Everyone knew Evan Rosier by reputation alone.

Blonde hair kept perfectly untidy, sharp features softened only by his lazy smirk, eyes always calculating. A pureblood Slytherin with a talent for trouble and a future whispered about in low voices. He moved through Hogwarts like he owned it—alongside Regulus Black, silent and observant, and Barty Crouch Jr., brilliant and unhinged in equal measure.

And then there was you.

Barty Crouch’s little sister.

You sat at the edge of the Slytherin common room fire, knees pulled to your chest, pretending not to feel Evan’s gaze burning into you. You were used to being watched—your surname guaranteed that—but Evan looked at you differently. Like he was trying to figure you out. Or like you were something he wasn’t supposed to want.

“You’re doing it again,” Barty muttered, not even looking up from his notes.

“Doing what?” Evan asked, voice smooth.

“Staring at my sister like she’s a forbidden spell.”

Regulus’s lips twitched faintly over his book.

Evan didn’t deny it. He never did.

You finally glanced up, meeting Evan’s eyes. “If you’ve got something to say, Rosier, say it.”

He stood, crossing the room with unhurried confidence, stopping just in front of you. Close enough that you could smell parchment and something sharper—ozone, like magic waiting to be cast.

“You don’t act like a Crouch,” he said softly.

“And you don’t act like a gentleman,” you replied.

His smirk deepened. “Good thing I’m not one.”

Barty scoffed. “Merlin, get a room.”

Evan ignored him. His eyes flicked briefly to where Regulus watched the shadows more than the people, then back to you.

“You should be careful,” Evan murmured. “Hanging around people like us.”

You tilted your head. “People like you?”

“Exactly.”

You stood, closing the distance yourself now. “I’ve lived with Barty my whole life, Evan. You don’t scare me.”

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, then admiration. His hand brushed yours, barely there, but it sent a spark up your arm.

“That’s the problem,” he said quietly. “I think you should.”

From then on, it was stolen glances across the common room. Late-night walks under the pretence of patrol. Evan’s hand always finding yours in the dark, his voice low and dangerous when he spoke your name like it meant something sacred.

He never said he loved you.

But when other Slytherins looked at you wrong, Evan was suddenly there. When whispers followed you—about your brother, about the path he was choosing—Evan stood at your side like a vow.

One night, beneath the dungeons’ flickering torches, you finally asked him.

“Why me?”

His forehead rested against yours, blonde hair falling into his eyes, his usual arrogance stripped away.

“Because you make me hesitate,” he admitted. “And nothing ever has.”

For Evan Rosier, that was everything.

And for you—caught between loyalty, darkness, and a boy who would burn the world before letting it touch you—it was the beginning of something beautiful and doomed.