James was half-dozing on the couch. He’d been reading—or trying to—but the day was grey and slow, the rain steady against the windows, its soft rhythm soothing, and the book had slipped quietly to the floor. He wasn't asleep. Not quite. Just suspended in that soft, weightless place between alert and gone.
That’s when he felt it.
A tug, subtle but distinct, like a thread pulled tight somewhere behind his ribs.
Evan’s wards.
Not the gentle hum that accompanied Sirius or Remus stepping through the boundary. This was different. Sharper. Not hostile, but heavy. It pressed at the edge of his thoughts. Someone had Apparated nearby. Close enough to trip the outer perimeter. Then a second pull—stronger, low and unsettling, as if someone had knocked the breath from his lungs without touching him. Not danger, exactly, but not safe either. Evan’s magic coiled down his spine.
Be careful.
James stood, wand in hand—then someone knocked.
Three sharp raps.
James opened the door to find Moody on the step.
“You’ve extended your Apparition wards,” Moody said by way of greeting. His magical eye spun, taking in the garden, the windows, the air.
James gave a slight shrug and stepped back to let him in.
Lily was in her Healer’s robes, a piece of toast in one hand and tea in the other—her usual pre-shift routine. She greeted Moody with a warm smile. He grunted in return and dropped into a chair at the kitchen table like a man trying to break the furniture, eye still roving, scanning the room.
James felt the prick of unease. How much of Evan’s magic could Moody sense, or see?
“Sorry for the interruption,” Moody said, in a tone that suggested he wasn’t. “Several of our safe houses were hit last night.”
Lily froze. Her face shifted—concern, quiet and immediate.
“No one hurt,” Moody said with a wave of his hand. “We knew it was coming.”
James nodded, face neutral, voice even. “That why you had me and Remus clear the last one?”
Like he hadn’t known. Like he hadn’t been the reason they’d been empty, the reason no one was hurt.
Moody’s good eye narrowed. “Exactly that, Potter.”
Lily let out a breath. Her shoulders dropped slightly.
Moody continued, tone darker now. ‘We picked up a device. Looks like they’ve been using it to pass information. Had a full list of the strongholds they already knew about. Probably saved lives.’
“Good,” James said lightly. “That’s good.”
Moody didn’t respond. Just watched him. Both eyes fixed on him. It took everything in James not to squirm as the silence dragged into a pause that went on too long.
The silence stretched.
Then: “There’s more.”
Moody leaned back.
This was it, James thought. The moment he’d been waiting for—the tip-off about the rat. His chance to set the plan in motion, to finally bring Peter down. He shifted slightly. Subtle. Intentional. Had to get it right—the timing, the tone, the weight of it. Enough discomfort to sell it. Enough uncertainty to make it land. He’d admit they were all Animagi. Say it like it cost him something. Let the silence stretch—just a little too long—before he gave up the detail: Peter’s form. A rat.
He dropped his gaze. Let the quiet hang.
It had to look real.
Like he was wrestling with the truth. Like it hurt.
But Moody didn’t mention rats.
Or spies.
Or leaks, or suspicious conversations overheard in pubs.
“Got one of theirs,” he said instead. “Igor Karkaroff. Tried to take out one of our safe houses in Devon. Wants a deal. Protection in exchange for information. Says he’ll give up everything he knows.”
The words landed hard. Not what James had expected. He blinked at Moody for a second while his brain tried to understand what was happening.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Lily, a little uncertainly.
Moody made a noncommittal noise. “We’ll see. Moving him Wednesday. Temporary site in Sheffield. Bastard won’t talk till then. Says he’s not safe.”
James’s stomach turned.
This wasn’t right. Moody, here—dropping information. Alarm bells started to sound in James’s mind. Moody never gave anything away for free; this wasn’t a briefing. Moody was testing him somehow.
Moody cleared his throat. “Anyway, reason I came—finally finished going through what you two and Remus pulled from the Ministry the day it was attacked. Cross-referenced it with Magical Transport records. I was right, something there.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a roll of parchment. Spread it on the coffee table. Weighed the corner with Lily’s empty mug. A section of Northumberland. Cluster of streets. Boarded windows. Rows of hollowed-out buildings. A quiet dead end.
“Magic-dampening wards. Conjured camouflage. No Apparition access. Someone doesn’t want company. Once we’ve wrapped the Karkaroff transfer,” he paused, looking up at James, “sending you and Frank to check it out.”
“What do you think it is?” asked James.
