On the first of December, James sent a message through his watch asking Evan to meet that night. He’d spent the better part of a week trying—and failing—to think of a way around the blood oath, and every time he came back to the same problem: he didn’t know enough about blood magic.
The person who did? Evan.
So, at six o’clock, James pushed open the door to the Queen’s Arms in Glossop—armed with what was, by all accounts, one of the worst plans he’d ever come up with.
The pub was almost deserted. An old man sat slouched at the bar, the kind of posture that spoke of long hours spent in that same stool. At the far end of the room, another man sat absorbed in a newspaper. And James.
He glanced at his watch. Ten past six. Unlike Evan to be late.James took a sip of his pint and tried not to let concern creep in. It was only ten minutes. Not a big deal. Fifteen minutes, James drummed his fingers against the table. Twenty minutes. Worry began to knot low in his stomach—tight, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Half past.
James checked his watch again. Then again. Evan had never been late to a meet. Not by more than five minutes.
The room felt too quiet, too empty, the ticking of the clock behind the bar sharp enough to make him flinch.
Quarter to seven.
James pulse was climbing.
He couldn’t stop his thoughts from running, couldn’t stop the images that came with them: Evan caught in crossfire, Evan killed by some masked Death Eater, or Voldemort himself, Evan bleeding out on some nameless floor, Evan dragged into a cell by Aurors. Then the next thought—worse somehow. What if the Order had reached him? What if Moody had? What if James had waited too long, second-guessed too much, and now—
James gritted his teeth. He tried to breathe through it, but his chest wouldn’t loosen. The seconds dragged, slow and cruel, and then, at six fifty, the door to the pub opened and Evan walked in. James felt the relief like something visceral.
Evan sank into the chair opposite him, shrugging his coat off in one fluid motion. “Sorry—got held up.”
There was stubble along his jaw, the kind James had only seen on him once or twice. It suited him—too well, if James was honest. Even tired, paler than usual, he didn’t look bad.
No black-on-black Death Eater ensemble tonight; instead, a soft navy shirt and dark grey tailored trousers. He could’ve stepped straight out of a luxury menswear catalogue. James had never understood how someone could look so utterly terrifying in dragonhide boots and a wand holster one day, and then so effortlessly composed the next.
He pushed the thought away.
“It’s fine,” he said, standing—perhaps a little too abruptly. “Guinness?” he asked, already turning toward the bar. Evan’s quiet affirmative came from behind him.
James leaned against the counter and made himself take a slow breath, forcing his pulse to steady. He felt like an idiot. Embarrassed. He’d spiralled—completely, and for no reason other than Evan being late. Ridiculous. Stupid. He returned to the table, set the drinks down to find—Evan’s too blue eyes fixed on him. Watchful.
“Everything alright?” Evan asked, voice even, expression unreadable.
James took a slow sip of his drink, forcing down the last of the nervous energy still crackling through him. “Need to talk to you about something—sort of sensitive.”
“Alright,” said Evan, still watching him carefully.
“Blood Oaths,” said James, setting down his glass. “How much do you know about them?”
Evan’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He shrugged. “A bit.”
“Can you tell me how they work?” James asked.
“Well,” said Evan, leaning back a little, “like all blood magic, they tie intent to blood. Effects vary a lot, depending on what the caster wants. But the principle’s simple enough—it binds someone’s blood to another’s will. Can be used to control a person’s actions, body, even their mind. I’ve taken one in my life.” His mouth twitched, almost a grimace. “Like to keep it that way. Powerful magic, not to be taken lightly.”
“Right.” James hesitated. “And what happens if someone breaks a blood oath? Is it like an Unbreakable Vow?”
Evan shook his head. “Not really. An Unbreakable Vow kills you—clean, straightforward. Blood oaths are trickier. The consequences depend on the caster’s intent. It’s… more adaptable.”
“Right,” said again, and then, “hypothetically if someone took a blood oath pertaining to secrecy would mentioning that blood oath in any capacity constitute breaking it?”
Evan’s frown deepened. “Depends on the wording of the vow. If the caster specifically included that clause then yes, if not, no.”
James considered this carefully. He’d spent the past week turning Moody’s oath over in his head, replaying every word he could remember, trying to find the edges. Eventually, he’d come up with a plan—of sorts. One that depended on Evan being clever enough to fill in the blanks.
Still, he wasn’t sure it would work. Or that it wouldn’t break the vow outright.
He’d decided it was worth the risk.
Whatever the consequences, they had to be better than the alternative—than the days he’d spent, convinced he’d helped get Evan killed because he hadn’t said enough, hadn’t warned him in time.
Evan was still watching him, a slight frown creasing between his eyebrows. “Please tell me this is a hypothetical conversation, Tosspot—and that you haven’t been stupid enough to agree to a blood oath.”
James made a noncommittal noise and took a large swallow of his pint.
“Tosspot.” Evan’s voice was low, a warning clear in it.
James ignored it. Cleared his throat. “Hypothetically—if a vow specifically prevented someone from talking about, say, a certain conversation, but the person taking the vow already had prior knowledge to some of the contents of that conversation and only chose to reveal what they’d known beforehand, nothing that the oath itself specifically referenced—then that wouldn’t be breaking it, would it?”
Evan swore, and then—“who the hell do you know apart from me that can do blood magic?—wait no don’t answer that, don’t say anything else. You might have already broken it.”
James cleared his throat, “I need to tell you something.”
Blue eyes burned across the table, “don’t,” said Evan angrily. “Whatever it is, it’s not worth it.”
“That’s my decision,” said James, meeting Evan’s eyes. “And I say it is.”
Evan scowled at him, but didn’t say anything.
