prompt: line + pink | may 2 + 24 | CW/TW: vomiting, dysphoria, pregnancy scare | word count: 716 | @rosekillermicrofic | not beta-read
~
There was a knock and then he heard Regulus' muffled voice. "The timer went off ages ago. What's going on?"
Barty's hands were shaking as he unlocked the door to let Regulus in. He slipped into the bathroom with a concerned look on his face. "What does it say?" Reg asked.
Barty shrugged. He hadn't been able to check, didn't want to see. His heart was racing and he felt sick to his stomach. More than he had in the last few days, which was the whole reason he'd locked himself in Regulus' fucking bathroom in the first place.
Regulus nodded and walked to the sink where Barty had put down the very thing that would decide his future. The stupid fucking stick was pink too, as if he'd needed that particular nod to femininity in this already fucked up situation. Shite, what if it was—
"Negative."
Barty gaped at Regulus. "What?"
Regulus picked up the test and held it up for Barty to see. There it was. One line in the little window, not two. Negative. Not pregnant.
Spots danced in front of his eyes, his vision going fuzzy. He felt Regulus grab his shoulder. "Breathe, come on," Reg said, shaking him a little.
Barty dragged in a deep breath, the air burning in his lungs. Was the floor moving? He felt unsteady on his feet.
"Again, Barty. Slow breaths, in and out."
He followed Regulus' advice, breathing slowly until his vision had returned to normal. "Fuck," he groaned, wiping at his damp forehead.
It felt like he'd sweated through his shirt as well. "Fucking fuck."
"Quite," Regulus agreed. He patted his shoulder. "You good now?"
Barty nodded, even though he wasn't sure that he actually was good now. They were always careful. Safe. Even in the moments when his manic brain pushed him to be reckless, Evan always took care of him and made sure that they used protection. But that all felt like such crap now. They'd been lucky. Barty's stomach turned. "No," he croaked, changing his answer before rushing to the toilet and losing his lunch in the bowl.
The thought that this could've gone very differently, that there would've been something inside his— He threw up again, convulsions shaking him as disgust took over.
When it was finally over, Regulus helped him stand and move to the sink to wash up. "I called Evan," Reg admitted quietly.
Barty wanted to protest, wanted to tell Regulus he shouldn't have done that, wanted to yell at him for waking Evan up after he'd gotten home early this morning after working all night. But most of all he wanted to see Evan.
Regulus took his arm as he wobbled to the living room and sank onto Regulus' sofa. His heart was still racing and he felt unable to stop the panic coursing through his body. He'd fought so hard to feel at home in it, fought so hard to make it his, the thought of having to give that up—
Evan's cold hand slid into his. Barty hadn't even realized Regulus had let him in or that Evan had sat down next to him. If Barty could cry, he would. His throat went tight. The way Evan was looking at him, concerned and lovely and sleep-rumpled made his heart clench. "I'm sorry Reg woke you up, he was just— I didn't— I can't do that again— I can't— I don't want—"
Evan simply pulled him close and held him as the panic flared again. Pressed gentle kisses to his temple. "We'll figure something out. Something permanent, okay?"
It was like those words alone had siphoned all of the tension and anguish out of Barty's body. He thought of the one scare he'd had years ago, before Evan. He'd been high off his arse to cope with his body and life and the world and he'd just found it funny, giggling to himself as he'd pissed on the test. But it wasn't a laughing matter now. It was terrifying and gross and made him want to throw up yesterday's food as well. And the fact that Evan knew how bad it was for him and that he accepted it without question meant more than Barty could say.
"Yeah. Okay," he whispered, sinking into Evan's embrace.
To Have You Back by @floretissogay
art by @missaisdepressed and @juksuart
Rating: M
Word count: 10k
Tags: Canon Divergence, Resurrection, Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Torture
It happened before he could so much as turn and look. He wasn't even sure what exactly did it. All he knew was that Moody had done something to Rosie. Rosie, who was lying on the ground in a heap; Rosie, whose mask had fallen off and clattered to the ground; Rosie, whose eyes had slipped shut; Rosie, who wasn't moving.
______________
In the aftermath of a disastrous Death Eater mission gone wrong, Barty Crouch refuses to give up.
Hallowed by @enbyguously
art by @glitchedcrows and @keksikart
Rating: Mature
Word count: 50k+
Tags: Crimson Rivers AU, Hunger Games AU, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Murder Husbands, Acespec Evan Rosier, Semi-Explicit Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Background Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
It's Barty's last reaping. But when his name isn't called, and it's Regulus' instead, picked twice in a decade, he doesn't feel relieved at all. His body acts before his brain thinks and he steps forward, taking his best friend's place.
