A/N: Review...second Evan/Alecto story up on site...first one was my 'Moment'...
(light up your cigarette, and lean back against the wall, leering atthe good girls who walk by)
This is what all Slytherin boys above the age of thirteen do—it's practically in the book, there. Evan Rosier is seventeen, and he is handsome, in his cocky, arrogant way, with thick strands of golden-brown hair that cover his blue eyes, the exact shade of the Spanish sky at midday, and that smile, not really a smile as much asly, I-know-something-you-don't curl of his lips, that just, like allthe girls say, makes you feel so dirty.
He's a born charmer, whispering his honeyed words into their ears, leaving lingering touches, the ones that only hinted at what else he could do, and flashing smoldering looks that seemed to question, do you want me? And with a few sly smiles and looks, he can get any red-blooded female ensnared by his charm, and hanging after every single word that slips from his smirking lips.
He loves pretty girls—he appreciates their smooth, unblemished faces, just like an empty canvas he can lay all his biting kisses on, their cherry-red lips, curled up into coy, you-know-you-want-me smiles, the long, pale leanness of their legs, peeking out from underneath their short skirts, and their soft bodies—all sharp curves and angles.
(he's had Narcissa Black, and almost all of the other girls above third year)
Never Gryffindor, though—even Evan Rosier wouldn't slip that low. Narcissa is one of his constant lovers—she comes once every week, tiptoeing into his room, dressed all in white, like it's not ironic enough—the high and mighty queen of Slytherin creeping into his room at night. It's not like he hasn't heard what she says about him, anyway.
They don't say anything, when she's in his room, and there is no sound, besides a few groans and whimper, because that unspoken thought—it doesn't matter, this is just for me, right now—saturates the air between them.
He's only had Bellatrix once, and it had been a mutual agreement, spoken in shamed, secretive tones, for them to never ever ever speak of it again. It had been embarrassingly quick and rather fumbled—he was drunk, she was drunker, and there had been a broom closet nearby—and for the record, he thought he could have done better. After all, Bellatrix was beautiful, but she scared the shit out of him, with her flashing eyes, so dark they were almost black, and that horrible smile that promised a slow, painful death.
And Andromeda, oldest of the Black sisters…
(the first and last time he fell in love was when he was fourteen)
He'd been young, just growing into his golden looks, and all the more appealing for it—life was just a blur of shy smiles at pretty girls who passed by, school assignments written on wrinkled parchment, and crisp, neatly-folded school shirts that smelled faintly of soap—and he was innocent then. An innocent little boy fell in love with a girl—Andromeda Black, oh Andromeda Black.
(and in his mind, she was preserved as forever young, forever sixteen and so very beautiful and untouchable)
She was the unanimous darling of Slytherin, beautiful, long mahogany tresses that curled around that alabaster face, and plump pink lips and sparkling eyes, and proud. She was exemplary, and three years ago, everyone in Slytherin had worshipped her. He'd first begun to really notice her, when she'd tripped over his trunk on the train. Being a gentleman, he'd extended his hand to help her up, and had been met with a pair of large, chestnut eyes and a pretty, flushed face.
Oh, he'd thought, oh. And she'd smiled at him, uttered a 'thank you', in sweet, rolling tones, leaving the innocent, fourteen year-old Evan Rosier standing there, dumbfounded and wondering how those pretty lips would feel on his.
Thus ensued his awkward attempts at flirtation, and wooing Andromeda Black. He would find excuses to stop her in the halls, just to see her look up at him with that half-startled smile, try and chat her up at meals, and sit down next to her during their free time.
How blind he had been then, oh how utterly blind he had been, not to notice those lingering looks she and that Mudblood Hufflepuff had given each other (true, it had only been in the halls, and occasionally—but he should've noticed!) as they passed, that quick, embarrassed blush that had lit up that fair face as her eyes scanned some crumpled note, and the furtive, secretive smiles that she had, when she thought no one was looking.
(he always was)
And that was how he found her, in the Charms classroom, giggling with her friend—it was one of the Chaudhary twins: either Aaliya or Dalena—over some mysterious, girly thing. At first, he'd been about to pass by, uninterested in the conversations of the female gender, but he'd heard his name, muttered by the Chaudhary girl.
