Chapter Text
…
Damn it, had Rosier never once considered that he might end up in a situation like this? Had he never assumed that nothing lasts forever? No, he knew that sooner or later it would all come to this. But he stayed here longer, much longer than he should have. He'd been dreaming of happiness and peace for too long. He'd always liked thinking that way. It was reckless, far too reckless.
And yet, even now, he still doesn't fully believe that he is, at this very moment, staring at fucking Sirius Black through the open door of the supply closet.
…
Evan Rosier would never answer the question "when did it all start?"—not because he doesn't remember, but because it's perhaps his most deeply guarded secret. By "it all," Evan means several things at once:
1. He's been counted among Voldemort's followers for years now, though under the present circumstances, that can hardly be called a secret.
2. He only pretends he can't stand his sister; Pandora is one of the closest people to him, and those can be counted on one hand. In reality, he steals glances at her in the corridors with envy or sadness. He can admit that he long ago realized she gets along far better with the famous Gryffindors than with the snakes, which is more than he can say for himself. And yet he… misses her? Yes, he supposes so.
3. He's been going through… a lot with Crouch for several months now.
In truth, he can't even imagine anyone asking him that question—when?—and especially not outright. In that case, he'd smash that someone's face in.
But coming back to the question of "when" he can only answer confidently about the last point:
14.09.1974
The fourteenth. The fourteenth of September. That Friday, half of Slytherin had scattered across the castle without any particular reason. Or maybe they'd just heard one of the ringleaders shouting that his cousin had scored some booze, so a Friday party was inevitable. Evan couldn't blame them for choosing the silence of the library or the dust of empty classrooms over that. After all, Slytherin parties aren't for everyone, and no matter how many of them Rosier had witnessed, he still hadn't grown to like them. They were always loud, messy affairs. They all resembled formal pureblood gatherings with glaring gaps in organization.
Rosier had once wondered: what were parties on the other faculties like? How different were they from these dreary events? He knew—vastly. Yet he attended every single one here. Mostly because of Crouch. He was always at the center of attention, discussion, debate. And Rosier always watched him from the sofa, sometimes leading him into a room by the arm so the guy wouldn't keel over from the sheer volume of alcohol he'd consumed. "A nasty habit," he'd mutter, only to receive in return: "Piss off, Rosier," or "Shut up, Rosier," or a simple shove, weakened by his friend's drowsiness.
That evening, the party was much louder than usual, and his head was pounding harder than ever. Everything around him seemed irritating as he climbed the familiar staircase.
Moonlight was already seeping through the windows when he opened the door and looked into the empty, silent, terribly cold room. Why the hell was this castle so cold? Or was it just the dungeons? Perhaps he'd never seen life beyond the dungeons. But right now, it felt as though his fingers were about to fall off from this goddamn cold. There wasn't a single soul in the room. Or so it seemed for the first few seconds, before he noticed Barty Crouch, sitting on the windowsill. He doesn't remember when he'd left. He hadn't noticed, because he'd been too absorbed in the alcohol.
Lately, his thoughts had been pressing down on him heavily, and he simply hadn't wanted to think about anything. Alcohol helped with that well enough; it made things easier, he supposed. Barty made things easier too, no matter how much he didn't want to admit it. With him… it was simply pleasant. It was calm to go to detentions with him. He wasn't afraid to hex second-years, wasn't afraid to get a reprimand, simply because he was there. The quiet jabs he made landed sharper when they were said together, adding adrenaline to his cup of pleasure.
Now, in the moonlight, his eyes could only pick out certain features visible on his friend: disheveled hair, an unbuttoned shirt pulled out from the waistband of his trousers, a leg dangling carelessly off the windowsill, and a sullen expression.
"Relaxing?" Rosier asked, stepping a little closer and leaning against… fuck, what do you call it? The bedpost, whatever. You get it. The bedpost.
"Piss off, Rosier," Crouch muttered, not even turning around. Evan smirked and sat down on the bed, which by happy coincidence happened to be his own.
He's not exactly capable of analyzing the world around him when he's downed about eight glasses of strong liquor. Right now, he sits and wonders how many glasses Barty's had. He hopes it's no more than four; past that number, he always wakes up with a brutal hangover that makes him even meaner and more irritable, and more irritating, than usual.
The whole world seemed to irritate both him and Barty twice as much lately. Maybe for years.
"When did you leave?" Rosier asked, still intently studying his friend's furrowed features.
"About half an hour ago," Crouch finally looked at him. His eyes expressed… well, perhaps they expressed nothing at all, but they seemed very deep.
Dark. As though his pupils had completely swallowed them, leaving only a couple of millimeters of white around the edges. It looked simultaneously frightening and mesmerizing, causing him to freeze, which seemed strange.
As if it had flustered him. But that couldn't be it, could it? So he lifted his gaze back, but Barty had already averted his eyes, staring off somewhere far away, into the Forbidden Forest.
The music from the party bled through the door. It seemed to still be seeping into the room. But it was too distant, intangible, insignificant in this moment.
"It's not the same without you," Evan said, not even thinking about what exactly he meant. Crouch only hummed and remained a motionless figure on the windowsill.
At that moment, Rosier decided he needed to say something.
