High Barnet was cold enough to sting. Most of the shops had closed for the evening; the last-minute Christmas rush had ebbed into a soft, tired lull. Fairy lights glowed behind frosted windows. A bus rumbled past. A fox darted across the road, tail low. James kept his head down as he walked—five minutes, two corners, and there it was. The Queen’s Arms. Tucked back from the pavement, the pub’s glowed amber against the dark street. The hanging showed a painted, and rather jolly looking queen on it, faded and weather-beaten. Warmth hit James immediately as he stepped into the pub. Dim golden bulbs, a handful of wall sconces, the soft, flickering glow from the old fireplace, and the smell of ale—three locals at the bar, two old blokes in the corner debating football, one couple by the window and a table of three girls about James’s age—or a little older, a bottle of wine on the table and another empty upside down in its cooler.
James scanned the pub. Evan wasn’t there. He checked his watch—twenty-two minutes past eight—and slipped into a table in the far corner, as far from the other patrons as possible. From here he had a clear view of the door, the bar, and the fire. Five minutes passed. Then another. The door opened, and Evan stepped into the pub. He was dressed head-to-toe in black—heavy boots, black gloves, and a black leather jacket—snow dusted his shoulders and hair. He clocked James immediately, gave a small nod, but didn’t walk over. Instead he made for the bar, James watched as one of the girls drinking wine glanced up as Evan passed—and then did a double take. She nudged her friend. Within seconds all three had stopped talking entirely, eyes following Evan as he crossed the room. James bit back a smile. Even from here, their expressions were unmistakable: interest, intrigue, outright appreciation. The first girl—the one who’d done the double take—was staring with something close to longing.
For a brief, absurd moment, James felt sorry for her. Little did she know he had more of a chance with Evan than she did. The thought rose unbidden. And then settled wrong—uncomfortable, strange—making James look sharply away. Evan pulled out the chair opposite him a moment later—setting two large glasses of whisky on the table.
“Straight onto the hard stuff,” James teased, taking his.
“Long day,” Evan said.
And something in his tone caught James’s attention. He looked at Evan properly this time and his stomach sank. Evan wasn’t the most expressive bloke at the best of times—but over the last five months James had got better at reading him. Had learnt the subtleties of his face, had learnt to read between the lines. Learnt the quick twitch of his mouth when he found something funny; the wry half-smirk that meant something sardonic was about to leave his lips; the flat look that was his version of an eye roll, the slight furrow between his brows when he was thinking hard: but James had never seen this expression on Evan’s face. In fact, his face was completely blank. Not the usual mask of cultivated indifference he used to hide whatever he was really thinking—James knew that one well enough to recognise the edges of it. No, this was different. This wasn’t a mask at all. This was absence. An absence of expression. Of emotion. Of anything.
“You alright?” James asked quietly.
Evan inclined his head—a short, sharp nod.
“I need a favour.”
The words came out short, clipped, like he didn’t want to voice them, like saying them cost something.
“What do you need?”
Evan never asked for anything—nothing beyond the odd dinner, or drinking companion. But the stiffness in Evan’s shoulders, the utter blankness of his face, told James this wasn’t a request for dinner or a drinking partner.
Evan looked down at his drink, the muscle in his jaw working. “I need you to help me get into Grimmauld Place.”
James blinked. Of all the things he’d expected—intel, danger, a warning—that wasn’t it.
“What?” he said, taken aback.
“It’s Reg’s parents house,” Evan said, picking up his glass and taking a mouthful.
“I know,” said James. “I meant—why?”
“Because there’s something there,” Evan replied, voice low. “Or at least I think there is.”
“Something?” James pressed.
“Do you know what a Horcrux is?” Evan asked.
“A what?”
“Didn’t think so. Worth a try.” Evan’s mouth pulled downward. “Dark magic,” he said. “Really dark. From what I can tell—which is a grand total of fuck all, aside from a few archaic warnings that basically say ‘touch this and die.’” He ran a hand over his jaw, scratched at the golden stubble there and then sighed. “First time I heard the word was about a year ago from Reg. He was obsessed. Had this theory—thought the Dark Lord had found a way to make himself immortal. And he thought it had something to do with something called a Horcrux.”
