Is it for the better, that he hates me now?
The world looks insignificantly small from above the clouds. Tiny. Like a model - a mere construction made by the patient hands of a minimalist. There are no details - too many colours blending into a single one - muted blue-green. Specks of brown - squares of grey - the squiggly line of the mountain slope in the distance.
There is a peaceful whisper of white - a curtain of translucent ice - all around him, engulfing him on the slowly freezing-over broom. The cold makes everything matter less. It absorbs him as the icy particles begin to spread over his numb hands, his stiff shoulders and limb legs.
If he doesn’t fly down soon enough, Evan will fall off his broom.
But the horizon almost splits in the distance, illuminating the world below in a soft red glow and he can‘t bring himself to move yet.
Maybe in a few minutes - perhaps too late for his safe landing - possibly just before the cold wind of whirling power will push him straight off his flying instrument.
-
The letter came this morning - woke him up in the middle of the night and sucked the warm sensation from the previous evening straight out of his entire body. His father’s letters always have that effect - a few months ago they left him uneasy with their demanding tone, endless pressuring and disapproval - now he came to find that they can make him break out in cold sweat as well - that they can swallow him whole and leave him feeling entirely unworthy - improper - stupid - lazy - like a failure.
And still, this letter - the one that broke through Evan’s charmed barriers around his bed with ease and hit him slicingly in the face - was only meant as a reminder - has not reached its full degrading potential yet. Existential fear and exhaustion mixed in his bloodstream nonetheless and made him dress and leave his dorm with immediate effect. On his way to the quidditch pitch he tried not to imagine the following threats these letters could harbour in the future - what kind of evil his father could conjure to blackmail him into doing, in the next months. He staggered across the Hogwrats grounds with stiff legs, then - desperate to outrun his thoughts - helpless and unsettled at the darkness sifting closer - smoke and ash enveloping him - taking away his air to breathe. As he took out a training broom from the shed across the changing rooms, as clarity washed over him: It would be like that from now on. It would stay like this and will only get worse with time. He can’t escape this. From now on he can either evolve - transform - turn into something else entirely - or die. Its not a choice - its a reminder. As the letter has been a reminder: He will either have to live up to his family name, or face his father’s wrath. It’s not a choice at all. And that realisation shattered something in Evan, as he pushed his shivering body from the ground and directed his broom handle into vertical.
-
The light is mesmerising now - impossible to look away from. It stills the spiral of his thoughts - seeps deeply into his repeatedly fracturing soul. Every passing night will be a reminder theses days - There lies no brightness in his future ahead. Just these stolen moments of indisciplined foolishness. A mistake he allows himself to make far too frequently. He is slowly slipping, breaking under the pressure induced - his fragile mind fractures too easily. His shoulders aren’t made to hold the weight on them - aren‘t made to push it upwards and grow under the steady challenge put on top.
Nothing in Evan was ever made to fight, to endure, to push through. He inherited softness and insight and the ability to marvel at all things beautiful in this world: His soul was made to shatter into a million pieces when faced with the horrors that lurked beneath the extravagant and gorgeous wonders surrounding him. Evan Rosier was never born to be a fighter, an heir, the ensured continuation of his bloodline.
And despite the promise of growth, the slowly coming together strategies of his own navigation, the quiet reassurance of his friend at his side - Evan sees no outcome in his future where he doesn‘t end up as a crumpled lump of broken bones and bloody flesh in the darkest corner of an unfamiliar attic. He has had several nightmares about the same scenario for weeks now - and despite the scepticism rooted deep in his scientific mindset, Evan can‘t help but acknowledge a prophetic dream when it haunts him with such brutal persistence.
Above the clouds, enveloped in the bright golden light of a breaking day Evan can take a moment to face the inevitability of his own, early death. Up here it lacks the walls and ceilings and sharp objects to crush him with its significance. Up here - exposed to cold wind and frost bite nipping at his fingers, he feels less likely to fracture under the knowledge. Here, he can acknowledge his heartbreak, his sadness, his anger and breathtaking wish that his life could take a turn and drop him somewhere soft and warm.
Up in the clouds - way too far above the quidditch pitch humming in undisturbed darkness - he can dream of a different life, a different prophecy laced into his dreams - of a stable relationship with his sister - a world where Pandora doesn‘t hate him and Pierre never died. A world in which he could allow himself to live freely, unafraid and authentic. Where he could be just Evan.
