Chapter Text
“Behind you!” James' familiar voice cut through the noise of the packed arena.
Evan twisted, caught the pass, and drove straight towards the goal guarded by a particularly large bloke. The crowd rose to its feet as he lifted his stick and sent the puck flying toward the net. Evan twisted, caught the pass, and drove straight towards the goal guarded by a particularly large bloke. The crowd rose to its feet as he lifted his stick and sent the puck flying toward the net.
Deafening screams filled his ears before he could even process what had happened. One moment, his eyes were tracking the puck as it buried itself in the back of the net, and the next he was being swarmed by his teammates. Arms wrapped around him from every direction as James nearly tackled him into the boards.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Sirius yelled, grabbing the back of Evan's helmet. The blond boy laughed breathlessly as the final buzzer sounded through the arena.
The game had gone into overtime after ending in a tie during regulation, and the pressure had been suffocating from the moment they'd stepped onto the ice; Coach Fletcher had made sure of that.
According to him, Holloway hadn't beaten the Bridgewood Ravens since 1998. Six years of losses, near-misses, and spectacular collapses. Fletcher had spent the entire week reminding them of it. Evan had been playing for the Hawks for two years now, and he had never seen the older man more worked up than he had been before tonight's match.
"Oi, Rosier!" James shoved him hard enough to nearly send him stumbling. “You alright?” the brunette boy gestured vaguely at Evan’s face, a large grin still plastered on his face.
Evan figured he looked the same as he felt: utterly awful. "Fuck off." He snorted.
"Love you too." James gave one last tap to the side of Evan's helmet before he made his way toward Sirius, who was doing his best to rile the crowd up even further.
Evan’s ears buzzed with a high, piercing whine, drowning out everything else for a moment. He felt as though his head was going to split into two. As he followed his teammates off the ice, the crowd continued to chant his name, and Evan hated every second of it.
“That was brutal.” A familiar voice sounded behind him, followed by an encouraging slap to his back. Evan couldn’t place who the voice belonged to, and the violent way his head was spinning made turning around an impossible task.
Sweat clung coldly to his skin despite the warmth of the changing room, and for a moment he had to brace himself against the bench when the room tilted slightly. Nobody noticed. James was loudly retelling the winning goal for the third time, Sirius was still riding the high of the victory, and the rest of the team were too busy celebrating.
Evan used that to his advantage. He peeled off his jersey, swapped his hockey gear for a pair of dark trousers and a grey hoodie as he forced his expression into something resembling normal. By the time he zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, he looked perfectly fine, though he felt anything but.
The moment Evan stepped out of the arena, the cold hit him like a slap. November had settled over Westmoor weeks ago, dragging with it bitter winds and damp evenings that seemed to seep through every layer of clothing. Normally, he liked the cold; it cleared his head after a game. Tonight, it only made him feel worse. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and started down the path leading back towards campus.
Holloway University stretched across the hillside ahead of him, its old stone buildings glowing gold beneath rows of lampposts. Evening had already settled over the grounds, turning the sky a deep blue. Light spilt from the tall windows of one of the buildings, while clusters of students wandered between lecture halls, cafés, and accommodation blocks, their voices carrying across the crisp night air.
A fresh wave of nausea twisted violently in his stomach. He slowed his pace, swallowing hard as a cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck.
Shit.
Not now.
Putting one foot in front of the other, Evan managed to saunter towards a nearby building. Leaning heavily against the cold brick wall, he squeezed his eyes shut and took a shaky breath. The nausea he'd been trying to ignore all evening surged violently, twisting his stomach into knots. "For fuck's sake." He muttered.
His breathing grew laboured, and he barely had enough time to push himself away from the wall before doubling over and emptying the contents of his stomach onto the damp grass. The ringing in his ears returned full force, drowning out the distant sounds of students crossing campus. Evan spat onto the ground and wiped a trembling hand across his mouth.
“Christ, Rosier,” a familiar voice broke through the noise in his ears. “You sure look like shit.”