James’s blood iced. His glass felt suddenly too cold, too heavy, in his hand. He set it down on the table, Evan leaned forwards bracing his elbows against the table.
“I thought it was rubbish, just Reg being… Reg. Brilliant, but always digging for something deeper. Never took anything at face value. I figured he’d bought into the Dark Lord’s theatrics, never thought it was real. Till last night that is—Dark Lord’s expanding. Trying to pull in allies from Europe, America—Africa too.” Evan spun his glass in his hand. “My father acted as his—well, call it a diplomat, if you want. We’ve got blood ties to at least a dozen ancient European families, tends to help when trying make alliances. Now he’s dead jobs mine,” he sighs, “spent the last three days wining and dining Leandro Di Caravarra.”
”Who?” Asked James.
“Younger brother of Don Salvatore Di Caravarra—bloke who rules Sicily, most of Italy too. Their reputation for dark magic makes the Rosier’s look like cute fluffy pigmy puffs.” Evan gave a mirthless huff. “Trust me—not someone your lot wants joining forces with the Dark Lord.”
Evan paused long enough to down his drink in one, and then he continued, “Leandro is psychotic—powerful and vicious, likes violence. Gets off on it. Not the smartest bloke around though. Can tell you that for a fact because he’s been drinking his way through my wine cellars for the last three days. Overheard him sending a patronus to his brother last night. Didn’t mean to—accident actually. Speak Italian fairly well, Sicilian? Not so much. Missed most of what he said but got one thing loud and clear. Horcrux.”
James felt something inside him drop—clean, sharp, irrevocable.
“Think maybe Reg’s theory was right, think that's why he died. That’s why I need to get into Grimauld Place. If he found something there’s no way he wouldn’t have notes, research. I need to find it. I need to know what he died for.”
James stared at him for a long moment, the weight of Evan’s words pressing down on him—thick, suffocating. The implication constricted his chest like a fist.
Voldemort. Immortal.
If that were true, then they weren’t fighting a war. They were throwing bodies at a cliff face. Every death—Mary, Marlene, Gideon, Fabian, Benjy, the bodies they never even identified—every one of them would have been for nothing. He swallowed hard, throat tightening as something cold and nauseating twisted low in his stomach. He tried to breathe past it.
“Tosspot?”
“Yeah,” James managed, shaking off the thought of an immortal Voldemort—and forcing his voice steady. “I’ll help.”
Evan nodded and leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction—and James realised, with a jolt, that Evan had thought he might say no. Or at the very least, had been worried he might. The realisation bothered him in a way he couldn’t quite pin down—something small and sharp lodging under the skin. He pushed it aside; there were more important things to worry about.
“When?” he asked.
“Probably in the new year,” Evan said with a small shrug.“Can’t move until this Italian business is done.” His mouth tightened. “Not safe. Dark Lord wants this alliance. Badly. He’s watching closely.” He checked his watch, jaw clenching. “ Speaking of which, should go. Left Leandro with Dora.” He sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face. “He speaks to her like she’s furniture. Reckon she’s probably at breaking point by now. Better go relieve her before she does anything that’ll start another war.”
Evan stood, tugging on his gloves. And then—unexpectedly—he gave James a smile. Small, but genuine. He reached out, giving James’s shoulder a brief, firm squeeze. “Merry Christmas, tosspot,” he murmured. “Look after yourself, yeah?”
And then he was gone.
James stared after him for several long seconds, the echo of that shoulder-squeeze lingering like heat beneath his collar. Then he looked down at his untouched whisky. He picked it up, downed it in one burning swallow, and stood. Outside, the street was deserted, the wind sharp and icy. James ducked into a narrow side street and Disapparated, reappearing a heartbeat later in Godric’s Hollow. He checked his watch: eight fifty-five. The whole meeting had taken less than fifteen minutes. The cottage was warm—too warm after the icy streets of High Barnet—but James barely felt it. He shut the door quietly behind him, hanging his jacket on the peg by the stairs.
Lily looked up from her perch at the table the moment he entered. “You’re back,” she said, relief softening her face for a moment before it shifted into something closer to concern. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” he said, forcing his voice level. “Nothing urgent. I’ll pass it on to Moody after Christmas.”