OR
Barty volunteers for the 84th Hunger Games.
The janitor’s closet smelled like bleach and old mop water.
Evan Rosier had long since stopped caring.
Barty Crouch Jr. was in his lap with his hands tangled in Evan’s hair, kissing him hard enough to bruise. Their mouths clicked together messy and wet, breathing shared in sharp bursts while the fluorescent light above them buzzed like it was judging them personally.
Barty kissed like he was trying to win a fight.
Aggressive. Desperate. Mean around the edges.
Evan liked it.
His hands slid up under Barty’s school sweater, fingertips brushing warm skin. Barty shivered immediately, mouth parting against his.
Then—
There it was again.
That hesitation.
Not pulling away fully. Never fully. Just enough tension in his shoulders to make Evan notice. Just enough stiffness in the way Barty’s hips stopped moving every time Evan touched lower than his waist.
Evan sighed softly into the kiss.
Barty noticed immediately. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Evan leaned back against the wall of shelves, staring at him for a second. Barty’s tie was half-undone. Lips swollen. Eyes dark and angry in the way they always got when he wanted something too badly.
God, he was beautiful.
Which made this infinitely more irritating.
Evan tried again anyway, sliding a hand down Barty’s side. Thumb hooking just above the waistband of his trousers.
Barty grabbed his wrist instantly.
Not rough.
Just fast.
Like instinct.
The air shifted.
Evan looked down at Barty’s hand around his wrist, then back up at his face.
Barty let go immediately.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
There it was again too.
Sorry.
Always sorry after this.
Evan was suddenly exhausted.
Not physically. Something deeper than that. The kind of exhaustion that came from pretending not to notice things for someone else’s comfort.
“You know,” Evan said quietly, “most people usually want to touch the person they’re making out with.”
Barty rolled his eyes instantly. Defense mechanism. Predictable. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“This weird fucking mood you get in.”
Evan barked a laugh. “Mood?”
“Yes, mood.” Barty snapped. “You get all sulky and passive aggressive—”
“Oh, forgive me,” Evan cut in sharply, “I forgot I’m meant to be grateful you let me kiss you in a supply closet between fourth and fifth period.”
Barty’s jaw tightened.
Evan could practically see the panic beginning underneath it.
That was the worst part.
Barty wanted this.
Wanted him.
Evan knew it every time Barty looked at him too long in class. Every time he cornered Evan after school with shaking hands and furious kisses. Every time he got jealous and cruel whenever someone else flirted with Evan.
But wanting wasn’t the problem.
Barty hated what the wanting meant.
And Evan was getting really fucking tired of being treated like the evidence of a crime.
“You’re being dramatic,” Barty muttered.
Evan stared at him for a long moment.
Then he reached up and wiped spit from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m tired of the charades, Crouch.”
Barty flinched slightly at the surname. Evan only used it when he was angry.
“Tell me when you make up your mind on what you want.”
“Evan—”
“No.” His voice stayed calm, which somehow made it worse. “You don’t get to drag me in here every other day just to act disgusted the second things become real.”
“I’m not disgusted.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Barty’s face went pale.
For one awful second, Evan almost took it back.
Because beneath the anger, Barty looked scared.
Not of Evan.
Of himself.
But Evan couldn’t keep doing this dance where Barty kissed him like devotion and recoiled from him like shame.
So before Barty could speak again, Evan shoved him off his lap.
Barty stumbled backward into a shelf of cleaning supplies with a loud clatter.
Evan stood, fixing the sleeves of his uniform blazer.
The tiny closet suddenly felt suffocating.
“Rosier—”
Evan opened the door.
Bright hallway light spilled across the floor between them.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, Evan looked genuinely done.
“You let everyone else decide who you are,” he said quietly. “I’m just the idiot who keeps waiting for you to decide it too.”
Then he walked out.
The door slammed shut behind him.
And Barty stayed there alone in the cramped janitor’s closet, breathing hard, staring at the space Evan had left behind like it had been ripped open with a knife.
Because the worst part was—
Evan was right.
Barty wanted him.
Wanted the sharp grin and cold hands and the way Evan looked at him like he was worth something. Wanted every ugly, terrifying part of this.
But wanting Evan meant something.
Something permanent.
Something people got beaten bloody for at their school.
Something his father would rather see him dead over.
Barty slid down the wall slowly until he hit the floor.
