Evan Rosier (merdenoms_) wrote in midnight__clear,
Evan Rosier

tag: regulus

Evan paced the empty room, sharp footsteps echoing off the tiled walls. His gaze kept switching from the locked door, to the stool pushed in front of it, and to his wand that lay on one of the porcelain sinks against the furthest wall. His white shirt hung half open on his skinny shoulders, sleeves rolled up hastily to the elbows, tie hanging in a clump on the floor somewhere.

With a breath, he turned on his heel and walked up to one of the sinks. Resting his hands around the rim, Evan stared hard into his reflection.


He saw nothing. He wasn’t there anymore - he shouldn’t be there anymore. He felt numb, like his soul had been ripped out raw from his eyes and shattered beneath him like glass. His Father, the man who would show him affection in the most warped of ways, was dead. Gone. Fed to a disease that they had yet to discover the name of.

Fumbling for his wand, Evan gripped it between shaking fingers, pointing the tip towards himself, between his eyes. But it was like he had lost the power of speech. That first word, useless without its companion, tumbled helplessly from his lips in hoarse whispers, but he couldn’t get the last bit out, no matter how hard he tried.


With a desperate, dry sob, he flung his wand to the floor, watching as it bounced off the plumbing with a sharp ‘clack!’, rolling underneath a shower stall. He was such a coward - he couldn’t even kill himself in a dignified way. Licking his dry lips, his eyes scanned the room, landing on one of the older Slytherin’s wash bags, dull razor shining faintly in the dark of the bathroom. Swallowing hard, Evan marched up to the bag and swiped the blade out, bringing it close to his face and staring at its edge carefully. It would be slow. It would be painful.

Like Father.

He glanced at his bared wrists, and snorted sardonically. It was almost as if he had prepared.

Tapping the blade on his arm, Evan took a deep breath and walked away from the sinks, every footstep further into the back of the room becoming slower than the last. Pressing his back up against the cool tiles, he slid down until he was sitting on the damp floor, one leg outstretched in front of him, the other curled up against his chest. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and thought about his home, about the summer, and drew a deep ragged line across the flesh of his right wrist.
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