Evan clenched his jaw as he turned toward the source of the voice. “Fuck off.” It wasn’t a clever reply, and it didn’t sound nearly as biting as he had intended, but it was all he could offer at the moment. He felt as though his muscles were giving out, and he had the distinct feeling that if he pushed himself much further, his body would simply give up and collapse on the spot.
"Didn't know athletes were allowed to get stoned before games." Barty pressed further, paying no mind to Evan’s threat. Though, with the way the blond boy had said it, it sounded less like a threat and more like a desperate plea.
"Didn't know it was any of your business," Evan argued, wanting nothing more than to finish this dreadful conversation and go home where he would be able to fix this. Fix himself.
Barty simply shrugged in response, completely unbothered by Evan’s response and seemingly uninterested in where this discussion would lead. "Fair enough." He offered a sly smirk before he sauntered off in the opposite direction, quickly disappearing from Evan’s view.
Pushing himself away from the wall, Evan started towards the car park. The walk wasn't long, but it felt like ages. The cold November wind cut through his hoodie, making him shiver despite the sweat still clinging to his neck. Every step sent a dull ache through his body. His legs felt heavy, his head felt full of cotton, and his stomach still hadn't settled.
By the time he reached his Impala, his hands were shaking. "Brilliant," he muttered. The cream-coloured car sat beneath a flickering lamppost, its polished body reflecting the yellow glow. Usually, the sight of it cheered him up. Tonight, he barely spared it a glance. He unlocked the door, tossed his bag onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. For a moment, he just sat there. Somewhere in the distance, he could still hear celebrations from the arena. It felt strangely far away.
Resting his forehead against the steering wheel, Evan took a slow breath. Eventually, he mustered enough strength to start the engine and pulled out of the car park, heading home. Home he shared with James and Sirius.
Usually, after a win, the three of them would head straight to Wrens with the rest of their team. Over the past two years, the pub had become something of a second home. The barkeep knew all their names, their favourite drinks, and exactly how much trouble they were likely to cause on any given night. At this point, the barkeep could probably pour their usual orders without asking, unless James had decided he was bored with his regular drink and wanted to try whatever had been added to the menu that week.
Evan hoped the two of them wouldn't break the tradition tonight, even as he was doing exactly that.
The drive back to the house passed in a blur of yellow streetlights and rain-dark roads. Westmoor was quieter this far from campus. Most of the students were either still celebrating the win or crowding into pubs for the night, leaving the streets unusually empty.
The house came into view at the end of a narrow row of brick terraces. Warm light spilt from the downstairs windows, illuminating the overgrown front garden James kept promising to deal with. Evan's Impala looked strangely out of place parked alongside the battered student cars lining the street.
He killed the engine and sat there for a moment before forcing himself out. The cold bit at his cheeks as he crossed the path and unlocked the front door. The familiar scent of coffee, takeaway food, and something vaguely burnt lingered in the air.
A pile of shoes had accumulated by the door, despite repeated arguments about keeping the hallway clear. The living room beyond was dimly lit, one lamp casting a golden glow over the mismatched furniture and overflowing bookshelves. A hockey stick rested against the sofa, abandoned there days ago.
The nausea had eased enough for something else to take its place: a hollow, aching hunger he'd been ignoring since before the match. Evan glanced towards the kitchen, his eyes settling on the fridge, which was undoubtedly full of food.
But he knew better.
That wasn’t what he was hungry for.
Clenching his pale fists, he made his way towards his room upstairs. Like a habit of a lifetime, he locked the door behind him as soon as he stepped inside. Somewhere in the back of his clouded mind, he was aware no one was home, but the action felt as natural as breathing.
The room was dark except for the glow of the streetlamp outside his window. His bookshelf occupied almost an entire wall, crammed with novels, lecture notes, and books he hadn't touched in years. Evan crossed the room without hesitation and reached for one particular volume.
He pulled it free and opened it. Inside was exactly what he'd been looking for. His jaw tightened, then, with the ease of long practice, he reached for the hidden stash.
