Evan slept through lunch.
And through dinner.
He did not stir once.
Effy shooed James out of the room that evening with brisk efficiency, informing him—in a tone that brooked absolutely no argument—that he would be sleeping in a proper bed tonight.
“If I find you in that armchair again,” she added, folding her arms, “I will dose you with sleeping potion myself.”
James believed her.
James shut the door of his old bedroom behind him, and fell forwards onto the bed. He meant to think. Meant to sort through the mess in his head with something like logic.Instead, the dark swallowed him whole. Sleep took him fast and without ceremony.
And then he was in a corridor that would not end. Doors lined the walls, all of them slightly ajar. He stood there immobilised, unsure of which one to choose.
Then the scene changed.
Moonlight on snow. The hillside behind the estate. The sharp burn of cold air in his lungs.
Only he was not alone this time.
Someone was walking ahead of him, a dark coat stark against the white ground. James tried to catch up, lengthening his stride, breaking into a run—but no matter how fast he moved, the distance between them did not close. He tried to call out but no sound came out. Then the ground shifted beneath his feet. Suddenly the hills were gone and he was in a broom cupboard. Darkness. Close air. Soft lips against his. Hands on his chest.
He pulled back. Grey eyes met his. Storm-grey, ringed with dark lashes. Regulus smiled at him—soft, gentle. He leaned in to kiss James again. But it was wrong. All wrong. Heat and wetness spilled over James’s hands when he reached for Regulus and when he looked down, his fingers were bright red, dripping. James stumbled back. When he looked up, it was no longer Regulus. It was Lily. Lily with her chest torn open, blood pouring down the front of her robes.
“It’s your fault,” she said, voice hollow and eyes angry. “You did this.”
James lurched towards her, hands shaking, trying to press against the wound, trying to stop it, trying to fix it—
He couldn’t.
The blood would not stop.
And found himself back in the corridor full of doors. His mother’s voice came from the nearest one. James ran for it. She would know what to do. She would help. He threw the door open. She was not there. It was Evan. He stood in the centre of the room, dressed in Death Eater robes. A mask hid his face, smooth and blank—but James knew it was him.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Evan said.
James woke with his heart hammering. For a moment he did not know where he was. Something sharp dug into his cheek. His glasses. He winced and rolled onto his side, tugging the glasses free and rubbing a hand over his face, breath uneven, the dream still burning behind his eyes. James stood under the hot water longer than he meant to, letting it drum against his shoulders, willing it to wash the residue away. By the time he pulled on clean clothes, the details had thinned, but the feeling remained. An uneasy prickle in his consciousness that he can’t seem to rid himself of.
Evan was awake when James pushed the door open. Not propped against the pillows this time, but sitting on the edge of the bed, head bent, feet flat on the floor.
He was also swaddled in one of James’s father’s dressing gowns.
It was a violent shade of bright orange—the sort of orange that announced itself loudly from very far away—and just a little too big. The sleeves covered the heels of his hands, the shoulders sat slightly wide, and the whole thing was aggressively fluffy. James knew, without needing to see it, that if Evan turned there would be a large Chudley Cannons logo embroidered proudly across the back.
Evan—who James was accustomed to seeing primarily in one of two states: the first being terrifying Death Eater, and the second effortlessly put-together business casual—looked more than a little silly, and, in some small and entirely unhelpful way, sort of adorable. James pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. He must have let something slip—a breath—because Evan looked up.
“Morning,” James said, grinning despite his best efforts.
“Your mum did something to the bandages to make them waterproof,” Evan said, bypassing any form of greeting. “She said I can shower if I want.”
His voice was flat. Emotionless. His face matched it.Something about the expression—or rather the absence of one—struck James hard. It was the same look Evan had worn the last time they’d met in the Queen’s Arms in High Barnet. The look he had worn when he’d told James he needed a favour. The amusement drained out of James all at once. Suddenly the image before him wasn’t even remotely funny.
“You need help?” James asked.
Evan nodded. One sharp movement.
“You want to go now?”
“If you don’t mind.”
The words were stiff. Polite. Almost formal.
“My bathroom’s the closest,” James said, working hard to keep his voice light—as if he hadn’t noticed Evan’s discomfort. As if it didn’t bother him that Evan so clearly hated asking for his help.
“I’ll grab you a clean towel,” he added. “Then I’ll give you a hand with the rest.”
He moved quickly—grateful, almost, for the excuse to turn his back on Evan. He found a towel and a toothbrush. Rummaged in his draws for clean socks, boxers, joggers, and a T-shirt and set the lot in a pile beside the sink too.
When he returned, Evan had managed to get to his feet. He was leaning against the wall, breathing carefully, jaw set. James stepped in close, slipped an arm around Evan’s back, and ducked beneath his shoulder, guiding Evan’s arm around his own neck so he could take the weight. Evan hissed in pain as James’s hand brushed his ribs, sharp and involuntary. Otherwise, he said nothing. They moved slowly. Carefully.