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t urgent. Not exactly. Important, yes. Urgent? Well Evan had said he wouldn’t be free until the New Year, and James wasn’t going to do anything until he knew more. Until Evan had found or hadn’t found whatever he thought might be hidden in Grimauld Place. Lily watched him for a long heartbeat—then nodded slowly.
James sat down at the table. The Christmas cards waited where he’d left them, half-finished, cheerful little snowmen and robins staring up at him like nothing in the world was wrong. He picked up his quill and wrote—Love, James & Lily—over and over, his hand moving on instinct while his mind spun through: EVAN—REGULUS—IMMORTAL—VOLDEMORT—WAR—DEATH—NO END.
“Tea,” Lily said gently, setting a mug beside him.
“Thanks,” he said without really hearing her.
They spent the following day, Christmas Eve, at Lily’s parents’ house, arriving around lunch time. Her mum had gone all out—carrots glazed in something too shiny to be natural, roasted potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, stuffing balls lined up neatly in unnervingly perfect rows. And then there were the gravies. Three of them. Three separate pots of thick, steaming… sludge. Beef, chicken, and something else maybe onion? James had missed what it was exactly.
James stared at them longer than was reasonable. It was strange, the things the mind clung to when it was trying not to think about something world-ending. Voldemort potentially being immortal hovered at the edges of his vision like a shadow he wasn’t allowed to look at directly. So, instead, he focused on gravy.
James had never really liked Gravy. Never gotten the hype. The whole point of gravy seemed to be to make everything saltier, mushier, and vaguely beige. He didn’t dislike it, exactly. He’d acclimatised, after years of Sunday roasts in the Great Hall. But he’d grown up on food that crackled—ginger, garlic, cumin, heat—Gravy was just… warm meat soup. A sort of edible salty damp.
Remus and Peter had both tried to explain its appeal at various periods throughout school—something about comfort and tradition and roast dinners at Nan’s. Sirius had just shrugged and said that to be honest he could take or leave it most of the time. James, for his part, could definitely leave it. Still, he ate politely. Smiled when offered seconds. Didn’t ask what “bread sauce” was, because he’d learned that lesson last year. Her dad wore a reindeer jumper and told jokes that made Lily roll her eyes.
James liked both of Lily’s parents, he did. Had since the first time he’d met them. They were perfectly nice. But he didn’t fit, not really, not the way Vernon and Petunia did. Couldn't, not when there was a world between them. Lily straddled the two worlds so easily—slipped between them without friction. She understood both. Belonged to both.
James didn’t.
And Petunia and Vernon Dursley—who didn’t like James, and whom James didn’t like right back—never let him forget it. They looked at him as though he were something fundamentally wrong. Something to be tolerated, not accepted. A presence they endured rather than welcomed. Every glance seemed to underline the same truth: you do not belong here. And he felt it. Keenly. Every time he opened his mouth and realised he’d said something wrong. Asked a question everyone else knew the answer to. Every time the conversation turned to something he didn’t understand—mortgages, shares, cars, the inexplicable cult of football. And so he chose silence because he’d learned what happened when he didn’t. He’d learned the hard way that admitting he didn’t understand something—that he wasn’t from their world—would only make Vernon’s eyes glint with vicious satisfaction. Would make Petunia purse her lips disapprovingly, would make Lily’s dad clear his throat uncomfortably and Lily’s mother offer everyone more gravy.
So he kept his mouth shut. Nodded at the right moments. Didn’t ask questions. And quietly pushed his food around in the spreading puddles of gravy on his plate.
Some time around the desert, Lily’s father turned to him, “What are you doing with yourself for work these days son?”
Lily had smiled gently at her father, “dad I’ve told you, James doesn’t work—”
Vernon made a loud “hmph,” sound and then, with a pointed sip of his beer said, “lot of layabouts these days. Young men thinking the world owes them a living.”
James didn’t say anything.
What could he say?
I don’t work because I don’t need to—what with the Potter vaults being what they are. It would probably take several generations of wildly irresponsible spending to make a dent. Believe me, I’ve given it a solid go.
He tried not to smile at the thought of Vernon’s face if he ever actually said that aloud. Instead, he ate a mouthful of trifle and then, continued the conversation in his head.
