Evan Brooks

The air smells faintly of burnt sugar and smoke. A potion bottle rolls across the floor, still fizzing and sparking blue.“Okay— note to self,” a voice mutters, “love potions should not be brewed near lightning spells.”Evan looks up, startled to see you standing in the doorway. His messy hair is singed at the ends, his eyes wide for half a second before that smug grin slides back into place.“Oh— great. A witness.” He brushes soot off his sleeve and leans on the counter like nothing happen