The lavatory at the Rosier estate was more like a family mausoleum (which, admittedly, wasn't far from the truth since it was built of white marble and crystal) than a mere latrine. The sterile shine reflected in the polished surfaces from floor to ceiling, and even the air smelled of frosty freshness. In this icy splendour, Evan Rosier was about to carry out the ordeal on you that you had forced him to.

You'd once spotted it on the cover of an old vinyl record by a Muggle singer; then found it and torn the picture from a magazine, showing it to him again and again, insisting: it was elegant. You would clutch at the sleeve of his impeccably tailored shirt, catch the chill of his gaze, and keep pressing, while he listened in silence, letting you wind yourself up. Even so, the corner of his mouth twitched predatorily, betraying hidden pleasure.

Yeah, only he could make it perfect.

"A month of whining," he drawled with a feigned sigh. "Every day: Evan, do it. Evan, I beg you. It's going to be so cool."

He was focused, damn handsome, and utterly unflappable. On a napkin of black silk lay his tools: a frighteningly Muggle piercing gun, a shiny titanium barbell with a tiny heart-shaped ball, and sterile alcohol pads.

Evan had read something about such procedures somewhere, obtained the tool, and had treated it with suspicious interest ever since. He had already pierced different parts of his friends' faces more than once, and each time he had done it with far too much enthusiasm. It was unlikely that it was a matter of fashion or aesthetics, but rather that he enjoyed the process itself: the click of the metal, the sharp intake of breath, the ripple of pain on their face, etc. A needle would have been simpler and neater, but Evan had always preferred a gun to a needle. Perhaps he really was a connoisseur of dolōris. He never denied it, however.

In any case, your friend had agreed. But all your fervour, all your month-long whining, collapsed into nothing under the pressure of a sudden animal terror.

The instrument was too close. His black-gloved fingers confidently slid under your upper lip, pinning it in place. The skin stretched taut, while the rough rubber of the glove left a nasty taste. Everything inside you clenched. Your throat caught; your breath got stuck in your solar plexus and was cut off by an intermittent shudder. A pitiful sound escaped your lips: something between a groan and a whimper. You squeezed your eyes. Hell no. Your eyelids trembled traitorously. Reflexively, you recoiled, hitting your back against the icy mirror.

Evan didn't so much as blink. He simply waited out the pause, his cold gaze studying your face twisted by fear. He examined the shine clinging to your lashes, and the way you desperately bit the inside of your cheek just to keep from actually screaming.

With a slight sneer, he placed the stapler with a needle back down on the fabric, granting you a respite that instantly turned to shame.

"Evan this, Evan that. And now, when I've finally carved five whole minutes out of my busy idle schedule to make your dream reality, you're shaking like a first-year before an exam."

He swabbed the alcohol pad across your upper lip again. The sharp medicinal smell burned your nose, causing you to wince and glare at Evan.

"Don't twitch." His fingers clamped firmly on your chin, holding you from turning away. He tapped the tip of your nose several times. "Or I'll drive it straight through your nose. Won't be Medusa—you'll get Rhino. Believe me, it's much less aesthetically pleasing."

His lips curved into a smirk. He tilted his head back slightly and narrowed his eyes, examining you critically, as if assessing how beautiful the heart in the hollow above your lip would look. And at the same time, undressing you with his gaze. It was deliberate, perverted curiosity: Evan savoured your trembling, making you feel like a toy in his hands. It was so dangerous and grotesquely sexy.

"Are you a coward, sweetcheeks? Not long ago you were so brave, and now look at you."