“There’s not much there,” said Frank, frowning. “Looks like a residential area.”
Moody grunted. Low, rough. James decided the noise was probably meant in agreement. The map sprawled across his kitchen table under Moody’s scowl.
“What do you reckon it is?” James asked.
“That’s what I want to find out.” Moody pinned him with both eyes—one brown, one blue. “Magic-dampening wards across the whole block. Conjured camouflage. No Apparition in or out. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to keep people away.”
Frank ran a hand over his jaw, still staring at the map. He looked worn. “I want Alice and Robards,” he said at last. “Don’t like it. Got a bad feeling. Better with more feet on the ground than just me and James.”
Moody shifted his gaze. “Take Alice. Not Robards—she’s needed elsewhere. Surveillance only. Should be fine with the three of you. And I want it kept quiet. The fewer who know, the fewer chances it gets back to Pettigrew—or anyone else we don’t want in the know.”
Frank nodded, though his mouth was tight.
James kept quiet. He didn’t like it either, something felt off, a low prickle at the base of his spine, but he wasn’t about to push. Not when he’d only just been let back in. He needed Moody to trust him.
They went over the plan again—or what Moody called a plan. To James it was more a list of things to watch for: ward markers, magical tripwires, the kind of defences James only half understood. If Evan were here, he’d have had opinions. Probably would have seen a dozen possibilities Moody hadn’t even mentioned. James wished he’d asked more about wards the last time they spoke.
Not that they had spoken. Not since Dora Rosier. Not since James found out Evan was alive. Ten days and nothing. James kept catching himself inventing excuses—some reason to see him. Some way to ask. But his time had been swallowed by Moody and the Order.
Still, Evan was there in the back of his mind. More often than not, and James wanted to see him—if only to be sure. Because after thinking he was dead for four long days, part of him still didn’t quite believe he wasn’t.
Moody ended the meeting just after lunch, stomping off like a man already late for somewhere else. James wasn’t sure why the meeting had to happen in his house. Over the past week Moody had made a habit of it—turning up with one or more Order members in tow, commandeering the kitchen, the living room, sometimes both. The first time had happened James hadn’t asked questions. But now it was becoming a pattern, and he was starting to wonder what exactly the old bastard was up to, and why he seemed dead set doing it in James's kitchen.
Frank exhaled heavily. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and then he too was gone.
When James was sure both Aurors were gone, and the coast was clear he sent a note to Evan. Because now he had a reason.
A proper one.
He kept it short.
Northumberland tomorrow night.
T.P.
Abstract enough to pass for nothing, clear enough to serve as a warning. Because James had decided—after those hellish four days thinking Evan was dead (and he might have been able to prevent it) that if he knew something, Evan would too. He wouldn’t risk silence again. Not after Karkaroff. If there was even the slightest chance Evan was involved, James would tip him off. And this wasn’t slight. Wards on that scale—could be Evan’s. Or at least something he’d know about.
The rest of the day dragged. No reply from Evan.
At a quarter past six Lily stepped through the Floo. She’d been back on day shifts that week, and they’d settled into something close to routine: James buried in Order work, evenings in the living room—Lily with a book. It was quiet, probably should have been peaceful, if it weren’t for the way he sometimes caught her looking at him. Brow furrowed, like she was trying to puzzle something out.
“Everything alright?” asked James.
She waited too long to answer. Then: “Sometimes it feels like you’re keeping things from me. Like you’re not telling me everything.”
He’d rubbed a hand over his face, felt the scrape of stubble. Thought distantly, that he should shave.
“What do you think I’m not telling you?”
She’d looked away, though not before he caught the flash of hurt in her eyes.
“I don’t know, James.”
She stood then, took her cup and her book, and left him on the couch with her words. He sat there after, staring at nothing. Guilt. Or maybe exhaustion. Hard to tell anymore. He’d carried it so long it felt permanent, like he’d gone numb to it. Like he’d grown immune to guilt.
The following day passed in much the same manner, still no response from Evan, and Lily was just as quiet, just as watchful when she got home. They ate without much conversation. James did the dishes, his thoughts already pulled toward the mission ahead. By eight he was pulling on his cloak, the nights colder now, frost settling where the rain had been. Lily kissed his cheek as he wrapped his scarf.
“Be safe,” she murmured, but her mind seemed somewhere else. James nodded and stepped out into the night air. Walked down the path, past the wards. Turned on the spot and vanished into darkness.
