build kingdoms in me;

evan rosier. xxvii. lawyer. clever as the devil and twice as pretty.

[inkmagician]

there is nothing poetic about clawing at your chest, trying to empty yourself of these poisonous words, coming up with nothing in your palms but blood.

excerpt from four things echo knows to be true | published in UNMYTHOLOGIZE (via inkmagician)

[hush-syrup]

This is the viscous heart I hide from you: gnashing, polluted, hooked to my ribs like a burr, stuck there and stinging.

From Friends by Laure-Anne Bosselaar (via hush-syrup)

[ofrosier-blog]

sullivanmock‌:

clearliquors:

BOLD what applies to your muse.

PLACE IN SOCIETY

financial: wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty.

medical: fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged.

class or caste: upper / middle / working / slave / unsure.

education: qualified / unqualified / studying.

criminal record: yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no.

FAMILY

married - happily / married - unhappily / engaged or betrothed / partnered / single / divorced / separated.

has a child or children / has no children / wants children.  

close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased.

orphaned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parent(s).

TRAITS + TENDENCIES

extroverted / introverted / in between.

disorganized / organized / in between.

close minded / open-minded  / in between.

calm / anxious / in between.

disagreeable / agreeable / in between.

cautious / reckless / in between.

patient / impatient / in between.

outspoken / reserved / in between.

leader / follower / in between.

empathetic / unemphatic / in between.

optimistic / pessimistic / in between.

traditional / modern / in between.

hard-working / lazy / in between.

cultured / un-cultured / in between 

loyal / disloyal / in between.

faithful / unfaithful / unknown.

BELIEFS:

monotheist / polytheist / atheist / agnostic.

belief in ghosts or spirits: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care.

belief in an afterlife: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care.

belief in reincarnation: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care.

belief in aliens: yes  / no / don’t know / don’t care.

religious: orthodox / liberal / in between / not religious.

philosophical: yes / no.

SEXUALITY + ROMANTIC INCLINATION

heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual.

sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favourable.

romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favourable.

sexually: adventurous / experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious.

potential sexual partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all.

potential romantic partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all.

ABILITIES

combat skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none.

literacy skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

artistic skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

technical skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none.

HABITS

drinking alcohol: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

smoking: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. 

other narcotics: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

indulgent food: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. 

splurge spending: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

gambling: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

[ofrosier-blog]

tcrquinmctavish‌:

“You think I would have given a fuck if the entire Pureblood society went up in flames?” He replied derisively, scoffing under his breath. His resentment for the place he had been born into it was always present and always simmering, it was only in moments like these that it came to the surface. It was hardly out of jealousy as many had assumed, but because no amount of wealth could hide the ugliness lurking underneath. It was only then that Tarquin thought of his father for the first time since he had heard of the incident. The man was desperate enough to attend any gala he could but he was probably alive if Tarquin hadn’t heard of his demise. A pity. “Good riddance when it comes to most of them and it seems like the quickest way to end the war,” his words might have been heartless but Tarquin could count the people he truly cared about being alive on one hand. He was thankful his sister was far away from this war, no matter the circumstances that led to it because he knew there was simply no way his outgoing and vivacious sister would have ever missed a party. That only left Evan and his mother - his family - and a select few people. “God, just fucking send me an owl telling me you and your mother are fine. It’s not that fucking complicated.”

Tarquin had been too consumed by worry to think about where the fire originated from but he had dismissed the idea of a prank as soon as he had heard it. If it had been the Death Eaters, Evan would have known but clearly he had been as in dark as Tarquin was. No wonder, the whole thing was making him so anxious. He tensely nodded in acknowledgment of his words and willed himself to relax; Evan was here and he wasn’t hurt; or well not too badly. “You’re just difficult,” he shot back, his lips curving in a small smile. His eyes immediately shot to his arm, “Not really and I won’t be satisfied until you show me.” Tarquin’s brows rose at that answer because he did know; he had been seeing Evan stay up late to work his entire life but there was something else weighing on him. Clearly by how annoyed his questioning had made him Evan was in no mood to talk about it but that didn’t mean he was about to leave it alone. He jumped to his feet, clapping his shoulder. “Come on, we’re going fishing,” he didn’t pose it as a question, didn’t give Evan a chance to say no. They hadn’t been fishing since Evan’s father had died and Tarquin knew he would avoid it. “And then we’ll have lunch with your mum, I haven’t visited her in ages,” Tarquin would have pulled him to his feet himself but he remembered the burn on his arm. “Come on Evan- you know this is the best time and you’re wasting it-” his lips curved in a grin. “Besides you’re getting engaged soon and who know if we’ll still be able to hang out like this,” He said, mentioning his engagement only to gauge if that was part of why Evan looked so tired.