Besides, most of my time is spent fighting a war with a clandestine resistance movement fighting a maniacal dark wizard who may or may not be immortal and is bent on purging the world of people like your daughter, so really I don’t have time to work.
Yeah. that would go over just great. Definitely better to stay quiet. He stabbed a strawberry. It resisted. He took another sip of wine and tried to look engaged while Vernon launched into something about adjustable speed settings on something called an electric drill. James wasn’t entirely sure what an electric drill was, or what it did, but Vernon seemed very passionate about it. James nodded, tried not to let his eyes glaze over— and reminded himself with increasing frequency that at some point—eventually—this night would end and James wouldn’t have to hear anything more electric drills, or eat any more gravy, for another twelve months.
They left Evans’ Surrey townhouse around midday on Christmas, Lily patiently explaining to her baffled father that it was quite alright, and no, they didn’t need a lift—James’s parents lived in Buckinghamshire, which was a good hours drive, and they’d get there much quicker if they simply Disapparated. That led to an even longer conversation in which Lily attempted, with increasing strain, to explain what Disapparation was.
“Whereabouts in Buckinghamshire do your parents live, James?” Lily’s mother asked.
“Eh—the estate’s in the Chiltern Hills,” James said. He was beyond ready to leave. Eager to see his own family. And, if he was honest, absolutely desperate to get away from Vernon Dursley, his frankly alarming moustache, and its capacity for independent movement.
Vernon’s moustache twitched. “‘Estate,’ is it?” he said, in a tone that managed to be both sceptical and vaguely accusatory. “Must be nice.”
“It’s—quiet,” James said shortly.
“Nice part of the world,” said Lily’s mother brightly, either unaware of or politely ignoring the undercurrent. “All those woods. Very picturesque. I imagine it’s lovely in the snow.”
James nodded. “It’s… got a lot of trees,” he said, sneaking a glance at his watch.
“Do your parents live there full-time?” Lily’s mother asked, genuinely curious.
“They’re there most of the year,” said James, hoping the strain in his voice wasn’t audible to anyone but him. “My dad likes space.”
Vernon snorted quietly—just loud enough for James to hear, not loud enough for Lily’s mother to chastise him.
“We really should be going,” said Lily, and James could have kissed her on the spot.
“Alright, love,” her mum said, giving her a quick hug and pressing the tin of mince pies into her hands. “Do thank Euphemia and Fleamont for the card.”
“Will do,” said James, returning the hug she gave him with polite speed.
He shook Lily’s father’s hand, air-kissed Petunia—and then turned to Vernon. Vernon offered his hand like it was a challenge.
“Happy Christmas,” he said stiffly.
“And to you,” said James, just as stiffly.
They stepped out into the cold. James didn’t wait for the gate or for small talk. As soon as they were clear of the drive, he took Lily’s hand and Disapparated with a crack that might have been a touch louder than strictly necessary.
They changed quickly at the cottage, swapping jeans and christmas jumpers for robes, and James grabbing the presents he’d set aside for his parents. For his father, he’d charmed a silver gardening trowel—he’d done the enchantments himself. It would infuse the soil with fertility charms as you worked, encouraging healthy roots and repelling pests without harming the ecosystem. He was fairly sure his father would be delighted. His mother was harder. Always was. In the end, he’d settled on a set of diaries—thick, hand-bound things enchanted to record your writing as vivid watercolour illustrations. Effy liked to write down her dreams, and James thought she might enjoy seeing them come to life on the page—or at least hoped she would.
The grounds of the Potter estate were dusted with snow as they walked up the long, winding drive, flanked by trees and frost-covered grass that sparkled in the pale winter light. Lily was quiet, and James—after the better part of twenty four hours keeping his mouth shut, didn’t think to break the silence with conversation. The only sounds were the crunch of their footsteps over the icy skeletons of fallen leaves, and the soft clouds of breath misting in the air between them. The house appeared slowly through the trees, half-shrouded in mist and pale winter light. Long stone walls, old as anything, ivy grown thick up the corners, windows glowing soft amber against the cold. Smoke curled from the chimneys. There was a quiet hum in the air—wards woven so tightly into the land that James barely noticed them anymore—other than as an extension of the feeling of home.
The door opened before they could knock to reveal his mother, already untying her apron as she ushered them in. “You’re late.”
