Chapter Text
James Potter stands in the middle of a ballroom. He is sipping lukewarm champagne, he is waiting for a break in the conversation, and he is wearing a face that is not his.
Sometime tonight, James will steal something. He doesn’t know what it is yet.
🜲
Say what you want about James Potter, but you can’t deny he knows how to play a room.
Some say it’s a desperate cry for attention. Some say it’s egotism at its finest. Some say it’s simply a part of his personality. If you ask James—maybe after an Order mission, before his hands stop shaking from the adrenaline—he will tell you the truth.
The truth is that there is power in controlling how others see you. There is strength in looking at a group of people and deciding: this is how you will remember me. Like a Muggle magician on a stage, directing the audience’s attention away from nearly-invisible wires, James Potter learns how to put on a show.
It’s fun. It’s freeing—at first.
James Potter at eleven wants nothing more than for people to look at him and like him.
James Potter at twenty-one wants nothing more than for people to stop looking at him like he’s the same person he was at eleven.
☾
It is the Spring Equinox but the décor in the Lestrange Manor is far from seasonal. There is not a single living thing in sight: no flowers, no plants, and certainly nothing with a pulse. The entire ballroom, from the baroque chandeliers to the marble floors, is fossilised in time and gilded in gold leaf.
Fortunately, James knows just enough about Britain’s Purebloods—and their complicated social etiquette—to navigate the room with ease. It helps that his natural charisma carries over regardless of his Polyjuice disguise. Tonight, James is Adelard Selwyn, who has a face like a hatchet and a truly offensive moustache. Selwyn is just respectable enough to be invited to the Lestranges’ Spring Equinox celebrations, but not important enough to attract much attention. In short, he’s the perfect person to impersonate.
James-as-Adelard moves through the partygoers with ease, collecting gossip like party favours. Sirius would probably be more qualified than James for this mission, but Sirius’ temper has only sharpened over the years. Sirius wouldn’t be able to sheath his tongue long enough to make it through cocktail hour, let alone an entire soirée.
And so the task falls to James.
“Oh, Adelard!” Madame Rosier screeches over the din of the live orchestra. “It’s so nice to see you! A very holy Equinox to you.”
“And a holy Equinox to you,” James-as-Adelard-Selwyn says smoothly. “You’re looking lovely, Tilda.”
Madame Rosier fans her face with one bejewelled hand. “Why thank you. We simply must catch up soon …”
James lets the conversation play out like a card trick, smooth and practised: the cards shuffle from one hand to the other without revealing the ace up his sleeve. James never lets Tilda Rosier pin him down to a date, he never brings up any personal anecdotes, and he never lets his smile drop.
He hates it. Mostly, he hates that he’s good at it.
The moment a gap in the conversation arrives, James scoops up another glass of champagne and disappears into the crowd.
James weasels his way into another conversation and goes through the same charade. A Holy Equinox to you, he blathers, as if that means anything to him. In all fairness, James doubts it means much to the Purebloods gathered here either.
When his neck itches, signalling his Polyjuice is about to run out, it’s almost a relief.
James escapes the ballroom in the nick of time. He ascends the stairs to the second floor of the Manor, fighting to keep his pace sedate. Just as his borrowed face begins to drip down his neck like melting wax, James ducks behind a particularly ostentatious statue and fumbles for his flask.
The Polyjuice tastes vaguely like mayonnaise. James shudders.
The awful itching sensation vanishes as Adelard’s features settle back into place. James’ relief hits harder than champagne. He has, as Remus would say, cut it awfully close.
Tucked behind the statue, James takes a moment to catch his breath.
For the first time tonight, he is alone and unnoticed. Perhaps now is the time to accomplish what he arrived here to do, but something in his gut tells him it’s not quite time yet.
Instead, James meanders over to the balcony railing to watch the dancers below.
The soirée’s attendees are just as gaudy as the ballroom décor. Their spring robes are at the height of fashion and the jewels weighing them down could bankroll the Ministry of Magic for at least a decade. On the dance floor, they waltz like sedated automatons.