"You know," he began, fidgeting with his fingers for no reason he could understand. He seemed to remember that first-years usually did that before anxiety-inducing exams. Right now, he felt about as lost as one, which seemed even funnier in this lonely, empty bedroom, alone with Barty Crouch, with his best damn friend. "You're, well, probably the strongest person I've ever met," Evan said, drawing out the words slowly, and Barty finally turned to him again but said nothing, so the speaker continued. "I just look around and see this goddamn world crumbling. The only thing I see in all these ruins, standing still like a rock, is you. Hell, you manage to be so…" He doesn't finish the sentence, but he sees Crouch shift slightly, then slide off the windowsill. The music seems even quieter now, as everything is filled by the sound of fabric dragging against stone, the thud of boots on the floor, the sound of the boy lowering himself onto the bed to Rosier's left. He can't lift his gaze and keeps staring at the floor in front of him. As if he doesn't know what to say next. Though who is he kidding? Of course he knows what he wants to say. "I'm just so…" he says, turning his head slightly, but the phrase hangs in the air unfinished. Because in that moment, Barty grabs him by the shoulders. Evan has a feeling he's about to punch him, the way he used to in second or third year.
He can't remember how many fights they'd been through together, how many cuts, stings, bruises. Now it all seems endearingly foolish and simultaneously meaningful. As if it had brought so much into their relationship that even they themselves can't pinpoint exactly what. Instead, Crouch pushes him back onto his own bed, laying him flat with a sharp motion.
His teeth find his shoulder. Fuck. Fuck!
Rosier feels the breath scorching his skin. Why his skin… when he vaguely remembers that somewhere in the middle of the party, he'd gotten hot. Hell, how can it get hot in this freezing dungeon? Though now he understands. A few buttons on his shirt are undone. He understands this more and more vaguely, because teeth, fucking teeth, Barty Crouch's teeth, are moving higher up his trapezius, reaching his neck. Rosier unconsciously moans and squirms beneath another's hands.
What is happening? Why the hell have eight glasses made the gears in my brain turn so slowly, as if they've never been properly oiled?
He only feels another's lips on his skin. Feels the wet trail of saliva cooling it.
This feels good. Does this feel good? This feels good… Damn it, of course it feels good.
He loses himself in thought because right now, Crouch bites down so hard on his skin near his Adam's apple. He thinks a squeak and another guttural sound draw a smirk from the boy opposite him. He pulls back for a second, then continues with bites lower down his chest. His hands, which had been holding his shoulders, gently unbutton his shirt, clearing their own path. A hand finds his head, and his already disheveled hair, fuck, and fingers dig into it.
Now he's definitely grinning and even laughing into his skin as he moves lower and lower. Rosier has no idea what's supposed to happen next. He doesn't want to think about it in that moment when Crouch, with one easy motion, pulls his hand out of his hair and bites his wrist. The muscles beneath his shirt are tense, as if Rosier might pull away. He could. He won't.
So, fuck, perfect. Rosier throws his head back, lets out another half-moan, and thinks about how the bite lands exactly on the spot that tomorrow he'll cover with his expensive watch. Damn, good or bad? Would he want this bite to stay with him longer? Would he want it somewhere more visible, where nothing would cover it? Maybe he won't wear the watch tomorrow? Can he even make it to tomorrow, when the boy pulls away from him and looks at him with that heavy gaze. He feels pinned to the bed by those eyes. He can't look away. Barty seems to be checking something in his mind, surveying the boy from head to toe.
After that, Crouch simply stands up and, lifting his tired friend's legs, swings them onto the bed. There's a vague awareness that the boy is heading to the bathroom, but his eyes are already closing. He touches his collarbone with the hand whose wrist, he thinks, was bitten, and runs his fingers along the line of bites on his neck. It feels right. A few moments later, a heavy, thick sleep washes over him. In it, his emotions and feelings seem more turbulent, not as dull as they were here.
…
Over the past few months, all the students who praised Voldemort had coalesced into one group. And now it all seemed even more foolish. Their little processions and walks through the castle looked more like funeral corteges. In terms of mood, it was fitting enough.
His only joy and distraction became the way Barty dragged him into one supply closet after another. Hell! He'd never have thought that after that evening, he'd even speak to him again. Well, that morning Barty had acted as if nothing had happened. And Evan felt grateful for that.
He kept quiet too. He also pretended nothing had happened. He only smiled at the fact that he had several turtlenecks in his wardrobe, because he certainly wasn't going to erase the bites with his wand. Just to make sure it hadn't been a dream or some damn hallucination.
That Barty Crouch had actually pinned him to the bed that night and bitten his skin.
Over the following weeks, their constant became hiding away in closets, alcoves behind tapestries, empty corridors, even dusty classrooms. It all seemed so fleeting and so important. They weren't drunk. They had their wits about them. But Barty didn't say a word.
He'd just grab him by the arm and pull him into some hidden spot away from prying eyes. Every time he reached for his wrist for this maneuver, Evan's heart stopped. And then they'd spend a few pleasant minutes.
Mostly in the dark. With half-closed eyes, or conversely, taking in everything they could reach. They never crossed the line, though no one knew where that line was drawn. It simply existed. Invisible but clear. Like the edge of a protective charm you can't see with the naked eye. A barrier. It seemed neither of them was eager to break it, because right now they were enjoying what they had. At least Rosier knew he was enjoying it.
He wasn't sure what Crouch felt about it, but he would never have dared to ask. It seemed too intimate, too personal… in some sense, too gay. He'd never bothered to think about anything like that.
