Evan slept again after lunch, and James returned to Sir Alaric. He finished the book sometime in the late afternoon, and then, no longer having an excuse to stay, he went downstairs. Effy was at the kitchen table, spectacles on her nose, attention fixed on a long scroll that was taking up most of the far end. She looked up as he entered and gave him a small smile, then turned her attention back to whatever she was reading—something with several complex-looking diagrams on it, from what James could see.He made tea, set a cup beside his mother without asking, and took the seat opposite her.
“A letter came for you,” she said without looking up. “It’s over there.” She gestured vaguely toward the tall set of shelves in the far room.
James stood and wandered over, scanning the shelves and their odd assortment of recipe books, jars holding quills, spare keys and baskets of miscellaneous bits and bobs. He found the letter tucked between a mail-order potion supply catalogue and a crumpled invitation to a fundraiser dated six weeks prior.
The address was written in a slanted, elegant script he didn’t recognise. He frowned, turned it over, and opened it.
Dear Mr Potter,
I hope this finds you well—if I am to be completely candid, I haven't been able to stop thinking about our little conversation when we bumped into each other in Flourish and Blotts, and you know how it is when something simply refuses to leave one's head. I did mean to write sooner—I didn't want to appear too forward, you know how one agonises—and then of course the time simply got away from me entirely. You know how it is in these dark months when it feels as though the sun barely bothers to show up at all, and yet somehow one's social calendar is busier than ever. Celestine Nott had her supper last week—you should have seen the size of the bird she served, I truly couldn't tell you what creature it had formerly been but it was absolutely divine and the table pieces, she did the entire room in roses, it was like a fairytale—and then Araminta Lestrange has gone and got herself engaged, to an Argentinian lord no less, which by anyone's standards is a very good match and frankly the most interesting thing she has ever done. And then of course there is the Malfoys' Gala tomorrow evening—will you be attending? I do so hope to see you there, it is simply the event of the season. Anyway, before one knows it weeks have gone by and one still hasn't done half the things one meant to. What a drag. Although I suppose one can never really complain about having too many friends, even if it does rather play havoc with one's free time.
In any case—I'm sure you've quite forgotten, but you recommended Whitmore's Principles of Transfiguration and I want you to know I have finally gotten around to reading the first four chapters and have been absolutely riveted. Well. I say riveted. I confess it was rather hard going in places—I dare say you are a great deal cleverer than me, I mostly read romance —but I pressed on as instructed and by the fourth chapter I was quite converted. There is a passage in chapter four that I keep returning to, about how timing is simply everything, and how the difference between a thing going beautifully and going catastrophically wrong is almost always just a matter of getting ahead of it rather than behind. I've been turning that over and over ever since. It strikes me as wiser the more I think on it, because is it not applicable quite outside the laws of transfiguration? Take gardening, for instance—it is entirely about planting at the right moment. Too early and the ground is too cold and nothing will take; too late and there won't be time enough before the frost comes. And even needle work, it is all about repairing a tear before it becomes too big you see, a stitch in time, saves nine as they say. So enlightened have I been by your recommendation that I thought I might venture one of my own in return. Have you ever read The Art of Solitude by Edmund Vane? It's fiction, but quite fantastic all about a man who is wrongfully arrested and how he eventually manages to clear his name entirely through the letters he writes to his fiancée from his cell. Awfully romantic. My thinking is that as it has done me good to read something very clever on your recommendation, it might do you equally good to read something awfully romantic on mine.
Anyway. I do hope we might run into one another again—perhaps deliberately rather than by accident. If not at the Malfoys' then I shall be at the Selwyn dinner, I forget exactly when it is, perhaps Saturday?
With great affection and very best wishes,
D.R
James turned the letter over. His name. His address. Definitely intended for him. And yet nothing about it made a single bit of sense to him—why would he be attending anything hosted by any of the Malfoy’s—and who was Celestine Nott and why had the sender thought he would be interested in whatever unidentifiable bird she had apparently served. Not to mention the very sincere hope that he might find himself at the Selwyn dinner, whatever that was, on Saturday?
“When did this come?” he asked.
“About an hour ago,” answered his mum.
James read it again. Flourish and Blotts. He frowned. He hadn’t been to Flourish and Blots in months, not since the day he’d learned Evan was alive. Evan. Understanding clicked as a memory of pale hair and red lips and eyes that were an impossible, unsettling blue crashed over him—D.R. Dora Rosier. The letter was from Evan’s sister, it had to be. He scanned it again, he had not, to the best of his knowledge, recommended her a book about transfiguration. As fair as he could remember he'd barely managed to string a sentence together. He read the bit about timing again. About getting ahead of a thing rather than behind. And then, with the delayed certainty of a thing that should have been obvious from the start James realised it must be some sort of code—Evan's sister knew where Evan was and this letter wasn’t for him, it was for Evan.