One dancer in particular draws James’ attention.
The dancer is in his late teens at most, dark-haired and slender. There is something about the sharp lines of his face—the half-smile curving across his lips, the angle of his brow, the sharp edges of his cheekbones—that feels oddly familiar and yet entirely unknown.
Despite this, James does not recognise him. Whoever this boy is, he did not go to Hogwarts.
He is dancing with a Parkinson daughter (James would recognise that nose anywhere), so he must not be entirely unknown. The Purebloods wouldn’t accept him if they were unfamiliar with his parentage. These events are invite-only and terribly exclusive, after all. It’s the reason why the Order has to Polyjuice their way into these things.
James looks closer.
The dark-haired boy moves fluidly from step to step, slightly off-beat in a way that seems almost intentional. But surely it isn’t—because with every discordant movement, the dancer sends disruptive ripples throughout the rest of the dancers.
Perhaps this mysterious boy is simply a poor dancer.
The music crests. The dancer dips Parkinson low and slightly too far to the left, forcing Lady Shafiq to swerve out of the way and crash into another set of dancers.
The boy keeps waltzing as if nothing happened. His smile, though, quirks just a touch higher.
Oh, that was definitely intentional.
James swallows. He feels oddly itchy, even though he knows it can’t be the Polyjuice’s fault.
The music shifts again. The boy turns, and then all of sudden—
He looks right in James’ direction.
A frisson passes through James’ entire body. It’s almost as if the dancer sees him—really sees.
But it can’t be. James is still wearing Selwyn’s borrowed form.
For the first time in months, James wishes—
The moment passes and the dance progresses, as they always do. In the blink of an eye, the boy and his partner move deeper into the crowd.
James tears himself away. He can’t let the Order down by getting distracted.
🜁
James really shouldn’t be here.
Sweat forms around the collar of his borrowed robes as he rummages through Leto Lestrange’s desk. Soon, a house-elf or an erstwhile guest will come walking down the hallway and realise something is amiss—and then James will be in the kind of trouble he can’t talk his way out of.
James is looking for the heavy leather book Caradoc Dearborn swears Leto keeps in his desk. This is the real reason James is in the Lestrange Manor tonight, wearing Adelard Selwyn’s face. The gossip is good, but this book is his real target.
Finally, James’ fingers close around a leather-bound journal.
And here is the prize he’s desperately searching for, the thing that has led him to this very moment, to the Lestrange Estate on this blessed Spring Equinox—
Meeting minutes.
The Death Eaters keep meeting minutes.
James resists the urge to snort. Instead, he Duplicates the minute book and jams it into his pocket.
Something prickles at the edge of his awareness.
James isn’t certain what—perhaps it’s a footstep. A rustle of fabric. A quick inhale. Whatever it is, it sets his senses on high alert.
He extinguishes his Lumos with the barest flick of his wand and listens.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing—
There is no warning before the curse hits.
James dodges. The curse singes his sleeve and thuds into the desk behind him. He can’t see his opponent, but his mind catalogues everything. The person throwing curses at him is casting them nonverbally, so they must be talented, but not a Death Eater, because a Death Eater would shout their curses out loud for all of their friends to hear—
James conjures a shield at the last possible moment. In the warped air between him and the door, he spots his opponent:
A dark, hooded figure. Slim. Tall for a woman. Slender for a man.
Familiar.
Strange.
James shoots off a Stunner but it misses. His opponent lunges, whip-fast and nearly soundless. Spells streak through the air. It takes all of James’ instincts and muscle memory to keep up with their frantic dance.
Block. Parry. Strike. Repeat.
And then—
—the hood of his opponent’s robe slips back.
Recognition freezes James in place.
The dark-haired dancer. The one who caught his attention on the ballroom floor and held it fast.
If it’s a ploy, it works perfectly. James loses his concentration—for just a moment, but that’s all his opponent needs to snap out a spell that locks up every muscle in James’ body.
James’ wand clatters to the floor. He is utterly helpless.