Then he pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth hard enough to hurt.
fast - rosekiller - jegulus - @rosekillermicrofic - word count: 219
“You turned him down for a date?” Dorcas gasped, throwing her arms in the air as she faced Regulus, her expression infuriated. “Reg, what the fuck? You like James! You can’t–”
“It was…too fast,” Regulus grumbled, face stony. “He’s not…it’s probably a joke, anyways.”
“Too fast? You two have been snogging in broom cupboards for weeks! I swear to bloody Salazar, for a smart person you’re so stupid!” Dorcas groaned.
Barty, however, piped up from where he’d been listening on his own bed. “Nah, Cas, Reg’s right. I mean, Rosie and I have been hooking up for a while, yeah? But like…if I asked him on a date? That’d be stupid! It could ruin it! Like yeah, he’s fit and he’s my best friend, but that would be way too risky.”
Both Dorcas and Regulus turned, absolutely gobsmacked, towards Barty.
“How….how long have you and Evan been sneaking around?” Dorcas murmured lightly, like she wasn’t sure how to react.
Barty tilted his head, considering. “We first kissed…third year, I think? So..”
“Three years. You’ve been doing Merlin knows what for three years, and…Godric, boys are so…” she murmured dazedly, standing and walking out of the room.
Barty just looked after her, confused. “Am I wrong, here?” he asked, turning to Regulus.
Rating: Mature
Word count: 20k+
Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Blood and Gore, Medical Malpractice, Murder, Cannibalism
Evan's on a hunt for the man that killed the only person he's ever loved, he was also unfortunate enough to find Barty along the way.
Barty’s always hungry, and he's fighting the urge to eat the man who's reluctently decided to help him.
Both of them monsters who find the remains of their humanity within the other.
Silver lining by @sadiekaneismysister art by @keksikart and @missaisdepressed
Rating: Teen
Word count: 36k
Tags: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Canon Divergence, 5+1 Things, Asexual Evan, Pandora Lovegood and Evan Rosier are Twins, Moral Ambiguity, Secret Messages
After their seventh year, Barty runs away to the US. A decade after the First War has ended, Evan gets his freedom back and decides there’s nothing he’d rather do with it than find Barty again.
5 times Evan reminisces about the past as he tries to find Barty and fails + 1 time he doesn't
(Mostly from Evan’s POV until the last chapter)
All The Things That Go Unsaid by @ajthecrayon
art by clandestine_meetings7 and @lex-dr4ws
Rating: Mature
Word count: 45k
Tags: Substance Use/Addiction, Minor Character Death, Suicide Attempt, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Barty is bad at breaking habits. However, when ghosts of his past follow him back into his destructive cycle he's forced to face the reality of his secrets.
Evan hates a lot of things. Secrets for one. The only thing he doesn't hate is his job, and his niece. Abruptly, He's forced to re-evaluate what he's really living for.
heavenly bodies, imperceptable madness by @horrorosier
art by @paletragedycandy and @moozyarts
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 14k
Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Non-HEA (Happy Ever After), Medical Malpractice, Blood, Lobotomies
Evan Rosier is good at his job, one of the best in his field. He's board certified, youngest and top of his class, and established a name for himself, his cadaverous nature and all. That is until his new patient, Barty Crouch Junior, the man who plead insanity upon being found guilty for murdering his father, has him doing anything but his job.
Somewhere along the way, their relationship shifts under new light, more layers being uncovered the closer they get.
-
Or, a month long escapade of teeth, shared oranges, and all the madness and deviance imaginable.
The fire crackled softly against the darkening woods, sending sparks spiraling up into the violet dusk. Their horses had long since settled, tethered beneath the pines with heavy saddlebags still hanging from their flanks. Beyond the trees, the lake reflected the moon in fractured silver, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of fish near the surface.
Evan Rosier sat on a fallen log near the fire, one hand wrapped around a dented tin cup of whiskey while the other rested near the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip. Even now, hours after they’d stopped for camp, he remained alert. That was the curse of being assigned to guard Barty Crouch.
Not because Barty was weak.
Merlin, no.
But because Barty had an unparalleled talent for attracting trouble with the same ease he attracted attention.
“You’re staring again,” Barty said lazily from across the fire.
Evan blinked. “I’m guarding you.”
“You’re glaring at me like you’re considering murder.”
“That too.”
