James staggered upright—half-running, half-falling towards the fireplace. He dropped to his knees, wand already in hand. For one horrible second his mind went blank, too full of blood and the awful, wet, ragged sound of Evan’s breathing. He stared at the hearth as panic clawed at his chest.
The runes.
He couldn’t remember the runes.
He shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe—slow, deliberate, in and out—until the world steadied just enough. Evan’s voice rang through his memory: It’s a negotiation, tosspot. A deal. You don’t command it. You convince it. But James had no calm to offer, no discipline to barter with. So he did the only thing left. He begged, carved the runes into the air with shaking precision and begged the fire to answer. Begged it to wake. Begged it to come. Begged it to help him save Evan.
The fire answered.
The hearth shuddered. The air warped. Then green flames erupted—violent, overwhelming, spilling out of the grate as if dragged forth by the sheer force of his desperation.
James pushed himself to his feet, breath sharp in his throat, and crossed back to the couch, to Evan’s slumped form. James slid an arm beneath his shoulders, another under his knees, and lifted. James barely felt the weight, driven by adrenaline—he crossed the room with one single thought: get Evan into the fire. The rest—the blood, the sag of Evan’s body, the rising terror clawing at his chest—James refused to let any of it in. He stepped into the hearth.
The emerald fire rose instantly, flaring around them as the world snapped into motion. Heat and colour swallowed his vision; the floor dropped away. The spin hit hard and fast, a violent twist that tried to pull Evan from his arms. James held on, muscles locked, jaw clenched against the drag of the Floo.
They hit the rug hard. The impact jolted through James; he staggered, barely keeping upright as Evan’s weight threatened to drag him to the floor.
“MUM!” His voice cracked on the word. “Mum—help!”
Effy appeared in the doorway almost immediately. Her eyes widened, taking in the blood soaking James’s shirt, Evan hanging limp in his arms.
“Jamie? Merlin, is that blood?”
“Mum—please—please, I—” The words tore out of him, raw and useless.
She didn’t wait for him to finish. Her wand was already in her hand, her tone snapping into something sharp and professional.
“Dining room table. Now.”
James lurched forward, half hauling, half carrying Evan towards the dining room table. His arms felt leaden, his breath ragged. He laid Evan on the table; the white linen darkened instantly.
“What happened?” Effy asked. Her voice was steady, clipped. A Healer’s voice.
“I don’t—” James swallowed, vision blurring. “I found him. There’s so much blood. Mum—please.”
“Breathe, Jamie.” Her wand traced precise, brutal lines over Evan’s chest, diagnostic spells flaring in pale green and blue. “Tell me what you know. Anything.”
James dragged air into his lungs, forced the words out. “His chest. It’s—torn open.”
Effy didn’t react beyond calling sharply for Lily and for Mippy. Lily appeared in the doorway, confusion flickering across her face before the sudden calm of action. She rolled her sleeves up without hesitation, moving to Effy’s side, catching instructions as fast as they came.
Then Monty was there beside James. Large hands closed around his shoulders, grounding him as Lily cut Evan’s ruined shirt clean down the middle. Her sharp intake of breath—small, shocked—landed like a blade. Monty muttered a low, vicious curse.
James didn’t think about the skull on Evan’s forearm. Didn’t think to hide it. His world had narrowed to the obscene wounds carved across Evan’s chest. James was breathing too fast. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The tablecloth was blooming red beneath Evan’s body, spreading and spreading.
“Please, Mum,” James whispered, barely hearing himself. “You have to save him.”
Effy didn’t look up. “Get him out of here.”
It took a beat too long for James to understand she meant him. Then his father’s grip tightened, firm and unyielding, steering him back—out of the dining room. James barely registered the familiar creak of the stairs beneath them. The house felt wrong in its quietness, too large, too distant, as if he were walking through someone else’s memory of it.
Upstairs. A turn. Light spilling from the master bathroom.
Monty nudged him inside and James didn’t resist. Warm water thundered into the sink as his father caught James’s wrists and guided his hands beneath the tap. James watched the water turn pink with Evan’s blood before spiralling down the drain.
“You’re all right, son,” Monty murmured.
James barely felt the words. His father tugged the jumper over his head; his T-shirt came with it, heavy and wet, peeling off to reveal skin smeared in red. James stared down at his chest as if it belonged to someone else.
Monty’s hands were warm against his shoulders, steadying him. A damp towel followed—warm, clean water dragged across James’s skin in slow, methodical strokes. The blood came away in streaks. James watched his father’s hands work distantly, only vaguely aware of the gentle pressure, the quiet movements.
A clean shirt was pulled up his arms, over his shoulders. His fingers tried to find the buttons, but they shook too much to be of any use. Monty brushed them aside, fastening each one without a word.
Then the hallway again.
Then the study.
Monty eased him down into one of the deep armchairs by the fire. The leather was warm, familiar. James collapsed into it, his legs all but giving out.
A glass appeared in his hands.