He knows that, once his frozen feet will touch the stiff grass on the quidditch pitch, this thought alone will boil him to the ground with shame. He knows that there is no sense in wishing for another life if he doesn‘t take action in claiming it. It’s a futile wish - a stupid hope. Just Evan - It makes him cringe in it’s irresponsible connotation.
He can‘t afford to be tardy anymore - can‘t let his responsibility slip - can‘t wish for things to be different for him - not when he is steadily working on changing them for the people most dear to him. There can only be one winner - and Evan‘s efforts didn't include his presence on that podium. One has to give while the other takes - wether they’re aware of it or not. He knows this with the same finality as he believes in the depressing prophecy polluting his dreams.
The morning sun crawls over the stone walls of the tiny castle in the distance now, the horizons split while Evan has been busy feeling too much of his deliberately claimed responsibility. He missed it again. And his finger hurt now, his head beginning to weigh him down like a carcass on his shoulders. He has to return - can‘t linger in the air and mourn another sunrise that slipped his attention.
He has lessons to attend to, a friend to scheme with, another friend to gently untangle from his side - Just another body he has to be careful with in his effort not to drag along into the depth of his own eventual doom.
As he angles the handle of softly illuminated cedar wood downwards, the pressure slowly returns. Like a shadow following him through the thick mass of clouds. It clings to him with increasing weight and settles with him in a crunch as his feet connect with the frost-hardened ground.
Evan‘s head begins to spin again - devastating facts mingling with desperate wishes of a way out. But practise is about to begin in a few minutes - he will have to cover a lot of ground fast - pull off part of his gear and pretend that he made it to the scheduled training just a few minutes before the others. The morning has barely begun, yet his extra training is a secret he has to keep hidden.
It’s another new thing, that induces unbearable pressure: Extra training. Evan always needs extra training. He is not naturally gifted that way. He is barely meeting the lowest standards in every field without it - A state his father commanded him to change over the summer. So, the extra training started: In quidditch, in every subject on his tightly packed schedule. Evan barely slept over the holidays, learned the hard way and through an excruciating amount of trial and error how to navigate his sleep deficit sufficiently. Four hours qualify as a good night of sleep these days. Two make him function still. One is his absolute limit. He mostly sails with three - a functional compromise.
But he did make the team after all. He improves slowly but surely in his classes as well. The extra training even makes it possible for him to have the answers in subjects he never liked. It improved his physical strength - Anxiety is one of its many complications though. It slows him down, freezes his cognitive function on aspects he never had to worry about before. It drains him to the point of complete emotional vulnerability: Sometimes he worries about it driving him insane - sometimes he worries that he might snap soon enough.
Because the crack in his sanity is progressively visible - growing at a concerning rate. Evan is afraid that he won’t be able to keep up with it for long - to negate its effects - to compensate its demanding nature. He is tired. Nothing has really happened yet and still, he is tired already. It comes with being a slow learner in the company of geniuses - the isolation. It’s a fine line of pretending - a mountain of knowledge to dive into, a mass of facts to study through - while everyone else slept in and still performed twice as good as he did on a good day. It’s a lonely road of endless hours in the hidden corners of the library, sleepless nights and dark circles under his eyes. The impossibility of tutoring, the mockery of an afterthought - bitter on his tongue, when it takes him several valuable minutes to find the information on a specific issue, another person could have simply told him about. It is considered a disgrace in pureblood families, though - to have an underperformer as heir - someone weak - someone who needs help with simple spellwork. Even if he could muster the courage to approach Regulus or shed the shame to join Remus‘ study group - if word would get out about it - his father would torture him to the brink of death. A Rosier never asks for help: Asking for help is a blatant statement of weakness - and a Rosier is never weak.
His teammates start to pool into the changing room now, wiping their eyes and yawning, shivering against the cold. He slips past them again, moving from his spot next to the door in stiff movements, as soon as enough of them notice his presence there. Alibi in tact, he can slowly make his way towards the centre of the field again, positioning himself in waiting. Evan barely notices the distant throbbing in his fingertips, as the cold wind hits him in harsh blows from the side. He is too distracted with how the soft light of morning illuminates the thawing field before him - With, how, for a short moment, the stands appear to harbour a moving siluette.