Barty grinned into the rim of his cup. Firelight danced over the gold embroidery of his traveling robes, making him look less like a prince in exile and more like some dangerous woodland spirit pretending at humanity. His silver jewelry glinted whenever he moved — rings, chains, tiny charms hanging from his ears that chimed softly when he tilted his head.
Everything about him was deliberate.
Beautiful.
Annoying.
They’d been traveling for nearly two weeks from the Kingdom of Vesperhold toward the northern courts of Eirendale, where Barty’s arranged diplomatic engagement waited like an execution sentence. Officially, Evan was his appointed royal guard. Unofficially, he was there because the royal council trusted nobody else to keep Barty alive long enough to arrive.
Which was insulting, considering Barty was perfectly capable of keeping himself alive.
Usually.
The whiskey barrel beside them was already lighter than it had been that morning. Barty had insisted they celebrate surviving the mountain pass without being robbed by bandits or eaten by wyverns.
“To survival,” Barty had declared earlier.
“To your inability to stay quiet for more than ten minutes,” Evan had replied.
Barty had laughed so hard he nearly fell off the log.
Now the prince rose smoothly to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. The movement shifted his robes just enough for pale skin to flash beneath layers of dark fabric.
Evan looked away immediately.
Which only made Barty smirk.
“I need to take a dip in the water over there,” Barty said, pointing toward the lake visible through the trees.
Evan instinctively started to stand, but Barty stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“You know the laws against seeing mythical people without clothes,” Barty said lightly, a teasing curl to his mouth. “Even though I know you’ve been dying to see what’s underneath these robes.”
Evan snorted into his drink. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you follow me everywhere.”
“Literally my job.”
Barty only laughed again before sauntering off toward the lake, boots crunching softly over fallen leaves.
Evan took another drink of whiskey, determined not to watch him go.
Determined.
Completely determined.
Unfortunately, determination had never stood much of a chance against Barty Crouch.
Through the corner of his eye, Evan caught glimpses of him moving between the trees — moonlight spilling over dark curls and embroidered sleeves. The prince walked with impossible grace, like the forest itself bent around him. Not human.
Never entirely human.
The old stories called Barty’s bloodline starborn: descendants of ancient celestial beings who had once crossed into mortal kingdoms centuries ago. Magic clung to them differently. Wilder. Stranger. The laws about seeing them unclothed weren’t merely traditions — they were warnings.
To witness a starborn bare-skinned was said to invite obsession.
Madness.
Devotion.
Evan already suspected he was suffering from all three.
The sound of fabric rustling drifted from the lakeshore.
Then silence.
Evan stared hard into the fire.
He absolutely was not going to look.
A soft splash echoed across the water.
His grip tightened around the cup.
Another splash followed, accompanied by Barty humming some unfamiliar tune under his breath.
Evan exhaled sharply through his nose.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he called toward the lake.
Barty’s laughter floated back instantly. “Doing what?”
“Being irritating.”
“Oh, Evan,” Barty sighed dramatically. “If I wanted to irritate you, I’d start singing.”
“You already are singing.”
“Yes, but badly.”
Evan rolled his eyes despite himself.
The wind shifted then, carrying the scent of lake water and cedar smoke through camp. Somewhere beyond the trees, Barty moved again, and against every sensible instinct Evan glanced sideways.
Just for a second.
Moonlight poured over the lake in shimmering silver bands. Barty stood waist-deep in the water, his discarded robes draped carelessly across a nearby rock. Strange glowing markings traced along his bare shoulders and down his spine like constellations come alive beneath skin.
Evan’s breath caught.
The stories had never mentioned that part.
Barty turned slightly, enough that the light struck the sharp line of his jaw, the arch of his throat. He looked ethereal. Dangerous. Ancient in a way no mortal should ever appear.
Then Barty glanced over his shoulder.
Straight at him.
Their eyes locked across the water.
A slow grin spread across Barty’s face.
“Well,” he called softly, “there goes your sanity.”
Evan should’ve looked away.
Instead, he found himself standing before he even realized he’d moved.
Barty’s expression shifted — amusement softening into something quieter, warmer, infinitely more dangerous than teasing.
The lake rippled around him like liquid starlight.
And Evan, doomed from the very beginning, walked toward the shore anyway.
prompt: witch | may 1 | pining, jealousy but no warnings | word count: 218 | @rosekillermicrofic | not beta-read
~
Dorcas put her quill down. "What's wrong?"
Evan glared at her, then tried to go back to the paragraph in the book. He'd read it twice so far but something messed with his focus. Someone. His gaze slid over to one of the other tables.
Dorcas sighed. "You wanted to come to the library to study."
