A/N: Chapter warning(s) for; explicit language, referenced torture
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Chapter Thirty Two: You'll kill me
...
"Oh no. Don't smile. You'll kill me. I stop breathing when you smile."
― Tessa Dare, A Lady of Persuasion
…
There's no denying it anymore.
Draco has to kiss Harry.
He's been walking around it for days, if not weeks, like an incessant itch, it's always there. The impulse. To just grab Potter by his hair, slam him to the nearest wall and snog him silly.
He's been avoiding the topic in his head for so long, that admitting it, even in his head, is the equivalent of a sacrilegious confession. Draco doesn't just like ogling Harry Potter, and cuddling Harry Potter in his sleep, and learning how to cook with Harry Potter.
Draco wants to... debauch Harry Potter as well.
It's shameful. The thought is vulgar and obscene. His mother would have fainted had she known about the filthy things going on in Draco's mind. But they're there, and they're getting pushy.
And somehow, as if secretly knowing and revelling in that fact, Harry is everywhere. And even worse, he's gotten a lot more liberal with Draco ever since he's seen him half-naked.
He moves and dances around the cottage from boredom, not minding, or maybe not noticing Draco staring at him like a creep. He gets out of the shower, and just casually waltzs back into the room with Draco already there, rifling through clothes. Naked. Very very naked.
No more shy clothes changing in the bathroom, no more knees drawn to the chest Harry lost in his mind. This Harry gets lost in his head and entrances the whole cottage with him, and Draco is somehow suffocated-not that his body minds-in the vast space between them.
Several things immediately sprang to his mind, when he woke up that morning. Amongst them the most immediate was; Fuck, I have to kiss him
He was looking at his face, aching to trace the tiny ridges his glasses left on his nose, and running his finger down Harry's cheek from there. He looked much younger in his sleep, and a lot less tense. He looked…
Draco thought about Harry's tiny peck on his cheek and his heart swelled.
He wanted that. On his lips, and jaw and chest, and he wanted the kisses to last for an eternity.
Then the train of thoughts escalated from there.
Firstly, was an inner revelation, like a beam shining down from above. A light, clicking on. Not obsession, his mind supplies, nope. Not a bloody obsession, but a crush.
The second thing that inundated his head was the intent behind the crush, which promoted it? Severus' insistence that something was up between them? Harry himself seducing him whether knowingly or otherwise? Draco's latent puberty and hormones-shuddering thought-or was it simply torture bonding?
They were in isolation. They've only been with each other, alone for weeks, and a few more weeks before being kidnapped. It felt like ages. Surely, it must only be natural to form a bond and dependency on Potter because of that.
Not dependency, his mind supplies as he munches on his chicken at lunch, watching Harry butcher his fried tomatoes, no, it's not dependency. It's attraction.
It's attraction and Draco wants it. It being an actual person. Him being his archenemy and now sort of friend and maybe more. Harry being that 'him'. Harry Bloody Potter.
This isn't friendship. Well, it is, technically. But Draco wants it to be more.
"Everything okay?" Harry asks with that annoying tilt of his head, and the fork in his mouth. Draco's fingers are so lax, he almost drops his fork.
Those lips, on his, warm and surely soft and aggressive. Draco wonders what happens if he bites them, and then has to immediately abandon the thought. He doesn't want to embarrass himself by getting aroused at the kitchen table with Harry right there.
"Yeah, fine," he crams the roasted chicken in his mouth. "This is delicious," he says, with his mouth still full. He's been doing that a lot more recently. Trust goodie two shoes Potter to be a bad influence.
"Compliments to the tomato chef," Harry salutes with his knife, he doesn't even seem aware of the slight tremor in his hand.
Oh that's right, Draco notices with a hazed delay as Harry's grin is slowly expanding in the forefront of his mind. Draco fried the tomatoes.
Draco Malfoy, cooking like a house-elf. Except, not really, because he had so much fun doing it, and they're delicious, and Harry helped him do it, which made the experience a hundred times superior to that of an average house elf's.
"My hand is golden." Draco cringes almost immediately after those words are out of his mouth. 'My hand is golden?' he furiously curses at himself. What a stupid bumbling fuck he's turning into?
Dear Merlin.
He needs to flush this out of his system. He needs to get over this, whatever this is. And the only solution that comes to mind in a myriad of explicit nonsense is kissing Harry.