He discards the thought as one of his hopeless dreams as soon as it arises - pushes it deep into a drawer in the back of his mind, where all his futile dreams overflow the too small room he established to store them in. He barely allows himself to touch the subject - let alone approach it when there is no obvious cue demanding him to react in any sort of way. He forbids the thought to branch his conscious, drags it back again to the chest it escaped from with forced violence. It pains him less than only a few weeks ago. Numbness comes with responsibility - the dance of dutiful actions that go against every single one of his beliefs is a complex juxtaposition of movements - demanding resistance in their very core - But Evan has been there, has done that - has stranded at the very same spot he started from in the process. A small mercy is found in the numbness that accompanies him in his solitude - the futility washed away by it - taking off the edge of his pain. It’s better this way.
He can‘t afford to ruin his day this early on. Can‘t allow himself to dwell on stupid hopes that doesn‘t hold the promise of actual possibility. To dream about them is one thing - letting his fantasies run wild in the exhausted hours of the day, when possibility blends with wishful thinking - it is another thing entirely, when his mind is sharp and his mission clearly laid out in front of him.
Once it were exactly those fantasies that dragged him through the gloomiest of days and all his tasks at hand. Once, but not now - Not here. He simply can‘t afford it.
So, he drags his gaze away, makes himself focus on the changing room instead, where familiar faces emerge and make their way towards him. He doesn't allow himself to look back at the stands, endures the wonkily casted warming spell from Barty‘s wand instead and accepts the reassurance from Regulus‘ closely placed stance next to him. They form a line in the soft morning light, clad in their gear and each of them captured in a varying amount of tiredness. While Barty stays a yawning mess throught the entire practise, Regulus keeps his stern face on display: They run their drills, focus on their differentiating positions afterwards - practise in formation and alone - exhaust themselves to their limit halfway through the training session and above in the remaining time.
It’s easier this way. With the question of right or wrong discarded efficiently in the process of his accepted doom - only the question of hard or easy remains. And despite the knowledge of an easy way travelled leading to eventual wrongness - Evan has to accept its small mercies along the endless road of inevitable wrongness ahead. He made his choice either way. He has to live with it now. He can‘t look back at the stands.
Because here, in the morning light of a breaking dawn - in the solitude of physical repetition of the same five movements of his body, the space to dream is too big for him to resist. The temptation to get lost in them too grand to ignore once he starts with it. Here, it can easily claim his entire attention - his complete focus. Here it can turn him into a traitor of his cause. The potential of endless room - the clarity of his thoughts way above the clouds - its alarmingly dangerous. And he can‘t give in - has to remain resilient if he doesn‘t want to lose everything he worked so hard for in the process.
And so, Evan determinedly runs his drills, flies with enormous speed through hoops and catches the quaffle from different angles, even though his fellow chasers throw them too hard to throw him off his aim. They don‘t appreciate his presence here - don‘t trust his abilities - Evan doesn‘t blame them. He came back a day ago, from barely making the team a few months ago because his father bribed Slughorn into granting Evan a place on his quidditch team. He hasn‘t been very good back then - decided on a chaser position because it was the placement he had the most knowledge about - which had been completely minimal at that - his knowledge.
His father hadn‘t cared. His mother had objected - his sister agreeing with her. But then Pierre had died. Hogwarts quidditch star Pierre had died. he had played chaser as well, when he was still a student and roaming the halls of the Hogwarts castle with undeterred confidence. Evan will never fill his footsteps - a failure before he had the chance to even practise. He will never show his brother‘s talent - will never develop the variety of Pierre‘s skill set. Evan will perform mediocre. And even that holds its hardship - demands insufferable amounts of hard training sessions in the darkness of the earliest morning hours. He has to fight for every aspect of his mediocrity. And the others are well aware of that as well. So, Evan doesn‘t blame the harsh blows they put behind their throws, passes them the quaffle back with a levelled amount of strength. He tries relentlessly with them, with his own abilities. he knows, that he won‘t make it far - knows that they know that as well. But he will stay on the team nonetheless - will have to put his every fragment of time into making up for his lack of talent. Extra training. Every day. Until the end of his days.
In the changing room his knees almost buckle under his weight and he feels the throbbing pain of his sore muscles slowly rising up in his entire body. He will have to buy a new set of robes soon, he realises, as his shoulder gets stuck in the tight fabric of his coat. For the stretch of a minute he struggles with the material until it finally rips at his thrashing attempts to put the coat on properly. It leaves him with the only option to take off the torn piece of clothing and make his way back to the castle without its warming fabric wrapped around his shivering body.