Moody shook his head. “Don’t know yet. Want to find out though.”
Moody suspected him, thought James was the spy—the realisation hit with the sudden punch of truth. That had to be it: panic spikes in James, sharp as a spear to the gut. Did Moody know? Know about Evan?
An image of Evan rises unbidden in his mind: plate of Chinese food balanced on his thigh, boots up on the coffee table, a dangerous glint in his eye as he spoke about Floo hacking, about fire, about ancient and uncontrollable magic. Nausea claws at his stomach. He swallows and nods, fighting to keep his face calm, to stay in control.
“All right,” he says. “Let me know when you need me.”
Moody nods, sharp and jerky, then stands and then stomps out of the room. “Be sometime next week. Watch for my owl.”
James’s mind is spinning. There was nothing to directly connect him to Evan, nothing that put Evan in danger—nothing except The Queen’s Arms. And no one knew about that. He was certain. He’d never told Moody, or anyone else, where exactly in Cornwall he’d ended up that evening, all those months ago, after that first failed mission.
“That seemed odd to you?”
“Yeah,” said James, running a hand through his hair. “It did.”
He didn’t move for a while. Just sat there. Thinking.
Karkaroff. The name meant nothing to him. But Evan might know it. Might know him.
Worse—what if Karkaroff knew Evan?
What if he gave him up.
James should tell him. Warn him.
But if Moody was watching—and he would be, if he thought James was the leak—then trying to warn Evan could lead the Order straight to him.
James couldn’t risk that.
He’d buy time, he decided. Moody had said they were moving Karkaroff on Wednesday. It was only Monday. James would sit tight. Let whatever trap Moody had set fail. Shift suspicion off himself.
Then, once he was in the clear—then he’d warn Evan. Give him a heads-up. That was the clever thing to do. Be strategic. Careful.
Still, something niggled at James. A little voice in the back of his head, telling him he should warn Evan sooner. That Evan would take the risk if it were James, that he had in the past. His gut wared with his mind, gut telling him damn the risks send a note—mind telling him it stupid and could put Evan in danger. In the end he went with his mind.
It was a mistake.
Tuesday passed. Wednesday. Thursday—still no word about Karkaroff. No more surprise visits from Moody. Friday afternoon came and went.
And then, on Saturday, a sleek lynx burst through the kitchen window, and Kingsley’s voice filled the room with summons for an Order meeting.
Twenty of them crammed into a second-floor flat in Shoreditch that smelt of old cabbage and something James thought might’ve been dirty socks. He stood near the back, pressed against the wall between Sirius and Dorcas. Fewer than half the Order were present. James didn’t know if that was intentional or circumstantial, but it worried him.
No Peter—a good thing, James thought—but also no Remus, no Jones, no Podmore or Diggle. He glanced around at the grim faces in the room. Frank and Alice were in the corner, both looking tired. Frank had a heavily bandaged arm, and Alice bore a partially healed bruise over one cheek.
And Moody.
Moody had a large chunk missing from his left nostril, the skin around it shiny and red, as if it had only recently been healed. James was fairly certain that was new. Fairly certain the grizzled Auror had been in full possession of his nose the last time they’d met.
James waited for Moody to stand, to call the meeting to order—but he didn’t.
Instead, it was Kingsley who rose: tall and solid in a charcoal cloak, gold earring glinting beneath the flickering overhead light.
James had never attended an Order meeting where Moody wasn’t the one calling the shots. His eyes kept drifting back to him as Kingsley spoke—taking in the greyish tinge to his skin, the bags under his eyes, the missing piece of his nose.
“It is no secret,” Kingsley said, his deep voice cutting through the silence, “that we have suspected that one of our own has been passing information to the Death Eaters for several months now.”
A hush fell over the room as Kingsley looked around at each of them. “And so I’m asking each of you to take a magically binding oath of secrecy. What’s said here, stays here. If you’re not willing, now’s the time to leave.”
Another pause—just long enough to make the silence ring.
“No one will judge you for walking out. But if you stay, you swear.”
There was a ripple of murmurs, but no one stood, no one left. Kingsley nodded once, satisfied, and then turned to Moody.
“Alastor,” Kingsley said.
Moody stood with a grunt, withdrawing his wand.
“Wand hand out,” he barked.
Slowly, everyone in the room extended their wand hands, a few exchanging wary glances. Moody’s wand sliced through the air—and a sharp sting flared across James’s palm. Beside him, he heard Dorcas wince and Sirius mutter a quiet curse.