It'll be once, and he… he can get them both drunk, so he can blame it on the alcohol afterwards. It'll be quick, efficient, and then he'll be over it. Harry Potter will be annoying, disgusting and unwanted once more.
But that's a different Harry.
This Harry smirks at him, one eyebrow quirked, his head tilted to the side, and his hair annoyingly messy and all over the place, making Draco want to entangle his fingers through them and pull. Pull hard enough to…
He should stop looking at Potter.
His gaze drops to his plate, and it's been polished clean. He hums. Dinner.
The perfect excuse to get them both drunk. Dinner.
"Hey," he calls, still looking down at his plate, the orange smear of tomato and olive oil and the desolate streak of spinach left on the porcelain.
"Yeah?" Harry gets up with his own empty plate, his back to Draco.
Draco gazes at Harry's back, "I'm gonna make us dinner tonight," he says, and firmly keeps his eyes on Harry's shoulders. He doesn't need to ogle Harry's very perfect, very cute butt.
Shoulders. Look at the shoulders.
"Really? What do you wanna make?"
Nothing. He just wants to kiss Harry, the food and the booze and everything else is secondary.
Should he abandon his bullshit plan and just do it now?
No. Draco shakes his head with a wince. He's not a freaking Gryffindor, he's not! He's a Slytherin, he doesn't act on impulse and bodily wants and needs. He's going to make dinner. The dinner plan is safe, efficient, it has backups and contingencies all throughout.
He will not kiss Harry Potter now, but he really wants to.
"Draco?" Harry turns, "Dinner?"
"Spaghetti," Draco blurts out. Why fucking not, he might as well make a muggle dish while he's at it. He's trying to please, after all.
Harry seems a bit startled. "Really? I thought you didn't like spaghetti," he walks over to collect Draco's plate and the other boy almost rears back in shock before righting himself.
What the hell is wrong with him?
Harry gives him a look and picks up the plate, "What happened to spaghetti and meatballs being a peasant food?"
"I like it," Draco says lamely, and Harry shrugs.
"Sure thing, I'll put the meat out."
Draco wants to kill something.
"You gonna need any help?" Harry asks, absent-mindedly running a hand down Draco's neck in passing, and Draco, as always when it happens, goes rigid in excitement.
Casual touches.
The second thing that's been killing him lately.
"Nope!" He exclaims loudly, giving Harry a tight-lipped smile. "You go ahead and...do your thing. Dinner's on me."
Harry is going to be busy with the diary anyways. He's been going at it for days, on and off, muttering to himself and looking disturbed. He has yet to talk to Draco about what's exactly written on those pages beyond the fact that they're about Horcruxes, but Draco doesn't ask either.
He's comfortable like this, not knowing, pretending that Horcruxes and the Dark Lord and the War are a world away. They're safe here, together and War has no meaning in this place.
Draco wants to stay here forever. With Harry.
He knows that the diary will occupy Harry long enough for Draco to find out what the fuck he is going to actually do. That's the thing to worry about. Dinner, not Horcruxes.
"Alright then. Don't burn us down." Another light touch on the shoulder, this time teasing and Draco grins like a fool.
"Not gonna burn anything." Unless it's himself, in a pyre, from pure embarrassment.
He needs to look for the whiskey.
-June, 1993
Harry Potter destroyed one. I'm quite certain of the nature of the diary Harry destroyed. A twelve-year-old.
A part of Tom Riddle was bound to a diary that no longer exists.
I am compelled to question the boy about it, prod and assess this rather peculiar situation from every angle. But I will not. I do not wish Harry's young mind any harm, and Lucius Malfoy's situation was more dire and pressing.
Harry, whatever he did, was executed with the help of Godric's sword. The one Fawkes took to him on my orders upon realizing that Harry found the entrance.
The sword itself has no special abilities, no curses, no charms, nothing significant to have aided Potter in destroying the Horcrux.
It's something else. The same thing that helped Harry find the entrance.
It took me decades and I still was not able to find it and yet he, a child, nothing more than a lad, found the entrance to Salazar's hidden chamber, fought off a Basilisk and destroyed a Horcrux.
He is special. More than special. Although, I have yet to gauge what exactly makes everything so peculiar about him.
I have time.
The plates look perfect.
Draco has had meticulous care into depositing the spaghetti from the pot onto the plates, as hard and as annoying as it was, since the spaghetti was marinated in sauce and also didn't oblige the laws of physics.