Evan understood Tarquin’s resentment towards the pureblood community. When they were younger and they were bound by nothing more than the ties of a tentative companionship, the contrast in their backgrounds was jarring to him. His father always told him that solidarity was the foundation upon which their community was built; that it was both the sinew that tied the bones of lineages together and the blood that fed into their power. Pure blood brings forth pure ties, his father had once said. Evan had put his faith in that principle; as he always did with all the words of wisdom that his father bestowed upon him. But then he had met Tarquin, with his bruised knuckles, tussled hair, and a hatred that could have burned Hogwarts itself to the ground. A testament that your lineage could break you down just as easily as it could lift you up; a truth that, for the longest time, Evan had trouble comprehending. Until his father died and that truth made itself plainly known to him as grim, bare-faced apathy, hardening the eyes of his father’s comrades and tilting their mouths in cruel smirks as they welcomed him into their treacherous ranks. That was the moment when Tarquin’s resentment transformed from a mere notion that they both acknowledged, to a commonality. A scar that marred both of their hearts and chased away the hope they once carried; defiling and defacing them until they were nothing but charred lumps of flesh, pumping life and blood out of mere habit. “We’re still part of it, Tarq,” Evan said, a shadow falling over his eyes and easing them into a half-mast. “Regardless of how we feel about it, we cannot allow the war to end with our society being snuffed out. We would wind up losing a lot more than we would gain.” The words were spoken factually, with utter detachment and not an ounce of hesitation. It had become an instinctive response at this point. Thankfully, Evan didn’t dwell on it much longer as Tarquin’s following statement cut off his trail of thought, prompting an eyeroll from Evan, followed by an exasperated huff. “You are the one making it complicated. I told you that I’m aware I should have done that, didn’t I?”

“And you’re just as difficult,” He shot back; not returning his best friend’s smile but allowing his eyes to glimmer affectionately. Evan parted his lips in preparation for a long-winded argument that he was not a child and that he didn’t need to be looked over as though he were one as he was fully capable of taking care of himself---but then the words lodged in his throat, the breath dying in his lungs as he looked up at Tarquin, subtly wide-eyed and tense. He looked away, clenching his jaw; he swallowed then looked up at his best friend, unable to help the emotion that lit his eyes aflame. “What do you hope to achieve with that, Tarquin? Surely, there must be some benefit you aim to gain from this and if that benefit is forcing me to stand where he once stood and reminisce, then you might as well give up on it.” He emphasized the words venomously, upper lip coiling in disgust if only for the emotion he could feel tightening the cords of his throat and constricting the mass of his chest. He let the words hang between them like an abandoned noose but he viscerally knew that Tarquin didn’t have any ulterior motives in mind; if anything, he had Evan’s best interest in mind. Despite knowing that, Evan only saw it for the cruelty it wasn’t, especially when Tarquin mentioned the engagement only a moment later. Couldn’t they just sit in the open air? Couldn’t they just go anywhere else? Do anything else? Reigning in the pain threatening to push into the aggravated squint of his eyes, Evan sighed, reaching up to briefly rub his forehead before looking up at Tarquin with an implicit apology, shaking his head softly. “I can’t, Tarq. I don’t... want to face it, alright?” I don’t want to face his memory. I can’t stand where he stood.

[oldschoolteenflicks]

[ofrosier-blog]

goldenmvry‌:

And – wilt. 

The bravery and resolve that had enabled her to keep her hands aloft with nary a shake in sight felt something quite like a fresh-grown stem beneath a heavy boot. The disgust and vitriol in his voice, in the very fiber of his being at the mere sight of her, spoke volumes; she was used to being spoken to in such a way, of course, given the connotations of her very existence. And she knew with certainty that he would have chosen his words quite differently had he been in his right mind, for Mary knew - though she knew him not, no more than by reputation alone - that he was not of the sort to spit obscenities and threats in broad daylight, even to a stranger, to a muggleborn. He was not of the same stock as the Carrows, or Mulciber; a long-latent curiosity about Evan, a wondering, a pondering, if perhaps they were not all the same, had confirmed this. She had read about his family, about the legacy which sat like heavy stones upon his shoulders - a Sisyphean torture, if anything at all - and wondered. 

His voice rose, and she jumped, visibly startling like a skittish animal. She was no better than that – was she?

He looked at her as if she had spat on his shoes, as if she had insulted his mother and questioned his honor - and perhaps she had. If she knew anything of Evan Rosier, it was that he seemed the sort not to need anyone. Mary knew the sort to silently bear burdens; it was like peering into a looking glass. But she could not help the feeling of an acute shrivel somewhere deep at the pit of her stomach. No matter how often it occurred, she would never quite be used to being spoken to like an expendable animal. But, yet, she took it, for his need, at present, outweighed hers. Her hands fell to her side, and in order to account for the sharp and too-familiar stab of cowardice and humiliation, she took an absent step backwards, watching as he found his balance against a lamp post. Were she a crueler person, she would have called him sad, a pathetic display. But she was not. And neither was he. 

A second pang of shock overtook her as he spoke her name; she had not expected him to know it - sober or otherwise. Her mouth hung slightly ajar, the familiar prickle of tears (damn her for crying at every inconvenience, at every moment of feeling overwhelmed, at any pressure at all, whether warranted or not) wheedling behind her eyes. She swallowed, blinking hard, and tempered them away, steeling herself as best she could - though for Mary, ‘steel’ was a fragile, fickle thing. His words were hasty, petulant, not as insulting as they surely could have been - but ridiculous all the same. 

