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The sound of running feet in the corridors was growing distant, but Evan didn’t hurry. His friends, Thomas Wilkes and Kingston Avery, would catch up with the girl quick enough that he didn’t need to hurry. Indeed, hurrying would set his robes in disarray, and he had spent long enough that morning making sure they hung properly to show off his best features.
He paused, making a note of the scuffle in the hallway somewhere ahead of him—there was a muffled curse, some swearing. Without thinking about it, his lip twisted. This was the problem of the modern age: people simply didn’t know how to behave properly anymore. His mother had washed his mouth out with soap every time he swore, because it simply was not behaviour becoming of a wizard. Swearing was vulgar and crass, and witches and wizards were neither of those things.
A passing mirror caught his reflection, and Evan couldn’t help but stop to examine himself. Lectures, he had long since learned, took better when he looked his best: handsome, non-threatening, and friendly. He took a moment to fix his dark hair, his blue eyes sharp, and straightened his robes.
When he rounded the corner ahead, he could see that Thomas and Kingston had indeed caught the girl, holding her by her arms. She was still struggling, her hair loose around her pink face, breathing heavily. A book lay on the ground, and one glance told Evan that it was an advanced Transfigurations text—one that Evan himself had read three years ago, long before it was assigned reading for class.
He took the time to study her carefully. Cassandra Wheatley, he recognized, more commonly known as Cass. She was two years under him, in Ravenclaw, but Evan had a knack for remembering people. He liked people.
He didn’t like what she was wearing. Wheatley was a pretty girl—as wild as her dark brown curls were, it would only be a few charms to set it right, and absently, he cast them at her. They smoothed, framing her face prettily, while Evan looked down at the rest of her clothes.
They were called jeans. He knew that much, them being all the rage in the Muggle world nowadays. They were a heavy material, dense and thick, but it wasn’t so much the cloth that he disliked so much as their symbol. They were Muggle—they were a piece of Muggle culture, bleeding through from the Muggle world, a fabric and clothing item that screamed threat.
“You’re not in your robes,” he said quietly, letting a small smile slip onto his face as he examined her.
“It’s a weekend, Rosier,” Wheatley spat back at him. “Saturday. Uniforms aren’t required on weekends.”
“I didn’t say uniform,” Evan replied, looking down at the hated jeans again. They didn’t suit her, flat and blocky and unshaped as they were, nothing like the elegance of properly tailored robes over a blouse and skirt. “I said robes. Jeans?”
“Well, I don’t own robes other than my uniform.” Wheatley struggled again, an ugly look coming onto her face, but Thomas and Kingston were holding her fast. “Times change, Rosier, and there’s nothing wrong with my clothes. Let me go, and I won’t tell the professors about this. Just let me go.”
Evan sighed. “You’re a witch, Wheatley, and having magic is an honour. It should be treated like one, and you should be proud to dress like what you are, instead of adopting Muggle clothing.”
Wheatley’s eyes narrowed. “These things have nothing to do with each other, Rosier—”
“Let her go, Rosier!” A new voice came yelling down the hall behind him, and Evan winced before he whirled around, his wand already drawn. James Potter, of course it was James Potter, Gryffindor hero and apparently, Wheatley’s. He could hear another scuffle behind him, Wheatley using the distraction to make her escape. He didn’t worry about her as he twisted his wand, already throwing up a shield around himself and his friends—just in time to intercept a curse that had been thrown by Sirius Black, loping along beside James.
He dismissed his shield, Thomas behind him already casting Impedimenta to slow down the incoming Gryffindors. Three of them—James Potter, Sirius Black, and prefect Remus Lupin—but Evan knew well that where these three were, Peter Pettigrew was not far behind. He was never far behind, and he could always be counted on to be running for help for them. They had to get out of this, before the professors came, because Evan knew for a fact that the professors would never hear them out fairly.
He wasn’t going to curse Wheatley. Indeed, he had only been planning on Transfiguring her jeans into an appropriate skirt or set of robes, and he was one of a very few people who could make a Transfiguration stick. He would have made her something nice, too, because witches should look nice.