Opening the small baggie, he placed some of the white powder on the thick cover of the book. He reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers, rummaging through it until he felt the familiar shape of his debit card under his fingertips. Pulling it free, he quickly got to work separating the powder into thin, even lines.
For a moment, Evan froze. He stared at the white substance as his stomach twisted uncomfortably. It craved something he knew was wrong. His mind was telling him to stop, to simply put the powder back where he found it and go to sleep. But his body protested, warning him it would fall apart without it.
He released a slow breath as he pulled a crumpled fiver from his pocket and rolled it into a makeshift tube. Placing it under his nose, he lifted the book covered in white lines and inhaled. A few minutes later, the edge of everything began to soften. He closed his eyes as he slumped on the bedroom floor and leaned back against the side of his bed.
For several minutes, Evan remained where he was, staring at the ceiling while the silence of the house settled around him. The exhaustion that had threatened to drag him under only moments ago seemed to loosen its grip, retreating just far enough for him to ignore it.
The ache in his limbs dulled, his thoughts stopped tripping over one another, and the heaviness that had followed him all evening became easier to shove into the background.
It wasn't real relief. Somewhere deep down, he recognised that. The nausea hadn't disappeared, nor had the headache lingering behind his eyes, and the knot in his chest was still very much there. It had simply become easier to pretend those things weren't waiting for him when he would inevitably come crashing down.
A glance at the clock on his bedside table made him swear under his breath. The night was still young, and James and Sirius were probably already at Wrens, likely halfway through retelling the winning goal to anyone willing to listen. James would be exaggerating every detail, Sirius would be interrupting him every thirty seconds, and by now at least one of them had probably convinced the entire pub that the Hawks were destined for greatness.
The thought tugged a reluctant smile from him. Maybe he wasn't missing the tradition after all.
Sitting alone in his room suddenly seemed unbearable. The house felt too quiet, too empty, and the distant buzz beneath his skin demanded movement. Before he could think twice about it, he was already pushing himself to his feet.
By the time he headed back downstairs, the earlier sickness felt like something that had happened to someone else. Not gone, merely pushed far enough away that he could ignore it. That was good enough for tonight.
Tonight, the Hawks had beaten the Ravens for the first time in six years, and there was no chance James Potter was going to let anyone forget it.
Evan grabbed his jacket from the hook by the front door and stepped back out into the cold November evening, locking the house behind him. The cold air no longer felt quite as biting as it had earlier. His stride was lighter, his thoughts clearer, and for the first time that evening he felt capable of keeping up with whatever chaos awaited him inside Wrens. Whether that feeling would last was another matter entirely.
A sharp wind rustled through the bare branches overhead, carrying with it the distant sounds of laughter and music. Before long, Wrens’ familiar golden glow came into view between the rows of brick terraces, spilling onto the pavement and cutting through the darkness.
The moment Evan stepped through the doors, he was hit by a wall of warmth, noise, and the familiar scent of beer soaked into old wood. The pub was packed. Students crowded around tables and spilt into every available corner, their conversations blending into a constant roar punctuated by bursts of laughter.
“Rosier!” several voices shouted in unison as Evan’s gaze settled on his teammates who were taking up multiple tables.
“Right, lads, this round's on Evan,” James yelled over the noise. “Order only the most expensive drinks or get out.”
Evan huffed out a laugh. “You are such a wanker, Potter.”
James' grin only widened. “Cheers, mate.” The brunette seemed to take it as approval.
For a moment, Evan considered telling everyone to buy their own drinks. But his debit card sat heavily in his pocket, carrying more money than any university student reasonably needed. It wasn't as though he lacked the funds.
Besides, if the money wasn't being spent on his friends, it'd probably end up going towards far worse things.
“Fine,” he sighed, fishing the card from his wallet. “But if one of you orders champagne, I'm snapping this card in half.”
The resulting cheers were immediate.