James looked down. His palm was bleeding.
“Repeat after me,” Moody instructed, voice clipped.
“I swear, upon magic and blood, to speak to no one of what is said in this room tonight. Not in part, nor in full. Not in hint, nor implication. I swear not to name it, not to mark it, not to allude to it in word, thought, or deed. I swear this vow, and I bind myself to silence by blood.”
There was a pause. Then the group repeated the words, voices rough, uncertain, some barely above a whisper.
Moody waved his wand once more.
The air shimmered.
Subtle. Barely visible. But James felt it. He stiffened. He recognised that shimmer—the way the room shifted, almost imperceptibly, as if the space itself had inhaled. He’d seen it before. In the kitchen, when Evan laid the symbol that keyed the wards into his blood. At Evan’s warehouse flat, when the foyer shed its derelict disguise before James’s eyes.
It wasn’t the same—not exactly. There was no hum of power, no visceral pull in his gut. Not the raw, ancient force he’d felt when Evan worked. This was weaker, and it felt different, rougher, but it was the same sort of magic. James was certain.
Blood magic.
Moody had just done blood magic.
James stared at him, stunned.
“As some of you already know,” said Kingsley, “last week, several Order safe houses were attacked. Fortunately for us, we knew the attack was coming.”
He paused briefly, letting that sink in.
“Thanks to Arthur Weasley, we received a tip-off—a device. Looks like it’s been used to pass information. It contained a full list of our strongholds.”
A few sharp intakes of breath rippled through the room.
“But that’s not all. Alongside the device, we found a message referencing what we believe is their codename for the individual leaking information from within the Order. They call him the Rat.”
He let the words land, heavy in the silence.
“This was confirmed by another source—a trusted one.” A faint smile curved his lips. “It would seem Voldemort might take more care with who he recruits—or, at the very least, ensure his followers don’t get drunk within earshot of Order members.”
There was a low murmur. A few people laughed, a little uncertainly. Beside him Sirius snorted in mild disbelief.
Kingsley went on. “Regardless, one of the men—identities unknown, but we suspect low-level thugs hoping to work their way up—was overheard telling his companion that there is in fact an Order member passing information to the Death Eaters.”
He looked around the room.
“This is why you’re here tonight. From this point forward, I want everyone on high alert. If any Order member—anyone who isn’t in this room—does or says anything that raises suspicion, you are to report it to Alastor or to me. Immediately.”
His voice was calm but resolute.
“We do have suspects. But our spy is clever and has evaded us so far. It would not do to grow complacent.”
A few nods. Worried murmurs. Then Dorcas raised her hand.
“How do you know it’s not one of us?” she asked.
Several people turned to look at her. She shrugged. “What—we’re all thinking it. I’m just asking.”
Kingsley gave a small smile. “Excellent question, Miss Meadowes. The truth is, we don’t. Not for certain.”
He glanced around the room.
“That’s part of why I asked you all to swear the oath—should anyone break it, we’ll know. But more than that, we’ve been feeding information to each of you over the last few months. Slight variations. Specific details.”
He let the weight of that settle.
“Those of you in this room are the ones whose intel hasn’t made it back to the Death Eaters. So while we can’t be sure, we think it’s unlikely the leak is among you.”
James absorbed this in silence.
He’d been so sure. Certain Moody suspected him.
But perhaps not. Perhaps he’d been paranoid. He let himself relax slightly, and then he made a decision. He had what he needed, it was time to act. James raised his hand.
Kingsley nodded at him.
“You said they call him the Rat?” he asked—directing his attention towards Moody, who was looking at him with interest.
“Would seem so,” said Moody.
James nodded. Swallowed.
He had to get this right.
Doing it in front of an audience—in front of Sirius and Lily, the people who knew him best, who were most likely to realise he was putting on a show—was a risk. But it was better this way. Safer for them. Even if Moody didn’t bite, at least the idea would be planted in the heads of those present. They’d be less inclined to trust Peter.
“Have you fed Peter any intel that’s ended up in Death Eater hands?” James asked.
He felt Sirius stiffen beside him, heard Lily’s sharp intake of breath, and sensed Dorcas’s eyes on him. But he ignored them all. Kept his gaze fixed on Moody.
“Now why would you ask that?” said Moody—but he leaned forward slightly, expression shifting from interest to something more like hunger.
James cleared his throat. “Well—” he began, “there’s something you should know. About Peter. About me. And Sirius too—”
“James—” Sirius’s voice cut in, sharp. Warning.