Draco made it work.
Harry gave him his privacy during the day, choosing instead to venture outside the cottage with the damned diary. Draco kept a close eye on his own shell, while he simultaneously practised the speech he was going to give.
"Well, Harry," he mutters into the meatball pan, "Seeing as…." He trails off because he has no fucking idea how to continue.
He scoops up some meatballs to transfer to his masterpiece of a plate, "You see, Potter. No, not Potter." One of the meatballs falls off the spoon and smears the white plate.
Draco closes his eyes in irritation. "We need to be together," he says under his breath and fetches the napkin from the counter, "Think about it, I'm a tender lover."
Then he pauses. No, he's fucking not. And no, this is all wrong, because never, ever ever should he use the words tender and lover together.
He shudders in disgust, then realizes that instead of wiping the sauce, he's just smeared it worse. Then he has to drink a glass of water to calm the fuck down.
This is pathetic.
Draco was one to always pride himself on his words. He had a way with them, he and his words were dear friends, he knew what to use and when to use them.
"I think I love you."
No. No.
"Not the 'L' word. Never that word. Oh Merlin, Malfoy." He throws the napkin away and reaches for his wand, then he realizes that the wand is near the stove and now he's just wasting time.
Love isn't true. He doesn't love Harry, he just doesn't hate him anymore, and thinks they're good friends, and he definitely wants them to be more.
The L word is the equivalent of detonating a dung bomb right on the dinner table.
"I'm a good kisser, Harry. Now, why do I mention that? Well, because I think we should kiss."
No.
He reaches for the pot of spaghetti again.
"Your eyes...and then your dimples and the way you care about idiotic turtles and how you held me and the way you smell...make me want to…" he gestures with the spatula.
"Ravish you against the kitchen table." He drops the spatula in the pot with a sneer.
Potter probably doesn't even want to kiss him. Why would he? He has a horrible personality, his lips are probably chapped all the time, and then there's the scar on his face.
Ron Weasley probably has more game than him right now.
Or maybe, maybe Harry has a secret crush back at Hogwarts, with whom he's madly in love with, and now he misses them so much that Draco seems as appealing as a piece of wood.
Maybe Harry doesn't even like dating boys.
How could they possibly even date, ostracized in a cottage in the middle of nowhere? It literally will consist of their everyday lives, just peppered with bouts of making out, and Harry wandering off into the distance.
Draco doesn't even know what he wants any more. Kissing Harry. Well, that and he wanted to hold his hand, and kiss the crook of his neck because it looked like the warmest place on Harry's body. The place where he smelled of spices the most.
"Okay," he inhales. "Okay. Just, normal talk. Normal conversation. And then reach for his hand," he nods. He's going to reach for Harry's hand, across the table, his free hand, not the one he's eating with obviously. Then he's going to run his thumb on Harry's wrist, and lower his voice in what he hopes is a sexy baritone. Because otherwise, the scenario in his head would be too awkward to handle.
It's already too awkward. He scratches it off.
No hand-holding. And no seducing.
"I just...I just want to know what it's like. Because your lips are amazing. Like your fingers, that are knobby but amazing, and your hair, that is messy, and obsidian but amazing...and just..."
Harry is going to laugh at him. Draco can picture that quite clearly. He's going to drop his fork, grab his sides, and then laugh his ass off.
Draco stains the plate again.
"Listen, we're all alone here," he waves his wand at the plate, "and it's not as if we have anything better to do. Why don't you give me a chance? I know I'm not your first option, but I'm not your last either. This can be a fling."
The rejection, inevitably, would sting. His heart already contorts, just thinking about it. And it's not as if he can ignore and curse and bully Harry because of it. They sleep in the same fucking bed.
He's felt it before, the rejection, and it's so familiar, but somehow so foreign at once. This time it will be different, not because he wants to be with Harry, but because they're already friends now.
It'll be worse this time.
"Just a fling. Or maybe, like a kiss." He picks up the empty pot as he lies, and places it in the sink. "You don't have to commit to it. And you don't have to stop sleeping in a room with me if the answer is still no." Because that is a real possibility and his biggest fear out of this whole thing.
What if he feels uncomfortable and stops sleeping with Draco as a result? He definitely doesn't want that.
"Ohh they're ready?" Comes the voice from his right and Draco's heart almost stops.