James met Frank and Alice on a quiet street corner in Northumberland. Run-down terraces slouched behind rusted gates and sagging fences. The kind of place no one wanted to live in, and no one did. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting dull orange across cracked tarmac and the skeletons of dead gardens. The three of them moved through the dark streets quietly, wands out, cloaks damp with mist. Frank flanking him, Alice just behind—silent, watchful.
It was run down. Houses with dark windows. Shuttered windows. A door hanging loose on its hinges. No movement. No light. Nothing. Earie and far too quiet.
“Whole place looks empty,” Frank muttered.
“Or charmed to look that way,” Alice whispered back.
They crossed into the next street. And that’s when James felt it—static, humming under his skin. Magic, thick and strange in the air. He glanced at Frank. Frozen.
“Shit that was definitely something,” Frank said, after a beat.
Silence. It stretched. James began to relax, and then he heard a crack, like a car backfiring and then—footsteps in the street behind them. .
James whirled, peering into the darkness. “Did you hear—?”
The blast hit before he finished.
Thrown backwards, gravel biting his palms. Frank yelled something but his words were lost in the multiple cracks of apparition. Red light seared past James’s shoulder. He rolled, came up to see them—two, four, six—robed figures. Another two rounding the back of one of the boarded up town houses.
“We need cover!” Frank shouted.
“There is no fucking cover!” Alice yelled back.
True.
This was bad.
Really bad.
A Stunner whooshed past. James rolled, and then a jet of green light searing the ground where he’d been. He scrambled up—spun—figures closing in, cloaks and masks, the street alive with wand light. Frank and Alice were a few metres away, back to back, wands raised.
Movement at his left—he felt it more than saw it. Shield charm up, magic thrumming as sparks burst around him. He turned. A Death Eater less than two metres off, wand already lifting again. James lunged, half-dove, half-ran, and crashed into formation with Frank and Alice.
Backs together now. A circle of hoods pressing in.
A flash on his right. Alice’s shield caught a curse, flung it wide. It ricocheted, hitting a low garden wall and bouncing back. Pain tore through his leg—sharp, white-hot. He staggered, breath caught, but forced himself up. Threw a hex. Too slow. It glanced off, barely grazing his target.
And in that moment James knew. Bone-deep, unarguable.
He wasn’t getting out.
Not this time.
This was it.
The end.
Then—
A red flare split the sky above. Spells burst in a shower of colour from the far side of the street.
“DOWN!” someone shouted.
James hit the ground instinctively. The street exploded—boots pounding, cloaks snapping. Half a dozen figures stormed in. Moody. Sirius. Remus. Lily. Dorcas. Kingsley. Robards. And four Aurors James didn’t know, red robes flaring as spells tore through the dark—red and green slicing the night.
The Death Eaters scattered. Not fast enough. One went down hard, skull cracking on tarmac.
It was over in seconds.
James coughed, ears ringing, chest heaving. Frank hauled him upright, breath ragged.
Moody limped toward them, face thunderous. “You alright?”
James winced. “Leg,” he managed.
Sirius appeared at once, arm under James’s shoulders, taking his weight.
“Get him out of here,” Moody barked. Then louder: “Rendezvous at the Potters!”
A crack. The world twisted.
They landed just outside the cottage. Sirius was shouting, then Lily was there, catching James’s other side, dragging him through the door.
They got him to the couch. Lily ripped open his trouser leg—skin blackened, split, blood seeping.
The room blurred. James felt himself slipping under, darkness swallowing him whole.
When he came to, the smell of Essence of Dittany was heavy in the air and the living room of the cottage was full.
Moody in the armchair, arms folded. Dorcas and Kingsley by the mantle, both tired but sharp-eyed. Frank at the sofa’s end, one hand bandaged, Alice perched on the arm. Lily cross-legged on the floor in front of him, green eyes heavy with worry.
Sirius, Remus, and Robards had pulled chairs from the kitchen table. The space felt smaller than usual—dense with people, warm with body heat and the faint smell of singed flesh.
Moody and Kingsley held a glasses of Firewhisky. Dorcas, Remus and Sirius had beers. James pushed himself upright, rubbed a hand over his face, then nodded at Moody’s tumbler.
“Can I have one of those?”
A soft chuckle—Remus, maybe.