“We’re not late,” said James automatically, brushing snow from his coat.
“You’re always late,” she said, matter-of-fact, pulling him into a tight hug that smelled like cinnamon, roasted garlic and warmth. “Shoes off,” she said into his ear. “And—don’t leave them in the middle of hall for someone to trip over—”
Sirius was in the kitchen wearing an apron and a disgruntled expression: clearly in James’s absence he’d been bullied into the role of kitchen assistant. On seeing James he promptly untied the apron and shoved it at him with a scowl, and that was all the greeting James got as Sirius stomped away from the stove and threw himself down at the table with the relieved air of someone released from a long stint in prison. James pulled the apron on, inspecting the various pots simmering on the stove as he did, he heard his father before he saw him.
“Where’s my favourite daughter-in-law to be,” came his booming voice from the hall, and then he was there, sleeves rolled up, a streak of something green—potion or garden or catastrophe—smeared across one forearm. He bypassed James entirely, heading straight for Lily whom he swept up into a bear hug. “You look radiant, my dear—positively glowing.”
Lily laughed, warmth easing across her features. “Merry Christmas, Monty.”
Monty kissed her cheek, beaming. “And to you.” He turned to James and clapped him on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas, son.”
James snorted. “Remembered I exist, did you, Dad?”
Monty grinned at him. “Forget you! With all the trouble you’ve caused me over the years? I should be so lucky.”
James let himself fall into the familiar rhythm of helping Mippy with the food, his body and mind finally beginning to ease—as the steady work loosened something inside of him. He focused on the movement of his hands, the world shrinking to the colours of the vegetables in front of him and the soft clatter of Mippy beside him, perched on a kitchen stool and stirring a pot half her size.
The air felt thick with heat and comfort, the kind that wrapped around him and softened the edges of the day, spices crackling in hot oil; the sharp lift of ginger; the green, citrusy rush of curry leaves and the slow swell of coconut. By the time they sat down to eat, the light beyond the bay windows had thinned into a silvery, cold dusk, snow drifting past in soft, careless flurries. And James felt better than he had since leaving the pub after seeing Evan. It was the first time in two days he felt like he could breathe. He ate slowly, savouring the flavours, letting the smells wash over him—cardamom, cumin, and not a single pot of gravy in sight.
After they’d finished, and after presents, James trailed Lily and his father through the greenhouses, steam clinging to the panes and misting his glasses. Monty was in his element, testing out the charmed trowel with enthusiasm.
James raised an eyebrow at the curling vines of something he was almost entirely sure was Devil’s Snare. “Is that what I think it is dad?” he asked, half weary, half amused.
“You know technically it’s only illegal if it escapes the pot,” answered Monty with a sly smile, a smile James recognised all too well. His own smile, the one that usually came attached to a healthy dose of trouble.
They passed a dense bush of Murtlap, its roots twitching faintly in the soil. Flutterferns quivered gently even without wind, alert to every magical pulse. A bank of Fanged Geraniums chattered their leaves menacingly as James walked past.
Monty stopped at the far end of the greenhouse before several impossibly leafy tomato plants, their vines thick and verdant, heavy with out-of-season fruit.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” he declared proudly.
Lily, crouched to inspect a bloom, “whatever did you do to them?” she asked curiously.
Monty beamed. “Charkhuli moss in the soil, some regulated warming charms, and—of course—a great deal of love. I read to them too, you know. I think it helps. They seem to have a strong preference for Russian literature.”
Lily laughed, light and clear in the warm, humid air of the greenhouse.
James shook his head and crouched beside his father, running his fingertips lightly through the dark, enchanted soil. The tomato vines pulsed faintly with life, fat fruit hanging impossibly red for the season.
“Come,” said Monty to Lily. “Let me show you something truly marvellous—my newest potion. Wart-removal meets cell regeneration. Bit experimental, slightly volatile, but I’m fairly sure it won’t explode. And if it does, who better to patch me up afterwards?”
Lily smiled and shook her head in amusement as Monty took her by the arm, already leading her away with the easy confidence of someone fully aware of just how charming he was.