Evan grunted and slammed the potions theory book shut. "That was before I knew she would be here."
She was the girl at the next table. She was also Barty's girlfriend of the month.
"Don't be like that. She's lovely, Evan," Pandora told him.
Knowing Pandora that was probably true. Dora got along with all sorts of people. Unlike Evan, who liked his friends and nobody else. Least of all the girl at the other table. "She's a bloody—"
Pandora eyed him, eyebrows raised in warning. Evan leaned back in his chair. "—witch," he said carefully.
Dorcas chuckled. "Good save."
"She's really very nice," Pandora insisted. "I just don't understand why you dislike her so much. There has to be a reason."
"I'll finish this later," he said and began gathering his things instead of explaining himself to Dora.
Evan's heart thudded painfully as he fled the library. Of course there was a reason. And he'd take that secret to his grave.
what does a guy need to do to heat up this rivalry
by @colourful00desert
art by karasuno910 and @twosiptipsy
Rating: Mature
Word count: 10.3k
Tags: text fic, actor au, crack, non-explicit sexual content
Bartemius Crouch Jr. and Evander Maximillian Rosier have very different reactions when the casting breakdown for the tv series adaptation of Heated Rivalry arrive in their inboxes.
or
epistolary (mainly text) fic about barty getting cast to play shane and evan getting cast to play ilya
Dread & Yearning by @thebibutterflyao3
art by @chuueppz and @olathenordmann
beta by @damnapathetic
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 34.9k
Tags: Post-Hogwarts, Omegaverse, Alpha x Alpha
Evan is an Apothecary Shop assistant preparing to be a healer and Barty is the world's most incompetent Auror-in-training. As he steps off the Hogwarts Express platform for the last time, Slytherin Beta Evan Rosier makes eye contact with Ravenclaw Alpha Barty Crouch, Jr. and triggers an unusual phenomenon. As they pursue the careers their parents have chosen for them, the pair constantly run into each other. It happens so often that Evan wonders if Barty is stalking him (he is). While Barty tries to win Evan over, Evan can’t figure out why Barty thinks he’s interested. Cue a chaotic gay awakening, denial, and a secret situationship that blows up in their faces. Stir in a little illegal smuggling and a late presentation Alpha for seasoning in the pot.
Check out the full Rosekiller Big Bang collection for more works!
Evan doesn’t remember pulling the hoodie over his head. One second he’d been staring at the door like it might open again, like this was all some drawn-out joke, and the next he was curled into the corner of the couch, swallowed whole by soft fabric that still smelled like smoke, cinnamon gum, and something sharper underneath—Barty.
It’s stupid, really. Pathetic.
He inhales again anyway.
Like if he gets the scent just right, he can rewind the last twenty-four hours. Back to before the words slipped out. Back to before Barty’s expression went from amused to flat in the span of a heartbeat.
“You don’t mean that,” Barty had said.
Evan had meant it—except he hadn’t. Not like that. Not the way it sounded once it was out in the open, sharp and ugly and impossible to take back.
Now the apartment is too quiet.
Except for James.
“You’re making this place feel like a funeral home,” James murmurs from the floor.
Evan doesn’t bother lifting the hoodie off his face. He just grabs the nearest pillow and launches it in the general direction of the James-shaped obstruction sprawled across the carpet.
It hits him square in the ribs.
“Ow. Violent. I’m grieving too, you know.”
“You’re grieving the fact that you haven’t moved in three hours,” Evan mutters, voice muffled by fabric.
“I would move,” James says lazily, “but there’s a tragic atmosphere pinning me down.”
Evan groans and presses his face deeper into the hoodie. It’s already fading. That’s the worst part. Every second that passes, the smell gets a little less him, a little more just laundry detergent and Evan’s imagination trying too hard.
“I ruined it,” Evan says, quieter now.
James doesn’t respond right away. Evan can hear him shifting on the floor, the creak of old wood, the soft thud as he rolls onto his back.
“You had a fight,” James says. “You do that. Constantly.”
“This was different.”
“They’re all ‘different’ when you’re in the middle of them.”
Evan pulls the hoodie down just enough to glare at the ceiling. “He looked at me like I was someone else.”
That lands heavier than the pillow.
James exhales slowly. “What did you actually say?”
Evan hesitates.
Because saying it out loud now will make it real in a way it isn’t yet—right now it’s still floating, half-formed, something he can pretend wasn’t that bad.
“I said…” He swallows. “I said he doesn’t care about anything. That he’s just—reckless for the sake of it. That it’s exhausting.”