Regulus throws him a questioning look on their way back, as Evan wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his freezing hands. „Merlin‘s Balls, Ev - what have your house elves been feeding you over the summer - you got massive - looking real proper.“ Barty exclaims with widened eyes and an appreciative whistle. Evan can only press his jaw together at his friend‘s remark - fighting the clatter of his teeth.
„You should write your parents about new robes, Evan.“ Is the remark that comes from Regulus‘ direction, at Evan‘s silence.
„Yeah, and tell them to send larger ones each third month - you‘ll turn into a right tank at this rate. Potter will have to up his training - you’ll wipe the floor with his ass with your shoulders alone - Did I imagine the ripping sound or did you trash your coat back in the changing room?“ Barty inquires with his signature enthusiastic hand gestures, as the group of three Slytherins make their way through the gate of the Hogwarts main entrance.
A rare low cackle sounds next to Evan, as Regulus leads their way up the grand staircase towards the great hall, where breakfast awaits them with the delicious smell of cooked eggs and fresh bread.
Evan‘s stomach rumbles in anticipation as his hands begin to tingle painfully with the steady increase of his bloodflow at the considerable heat in the hallway. The awareness of Barty‘s closeness comes when they round the corner to the great hall and nearly bump into a group of early leaving students. A bony shoulder brushes his own the entire way to their spot at the Slytherin table and Evan has to keep a tight leash on the rising memories of their study session in the library yesterday - of hazel eyes burning into his own with the intensity of an escalated wildfire. He has to push them down violently, when he places his torn coat at the foot of the bench and reaches for a plate of artfully arranged cheese varieties.
Barty starts a rant next to him in the meantime, pressed closely against Evan‘s entire side profile - inhibiting the range of his left arm expertly, resulting in him, shovelling everything he wants to eat, with his right hand on his plate instead. Regulus‘ remarks and the rising chatter around them drowns out while Evan is tearing into his food with the desperation of a starving traveller.
He doesn‘t even pay attention to his years of training in table manners, as he devours his breakfast passionately. The occasional brush of Barty‘s shoulder is a steady arhythmical beat, that reminds Evan of his current location - serves as a reminder of reality - of the necessary attention he has to muster to keep his straying thoughts at bay in his exhausted state- even though he feels already transcended in his mission to nourish his body with the necessary amino acids and calories he lost in his additional hours on the quidditch pitch.
He is done with one plate in a heartbeat and begins to shovel a second helping, when Regulus‘ alarmed expression pulls him out of his haze. The other boy‘s usually neutral face is pulled into a grimace now, his dark eyes searching in a bewildered manner for Evan‘s across the table. The obvious distress of his friend makes him drop his fork immediately, as he simultaneously notices Barty‘s utterly relaxed posture while the dark haired boy rests a heavy and somehow constricting arm on his shoulders - A sign for trouble - clear as lightning on a cloudless night sky - his friend relishing in the disturbance, as always.
In a confused state of high alert, Evan lets his gaze wander, unconsciously extending a hand on the table towards Regulus‘ direction, while he skims the rows of differentiating scenery around them with his eyes.
Nothing out of the ordinary catches his eyes though - no explosion or students fleeing - no monster in the hallway - nothing for Evan‘s eyes to find. He trains his gaze on his surroundings a second time - determined to find the stressor - only to find nothing noteworthy again.
But there is movement in his periphery, students approaching him - and when he notices the red and gold on their robes, the realisation washes over him with immediate effect:
Because James Potter and Sirius Black approaching the Slytherin table at breakfast is indeed a noteworthy occurrence to lose ones shit over.
The two Gryffindor boys make their way through the rows at an impossibly slow pace and Evan can feel his usually emotionless friend‘s knee bumping their table from his stiff position opposed him. Regulus is a nervous mess - or as much of a mess as he can be - all wide eyes and pale cheeks, with his lips pursed and his feet shuffling under their table.
Evan feels a surge of protective energy rising in him, as he regards his friend and his eyes begin to form slits, when he lets his gaze wander over to the approaching pair of displaced students.
He keeps his hostile energy, when they eventually make it to their table and Barty throws them a too wide smile, filled with all the promises he whispered in Evan‘s ear just a few hours before.
The two boys stop at their spot at the table and while the entire hall goes quiet, Regulus‘ bumping stops - Evan just keeps on staring, as Barty grins - buzzing with violent energy and brutal anticipation.