Feelings, emotions… as if anyone would ever care about them anyway.
As if he, at whatever age he was, hadn't joined Voldemort's ranks because he was a Slytherin, because he was an angry, resentful teenager tired of everything in the world. Joined that stupid cause without even knowing why. Thrown himself into a future war at an early age. Recklessness—perhaps that was the trait that had always been and would always be with him. Though Bartemius Crouch could certainly beat any record for recklessness.
And now, standing in the far corner of a corridor, behind some ancient tapestry he hadn't even bothered to examine before Barty pulled him inside, he just tilts his head back and so, so fucking enjoys the sight of Barty sliding his knee between his legs.
It must be said they hadn't gone this far before. It feels like he's already close to the end, to the destruction of the world. If only that world could rest in Crouch, maybe he'd find his own rest there too. But when fireworks burst before his eyes, he's ready to stake his entire small fortune and all his petty titles on the fact that Barty Crouch, fucking hell, creates this world.
He just weaves threads of pleasure, the only damn pleasure in life. Amid all this darkness, cursed conspiracies, all the gossip, the hateful smiles of Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws, even Slytherins.
And now, Rosier finds it profoundly unfair that all these students have a right to life, to existence, to goddamn happiness.
To what is concentrated right now in the boy opposite him. And only in him.
No, none of them have any right to that. Everything happening beyond the tapestry is absolutely nothing like happiness. And what these students have isn't happiness either.
He thinks that maybe he'll figure out his feelings, but not now. Not now, definitely not now. Not when Crouch collapses onto his chest, holding himself up only with his arms around his back. He'll try to think about it later. Right now, he prefers to stay here. Behind this tapestry. In the silence filled with sighs and smirks.
…
It seemed Regulus had started glancing at him with a barely noticeable smirk. It was irritating. Of course he wasn't going to ask any questions, but apparently Crouch had noticed these looks too, and to Evan's surprise, he began cutting short their shared time with Black. It was nice not to have to trail after him constantly; it also opened up opportunities for hexing left and right, which they didn't often allow themselves in Regulus's presence. The situation outside the castle walls was growing increasingly bitter, and the Slytherins knew more about it than anyone else. Attacks, meetings, measures passed by the Ministry. All of it simmered in the dungeon conversations and burned against their skin.
What also caught his attention was the quiet hissing of Snape. He was constantly muttering something under his breath whenever groups of students passed by, studying every Gryffindor from beneath his curtain of hair. It seemed like general animosity, but today Severus proved otherwise, beckoning Rosier and Crouch over.
"What do you want, Severus?" Barty asked, raising his eyebrows as he scanned the empty corridor leading to the Slytherin common room for any unwanted ears.
"I have a plan. Have you noticed anything strange about that Gryffindor, Remus Lupin?" Snape murmured conspiratorially.
"Get to the point," Barty demanded, unwilling to decipher his classmate's riddles.
"All his scars. They run all over his body, I've seen them. And now I'm almost certain where they come from," after a long pause, he exhaled. "He's a werewolf."
Silence hung in the corridor.
Followed by Barty's hysterical laughter.
"Remus Lupin? A werewolf? Don't be ridiculous, mate. Your intellect has failed you this time," he said, wiping away mock tears as he lifted his head. Rosier turned to him, still feeling conflicted. Severus hissed nastily but immediately calmed down and continued.
"You can laugh, Crouch, but Regulus Black gave me this," from beneath his robes appeared a small transparent vial with a crystal stopper. Severus shook the flask meaningfully, letting the liquid slosh against the glass. Rosier raised an eyebrow in a silent question. "Veritaserum," he explained.
"Seriously?"
"Absolutely."
"And what's your plan?"
"Quite simple. Black told me where Lupin will be at a certain time tomorrow. We'll go into the classroom, bind him, and make him drink it. Then we'll have time to ask him all sorts of questions."
Crouch's eyes seemed to gleam in the dim torchlight. He bared his right canine in an icy smirk.
"You can be useful, Severus."
"No one must know about this," Evan came to his senses, finally tearing his blank gaze away from the portraits.
"What?"
"No one must know that we dosed him with Veritaserum. Otherwise, any secrets we obtain won't be worth the punishment," he continued in a cold tone. "That potion is illegal to use, especially on students. So we need to make sure that no one, not a single soul in this castle, knows how we found anything out."
Severus and Crouch nodded decisively and finally stepped apart.
In Evan's head, Snape's words were still spinning: "Veritaserum… go in, bind, make him drink… have time to ask all sorts of questions." Why had that phrase lit such an unkind spark in Barty's eyes? As if carved into his face: "I want this. I need this." Did Crouch have his own burning question for Lupin? What was it? Was it wise to agree to the risk? How angry would his mother be if she found out? When had they ended up outside? Where were they going, and why was Barty pulling him by the arm?
"You've been quiet for half the walk."
"Where are we going?"
"To the lake."
The brief answer satisfied Rosier. The lake meant dark waters that artfully reflected the gloomy sky and the tree roots stretching out from the Forbidden Forest. They were always comfortable to sit on, and the cold didn't bite, even with the blackness of the forest on his right.
"I'm sure he's, fuck, happy."
"Who?" The phrase pulled Evan from his thoughts, and he returned to reality, where mud squelched beneath his feet and dry grass whipped in the wind.