He jerks away with a yell and Harry winces.
"Sorry," he rubs the back of his neck and Draco's fingers go numb.
"How long have you been standing there?" He asks, perhaps sharper than he intends to.
Harry quirks an eyebrow, "Just now? I was outside walking, then came through the kitchen back door. Didn't you hear me?"
Draco's mind is racing against the precious seconds. The likelihood of Harry hearing every single word is higher than fifty percent, but he doesn't particularly look peeved or disgusted.
Merlin's balls.
"Okay then," he says, and throws the-now orange- napkin in the general vicinity of the counter.
"Dinner will be served in a few minutes."
"Nice. Can I set the table?"
"No," Draco snaps, and then forces himself to calm down, "Go wash your hands or something. I have this."
"Alright... you're acting suspicious. Don't spit in my drink or anything."
He rolls his eyes, "As if, Potter. As if."
Harry winks at him, and strolls out, seemingly, totally unaware of the melting effect that act had on Draco's guts. It's so acute that he almost doubles over.
"Get yourself together Malfoy," he grits his teeth and then reaches for the glasses. Pumpkin juice is good enough-he decided that alcohol would be a dangerous factor in his plan-, and there is some leftover cake Harry made like four days ago which can serve as dessert because Draco's capacity for muggle labour only allowed cooking one meal.
Harry's clothes are changed when he comes down, and his hair actually seems to be somewhat tamed. He's smiling so widely and proudly at Draco over their plates that he can't help but smile back.
"It smells good so far," Harry says, reaching for his fork, "Time for a flavour test."
"I followed your instructions, so any misstep is on your part."
Harry nods sardonically with his mouth full. Draco miserably crams a meatball in his own mouth and looks away.
"I like it," Harry says around his fork, then reaches for his glass. "You know this reminds me, when I was thirteen and ran away from home after blowing up my aunt-." He waves a hand as if those words make perfect sense, "I stayed in the leaky cauldron right? But there was this muggle restaurant just nearby," he takes a sip of his drink, "And it served like the best spaghetti I had in my entire life! Funny how your food design kind of looks the same."
"Yeah?" Draco is so nervous he doesn't even understand half of the sentence.
"Yeah! And they had these cute little garlic bread on the side? It was mind-blowing. The salad on had this goat cheese thingies in it-"
How is Draco even attracted to him? It's a big question, and he finds himself brushing it aside as Harry drinks his pumpkin juice and rambles on about this restaurant.
"Sounds great."
"It was great!" Harry is twisting his fork, dwindling with his glass with the other and Draco can't stop looking at his hands. If he looks up at his face, and at his mouth and the glint in his eyes, he's going to lose it.
"You know, I got Hermione's birthday gift from a bookshop near that place, and it was kind of shady because the book clerk just accidentally took knuts instead of pennies."
"Hmm," he hasn't touched his own plate yet. His stomach is churning.
"Are you okay?" Harry leans over the table, peers into his eyes and Draco gulps. "You look a bit green."
His hand touches Draco's forearm and it doesn't look awkward in the slightest. "Actually…" Draco clears his throat, "Actually yeah."
"Yeah what?" Harry's smile dims a bit, and his fingers curl around his sleeve. Draco looks down at the hand and his heart is thundering in his chest.
"I've been thinking," he puts his fork down, "About something a lot lately."
Harry flicks his eyebrows, his smile is so tentative and warm and amazing. Draco wants to bury himself in that smile.
"Okay, go on."
"About you and I. I've been thinking about it for a while now, and I think that you might feel the same way too."
"Is it the laundry thing?" Harry suddenly asks, his face morphing into a sheepish wince, "I'm sorry it mixed up, I swear I keep forgetting to mark mine, that's why the underwears got swapped again, I'm not doing it on purpose or anything-"
"What?"
"I swear it won't happen again,"
"No. No, I didn't...not the underwear thing!" Draco exhales, "Although you do need to look into that. But no."
Harry gives him another smile, "Alright sorry I keep interrupting. Go ahead."
Draco exhales again, "Right. The thing is...Do you like me?"
Harry deflates, "Of course I do."
Draco nods, "Right, right so...I like you too. Very much. Very very much."
Harry's smile is back, but this time with a hint of confusion. His fingers loosen around his forearm. Draco has the most ridiculous urge to cry.
