Of course they'd never suspected, not even for a moment, what Fate (if there was such a thing) had laid out for them. They came from two entirely different worlds, though they were not so different at heart. Even so, the circumstantial factors should have been more than enough to keep them apart. Yet somehow, their universes had collided and now there was no turning back.
His name was Evan Rosier, and he was the last living male with the Rosier name. He was an orphan, which suited him fine because he'd always been the independent sort anyway, though during the summers he lived at his aunt's manor along the coast. She was a Rosier by birth, but a Nott by marriage. Somewhere along the line, all the pureblood families were related. There were days when Evan found this disgusting, but the prospect of marrying a mudblood (unthinkable) was even worse.
While Evan was known in the wizarding world as the sole heir to both fortune and name, She was not known anywhere for anything. Her name was Lorrie Lim, she hailed from East London and her parents were shopkeepers. The only thing she could boast for in life was that she was a witch, and she was good at it.
Evan knew that he was no Luscious Malfoy, who was the loud, proud sort of male that Evan detested. Evan was by no means a Severus Snape, who might as well have been mute for all he spoke, but neither was he a peacock strutting around looking like an idiot. No…Evan liked to stick to himself and wreak havoc in a quiet sort of way, though he was certainly no virgin to duels and fights. Sometimes he liked getting into brawls –the muggle sort, though he wouldn't dare admit to it out loud. It was a crass sport and so beneath him, but there was something about the fist-to-flesh contact that satisfied him in a manner magic simply couldn't manage.
A blood-lust. That's what it was. And it was the first hint that warned most people that he was dangerous, that he ought to be kept away from. He was like a zoo creature that was waiting for the right moment to pounce, to escape.
But Lorrie wasn't most people. In fact, she had her own sort of blood-lust, and it was what had drawn Evan to her in the first place. The result was epic – a Shakespearean tragedy brought to life, and in the end, only Lorrie would be left to tell the tale.
It had started in first year, their rivalry, as most Hogwarts animosities tended to do. She was a Hufflepuff, which was a great source of disgust and shame to Evan in years to come, and he was a Slytherin. At the time, she had been a short, plump sort of girl with two long ebony braids, gleaming almond-shaped eyes, raw hands and skinned knees. Evan had taken only a quick glance at her and he'd known instantly that she was a mudblood. The first clue had been her attire – clothes suitable for a muggle boy; ratty shorts, a t-shirt and dirty canvas shoes. The second clue had been her nationality – there were very few Asian pureblood families in England, and he would have known if she was a member of any of them. Finally, the skinned knees and chapped hands had given her away – purebloods did not go around looking like worked servants.
He had sneered at her of course, which was practically a pureblood custom towards mudbloods, and he would have thought nothing of it. And then she'd demanded, "What's that look for?" Demanded! He would have laughed if hadn't been so shocked. He would be the first to admit that he was spoiled, and he'd never been spoken to in such a way. Certainly not by a girl. Certainly not by a mudblood girl.
What was it that he'd called her? A cow? An ugly, stupid whale? It had been something idiotic and juvenile, surely. And how had she reacted? A purely Slytherin move, Evan had to admit. She'd hexed him as he shoved his way past her to get to the next compartment. They'd both spent the rest of the train ride in furious silence while a snot-nosed Ravenclaw prefect watched over them. They'd served a detention before even arriving at school.
He was surprised when she'd been sorted into Hufflepuff. He had pegged her as a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw at least, but definitely not a Hufflepuff. She didn't seem the least bit loyal or any of that Hufflepuffish nonsense. Except for the just part. He noticed that she tended to play mother-hen to all the first years as they grew older, which didn't cease to amuse him until he found himself wondering what sort of mother she could be. To his children.
Evan flushed at the thought of having children with that hag. It was a disgusting thought. Screwing her was probably something akin to screwing an elephant. He shuddered, and tried to ease the rigidity of his muscles by splashing water on his face. He could feel the cold sweat on his back, and it nauseated him. That stupid bitch, he thought viciously as he glared at his reflection in the mirror. She'd been occupying his thoughts lately in ways he didn't care to interpret. His body was in mutiny against his thoughts, and quite frankly it was disturbing. He swallowed thickly and tried to ease the tension between his legs by picturing Pamela Bletchley going at it with a goat, which was met with only mild success.
It was disheartening.
During dinner, Evan found his gaze wandering around the Great Hall, searching for the revoltingly-familiar head of dark-cherry hair. The girl had dyed it recently, and had cut it with what was probably a very blunt object, and it hung randomly in some places and stuck out in others. He'd seen her friends eyeing her like she'd gone round the bend, and he'd heard the whispers in the halls about her being a dyke. He half prayed they were true.
However much to his horror, she strolled into the Great Hall with a loopy grin on her face next to – yes, it was – none other than Sirius Black. It was stupid and horribly clichéd, and Evan wanted to throttle her and scream, "Do you know what you're doing? He's just using you, you stupid slut!"
She was driving him slowly insane. Even his housemates had noticed – he'd heard them muttering when they thought he wasn't listening. They seemed to think (for the most part) that he'd become a Death Eater, or was seriously considering it, and often looked at him as though he was Hades; with both respect and fear. The others – the ones who were Death Eaters – regarded him with something like curiosity and/or suspicion.
Lorrie was not stupid – she knew that Rosier was watching her. She'd caught him at it too many times to count over the past few weeks, and it was starting to unnerve her. Sometimes she felt as though he could see right through her. Other times…other times, she didn't know what to think. His face was almost always held a passive expression with no emotion flickering behind his glassy, frozen blue eyes, though she sometimes noted that his lips would twitch if he was amused, or press together if he was not.
Amused or angry. Lorrie had never seen him any way else – not around her, not around anybody. He was a statue, albeit a very warm one. She felt her cheeks tinge pink as she remembered the humiliating end to their last duel a few weeks past. They had all been outside in the snow during potions class to collect ingredients that only grew under icy conditions. What had precisely happened, Lorrie couldn't remember. She only knew that she'd been bent over, chipping away at the ice (it had to be done by hand, because the roots couldn't be touched by magic) when she'd fallen ungracefully onto her face. Somebody had, of course, pushed her. And that somebody was clearly Rosier. She'd looked up, and he'd been striding away, taking long powerful steps without looking back at her.
Yes, she remembered it now. The bastard had even had the audacity to question her sanity when she'd confronted him for shoving her. And then what? Oh, yes. He had poked her then – he'd actually poked her. With his wand, because he didn't want to "contaminate" his hands or something like that. And she'd shoved him back, only they'd both slipped on the ice and she'd found herself straddling him in a most embarrassing position. He'd yelped as though she'd scalded him with a cauldron, and she'd scrambled off of him in horror. But she'd felt him despite the layers of clothing between them. She'd felt the rise and fall of his chest, and she'd heard the short, erratic patterns of his breath.
Oh Merlin, Lorrie thought to herself in horror. She was not one to beat around the bush. She was clearly in lust with Evan Rosier, and she gagged.
Sirius laughed at her and asked what the matter was. And she laughed in response and grinned at him stupidly.
"Nothing," she replied, smiling coyly at him. "Just thinking."
And he'd raised an eyebrow and winked, because he understood what she was thinking. He just didn't know about whom. If he did, he most likely would have thrown up.