"Lupin."
"So?"
"I don't think if he deserves it, then I can't deserve it too."
A granite shard rolled off the bank toward the water as they began their winding descent. Rosier turned the words over and over in his head like a mantra. Damn it.
"I don't give a shit if he's a werewolf or not, you know? That's his problem. But the fact that he walks around fucking smiling just pisses me off. All of them," Barty lowered himself onto a wide tree root, leaning back against the rough trunk. His fingers found a cigarette and lighter in his jeans pocket. Smoke filled the space between them. "I know he has someone. And that someone is apparently happy too. But what the hell gives them the right to that? Why…" he took a harsh drag, clearly holding back from punching the trunk. His teeth clenched hard around the white cylinder as he dropped his head onto his bent knee. "Why not us?"
The words hit him in the gut, and Rosier clenched his fists tighter. Fuck. He'd thought about this many times since he'd grown closer to Crouch, since he'd joined Voldemort's ranks, since his mother had stopped paying attention to anything but his outbursts of rage.
Why them and not us?
Why us and not them?
Why were people like them never given a choice?
So many questions and so, so few fucking answers.
Perhaps he'd always known something was wrong with him. But he had no voice, no forks in the road. They'd built a railway for him with no way to turn off and no rails to break. And Barty was riding the same damn train, in the same carriage, with the same thoughts. Right now, Rosier saw him among the passengers more clearly. Much more clearly. No. To hell with that train and to hell with the passengers and the engineer with his insane ideas about blood purity. If they couldn't turn, then they'd derail the locomotive or at least find their own private compartment.
Rosier swings his legs over the root, stepping onto the stone slab. He lunges forward toward the tree trunk and in two steps is standing in front of Barty. He turns his head slightly, and a gust of wind blows grown-out strands across his eyes, which are filled with glass. Another whistling gust tears a few leaves from the branches.
Rosier leans in and kisses him quickly and greedily.
He leaves no space between them, bracing one foot on the root just below and pressing the other against the boy's thigh, pinning him to the tree. His hands fumble at the collar while his mouth fills with grey smoke. He inhales it, stealing it from his throat. He thinks the cigarette must have fallen from his fingers; he's proven right when he feels someone else's palms pressing against the back of his head. They slide to his shoulder blades, pulling cold in through burning fingertips.
Rosier tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss. He likes what he hears: dull sounds escaping from his mouth and the heartbeat through his sweater. Barty feels prickly and soft all at once. He's easy to hold on to, which Evan notes with satisfaction. He opens his eyes repeatedly to steal glimpses of the boy beneath him. A smirk appears on his lips, breaking the kiss, but Crouch pulls him back. Now his head is tilted, and his hands have long since settled on his hips. Rosier traces patterns across another's mouth and in surges knocks his teeth against his, holding nothing back.
When he thinks he's seized control, Crouch presses against him, pushing his thigh between his legs. Evan shudders, then smirks, gripping Crouch in his own hand. He lets out an unfamiliar squeak, almost a whimper, and throws his head back.
Before Rosier, at last, the full picture unfolds. Barty's breathing is ragged and shallow, his lips reddened, and in places there are bloody red streaks from bites. They're mixed with clear saliva, slightly dripping toward his chin, which he doesn't bother to wipe, because his hands are now gripping the bark with a deathly hold. He trembles slightly, as if from tiny electric shocks. Sweat gleams on his neck, outlining his Adam's apple, which twitches slightly when he swallows.
Evan decides he likes this picture. No gallery could offer such a thing. Oh no, he'd swear on it.
He presses harder, smirking wider, as sobs and hisses escape from the boy opposite. Leaning closer, Evan whispers:
"I won't let them take all the happiness. It's ours too. Or else those bastards will pay for more than just having their secrets exposed, like with Lupin…" Barty answers with a bite to his neck, right next to a swollen vein. Evan whispers more phrases while he traces his bite with small kisses and other bites.
"You know, I wouldn't mind becoming a vampire for this," Crouch whispers in a hoarse voice, continuing.
"You don't need that right now. Though I'd let you bite me."
"Fuck, Ev…" Barty manages before going limp in the firm grip.
The black water and cold wind became much more pleasant. Though only for a while.
…
Quick steps and the click of patent leather shoes. The rustle of robes and creaking floorboards. Windows thrown wide open and not a single student in sight. What luck. A sharp turn and the bitter taste of doubt. Two figures ahead and the cold of a doorknob. Resolve and anger driven by crushing memories.
All three enter the classroom, slamming the door shut. Severus and Crouch giggle and whisper to each other. Rosier makes no sound. He moves as if stalking, though he knows the matter is already settled.
Barty casts burning binds; the familiar trail of adrenaline appears in the air at once, but now it's sharper, clearer. As if outlined in charcoal on wet fabric. Rosier absorbs the feeling while Crouch's eyes literally spark with a malicious glint. Pitiless, arrogant, anguished. He casts the spell with despair and delight simultaneously. It's almost frightening. The binds seem stronger and more intricate than usual, leaving redness and welts on Lupin's skin. He sits with his back to them, pinned face-down to the desk.
Crouch steps closer and presses his head to the wood with his hand. He pushes down with great force, as if wanting to convey: "I know everything, but you won't even appreciate my silence, because there's still Severus, and he won't be so merciful," and it's true. Judging by what Snape had told them, he craved Remus Lupin's ruin, but the question of whether he deserved it remained open.