“Rosier,” a familiar voice made Evan promptly turn around. “Thank fuck you’re here.” Marlene sighed dramatically as she pushed her wavy blonde hair out of her face. “That twat stole my lighter.”
Evan followed her pointed finger. As expected, his gaze settled on the long-haired boy who was waiving Marlene’s familiar bright-red lighter above the crowd.
“I’m not his keeper.” Evan retorted, the corners of his lips tugging upward as he watched Sirius stare down Marlene with a huge grin on his face, and her lighter in his hand.
The blonde girl huffed as she chugged down a drink Evan wasn’t entirely sure was even hers. “Is this rum?” Marlene asked, disgusted. Gagging, she roughly put the cup down.
Definitely not hers, then.
“Where’s the vodka, Rosier?” she narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were buying.”
“I just got here.” Evan laughed. His body felt lighter than it had in hours.
Somewhere along the way, somebody put money into the jukebox, somebody else started a darts tournament, and the entire pub seemed to dissolve into a haze of voices and laughter.
The evening blurred together in fragments: clinking glasses, shouted conversations, James standing on a chair for reasons nobody could remember, Sirius telling him to get down from said chair, and half the hockey team attempting to relive the game with increasingly inaccurate details.
Evan found himself drifting from group to group without much thought. The restless energy beneath his skin refused to fade, making it impossible to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. He felt alert, awake, almost invincible. Every laugh came easier, every joke landed harder, and the exhaustion that had nearly knocked him flat earlier seemed like a distant memory.
"You're absolutely pissed," Sirius informed him at one point, watching Evan laugh at something that wasn't remotely funny.
Evan only grinned. "Probably." He hadn’t touched a drink the whole night. What he was on was something no drink in the world could compare to.
Sirius snorted and returned to his drink, apparently satisfied with the answer. As the night wore on and the pints disappeared, nobody questioned Evan's sudden burst of energy. Why would they? They'd all watched him pay for round after round. To everyone else, he was just another hockey player celebrating a historic win. Evan was more than happy to let them believe that.
At some point, Marlene hooked an arm around his shoulder and dragged him across the pub. “Oi, Rosier. Settle an argument.”
“I don't want to.”
“Tough.”
Before he could escape, she sat him down beside James and Sirius, both of whom looked far too entertained by whatever conversation had been taking place.
“Tell her she's mental,” James said immediately.
“Tell him he's a nosy bastard,” Marlene shot back.
Evan looked between them. “I’m confused.”
“These two idiots have spent the last ten minutes discussing my sex life.”
“Correction,” Sirius said, raising a finger. “We have spent the last ten minutes discussing your very poor decision-making skills.”
Evan blinked. The conversation seemed to drift away from him almost as soon as Sirius finished speaking. Somewhere behind Marlene, a group of students had started dancing near the jukebox. Somebody was singing along to a song several notes off-key, while glasses clinked together from every corner of the pub. The music felt louder than it should have. Every laugh, every voice, every movement seemed to demand his attention all at once.
“Rosier.”
Evan's eyes drifted towards the bar.
“Rosier.”
A couple stumbled past their table.
“Rosier!”
His attention snapped back to Marlene. “What?”
“You're supposed to be settling an argument.”
“Right.” He had absolutely no idea what they were arguing about.
Marlene narrowed her eyes. “See? He's useless.”
James pointed at Marlene. “She keeps claiming there's no reason she and Dorcas have to speak outside of parties.” He explained immediately, and Evan was never more grateful to have him as a friend.
“Because there isn't.” Marlene glared at the three boys.
“Bullshit,” Sirius said.
Across the table, James looked delighted. The grin stretching across his face was the same one he got whenever he sensed an opportunity to stir up trouble. “You literally snog each other every time we're all drunk.”
“Not every time.”
“Most times,” James corrected.
Marlene rolled her eyes. “It's called having fun.”
“Right,” Sirius said. “And that's why you spent twenty minutes looking for her when she disappeared at Mary's birthday.”
“That was different.” The blonde girl spat, crossing her arms.