“I think he’s fine, Lily,” Dorcas said dryly, arching a brow at her.
Not Lily but someone else—James didn’t clock who—handed him a glass. He shifted, hauled himself more upright, and took a swallow.
“What the fuck happened?” he asked, eyes on Moody.
Moody scowled. “Funny. Was going to ask you the same thing.”
James blinked. Looked around. The dawning, hazy sort that came with blood loss and blackout—everyone was watching him. Expectant.
He frowned.
“Feel like I’ve missed something,” he said slowly. “Someone want to fill me in?”
Silence. Moody studied him, unblinking.
“A patronus came about twenty minutes after you left,” said Lily.
“A patronus?” echoed James.
“Tipp off,” grunted Moody.
James looked from Moody to Lily and back.
“A Patronus from who?” he asked.
Moody’s gaze stayed locked on him—too sharp, too deliberate. “That’s the question, isn’t it. Tell me, Potter—you know anyone with a swan Patronus? Anyone keen on keeping you alive, anyone who’d be privy to enough information to know you were walking into a trap?”
Fuck.
Evan.
The realisation hit like a blow: it had to be Evan. Fuck. James was going to have to lie, and convincingly. Everything else dropped away. Pain, exhaustion, panic—gone. A switch flipped. Calm. He frowned, glancing between Lily and Moody as though lost.
“What?” he said slowly, pouring confusion and the sleepy air of someone who’d just come around into the single syllable.
“The Patronus,” Lily said, hesitant. “It addressed me. By name. Said you were walking into something bigger than the Order knew, that you’d be outnumbered—that if I didn’t send help, you’d die. You, specifically. James will die within fifteen minutes if you don’t send backup. It sounded like she knew you. Like she cared.”
“She?” echoed James.
He didn’t have to fake confusion now—it was real. She. Not Evan, then. Who? For a split second he wondered if Evan had disguised the voice, because it had to be him. James had sent him the note telling him he was going to Northumberland. It had to be Evan.
Lily nodded.
“I–” James starts, clears his throat, “I have no idea.”
Silence.
James waited a beat, and then, added with the baffled sincerity of the deeply confused.
“I don’t know anyone with a Swan Patronus.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Moody’s scowl deepened, then he let out a rough breath. “Add it to the list,” he growled directing his attention towards Kingsley. “Someone out there knows our moves well enough to call a trap before we walk into it.” He paused, the blue eye whirring before fixing on James. “Least for now, looks like they’re on our side. Don’t mean I trust it.”
James took a long pull of whisky, the burn sliding down his throat and settling warm in his chest.
The voices blurred. Someone—Remus, maybe—was asking Frank what kind of ward they’d tripped. James let his head tip back, eyes closing. His leg throbbed with his pulse, dull and distant. Everything felt far away. Weightless. He let himself drift, not noticing when the dark took him under.
Lily shook him awake. It felt like seconds later, but the room was empty now, the clock on the wall edging past one in the morning. She pressed a pain potion into his hand, then helped him up the stairs.
He was half-asleep already when he heard her voice, soft: “You really don’t know who it was from?”
“No idea.”
“None at all?” she asked, and something in her voice caught his exhaustion fogged brain, whispering gently, that she didn’t believe him.
“Tell you if I did,” he mumbled—the words slipped out smooth, instinctive, as natural as breath. Maybe he was too tired to notice. Or maybe it was simpler than that: lying to her had become second nature. Sleep claimed him before he even realised he’d done it.
Lily was gone by the time James woke. The house was cold. Frost lying thick on the window pane. His body ached, his leg tight and itchy. He dragged himself out of bed feeling twice his years, hobbled downstairs to find three vials of potion lined up on the table with a note in Lily’s hand, neat instructions on the order to take them. He did as told, and once the ache dulled, set about making tea. He’d just settled at the kitchen table, first mouthful still hot on his tongue, when a rushing sound came from the living room.
The Floo.
James froze.
No one but Lily used the Floo—St Mungo’s had set up a direct link for her shifts, supposedly secure, warded to hospital traffic only. James didn’t trust St Mungo’s wards much, but he trusted Evan’s—he’d seen Evan reinforce the Floo himself. No one should be able to get in.
James snatched his wand and made it to the living room just in time to see a jet of green fire explode from the hearth, bathing the walls in harsh light. Sparks spat across the floor, and then a robed figure appeared in a swirl of flame, cloak billowing in the hot rush of air.
