THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS, lily evans

deux, where on earth is evan rosier?

However, Daphne has since then managed to work out that arachnophobia lasts a lifetime and Evan Rosier is ( pardon her French ) fucking impossible to track down, especially when every bloody corridor in Hogwarts is near enough identical.

Her silver and emerald tie is unfamiliar and asphyxiating as she saunters through the halls like a tourist, Stevie at her side and a tired looking Roger wandering a bit further behind — Cian had, of course, turned up his nose and shoved his face back into his pillow ( Roger's words, not her own ), making it clear that his sleep is far more important than helping them. Daphne is beginning to agree.

The sun is just skimming the grand munros outside, dustings of melting snow cresting their peaks. Cobwebs are spun in the crevices of the faded stained glass windows, glistening with morning dew and condensation from the prismatic glass. A number of ghosts mill through the halls with a certain coldness hanging around them, intangible and grey, mystified in the haze of a distant afterlife as they drag about their life's purpose like shackles. Portraits snore away unashamedly in their aureate frames, oil-painting reflections of ancient people lost in history's never ending labyrinth. A vague waxing moon curves in a cradle of misty morning clouds, the enchanting light of it diminishing as the sun parades across the sky — it'll be gone by first period, swathed in silken cerulean and lost in a hidden cosmos.

Romeo pokes his fluffy little head out of Stevie's bag, yawning heartily.

  "Are you certain he'll be up yet, Roger?" Daphne asks, eyeing the face of her watch strangely.

  Roger waves his hand dismissively. "Oh, yeah. He always gets up dead early to have a smoke before the prefects can find him."

  "He sounds completely out of his mind," Stevie murmurs, rubbing her turquoise eyes with fervour.

He beams at her, pearly teeth glittering. "I'm sure it runs in the family."

The Great Hall is deserted, those four long tables that stretch the length of the grand room empty. Birds whistle and coo in the vast courtyards outside — a distant whisper from the faraway world managing to slip inside and echo before it sputtered out. Silence is palpable, their clicking shoes being the only other noise brave enough to pierce through the veil of quiet that had been cast over the room. Despite all this eerie stillness, a lanky figure is hunched over at the centre of the Slytherin table, poking his fork at a full plate as he read the Daily Prophet with interest.

His honey curls lay over his forehead in carefully styled chaos, eyes the same sparkling cerulean as Stevie's. Although regality curves around his sharp features, that same boyishness from before is still evident in the smattering of freckles over his nose and the enchanting warmth of his dimples. He leaps to his feet when he spots them, a smile made of stardust playing on his lips as he greets them jovially. Evan's robes are askew, but he hardly lets it bother him as he throws his arms wide, inviting and welcoming.

  "Ah, there are my favourite cousins!"

  "And your only cousins," Stevie reminds him pointedly.

  "Details, details. I was wondering where you'd run off to after the feast yesterday," he went on. "Our good old grandmother owled me just the other night to tell me that I need to keep an eye out for you two."

  He gives them both a hasty kiss on each cheek, embracing them in a death grip and muttering kind small talk in French.

  "Come and sit," Evan insists, his grin never fading from his face as he beckons them over to his side. "Merlin, Roger, I haven't seen you in yonks. How are you doing?"