of it made. He sighed, and pushed the thought away. It was making his head hurt, so instead he focused on the mundane. Fixed the squeaky back door. Started writing a letter to his mother that he never quite finished. Went to bed early.
Sunday passed in the slow, deliberate way of someone nursing a thought into form. James spent most of it working on a plan. He picked a contact at the Ministry—someone not in the Order, but close enough. Arthur Weasley. James had met him once or twice before Gideon and Fabian had died, he was married to their sister Molly. Odd fellow but reasonably clever as far as James could tell. Worked in the Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. From what James remembered Fab telling him—the whole department only consisted of two people—one of whom was Authur Weasley. Couldn’t get much more outer ring than that.
Perfect.
The trick was to bury the intel deep enough to look accidental, but conspicuous enough to catch Arthur’s eye. Something he’d pass to Moody.
Lily got home mid-afternoon. James made dinner. They ate at the kitchen table, neither speaking much, James didn’t notice—too wrapped up in his own thoughts—in working through the finer details of his idea. On Monday morning James slipped out while Lily was in the shower. Disapparated to the next town over, and bought a wireless radio from a shop that sold all sorts of electronics. That night after she’d gone to bed he got to work. Layered the thing with charms. He rigged it to trigger a mild boil hex if anyone pushed the wrong button. Tuned one frequency to a recorded loop of harmless but peculiar messages—sports reports spliced with bits of gibberish, coded nonsense that sounded like it could be important. Just enough to spark curiosity. The list of safe houses—Evan’s list—he disguised as radio static. But made the charm work sloppy enough that it could be detected, made it look like something was hidden there. At the end, tucked between two a station playing goblin jazz and another with nothing but the same out of date Canons score report playing on repeat, he left one last message: A message about a rat in Orders ranks.
If Arthur missed it, no harm done. But if he didn’t—if he noticed—it might give James something to build on. James went to bed around three in the morning. Exhausted. But hopeful. Tuesday morning he left early, planted the radio in a second-hand electronics shop just outside Ottery St Catchpole. He charmed it to activate within an hour of the shop opening. Nothing dangerous. Just enough to startle the Muggle owner and be strange enough to catch the Ministry’s attention.
Then he waited.
Under the Cloak, standing at the far end of the street, James watched the shop. After a while, sparks lit up the front window—blue, green, and faintly purple. The shopkeeper burst out the door, shouting, clutching something that looked suspiciously like a melted kettle.
James watched as the muggle man crossed the road to the phone box and made a call. Twenty minutes later, a Muggle police car pulled up—lights flashing, siren silent.
Ten minutes after that, two men rounded the corner. One short and squat, the other tall and thin, with a head of unmistakably red hair. James didn’t need to see their faces to know they were from the Ministry. They were dressed like Muggles—or at least a wizards take on Muggles. The short one wore a kilt, a Barbour jacket, and a pair of bright green wellies. His companion, the tall redhead James was fairly sure was Arthur Weasley, had opted for a sun-bleached Hawaiian shirt tucked into a too-small business suit. The effect was—predictably—absurd.
James winced. Why was it so difficult for so many wizards to grasp the basics of Muggle fashion? It wasn’t hard. It had taken him a month, two at most to get the hang of it—what to wear, what to avoid, how not to look like he was trying to commit fraud whenever he handled Muggle money. Lily had given him a few tips, sure, but most of it he’d figured out by watching. Paying attention. Evan didn't seemed to struggle either. James found himself wondering how Evan had learned to pass. More pressingly—why he had. He couldn’t picture Evan taking fashion advice from a friend. He doubted there had been many Muggleborns in his orbit—certainly not in Slytherin. So where had it come from?
The man in the kilt had begun arguing with a Muggle police officer, voice rising in frustrated bursts. James watched, half amused, half resigned, as the wizard finally gave up and hit the constable with a Confundus.
Seconds later, the two wizards vanished into the shop.