James turned. Sirius was staring at him, grey eyes hard. “He needs to know, Sirius,” James said quietly.
“You can’t seriously think—” Sirius shook his head, horror etched across his face. “You don’t really—?”
“I don’t know,” James said, forcing a tremor of doubt into his voice. “But if he is, then we need to say something.”
“Fuck,” muttered Sirius.
James turned back to Moody, who was watching them closely now, eyes narrowed. “We’re Animagi,” James said. “Unregistered.”
James felt the eyes of the whole room on them and then Moody swore loudly. “Not the kind of thing you keep to yourselves,” he growled. “We’re in a damn war. Need every advantage we’ve got. I’ve got Animagi, I’m bloody well using them.”
“I know,” said James quickly. “And I’m sorry. But that’s not why I’m telling you now.”
Moody crossed his arms. “Well? Spit it out.”
“Sirius is a dog. I’m a stag. Peter—”
“ Pete’s a rat,” finished Sirius, voice hard.
Moody’s face didn’t move, but something in the room shifted. “A rat,” repeated Moody, his eyes flicking between James and Sirius. “Well shit. And you’re sure about this?”
“Yeah, we’re sure, we did it together—in school,” said James.
“Seen him transform hundreds of times,” added Sirius from beside him.
“Look,” said James last, “I don’t know anything for sure. It’s just—he’s not here tonight, which must mean something—he knew about that mission I was on. The one back in spring. The one that went sideways. He was meant to be at the Ministry with us,” he gestures to Lily and Sirius, “he was meant to be there. Should’ve been there—and he wasn’t and then we were attacked.”
James let the frustration curl into his voice, sharpen the edges of it. He didn’t look at Lily. Didn’t look at Sirius or Dorcas either. Didn’t want to see the expression on their faces. He made himself remember. Peter’s laugh. His nervous, eager voice. The way he’d always stood just behind James, letting him speak for them both. And then—flashes of memory like broken glass—Death Eaters at the ambush point. The sinking realisation. Let it show on his face as he met Moody’s eyes.
“I think it’s him,” James said, quieter now. “I think he’s the leak. Peter’s always been a follower. Always looking for someone to attach himself to. Easily swayed—all he’s ever wanted is to feel important. Powerful. Safe.”
His voice slowed. Then, softer still: “I don’t want to be right. Peter’s my friend—has been for a long time. But if there’s even a chance I am right, if he’s turned... I had to say something.”
Moody didn’t reply straight away. His magical eye whirred in a slow circle, scanning the room: James, then Sirius, Lily, Dorcas, then back again. His other eye narrowed—calculating, unreadable.
“All right, Potter,” he said at last. “You did the right thing. We’ll look into it.” He turned to address the room. “As for the rest of you—be careful around Pettigrew. Keep this under wraps. Act normally. That’s an order.”
The room was quiet.
Not the attentive quiet from earlier—this was something heavier. The stunned hush of people who’d just heard something they didn’t want to believe.
Kingsley cleared his throat, “Moving on—during the attacks on our safe houses we managed to take a Death Eater into custody, Igor Karkaroff—this was kept secret and we did our best to leak that he had died, as he offered to give us information in return for protection. However, unfortunately, some news of his capture and subsequent transfer seems to have gotten back to them, and as it turns out we were right to think they’d come for Karkaroff.”
James felt his chest tighten.
Kingsley continued. “None of ours were killed. Podmore and Bones are currently in St Mungo’s.” A low current of murmurs passed through the room, worry permeating the space like something physical. “This is good,” Kingsley said, raising his voice slightly. “It means they’re worried. Worried about what he might say. Better still, we anticipated it. We were waiting for them.”
He paused.
“We killed three of them. The other two got away, but still. We’re calling it a win—Karkaroff is in a safe location and willing to talk, we sustained no casualties and managed to take a few of them out with us.”
Then Vance spoke from where she sat, flimsy kitchen chair tilted back on its back legs, voice rising above the noise. “Who’d we get? The ones killed—who were they?”
Kingsley grimaced. “Anthony Greengrass—it would seem the family is not as neutral as they like to pretend, but it’s better we know. The other two… we already suspected. Amicus Carrow Senior and—”
“Rosier,” interjected Moody. “Bastard almost took me with him too.”
James didn’t hear the next sentence.
The air went thin, the room crowding in on him—there was a roaring in his ears.
Evan.
Dead.