“A few months back, Moody came by,” said James slowly, feeling his way through the words—careful not to stray outside the boundaries of what he thought he could say without tripping the oath, the visit Moody had paid him, the conversation where Moody had first mentioned Karkaroff, the talk they’d had in the cottage, before the Order meeting where James had revealed Peter was the rat—the same meeting where Moody had made them all swear a blood oath.
“He was trying to bait me,” James goes on. “Thought I was the leak. Fed me information that turned out to be a trap. He told me then that they were moving someone they had in custody.” He met Evan’s eyes. “Someone who was willing to flip. To talk. Igor Karkaroff.”
Evan nodded, jaw still tight. “I’m aware. My father died trying to get him back.” He paused, then added. “The Ministry released a statement saying Karkaroff died in custody.”
James doesn’t correct him—instead he meets Evan’s eyes, hoping his meaning gets through despite how little he’s able to say. The silence stretches—thick and taut between them. Those impossibly blue eyes don’t waver, pinning James to his seat.
Then Evan looked away, the muscle in his jaw working. When he looks back, his expression is hard, his voice low and flat.
“You’re an idiot. For agreeing to a blood oath in the first place, and for what you just did—” he sighed, and suddenly he looked tired, beyond exhausted, he rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“Igor knew who I was, knew enough to put me in Azkaban. Barty too,” he paused, considering James, “going to assume he either talked before he died, or he’s not dead, either way probably means both of us are now on the order’s hit list,” James opened his mouth and Evan held up a hand, “Don’t say anything, I don’t want to risk it, not without knowing the oath you took, just know that’s the assumption I’m making.”
Evan leaned forward, elbows on the table, blue eyes fixed intently on James. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done, Tosspot?” His voice was low—not angry, but cold, hard. “Passing me information like this is a big step up from just keeping your mouth shut about my identity. It makes you a traitor. You get that, yeah?”
James bristled, something in the way Evan was looking at him making his stomach shift uncomfortably. He swallowed. “It’s no different from what you’ve been doing for me.”
Evan inclined his head, slow and deliberate. “It is different.”
“How is it different?” asked James.
“I’m not like you. I don’t believe in this war—not the way you do. Got people I care about. That’s it.”
Vivid blue eyes fixed in James.
“I don’t have a problem if something I tell you hurts the Dark Lord. Honestly? Think it would probably be better if your lot does win. But don’t mistake that for something it’s not. I’m not one of the good guys.”
“You’re not one of the bad guys either,” James said. His voice came out harder than he meant it to—too sure, too loud in the small space between them.
“You sure about that?” His eyes were steady, unreadable. “Because I’m not.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower. “You’ve got no idea what I’ve done. Or what I’ll do to protect the people I love. That’s all I care about, I am not like you—I’m not fighting for a cause. I just want my people safe. That’s all.”
He paused, eyes sweeping James’s face, and then said, “people like me don’t get to play at being heroes. We just make sure the damage lands where we aim it. I know who I am, Tosspot. Know what I’m willing to do, don’t lie to myself about who I am or what I’ll do. I can live with that. Question is. Can you?”
Evan’s words should have made him furious. And perhaps in the past they would have. Pick the people you love and fuck the rest? That wasn’t what the Order fought for. That wasn’t what his parents had raised him to believe. He should push back, argue, insist there was a line, that some things weren’t worth crossing. Should walk away.
But he didn’t.
Because he’d always known. Evan had never lied about who he was. He’d never pretended to be a good person, or a bad one either. Fair. But not good. Not bad. Just himself. It was James who’d drawn that line, done it for his own comfort—to make himself feel better. Because James needed to believe he was a good person, needed it in order to justify caring about him.
The problem was, James wasn’t sure he even knew what good meant anymore. Once, the war had been clear in his head. Good people didn’t lie. Good people didn’t keep secrets. Good people didn’t sit across from Death Eaters and make dinner for them. But that was before. Before lying became something he did without thinking. Before Evan.
For a second Lily’s face flickered in his mind. Then Sirius, Remus. What would they think? Would they call him a traitor? He hadn’t taken the Mark, hadn’t sold the Order to Voldemort. But he had shared things he shouldn’t. Had protected someone he wasn’t meant to protect. He’d done it without hesitation.
Because it was Evan.
And the truth settled, hard and immovable: Evan had never asked for any of it. Never asked James to lie for him, never asked for information, never even asked for help. All he’d ever wanted was a meal, a drink, a little company in the middle of the wreckage.
James was the one who’d made that choice. Who kept making it. Protecting him. Putting Evan’s survival above the Order’s rules.
Because war—grief—loss—had stripped his world down to the bone. He still believed in the Order, still believed there were things worth fighting for, but he understood Evan now. Understood that for him, all that was left were the people he couldn’t bear to lose. And James found—to his own surprise—that he didn’t blame him. Couldn’t. Didn’t have the right. Not when he himself had already chosen Evan’s safety over the cause more than once.
He looked at Evan—really looked—at the lines of wear carved into his face, at the blue of his eyes that was too much like summer, too endless to ignore. And he felt something inside him give way at last, the last fragile piece of certainty snapping.
Because Evan alive had started to matter more to James than being a good person.
And the knowledge settled irrevocably, that Evan, whatever he might say—was not a bad person. Perhaps a person who did bad things, but James thinks, did them because he had to, did them in order to protect. He might not be a good person, not in the way James had grown up understanding the world, but he wasn’t bad either. Evan didn’t fit into that James’s concept of good and bad, never had.
But then again James wasn’t sure he fit into that either, not anymore.
“Yeah,” James said quietly. “I think I can live with it.”