For a split second panic slammed through him, memory of Death Eaters from the night before still raw.
Then the flames died, leaving only the green scorch in his vision—and Evan Rosier stepped out of his hearth.
“Sorry,” Evan said, glancing around the soot-stained room. “Fucking wards.”
James blinked.
Evan was standing in his living room.
He was dressed head to toe in black: dragonhide boots, heavy travelling cloak fastened with silver. No Muggle clothes today. Even covered in ash he looked dangerous.
And tired.
Not just physically, but hollow, worn down, golden skin washed pale under dark shadows.
It hit James like a punch. Thinking Evan was dead. Blaming himself. Carrying that dull, crushing ache of loss. The almost of it all. Almost losing him. Almost dying himself last night. And before James realised what he was doing, before he could second-guess it, he was moving, he crossed the gap between them and pulled Evan into a hug.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this wasn’t them. They didn’t have the kind of relationship where hugs were a thing.
But he didn’t care.
Evan was alive. Alive and tired and soot-streaked and a bit terrifying—and here, in his living room. And James was so damn glad to see him that nothing else mattered.
Evan went stiff, frozen under James’s arms. Time dragged, each second stretching thin. James was on the verge of letting go—of stepping back, of muttering an apology—then Evan moved.
Arms came up, sudden, deliberate, holding him in place. Not perfunctory, not polite. Tight. Too tight. It lasted longer than it should have, a heartbeat spilling into another. Evan’s hand fisted in the back of James’s shirt, anchoring him there. Not letting go.
“Are you insane?” James muttered into his ear. “What if Lily had been here?”
“Knew she wasn’t,” Evan said. “Was watching. Saw her leave through the network.”
Ames realised him, stepped back. “Still—anyone could’ve been here. Sirius. Moody. House has been overrun with The Order all week.”
Evan shrugged. “Didn’t know if the warning reached you in time. Had to be sure.”
That’s when James saw it. Behind the exhaustion there was relief in Evan’s blue eyes. A weight gone. And James, remembering with painful clarity what it had felt like to think Evan dead, knew.
He cared.
Cared enough to risk patching into the Floo to check that James wasn’t dead. Heat bloomed in James’s chest despite the chill of the morning. He tried to hide the smile, but from the way Evan looked away, jaw tight, James knew he’d seen it.
James jerked his head toward the kitchen. Evan followed and all but collapsed into a chair at the table.
“Remind me to put a failsafe in your Floo wards. Came out in fucking Coventry. Right through some muggle ladies' wall. Near gave her a heart attack.”
“You’re kidding.”
Evan ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few chunks of plaster, and grimaced. “I fucking wish. Had to Obliviate her.”
James laughed—he couldn’t help it. The irritation on Evan’s face, combined with the sheer relief of seeing him slumped in a chair across the table, bubbled over until it spilled out of him. Evan shot him a flat look while James’s shoulders shook, but then the corner of his mouth twitched and he shook his head, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Yeah, alright, fuck off. It was traumatic for both of us. I’m rubbish at memory charms—took four fucking goes before she stopped screaming and trying to hit me with the fire poker.”
That only set James off worse. It took him several seconds to get control again. He shook his head, breathless. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you,” he managed when he caught his breath.
Evan looks amused. “Oh yeah? Miss me, did you, Tosspot?”
“Yeah,” James said, grin fading. “I did.”
It came out more somber than he meant, and Evan’s smirk slipped slightly.
James cleared his throat, awkward now. “So—it was you then? Patronus last night? Figured it was but then Lil said it was a woman, threw me off a bit.”
“Dora.” The last of the amusement vanished from Evan’s face, he rubbed a hand down his face. “Couldn’t send word myself—was on a job. Didn’t get back ‘til about an hour ago.”
The way he said it—careful, measured, like each word was weighed—snagged James’s attention. He wondered what Evan wasn’t saying.
“Pretty sure she saved my life,” said James, watching him thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have made it out if Moody and the others hadn’t turned up when they did.”
Evan nods, doesn’t look particularly surprised and that catches James attention too for some reason. He pushes it away, thinking that he’ll come back to it later.
“Think Moody might be an issue though, think he knows.”
Evan went still.
“About Dora?” he asked, quick, sharp—and for the first time since James had known him, he thought he saw something like fear flicker in his eyes.