But no one would be hearing him out, and if they did, they wouldn’t understand.
“Pettigrew,” Kingston muttered beside him, deflecting a Knockback Jinx while Evan retaliated with a Reducto.
“I know,” Evan replied, tight-lipped as he looked for an escape. He wasn’t a bad dueller, and three on three wasn’t bad, but he’d rather not spend the time arguing with professors this afternoon. There was a yelp beside him—Black had hit Thomas with a Cutting Curse, and blood was already soaking his shirt as he fell back, one hand over his stomach. Stomach cuts were bad.
He scanned the corridor—fortunately, they weren’t in the dungeons, which were comparatively bare, but on the first floor where there were plenty of decorations that he could Transfigure. A bit of drapery would work, and it was the work of only a moment for him to Transfigure it into a thin, iron gate. Iron, because it couldn’t be easily blasted the way that stone or glass would be.
“Let’s go,” he panted, turning to check on Thomas. “Can you run?”
“Yes,” Thomas replied, though he was pale with pain and was still clutching his stomach. He turned, taking a few long steps down the hallway, but Evan could see that he wouldn’t be able to make it fast enough—not before Black or Potter or even Lupin managed to get past his makeshift barrier.
He shot a look at Kingston, who wordlessly slung Thomas’ free arm over his shoulders. Evan grabbed his friend on the other side, and they took off.
The Slytherin common room was a welcome sight, and Evan glared at the closest group of couches and chairs. Needing no words, the third-years who had been sitting in them vacated, and they heaved Thomas into the closest chair.
“We can’t go to the Hospital Wing for this,” Kingston said, though the words were unnecessary. “You know we can’t.”
“I know.” Evan was thinking fast. Cutting curses were bad—far worse than what Evan had intended to do to Wheatley, not that anyone would be listening to him. If it had been a minor curse, only a surface wound, then they could probably manage without, but based on Thomas’s shallow breathing and the fact that the cut was still bleeding freely, he didn’t dare hope that it was only a minor curse. He didn’t have the Healing skill for this. Neither he nor Kingston did.
“Do you need help?” A quiet voice came from outside their circle, and Evan looked over. Severus Snape—a fifth-year, a year under Evan, had approached, his face expressionless.
“Can you?” Evan demanded. “You can Heal?”
“I do enough of it on myself.” Snape approached, drawing his wand slowly and casting what looked like some sort of diagnostic charm. “I was tired of going to the Hospital Wing. Black’s work?”
“Yes.”
“He likes the Cutting Curse.” Snape nodded. “I can Heal it. If you help him out of his shirt? I only need to see the wound, to make sure there’s nothing caught in it while I Heal it.”
Evan hesitated, but only for a moment. “Ask us no questions, and we’ll tell you no lies.”
“I hadn’t thought to ask you anything at all.”
“Fine.” It took only a second for Evan to Vanish most of Thomas’ shirt, which was now only fit for the bin. “Please.”
Snape raised his wand again, beginning a soft chant and passing his wand over Thomas’ wound again and again. The bleeding slowed, first turning sluggish, then clotting—the muscle underneath ripped, knitting itself together. It was the work of several minutes, much longer than any Healing spell that Evan had ever seen, but by the end Thomas’ breathing had evened out into something natural.
“He’ll sleep for probably a few hours right now, then he’ll need a full night tonight,” Snape said, putting away his wand. “He’ll be fine.”
Evan studied him for a minute or so, thinking over everything he had ever heard about Severus Snape. Snape was not one of the old Wizarding names, but Severus was a very old name—and from his hairstyle and dress, it was obvious that whatever family he had come from, Severus Snape abided by the old traditional values. His hair hung lank around his face, a style even more conservative than Evan’s. His robes were second-hand, poorly tailored to his form, and anyone could read the obvious signs of neglect.
He had heard that Snape sold potions around school, so he had to be a fair hand with them, but this display of Healing skill was something else.