But at the mention of the Daily Prophet, her jaw fell slack entirely. “You - what?” it took her a moment to fully understand just why he was so angry, just why she had appeared such a threat the moment she had emerged from the dark to follow him along his drunken path, “Why would I go to the Daily Prophet?” There was no malice, no condescension, no humor in her voice, for she truly felt at a loss as to why he would think her motives so impure. In fact, she knew not what she would even tell them, should she be so inclined. Her voice was thick with honesty, sincerity, her gaze searching as her eyes flitted across his features, to his fingers in his hair; if it was reputation he worried so greatly about, he should have been happy that it was her - and not any number of the lascivious profit-seekers who ran in his circles. Of course, she daren’t say this; there was no need to add insult to obvious injury. Instead, she continued to search his face wondering at just what he might do should she attempt to approach again. 

And suddenly, he had become the cornered animal. Had she not felt for him already, she certainly would have fluttered with sympathy now, despite her predisposition to remain an arm’s length from him. She’d not yet gotten the ring of his sharp tone to leave her ears just yet. 

And so, as he turned to stagger off once more, the boot lifted and the stem of the crumpled blossom sprang toward the sky once more. She followed after him once more rifling around in her bag - and nearly stumbling over the curb as she did so - for the potions she so slyly smuggled from St. Mungo’s for occasions such as this. Perhaps an offer of contraband - helpful contraband - would assuage his fears that she was merely here to collect fodder for a gossip rag. Her secret exposed, to someone who likely wouldn’t even remember it in the morning. “Hey!” she called again, lifting her gaze as she scurried along, toes catching on loose cobblestones and making the trial of following all the more difficult, “Alright, you can end the night in the gutter if it’s what you really want, but I’m not leaving you alone until you at least let me give you something for the hangover in the morning.” She scurried about him again, cutting him off a second time at the expense of a loose curl falling from her braid. But this time, she held open her bag, revealing a package of unopened bandages, a series of colorful vials, a bottle of water, and Muggle pills. “For headaches -” she pointed to the Muggle bottle, as if he had asked for clarification. 

And yet, she had no intention of simply tossing a potion into his weary hands and leaving - though she was sure she’d not make it with him back to his home. In fact, she knew not just where this would lead. 

“Look,” she thrust her bag forth for but a moment before hugging it to her side once more, “No… Quick Quotes Quills, notebooks, whatever. I may not have any intention of speaking to Rita Skeeter about how your hair looks when you’re drunk -” a pause, an attempt at good-natured humor falling entirely flat, “- but if you spend the night in the gutter, I can guarantee there’ll be a number of morning commuters who won’t be as discreet.” She raised one brow, daring to meet his gaze head-on. This was a look her own mother had always given her when she was being ridiculous. Mary could only hope it would help now. “I understand that I… have no business talking to you like this,” she sighed, tone clipped as she went along with the insinuation, “But you have no business stumbling about like this. You’re going to hurt yourself at the rate you’re going. You’ll just end up at St. Mungo’s anyway.” 

And with that, she put her hands on her hips, and stood. He’d have to barrel her over this time.

For a man who brought so much destruction, Evan never stayed long enough to watch the ruins crumble. Just as he didn’t stay long enough to watch Mary’s resolve shatter as her face scrunched with hurt and her shoulders hunched with defeat---he only moved forward. But despite the physical distance he was putting between them with every staggering step that he took, his mind lingered on the scene he left in his wake. No one with malicious intent would have reacted the way Mary had; if anything, his outburst would have been their cue to bask in their victory and taunt his notoriously fickle pride. To look him in the eyes and hiss that they’ve won. The conclusion gave him a mental pause but his urgency to flee this unprecedented debacle preceded his doubts and so he didn’t stop. Until Mary spoke again.

The incredulity in her question was sharp enough to halt his stilted escape; but rather than give her his full attention, Evan merely braced a palm against the nearest surface and inclined his head minutely in her direction. An indication that he would spare her a few more seconds to clarify, but only that. Instead, Mary didn’t just clarify her inquiry as he expected---she completely obliterated his suspicions.

It was not often that Evan was treated with kindness. He prided himself on his ability to identify the motives that carried into most individuals’ pursuit of him although it was only easy due to the fact that the very same motives often carried into his own pursuit of others. A request made with the intention of something being given in return, a mutually-beneficial proposition, a politically-motivated approach---those were the main frames of reference that added to his efficiency in identifying what one seeked to gain from associating with him and none of them were addled with the notion of kindness. However, he was able to detect it when it was present for it was a notion that he was continually subjected to, once upon a long-forgotten time. Like a beacon, it used to shine a light on all the corners of his life that were now dark and devoid. It used to be in the glimmer of hope in his father’s eyes as he deliberately let him win in chess until Evan called him out on it and learned to win by his own hands. It used to be in the warmth of his mother’s palm as it caressed his cheek. It used to be in the tilt of Evan’s smile when he befriended the outcasts and the underdogs alike in Hogwarts without a care in the world for pretenses or prestige. As rusted and corroded as those memories were, they still lived on in a barren, untouched portion of Evan’s mind. He didn’t want to acknowledge how tangibly he used to recognize kindness in his life---and how cruelly it had been banished from it; but there couldn’t have been any other reason for the way he could spot the trait in Mary, in all of its visceral softness and blunt edges.