“Drink.”
James didn’t argue. He lifted the brandy to his mouth with fingers that still trembled slightly. The first swallow hit hard—sharp heat flooding down his throat, settling like fire in his chest. It made him cough, eyes watering. Monty crouched in front of him. James blinked at him as if from very far away, the room glowing strangely warm around the edges, everything warped by the crackle of the fire and the ringing in his ears.
“All right,” Monty said, voice low, controlled. “Who is the young man currently bleeding all over your mother’s good tablecloth?”
“Evan,” James managed. His throat felt tight. “His name’s Evan.” The words came tumbling out. “I should have got there faster—fuck, I should have—” He didn’t know what he should have done, only that he felt as if there were iron bands encircling his chest, constricting, tightening until he was fighting for air.
“James,” said his father, “breathe. In and out.”
James drew a shaky breath.
“Good. Again.”
James obeyed, and the room settled—still blurred at the edges, but no longer spinning.
Monty looked at James steadily, and when he spoke his voice was calm. “Your mother knows what she’s doing. She’s the best there is, and Lily’s with her. Between them, they’ll do everything they can.”
Time slipped sideways after that. The world narrowed into a single thought, looping endlessly in James’s head: what if Evan died? It clawed at his chest, sent waves of nausea rolling through his stomach, left a burning knot lodged in his throat that made it impossible to swallow.
He was only dimly aware of his father taking the empty glass from his white-knuckled grip, refilling it, pressing it back into his hands. Of words spoken low, indistinct. Of his father standing, a hand resting briefly on his shoulder. He didn’t really hear his father telling him he was going to check on Lily and on James’s mother, to see if they needed anything. All James could hear was the frantic race of his own heart, the dull thud of fear coursing through his blood.
What if Evan died?
Minutes stretched, folded in on themselves. The light shifted without James quite noticing when it happened; morning turned to midday, and then to afternoon.
At some point his father came back. James registered the weight of him only dimly: the concern in his voice, the way he crouched to bring himself level, the plate he set down within reach. Bread. A sandwich, perhaps. The smell turned James’s stomach.
“James,” his father said gently. “You need to eat something.”
James shook his head. The movement felt too large, as though it might split him open. His throat closed around the effort of speech and he didn’t try again.
His thoughts were locked on that one repetitive thought: what if Evan died? James pictured it against his will: blood-soaked cloth, skin torn and ruined, hands moving, trying to stitch Evan back together, and failing.
James couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just sit here. He stood, paced like a caged animal. The movement seemed to help, his thoughts becoming marginally clearer.
When his father returned again, James was able to speak.
“I need to be doing something,” he said, voice tight and brittle. “I can’t just—wait. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
There was a pause. A long one in which his father considered him. Then he nodded. “All right,” he said. “Come on, then.”
The kitchen was brighter, harsher. Too much light. Mippy was already there, tugging cloth from a cupboard, laying it out with brisk efficiency across the kitchen table. She handed James a pair of scissors.
“Mistress be needing bandages,” the elf squeaked. “Lots of bandages.”
James nodded. His hands shook badly at first. He forced himself to breathe, slow and deliberate, and then he cut. Cut long strips of cloth. Over and over again. The rhythm began to form, clumsy at first, then steadier.
Mippy worked beside him, silent and focused, her small hands swift and precise. She did not rush him. Did not speak. Just worked.
They boiled the strips together, steam fogging the windows, the air thick and warm. James stirred the pot, watching the cloth churn and soften, his forearms aching faintly with the motion. The light faded without James quite noticing, evening creeping in at the edges of the room. Outside, the sky darkened from slate grey to black. Then Lily appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her sleeves were rolled up. There was blood on her robes. Her voice was brisk, efficient, all business, her attention fixed on Monty as she spoke, her eyes passing over James as if he were not there at all.
“He’s stable,” she said. “For now. We’re going to need a bed. Somewhere to put him. A room made up.”
She turned as she finished speaking, letting the kitchen door swing closed behind her.
“I’ll do it,” James said, already moving.
He pulled fresh linens from the cupboard and went down the east wing, choosing the guest room with the fewest staircases between it and the dining room. He stripped the bed quickly and remade it with clean sheets and blankets pulled tight. When he was done, he went back to the kitchen.
It was empty.
At least, it seemed to be. James caught the murmur of voices drifting from further down the hall—his father’s, low and even, and Lily’s sharper tone cutting across it now and then. He followed the sound.
They both looked up as he pushed the door open.
Lily was standing with her arms folded, her face drawn tight with fatigue. His father was mid-sentence, frowning slightly, his voice pitched low, conciliatory—
“—yes, I agree he should know—”
Lily cleared her throat.
The sound was small but deliberate. His father broke off at once and turned, the frown easing as he caught sight of James. He offered him a brief smile, already shifting tone.
“All ready?” he asked.
James nodded, his mind too occupied to register the way Lily’s gaze lingered on him for a fraction too long before she looked away.