"I'm glad," Harry says. "I'm really glad. We put this whole thing behind us. You are so much more than what your name makes you," his eyes widen, "I didn't mean that in a bad way! I just meant that-"
Draco sucks in a deep breath and steels himself. It's now or never, he made dinner, he told Harry. The last thing to do is kiss. He's… he's fairly certain Harry likes him too, considering he hasn't upped and left yet.
So, while Harry is still rambling, Draco stands up from his chair and leans towards Harry. Harry goes very still and silent at the movement. Their faces are very close to each other and Draco can feel Harry's warm breath on his face. His heart pounds furiously in his chest as he waits for Harry to pull away. Or close the distance.
Harry's eyes are wide, and Draco can't read his face. But he isn't speaking anymore, just staring very intently into Draco's eyes, and now he's barely breathing.
Draco closes his eyes and gathers up whatever shreds of courage he's ever possessed in his life, surging forward and kissing Harry.
His lips meet skin instead of lips.
Eyes snapping open, he pulls back, and sees that Harry had turned his head away at the last moment. And right now the other boy is scrambling against the chair, pushing it back from the table.
"Harry…"
Harry leans back in his chair, and as if that weren't enough, he then stands, his hands are clenching by his sides, the way they do when they're cramping.
"Why…" he shakes his head, "I need to go. I'm sorry. Draco, I'm sorry," he stands up abruptly, making the chair clatter to the floor behind him. Then he just turns and runs away.
War kills all love and spares none.
Harry is not quite sure if he's breathing when he runs out of the cottage.
He's aware of his lungs squeezing in his ribs, he's aware of the darkness immediately engulfing him into a shadow as he furthers the distance between himself and the source of his panic.
Kiss. That was almost a kiss. His first kiss. His best ever kiss, the only one he might ever get, and it was almost with Draco.
Harry doubles over, the sound of the crashing waves are deafening to his ears, his hands are shaking so hard it's rattling both arms.
"Fuck," he breathes a dozen times again and again. This isn't supposed to be happening. This is the worst time for this to be happening.
Draco liked him. Draco leaned to kiss him, he made him dinner and planned this for him. It elated his heart, knowing this little fact but it also scared him.
Draco will die sooner the closer he gets.
He will be killed, and Harry will have to live, knowing that he's the reason Draco is dead, and his parents are dead and nothing will ever be the same.
He starts running.
He wonders how it would have felt, over the whistling of his ears. He wonders if he should have stayed.
Draco might not understand, but this will be for the better.
'Harry stop!' Sirius is in front of him and Harry gasps, his feet digging into the sand as he stumbles to a stop. He can see the man perfectly well in the moonlight.
"Sirius," he says, and tilts his head back to breathe. It's still difficult.
'You need to go back, you need to apologise!'
"Apologize? He wanted to kiss me!"
Sirius huffs, 'So what? It was a kiss. You wanted it to happen, you dreamed about it, you fantasized about it and now that it nearly happened you ran?'
"I can't," he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, "I can't do this."
He starts walking, it's sort of a power walk, he's not really running even though it feels as if he is.
'Stop being stupid. You can fix it.'
"No." The wind whips at his face. It's so cold and he's only wearing a shirt.
'He will hate you. He will despise you for something that you both want! Why are you so scared of him?'
Harry grabs his hair, "Because I like him! Because he will die if anyone sees us...if they find out, then they'll kill him!"
'That is ridiculous,' Harry keeps shaking his head but Sirius is persistent, 'You're all alone here!'
Harry's steps become more rapid, but he turns to face Sirius, he's blindly walking backwards. "He'll hate me but at least he won't be dead. He'll live to hate me. But he'll be alive."
That's the way it always was.
'You don't run away when your crush kisses you, that's not how it goes.'
Harry keeps stumbling back, "I can't afford this. This is wrong...I led him on. I corrupted him!"
Sirius groans, his hands are up in exasperation, his coat is being thrashed with the wind. 'Stop victimizing yourself. Go back! You're not supposed to be here.'
"I can't go back. He's going to…." Harry has no idea what he'll do. He has no idea if he allows Harry back, in the same room, in the same bed, with Draco's breath on his cheek, his arms around him. Warm and safe and Harry will never have that again.
'Stop walking. Harry please.'
But it's too late. Harry's shoe trips on a protruding rock and he falls back, falls on his back. He can't see anything through his bleary eyes.