The Dark Lord needed more than fighters—but if he was going to succeed, he needed Healers and Potioneers too. And Evan wanted him to succeed, to bring back the world that Evan wanted: one where the old ways and the old traditions were respected, one where the haunting spectre of Muggle culture was kept at bay.
The Dark Mark itched on the inside of his forearm.
“Say, Severus,” he said with an inviting smile. “Would you like to come to Hogsmeade with us next weekend?”
It was early in March. The wind blew through Evan’s robes, a bitter chill, and most of the other Hogwarts students seemed to have taken refuge in The Three Broomsticks or any of the other shops. That was all the better for them—while it wasn’t necessarily a secret that Evan and his friends followed the Dark Lord, he didn’t want to give the professors more ammunition to discriminate against them. It was already bad enough that they turned a blind eye when the Marauders and others came after them, and Evan didn’t want more of it.
Their time would come.
The Hogsmeade Arms was the best hotel in Hogsmeade, and it showed it. The doors opened on their approach, two gold-burnished plaques with the hotel’s coat on arms decorating them, and they walked into an elegant lobby furnished in plush black sofas and low-lying marble tables. A series of golden chandeliers hung above them, casting a clean, white light throughout the room, and there were additional lamps interspersed among the sofas and tables. Gold detailing winked from every surface.
Evan could see that Severus had shrunk in on himself—in awe, intimidation, or maybe a little of both. Had he not been with Evan and his friends, no doubt one of the hotel staff would have come to send him away, and Evan guessed that he had never been anywhere so nice in his entire life. That was a shame, he couldn’t help thinking. Someone so talented really should have been noticed earlier.
He didn’t linger in the lobby, instead making for the lifts at the back. Only one would take them to the penthouse suite, where the Dark Lord would be waiting to meet them, and it was with a wave of his wand that the lift came flying to meet them. He stepped in, noting that Severus had hesitated only a moment before joining Evan and his friends. The golden gate shuttered closed behind them, and they shot upwards into the sky.
Severus’ face was blank, but Evan could read the tension in the way that his hands were clenched inside his poorly tailored robes, at least three inches too short.
“Stop,” he said, his word an order as they stepped out of the lift. Severus looked at him, carefully hiding any sign of nervousness, while Evan reached for his wand. “First impressions are important.”
Severus’ nod was a jerky movement, almost puppet-like, and Evan took that as assent as he quickly went about casting a series of Charms and Transfiguration spells. Severus’ hair was suddenly cleaner, hanging in dry and even strands around his face, and there was a little more colour in his skin. Those wouldn’t stick, but the Transfiguration that Evan put on his robes, which would make the fabric lighter but would at least fit properly, would. Severus Snape was, Evan realized, not unattractive. He was neglected, which was a very different thing.
“Much better, don’t you think?” Evan smiled, conjuring a quick Reflection Charm.
Severus nodded, still jerky, and Evan dismissed the mirror. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The Dark Lord doesn’t bite.”
“Much.” Thomas barked a small laugh. “Or he doesn’t bite us, anyway.”
Evan shoved his friend in the shoulder, shaking his head, but he couldn’t disagree. “Come on.”
Inside the suite, Evan picked out an assortment of Lord Voldemort’s other followers. Lucius Malfoy was sitting in an armchair—he was a few years ahead of Evan, but close enough that they exchanged a friendly nod. Bellatrix Lestrange, newly married, was sitting primly beside her husband, but her eyes roved the room continuously. The smell of expensive brandy was unmistakable, and Evan breathed in the scent with pleasure.
“Glass, Rosier?” Voldemort beckoned him over, already pouring a finger. “Wilkes, Avery? And who is this?”
“Severus Snape, my lord,” Evan said, striding over to accept the glass with barely a glance at Lucius or the Lestranges in the room. He knew his value—Lucius Malfoy might provide the funds for their movement, and the Lestranges might provide combat ability, but Evan Rosier handled recruitment and that meant he stood as high as any of them in the Dark Lord’s esteem. “He is a Housemate and is a fair hand at both Potions and Healing. He Healed a Cutting Curse that Thomas took a week ago from Sirius Black.”