James frowned. The reaction confusing him.
“No,” he said slowly. “But he knows something’s up.” He hesitated, the next words heavy in his mouth. He didn’t want to say them—didn’t want Evan to agree—but Evan’s life mattered more than what James wanted. “Probably not safe for you to be anywhere near me.”
Evan snorted. “Never been safe, Tosspot. Hasn’t stopped me yet. Don’t see why it should now. Just means we’ll have to be more careful. Work out something better than owls. More secure.”
“You sure?” asked James, trying not to let the relief seep into his voice, he tried not to think too hard about why it was that he was relieved. He should want Evan safe, and he did, it was just that he also wanted him around, wanted to be able to see him.
Evan stifled a yawn and then said, “no time like the present,” he paused, shot James a hopeful look, “you got coffee?”
James grins. “Yeah,” he said, rising to his feet. “Yeah. I’ve got coffee.”
In the kitchen, James filled the kettle, lit the hob, and reached for the tin of ground beans on the top shelf. Setting a cup and a fresh tea bag aside for himself. As the water heated, he opened the fridge. A covered plate caught his eye—leftover aloo paratha. Still soft. Still good, if reheated right. Next to it: half a red onion, two green chillies.
He hesitated.
Then—wordlessly, almost absently he chopped onion and green chilli. A quick fry in oil with cumin seeds, turmeric. Three eggs, cracked and scrambled straight into the pan. Salt. A handful of coriander. He flipped the paratha in a dry pan, fingertips quick, unthinking.
By the time the coffee was ready, so was the food. He set the pot on the table with milk and sugar, then slid a plate in front of Evan. Evan looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t look like you’ve slept. Figured you probably haven’t eaten either.”
Evan didn’t answer. Just looked at him. Something unreadable crossed his face—surprise, yes, but also something quieter. Gratitude, too much for something as simple as breakfast. It made James feel oddly self conscious, and he looked away, focusing on pouring milk into his tea.
“Need something that can’t be traced,” said Evan after a minute. He paused, took a sip of coffee—black, no sugar. James tucked that bit of information away. It felt like something he ought to remember for some reason, like knowing how Evan took his coffee was important.
“As far as meeting spots go, Queen’s Arms isn’t bad,” Evan said, “not the most secure, but not traceable to either of us.”
James cleared his throat. “We may want to find somewhere else.”
Evan raised an eyebrow in question.
James winced. “Might have told the girl on the bar that you died.”
A beat.
Evan gave him a baffled look. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Well—” James dragged a hand through his hair. “To be fair, I thought you had.” James cleared his throat, looked down into his mug. “Heard about your dad—only didn’t realise it was him. Thought it was you. And, er… went there, got drunk and it just came out.” He grimaced. “Sorry.”
There was a long pause. When James finally glanced up from the murky depths of his mug, Evan looked like he was trying not to smile.
“You go to drink to my memory?” asks Evan, with lips twitching.
“Something like that,” admits James, feeling rather foolish.
Evan laughs, bright and clear—dimples flashing and blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corner, and James is struck by how much laughter suits him, it’s a shame really, how rare it is.
“Sweet of you Tosspot,” says Evan around a positively evil grin. “I’m truly touched.”
“Oh, fuck off,” James muttered, heat rising in his cheeks. “I was cut up about it, alright. Girl behind the bar felt bad enough that she gave me a free drink.”
Evan shook his head, and then, still grinning wickedly, said, “so, need a new meeting spot too then. Somewhere no one’s going to look. Muggle world’s good. Less chance of being seen.”
James nodded. And then thought. After a moment he stood and crossed into the living room. He returned with a thick yellow book and, instead of taking his former seat opposite Evan, dropped into the chair beside him placing the book between them.
“What’s that?” asked Evan.
“Yellow Pages,” James replied, flipping it open. “It’s like a Muggle directory. They have them for different cities and areas—this one’s for London. Lists businesses, addresses. They use it to find places.”
Evan tilted his head, mildly impressed. “Clever. I take it you’ve got an idea?”
James grinned as his finger landed on what he was looking for. “Nineteen pubs in London called The Queen’s Arms. Probably hundreds across England. We use a different one each time. Even if someone hears us say the name, it won’t mean anything.”