Fuck, he thinks, fuck fuck fuck—
The dancer advances slowly, as if he’s sizing James up. He’s wearing the same smile he wore on the ballroom floor. James recognises the expression. It’s the smirk of someone who has a secret and is enjoying it immensely.
“I think you have something I’m interested in,” the dancer says, and his voice is not what James expects. It’s soft. Precise. French.
James struggles against the hex but he’s helpless. Whoever the dancer is, he’s one of the best duellists James has ever had the misfortune of encountering.
The dancer leans impossibly, improbably, incomprehensibly closer, until his body is one sleek line pressed up against James’. A hand brushes down James’ side, slim and nimble-fingered as it reaches into his pocket.
The thief’s breath ghosts against James’s ear, so close James feels the warmth of his skin.
“Your Polyjuice has worn off.”
James inhales sharply—
—and then the thief is gone, taking the minute book with him and leaving nothing but the taste of bitter disappointment on James’ tongue.
☽
It doesn’t make sense.
James escapes Lestrange Manor with a second Duplicated copy of the minutes under his arm. The thought repeats over and over again in his mind.
It doesn’t make sense.
The sides in this war were decided long before James graduated.
There are the Death Eaters and those complicit in their crimes. There is the Order of the Phoenix, the Ministry, and the general public. When it comes to allegiances, there are no other options. There is no fill-in-the-blank section. You’re either on the right side or on the wrong side.
It doesn’t make sense.
The dancer who’d stolen from James isn’t a Death Eater. If he was, he would have alerted the other Death Eaters at the soirée when he stumbled across James. The dancer (no, the thief) isn’t a part of the Order, because James knows everyone in the Order. The thief obviously isn’t a Ministry man, and he certainly isn’t a member of the general public. Not with cheekbones like that.
It doesn’t make sense.
James doesn’t know what to do. In the end, he follows Order protocol.
Like he always does.
🜃
“You’re fucked, mate,” Sirius tells him.
James groans. “D’you think?”
It has been thirty minutes since James arrived at the Order of the Phoenix’s current headquarters, ready to deliver a report to Albus Dumbledore himself. Unfortunately, James isn’t the only one hoping to do the same thing.
“So he nicked it right out of your pocket?” Sirius prods.
It was embarrassing enough to recount the story the first time around, and James isn’t in a hurry to do it all over again. “Yep.”
Sirius is chewing on a toothpick halfheartedly. Remus must be on his case again about smoking. James wonders if the toothpicks and nicotine patches will take, this time.
Sirius looks like he wants to dig deeper, but whatever expression he sees on James’ face must change his mind.
“Tough luck,” Sirius says, and lets it drop. James can’t help but love him for it.
Their friendship began on a train chugging steadily Northwards, when Sirius invited James into his compartment and decided they would be best friends for life. It has been true for ten years and James hopes it will be true for a hundred more.
The dining room door creaks open and Diggle shuffles out. “Albus is ready for you,” he says in James’ general direction.
Sirius claps him on the shoulder. If he’s irritated that Dumbledore wants to speak to James before him, he doesn’t show it. That’s another thing James loves about Sirius: he only holds grudges when they really matter.
James squares his shoulders and steps inside the dining room. He tries not to shuffle his feet like a naughty second-year about to receive detention.
Once James shuts the door behind him, Albus Dumbledore steeples his hands under his chin. He’s wearing an expression that is altogether too delighted for the current circumstances.
“My dear boy,” Dumbledore says, “I have quite the odd assignment for you.”
🜳
The waitlist for a table at Chez Élodie is approximately six and a half months long.
James only knows this because Caradoc had prepared him a briefing note earlier about the restaurant. He’d thoughtfully included the menu in an appendix, and James had taken one look at the cheapest entrée and blanched. His parents may not be hurting for money—they’d made their fortune founding several successful Potions shops across Gujarat—but the Potters didn’t often go places like this, where a single bite cost more than a new Transfiguration textbook.
Whoever is meeting him at Chez Élodie wants to make a point. The point probably goes something like this:
I am powerful enough to get a table here at the drop of a hat. You do not want to fuck with me.