„You-“ Not the adress he was expecting to fall from Sirius‘ lips - catching him cold on his feet, as the older boy‘s gaze meets his own - but Evan is too tired to pay any attention to his own confusion. Sirius stalls now, keeping his hands clasped in front of him as if he is, for once in his life, not comfortable with his own awkward approach, „I just wanted to apologise - I shouldn‘t have pushed you. And - I am sorry.“ The boy states shallowly with Potter placing a hand on his shoulder and Evan doesn‘t know how to react to any of it. He is at a total loss.
Why-
His gaze wanders on its own accord - travels the entire length of the great hall to the Gryffindor table, where hazel eyes await him in equal confusion. Remus‘ posture can only be compared to a stiff wood panel - leaning on the table with his hands balled into fists and the dark line of his pronounced eye brows slowly creasing up in a similar hostile expression. The energy he is radiating drives the students around him a few seats away and reaches Evan over the considerable distance between them with a wave of anger and disapproval.
Noticing the stretched silence at his own table, Evan has to pull his gaze away from the other side of the room with effort - meeting the black haired boy‘s eyes with agitation spreading through his entire body. The whole ordeal is out of place - the apology unreasonably insincere - a strange, impossible to calculate occurrence - it doesn’t make sense - now less, than only a few months before.
Evan has to react fast, can’t let anyone’s suspicion rise - can’t let his anger towards the other boy shine through his own facade. He has to play the game as it has always been designed to unravel - as his father expects him to. He has to finally give in to the pressure on his shoulders - has to evolve with the dynamics changing around him. He has to become the Rosier heir - has to claim that name - claim its legacy. He can’t stay the kid others shove around anymore - he can’t stay invisible.
Leaning further into Barty’s warmth at his side - initially because it has a grounding effect on him, partially because it serves as a distraction for the two Gryffindors eye them with a flicker of confusion and obvious interest - Evan smiles at them without it reaching his eyes. It’s now or never - bite, or you’ll get eaten. And Evan can’t afford to be prey anymore. The realisation sinks in and he immediately lets his smile drop - despite feeling nauseous and uncomfortable - continues to stare at Regulus’ older brother with newfound death in his eyes.
“It’s Rosier, Black.” Evan spits, barely registering the slight widening in Regulus’ eyes on the other side of the table and squares his jaw. Next to him, Barty lets out a low whistle, but Evan’s sole focus lays on the bully standing over him - the bully, who wears his friend’s eyes and colour of hair - the bully who hurt Remus so bad, that the taller boy avoided him for a full month - the same bully who had pushed him into a shelf without a single glance back. And as that bully’s eyes slightly widen, his mouth begins to form a tight line and Potter’s posture straightens up - Something in Evan finally boils over.
“Now, get out of my sight, before I’ll make you.”
Both, the incredulous laughter that breaks out of Sirius and the pointed eye brow Potter raises at him, Evan only meets with a hard stare.
The silence that begins to stretch from there on, doesn’t stop at the end of their table - it seeps into the entire hall instead - floods through the mass of students leaning intently forwards on their seats - staring at them - staring at Evan.
It turns his stomach - the attention robbing him of air. But the letter from his father had been a reminder - a short note drenched with expectation and the ringing threat not to disappoint him - the threat, that he will break every single one of Evan’s bones that he is too careless to defend from the next attack - from an attack on the Rosier name: like, for example a push into a library shelf. Because, Linus Rosier the second, has already heard of that incident. Because he keeps tabs on Evan - Because he wants to know the worth of his investment. Because Evan is nothing more to him.
And as the Gryffindor heartthrob - and object of all of the boy’s desires, Evan has been in love with since he has known the meaning of that word, pounces, Pandora’s image is everything Evan sees, when he jumps to his feet and blocks the other boy’s attack. It’s Pandora’s carefree laugh he hears, when he catches Sirius’ wrist in his hand and twists. It is Pandora’s gentle hand on his forehead that he feels, when he throws Sirius around and pins him head-first on the Slytherin table without letting go of the boy’s twisted arm. It is Pandora’s scent of sage and ground thyme that he smells, when Potter’s shoulder collides with his own.
Pandora is everything he thinks about, when he pushes his entire weight against the other Gryffindor, while holding on relentlessly to the grip he has on the struggling boy beneath him.