James closed the greenhouse door behind him, slid the latch into place, and followed Lily and Monty across the grounds toward the house. But he didn’t trail them into the potion lab. Instead, he veered off toward the kitchen—his favourite room in the house, and the one where his mother was most often found. She was curled into the deep window seat, squinting down at several sheets of parchment. Her glasses were nowhere in sight—no doubt misplaced again. She glanced up when he entered.
“Chai’s on the stove,” she said, then returned to her reading.
James helped himself to a cup, poured one for her as well, and crossed the room to join her at the window. It was a broad bay, set deep into the stone, with a bench built into the alcove and lined with old cushions faded from years of sunlight. He settled beside her and looked out. The sky stretched out in tones of black-blue, stars beginning to wink into existence like twinkling Christmas lights.
“Where’s Sirius?” Asked James after a few minutes.
“Living room,” she said, “conked out on the couch.” She looked up, dark eyes amused—“said to wake him up for sweats.”
James nodded, sipped his tea.
Later after everyone had gone to bed—James lay awake. His mind unable to slip into sleep until finally, around two am he gave up trying. He got out of bed, careful not to wake Lily, and made his way through the quiet house.
There was a soft light on in the study. Probably his father, who had always been a night owl: often found caught up in something well into the early hours of the morning. James pushed open the door, and sure enough, Monty was seated beside the fire, a glass of cognac resting on the side table next to his arm chair.
James crossed to the cabinet and helped himself to a brandy, then he sank into the chair opposite his father: he looked up, blue eyes wide as if slightly surprised to see his son before him.
“Can’t sleep,” he said in explanation, “what are you doing?”
“Thinking,” said Monty predictably and James nodded.
Monty considered him for a long moment. “What’s going on with you and Sirius?” he asked, “you two have a row?”
James considered the question for a long minute. Sipped his brandy. James liked whisky better but his father was a cognac man and always had been.
“Not that I know of,” said James after a few minutes.
Monty made an unconvinced “humph.”
James sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on with him—” he rubbed his eyes. “He’s been in a mood for months.”
“You could ask him what’s wrong,” pointed out his father.
James shrugged. He could talk to Sirius. He probably should. But Sirius’s brooding over the last few months had slipped down the list of things James had the capacity for—pushed aside by fear, guilt, and now the cloying possibility of an immortal Dark Lord. Still, his father was right. He should talk to Sirius, would talk to him, tomorrow.
James took a sip of his brandy and then asked, “how did you know?”
“I can always tell when my boys are at odds,” answered his father, and then added. “House is quieter for one thing.”
James huffed a laugh—and shook his head. “Not that.” A beat. “How did you know Mum was the one?”
Monty blinked, the question taking him off guard. Then his face softened, the lines around his eyes deepening into a gentle smile.
“Oh,” he said simply. “That.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I woke up one day and realised there was no part of my life I wanted without her in it.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t complicated.”
James exhaled through his nose, something twisting faintly in his chest. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Monty said, unflinching.
James nodded, it was the answer he’d expected from his father—he didn’t know why he felt disappointed. He stood, tipping back the last of his brandy.
“G’night, Dad.”
“Night, James,” Monty said softly.
James didn’t go back to bed. He wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the quiet, and sat in the window seat. Outside, the snow drifted down in slow, thin spirals, silvering the lawn and the trees and the dark silhouette of the greenhouses. The world looked peaceful and James let himself believe that it was. James sat there until nearly four in the morning. When he finally made his way back upstairs Lily was curled on her side, hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting in the empty space beside her. James stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her breathe. She stirred when he climbed in beside her, murmured his name in her sleep.
James dreamt that he was running through Hogwarts in search of something, or someone, positive that what he was looking for was just around each bend, but the castle corridors were too dark, too empty, no matter how fast he ran—whatever he was looking for remained just out of sight. The dream changed, his father was speaking, lips moving, trying to tell him something and yet—try as he might—James couldn’t hear him. It was like an invisible wall stood between them blocking his father’s words.
James woke feeling hollow. Cold, despite the warmth of the bed. He was alone, Lily already up. He found her in the kitchen halfway through breakfast with his parents, no sign of Sirius.
“He left early,” said his mother when he asked—there went his plan to talk to Sirius that day. James sighed, reaching for the tea. His head was heavy, limbs leaden.