And so he listened, his body gradually inclining more and more in her direction; the scowl fading from his brows and leaving a subtle, doubtful furrow in its wake as his eyes flitted from the spark of determination in her eyes and the haste of urgency in her motions, to her bag; open wide, its contents fully exposed. As though Mary had plucked out her heart and unlatched it for Evan to scrutinize it in all of its outpouring sentiment. It was an unnerving sight to behold and thus, Evan looked up to meet her imploring gaze, his expression now bare of hostility and yet pinched in an unbidden grimace, his eyes swimming with a hundred questions and a thousand curiosities. Why? What kind of worth did she find in lending a helping hand that was only shunned and scorned, if her intent was truly selfless? It was uncanny; no human was bare of selfishness and yet here Mary stood, a flesh-and-blood testament to the very principal he had believed was non-existent.

Impulsively, his hand reached up in a half-hearted thread through his unruly curls in a rather vain response to her ill-timed yet strangely appropriate humor. He cleared his throat, lips down-turned indignantly. “I didn’t mean that literally.” He muttered, his body leaning away from her in a stubborn, last-ditch display of suspicion although any such inkling that he would have acted on was ultimately erased by what she had done. There was no way she would have revealed her bag so openly to him if she had something to hide but then again, a liar of his caliber would not underestimate how far some people would go to deceive---a gnawing part of him hoped that he was not unknowingly bearing his throat to a beast in angel’s clothing. "Indeed, you don’t,” He attested sharply, meeting her daring gaze head-on although the heat in his own had been curbed by her assurances. “No. You have no way of knowing where I would end up; you hardly know me.” He retorted, an edge of perplexity pushing into his words.

He sighed, reaching up to rub one of his temples idly as he leaned his back against the wall, fully facing her. A subtle hint of respect pushed into the raise of his eyebrows as he took in the brace of her hands atop her hips. “Clearly, I would have no hope of walking away from you now that you’ve adopted this stance of defiance,” He said, his humor subtle and begrudging, before inclining his head questioningly. “So, Mary MacDonald, how do you suggest that we proceed from this point?”

[mercyforthegreedy]

the angry, the empty, the lonely, the tricked. we are all museums of fear.

charles bukowski (via mercyforthegreedy)

[ofrosier-blog]

↕ ✂

↕ — a memory that may or may not have happened

Dreams can be deceiving.

Sometimes, they are so good that upon waking up, one would be immediately filled with a sense of regret; a heightened awareness of the sheer mediocrity of reality when compared to the dormant infinity of the mind. Other times, when they mutate into nightmares, they are so horrid that upon waking up, one would be filled with breath-taking relief and a humble acceptance of reality in all of its grounded aspects such as logic and tangibility.

But then there are times when one can’t even distinguish if the vision they’ve experienced was merely a floating cloud in the skyline of their mind or a fact, rooted in reality and bound to it. Memories are facts, but when they become intertwined with dreams, it becomes harder to distinguish between the two. Evan doesn’t dream often. He doesn’t quite know why; perhaps it’s because he’s an unimaginative person or perhaps it’s because he’s too accepting of his reality, in all of its burdens and responsibilities, that his mind no longer conjures the reprieve of dreams. Or perhaps it’s just his insomnia.

He doesn’t dream often; so the reasons shouldn’t matter anyway, should they?

But he’s just had a dream---a vision as he wasn’t quite sure if it really had been a dream or if it had just been a random memory prompted to the surface of his mind by the haziness that precedes awakening; the blessed in-between of sleep and lucidity.

In the vision, he was a child and he was holding his mother’s hand as they walked through a broad, seemingly-endless meadow. It had felt so peaceful, as though he had stolen a glimpse through Heaven’s gates---it was the main detail that made him question the validity of the memory. They walked for what felt like an eternity before his mother halted him with a gentle tug on his hand. Bending down, she plucked something from the ground and she rose with a Calendula, grasping its stem delicately between a thumb and a forefinger. The dream version of himself smiled, admiring the stark color of its petals; as though his mother was grasping a floral version of the sun in her hand.

“What is it?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” She answered, eyeing it with the same curiosity reflected in her son’s eyes. “but I’m sure your father does. Botany is quite a passion for him.”

“Most flowers have meanings, don’t they? I wonder what this one means. Do you think Father would know?”

“I think he would. How about we go ask him?”

✂ — a vivid memory

Evan sighs, eyes skimming through his schedule lazily before he groans; they have both Herbology and History of Magic with the Hufflepuff six years today. Both subjects are mind-numbing to him but he supposes that they might prove interesting if he ends up sitting somewhere near Amelia Bones. They share several classes with Hufflepuffs this year and it’s led to an implicit competition between him and Amelia to see who would answer more questions. She was currently ahead of him but he had studied vigorously for their upcoming History of Magic lesson and he’s bound to get one step ahead of her if he answers enough questions today. That is, if Professor Binns even bothers to ask any; he’s particularly negligent in that aspect.