“Not bad Tosspot,” said Evan, sounding mildly impressed. “Now we just need a way to communicate. Something inconspicuous.”
They sat in silence for a while. The crease between Evan’s brows deepened as he thought. James tapped a finger idly against the open book.
After nearly fifteen minutes, James broke the quiet. “How does he do it?”
“Who?”
“Voldemort. How does he communicate with you lot?”
Evan winced at the name. “Merlin. Warn a man first.”
James ignored him, and Evan sighed, looking down at his left arm—and then flexed his fingers around his mug, before a sideways look at James. “Mark’s not just aesthetic. Serves a purpose.”
“What does it do?”
“It hurts,” Evan said. “Burns when he wants us. Ignore it, and you’re in for a world of pain. He can summon us individually or as a group. When it burns, all you have to do is Apparate, and it’ll take you to him.”
James frowned. “It’s a one way channel?”
“No. Works both ways. Have to be an idiot to use it though.”
“How does it work?”
Evan shrugged, “fuck knows, didn’t exactly stop to ask about the mechanics of what the spooky bastard was doing when he burnt it into my arm, too busy trying not to shit myself.”
James glanced at Evan’s sleeve. “Do you mind if I look?” he asked.
Evan tugged up his sleeve in answer. The mark was stark—deep black ink on warm golden skin. Without speaking, James reached out, pausing a breath before his fingers closed gently around Evan’s wrist. He turned Evan’s arm, slow and careful, until the mark caught the light. It was flatter than he expected—no raised edge, no scarring. Smooth.
“Will he know if I touch it?” James asked curiously.
“Don’t think so.”
James brushed his thumb over the edge of the tattoo.
Evan flinched.
James frowned. “That hurt?”
Evan made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat. “It’s fine.
James hesitated, then traced the shape again—completely smooth. Evan sat motionless, letting him look.
Letting him touch.
“What if we did something similar?” asked James after he’d fulfilled his curiosity, he wasn’t learning anything more from the mark just by looking at it, and as much as he’d like to prod it with his wand, and try a few things, he didn’t want to accidentally set it off. That would be bad, very bad.
“Not sure I’m in a rush to get any more cursed ink, Tosspot.”
James chuckled. “Don’t worry—I’m not suggesting matching tattoos. I was thinking about an object. Something small I could charm. Forge a connection between the two. You’d carry one, I’d keep the other. A way to let the other know if we need to talk.”
Evan tilted his head slightly, watching him. “You could do that?”
“Yeah,” said James. “I’ll need to think through the spellwork, but I can do it.” He realised almost absently that his fingers were still wrapped around Evan’s forearm, the skin warm beneath them, he let go and Evan tugged down his sleeve in one fluent motion.
“How long do you need?”
James considered it. “Two days, maybe three,” he nodded, “three to be safe.” He turned his attention to the Yellow Pages, dragged a finger down the page. “Meet me in Queen’s Arms. Kensington gardens, in three days?.”
“It’s a date,” said Evan, and then sighed, getting to his feet.
James nodded. Then, with a sudden stab of realisation, he remembered: Evan’s father was dead.
“Sorry about your dad.”
The corners of Evan’s mouth twitched, almost into a smile. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d met him. Dying’s probably the best thing he’s ever done.”
“Your sister said something similar.”
“You talked to Dora?”
“Bumped into her in Diagon Alley,” said James. “Flourish and Blotts—that’s how I found out you weren’t dead.”
Annoyance flared sharp in Evan’s expression—and then James remembered too late: Dora Rosier had specifically asked him not to mention their conversation to Evan.
“It was my fault, all she did was ask me to get a book off the top shelf,” James said quickly, guilt creeping in. “I was the one who recognised her—said something, you er, you look very alike.”
He didn’t say: you have the same eyes—the same smile. That felt… odd. Too personal.
Evan’s expression shifted slightly, but the annoyance was still there when he spoke. “Not your fault, no doubt you did exactly what she wanted you to do.” He paused—just a beat—and then reached down, hand settling briefly on James’s shoulder giving it a squeeze. His grip was firm, warm through the fabric of James’s shirt. Solid. There and gone in a second.
“Thanks for breakfast. Try not to die in the next couple days,” and then he headed for the living room. James heard the roar of the Floo, and thought he caught the tail end of a few choice cursewords—and something that sounded suspiciously like “hex her fucking hair off this time”—before silence settled over the cottage.