James could feel the tension in Evan’s body even through the dressing gown. The way he was trying not to lean too much.
And he hated it.
Hated that Evan wouldn’t quite meet his eyes when they reached the bathroom. Hated the faint pink on his cheeks and the stubborn set of his jaw as James helped him out of the dressing gown and into the shower.
James turned his back while Evan showered. And when it was time to hand Evan a towel and help him step back out over the rim of the bath, James pretended not to notice how reluctantly Evan took his hand—how quickly he let go.
“I’m going to wait outside,” James said quietly. “There’s a toothbrush on the sink. Clothes too. If you need help getting them on—or with anything—just call, yeah?”
Evan nodded, and James stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then another five.
James knocked lightly. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” came Evan’s reply.
Evan was sitting on the closed toilet seat, joggers on, the rest of the clothes pooled loosely in his lap. His arms rested on his knees. His face had gone pale again, a fine sheen of sweat at his temples and his jaw was clenched—whether in pain or embarrassment James didn’t know.
He looked up at James.
Then down at the shirt in his hands.
He swallowed.
“I need help with the rest.”
James nodded. He didn’t comment. He just picked up the T-shirt and worked it gently over Evan’s head, helping him guide his arms through the sleeves. He kept his touch light and quick where his fingers brushed Evan’s skin.
Then he knelt on the floor between Evan’s legs and started on the socks.
It was a strangely intimate thing, putting someone’s socks on for them—or it would have been, if James hadn’t been so acutely aware of how much Evan seemed to hate it. How rigid his body was, like he was forcing himself to stay still, to not to flinch away from James’s hands. That tugged at something in James. Something raw. Something faintly painful but he pushed it away. He finished, stood, and slipped an arm around Evan’s waist again—lower this time, to avoid his ribs.
“Ready?” he asked.
Evan nodded.
James pulled him carefully to his feet, felt the way Evan’s weight sagged for a split second before he caught himself, and adjusted without comment. He kept his arm firm around his back, guiding him slowly down the corridor.
Back in the bedroom, Evan didn’t speak as James lowered him back against the pillows, he closed his eyes almost at once. James couldn’t tell whether it was the effort of showering or simply Evan’s way of retreating, of blocking him out. He hovered beside the bed for several minutes, unsure whether he should stay or go. Evan made no sign of opening his eyes, and James couldn’t tell if he was asleep or simply choosing not to engage. In the end, he decided it didn’t matter. He left, closing the door quietly behind him, and then stood in the hallway staring at the opposite wall, suddenly unsure what to do with himself. The house felt too large. Too quiet.
He went back to his room and tried reading. He lasted four minutes. The words swam; he reached the end of a page and realised he had no idea what he’d just read. He closed the book with more force than necessary and dropped it onto the side table, the sound too loud in the stillness.
He went to the kitchen. Mippy had already started lunch—a pot of yellow moong dal simmering gently on the stove, turmeric staining the ladle gold. The scent of cumin and garlic hung warm in the air. There wasn’t much he could add to it. He opened the fridge instead and considered the small pile of meat wrapped in butcher’s paper: chicken, pork and herb sausages, a package of lamb chops. He pulled out the lamb.
“Mippy?” he called aloud, and the elf popped into existence beside him. “Can I use these for dinner, or do you have plans for them?”
Mippy informed him that she did not, and after asking whether he required assistance— which he declined—disappeared back to whatever she’d been doing before his summons.
James set about making a marinade, firmly shutting off his mind and forcing himself into the task. Yoghurt. Coriander. Mint. Garlic crushed beneath the flat of a knife. Ginger grated fine. Chilli. Lemon. Cumin—the seeds ground more forcefully than strictly required. He mixed it all together and massaged the mixture into the meat, working it in with unnecessary intensity before setting it aside to rest. He peeled some potatoes, cut them into neat squares, left them soaking in cold water, and moved on to the rest of the vegetables. Onions. Courgettes. By the time he was done, the counter was lined with small, orderly piles.
An hour later, dinner was prepped to the point that there was nothing left to do short of actually cooking it, and he was once again out of things to occupy himself. He stared around the kitchen as though it might generate a new task under pressure. Between Mippy and his mother, the place was spotless. The pantry was painfully neat. Dried herbs hung from their rack above, each bundle tied and labelled. The spice rack sat in immaculate alphabetical order.
He opened it anyway.
He shifted the turmeric. Straightened the paprika. Swapped two jars of cardamom because one had a slightly different lid and that suddenly irritated him. He wiped down the shelf and closed it again, unsatisfied.