The owl mail starts coming in as usual and Evan sighs again, expecting the usual letter from his mother and a copy of the Daily Prophet. What a drastically uneventful morning this is turning out to be, he thought idly as his owl landed gracefully near his bowl of cereal which he pushed in her direction before unlatching the expected letter and newspaper.

“God, Mother should really find a hobby,” He commented to Barty who was sitting next to him, unrolling the parchment as he spoke. “Not that I don’t enjoy corresponding with her but it’s a bit excessive at this point. Remember how often she sent letters after the Yule Ball?” He elbowed his friend with a chuckle. “When she asked for every detail, she’d meant every detail.”

He was still chuckling by the time he started reading the letter but it only took a few seconds for the color to drain from his face.

Darling, I’m so sorry.

He lowered the letter with a trembling exhale. For a moment, he couldn’t even see. It felt as though the ground had split open beneath him but instead of falling, he was left dangling over the void by the shriveled, sadistic hand of Fate.

Your father has passed.

[lifeinpoetry]

i strip each day of its disguise             & remind myself that everything i have ever loved came richly draped                   in the rags of loss

Scherezade Siobhan, from “somatosensory,” Father, Husband (via aryasnow)

[xxmoved-blog]

memory meme.

[justanotherrpmeme]

past experiences help shape who we are currently, how we see the world. Send in a symbol and I’ll write a drabble of one of my muse’s memories. 

❥ — a childhood memory ♣ — a fading memory ✂ — a vivid memory ✖ — a repressed memory ✈ — an eye-opening memory ✤ — a memory that involves romance/love ☤ — a memory of death/loss ✍ — a memory of their mother ☽ — a memory of their father ♘ -- a memory of their sibling(s) ✌ — a memory of a relative ↕ — a memory that may or may not have happened ♚ — a memory of something paranormal ✓ — a sexual memory ♬ — a friend/best friend memory

[ofrosier-blog]

tcrquinmctavish·:

“A fiendfyre isn’t enough reason?” his tone was flat, the raise of his brow unimpressed as if to drive home the fact just how ridiculous it sounded. They both knew that Evan had, in the past, reacted just as strongly to incidents much smaller He rolled his eyes but his lips quirked in a small anyway, mostly from relief than anything else. “There was reason and yes, you should have,” he corrected him under his breath as Evan led them down the stairs. Evan was all assurances, just like he knew he would be. His hand had been a solid weight on his shoulder and though seeing him had somewhat calmed the storm in his head it had not yet been quelled completely. He hadn’t exactly answered his question and the cut on his cheek hadn’t escaped his notice; Tarquin was sure there were other injuries he was hiding. He didn’t seem to be in any pain but Evan would always hide it until he simply couldn’t anymore. Until it showed through the cracks he had learned to look for.

 The Rosier household had become somewhat of a sanctuary for him in his younger years; he had explored every little corner of the vast estate with Evan and he knew it better than the downtrodden manor he had grown up in. The openness and the view from the balconies usually had a soothing effect on him but this morning, he was far too focused on Evan to let himself be distracted. Instead of taking his usual place on the other recliner, he leaned over him, holding his chin between his fingers and tilting Evan’s face to the side in order to get a proper look at the cut. It wasn’t that it was too bad a cut - in fact, he should have thought nothing of it. He often had bruises of the same variety on what was a fairly regular basis - only that it unsettled him because it was Evan. “You are hurt,” he said quietly and if it had been anyone else, he would have resented the emotion in his tone. But then, had it been anyone else, it would never have been present. “I should have been there,” he added almost apologetically as Tarquin grazed the edge of the cut with his thumb. “It’s not that bad.” Evan already knew that and Tarquin mainly said it for his own benefit than anything else. He needed to hear the words aloud.

He let go, finally sitting down. “I’m not-” Tarquin cut himself off because there was little else his excessive worry could be construed as. He threw him a sharp look and leaned forward, “Fuck’s sake, Ev, just answer my question like a normal person for once. What other injuries?” Up close the signs of exhaustion and weariness were even more apparent. “And you haven’t been sleeping.”

“Yes, it isn’t. What would I have written to you, anyway? A tally of those who were swallowed up by the flames?” Evan drawled, his words deliberately callous; not because he was apathetic towards the incident but simply because it was easier to hide behind the illusion of apathy than confront the root of it. In actuality, there was several aspects of the fiendfyre that he still couldn’t process; primarily the fact that he could have lost both his mother and Barty. The thought prompted him to steal a glance at Tarquin and Evan’s eyes shuttered with renewed relief that his best friend hadn’t been subjected to such danger. Not that he wouldn’t have counted on Tarquin’s survival but knowing him, he definitely would have compromised his safety to find Evan and his mother. Another aspect of the fire that unsettled him was howunprecedented it was. The Minister officially announced that despite continued investigation, it was established that the fiendfyre had been nothing more than a ‘practiced joke’ but Evan was reluctant to believe that. A charm of that scale couldn’t have possibly been a mere joke but at the same time, if it were a premeditated assault, what was the purpose behind it? And who was the perpetrator? Could it have been a covert Death Eater mission? He wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to order an attack that could result in the demise of his own followers but even that narrative seemed to have a missing link.