“Both rare skills.” Evan felt a brush of the Dark Lord’s mind against his as he took a sip of his brandy, and he didn’t fight it. One did not fight the Dark Lord. A moment, and Evan felt the Dark Lord’s attention slide away from. “High praise. And I see some promise in the mind arts, as well.”
“I would prefer it if you did not come uninvited into my mind.” Severus’ jaw was tight, his mouth firm. “I have many memories that I prefer to keep private.”
“No need for that, here.” The Dark Lord smiled, and it was a gentle look. “I can see that life has not been kind to you. A pity, given your obvious talent and skills.”
Severus was stubbornly silent.
“Tell me, Severus.” The Dark Lord’s voice was soft. “How can we help you?”
Evan would have bet every Galleon in his parents’ rather sizeable Gringotts vault that no one had ever asked Severus that question. It was almost imperceptible, the slight widening of his eyes, and it was gone in a flash.
“I don’t think you can, my lord,” Severus said slowly. “Or that, if you could, that you should. I would like—I would like to earn what I earn through my own merits.”
“One’s own merits.” The Dark Lord’s lips tilted into a small, bitter smile—one that spoke right to Evan. “You’re idealistic, Severus. Anyone who wins anything does so not only through merit, but through powerful sponsors. Dumbledore plays his favourites, doesn’t he? So does Horace Slughorn, so do Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick, and the other professors. With talent like yours, you ought to have gotten more opportunities than you have, but their eyes slide right over you, don’t they?”
“I have yet to take my OWLs.” Severus’ expression was set. “I’m sure that once I have my OWL scores…”
“Idealistic.” The Dark Lord sighed and looked over to Evan, who shrugged very slightly. “Well, do let us know if we can help you. I have a great need for talented and skilled wizards, and a great respect for them also.”
“I’m sure.” Severus’ words were bland, and he rose. “If that’s all?”
The Dark Lord nodded, dismissing him, and Evan didn’t miss the quickness with which Severus hurried out of the suite. It wasn’t quite a run, but it was close. “Rosier?”
“We need Healers and Potioneers as much as we do fighters.” Evan took a sip of his brandy, thinking over the brief research he had done over the past week on his Housemate—research and a certain amount of observation. “I like Severus. He’s a halfblood from an old family—the Princes—and he’s obviously been raised within our culture. I don’t like the way that he’s been ignored over the years. Not even in Slughorn’s club, though with his skill, he should be. I hadn’t even picked up on the Mind Arts.”
“A good thought, and there’s nothing wrong with being a halfblood, if raised right.” The Dark Lord fell silent for a moment, considering. “A risk to bring him here, though, don’t you think?”
“Not at all,” Evan replied, knowing very well that he was one of the few people that the Dark Lord would ever allow to disagree with him. “Who would he tell? He has few friends, if any, and the reality of the world will hit him soon enough. He’ll be back—for money, for a place to belong, for a position where he might one day achieve his dreams.”
“You’re interested in him.” The Dark Lord’s blue eyes were sharp.
“He’s an interesting fellow.” Evan smiled, taking another long drink of his brandy. “I’m intrigued. I’ll talk to him again.”
Evan did talk to Severus again—he checked in with him in a week, much to Severus’ puzzlement, and again the next week, and the next, until the storm of OWL prep seemed to have overtaken him entirely. Often their conversations were short, if somewhat bemused, but Evan left it alone. For all that he was intrigued by Severus, Evan knew well that there were times when patience would pay off.
In any case, he had work to do. He was a recruiter, and he recruited. Evan Rosier was friendly—well-liked, even in most of the other Houses. He wasn’t threatening, not like Anthony Mulciber tended to be, and even if people were often wary, they spoke to him. Among the people he spoke to, from fellow Slytherins to Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, he found ready recruits.
Rookwood, a seventh-year Ravenclaw heading to the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic, wanted prestige. He wanted to be the first to discover new things about old magic, and he worried that some of the old rituals and traditions that he was most interested in would be banned. Dorian Tattings, in Hufflepuff, worried about money—his parents’ business wasn’t doing well, but his parents persisted in keeping up appearances. Promising the Tattings exposure and additional work was enough for Dorian to come over.