Before leaving the Order’s headquarters, James is tempted to ask Dumbledore why someone contacted them to request this particular meeting. But James doesn’t, because he trusts Albus Dumbledore. He has to trust that Dumbledore knows what he’s doing, because otherwise—
It’s a moot point. Dumbledore is their leader, and he knows right from wrong, and James will keep the faith. Any alternatives aren’t worth thinking about.
After arriving at Chez Élodie, James is led to an empty private room at the very back of the restaurant. He smooths down his robes and immediately hates himself for doing it. He feels exposed. Vulnerable. He wishes he had some Polyjuice.
The problem is that, out of all the people they could have chosen—Merlin, they probably could have asked for Dumbledore himself—the person who’d requested this meeting wanted to speak to James, and James alone.
So James sits at a table set for two and tries not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
He doesn’t have to wait for very long. The server opens the door and a familiar figure glides in.
“You,” James says, before he can stop the word from flying out of his mouth.
“Me,” the thief agrees. He passes his navy blue peacoat to the server and exchanges a few words in rapid-fire French. James considers himself something of a polyglot, but he hasn’t gotten around to picking up much French. The smooth, polished syllables flow off the thief’s tongue like water over stone. A shiver runs down James’ spine.
He can’t afford to get distracted. This isn’t a social call, after all. Far from it.
It doesn’t make sense.
James has no idea what this mysterious thief wants, but he knows it can’t be anything good.
The thief slides into the chair opposite James and smiles coyly. “Lovely to see you again.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“Don’t be like that,” the thief chides. “That’s hardly a good way to begin a business relationship.”
James blinks. It only takes him a few moments to recover, but in those moments, the thief’s smile only grows. “A business relationship, you say?” James manages.
The thief signals to the server, who brings over a bottle of chilled champagne. “Of course. But first, we must begin with a toast.”
James feels off-kilter, as if he’s missed a step in a dance and his partner has just trod on his toes. It’s an odd feeling. James Potter is used to setting the tone. He is not used to having it set for him.
“What’s your name?” James asks.
The thief pauses. “What’s yours?”
James sighs and decides to tell the truth. “It’s James.”
“James,” the thief says, as if he’s rolling the name on his tongue. “You may call me Léo.”
It is most certainly not his real name, but James knows that avenue of inquiry is closed to him—for the moment, anyway.
James raises his glass. Léo mirrors his gesture, and James can’t help but notice his hands. They’re pale and slim and adorned in so many rings they glimmer in the evening light.
“To new adventures,” Léo says.
“To new adventures,” James echoes, and downs the champagne.
The server arrives with a fig and walnut amuse-bouche and James realises Léo has ordered dinner for both of them. James isn’t surprised. This entire evening has been a power exchange, after all. Unfortunately, James never developed much of a taste for meat—and his Animagus form means he finds it downright unpalatable now.
“Did you order for me?” James asks.
“Of course.”
“Well, I hope you’ve ordered me a vegetarian dish,” James says, aiming for breezy but falling flat. “Otherwise I’ll only be able to eat the garnish, and that’ll be embarrassing for both of us.”
Léo flushes. It’s the first unpracticed expression James has seen on his face.
James wonders what Léo will do. Ignore him? Tell him there’s nothing to be done?
To James’ surprise, Léo gestures for the server. They exchange a few hissed words in French and the server retreats.
Interesting. And—rather kind, if James is honest with himself.
“It’s taken care of,” Léo says brusquely. “Now. Where were we?”
“Business relationship,” James reminds him. “You were trying to convince me we should enter into one.”
Léo shrugs. “It’s more convenient if we work together than at cross purposes. Don’t you agree?”
James buys himself a moment to think by flattening his cloth napkin in his lap. “It depends. Do you want to join the Order?”
Léo nearly drops his fork. “Most certainly not,” he snaps.
James blinks. “Then what do you want?”
“Did you not listen to what I was just telling you?” Léo says. “We have the same goals.”
