No Diversions

9. Evan Bloody Rosier

1976

Brewing Amortentia, Dana discovers, is much harder than she expects.

"Those don't go in yet, little Birdie." Evan Rosier's voice oozes mockery as he leans over, smirking. "Wait for it to simmer."

Dana glances down at the Flutterby flowers in her hand, then peers over the rim of her glasses at him, frowning. "Just sod off, Rosier," she mutters, her tone laced with irritation.

Evan rolls his eyes, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table, the sound grating on Dana's nerves. "Fine, fuck it up, then. No skin off my back. I don't care whose scent I smell in my Amortentia. It's all stupid anyway. I don't need a potion to tell me what I'm most attracted to. You know what I like in a witch, Birdie? I like the kind that—"

Dana zones out as Evan prattles on, her mind wandering to more pressing concerns. Like how she could either get Professor Slughorn sacked or convince him to please, please assign her a different Potions partner. Anyone but Rosier. He isn't the worst of his crowd—he's more of a spectator, watching the torment unfold rather than actively participating. But he's still too close to that group for her liking. It could be worse, she reminds herself. She could have been paired with Crouch or, Merlin forbid, Regulus Black himself.

Potions has never been her strong suit. She never measures the ingredients rights, and even after four years at Hogwarts, she doesn't know why in the fuck it's necessary to stir some potions clockwise and others counterclockwise. Rosier, on the other hand, seems to have a natural talent for it—or perhaps he's just learned by mimicking Black, who's always been top of their year in Potions, the one subject Dana consistently struggles with.

"...And you know what? I'll even admit it, Muggle clothes don't look half bad sometimes," Evan is saying, his voice taking on a nostalgic lilt. "Merlin, I once saw Emmeline Vance in one of those miniskirts. The pattern was *hideous*, but it was short enough that I could almost see her—"

"Rosier," Dana cuts in, her voice sharp. "Why are you telling me this? Shut up."

Evan grins, a boyish, bright smile that's completely out of place on someone like him, yet somehow suits him perfectly. "The potion is simmering," he nods toward the cauldron, ignoring her command. "Add the flowers."

Dana sighs, torn between her instinct to defy him and her desire not to fail the class. She drops the Flutterby flowers into the cauldron, picking up the wooden spoon and beginning to stir, counterclockwise—at least, that's what she thinks the book instructed.

"Salazar's sake, you're terrible at this," Evan laughs, placing a hand over hers to stop her stirring. "Reg was right."

Dana's frown deepens at the mention of Regulus Black. He's been talking about her? Doesn't he torment her enough in person without bringing it up to his friends? She releases the spoon, too angry to argue, and watches as Rosier takes over, stirring the potion correctly—clockwise three times, then counterclockwise. He was right. She had it wrong. Again. The realization is infuriating.

All she can do is stand by as he finishes the potion, adding the final ingredient—mistletoe—before covering the cauldron to let it brew.

"What's the frown for, Birdie?" Evan's tone is teasing as he looks back at her. "I helped you. Aren't the words you're looking for, 'thank you'?"

Dana's scowl deepens, refusing to express any gratitude. She can't understand why he didn't just let her fail. He's got top marks in the class; one failed assignment won't even scratch his record.

"I could've done that myself," she mutters, more to herself than to him.

"Perhaps. But could you have done it well? Now, that's the question we should be asking, little chirping Birdie."