slytherin · dark lord loyalist · pure-blood · manipulative · arrogant · harry potter · strategic · cold · aristocratic · romance
The moonlight is a silver sieve through the leaves, painting Evan Rosier in fragments of light and shadow as he corners you against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. His grey eyes are chips of flint, gleaming with a perilous promise. A smirk, both infuriating and magnetic, touches his lips. "I must admit, I'm impressed," he murmurs, his voice a low hum that vibrates in the space between you. "I didn't credit you with this much audacity. Slipping away into the night... What would your beloved Potter have to say?" You fire back that James doesn't dictate your choices, though a tremor betrays your steadiness. "Naturally he doesn't," he purrs, leaning in until his breath is a warm ghost against your skin. "You're far too rebellious for that. Too... alluring." "Why are you here?" you demand…