Silence.
Then, carefully, “Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Evan snaps, sitting up slightly. “He was—he skipped something important, and I was already annoyed, and he kept joking about it like it didn’t matter and—”
“And you went for the jugular.”
Evan drops back against the couch. “I didn’t think.”
“That’s kind of your signature move.”
“James.”
“I’m just saying,” James adds, raising his hands in surrender even though Evan can’t fully see him, “you two run on chaos and bad timing. This was inevitable.”
Evan closes his eyes.
He can still see Barty standing there, keys in hand, jaw tight.
“Right,” Barty had said. “If I’m that exhausting, I’ll save you the trouble.”
The door had slammed hard enough to rattle the frame.
Evan hadn’t followed.
That’s the part that’s eating him alive now.
“I should’ve gone after him,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” James says simply.
No sugarcoating. No comforting lie.
Evan huffs out a bitter laugh. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You want me to lie?” James props himself up on his elbows. “You’re not upset because you said something dumb. You’re upset because you let him walk out like it didn’t matter if he came back.”
Evan doesn’t answer.
Because that’s exactly it.
The hoodie slips slightly as he shifts, and he grabs it tighter, like it might disappear if he loosens his grip.
“I thought he would,” Evan admits. “Come back, I mean. He always does.”
James hums. “And if this is the time he doesn’t?”
The question lodges somewhere deep in Evan’s chest, sharp and cold.
“I hate this,” Evan mutters.
“Good. Means you care.”
“I always care.”
“Yeah,” James says, pushing himself up into a sitting position now. “You just don’t always act like it at the right moment.”
Evan glares at him properly this time. “Are you here to help or to make me feel worse?”
“Both,” James says cheerfully. “Multifunctional.”
Evan groans and drags the hoodie back over his face. “I can’t just show up. What if he doesn’t want to see me?”
“Then you’ll know,” James shrugs. “Which is better than sitting here turning into a Victorian widow.”
Evan goes still.
Because the idea—terrifying as it is—feels better than this. This endless loop of what-ifs and almosts and the phantom weight of something already gone.
“What if I make it worse?” he asks.
James stands, finally, stretching like he’s just woken up from a nap instead of loitering through emotional devastation.
“Then congratulations,” he says, stepping over the pillow and nudging Evan’s foot. “You’ll have officially tried.”
Evan peeks out from under the hoodie.
James offers him a hand.
“Come on,” he adds. “Go fix your mess.”
Evan stares at it for a long moment.
Then he exhales, shoves the hoodie back off his head—but not off his body—and takes James’s hand, letting himself be pulled up.
The early morning September air nipped at Barty's bare arms and red nose. His dad had dropped him off at the train station as soon as he could at five o'clock. Good riddance, Barty didn't want to be around him any longer than he had too. Summer had been long enough.
It was half past ten, almost time to board. Other students mingled around him but his eyes were only scanning for one in particular.
His eyes caught on Potter across the station, being smothered by his parents as he tried to pull away. Barty snorted and ignored the pang of longing in his chest.
Suddenly, he feels a tap on his back. Barty spun and is met with Regulus. He tried not to show his disappointment on his face, but clearly failed when Regulus laughs.
"What, not who you were wanting to see, Junior?" Barty scowled, pushing him.
"Shut up, Reg. I'm glad to see you." Regulus gave him a knowing smile, settling on the ledge next to him.
Barty shivered again, cursing his past self for not grabbing a jacket when he left the house. Reg looked over, holding out a knit sweater.
"Want mine?" Barty only shook his head.
"I'm fine. Wouldn't fit me anyway," Barty said teasingly, "you're so teeny tiny." Regulus glared, yanking the sweater back.
"Whatever, freeze then asshole." Barty grinned before hearing a soft voice.
"Hello boys! How was your summers?" Pandora asked, her bright smile blinding and colorful skirt blowing in the wind.
But Barty only had eyes for the boy next to her. Blonde curls dancing gently in the breeze, warm brown skin still glowing from the summer days, observant brown eyes meeting his.
Evan woke slowly, the way he always did—like surfacing through layers of warm water, reluctant to leave whatever dream had wrapped itself around him. The room was dim, early light filtering through half-closed blinds, painting everything in soft gold.
Something felt… off.
He blinked, then stilled.
Barty was standing in the corner of their bedroom.
Not inherently strange—Barty did plenty of strange things—but this was different. He was crouched slightly, head tilted, hands carefully adjusting a small potted plant on the floor. His movements were precise, almost reverent.