Of all the things Caradoc Dearborn covered in his briefing note, this is not one of them. It doesn’t make sense. Léo has to have some sort of ulterior motive.
“And those goals are …” James prods.
A muscle in Léo’s jaw twitches. With a single glance at the server—who is just out of earshot—he leans in closer to James. They are close enough that James can feel the warmth radiating off Léo, mingling with the faint scent of clementines on his skin.
They’re too close. There is no curse holding him in place, but nevertheless, James can’t pull himself away.
Léo murmurs it into James’s ear like a secret: “Voldemort must be stopped.”
The sharp edges in his gaze are unmistakable. Léo is not on the Death Eaters’ side. Far from it.
James pulls himself away and leans back in his seat, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “Dangerous business, that.”
“So let us help each other.”
James swallows.
The truth is that it is the spring of 1980 and Voldemort is winning, no matter how Dumbledore sugarcoats it. People are dying every day—in their beds, on the streets, in places they should feel the safest. The Order desperately needs allies. Except—how can James trust Léo? How can the Order?
“Alright,” James says, keeping his tone casual. “I’ll hear you out.”
Their server arrives with another course—this time, a soup that she reassures them is vegetarian. Léo sets upon it with gusto and deftly turns the conversation to lighter topics. It’s undoubtedly another power play.
James grits his teeth and eats the soup.
They pass through a series of increasingly delicious courses. Despite Léo’s best efforts to keep their conversation utterly banal, James learns a few important details about him.
Firstly, Léo is a Pureblood. (This is not a surprise. Neither is the fact that he did not, as James suspected, go to Hogwarts.) Léo is vague about the details, but James learns that he attended Beauxbatons. It seems like Léo has not been in England for a very long time; James takes this to mean that he has not been in England since he began school. James could be wrong, but when it comes to other people, he rarely is.
When the main course arrives—a tart of some sort, with asparagus and pesto—the tone of their conversation finally shifts to something more serious.
Léo sets down his cutlery. His chin tilts up slightly, but James can’t quite tell whether it’s an expression of arrogance or defiance. “Here’s how this is going to work,” Léo says. “Your Order desperately needs my help.”
James swallows a bite of his tart. It tastes like dust on his palate. “Who says we need your help?”
“If you are their best hope at infiltrating fine society,” Léo says, “your Order is absolutely fucked.”
That stings. Mostly because it’s probably true.
“And what do you propose?” James asks through gritted teeth.
Léo dabs at his lips with his napkin. James wonders if he’s hiding a smirk behind the cloth. “An exchange of information,” Léo answers smoothly. “You help me and I help you.”
“What sort of information are we talking about?”
“I currently occupy a unique position in fine society,” Léo says between bites of tart. “I am of … good stock, as they say. The Death Eaters want me in their ranks. They are willing to give up significant information in an attempt to court me, and I am willing to entertain them in order to get what I want.”
A chill runs down James’ spine. Just who is he dealing with here?
Léo is keeping his cards close to his chest, and James knows there’s something Léo isn’t saying. It’s James’ job to discover what that is. He has orders, after all. Find out what this mysterious character wants. Find out where his allegiances lie. Do it at any cost.
Maybe once James finds out the real reason Léo is here, things will finally make sense again.
James leans back in his chair. He waits—just enough of a pause to ensure he has Léo’s attention. “So why should I believe you?”
Léo’s eyes narrow. “Don’t mistake me for some bleeding heart. The Muggles and the Mudbloods can rot for all I care. I’m here for one reason and one reason only. The man calling himself Lord Voldemort must be stopped.”
There’s a flash of something in his gaze—something dark and raw and painful. It is the answer to James’ questions. He needs to know it. More importantly, the Order of the Phoenix needs to know it.
“Why are you so determined to do this?” James demands. “Is it personal?”
Léo throws down his napkin and stands in one fluid motion. His face twists into a scowl, ice-cold and uncompromising. “We’re done here.”
As Léo strides away from the table, James can’t help but think:
Fuck the Order, I should have just kept my bloody mouth shut.
He tries not to watch Léo’s retreating back. He fails.