So, Andy—it looks like Rosier's interested in you. I see him following you around like a puppy dog, smiling that adoring grin. It's kind of cute, in a really weird way, actually.
It was spoken in the high, bell-like tones of the Chaudhary girl, and he'd winced at the acknowledgement of his first, awkward crush. After she'd finished, he'd held his breath, his heart throwing itself rapidly against his ribcage, and fists clenched in his pockets, knuckles white with tension.
Oh Merlin oh Merlin oh Merlin…he'd unclenched a fist, and his fingers drummed on the floor, to the frantic thump-a-thump of his heart—what will she say?
Evan Rosier? The cute little blonde boy? I hadn't noticed, really, but when you think about it, that makes sense. Well, he's too young for me, really, and he's a great kid, but well, being with Ted just feels right.
He'd stuffed his fist into his mouth, feeling that burn of liquid hate coming up his throat, and run away, feet hitting the floor with loud, angry thuds.
Thinking back, if he'd had any sense or experience at all, he would've tried his best to get rid of the aforementioned Ted somehow. But he had been fourteen, a hopeless romantic, the princess waits for the prince to ride up on his horse, and he'd been much more concerned about crying out his poor little eyes in the bathroom, scrunched up next to the bathtub, and flushed cheek pressed against the cold tiles. If it had been him now, not that he would be so silly as to fall in love again, because he'd learned—oh, he'd learned the hard way—he wouldn't have spared a moment of pity for himself, and would have labored to somehow shove the obstacle out of the way—engineer some great scandal or misunderstanding, and so on.
And then, afterwards, when he returned the next year, tall, wiry and handsome, he vowed that he wouldn't let any girl toss around his heart like that again, knowingly or unknowingly. It would be his turn to play with their fragile little feelings, to ruthlessly tug at their sensibilities, to plunder their soft bodies with kisses and lingering touches, and his turn to hurt.
(he sees it as some kind of twisted, mass revenge, and so he goes, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him)
Evan puffs again on his cigarette, runs a hand through his unruly hair, and jams the other fist into one of his pants pockets. He gives one of the girls who pass by—a pretty little brunette with odalisque hips—an absentminded grin, and blows the smoke from his cigarette into funny shapes, before he sees her pass by.
It's Alecto Carrow. She's nothing special, really—just an average girl, with average looks. She has an elfin face, too pointed for conventional beauty, large, widely-set eyes, colored a strange hue of brown, and a mass of freckles spread over waxen cheeks, like the kisses of invisible fairies. And from what he can see, she's not the type to giggle over useless, superficial things, whiling away hours sighing over some handsome boy, and actually, in a way, she reminds him of Rodolphus. They're both very straight-out, no coy Slytherin games, where the next word out of your mouth could determine social life or death, and they fight that way too—hard punches, knock you out, and once it's over, a handshake and no hard feelings.
He's had her twice, before, and usually, she would be completely insignificant—just another notch out of the many on his bedpost—if it were not for something she said.
When the sex was over, he had been lounging on his bed, careless and sated, twirling a nearly crushed cigarette between his fingers, and she had been slumped against the wall, fingers combing through straw-like strands of pale brown hair. She'd looked up at him, her pale mouth still plump and swollen from kisses, and asked him, with surprising naivete, don't you ever get lonely?
What hung unspoken was: don't you ever get lonely, throwing everyone aside, coldly rejecting the stammered confessions of love and the outstretched hands, and ignoring the pleas for you to stay?
It had shocked him—usually, after sex, most of the girls would've run off with embarrassed blushes, or they would've told him that they loved him (sex isn't love, darlings), and he would easily reject their delusional so-called love—but he had recovered, quickly pasting that lazy, easy grin back on his face, and countered her with a drawled, doesn't everyone?
No, she'd said, no, I meant that throwing people aside—doesn't it make you feel just the tiniest bit lonely—because in the end, they won't care anymore, and you'll be all alone then.
He'd told her to get out, crushing the cigarette between calloused hands, and slammed the door to the dormitories shut, because—really, deep down—he knew she was right.
Oh, he knew, with a startling clarity, knew that what he said was true, but he wasn't going to stop, because that's what Evan Rosier did—he plowed on and on—who cares if you die, as long as you had a great time dying—and it doesn't really matter what a little girl says, after all, does it?