It is the twinkle in Pandoras eyes he doesn’t ever want to see disappear, when he parries the helplessly inauthentic fist aimed for his face and throws his shoulder upwards to collide with Potter’s chin - making the boy topple over with his blow - he almost feels sorry for the bespectacled boy - the peacekeeper of Remus’ friend group - the only truly sensible between the four of them as he goes limply to the ground.
It is Pandora - his older sister - his first ever friend - his companion in art, literature and scientific experiments - his sister who he needs to protect from their father - he is solely focussed on, when he drags Sirius’ thrashing body from the table and throws him with full force at Potter’s collapsed frame on the floor - silently apologising to the boy he holds in much higher regard than the friend he tried to defend with his unpractised blows.
The two boys crash into each other, when the teachers arrive. Tangled limbs get picked up from the floor, while Evan watches the crowd in front of him - steeling himself against the upcoming lectures and punishment, breathing in shallowly but careful to keep his face neutral.
He feels all of their eyes on him - on the prefect badge pinned to the material of his jumper on his chest, reflecting silver in the sunlight, that breakers through the clouds from above.
“Mister Rosier! Your behaviour will have consequences. As a prefect you should-” Professor McGonagall’s shrill voice gets immediately cut off by Sirius, who brushes past the teacher without a single care for her authority and boiling rage in his eyes - dark eyes of ocean blue, which bore into a pin straight figure seated at the table on the opposite side of Evan.
“You are such a coward - hounding your brainless mutt on me like that-” Sirius’ cheeks still carry a stain of Evan’s breakfast, when he turns with a flash in his eyes and murder in his posture.
Evan steps into the other boy’s line of sight on instinct, as the teacher stand by watching - doing nothing, as the Gryffindor fixates on Regulus’ unmoving frame - his shoulders squared and a sneer manifesting on his face.
“Careful there, Black - you hit your head and it appears like you have forgotten yourself in the process-“ Evan tries to divert the attention from Regulus.
Sirius is at his throat in an instance - pushing his wand into the soft skin of Evans neck with a wild glint in his eyes, “Who, the bloody hell do you think you are to speak to me like that? You mentally deficient Hufflepuff - trying to live up to daddy’s expectations now that he had the misfortune to make you his heir? You’re pathetic, Rosier-”
Evan’s mouth splits into a vicious smile as he holds his ground - unflinchingly pressed against Sirius’ wand and pushing the other boy a step back in the process, “Underestimating the quality that lays in loyalty and hard work again, Black. Sounds like the story of your life, now, doesn’t it?” Evan taunts in a low voice, determined to avert the other boy’s attention from his friend and focus it solely on himself, as he holds his gaze with cold eyes and a distantly amused twist in the corner of his lips.
Sirius takes the bait like an average creature of the ocean does and grabs Evan’s throat with a brutal twitch in his fingers - pinning him against the empty threat of his wand pressed into the sensitive flesh of Evan’s throat.
“Do you have a death wish, Rosier? I could evaporate your brain any second - but since we are being honest here, that wouldn't really destroy much since there is not a single functioning areal situated there - now is it? I’ve heard about you, Rosier - dim-witted and mediocre at your best - who are you to stand between me and my brother, when we are clearly having a conversation? I-“
Evan ignores the sting that the boy’s words land and cuts him off with a low chuckle instead, relentlessly holding his ground - shielding Regulus with his body intendly, “How about you shut up and take that advice I gave you before I smashed your face into the remains of my breakfast? Wouldn’t hurt, would it? Reflecting on the subject you just proposed-“
Sirius laughs so hard in his face, that Evan feels droplets of spit hitting his cheeks and brows, “You really are as stupid as you’re tall, aren’t you? You mean the ‘topic i just branched’ - Merlin, Rosier, you can’t even speak decent English.”
Evan sees Barty move in the periphery of his vision but chooses to ignore his friend’s silent offer to put an end to this - chooses to lean into Sirius’ wand and throttling grip - chooses to claim his family name then and there, as the salvia of the other boy’s wet laughter still drips from his face.
“I speak English, because it is the only language you know how to comprehend, Black. You, on the other hand, speak English, because it is the only language you are capable of transferring your unintelligent thoughts through - Get out of my face - I am done with you.”
Evan finishes and unflinchingly stares at the boy in front of him, daring him to let his tongue run free - to give Evan a reason to finally raise his own wand and cast the spell the other boy is too afraid to throw at him.