He folded the letter and headed upstairs, tea forgotten on the table.
Evan's eyes opened as soon as James said his name—he blinked once, and then his eyes landed on James, sharp and aware—someone accustomed to waking ready.
"Hey," said James.
"Hey." Evan pulled himself upright, one hand braced against the headboard.
James sat down on the edge of the bed and held out the letter. "Think this is for you."
Evan took it. Read it in silence. His frown came in slowly, deepening as his eyes moved down the page.
"Fuck," he said, very quietly. Then he looked up. "Do you know where my wand is, is it here?"
"I don’t know," admitted James.
"Can you find out? Now?"
James went. Mippy confirmed it with a small, apologetic shake of her head that Evan had not had a wand. James went back upstairs. Evan had made it to the edge of the bed by the time he returned—feet on the floor, both hands braced on the mattress either side of him, jaw set with the particular expression of someone engaged in a private argument with their own body and winning it through sheer stubbornness.
"No wand," said James.
"Fuck,” Evan said again, this time with considerably more feeling.
James watched him, a slow chill spreading through his chest—something uncomfortably close to dread settling in his stomach. Something was wrong. Evan looked worried—or as close to worried as James had ever seen him.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"I need to go."
“You can hardly stand,” protested James
“I’ll manage.”
James stared at him for a second, a decision forming in his mind. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll get your things.”
Evan looked surprised for a second, clearly having expected James to argue. But then he nodded. James found Evan's clothes easily enough—the heavy black cloak and dragonhide boots conspicuous against the white of the clean linens. Not to mention the silver dagger that had been placed atop the pile, its hilt glinting against the dark material of Evan’s cloak. James headed back upstairs with the bundle, Evan forwent changing into his trousers, choosing to simply pull his cloak on over James’s joggers and t-shirt, he did however take the knife, slipping it into his left boot before allowing James to wrap an arm around his waist and help down the stairs.
James’s mother was at the bottom of the stairs, she eyed Evan’s cloak and then said. "Give us a minute, Jamie.”
Her tone made the matter non-negotiable. James glanced between Evan and his mother, and then—
“Now,” said his mother, “wait in the living room.”
James went. He tried not to wince when the door shut behind him with a sharp click. The living room was quiet around him—too quiet, carrying the dense, muffled stillness of a Muffliato. Whatever his mother had to say to Evan, she clearly had no intention of James overhearing it.
He leaned back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling.
Ten minutes later the door opened. His mother and Evan stepped inside together. Effy had a hand on Evan’s arm, and he seemed content to accept the support as she guided him across the room toward James. As far as James could tell, he looked unharmed.
When Effy stopped beside him, Evan offered her a small, genuine smile. “Thank you—for everything.” He turned to James. "Can I borrow your wand?” he asked.
James handed it over without hesitation. Evan raised it above the cold grate and began to draw—quick, precise strokes cutting shapes into the air. James recognised the first runes: the ones Evan had taught him in careful increments over months, the same ones he'd used to bring them here. But Evan's hand kept moving, tracing more, ones James didn’t know. When he was done the flames roared into life, they cast the room in emerald light, shadows leaping up the walls. Evan lowered the wand and held it out. James took it, then offered his free hand and helped him step into the hearth.
Effy turned to James. He could see from her expression that she already knew exactly what he was planning.
"If I don't hear from you," she said, "I'll come after you myself, Sheru."
Her voice was steady. Her eyes—brown and familiar and entirely too perceptive—were not.
"I love you too, Mum," said James.
Evan had one foot in the fire when he stopped. He looked between them, and James watched understanding move across his face. He opened his mouth—
"Don't bother," said James to him, stepping into the flickering fire and wrapping an arm around Evan’s waist.
The world dissolved into spinning green.
The spinning was brief and violent. Evan's loft lurched into existence around them and then—Evan collapsed. James caught him before he hit the floor. The full weight of him came down hard and sudden, and James took it, staggering out of the grate.
"I've got you," James said, worrying rising fast as he caught sight of Evan’s face which was the colour of old chalk, the colour that had returned over the last day or so gone completely.
"I've got you,” he said again, “stay with me, yeah."
He didn't know if Evan heard him. His breathing was wrong—shallow and effortful, like each inhale was something he had to work for. James started moving, half-dragging, half carrying him towards the nearest chair.
James crouched in front of him, one hand still on his arm.
"Evan." He kept his voice even. "Look at me."
A long moment. Then Evan's eyes found his—unfocused at first, then sharpening, slowly, like a man surfacing from deep water
"I'm fine," he said, without a great deal of conviction.
