basildestiny | Not a Ghost

So if you didn't know, I play Evan Rosier in a MWPP era game. And this is a reaction fic to a very sad fic my friend, Maile, who plays Maeve in the game.

"MOODY! Are you ok? ...That explosion!" A male figure bent over a body on the floor. A female bent over another body on the floor.

"Good Merlin," the female whispered in a shock. "Bloody war." She turned away. "How is he?" She asked her counterpart, hoping for better news.

"Oh Merlin! Moody! His face!" Blood more than trickled down Moody's face. He was alive, but knocked nearly unconscious. He was dazed.

"Let's get him checked out," the female spoke again. Alastor Moody would never have agreed to leave if his senses weren't knocked out of him.

Evan Rosier watched the trio leave. He watched as more aurors arrived to straighten things out. He watched as the body was taken away. Evan was aware of the fact that he was dead. He had denied having any connections to muggles his entire life. He had denied being an animal, but he found that now his instincts were in high gear. And that he was dead.

This wasn't some tv or movie show with the lights and the tunnels and the clouds. He was still Evan Rosier, but he was more. He no longer existed in the world in which he had once existed, and yet he still did. He had been made aware of the fourth dimension. And so his memories remained, clearer than they could ever have been. But Evan was also aware of things that weren't just his memories.

He felt a sudden urge to follow Moody. He had blown off part of Moody's nose. He felt a sudden connection to Moody in his disorientation. Death has a way of inundating someone, especially someone like Evan Rosier who hadn't been expecting his death.

Moody. His thoughts focused on Moody again and suddenly he found himself next to Alastor. He was protesting, saying everything was fine, demanding to know why he was there, what was the big fuss? Evan had been so terrified of the dementors. He had been near them a few times since they had an allegience to the Dark Lord. His thoughts would turn to the looks of horror on his victim's faces. He relived their deaths. It had always bothered him that these images when brought on by the dementors did not bring the satisfaction he had felt when he had committed the original acts. Without the dementors, those memories weren't haunting at all. Evan Rosier had never wanted to admit that it frightened him.

And if the dementors didn't provoke those particular memories, then he was haunted by betrayals from people he loved. Evan had always preferred the crucio curce to the dementors' torment. The pain was understandable, but the torment was maddening. Moody had wanted to arrest him, put him on trial where Evan would neither renounce the Dark Lord nor testify against his friends and therefore he would be sent to Azkaban and given to the dementors. A panic had risen inside of him. An irrational panic. It wasn't Moody's fault that Evan was dead. Moody had intended to take Evan back alive. Moody was a good man who refused to sink to the Death Eaters' level. No, it was Evan's fault. He refused to go to Azkaban. He couldn't go. He wouldn't go. He would escape the aurors and run! Run where? He loved serving Lord Voldemort. He loved Maeve McGonagall. He wouldn't be able to hide and they would find him. He had gotten desperate and struggled with Moody. And Evan had gotten what he deserved.

He stared at Moody in a quiet contemplative moment, trying to wrap his mind around it all. People scurried around him. Feeling better, Moody was trying to give orders. Word was getting out. Owls were coming and going. He heard the name "McGonagall." Suddenly he found himself in front of an emerald-robed McGonagall. She wasn't in the hospital, but she seemed very upset. He was certain that a tear or two fell as she finished drafting a letter. He knew why she cried now. It had nothing with him or Moody. It was the grief a mother feels for her child when bad news is on the way.

A child. The child. Evan watched as Minerva handed the letter to an owl. It spread its wings and glided into the sky. Evan watched Minerva a moment longer and then followed the owl. He found himself going to a very familiar flat--his flat. He walked through the door as he always did and watched her open the letter. She already knew in her heart what the letter would say. She hoped for the least dreadful outcome. The result she had tried to orchestrate, but she had known all along that her Evan was not to be underestimated.

He watched her and wished he could comfort her, but he knew and grimly accepted the harsh reality that he could no longer comfort her. He knew her misguided intention. If he could have felt emotion at the moment he would have felt sad, guilty or even cheated. She had always ever loved him and somehow this solution seemed the only one left to her. He didn’t blame her for it. Was there really any other solution? He had been stubborn in clinging to his beliefs. Death made them seem a lot less important. And still he felt numb.

He watched his Maeve in his numb trance. He sat beside her. He wanted to touch her, console her, tell her he didn’t blame her. But he knew already. Knew she was and would always be inconsolable to him. He knew that she would soon find out that her increased need to be with him before the plan was set into motion had created a child. He also knew that she would never see its face. That its fate was to be his own. He watched her with a numb sadness. He wasn’t a ghost. He had no unfinished business to the place. He had no reason to haunt anyone. And Evan Rosier wasn’t afraid of death. He was something different from a ghost. He was a memory. Many memories.