The risks, the causes, the fallen; they were all aspects that Evan deliberately forgone. Right now, he only wished to focus on his relief that he hadn’t lost anyone in that incident. The emotion lingered, foreign yet calming; easing his bones from their usual tension and halting the rush of his thoughts before gentle fingertips latched onto his chin and just like that, his body seized with tension once again. He looked up at Tarquin in a mild glare of exasperation. “No, Tarq, we would have only slowed each other down and you know that. Besides, you couldn’t have seen that coming. No one did.” He willed his body to relax, briefly reaching up to grip Tarquin’s forearm in silent reassurance before urging his hand away. He gave a sharp exhale as his companion settled in his seat before frowning, mild irritation pushing into his tone as he responded, “God, you’re relentless. The fire grazed my arm, alright, but the burn was mild and I treated it as soon as I came back. That’s it. Have I quelled your suspicions? Are you satisfied now?” Evan looked away, jaw clenching as he battled the scowl that threatened to take over his expression. Anyone else would have received a scathing response to such an observation but Tarquin was always an exception to the rule; Evan merely shrugged despite his inward discomfort. “Work’s been a bit hectic so I’ve had a lot of paperwork to go over, that’s all. I stay up late for it and you know that. It’s nothing new.”

[ofrosier-blog]

ameliathejust‌:

Amelia had been biting her tongue the entire night.  Not for Evan’s sake because what he deserved was a wake up call, but for the sake of the people in the room. Cooperation was necessary if everyone was going to escape with minimal injuries. Any trace of vulnerability was immediately buried deep into her core once she recognized  that she and Evan were the only competent people in the room. Even with her back to him, she could feel the heavy weight of his judgment on her as she tended to people and casted Bubble-Head charms on people. At least, she had done something instead of wasting time and oxygen pacing around the room like a headless chicken. The fire had devoured everything on the other side of the room, leaving her to rely on magic to conjure things to slow down the fire. As hard as she or Evan tried, Amelia was aware that control was out of their hands. The panicked atmosphere had permeated through the entire room faster than the smoke could. 

She would never forget the day she found her parents or the promise she made to avenge them. Death was coming for her, but Amelia was truly prepared to die for the cause. However, tonight wasn’t the day. She refused for her last moments to be wasted on Evan Rosier. 

“The other side of the room is where the windows are though. Opening the windows is our best chance of escaping,” she pointed out, keeping most of her frustration out of her voice.  As of right now, any pettiness between her and Evan would addressed later. Even if she wanted nothing more than to silence him.  “A cursebreaker is currently working on undoing the wards,” she added as she conjured up gauze for someone to use. 

“And how are you supposed to open the windows when you’re leading all these people towards them?” Evan asked, frowning at the expression on Amelia’s face. He was close enough to her that he could see it even through the fire---an expression of such calm that it was bordering on apathy. “They’d only hold you back.” No proclamation of support was made as Evan believed that opening the windows would be completely pointless with a fire of this magnitude; if anything, the wind outside might feed into the flames and intensify them. He was only inquiring on Amelia’s plan to try and glimpse her trail of thought; he would never admit it out loud but she was the only person in this room, aside from himself, with the capability of finding a way out. There was no else here that he knew and he couldn’t bring himself to rely on the help of a stranger. He distrusted Amelia and he knew the sentiment was reciprocated but it was crucial that they cooperate because for twenty minutes, Evan had tried to find a solution on his own and only came up empty-handed. Surprisingly enough, Amelia seemed at as much of a loss as he was, her focus solely trained on helping others with seemingly no regard for her own well-being. Or Evan’s input, for that matter; his fingers cinched in the piece of cloth he was holding to his mouth and nose but he took a few careful steps towards her despite his irritation.

Her following words gave him pause. “Well, you don’t see them making any progress, do you? Are you just going to sit there and be the resident caregiver?” It was as close as he was going to get to uttering the words; help me figure this out, god damn it. Upon crouching before her, Evan observed Amelia quietly as she shuffled around before muttering, “These people know magic just as well as you and I. They can take care of themselves. You’re needlessly wearing yourself out, Bones.”

[ofrosier-blog]

tcrquinmctavish‌:

date: 15th july 1979 time: 7 am location: rosier manor status: closed for @ofrosier

Tarquin regretted not attending that wretched auction. He made it a point to avoid events like those like the plague- he had, had enough of Pureblood society as it was but he knew Evan had been present and the news of the Fiendfyre had jolted him. At least if he had been there he would have been able to keep an eye on him. He tried telling himself that Evan could handle himself and if he had been hurt, someone would have let him know but logic never stood a chance in front of his overactive imagination and his fear for Evan’s safety. 

It was too early for a visit but their friendship was far past formalities of any kind and so, Tarquin found himself apparating outside the manor’s doors, his mind a mess of jumbled up thoughts and worst case scenarios. Unreasonably, he dreaded the scene that would greet him and wasn’t particularly comforted as the house elf opened the door and it was the same as it always had been. He hurried past the creature, his footsteps echoing in the hall. “Evan!” He called as he headed for the stairs. He needed to see him, anything would be better than the worry gnawing at his heart when he received no reply. He took the stairs two at a time, calling out his name again. And then Evan, appeared at the top of the stairs. His heartbeat slowed down as he swept his eyes over his figure. He looked fine but that meant nothing. His knuckles were white from holding onto the railing so hard and he loosened his grip, letting out a sigh of exasperation and concern. “Would it have killed you to send an owl?” His voice was still tense, and his eyes sharp and intent. Evan looked exhausted but that was a different conversation. “Are you hurt?” 