Evan pushed himself up onto his elbows, the sheets slipping down to his waist. His tank top clung slightly, rumpled from sleep, and his hair spilled over his shoulder in pale waves.
“…Barty,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Why are you redecorating at—” he squinted toward the window “—whatever ungodly hour this is?”
Barty didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he leaned in closer to the plant, brushing a speck of nonexistent dust from one of its brittle leaves.
“You have to create the right environment,” he murmured.
Evan frowned.
“For what?” he asked.
A pause.
Then, very seriously: “For it to feel welcome.”
That was when Evan properly registered the plant.
It was… dead. Not wilting. Not struggling. Fully, irrevocably dead. Leaves crisped into delicate curls, color leached into a sad, dusty brown. Even the soil looked wrong—too dry, too still.
Evan stared at it. Then at Barty.
Then back at it.
“…You do realize that plant is dead, right?”
Barty finally turned, eyes bright, expression almost offended.
“It’s not dead,” he said.
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Barty, it’s literally a fossil.”
“It’s resting.”
“Resting.”
“Yes.”
Evan sat up properly now, dragging a hand through his hair, trying very hard to decide if this was one of Barty’s bits or if he’d finally snapped in a new and creative way.
“You’re talking to it,” Evan said slowly.
“I am encouraging it,” Barty corrected, as if that made perfect sense. He gestured toward the plant. “Recovery is a process, Evan. You can’t rush these things.”
Evan let out a quiet, incredulous laugh, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
Barty turned back to the plant, crouching again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t listen to him. He lacks vision.”
“I lack delusion,” Evan shot back, but there was no real bite to it.
He watched for a moment in silence, something softer creeping into his expression. The way Barty adjusted the pot again, just slightly, like it mattered. Like it would make a difference.
“Where did you even get it?” Evan asked.
Barty shrugged. “Found it.”
“Of course you did.”
“It spoke to me.”
Evan snorted. “Did it now?”
“Yes,” Barty said, completely straight-faced. “Said it needed a home.”
Evan shook his head, but he was smiling now, faint and fond despite himself.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m compassionate,” Barty replied.
“You’re insane.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
Evan huffed out another quiet laugh, leaning back slightly on his hands, watching him.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
“…You’re going to keep it there, aren’t you?”
“Obviously.”
“In our bedroom.”
“Where it can thrive.”
Evan looked at the plant again. Dead. Utterly, tragically dead.
Then back at Barty, who was now sitting cross-legged beside it like some sort of deranged guardian.
“…If it starts haunting me, I’m blaming you.”
Barty grinned, sharp and pleased. “If it starts haunting you, that means it worked.”
Evan groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.
“I hate you.”
“Liar,” Barty said lightly.
Evan didn’t bother responding.
But after a moment, he shifted—just slightly—so he could still see the corner of the room.
Barty, who was sitting on Dorcas’s bed with his wand in his hand, felt very close to committing murder.
Dorcas, who stood in front of him with her hands crossed, shot him a look. “Hate who?” she asked, voice calm.
Regulus, sitting next to Barty, chuckled lowly. “The girl Evan just brought back to our room.”
“Laura? Why? She’s so sweet!” Pandora asked from her spot on the ground, her body sprawled on the rug.
“No respect,” Barty shot back immediately, rage coursing through his veins. “What, she’s completely fine with kicking Reg and I out just to get in a cheeky snog? That’s rude. Plus, she’s annoying as hell with her stupid Godstones obsession and always wears the same ridiculous ponytail, it’s ugly. Rosie deserves–”
Dorcas, who was now smiling, interrupted. “You’re thinking of Lauren. Lauren Brenard. Ev’s snogging Laura Neves. The short one with the long, blond hair who helps run the Duelling Club?”
Barty stared at her, his mouth opening and shutting like a dying fish for a few moments. Embarrassment, realization, and mortification flooded him in equal measure, and he fought to gain his footing. Eventually, he scoffed. “Well I don’t like her, either.”
It was, according to literally everyone in his life, his most defining trait.
Regulus said it with the exhausted fondness of someone who had known him too long. Pandora said it like she was discussing the weather. Evan said it while smiling, soft and dangerous, like he thought Barty’s sharp mouth was something worth keeping polished.
Barty thought everyone else was just weak.
Especially people like Mulciber and Avery.
They were leaning against the brick wall behind the science building during lunch, where all the smokers and assholes liked to gather. Sometimes both.