It didn’t take long. They emerged five minutes later carrying the radio. A few brisk memory wipes in the alley behind the building, and then they were gone—Disapparating in a sharp, efficient double-pop.
James headed home.
And waited.
It took less than a day and a half.
Then Moody sent him, Remus, Sirius and Dorcus to clear three safe houses—all of which were on the list Evan had given him. James took it as a sign. The message had been received.
Remus and Sirius came back to the cottage afterwards. Lily, with a kind of gentle insistence, talked them both into staying for dinner. James cooked, humming to himself as he stirred. Lily paused in the doorway, a bottle of wine cradled in one hand. She watched him for a moment, brow arched.
“You’re in a good mood.”
James shrugged, tossing a couple of lime leaves into the sauce simmering on the hob. “Maybe.”
But it was true.
James felt good. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he’d done something. Something that worked. With Evan's help he'd made a plan. A real plan. Something clever. Something that might actually shift the field, even slightly. He’d been proactive. Strategic. And it felt...like a relief. Like pulling air into lungs after holding his breath too long.
They sat around after dinner. Conversation wandered, and so did James's thoughts, he wished he could tell Evan—tell him how he'd decided on Arthur Weasley and The Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, how he'd gotten Arthur to deliver the tip-off for him, wrapped in a layer of plausible incompetence. James could almost hear Evan’s low snort: Got a brain under all that hair after all Tosspot. Who’d have guessed.
James smiled into his glass.
Lily had been right.
He was in a good mood.
Remus helped him clean up after dinner. James turned—and for a second, the image struck him hard.
It was eerily familiar.
Remus, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. Hands in the suds. Suddenly James saw Evan standing in that same spot, hands in the sink, the curve of a dark mark vanishing beneath the waterline. A strange sense of dislocation settling over James—like he was flickering between two versions of the same life, one overlapping the other, neither entirely real. He wondered, briefly, if Remus would like Evan. The thought caught him off guard. It made him feel—oddly sad. Because he thought the answer was yes. Remus probably would’ve liked Evan in another life, one in which it would’ve been possible for them to know each other.
James shook off the thought, unsettled by the strange ache of something like sadness that it brought on. He forced his mind toward something else. Something more immediate.
“What’s going on with Sirius?” James asked, keeping his voice casual as he leaned back against the counter. “He hasn’t said more than five words to me all evening. Not just that though, he's been fucking weird for weeks. Have I... done something?”
Remus was quiet for a moment, then said with a sigh, “It’s not just you.”
James frowned, that was news to him.
“Don’t know what’s going on,” continued Remus, “I found some books at his flat, dark ones. Titles I didn’t recognise. Naturally I was curious, and so I looked. They all bore the Black family seal. I think perhaps Moody has him looking into his family for some reason. Would explain the mood he’s been in.”
James considered that, Remus was right anything to do with Sirius's family was usually enough to put him in a rotten mood, however it didn't explain why Sirius wouldn’t have mentioned it James. "But he hasn't said anything to you about it?" he asked.
Remus shook his head, he looked tired—not just physically, but worn through. The kind of tired that sleep couldn’t touch. And beneath it, something quieter: sadness. Not loud or dramatic. Just… settled. Like a bruise that had never healed right. Remus wasn’t as careful as Sirius. Not exactly. But he didn’t talk about it, about them, either. James suddenly thought about Regulus—about what it had felt like, keeping it all quiet. Wishing he could just tell someone. Wishing someone would see without having to be told.
“You two alright?”
Remus blinked, surprised.
James met his eyes. “You know you can talk to me, right? I’m your friend too—not just his. If there’s anything you ever need to say. Even if it’s about Sirius. I’m here.”
Remus went very still.
“You know, then?” his voice was low, his eyes flicked towards the kitchen door—towards the living room where Lily and Sirius’s voices could just be heard.
James nodded and Remus scrubbed a hand across his mouth like he might be trying to hide a reaction, eyes dropping—and for a second, James thought he saw something like shame flicker across his face. The sight of it hit him harder than expected. Sadness rose sharp and sudden in his chest.