Yet now Severus was triumphant. While Barty pours the potion into Lupin's mouth, he can't suppress his smile and unpleasant laughter. It feels like he's about to bounce to the ceiling and yell "Whoo!" across the entire classroom, but thankfully that doesn't happen.
The bound boy's face contorts. Crouch glances back at Rosier and, with a barely perceptible wink, shoves Remus into the desk once more.
"Need to make sure the Muggle bastard swallowed it all." Rosier knows why he's using such curses to describe him.
Right now he feels free to inflict pain. The pain that was inflicted on him before. Pass it on to those who got happiness, whether deserved or not.
Evan can't contain his anger and sadness, so he chooses to twist his face into an unreadable grimace.
"Completely useless," he says quietly, glancing at Lupin. "Make him lick the desk, Bart." The long-forgotten nickname spurs Crouch more than Rosier expected. Besides, his phrase was something of a lever, an agreement, a reminder that they remembered everything they'd discussed and knew why they were doing this to Remus. Damn him and his "happy companion."
Catching Barty's gaze, Rosier feels a wave of emotion washing over them both. A secret. The most hidden and most intimate. Locked behind all the wards, insults, and curses. Time for anger while they're allowed it.
"What's your full name?" Snape asks, pulling Rosier from his spiral of other emotions.
"Remus John Lupin," the boy answers obediently.
"It works!" Snape hisses, overjoyed.
"Ask him something more awkward. Something he'd rather not answer," Evan commands, remembering why they were there.
"When was the last time you wanked?" Crouch asks. He's caught the wave of excitement, and now his voice carries pure relish, making Rosier break out in goosebumps at yesterday's memories.
"Five days ago," he says.
All three laugh, and Evan clicks his tongue, addressing Barty:
"He beat you by three days, didn't he?" The smirk is firmly glued to his own face, and he feels himself spiraling into wild sensations.
"Pretty sure that means I beat him," Crouch replies, leaning on the desktop.
Severus hisses again, apparently gathering his thoughts:
"Do you like Lily Evans?" It's clear how nervous the Slytherin is about this question, like a frightened stray cat on guard, scruffy and with its hackles raised. Ready to pounce at the slightest threat to its property.
"No," Remus answers, and Evan is almost certain he hears a bored tone.
Snape relaxes. The cat backs down.
Crouch doesn't.
So he lifts Lupin's face, only to slam it back into the desk. A groan of pain. Crouch used more force than the previous two times and was clearly pleased with the result.
Snape quickly says:
"What's the biggest secret you're hiding?" The boy's mouth only begins to open when—
In that same second, events take a turn. Something Evan couldn't have predicted, but somehow felt was entirely possible:
1. Sirius Black bursts into the room.
2. His Silencio steals the answer from Lupin's lips.
3. A moment later, Crouch goes flying into the wall, landing with a horrible crash somewhere behind his shoulder.
4. Petrificus Totalus is cast on him.
The rest goes unnoticed while Rosier thinks about what the consequences of their actions will be and what Barty is going through after a curse too strong, one that could have knocked him out in an instant.
…
The prospect of punching Severus Snape no longer seemed particularly terrible. In McGonagall's office, there was ringing silence, and the walls seemed to press down on his shoulders, making him slouch. All three sat motionless, radiating anger.
Evan was ready to grab Snape by the collar and pin him to the wall when he was approached and told that he'd been summoned to the professor for "an attack by Sirius Black's side." If there had been even a possibility of silencing this incident before, now, sitting in the office that smelled of books and, as luck would have it, wet forest from the open window, Rosier could already see vivid scenes from his conversations with his parents.
When Sirius Black appeared in the doorway with Remus Lupin, he just wanted this spectacle to be over. Then, when Snape's words escaped his mouth:
"Don't talk to me, Black! You ruined all our efforts! I'm absolutely certain Remus Lupin is a werewolf, and if it weren't for your interference, I would have made him finally confess!"
Evan is ready to twist his spine. In some way he even feels disgusted: exposing someone else's secret that you have no business knowing is fucking low.
"Severus, shut up," Rosier growls. He has no patience left, and he hopes he can remember a few healing spells to avoid another punishment for Snape's future broken nose.
"Salazar! You idiot!" Crouch hisses in Snape's ear. "Don't tell her!" His eyes are blazing, and the muscles beneath his robes tense even more.
When Rosier sees the calming signals passing from Remus to Sirius, he wants to scream. This fucking world, why can't he even put a hand on his friend's shoulder, why can't he send him a look, why can't he help him when he knows what awaits him at home, when he knows that Crouch Senior won't stop at a mere reprimand, when he knows how stubborn Barty is about tending his wounds.
Damn it.
Severus hisses and with each passing second seems to grow smaller. He appears embarrassed by what happened, but that won't change anything.
McGonagall is now heating up to a white-hot, searing fury. And Evan understands her.
…
Evan doesn't sleep that night.
1. He hears sharp inhales and exhales from behind the canopy of the neighboring bed.
2. He also knows there's nothing he can do to help right now.
3. He calmly nods when the next morning Barty stays alone in the room instead of going to breakfast.
4. He knows a Howler was certainly sent to him, but neither Crouch Senior nor Crouch Junior wants the message heard in the Great Hall.