James leaned towards Evan. “See what we're dealing with?”
“Painful,” Evan agreed.
“I'm just saying people can hook up without it meaning anything.” Marlene retorted.
“Once?” Sirius asked.
“Twice?” James offered.
“Maybe three times?” Sirius continued, tilting his head to the side.
“Months?” James finished, mirroring his best friend’s movement.
Evan jumped up as the wavy-haired girl roughly slapped her hands on the wooden table. “You lot are fucking mental.” She glared at the three of them before she stood up. “I’m out of here.” Storming off, Evan watched as she blended into the bustling crowd. It was half past two in the morning, yet the pub was as crowded as ever.
James frowned as he looked at Evan. “Did we say something untrue?”
The blond boy shrugged in response. He didn’t know the answer to that question, so he kept his mouth closed. Physically, he was sitting in a crowded bar with his friends while they argued about god knows what; mentally, however, Evan was far, far away.
He felt as though he was someone else entirely, as though he was trapped in a body not belonging to him. He was a prisoner as much as he was free. It was an indescribable feeling, and it was starting to swallow him whole.
His friends became little more than shapes occupying the seats around him, their mouths moving while his thoughts drifted somewhere far beyond the walls of Wrens.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.࣪࿐
The following week passed in much the same way.
Days blurred together until Evan could barely distinguish one from another. Lectures came and went. Hockey practices happened too, and he would often discover fresh bruises the following morning without being able to remember exactly when he'd gotten them or what had happened on the ice to leave them there.
People spoke to him in hallways, invited him places, laughed at jokes he didn't remember making. More than once he found himself standing somewhere with no clear recollection of how he'd gotten there.
The passage of time seemed distorted: every morning arrived far quicker than it should have, and every evening disappeared before he had the chance to accomplish anything useful.
By the following Thursday, he found himself sitting in a lecture theatre with a half-finished coffee growing cold beside him while Professor McGonagall droned on about cognitive development. Evan stared blankly at his notebook, listening without truly absorbing anything as students around him scribbled notes and highlighted passages in textbooks. Outside, rain battered the windows in steady waves, turning the afternoon sky the colour of wet concrete.
It wasn't until the lecturer casually mentioned the upcoming deadline that something finally clicked into place.
The psychology essay.
Shit.
Evan sat up slightly. For a moment, he simply stared at the front of the room while fragments of memory slowly pieced themselves together. He vaguely remembered receiving the assignment several weeks ago. He vaguely remembered telling himself he had plenty of time to complete it. What he did not remember was actually starting it.
The essay was due on Monday. And unless his memory was failing him completely, it was supposed to be two thousand words analysing the relationship between depression and cognitive distortions in young adults. Evan closed his eyes as he dropped his head against the desk. He wasn't in the right state of mind to write the essay. But when was he ever?
The moment Professor McGonagall sauntered out of the lecture theatre, signalling the end of the lecture, Evan promptly shoved his things into his bag and headed straight for the main study building. The library was even busier than usual, which wasn't particularly surprising considering half the university seemed to share the same habit of ignoring deadlines until they became immediate problems. Every table Evan passed was occupied by students buried beneath piles of textbooks and loose sheets of paper, some actually working while others appeared to be socialising under the thin disguise of academic productivity.
His eyes swept across the room in search of a free seat before eventually settling on a pair of adjoining tables near the back. One of them was occupied by a single student, while the other contained only one familiar figure sitting alone amongst an intimidating collection of law textbooks.
Barty Crouch.
Evan resisted the urge to turn around. The thought of returning to his house briefly crossed his mind, but he dismissed it almost immediately. Home was comfortable, and comfort was precisely the problem. The moment he stepped through the front door, the temptation would begin creeping into the back of his mind, subtle at first and then impossible to ignore.
He knew exactly how the evening would unfold if he allowed himself that much freedom. He wouldn’t spare a second before diving into his secret stash. Before long, the entire afternoon would disappear into the same blur that seemed to consume every day lately, leaving him with an unfinished assignment and another gap in his memory.