He made a large pot of tea and drank two cups as he wandered through the house looking for something to do, he picked up several books that lay dotted around the living room, taking them up to the library, then he walked from room to room checking the log basket by each hearth, he even went so far as to stick his head into his father’s potion lab—where he was met with a faceful of foul-smelling purple vapour that caused his vision swim.
“Come in or close the door, you’re letting it all out,” Monty called mildly from somewhere inside the haze.
“Sorry,” said James, retreating from the eye watering vapour.
He checked his watch. It had been barely two hours since he’d left Evan’s room. He told himself he would not go back upstairs. That conviction lasted all of twenty minutes.
James poked his head cautiously around the door, feeling faintly as though he were intruding. Evan hadn’t moved much since he’d left him—still on top of the covers, though he’d slipped a little further down the pillows, his head turned slightly to one side, eyes closed. This time, James was fairly certain he was genuinely asleep.
He stepped into the room, more at ease in the knowledge that, with Evan unconscious, he didn’t need to justify his presence. He closed the door softly behind him and crossed to the armchair, lowering himself into it with a quiet exhale.
For a moment, he simply watched.
Evan did look better. Less pale. Less fragile. If not for the faint outline of bandages visible beneath the T-shirt and the careful way he lay—as though even in sleep his body remembered pain—you wouldn’t have guessed he’d been on death’s door four days ago.
James’s gaze drifted and caught on Evan’s hair. It had dried in waves that fell across his forehead and curled faintly at the ends. He was accustomed to seeing it straight—and had noted more than once, with vague irritation, that it always seemed to fall perfectly back into place no matter how many times Evan ran a hand through it. The discovery that its straightness was not, in fact, entirely natural gave James a small, private sense of satisfaction. Good, he thought as he reached for the book he’d brought with him—one he’d read before. It felt safe. Familiar. He flicked it open to the first page and began to read. He had to work at it. His eyes kept drifting back to the bed. Twice he realised he had read the same paragraph over again without taking in a word of it. Each time, he went back to the beginning and started over, dragging his focus back to the lines with deliberate stubbornness. He made it through two chapters before Evan woke.
James heard the change in his breathing at once—a subtle shift, a faint adjustment of fabric— but kept his eyes fixed on the page. A few minutes passed. James had lost the thread of the story entirely, hyperaware now of every small sound in the room.
“What are you reading?” Evan asked.
James let himself look up then.
“The Knight of Seven Trials,” he answered, lifting the book so the cover was visible.
Evan’s eyes flicked to it. “Is it good?”
“It used to be one of my favourites when I was younger.” James glanced back down at the page. “Not sure how I feel about it now, to be honest. ”
“Why’s that?” Evan asked.
“The main character—Sir Alaric—spends the whole book undertaking these grand, impossible quests to save the kingdom from an evil sorceress. Only the complication is that he falls in love with her halfway through. He just doesn’t realise it.”
“How does that work?” asked Evan.
“She disguises herself as his betrothed, the princess” answered James. “The idea is to undermine him. Lead him astray. But she ends up falling for him instead—because he’s so relentlessly honourable and brave. In the end she decides she loves him too much to ruin him, so she sacrifices herself to save him from a dragon. He kills the dragon, obviously. Then declares he’ll follow her into death because he believes she’s gone. Then the actual princess turns up alive and perfectly fine, the misunderstanding resolves itself, the kingdom is safe, and Sir Alaric marries her and lives happily ever after.”
“Sounds like it ought to be right up your alley,” Evan said mildly. “Heroes. Dragons. Princesses. Very Gryffindor.”
James snorted. “Probably. I remember thinking the sorceress’s sacrifice was romantic.” He paused, frowned. “Now? Not so much.”
Evan cocked a blonde eyebrow. “Would you rather the knight abandon his duty and run off with the sorceress?” he asked.
“Maybe,” said James, he looked back down at the cover, turning it slowly between his hands. He shrugged. “The adventure’s all well and good. But I suppose I want more now.”
“More?” Evan prompted.
“I want to know what happens after,” James said. “After the dragon’s dead and the kingdom’s saved and the battle’s over. That’s the interesting part, isn’t it? What does she do once she’s not waging war on the kingdom anymore? What does he do once he’s retired from knighthood and there’s nothing left to slay?”
He looked up then. Evan was watching him intently, expression unreadable.
“What about the princess?” Evan asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Your knight and his sorceress run off together—what happens to her? Is she left heartbroken?”
James grinned. “Nah. I mean, considering the bloke who claimed he was in love with her didn’t even notice she wasn’t actually her for half the book, I don’t think she’s missing out on much. She goes off and has her own adventures. Probably better ones.”
Evan’s mouth twitched, and he shook his head, amusement flickering clearly in his eyes.
“Never thought dying was particularly romantic anyway. Think I prefer your version.”
“You hungry?” James asked. “I can bring some lunch up if you want.”
“I could eat,” Evan said.