The moment he felt the tug in his gut alerting him to a presence within the barrier set around the manor, Evan immediately knew that it was Tarquin. The last time they had seen each other was a few days before the auction and it made sense that he would rush over here to make sure that Evan was alright upon seeing news coverage of the fiendfyre. Besides, the aura of his magic was as familiar to him as his own. With a sigh, Evan took off his glasses before throwing them atop his papers and exiting his office room. Tarquin was already halfway up the stairs.

“I had no reason to, Tarq, but I recognize that I should have sent one, anyway.” Evan responded with a placating smile, trying to assure his best friend’s concerns before they escalated. He descended the stairs, coming up in front of Tarquin before grasping his shoulder, privately indulging his relief that he didn’t have a reason to reciprocate the other man’s concern. “Come. Let’s sit in the balcony.” He patted his shoulder heartily before leading them both down the stairs and towards one of the broad balconies in the reception area; it was their favorite place to spend time together inside the manor but they usually elected to hang out either on the grounds or somewhere in London. Evan actually had it in mind to ask Tarquin that they go somewhere tonight; mainly out of a desire to rid him of his worry rather than an actual need to go out. He had done quite enough of that last week. He waved his palm nonchalantly behind him, indicating that Tarquin had nothing to worry about. His right forearm was grazed by the fire but the family healer had already coated it with a salve that ought to leave it completely healed by tomorrow. That was the only injury he had sustained aside from a cut on his cheek from a collapsing piece of rubble. Overall, his injuries were inconsequential enough that there was no need for Tarquin to know about them; they would be gone in a matter of days.

He took a seat on a recliner, stretching his arms behind him. “I know I should have sent an owl as soon as that shit show was over but I just thought it was unnecessary. Just as your current fussing is unnecessary.”

[ofrosier-blog]

ofshacklebolt‌:

7.16.79 Ministry of Magic 10:32 AM @ofrosier​

At a loss, Kingsley draws back from the door. But the temptation is too strong. It has been a long time since he has spoken to Evan in anything but a professional capacity. Their arguments in the library are so long ago that they might as well have been different people. Certainly, they had both left Hogwarts with the mutual understanding that they would never speak to each other with anything approaching openness again. Even now, the half-buried rancor of seventh year weighs on him. He replays their small-talk from the last few months, but finds no clue on what has changed. Instead, he finds the ghosts of their last conversation at Hogwarts in every image of the Zabini Estate that has been seared into his memories. 

Sparing one more look at the glossy tag that reads “Evan Rosier” by the office, Kingsley knocks. “Auror Shacklebolt,” he says, slow and clear. “May I have a word?” 

Evan blinked; despite the starkness of the words that had just resonated through his door, for a moment he was actually willing to pretend that he hadn’t heard anything. But then Kingsley asked if he could have a word with him and Evan knew he had to acknowledge his presence. The last thing he had expected today was a run-in with an estranged Hogwarts friend of his---if he could even identify Kingsley as that. Not when they were brought together as adults by nothing more than professional disregard on Evan’s part and poised disappointment on Kinglsey’s, the latter of which always leaving Evan with a foul taste in his mouth and an acidic recollection of memories he had believed to be long forgotten. The fact that he would be going into this interaction without any pretext or preparation caused Evan’s shoulders to seize with tension but he ignored it as he went about fixing the disarrayed state of his desk as much as he could---he knew it would give Kinglsey an impression of his current state of mind; he wouldn’t put it past an analyst of his caliber.

Upon sitting back on his chair, Evan smoothed the collar of his shirt before ushering the door open with a flourish of his hand. As Kingsley entered, Evan greeted him with a nod. “Hello, Kingsley,” He gestured at a chair. “What can I help you with?”

[wordsnquotes]

Do you know how much thinking and feeling I’ve done? It’s terrible. And nothing’s come of it.

Platonov, Andrei. Happy Moscow (via alec-lighwood)

[ofrosier-blog]

ofbelltrix‌:

“ You really don’t know what is and what isn’t my business, Rosier. ” She looked him up and down as though she were judging him – which, of course, she is. What happened back with the hostages was not planned as far as she knew, which was a lot when it came to the Dark Lord’s plans, and to her, this meant that Evan Rosier was up to something and that was not good. “ And what case were you working on tonight? Please, continue to indulge me on why you cannot take one night off to help me understand what is going on. ” Evan Rosier is many things to her and right now, trustworthy is not one of them. “ I thought we were all on the same side, Evan. We are friends are we not? Surely there is nothing more important than friendship. ” This was completely laughable but she didn’t bother to show it. Instead, she facades a look of hurt, acting as though his needing to leave affected her in such a way, it doesn’t.