'Harry!' Sirius yells but Harry's head is groggy, he slowly tries pushing himself to a sitting position. The air feels different. He can feel it, it's more crisp, it's cold and he feels it all the way down his nostrils and his throat.
"Sirius."
There's a loud crack behind him.
He thinks he knows what the dark lord is planning.
Of course, one could never truly tell, when it came to him, and of course, the dark lord could have specifically set him up to fool Evan into thinking such things. But why would he bother? Evan is a burned pawn, he wouldn't matter to Voldemort dead or alive.
Evan thinks that his hunch is more than a guess.
At least, if the books that he's been assigned to read are any indication. The ones from Lucius' hidden second library, and the ones in the outer layers of the shelves.
Horcrux.
But not just any normal, everyday Horcrux. Not the kind that his lord should logically be after. That one was the easy kind, the one with no horrific consequence other than losing one's soul.
This ritual was more foul, detestable...no being would be able to pull it off without severe contrite to the point of self-destruction.
The Dark Lord wants it. And if he gets it, then Rosier knows there would be no stopping him. Some part of him, the part that remembers the pain, is terrified of the possibilities...whereas the other part of him, the more deranged part of him, just wants to see what happens next.
It's an intricate game of tug. Each side keeps pulling, tugging as he skims through the delicate pages and forbidden words.
Sometimes, his eyes water, and sometimes his chest feels tight as he examines the pictures and the faded texts. If the Dark Lord does this...Evan doesn't know what the concept of god would be anymore.
The Dark Lord certainly wasn't the only one seeking to achieve the sheer delight of being God.
Julius Crawford, the author of this book, and the ritual, right before his death was the last Dark Lord who attempted it, and if Evan is to judge by the unfinished state of his book, only one conclusion is to be considered.
Julius Crawford killed himself before completing the ritual.
Such a thing wouldn't be possible with Voldemort. His soul is already in pieces. He can not die a mortal man's death. That is exactly what will secure his victory.
Evan closes the book, thoughtfully fiddles with the band around his wrist and discreetly narrows his eyes at the cauldron bubbling under the desk. A fervent orange, merrily bubbling away, out of sight. Evan's only hidden secret.
He tears a small part of the robe and feeds it to the potion, he needs the potion to remain aware of its target at all times. There's not much left of Potter's robe.
He gazes at it, and lets himself fantasize about the endless possibilities. Of Potter writhing under his feet, or Potter crying and shrieking as Evan kicks and beats and hexes the hell out of him.
He lets himself think of Potter's eyes dimming behind his stupid glasses, he can almost smell the blood on the boy's body after he's done with it. Ripe and metallic in his nostrils.
He imagines the glee that comes with knowing that he got to the boy before his Lord did. Even if he kills Evan for it, especially if he does. Because Evan will die with satisfaction.
He will die knowing Harry Potter was slowly tortured to death by his hands. He gets the credit and the pain more readily because the prize is just too tantalizing to pass on.
It'll happen sooner or later. Evan knows.
And as if the universe is trying to readily assuage him, Evan sees that he's not wrong. Evan's eyes widen a fraction as the fervent orange suddenly morphs into a vibrant blue, and starts fuming. His heart skips a beat.
It's happening much sooner than he expected. Potter has good timing it seems.
Evan's smirk expands into a grin, and he ducks his head to the side. The watchdog is in the corner of the library, with her feet up the desk, reading a book. She doesn't perceive him as a threat anymore and Evan rejoices in that.
He reaches a hand under the desk, quill in one hand, and reaches to the potion with his other hand. He has a small window of opportunity and he's going to take it now.
It's quite fortunate that the spell required to activate this potion is usually done wandless.
Quite lucky.
Evan nudges the cauldron closer to his feet, and pushes his chair back, drops his quill and then tugs the cauldron with both hands.
He doesn't care what the Dark Lord will do with the ritual. Evan has found everything necessary to pull all the details of it together for the man. Compiling his research, turning them in daily. But he doesn't care for the fruition of it. He might not live to see it anyway, but he is going to enjoy doing this.
He grabs the bubbling cauldron, stands and raises it above his head, just as Valentina is about to scramble to her feet, Evan has already poured the potion over himself.
"Vestigo transvectio!" He shouts over the scorching of his skin, and suddenly he's engulfed by light.
The universe smiles at Evan Rosier.