McGonagall appears to have decided to break out of her petrified state at this very moment, though and pulls Sirius hand and wand away from Evan’s sore throat in a manner of firm discipline. The other teachers assist her, when she finally grabs the Gryffindor boy’s robes and drags him down the row of silently staring students - Dumbledore grabs Potter’s disorientated frame as well - not without throwing Evan a warning look - and after a few minutes, all of them clear the scene - disappearing through the stone gate of the hallway leading to the infirmary. Leaving Evan unscolded and confused.
Sirius’ incredulous screams sound unintelligible through the hallway and disappear after a while, just as Evan finally turns from his place between the crowded tables to settle into his own seat.
He chooses to ignore the whispers breaking loose around him, starts to pile scrambled eggs, grilled sausages and three helpings of fresh cucumber salad on his stained plate instead. There are a million thoughts cursing through his brain at the moment - echoing and overwhelmingly layered - worries cascading like a choir in a tunnel of sound reflecting material - too many variables to keep count of - too many regrettable things overlaying each other - intertwining in a cacophony of his debut as the Rosier heir.
Barty’s hand settling softly - as if not to stir him - on his shoulder, is what pulls his gaze up eventually - what makes him come back to the disastrous reality he just created in his unfailingly idiotic attempt to shield his friend and protect his sister from a legacy she should never be forced to carry.
He meets Regulus’ eyes first though - through the turbulence of pointed fingers and tremendously loud whispers surrounding them.
The blue that greets him is neither crashing nor violent - it has no malicious intend - is a calm ripple on an endless ocean - it hits him straight in his core with its sincerity. Because, just as Barty begins to start one of his excited monologues, leaning into Evan and gesticulating wildly, Regulus only meets Evan’s eyes with silent neutrality - but there is something hinted at, in the open expression on his face, the awe lined subtly in the soft light blue of his iris, the grey hues shifting between - the relaxation of his mouth - the unfurrowed state of his brows. An undetectable approval - worry mixed so thouroughly with everything else that it is impossible for Evan to make out the true emotional state of his friend.
“-So crazy - he had his wand out! Why the bloody fuck did none of the teachers intervene? he could have killed you! That fucker is crazy - a death wish ? He should ask himself that question - You could have torn him apart on the spot - I sure as hell would have - he called you stupid! You! Where does he live? - behind bloody Alpha Centauri - he didn’t even know your name - How could anyone not know your name? By Merlin, you were brilliant, Ev -“
Evan tunes out of his friend’s ramble with a distracted smile and shrug - confirming the upcoming talk he will have to have with Regulus, with a subtle blink, until his eyes stray away from his food again - over Regulus’ head and towards the direction of the furthest corner of the table at the end of the room. There is nothing awaiting him - not a trace of hazel mixed with the blurred masses - no tall frame dividing the table into two sides - Remus is gone without a trace.
And Evan shouldn’t feel this conflicted about the predictable reaction of the other boy - should have seen it coming from kilometres away - that a connection with him is only desirable in some distant shape and form when he is solely light and approachable - when he is vulnerable with his troubles - open with his despair: Not when he shows a physical reaction to it. When he gives in to his father’s demands. When he transforms with the darkness surrounding him. Not, when he is Evan Rosier - and not only Evan. Not just Evan standing in the confidence of a hidden room in the darkest hours of the night.
He digs into his food that turns ash on his tongue and nods the entire way through Barty’s monologue - distracted and worn - supported only by Regulus’ checking glances and the concern lined in between.
Evan can barely bring himself to swallow his unreasonable disappointment.
Their group eventually makes their way through the whispering masses, the multitude of glances directed at them and heads towards the dungeons on their way to their Potions lesson. People stumble to the side, when they see them approach - students stop their conversation as the trio rounds a corner to the staircases - in the end it takes them half the time to get to their desired destination as it usually would. Barty doesn’t stop talking about it, as Regulus and Evan take their seats in the second row in stoic silence.
The entire lesson Evan can only think of the consequences that will await him at any given time, now. The letter his father will send him in response. The threatening power he will hold over Evan, once this debacle will reach his ears or eyes-
But also the though of Remus arises - breaking the shackles of his exhausted mind’s furthest corner - pushing through the fog of his worried thoughts with striking clarity, leaving him cursed to a stiff posture and expressionless exhaustion, as he stirs the ingredients in his cauldron distractedly:
Is it for the better? Is it for the better, that he hates me now?