You hated Evan Rosier.

Not in the dramatic, quill-snapping, screaming-in-the-corridors way—no. You hated him in the quiet, simmering way. The way that made your jaw tighten every time his lazy drawl cut through the Slytherin common room. The way his sharp grey eyes always seemed to find you, no matter how crowded the room was.

“Careful,” he’d said once, watching you struggle with a particularly volatile potion. “Wouldn’t want you blowing yourself up. Though it would improve the air in here.”

You’d nearly hexed him on the spot.

Regulus Black, unfortunately, found this endlessly entertaining.

“He only does it because you react,” Regulus muttered beside you, pretending to read while Evan and Barty Crouch Jr. lounged nearby like they owned the castle—which, honestly, they acted like they did.

“Oh, don’t start,” you hissed. “You’re friends with him.”

Regulus glanced up, dark eyes thoughtful. “I’m friends with many questionable people.”

You snorted. “That explains a lot.”

Across the room, Evan smirked—because of course he heard.

The rivalry had been brewing since first year. Top marks, sharp tongues, and neither of you willing to back down. Professors paired you together far too often, convinced cooperation would “build character.”

What it really built was tension.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Evan said one evening in the library, leaning far too close as you worked on a Charms assignment.

“I didn’t ask,” you replied sweetly.

“No, but you need help,” he murmured. His hand brushed yours as he adjusted the wand angle, sending a strange jolt through you. “There. Fixed.”

Your spell worked perfectly.

You hated that too.

Things shifted slowly—subtle glances, arguments that lingered too long, insults that felt less cruel and more… personal. Evan’s teasing became quieter, reserved just for you. His attention sharper, more deliberate.

Regulus noticed first.

“He looks at you like he’s planning something,” Regulus said one night, voice low.

You swallowed. “That’s because he is.”

But when trouble came—real trouble, dark whispers and dangerous magic—Evan was suddenly always there. Standing between you and curses, dragging you out of harm’s way, jaw clenched with something that looked a lot like fear.

“You’re infuriating,” he snapped once after an especially close call.

You met his gaze, heart racing. “You don’t seem to mind.”

Silence stretched.

Then, quietly, “I do. That’s the problem.”

The kiss that followed was angry and desperate and entirely inevitable. All the words you’d never said wrapped into one sharp, breathless moment.

Afterward, Evan rested his forehead against yours, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Still hate me?”

You smirked. “Ask me tomorrow.”

His answering grin was all sharp edges and something dangerously sincere.