5. He thinks about how to time things so that his "conversation" with Snape goes unnoticed.
6. He decides that the time after Herbology is the most suitable.
…
Leaning against a tall pine, Evan fiddles with his wand in his hands and watches Madame Sprout gesticulating animatedly as she says goodbye to the students. Students stream out of the greenhouses and scatter across the hill, heading toward the castle or the lake. Rosier pushes off from the trunk and scans the crowd for long black hair. Severus is trudging at the very back, stubbornly staring at his feet. Rosier quickens his pace and, finally drawing level with the Slytherin, places a firm hand on his shoulder. Severus flinches but doesn't turn around.
"Glad you know I'm coming," Evan nods, walking around the boy and stopping in front of him. Greasy strands cover his eyes and furrowed brow. "Let's step aside," Rosier nods toward a dark grove down the steep slope. Snape finally looks back and appears about to say something, but Evan holds his gaze and casts Silencio. He doesn't think about whether he whispered it as he gripped his wand or whether he used nonverbal magic for the first time; he just starts descending toward the lake. Severus follows. Once at the bottom, Evan tucks his wand into his back pocket, drawing a look of slight surprise from the boy.
"I want to understand," Evan says, adjusting his robes, "why the fuck you went to McGonagall?" He doesn't look at Snape; he can't. "I never wanted to fall out with you, Severus. I don't have that many acquaintances, but I think you can understand me. Why—"
"I didn't go to her!" Severus interrupts him, finally ceasing to pace circles in the dry grass.
"Then what happened?! How did we end up in her office, sharing it with two Gryffindors ready to tell her everything, giving us no chance?"
Rightfully so, — his subconscious hisses, making Rosier jerk his head sharply.
"It wasn't me who told her… It was… It was Lily," his voice softens. Evan's head begins to ache. He knows what Snape puts into her name with his intonation, but he doesn't care what feelings he harbors for her. What bothers him is why in Salazar's name she went to McGonagall. "She saw me in the hospital wing, found out what happened, demanded details. I didn't even know she intended to go to McGonagall!"
"You didn't need to! Damn it, Severus," Rosier shouted. He suddenly realized they were alone, away from people, at the edge of the forest, and he didn't need to hold back. "I thought I'd made myself clear when I said no one should find out what happened in that classroom. No one!"
"I can't hide this from her! You have to understand!"
"You have to understand!"
The words hit him in the chest. Bitch. He had to understand what it meant not to hide something? Him? Who had concealed everything that seemed important about himself, who had kept things from his family, from his classmates, from even, fuck, Barty. He was still hiding most of his life, and he had to understand some innocent openness toward some redheaded Gryffindor girl? No. He couldn't.
"You know what it's like to talk to someone who takes your breath away. You—"
"You don't know anything about me!" About me and Barty, he thinks. "If you can't keep your mouth shut for the sake of our collective safety, then I don't know what else I can do with you!"
Rosier lunges at Snape, grabbing him by his robes. He cries out in surprise and tries to flee, but his legs give way after a clean hit to the stomach. Next, to the chest—a dull crack comes from the ribs. His fist lands in his face last, as the dark figure only wheezes in pain. Evan isn't aiming; his vision is blurred, his thoughts unclear. He feels the heat in his whitening knuckles, he feels something wet spreading over his hand and staining his shirtsleeve.
Blood. Pleasant. Hot.
He smirks as the boy crumples. His body in dark robes with a red accent on his pale face looks very poetic. Evan leans down to him, staring into features full of pain and fear. A sour taste that sends chills down his spine.
"I'm not going to feud with you deliberately, but if you force me, I won't back down."
Snape, lying in the mud, is etched into Rosier's memory before he uses a healing spell to restore the boy to his former state. He casts it carelessly, with one hand, and then leaves without looking back. Only dry leaves and pine needles rustle beneath his boots, on which a few drops of someone else's blood still glisten.
…
"Hey! Wait up, Pands!" Evan weaves carefully between passengers on the platform. The Hogwarts Express departs in ten minutes, and all the students, from first to seventh year, are crowding in front of the train, saying goodbye and calling out to each other from the windows. As if these aren't just winter holidays but a proper farewell.
"What?" Pandora turns and raises an eyebrow at her twin.
"You're not Apparating with everyone to the event. Where are you going?" Rosier knew straight away that his sister had no real intention of attending the ball. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have set foot over that threshold either, but…
"I was thinking of going to Amber's for a day or two. Sticking around at that ball…"
"You're lying," Evan cut in. Pandora just smiled and averted her eyes toward the train.
"Why are you even going? I get that our parents can't refuse, but you've never liked all that…" she waved her hands in the air, as if unable to find the word, "…fussiness."
Evan couldn't help but smirk. "Just decided I should go."
"You're lying," she chuckled, poking a finger into his chest. "I don't know why, but you're a cheeky little liar! Think I can't tell?"
Of course, he was sure that one day she'd find out the real reason. Maybe even quite soon. He'd never underestimated her, and with her audacity, it would be even harder.
"You're hiding just as much."
"I won't say another word, you spoiled brother," she stepped back, adjusting her fair curls.
"Have a good time, you arrogant sister," Evan smiled sincerely. This conversation had left a warmth in his chest. As if all the Christmas carols, caramel apples, vanilla, crunchy snow, and fireplace fire had been born in his soul. As if they weren't both hiding things and wouldn't ignore each other the moment they returned to the castle. As if, right now, they could pretend there were no problems at all.