Barty had only gone there because Evan had skipped lunch to help Slughorn reorganize the art room again—because apparently being beautiful and beloved by every teacher wasn’t enough, he also had to be helpful.
Barty was halfway through stealing one of Evan’s cigarettes from his bag when he heard it.
Avery’s voice.
Smug. Loud enough to be heard. Designed to be.
“Rosier’s weird as hell,” Avery said, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Looks like he’d cry if someone stepped on a flower.”
Mulciber laughed. “Pretty boys always do.”
“Nah,” Avery said. “Pretty boys like him are worse. Think they’re untouchable because everyone wants to fuck them.”
There was more. Something about Evan’s clothes. His voice. The way he walked.
Barty stopped hearing specifics after the first sentence.
It was funny, really.
One second he was standing there, cigarette between his fingers, feeling vaguely bored.
The next—
“You should say that louder,” Barty called.
The little group turned.
Avery raised an eyebrow.
Barty stepped closer, grin already curling sharp and mean.
“C’mon, mate. If you’re going to be obsessed with my boyfriend, at least commit to it. Maybe write poetry next.”
Mulciber snorted. Avery didn’t.
His expression went flat.
Dangerous.
Barty, unfortunately, had never been particularly gifted at self-preservation.
“Actually,” he continued, “I think Evan would be flattered. It must be hard for you, looking like that and knowing he’ll never even pity-fuck you.”
There it was.
Mulciber muttered, “Oh, shit.”
Avery pushed off the wall.
He was bigger than Barty by enough to matter. Taller, broader, built like someone who solved problems with fists because words were too complicated.
Barty knew this.
Barty also knew he was right.
So he smiled wider.
“Aw,” he said. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
The first shove was hard enough to make him stumble.
The second sent him sprawling.
His shoulder hit dirt first, then his face, gravel biting into his cheek. The cigarette disappeared somewhere useless and tragic.
For half a second, the world was just impact and ringing.
His hands dug into the soil instinctively, fingers curling into earth as laughter echoed somewhere above him.
Blood flooded hot and metallic into his mouth where he’d bitten his lip.
He spat red into the grass.
Boots approached.
Then Avery crouched beside him.
Close enough that Barty could smell cigarette smoke and cheap cologne and the awful satisfaction rolling off him.
A hand fisted in the back of Barty’s blazer, hauling him just enough off the ground.
Avery leaned in, voice low and hot against his ear.
“The next time you grow a spine,” he murmured, “maybe pick a fight with someone smaller than you.”
Barty glared up at him, dirt on his face, blood on his teeth.
“Maybe,” he said, breathless and vicious, “the next time you insult my boyfriend, you should make sure I’m dead first.”
For a second, Avery just stared.
Then he laughed once—short, humorless—and let go.
Barty hit the ground again.
“Psychotic little freak,” Avery muttered, standing.
“Unoriginal insult,” Barty called after him.
Mulciber actually laughed at that.
Avery flipped him off without turning around.
Barty stayed there for a moment, face pressed to the dirt, considering the consequences of his actions.
Mostly: Evan was going to kill him.
“Barty?”
Ah.
There it was.
He rolled onto his back and squinted up at the sky first, then at the silhouette appearing above him.
Evan.
Perfect, lovely, furious Evan.
His pale hair was falling out of its clip from where he’d clearly run over. His expression was calm in the way that meant someone was about to die.
“Hi,” Barty said.
Evan looked at the blood on his lip.
The dirt on his uniform.
The forming bruise on his jaw.
Then he asked, very quietly, “Who?”
Barty sighed.
“You always make it sound so sexy when you do that.”
“Barty.”
“Avery.”
Evan nodded once.
Terrifying.
He held out a hand.
Barty took it, and Evan pulled him up with surprising strength, immediately brushing dirt off his blazer with irritated precision.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yes.”
“You could have gotten seriously hurt.”
“I know.”
“You are not allowed to get into fistfights for me.”
Barty tilted his head.
“So verbal violence is still on the table?”
Evan gave him a long look.
Then, despite himself, he smiled. Small. Crooked. Fond.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think anything could stop that.”
Barty beamed, split lip and all.
“God, you love me.”
Evan reached up, thumb brushing carefully at the blood near Barty’s mouth.
His voice was softer this time.
“Pathetically.”
Barty leaned into it without thinking.
“Good,” he whispered.
And because Evan Rosier was a far kinder person than Barty Crouch Jr. had ever deserved, he kissed him right there behind the science building, dirt and blood and all.