Besides, he couldn't afford that tonight; there was a match tomorrow.
The memory of the previous game surfaced uninvited, bringing with it the unpleasant recollection of wet pavement beneath his shoes, bile burning the back of his throat, and the unmistakable sound of Barty's voice cutting through the ringing in his ears.
The encounter had been brief enough, but the embarrassment lingered stubbornly. Evan wasn't entirely sure what Barty thought had been wrong with him that night, though he suspected the other boy had attributed it to too much weed and poor decision-making rather than anything more complicated.
Whatever the case, Evan had no interest in repeating the experience.
With a quiet sigh, the blond boy adjusted the strap of his bag and made his way towards the only remaining seat in the library.
Dropping into the chair, he set his bag on the floor beside him and pulled out the collection of notes he had accumulated throughout the semester, already dreading the amount of work waiting for him. Across the table sat another student, a thin, nervous-looking bloke with dark circles beneath his eyes and enough papers scattered around him to suggest he had been there for hours.
For several minutes, the only sounds came from turning pages and the occasional tapping of keys against keyboards. Evan managed to skim through a handful of notes before movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention elsewhere.
The other student had looked up, and Evan watched the exact moment the poor bastard realised his mistake.
Barty slowly lifted his head from the law textbook resting in front of him and fixed the student with an unimpressed stare. Neither of them spoke at first, yet the tension somehow managed to settle over the table all the same. "What are you staring at, fresher?"
The boy blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." Barty spat, offering the boy a murderous glare. "What are you staring at?"
"I wasn't staring." The student's face immediately flushed red. "I just looked up."
"Brilliant. Try looking somewhere else." Barty snarled as he turned his attention back to the thick book in front of him.
Evan watched the poor bastard who had somehow ended up on the receiving end of Barty's temper. He looked as though he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. "I didn't mean—"
"Christ, do you ever shut up?"
That seemed to do it. The student hurriedly shoved his books into his bag with trembling hands before standing so quickly his chair scraped loudly across the floor. Without another word, he practically fled the table.
Evan stared after him for a second before slowly shifting his attention back towards the person responsible for the entire scene. Unfortunately, Barty seemed to possess some sort of sixth sense when it came to being stared at, because the moment Evan's gaze settled on him, he looked up from his textbook and fixed him with the same unimpressed expression he'd directed at the unfortunate first-year.
"What the fuck are you looking at?"
Evan leaned back slightly in his chair, entirely unbothered by the hostility. "You're a miserable bastard; do you know that?"
“Fuck off, Rosier.” Came Barty’s prompt response. "Don't you have an essay to fail?"
Evan looked down at the nearly blank page displayed on his laptop. "Working on it."
The brunette huffed. "Could've fooled me."
Evan resisted the urge to tell him exactly where he could shove his opinion. Instead, he returned his attention to the blinking cursor waiting patiently at the top of the page, which, much like Professor McGonagall, appeared deeply disappointed in him.
Across the adjoining table, Barty seemed equally uninterested in further conversation, lowering his gaze back to the intimidating collection of law textbooks spread before him. Several minutes passed in relative peace. Evan managed to write nearly half a paragraph before deleting most of it and starting over.
The scrape of chairs against the floor pulled Evan from his thoughts as two figures appeared beside Barty's table.
Regulus Black dropped into one of the empty seats without so much as glancing at the others, immediately pulling a notebook from his bag. Dorcas Meadows followed close behind, occupying the chair beside him and depositing an alarming quantity of stationery onto the table before settling back with a sigh.
Evan found himself studying Regulus for a moment. He'd met him a handful of times before through various social circles, though never well enough to hold a proper conversation.
The resemblance between him and Sirius was impossible to ignore once someone noticed it. The same dark hair. The same sharp features. The same grey eyes. Yet where Sirius carried himself with effortless confidence and occupied every room he entered as though he owned it, Regulus seemed intent on doing the exact opposite. Everything about him felt restrained, measured, carefully controlled.