“Good,” Monty said. “Go tell your mother.”
James turned towards the dining room, where Effy was leaning over Evan’s motionless body, still lying on the dining table. The blood-soaked tablecloth was gone. Evan’s shirt and cloak had been removed, his chest, shoulders, and most of his torso now wrapped in clean white bandages.
James stopped just inside the doorway, the words lodged in his throat. His mother looked up, dark eyes finding his—she didn’t smile, lines of concern etched across her forehead.
“We managed to repair most of the damage,” she said quietly, and then added with a shake of her head, “His internal organs were shredded to pieces. Lungs punctured. Multiple ribs broken. Massive blood loss. How he’s still alive is beyond me—” She smiled then, small, a little disbelieving. “But he is, and there’s a good chance he’ll stay that way.”
Relief hit James like a physical blow. He stepped forward and hugged her without thinking.
Effy patted his shoulder once. “Come on,” she said. “Help me get him into bed. The best thing now is rest—I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to him.”
Effy conjured a stretcher and, between them, they carefully lifted Evan onto it and levitated him up the stairs and along the east wing, moving slowly, deliberately, until they reached the guest room James had prepared. James lowered Evan onto the bed with care, his mother adjusting the pillows, checking the bandages once more. His mother spoke quietly as she worked, her voice low and steady. Spells settled over Evan’s body one by one, faintly visible as a soft shimmer in the air: monitoring charms, stabilisation wards. When she was finished, she paused only long enough to murmur that James should call for her if anything changed.
He nodded.
The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.
The room fell still.
James lowered himself into the armchair beside the bed and only then realised how close he was to collapsing. Relief and exhaustion hit together, not as separate things but as a single, crushing weight that left him dizzy.
He watched the slow rise and fall of Evan’s chest. His hair had fallen untidily across his forehead, and James had the sudden urge to reach out and move it, to brush it out of Evan’s eyes.
He almost leant forward, but then stopped—stopped because that was just, well, it was weird. He imagined the look Evan would give him if he were awake. A raised eyebrow. He’d say something dry, sarcastic, perhaps a little cutting. Fuck’s sake, tosspot, I’m not dead yet. No need to get all sentimental.
A laugh escaped James before he could stop it. But then it broke, caught painfully in his throat, and tipped without warning into something else entirely.
Tears blurred his vision. Hot and stinging, burning his throat as he choked on them.
James couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. Mary, Marlene, Gideon, Fabian. Regulus.
Had he cried for them?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember.
“I thought you were gone,” he said, his voice low and unsteady. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, an automatic, embarrassed gesture, even though there was no one there to see the remnants of his tears.
“You’re not allowed to die.”
It was stupid. He knew Evan couldn’t hear him. And yet the words kept coming anyway, unfiltered, spilling out before he could stop them.
“You don’t get to just… disappear,” he went on. “You’re the only person I don’t have to think around. I don’t have to be—” He faltered, gesturing vaguely at himself, frustration flickering across his face. “Better for,” he said finally. “You’re the only one I don’t have to be better for. The only one I don’t feel like I’m constantly letting down.” He swallowed. “I don’t know why that is. It’s probably fucked up. But it’s true, and I can’t lose that. I can’t lose you. Okay?”
The weight of his own words settled heavily over him.
Eleven months ago, James had walked into the Queen’s Arms and found Evan broken and drunk at the bar. He could see it now, with an uncomfortable clarity—that moment had been the beginning of something he hadn’t realised was happening at the time. Somewhere between pints and Chinese takeaway, between saving each other’s lives and the long, quiet aftermath of grief and loss, something fundamental had shifted. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It had crept up on him, unnoticed.
Without James quite realising when, Evan had become the only person in his life he did not perform for. The one who made him laugh even when the world felt like it was burning down around them. The only person he could be entirely himself with—fractured, complicated, uncertain as he was. The only one who never seemed to want him to be something he didn’t know how to be, the only one he wasn’t scared to tell the truth to.
In eleven short months, Evan had become—probably—the best friend James had. The person who knew him most honestly. The one he trusted without thinking. And wasn’t that fucked up? A year ago they had been nothing—well, not nothing. There had been history. A sort-of friendship based on a shared secret, a shared detention; there had been something. But nothing compared to how much Evan mattered now.
The truth of it sat uncomfortably in James’s chest.
For as long as he could remember, the title of best friend had belonged to Sirius. Since the day they had collided at eleven years old, it had felt fixed, immutable. Sirius was the one who knew him best, who understood him instinctively, who mattered most. James had never thought to question it.
But that wasn’t the case anymore.
A quiet, inexorable change had taken place—one James hadn’t even noticed while it was happening. And now the person who held that place in his life was not Sirius. It was not Lily, or Remus.
It was Evan.
And losing him, James knew with sudden, terrible certainty, would break something in him. Perhaps simply break him altogether.
“You’re just not allowed to die,” he said again, softer this time. “I need you alive.”