Disclaimer: No, no, I still don't own Harry Potter; if I did, there'd be a much, much more informative…bio/past-thing…on the younger Death Eaters.

Full Circle
By: I'm So Insane I'm Normal

It's funny, he thinks, as he dodges another spell. It's funny that moments before what will be his dying day—and he knows it will, because really, the chances of getting out alive and to see her shining eyes and beaming smile was so low it hurt to even think about it—all he can even think of is what their child would have looked like, what their initials would have been, what their first word would have been.

The initials would have been horrible for a boy, and fairly amusing for a girl. 'H.E.R.' Her. And all he could even dream of having was a little boy to fool around with, to take flying on windy days when she said no, a boy that would steal his wand ages before his eleventh birthday to see what was so amusing about a stick, a little boy whose first words would be 'Dada'.

It was only a dream. A simple fantasy created from snatched moments in small alcoves and high up on towers late at night. But he wants it to be real; he wants that little boy she has to be his, with his hair, his nose, his everything except for those green, green eyes that couldn't belong to anyone but her.

The day she told him that whatever was happening between them had to stop was the day he learned she was engaged to that nagging little Gryffindor who had been vying for her heart since fifth year. She didn't realize that there were two Slytherins who had wanted her heart much, much longer than that, but somehow he knew that even if she did know, she still would have become Lily Evans Potter, and he couldn't have changed that.

They didn't see each other for years. He was on one side of the war, she another. Only on a raid did he see that flashing auburn hair again and he knew, with only a glance at her changed shape, that their child—his dream—was broken because it was Potter's right, and it would be Potter's child, and the pain, the mind-splitting pain tore through him. He didn't cry out, though, and for that he was proud. She didn't have any control over him anymore, but he knew that was a lie.

Now, pressed against a cool stone pillar and breathing harshly, his mind wanders back to those days when all that stood between them was a simple tie stating boldly which House they were in.

They had Transfiguration together, on the very first day of classes in their first year. Gryffindor and Slytherin, green and red. McGonagall had them spilt and thrown together in moments, and he found himself sitting next to a scrawny redheaded witch who he could tell was a Muggleborn—Mudblood, and beneath him. His blood, one of the purest of all, was held on a pedestal above this smarmy little witch who thought she was so great.

First year passed without him paying an iota of attention to little Mudblood Lily Evans and second and third year followed, and each of those years they were always, always placed next to each other in Transfiguration. By then it was fourth year, and his aristocratic blood was showing now more than ever as his voice cracked and changed, and she was becoming more of a woman each and every day—not that he even noticed her changes the way she did his.

Her first words to him were soft and hesitant, almost as if she didn't know if it was allowed or not but she plowed on with the recklessness found only in a Gryffindor and told him that his spell would blow up in his face if he continued to do it the way he was. Of course, she was nothing more than a little Mudblood to him, and a few minutes later he was scowling in the hospital wing while she hovered uncertainly by his bed, hiding a faint smile when the nurse pulled away the hand that was pressed gingerly to the searing cut across his cheek.

After that 'incident' he stayed far away from Mudblood Evans, though he could feel her open her mouth and then close it abruptly in class. He didn't expect to run into her—literally—one day outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom on the second floor, and she stood up suddenly and rubbed at her eyes furiously. He acted as though he had seen nothing and only gave her a hand up—Mudblood she was, he was still a Rosier and that name meant something to him unlike the other Pureblood male heirs strutting about—before leaving just as quickly as he had arrived.

Something changed, that day, and she was becoming bolder in her actions and words to him. He found himself answering her tittering remarks about this or that, and saw that he enjoyed what the Mudblood had to say, that he looked forward to Transfiguration even though he really was quite terrible in the subject—nothing, he now thinks bitterly, like Potter.

They started meeting at inconspicuous places—the library, running into each other 'randomly' in the halls to ask about McGonagall's homework, even at the edge of the Forbidden Forest once—and all he ever thought of it was that she was…an acquaintance, someone who could help him with Transfiguration and nothing more. It'd have been easier, he knew, if he hadn't seen the way she looked at him, or the way her eyes had flashed when some blonde bimbo in seventh year—three years older than them—had been hanging off his arm one Hogsmeade weekend.

It had been around then that the meetings became a bit more intimate, at more private and quieter locations. He never touched her, though, in a way that was considered 'close'—not even as the years passed and graduation was looming in the horizon. And it had been around then that she had given in to James Potter, and that she had slowly but surely drifted away from him the same way she had done to Snape. He hadn't minded—there were many, many girls after his heart, after all, but still those burning looks she gave him back in fourth year are back, even as she smiled up at Potter.

And then, his mind flashes to graduation, and all he can see is her vibrant eyes as she kisses Potter…and the feeling of his world shattering beneath him. That same feeling returned later that year, when she told him that 'it couldn't continue', 'this has to stop', and—"Evan, I'm engaged." It came back with a vengeance when he saw her at that raid, her stomach protruding slightly through her robes, and he knew—he knew, in that instant, that what could have been his chance at love, at life, was gone, and that the child inside her wasn't his. It was Potter's, and it would be Potter's name the baby received.

Harry James Potter. Not, 'Harry Evan Rosier'. Admittedly, he muses, wincing as a spell grazes his cheek, the name itself sounds horrible. And I don't think I could survive if the Dark Lord had been chasing me…

Again, his mind flashes, this time to the howls of Bellatrix Lestrange—his own cousin, Aunt Druella's eldest daughter—and the sight of the burning Potter home with the Dark Mark lingering above it. Voldemort—he had no reason to fear the name now—was gone, and with him Lily Evans—he really couldn't call her Lily Potter, no matter how true the name was—and James Potter. Little Harry was alive and somewhere far, far away from the evil Death Eaters' clutches, and for that he was grateful.

His love was to Lily. That meant, by a certain extent, that it went to little Harry as well. And it was because of that thought, the thought that if he did this now that the world would be a little safer for Harry and the joy of seeing Lily again—if by some odd chance the Gods would forgive him and place him with her—that the curse springs up in his mind and he shoves himself away from the pillar, wand out and at the ready.

His mouth opens, and just before he casts the spell and old Moody's eyes are locked on him, he thinks back to another set of hesitant, sparking emerald eyes. Then, he laughs, loudly, at the image of little Lily Evans waiting with him in the hospital wing and his own stupidity. Moody, he knows, clearly thinks he's insane, but he doesn't care and whispers the spell, still smiling as the flash of light knocks Moody back, blood spurting from his nose and other parts of his body.

The smile stays on his face, even as he falls to the ground. His eyes close, but he's still smiling.

When Moody stumbles up and points his wand at the fallen man, he realizes that the smile's still there and that his pallor could be caused by only one thing—death. And the only thought running through Moody's head then is, One less Death Eater for you, Potter.

AN: …I was in the mood for Evan/Lily? Actually, I was more in the mood for Regulus/Lily, but Evan just…popped up, I guess. There are a lot of run-ons in here, I know—it's supposed to be like that; high emotions, peril, ect. If my past and present tenses are wrong, please tell me, because I've gone through this several times but present tense always slips my mind. And I know, I know—Desolation is getting there…word by word… Review please!