His attention shifted towards Dorcas instead. Unlike Regulus, Dorcas never seemed capable of blending into the background. There was something inherently magnetic about her presence, not because she demanded attention, but because she never appeared to care whether she had it or not. She sat with the casual confidence of somebody entirely comfortable in her own skin, her dark curls partially obscuring her face as she sorted through her notes.
Unfortunately, seeing Dorcas inevitably reminded him of Marlene.
The more he thought about it, the more difficult it became to believe either girl genuinely thought they were fooling anyone. Evan wasn't particularly interested in other people's relationships, but even he had noticed the way Marlene's entire personality seemed to shift whenever Dorcas entered a room.
Before he realised what he was doing, Evan's gaze lingered on Dorcas for slightly too long. Her head snapped up, and their eyes met. "What?" The question was immediate.
"Nothing."
Dorcas leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, her expression immediately sharpening with suspicion. "That wasn't a nothing stare."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Evan's mouth despite himself. There was something deeply amusing about the situation, largely because she had absolutely no idea how transparent she was being. "You're very defensive."
The answer seemed to catch her off guard for half a second.
Across the table, Regulus glanced up from his notebook, clearly sensing something unfolding despite having missed most of the exchange. Unlike Dorcas, however, he didn't look irritated. If anything, he looked curious. His grey eyes flicked briefly between them before settling on Evan, and it only took a few seconds for a knowing look to creep into his expression.
That certainly didn't help. The resemblance between him and Sirius became particularly obvious whenever they looked amused. The smile itself was different; Regulus' was far smaller and considerably rarer, but there was something undeniably familiar about it all the same.
Evan's attention drifted back towards Dorcas. The problem wasn't that James and Sirius had planted the idea in his head; it was that now he couldn't stop noticing things.
The way Marlene always seemed to know where Dorcas was at parties. The way she claimed not to care while somehow ending up beside her every single time they all went out. The way both of them became weirdly defensive whenever anybody dared mention it.
It was hardly subtle. Apparently Regulus had reached the same conclusion, and the smirk forming at the corner of his mouth grew ever so slightly.
Dorcas noticed immediately. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
Evan raised an eyebrow. "Nobody said anything." Nobody had actually accused her of anything yet. She was doing an impressive job of condemning herself entirely unprompted.
Beside her, Regulus lowered his head and pretended to focus on his notes again, though the slight shake of his shoulders suggested he was enjoying this considerably more than he should have been. Before Dorcas could formulate a suitable threat, Barty finally looked up from the law textbook he'd been reading. His eyes moved lazily between the three of them, lingering on Evan's expression, then Dorcas', then the increasingly amused look on Regulus' face.
It took approximately three seconds before he groaned loudly enough that several nearby students glanced over.
Dorcas pointed her pen at him so aggressively it looked less like stationery and more like a weapon. "Drop it."
Barty slowly folded his arms across his chest, wearing the expression of somebody who had just been handed the easiest argument of his life. "Mate," he said, his voice dripping with disbelief, "the pair of you disappear together every time alcohol's involved. It's hardly fucking MI5.”
For a brief moment, silence settled over the table. Then Evan laughed, and the sound seemed to offend Dorcas on a personal level. "This is entirely your fault, you know?”
Evan raised both hands in surrender, his smile only widening. "I haven't done anything."
The glare she sent him promised future retaliation before she finally shook her head, muttered something deeply unflattering under her breath, and returned her attention to her notes. Beside her, Regulus looked suspiciously entertained by the entire exchange, while Barty appeared entirely too pleased with himself for somebody who had contributed exactly one sentence to the conversation. Evan found his gaze drifting towards him, and as if sensing it, Barty looked up from his textbook. "What?" The question came out flat and impatient.
Shrugging, Evan averted his gaze back to his notes. "Nothing."
"Prick," Barty muttered.
Evan snorted quietly as he stared at the blinking cursor waiting on his laptop screen.
The essay still wasn't going to write itself.