1981

The wind blows through the high branches, and his steps crush the dead leaves as he runs, as he runs as fast as he can, as he tries to save his life and as he begs for some superior force to help him and grace him, for if there is a God, he has no mercy and he is not as forgiving as the muggles claim him to be, that, he is certain of. A God would not allow His children to kill each other mercilessly, ruthlessly, in cold blood.

His white face is stained with blood that does not belong to him, and so is his white shirt, torn in some places while dirt covers it, from when he had slipped and fell in the ravine further back. His lungs are empty and his throat is raw and yet he still runs because if he stops, they'll kill him and wear his skin like a trophy, and he cannot have that, no. The littlest dignity he has left is stocked in his grand escape.

He doesn't want to think about what his mother and father would think, does not want to think about his whole entire family, for they would not understand why is he doing what he is doing, and they would judge him and disinherit him, even if he knows that he is doing the right choice.

It is not from pureblood supremacy that he runs away, but it is from war. They were promised a Revolution and they got a war instead. And Evan did not like being told what to do, he despised the idea of being bossed around by a bloody buggering filthy half-blood whose mother was a squib and father a muggle. He had no merit and was the filthiest of them all, and yet here he was, proclaiming himself as Lord Voldemort, a man who resembled death more than life and whose ugliness reflected his insides.

Evan is a handsome boy, at least, he always has been. He has always been told so by the older women at events hosted by the Sacred Twenty-Eight, blonde hair combed to perfection, skin cleared of all scars, eyes glowing with malice and knowledge, expensive robes reflecting his wealth and status. He was the most handsome Slytherin boy in his year, which was not very complicated considering the fact that the only people he had to compete against were Slimy Snape, Monobrow Mulciber and Ugly Avery. The Slytherin girls therefore fawned over him and sold themselves to him in their years back at school, ignoring the big incrusted ring on his finger signifying his allegiance to his family and future wife, Esme Lestrange. It was a disgusting rebellion against their parents, whilst for Evan it only proved his power as a handsome and powerful pureblood.

But it's different now, it's all different with the war. He had joined the Dark Lord's army, believing it to be only the Death Eaters, the Revolutionists, and had agreed to serve this man who held so much power and intelligence all at the same time. For three years he served him with fidelity and merit, believing it to be the right thing until the reality came through, in the form of an epiphany that struck him hard and told him what to do: to desert.

There is no point fighting if it is a war, for a war is not what he wants. He wants to throw the government and reestablish pureblood supremacy, for him and his circle of Sacred Twenty-Eight to be powerful once again. He wants to crush the government. He does not want war. Fighting against other men and murdering them in cold blood is not what he wants, it is pathetic and beneath him.

His hands that have once been fragile from never having been used are now broken and bruised, fingers missing a few nails in some places and skin torn right off in others. His right eye is bruised beyond point and his legs are trembling, weak, yet he does not stop running through the dark woods, the cries of men and animals echoing in the afar, plaguing his mind with haunting sights of boys younger than him, begging for their mother to come and soothe them, begging for mercy, screaming at the top of their lungs,

"Mummy! Mummy please! Get me out of here, oh Merlin!"

And they are grown men, supposedly.

But war takes away your manhood the same way it takes away your dignity and all of your pride, leaving behind merely the shadow of the person you once were. And if you try to run away, man or woman, you are chased and hunted down like an animal until you are dead.

But Evan won't have that. He'll leave the country, he says, go to Ireland, or maybe even America, or even France, he's got ancestors there. But he's sick of Great Britain and of its people, he needs change and he needs it now, and he understands why did Regulus Black desert so much earlier on. The boy, even at age sixteen, had already figured that the Dark Lord's intentions were foul and selfish, and he had been killed for it, or so it was said.

He stops. He hears movement. The familiar crushing of leaves under one's foot. The heavy breathing, the low chatter, there's three, or maybe even four of them. He ducks and places a hand over his mouth for them not to hear him. And he watches.

"They said they saw him heading in this direction,"whispers one, a woman by the looks of things,"he can't be far now."

The second one is a man,"I saw something, I think."

The last one does not speak, and merely observes in exchange. His wand is out and he points it around him, and Rosier wishes he could remember the concealment charm, but he can't for the life of himself, and simply begs for them not to find him instead. The wound on his head starts stinging again, and he feels his blood sliding down the back of his neck, from his bloody, dripping hair.

"If only we had Black with us,"says the first man again,"that lad's got an incredible sense of smell, he has. Almost like a dog or something, you know?"

"Shut up Podmore,"hushes the woman.

The third man is approaching him dangerously, and Evan knows he'll soon be discovered, and he has to fight if he doesn't want to end up in Azkaban with all his other ex-fellow Death Eaters.

"Avada Kedavra!"he yells, jumping from his hiding, but the man is swift and rejects it with a certain ease. He's an auror. The two others immediately join in, and a battle in between Evan, and the three members of the Order of the Phoenix then starts. Evan is stronger though, he knows he is, for the magic coursing through his veins is ancient of many centuries and is therefore one of the purest and darkest, and he knows how to use his wand to harm people. The silent auror gets a piece of his face sliced off clean, and he cries out in pain before to carry on fighting like a madman, and he's the one to throw the final spell.

Evan collapses in the crunching, browning leaves in a heavy thud, eyes wide open, staring at the void, wand dropped and retrieved by Podmore. The female is the one to check if he is really dead, and she nods when she has confirmation that he is.

"Why was he so far into the woods on his own though?"she asks, observing his unmoving, handsome face. In the flick of a wand, it is cleared of all blood and dirt, and only the ugly bruise remains. She stares for a second, but does not speak as she does.

"He's a deserter, Emmeline,"manages to growl the auror,"I saw the desperation in his eyes. And only deserters bare it."

(written by kencbi)