He closed his eyes and then slumped sideways. James caught him, Evan’s head landing on his shoulder. James held him upright in the chair.
“Breath,” he said. Evan did. Breathed—long, deliberate, the careful measured kind—after a few minutes, Evan moved, pulling his body free of James’s arms.
"You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I could’ve been going anywhere.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said James. “You weren’t making anywhere on your own.”
Evan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue, just said. “Find my wand.”
James found it by the one of the leather couches, the same one he’d found Evan on—the one with a wide, rust-brown stain across its back and cushions. James made himself not think about that, made himself focus on the task. The wand was caked in dried blood. James pointed his own at it and it lifted. Beneath the wood was black—some dark, dense grain James didn't recognise—the handle carved with runes. He stood, took it to Evan and then, at Evan’s insistence James helped him to his feet and across the room back towards the fireplace. Evan leant against the mantle, one hand bracing himself while he called forth the runes, flames leapt in the hearth, throwing the darkening room into eerie casts of green and black.
James offered his hand again. Evan didn’t take it this time.
“You have to stay here,” he said.
“You nearly passed out five minutes ago,” said James, “you’re not going through alone.”
“Dora’s on the other side," said Evan, he was pale but he was staring at James with determination. “I mean it, you can’t come. I don't know how much time I have before he gets there."
"When who gets there?" asked James.
Evan didn’t answer and that was all the confirmation James needed. Panic rose hard and fast.
"Evan—"
“Please,” the word was quiet and there was something almost desperate in it—James blinked at him. “Stay here.”
“No,” said James.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was refusing. Maybe the idea of letting Evan go alone. Maybe the idea of staying behind. Maybe the way Evan was looking at him, or the pleading note in his voice—becuase Evan Rosier didn’t plead.
“No—you’re not. No, I can’t—”
The words tangled in James’s mouth, catching on each other before they could form anything coherent. Beneath them was something else entirely—something raw and unnamed, stripped down to its nerve. Only belatedly did James realise he had moved closer. They were standing very near each other now, close enough that the rest of the room seemed to fall away. Close enough that James could see every detail of Evan’s face: the faint scatter of golden stubble along his jaw, the pale sweep of his lashes, eyes that—even dulled with exhaustion and pain— were still impossibly blue. For a moment everything held there, suspended. The green fire behind Evan shifted, throwing restless light and shadow across the room. He didn’t move—only watched James, very still, very intent. The rational part of James’s mind simply gave way, drowned out by need, pure and simple—a slight tilt forward, the last inch of space closing between them, his hand lifting almost without his awareness to rest against Evan’s face, his thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. Now they were only a breath apart. Close enough that James could feel the warmth of Evan’s breath against his mouth. James closed the last inch of distance between them—and then—then there was a hand on James’s chest. Firm. Unmistakable. Stopping him. Pushing him back.
The moment broke. Reality came down on him all at once, and James dropped his hand from where it still cupped Evan's jaw and stepped back.
"I didn't mean—" he started automatically.
"Don't— " Evan cut him off, “just don’t Tosspot.”
There was something in his voice that James didn’t recognise, an edge that might have been anger, or might have been something else entirely. Before James could read what Evan had stepped into the fire. And then James was alone.
James wasn’t sure how long he stood there, only that the fireplace was dead and cold by the time he moved. The last of the green flames were gone. Next thing he knew he had sunk onto the couch although didn’t remember crossing the room, didn’t remember making the decision to move. James pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw white. Tried to think. Couldn't. His brain kept skidding, kept losing purchase, lurching from one catastrophic track to another with the frantic, useless energy of something that had too many things to be terrified about and no idea which one to deal with first.
Evan's jaw under his hand. The green firelight. He had almost just kissed Evan.
James could leave. Part of his brain was screaming at him to run, run anywhere, just away, as fast as he could—but he didn’t. He sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands and he didn't move, because underneath that panicked part of his brain that wanted desperately to pretend he hadn’t just tried to kiss Evan—was something else, a bigger part of him, which had apparently reached a consensus that he was not going anywhere. Not until he knew. Not until Evan came back through Floo and James could see with his own eyes that he was alive because that was more important than the urge to hide from his own damn stupidity, because no matter how much James had fucked up, it wouldn’t matter—nothing would—if Evan didn’t come back.
So he stayed.
And his brain, left with nothing useful to do, ate him alive.
It spun through the last four hours again and again, and then, when it had exhausted that, through the last five days. The burn of his watch against his wrist. Evan on his parents' dining room table, bloody and broken. And then James's hand cupping his jaw—and then the hand flat against James's chest. Don't. Just don’t Tosspot.
And then, then—
Lily.
Oh, he thought. Fuck.