“Hey—” James pushed off the counter and stepped forward. “Don’t do that.”
Remus looked away, mouth turning down at the corners and something in James broke, and maybe that was why he did it—why he let go of something he’d been holding onto since the age of sixteen. He didn't mean to say it, it just came out, because he couldn’t stand to see Remus look like that.
“I know what it’s like. Loving someone can’t tell anyone about. It’s shit. It wears you down. Makes you feel like you’re alone. But you're not alright.”
Something flickered in Remus’s eyes—confusion—surprise. He frowned, and then said slowly, almost uncertainly, "you know what it's like?"
James swallowed, looked away. There was a long moment of silence, and then James ran a hand through his hair and forced his gaze back to Remus's. "Yeah. I do. There was…” James paused, voice dropping to ensure it would not carry to through the living room. “There was someone in school. Before Lil. It was complicated.”
Remus frowned at him but he didn’t interrupt, he just watched James, quiet, waiting.
James cleared his throat. "I couldn’t tell any of you and it made me feel like shit, I didn't realise just how much it until I realised there was someone who knew. Not exactly a friend. But I guess he was in a way. Sort of. Honestly. That part’s complicated too. But anyway he knew. Called me a sappy fuck. Took the piss out of me for it.” James smiled, remembering standing on the Astronomy tower with Evan as he teased him about Regulus, "it made me feel normal."
Remus was watching him thoughtfully, his brown eyes intent. James cleared his throat, shifted, awkward all of a sudden. “What I’m trying to say is—you and Sirius? It’s not a big deal. Not to me. Not to Lily. Dorcas either, I’d wager. You don’t have to keep hiding it. Not from us. Not if you don’t want to.”
There was another long pause between them, one in which the air felt heavy and charged.
“Thank you, James,” Remus said finally. His voice was quiet, but steady. He held James’s gaze for a moment, then exhaled and looked away.
James ran a hand through his hair, shot a sideways glance at Remus. “Want to head back in?”
Remus nodded, and they made their way back to the living room.
Lily looked up as they entered. “What took you two so long?” she asked. “I was starting to think you’d drowned in the sink.”
James gave her a quick smile but didn’t quite meet her eye as he dropped onto the sofa. He took a sip of wine and let the conversation continue around him without joining, the sounds blurring into background noise. His heart was racing, adrenaline after what he'd said to Remus, the closest he'd ever come to telling anyone about Regulus. He felt oddly disjointed, like he wasn't really apart of the scene happening before him. His thoughts drifted, heavy and scattered. He didn’t notice when Lily stood, crossed to the bookshelf, and tossed something to Sirius.
“Found these under the couch this morning,” she said. “You must’ve left them here last time.”
“Not mine, Lil.”
It was the tone that broke through the fog of James's thoughts—flat, clipped, just cold enough to make James look up.
“You sure?”
“Gauloises. I’m sure.”
Cigarettes.
Sirius was holding a blue packet of cigarettes. James’s stared at them for several seconds not really understanding the exchange and then suddenly he did and his stomach dropped.
Wrong colour.
Wrong brand.
Wrong person.
Evan’s not Sirius’s.
Shit.
James cleared his throat thinking fast. “Actually, Lil... those are mine.”
She turned, giving him a look that landed somewhere between irritation and concern.
“Sorry.” He offered a sheepish smile.
She sighed, brushing it off with a wave of her hand.
James leaned forward, took the packet from Sirius, and slipped it into his pocket—trying to ignore the way Sirius’s eyes lingered on him just a moment too long.
“When’d you start smoking again?” Sirius asked. His voice was light—too light. Edges smoothed out, like he was trying too hard to sound indifferent.
James frowned. The question caught him off guard.
Lily, sure—she’d always hated it when he smoked. But Sirius?
Why did he care?
Why was he looking at him like that?
James shrugged. “Dunno. Just been stressed lately, I guess.”
Sirius said nothing.
Just nodded, once, slow—and looked away.