After receiving one last air kiss from his twin, Rosier watched her run up the steps into the carriage. He turned on his heel and headed toward the meeting point with the Lestranges' house-elves.
…
"Hello, sir," said the elf, bowing to Rosier. A few moments passed, and Evan opened his eyes in an ornately furnished entrance hall. His head was spinning slightly, but compared to several other green-robed students, Rosier was fine. Looking around, Evan noted the large oak bookcases and the wide stone staircase stretching upward, as well as a boy standing by the banister.
He was fiddling with something in his hands.
"Didn't know you were already here," Evan said, climbing the steps.
"As you can see," Crouch replied, glancing at the ever-arriving guests. "He's already here." Evan simply nodded.
Of course, Bartemius Crouch Senior had already arrived. He was probably in Lestrange Senior's study right now, engrossed in a conversation about Ministry affairs and other foolish things.
"Guests! Please proceed to the main hall for the start of the evening," Rodolphus drew attention, pointing to the doors that were swinging open with magic.
Crouch put a ring on the middle finger of his left hand. So that's what it was.
And they both walked in among the witches and wizards who were gasping and whispering:
"Just look at those chandeliers!… And the table settings… Don't you think that's Malfoy over there?… What a level!… Long time no see, long time no see… Oh no, I wouldn't say that… It's a fine evening tonight…"
Evan Rosier once again understood why he avoided such gatherings. All those meaningless words and feigned dialogues. Besides, the formal part was about to start, and during that, he could quite happily fall asleep if nothing unexpected interrupted.
Crouch, at his left shoulder, was holding up better. He nodded at everyone who paid him attention, greeted anyone who greeted him, but tried not to start conversations. His expression was carefully constructed, as if following the rules of sculpture. Every emotion was measured and permanently grafted into his skin. A smile here, a nod there, a glass in his hand, a bow and a turn. He spun through the hall in these fragments of communication, but his feet were barely noticeably stumbling. His movements were jerky.
One. The parade of official monologues begins. Everyone lines up facing the speakers and raises their glasses to every stated thought.
Two. Crouch Senior's robes rustle across the floor as he steps into the circle, greeting acquaintances, colleagues, and patrons. He drones on at length with thanks. Later he moves on to some work story meant to provoke laughter. And he finishes with lengthy assurances that the Ministry is doing more and more for the magical world and that they should stand together, even if dark times are approaching. At this statement, fewer confident glasses are raised and more whispers are heard, but Bartemius seems not to notice at all.
Three. The banquet is declared open. Witches and wizards applaud and scatter through the hall in search of free tables. House-elves dart between legs with errands and announcements. Crystal chandeliers flare up with bright light, and the classical ensemble begins the overture to Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker. Evan finds his parents and, after greeting them, is even grateful for their calmness and some joy at seeing their son. He'd expected to see two thunderclouds after the Veritaserum incident. The next two hours pass in a haze. His last memory was Barty walking off toward one of the central tables, toward his father.
"And now, dear guests, we begin the free portion of the ball. Dance and enjoy!"
Thank Salazar. Evan tries not to show how eager he is to rise from the table, weave around the dancers, and step over to the window for fresh air. Taking a deep breath, he adjusts his collar and loosens his tie, running a hand through his cropped hair. Barty slowly circles the hall, still smiling, but doing so even more tautly than several hours earlier. Rosier waits. He begins pacing along this part of the hall, but the witches standing nearby interrupt his waiting:
"Did you see Bartemius's little boy?"
"Saw him, of course, but he's not as clean as he looks."
"I know," the witch lowered her voice. "He's gotten himself into the Dark Lord's ranks. Ugh."
A little farther off, a wizard whispered to another:
"Yes, that Crouch Junior is definitely not loyal to him, to the Lord. His father is against our idea, so how can we trust him? He's a snake, a snake, I tell you."
Rosier elbows his way toward Barty; snippets of conversation become more frequent.
"…so he's not really on our side…"
Step.
"…definitely under his father's wing…"
Second.
"…he'll go mad over blood purity, and then good riddance…"
Third.
"…and I heard he's already taken the Mark, but he wouldn't have the nerve…"
Evan loses sight of Barty.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He dashes toward the door, hoping to catch up with him. Damn wizards, damn balls, damn solstice.
The darkness of the corridor is both startling and calming. It feels as though all the light in the house has been redirected to the hall for greater effect. Evan hears the ringing tap of his patent leather shoes on the wood and wonders: how do people manage to be so, fuck, tactless? Even Slytherins in the prime of their teenage years don't allow themselves open gossip. All the venom is kept behind seven locks, maintaining a balance between good and bad.
The tap of his heels seems equal to the beat of his heart as a turn toward the washroom appears before his eyes. Now the heartbeat sounds much louder, even though his shoes are clattering from the running. The silence of the manor feels frightening, and as he opens the door, Rosier simply hopes not to run into one of the Lestranges' security mechanisms. Instead, he finds a dimly lit room with green walls and a boy sitting on the floor, his face buried in his knees.
Stage 1: Ignoring.
His sleeves have slipped to his elbows, and his hair is in angry disarray. He sits between a towel cabinet and a floor-to-ceiling window facing the forest (clearly enchanted to mask the view from outside). Next to the forest, a boy clinging to his knees looks like a crumpled sheet of paper, like a small animal, like an extinguished ember.