But she can only act for so long before the annoyance of this situation rushes back to her and her face turns more into a scowl than one of hurt. Every word that came out his mouth just left her even more suspicious of his actions. If she could kill him right here and now, that would be too merciful for Rosier, especially if it turns out they are a traitor. “ Last I checked the only thing you are entitled to is following the Dark Lord’s orders and you torturing them alone, interrogating them, is everything but what you are entitled to. ” 

She did her best to keep her face neutral but in reality, she was storming inside, especially at the fact that he dared to laugh at this situation. It wasn’t any form of laughing matter, rather the exact opposite. All of this was proving that Rosier was not only acting without the Dark Lord’s orders but rather acting upon their own which can be incredibly dangerous. “ You have many reasons to lie, don’t deny that, ” she snapped back at him. “ I do not believe you. In fact, I believe that you were wanting information on something other than information that would benefit the Dark Lord and what that information is, I do not know but if you don’t tell me, I ensure you that I will discover it myself. ” Bellatrix did not comment on the praise he is daring to claim the Dark Lord gave him. That was a joke, much like Rosier himself.

“As a matter of fact, I do. If it concerns me then it’s no one’s business but my own. You don’t see me questioning your socialite practices, do you? It’s none of my business.” He simpered with an elegant shrug, emphasizing Bellatrix’s social position as though it were beneath him. Perhaps it was unwise of him to insult her when she was already frustrated with him to begin with but what was the loss in poking a dragon when you were already in its line of fire? He felt nothing but satisfaction as he delivered the words; he would continue to indulge Bellatrix and her psychotic paranoia but he drew the line at her attempt at invading his privacy. “Understand what’s going on? Why, you sound so dreadfully confused, Bellatrix. I doubt involving yourself in my cases will do much to inform you, I’m afraid. Your answers lie elsewhere but --” He gave a goading chuckle, unable to resist the opportunity to drop his poised mask and make the infallible Bellatrix Lestrange feel as small as the weaklings she torched on a daily basis. She was a fool for taking him as her next target; he was far from a weakling. “-- I’m sure you’ll find them if you look in the right place.”

He scoffed at her pitiful attempt at feigning hurt. “Here we go. This is more comfortable. After all, you’re not much of a pretender, are you, Lestrange?” He whispered, his eyes taking in the enraged scowl as it formed on Bellatrix’s face but any menace it withheld was completely wasted by the hypocrisy of her following words. And he made sure she knew that. “Oh, so you’re entitled to torture and murder whenever it suits your whims but I’m not even though my goal was mainly the mission and not mere bloodlust? Do you wish to delude me into believing you require the Dark Lord’s permission every time you set your eyes on a new prey? Hm?”

“So?” He grinned. “The Dark Lord believes me and so, your opinion might as well be compared to the buzzing of a fly. Or do you wish to imply that you don’t trust our Lord’s judgement?” He paused to let the effect of his words settle between them like the dew of acidic rain and then he sighed, crossing his arms against his chest as though he were willing himself to be patient against a child throwing a temper tantrum. “By all means, discover whatever you wish. I’ll even help you. There were several other Death Eaters present at my manor that night and they knew full well what I was interrogating Lupin for; feel free to question them if you’re so inclined. And question yourself while you’re at it,” He couldn’t believe he had actually been wary of Bellatrix at first. She had nothing to hold against him. “After all, I allowed you into the room. Maybe you caught the tail-end of me expressing my ulterior motives without realizing it.”

[ofrosier-blog]

reguluslegatum‌:

Regulus had always felt uncomfortable with the power imbalance between the two of them, but now it just felt more tangible, and he couldn’t stand it. That combined with the fact that the very place where they were, a place Regulus once enjoyed as a popular spot for him to be with his friends, was now a reminder of what he had done wrong, because of what had been done just outside. He watched Evan’s face as he spoke, feeling as though it was funny how the two of them had changed places as to who was asking what and who was responding. He wondered if he believed Evan, figured that maybe he shouldn’t, and then wondered if he was projecting. He let out a sigh that he didn’t know he was holding in and shrugged, looking away to see if the waiter was back with their drinks yet, though he’d only walked away. “Fine.” He picked at the skin around his thumb, already raw. “Have anything more specific to ask?”

Evan’s lips pursed; it was a bitter sight to witness as he watched Regulus’s apprehension manifest itself in his body language. For quite some time now, they had been making significant progress in their communication; a few weeks ago, he would have even dared to describe Regulus’s company as pleasant. Evan thought he might not have to sit through another bout of agonizing silence and coiling tension with the younger man ever again and yet, here he was. Sitting through it all the same. It was only natural that he would be aggravated especially when he could see that, once again, Regulus wasn’t contributing to relieving the tension in any way. He simply sat there and let it unravel him. Why? What was leaving him so wound up? Considering how well their last interaction had gone, it couldn’t be Evan’s presence that was discomforting him, could it? He clenched his jaw to reign his emotions in and braced his cheek against his fist as he turned more directly towards his companion; his posture expressing what he wouldn’t say. We’re not leaving until we work through whatever’s troubling you and it’s up to you to set the pace. “No. I thought we’d established that I don’t have an ulterior motive. Didn’t we?” He eyed Regulus pointedly. “I’m only here to see how you’re doing, not to get any information out of you. You, on the other hand, seem to be holding something back.”