And then there was Pettigrew, who came over because he was afraid, and nothing more. His friends were brave, and he had never felt like he measured up. He often felt left out of the Marauder circle, and it was a grand coup for Evan to bring him over to the Dark Lord. It was already obvious that the Marauders, such as they were called around the school, would be inclined to join and fight with Dumbledore when they left school—and when they did, Pettigrew would be right in the centre of it. The news terrified Pettigrew enough, and all Evan had to do was make it seem like Pettigrew would be able to play both sides and come out on top no matter what happened.
Money, ideology, coercion, and ego. Those were the four pillars on which most people worked—that, and time, was how Evan convinced people to come over to the Dark Lord In some ways, that was a very cold way of looking at things, but Evan couldn’t say he cared very much. All people operated on certain principles, and he knew himself that ideology was his operating principle. Evan believed in Voldemort—the Muggle world was a threat, and Voldemort seemed to be the only person willing to do anything about it. He wanted his traditions preserved, not swept out by the sludge of Muggle modernity, and he had long since tired of traditional being a code word for blind, or blinkered, or just plain bad.
Severus was different. Even after talking to him a half-dozen times and watching him for far longer than that, Evan couldn’t get a read on him. He didn’t seem to have any friends, other than perhaps that redhead, Lily Evans, from Gryffindor, but it was obvious that Evans had a dozen other friends and that she was probably closer to them than she was to him. Indeed, it all rather made Evan a little queasy to watch: Severus ran after her, eager to please, but her own attitude was irreverent, teasing, and a few minutes of watching made it clear that the relationship was unbalanced. Lily Evans could have told Severus to jump, and he would only have asked how high.
Money was easy to offer, but Evan had the sense that Severus would refuse it—he still believed he would make it on his own merits, though Evan didn’t believe that merit alone was enough. Even coming from an old family, Severus did not seem to be motivated by ideology, not in the same way that Evan or so many of the other Slytherins were. Multiple fights with the Marauders over many years said that coercion would be a challenge, and as for ego—
Severus had enough self-assurance that what ego he had wasn’t one that could be used against him. He was good at Potions, and at Healing, and at a dozen other things, and he knew it. He knew it with a bone-deep certainty, and he didn’t seem to feel the need to prove it to anyone.
Instead, all Evan could, and did, do was invite him over to sit with his group in the Slytherin common room when he saw him. Severus didn’t always take him up on it, often pleading that he was busy, and the few times that he did, he was usually quiet and did not contribute to the conversation. Evan let him be—it was enough that he sat with them, he thought. The rest would come in time, and anyway, Evan rather enjoyed his unassuming sort of company.
Sometimes, if Evan said something that Severus thought was particularly witty, he smiled. And while Severus’ smile was small, and a little crooked, Evan rather liked being someone who could bring that sort of genuine smile onto Severus’ face.
There was an incident at the end of fifth-year, the details of which Evan only found out after the fact. It had been after the Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL—Severus had been reviewing his exam paper out by the lake, and the Marauders had taken him by surprise. That was, Evan thought, the only way that the Marauders would have been able to hang him upside down and show his undergarments to the entire student populace. That was bad enough, Evan not seeing him for several days, but it was afterwards that Evan thought he saw the most change.
Lily Evans didn’t talk to him anymore. She turned her face and ignored him when he passed in the halls and rebuffed him if he tried to approach her in the Great Hall. She never approached him of her own volition, and what few words he saw exchanged were clearly harsh.
But Severus said nothing about it, and Evan didn’t push.
Seventh-year came. Evan had a busy summer, his recruitment activities kicking into high gear, and returning to Hogwarts was bittersweet. On one hand, he was here, away from the work that he could be doing with the Dark Lord and his movement—but on the other, he was tired, and Hogwarts was less stressful than working directly under the Dark Lord.