Evan flinches, realizing he's still standing with the door open. He closes it and slides the bolt. Turning, he meets dull eyes still smoldering with anger.
"Don't say anything," Barty grits through his teeth. Evan raises his hands in a yielding gesture and sits down opposite him, leaning against the door. "They're right."
Who asks you to stay quiet and then says something like that?
Evan obediently remains silent.
Stage 2: Anger.
"All of them. I'm on no one's side, and that's fucking pathetic," Evan notices him digging his nails into his forearms. "It's, damn it, exhausting. I don't even… I don't even believe in any of it. I just go with the flow and lash out wherever I can until a curse or a fist hits me in the head."
Stage 3: Sadness.
"I'm so, fucking tired, Ev…"
The words lodge in his throat like a lump, and anger is replaced by the urge to destroy anyone who comes within a mile of this bathroom right now.
"I…" Crouch's voice doesn't sound like his usual sarcastic, angry tone. It sounds broken, so childlike. Rosier remembers again all those times he'd thought about the doom of so many purebloods. There are only a few paths you can take. Some have only two, some only one, and some are being torn in two right in the middle of the road. He knows Barty will have to choose, and choose for himself. Evan is certain of only one thing:
Whatever happens, whatever Barty chooses, he will follow him…
Stage 4: Reasonableness.
"We weren't given a choice," Evan's voice sounds cold.
"I wasn't," Crouch corrects in a half-whisper.
"No, we weren't. In their eyes, you must either follow in your father's footsteps or align with Slytherin ideology. Meanwhile, neither side understands what they're doing," Evan tries to find a point of contact with the ground, because the whirlpool of thoughts is sucking him in. "I know there's no escape from this."
"So we just have to accept it," Crouch states.
"Yes," Evan nods and thinks how much this conversation resembles calming a child. He realizes with sadness that it is exactly that. They are two little boys sitting in a bathroom, grumbling about the ways of the world. But who cares? "We are the ones people have always considered and will always consider snakes. We need violence, though others call it brutality. Maybe they're right, but to hell with them if we're having fun."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why 'we,' why 'us.' You have a way out. You don't have to tie your life to all this shit."
"No. Didn't you hear? I can't help the urge to cause pain. Hexing students in the corridors is my pastime. I create balance. They smile, rejoice, and laugh. And I get angry, punch holes in walls, and hurl insults."
"Like me."
"Like you."
"But… wouldn't it be easier for you to walk away from this? To become a calm Slytherin? You could manage it."
"It would be better, but I could never do it. And people like us need to stick together."
People like me want to stay close to people like you, — Rosier thinks, tasting the metallic tang of blood on the inside of his cheek.
"I know you only need me to restrain, to calm, to give… pleasure, and there's no other reason for me to be here."
"That's the thing—there is! Damn, Rosier!"
Stage 5: Passion.
Lifting his head, he meets Crouch's intense gaze. He looks like an angry, frightened, aggressive little owl. The kind usually kept in the back cages of the Diagon Alley shop because they hoot and scare customers. They always bite fingers when delivering post, and they look down on their owners through iron bars.
"Fine," Crouch mutters, and leaning against the cabinet, he slowly stands. Rosier doesn't rush to follow; he watches as the boy takes several agonizingly slow steps toward him. The tap of shoes on tile, the flickering lamp light, the silver moon emerging from behind the clouds.
Crouch naturally lands on his knees in front of Rosier and holds his gaze. Evan notes to himself that his own face probably looks helpless and full of pleading right now. Barty looks damn like his usual self for a few moments as he smirks.
And then he kisses Evan with mock tenderness.
He cages him in, bracing his elbows against the door on either side of Rosier's head. His consciousness registers details in flashes: the pleasant sweetness of Barty's tongue sliding inside, the way he's settled on his outstretched leg and leaned on the bent one, how close he is and how slowly he moves up and down, filling his mouth with indistinct murmurs. Evan loves all of it. When another's hands leave the door and move into his light hair, Rosier moans, drawing an approving hum from Crouch into the kiss. His arms cross over Evan's shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. He can't remember ever hugging Crouch even once. This was the first time, and if this is what hugs feel like, he wants to do it again.
Crouch pulls back for a moment:
"This isn't the first time I've done this with you," he hums, pressing smeared kisses along his collarbone, "but every time I think: how has he not pushed me away yet?"
"It's quite fucking simple, I want this."
Stage 6: Laughter.
Crouch hums and returns to the kiss with more force.
"How do you think my father would feel if he knew what I did at this boring event in this very washroom?" Barty laughs, shaking his head. He finally looks calm.
"Oh, I think he'd be thrilled," Evan replied with satisfaction.
"Then I'll definitely share this story with him," Crouch leaves another kiss on Rosier's neck, "but it can wait." His smile again feels mad, and it's pleasant.
"I think I need to inform my family too about the incident I got into at the solstice party," Rosier teased.
"I think I can help you recount some of the details," Barty rests his head on his chest, wrapping his arms around his waist as if afraid to let go, "maybe even demonstrate a couple of them."
The smile on Rosier's face spreads of its own accord. He laughs and runs his hand down the boy's back.
Pure bliss in a whirlwind of destruction and disaster.
Good thing Pands refused to come; she wouldn't have left my disappearance unnoticed, — Evan noted to himself.