Evan Rosier died fighting.
No one had ever considered Evan Rosier a coward: he was never one to run from a fight, rather he sought them out. He always had a bruise on his face, his nose bleeding, a bandage on a limb. He wasn’t a violent person, he was a lover. And when he loved, he loved hard. He loved with all of himself, put everything he had and didn’t have on the table. It truly was a privilege to be loved by Evan Rosier; who was graced with this privilege tended to describe it as feeling the first ray of sun after a cold long winter, the warmth gently caressing the skin broken from the freezing air of the past months. Some might say it could be compared to finding a pool of fresh, clear water in the middle of the desert. A couple of people had even made it sound like being reborn into the life you actually deserve.
Home, some had said. It feels like home.
And loving like Evan Rosier did also meant fighting. Either with words or with fists, being loved by Evan Rosier meant being protected, from anything. Anyone who ever thought Pandora Lestrange was weird had sat through hours of lectures on how incredibly extraordinary every single aspect of her person was. No one would dare to even whisper a comment on Dorcas Meadows, because everyone knew how painful his kicks could be.
And not to mention how many broken noses he caused, because he heard a rumor about Regulus or an insult toward Barty. No one, not even himself, was allowed to say anything remotely bad about the two boys. He hexed Sirius Black, Regulus’ own brother, because he teased him about a haircut.
Evan Rosier was filled with such powerful love, he became a soldier.
So, of course he died fighting. How else could he have died? Certainly not peacefully in a cottage in French. Not after having to remove every object that could possibly hurt someone from Dorcas’ apartment after the McKinnon’s massacre. Not after witnessing Pandora drift into magically induced madness and rip her hair out because she couldn’t hold her little girl.
No, not when he was the one carrying Regulus’ casket through the Black family cemetery, lowering it two meters into the ground, blank, emotionless faces around him, not a single tear except for his own. Not when he had Barty forced out of his arms, beaten in front of him and locked away like he was a raging psychopath, who needed to be as far as possible from society.
But how? How did Evan Rosier die fighting? Among his professors, he was known as the most skilled duellist Hogwarts had seen since the founders. He could produce nonverbal hexes before it was even in the program to be taught and had perfectioned some of the most powerful, ancient defensive spells. He was tactical in his thinking, never rushed into fights without a properly functioning strategy; he was vicious and dreadful, but never openly ferocious or savage. He was always composed in his malice, a proud smirk barely visible on his face and eyes completely unreadable. So how could he have died fighting, if the Ministry was more afraid of him than the Dark Lord himself?
Grief, you’ll find is the answer. Grief is the strongest of fuels, it constantly aliments the fire of pain, that catches quickly and burns everything to the ground, leaving only desperation and anger behind. No joy, no peace, no comfort survives its hunt; every ounce of happiness is terminated and all the unexpressed love that remains turns into a thirst for revenge.
Vision blinded by crimson red fury, the same crimson of the blood he imagined Regulus spilled because of the war; he never had the chance to truly know what happened to him, he could only let his mind picture his screams of pain as he fell on his knees, begging for it to stop, for all of it to stop. All anyone knew was that he had drowned, and all Evan heard in his dreams were Regulus’ screeches of horror, as the water filled his lungs, betraying his most devoted servant. He could see the deep red dissipating in the clear pool every time he closed his eyes. He swore he could hear him call his name as he exhaled his last breath every time he was at his grave, his empty grave.
So, that night, as everyone else picked on kids, trying to scare them off, he went for the big one. He appeared from the shadows, jumping at his back. A single crack was heard and if it had been anyone other than him, Evan would have gotten his revenge already. But it was him, Evan knew he wouldn’t go down so easy.
He had put all of his trust in him, he had promised help, protection. He had guaranteed a real life. And he took all of that away from him, from them.
Alastor “Madeye” Moody knew. He knew about their mistakes and the attempts to fix them. He knew about the accords, about all the work they were doing and the crucial information they were passing. He knew the risks these kids were affronting and he didn’t care. He let him die. He let his brother die. No tactical thinking was made that night, no functioning strategy was put in action, no ferociousness or savageness was restrained. His malice blended with brutality, his viciousness with brutality. He mercilessly threw curse after curse, no aim, no scheme, just rage.
His blood is on your hands, not Voldemort’s, yours and Dumbledore’s. you knew what was in that cave, he told you about the blood price, the poison, the infested lake and you let him go alone. Were you filled with pride as you read about his death? Did you enjoy yourself imagining an 18-year-old begging to live? Did you and your little friend talk about how he died, if the inferi snapped his neck first or if the water filled his lungs? Or maybe he didn’t make it past the poison? I carried and buried my brother’s empty casket because of you, I cry on an empty tombstone because of you! You carry the weight of death on your shoulders like it's a silk scarf, you wash your hands of the blood of children like it’s grease! There is no good and evil in this war, only destruction and you are the cause of it! I lost everything and it’s your fault!
Curse after curse after curse, until Moody was on the floor, blood pouring from his face, the skin burned off and flesh and bone on display. His eyeball was on the floor, half of it was completely smashed and splattered around, the remains still had a glimpse of the piercing blue that distinguished Moody, nerves mindlessly moved around by the unnatural wind. Evan’s essence rooted in their surroundings, the pavement shook as the street lights flickered uncontrollably, leaves floated around, carried by the strong wind his screams were creating.
He had his fair share of injuries, some bruises were already forming, his nose was broken and slow drops of blood ran down his left forearm, Moody was famous among the Aurors for his fierce and efficiency. But no physical pain was remotely comparable to the blinding one grief brought along. So, blinding he missed it. he missed the bright, green light making its way toward his chest. He missed the whispered words as he panted, the salty taste of tears invading his mouth. He missed the way the man fell back as he crumbled to the ground. In school he was taught that the unforgivable curse of death ceased one’s life instantly, but it didn’t. for a few seconds, he felt the wind settle, the ground stop trembling. He saw a small, brown leaf rest next to him as his soul elevated from his battered body. The rage ceased, the pain died, the grief became excitement.
Evan Rosier died fighting.
But that wasn’t what Regulus was told.