That was not to say that there was not work to be done at Hogwarts. There was, and the first time that Evan saw Severus come into Slytherin Common Room, he excused himself from his friends.
“Severus!” he called out, hurrying towards him. A critical once-over showed that however Evan’s summer had gone, Severus’ had likely been worse. “A bad summer?”
Severus hitched his bag a little higher on his shoulder, his robes again too worn and too short for him. “Not as bad as usual, if you can believe it.”
Evan raised an eyebrow skeptically.
Severus shrugged. “My father died. Regretfully, he took my mother with him. I had to sham my age to the Muggle authorities, but afterwards it was easier.”
“My condolences.” Evan reached out, thinking to pat Severus on the shoulder, but dropped it when Severus grimaced.
“No need.” Severus shook his head. “I was not close to my parents and have not been for many years. It’s simply… something that happened.”
“Well…” Evan tilted his head slightly in sympathy, not entirely sure what to say. “If there’s anything that I, or that any of my friends, can do for you—let us know, won’t you?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Severus said, and then he hesitated. Evan waited, seeing that something was on his mind, but after a pause, but all he said was, “Thank you. It—it’s nice to have someone ask.”
“It’s no problem,” Evan replied, somewhat taken aback. “No problem at all.”
Severus nodded, awkward, and headed for his own dorms.
Evan’s seventh year passed much as his sixth—several professors looked askance at him, a reality he had been used to since he had been Sorted into Slytherin, and despite his high Transfigurations marks, Professor McGonagall still ignored him in favour of other, less qualified, students for her coveted research assistant positions. Evan didn’t even know why he tried anymore, other than maybe to prove a point to himself.
Severus joined them more often this year than last, and Evan always made space for him—whether it was in the Slytherin Common Room, or the Great Hall, or elsewhere. Like the last year, Severus spoke little, but he sat, and he listened, and he worked, and Evan let him. It was good for him to have somewhere that he could go, since he didn’t seem to have anyone else.
A gift of new robes over the holidays, in simple black—just enough that Severus wasn’t walking around school in robes that were better fit for the bin—was reciprocated with a set of Potions that, Severus’ spiky writing informed him, would make it easier for him to study for his NEWTs. Wit-Sharpening Potions, Wideye Potions, and several other things that Evan was sure he wouldn’t find in any apothecary. Neither of them mentioned it in person.
Severus was prickly. He wanted attention, but only the right kind of attention, and Evan had a sense that he wasn’t yet sure what that meant. Evan was also often preoccupied with his own projects, and it was well into March that he looked up and realized that he hadn’t seen Severus in the last day.
Once, that wouldn’t have been unusual. Last year, Evan hadn’t paid so much attention, or perhaps it was just that Severus had joined them less often than he did now. Now Evan caught sight of him nearly every night, even if they didn’t speak, and missing him in the common room, at dinner, and at breakfast and lunch the next day was very odd.
He caught one of the other sixth-years that night. “Have you seen Severus?”
“Snape?” The underclassman, Timothy Moore, shook his head regretfully. “He’s been in the Hospital Wing all day. Madam Pomfrey asked that we copy our notes for him.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“No.” Moore shook his head again. “No one explained. Sorry.”
Evan shook his head, patting Moore on the shoulder. Moore was a halfblood, and not one from an old wizarding family, but neither did Evan have any issue with him. Indeed, they rarely spoke. “No apology needed. I’ll go check on him.”
Fortunately, no one else was in the Hospital Wing—Madam Pomfrey took one look at Evan, gestured to Severus on the far end of the room, and bustled back off to her office. Evan slid into the empty chair by Severus, studying his friend carefully.
Severus was sitting up, his knees pulled closely to his chest, staring sightlessly across the room. His dark eyes were haunted, as if he was looking at something that only he could see, and his face was pale. His skin was normally pale, but this was a sickly pale, one that was a product more of shock and fear than anything else. His hands were gripped tightly around his knees, and it seemed like he was deep in thought.
Evan hesitated, and he reached out to touch him on the shoulder. “What happened?”
