Warning: Slash, mentions chan (underage, very underage, in fact), non-graphic.

Rosier knew nothing of how these things worked in other houses, naturally, but in Slytherin there was a long tradition of something referred to as 'mentoring a brat'.

It was usually only after leaving Hogwarts that one realised its proper name. Child molesting. But once outside the school, it was easy to forget the strangely enclosed feeling of living below ground in the dungeons, where one stuck to time-honoured traditions as a way of coping. Coping with the fact that no one outside Slytherin gave a stuff about you. The fact that you were hundreds of miles from your mum, your canine best-friend, your own bed, your house elf's apple crumble, or whatever else you tried not to cry for at night.

Evan himself had been rather relieved when a fifth year boy had cornered him behind the broomsheds and offered him chocolate frogs in exchange for a quick fumble, during his third week at school. Maplethorpe had been his mentor for the two years before he left and they were still in touch. He knew that by and large, the older boys got more out of the arrangement than the younger, but with the cosy glow of nostalgia, Rosier only remembered the cuddles, the presents and the comforting feeling that, though he was just another small boy in an impersonal sea of black-uniformed children, there was someone who paid extra attention to him.

Often, the prettiest brats turned out to be bones of contention between the older 'mentors'. His first memory of witnessing a proper unsupervised duel had been the spectacular scrap between Fudge and Wigley over who got the loveliest cherub in Rosier's year - the sassy and devastatingly cute Lucius Malfoy. Fudge had won of course, being far and away more sneaky, nasty and adept at cheating than Wigley. Little Malfoy had watched avidly, taking note of the more dangerous spells, loving every minute of it.

It seemed like only days ago. Now they were fifth years themselves, prefects even, and Malf had already chosen himself a brat. He opened the door to the study room a crack, puzzling at the sight before him.

Snape, the kid was called. What kind of a name was that? Rosier reminded himself to ask his grandmother, that fountain of knowledge regarding everyone's ancestry, about who the Snapes were. He couldn't understand what had possessed Malfoy to pick this one. There were eight Slytherin first year boys this year, and every one of the other seven were better looking than this scrawny little thing. His robes were hand-me-down, his accent and vocabulary a blueprint of how not to speak in public, and - Merlin's nadgers! - that ghastly nose had to be growing twice as fast as the rest of him.

Why on earth did Malfoy bother? There had to be a reason which was not obvious at first glance. A secret lurking deep in those devious black eyes, or perhaps he was already experienced in the Gentle Art, courtesy of some uncle or private tutor. There had to be something. The Malfoys had a reputation for enjoying only the very best of everything.

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Rosier pushed open the door and entered, closing it carefully behind him. Snape swung around and glared with such bitter hatred it momentarily stopped the older boy in his tracks.

"What?" spat the kid, wand raised. Normally, there was no need to fear threats of magic from first years, not so early in the school year anyway, but there were interesting rumours about this one's hexing skills. He restrained his reflex instinct to clip the cheeky whelp behind the ear. Instead, he smiled and sidled up to the table, sitting beside Snape on the bench.

"Hello there," he gave an endearing smile and leaned over, too close. "What are you working on? Prep? Do you need any help?"

"No," sneered Snape, looking offended, rather than flattered, as any normal first year should be at receiving such attention.

"What is it then?" he tried not to show his consternation.

"I'm trying to find a spell to slice someone in half," he announced matter-of-factly.

Rosier swallowed.

"Really?" for some reason, he knew the kid was not joking.

"Yes," the big nose buried itself back in the book, apparently losing interest in the interruption.

Malfoy's fascination suddenly began to make sense. Snape was not attractive, or cute or homesick or possessed of any of the other natural virtues traditionally sought out by a mentor. Instead, he was clever. And nasty. And, though Rosier would never admit it, the child was oddly frightening.

A thrill of desire shot through the fifth year's stomach and into his groin, stronger than any previous fleeting interest in pert or angelic eleven year olds. He reached out a hand to stroke the brat's hair.

"What are you doing?" snarled Snape, jerking away.

Rosier grabbed hold of him.

"Don't be silly, brat, the more connections you can make in this life, the better, didn't anyone ever tell you that?" he purred, pulling the skinny body against him.

There was a hiss of magic and pain, lots of pain. When he opened his eyes, Rosier found that he was lying on his back on the floor, stargazing. Which was odd as he knew for a fact that it was a) indoors, and b) daytime. Blinking, he looked up into the ugly face looming over him.

"Hoi!" he croaked, outraged at being hexed and intimidated by a slip of a boy. Snape raised his wand again and Rosier was horrified to find that he was cowering.

"Don't ever touch me," the child growled.

"Oh, come on," began Evan. "I didn't mean any harm. You're just a brat..."

"Yes," he narrowed his eyes until they were two slits of dangerous malevolence. "But I'm Lucius' brat. Not yours."

He slammed his book of curses closed with an echoing bang and stomped out of the room, fierce eyes never leaving Rosier's prone body.

Rosier blinked.

Then licked his lips.

Yes, Malfoys did enjoy the best of everything after all.