Conversation floated around him—Lily was talking to his mother about underprescribed bone-knitting potions and the latest cases of long-term curse damage on the ward. James had just taken a mouthful of eggs when he felt it—heat blooming suddenly against his wrist. He froze, swallowed quickly, and pushed back his chair.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, already halfway out of the room before anyone could look up.
In the hallway, he unfastened the watch and turned it over in his hand.
Jenson & Co, Alderwick Street, London.
He frowned. Alderwick Street was where Evan’s warehouse flat was. Had Evan triggered the message by accident? That didn’t seem likely. The time on the watch front read eight forty-five, the same as the grandfather clock at the end of hall. Whatever Evan wanted, he wanted it now, which meant it was probably important. James strapped the watch back on and walked back into the kitchen.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
Monty looked up from his paper, eyebrows raised. “Go where?”
James rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Back to London.”
“At this hour?” said Monty, and then frowned. “Lily’s still eating, sit down have your tea—”
“Not Lily—just me. It’s Order business. I’ll be back after—”
James half-heard his mother say something cutting about Moody and patience but he was already out the door before she’d finished, pulling his jacket on as he went. The air outside hit him like a slap—sharp with frost, cold enough to sting his lungs with every breath. His boots crunched over the gravel path as he strode down the drive, the Potter estate washed pale in the thin winter morning light. Everything was still. Suspended in the frozen air.
James started down the long drive, heading through the woods until he reached the gate. The moment he stepped beyond the edge of the estate’s wards, he Disapparated—reappearing a heartbeat later in the foyer of Evan’s warehouse flat. He took the stairs two at a time, and the heavy iron door swung inward the instant his hand touched the metal.
“Evan?” he called into the hall.
Silence.
He tried again, louder this time, moving quickly down the corridor. His boots echoed against polished wood, the sound too loud. Something coiled uneasily at the base of his spine.
He called Evan’s name again. No response.
James rounded the corner into the living room—
—and stopped dead.
Evan was slumped sideways on the edge of the sofa. His eyes were closed. He might have been asleep, but James knew instantly he wasn’t. His skin—usually warm, gold—looked ashen. Grey.
And the leather beneath him was dark. A spreading stain.
A large one.
James didn’t remember crossing the room.
One moment he was standing there, breath caught in his throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint—the next he was on his knees in front of Evan, hands reaching, shaking—
His palms came away wet. Red. Sticky.
Evan’s heavy Death Eater robes were soaked in blood. James’s stomach dropped like stone.
“Evan—” he choked, the name tearing out of him in horror.
Evan’s eyes fluttered open and he took a shallow, rattling breath. His blue eyes—glassy, unfocused—found James’s.
“We need to get you to St Mungo’s now,” James said, panic rising hot and fast. There was so much blood. Too much.
“Won’t make it, tosspot.”
Evan’s voice didn’t sound like his at all. Foggy. Slurred. The edges of it crumbling. He dragged in another ragged breath.
“Wanted you to know… was always you.”
A hand—slick with blood—found James’s wrist, fingers curling tight.
“Even when it shouldn’t have been… was always you.”
The words barely landed. James’s mind, frantic and overwhelmed, couldn’t make sense of them—couldn’t comprehend what Evan was trying to say. All he could see was blood. On Evan’s robes. On his hands. On the floor. And then Evan’s head tipped forward. His fingers slipped from James’s wrist, falling heavily to his side as his eyes slid shut.
James shook him once, twice—harder than he meant to—but nothing changed. No flicker of response. No breath he could hear. His hands flew to the clasps of the robes, fumbling, tearing them open with frantic, clumsy force. Underneath, Evan wore a plain black long-sleeved shirt—soaked through. The fabric clung to him, heavy and dark, every thread saturated.
James grabbed the hem and pulled it up— and recoiled.
Evan’s chest and stomach were ruined. Long, deep gashes tore across his ribs—ragged wounds carved wide enough to show flashes of white bone beneath. The flesh around them bubbled grotesquely, the edges seared and warped as if eaten away, each wound oozing a thick, foul-smelling blackish sludge.
James’s hands hovered over the devastation, trembling, useless.
He couldn’t fix this.
He couldn’t fix any of this.
“No—no, no, no—fuck, Evan—”
The words tore out of him, raw and desperate—
Evan couldn’t die. James wasn’t ready to live in a world that didn’t have him in it.