Silence. Severus had heard him, because he twitched, but there was no reply.
“Severus?”
“I—” Severus’ voice was creaky. “I don’t know what I can say.”
“What do you mean?”
Severus looked down at his knees. “Dumbledore swore me to secrecy. He said I’d be expelled if I said anything to anyone.”
“Anything to anyone about what?”
Severus swallowed. “I—I can’t…”
Evan tilted his head, thinking, then he hit on a solution. “A bad dream, was it?”
He kept his voice purposely innocent—too innocent, but all they needed was plausible deniability. Severus looked at him, dark eyes wide in surprise.
“A bad dream,” Evan repeated. “You can tell me about a bad dream, can’t you? It wasn’t real. It didn’t happen.”
Severus smiled—that crooked smile that Evan had always liked. “Flimsy, Rosier. Very flimsy.”
“But I’m not holding you to what you say being real,” Evan pointed out. “Hypothetically—you’re obviously terrified, and I want to help. Let me help.”
Severus laughed—the sound was rough, raucous, almost cruel. “Help. You know, you’re the only one who has ever offered to help. You—you, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You’re supposed to be the in the wrong, Lily always said you were in the wrong, that you were evil and horrible but—but to me, the people who have always been evil have been Dumbledore, Dumbledore and his precious Marauders and everyone opposed to you. Even—even after, completely hypothetically, I was nearly murdered by a werewolf at school, I was only told that it was my fault for going and looking. It was my fault, and the Marauders are heroes because I’m not dead, even if they were the ones who laid the trap for me to run into the monster in the first place. Does my life have no value compared to theirs? Don’t I deserve some measure of justice?”
Evan thought for a moment, thought about picking his words carefully, but there were times that the blunt and honest truth was the only one that mattered. “In their eyes? No.”
“Why not?”
Evan shrugged. “Is there an answer to that? I don’t think that there should be a difference. Of course, your life should have value, and of course you should deserve some measure of justice. But you won’t receive it—because you’re different, because you’re a Slytherin, because you’re tarred with the brush of being a Dark wizard or as someone likely to go Dark from the moment you were Sorted. They say we have choices, but in a lot of ways we’re the product of their choices, too.”
“But—you…” Severus looked away. “You have friends. You’re popular, and smart, and outgoing. Don’t think I don’t know about your Transfigurations marks.”
“I don’t hide them.” Evan quirked a small smile of his own. “But with McGonagall as the Transfigurations Head, I won’t be getting any recommendations for Mastery programs or anything. I get the stare when I ask for Transfigurations texts from the Restricted Section too, and she takes the time to write out the exact title that I’m requesting, as if I’m going to go in there and raid the Dark Arts section instead of the book I wanted.”
“Slughorn…”
“I’m not in Slughorn’s club either.” Evan sighed, looking away himself. “If I had been, maybe I wouldn’t be in this position. But Slughorn must have gotten the memo from Dumbledore years ago—no traditionalists in his club. No one who takes pride in old wizarding culture and traditions, no one who worries about Muggle culture overwhelming who we are as people. No one who wants to restore the glory of the old days.”
Severus looked over at him, expression puzzled. “But—Muggleborns and halfbloods—”
“I don’t really care about blood status.” Evan shrugged. “I won’t deny that some among the Dark Lord’s followers do. But for me, and for a lot of us—it’s more about our culture. We don’t want our culture being overwhelmed with Muggle culture, and we see it all the time at school, in Diagon Alley, and everywhere else. The Dark Lord is the only one fighting to preserve it, and so—by the Dark Lord’s side I will be. I don’t see any other options, not for who I am, not for what I want to be.”
Severus had looked away. “If I—if I didn’t see any other options either…”
“Then we’d welcome you.” Evan smiled, and this one was a gentle smile as he reached out to rest his hand on Severus’ arm. “We’d help you, Severus. You know that.”
“I do.” Severus replied, his voice quiet as he reached out to cover Evan’s hand with his own. It was surprisingly warm, for all that Severus’ face was still pale and sick. “You’re the only one who’s ever offered.”