Lighter || Rosekiller Word count: 1,148
@rosekillermicrofic @lilldrknesss
Barty finds the lighter in Evan’s pocket by accident.
That is, technically by accident. In practice, Barty Crouch Jr. tends to put his hands in Evan Rosier’s pockets with alarming frequency. It’s a habit. A hobby. A lifestyle choice.
This time, though, he pauses.
“Rosier,” Barty says, holding up the lighter between two fingers like a discovered artifact. “Explain.”
Evan, who is sprawled sideways across the Slytherin common room sofa like a very elegant corpse, barely glances up from the book resting on his chest.
“It’s a lighter,” he says. “I assumed you were familiar with the concept.”
“I am,” Barty says slowly. “I’m just curious why you have one.”
Evan Rosier does not smoke.
Barty knows this because Barty has tried—repeatedly—to convince him to smoke with him behind the greenhouses, which Evan insists is “inefficient lung damage with no aesthetic value.”
The lighter is small and silver. It flicks open with a clean little click. Barty does it twice.
“Barty if you set something on fire I will break up with you.”
“…You say that like it would stop me.”
Evan tilts his head back over the sofa arm to look at him upside down.
“I would also tell Regulus.”
“You play dirty, Rosier.”
Barty collapses onto the sofa, half on top of Evan, because personal space is a social construct. The book on Evan’s chest gets squashed between them.
“Still,” Barty says, examining the lighter. “You don’t smoke. You don’t set things on fire. You once lectured me for fifteen minutes about why burning parchment to destroy evidence is amateur behavior.”
“That lecture was thirty minutes,” Evan corrects absently.
There is a moment of silence where the Slytherin common room crackles quietly with green-tinted firelight.
“You stole a lighter,” Barty says slowly, “because I like lighters?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Evan says. “I acquired it.”
“That is redistribution.”
He flicks the lighter open again.
Barty watches it with the same fascinated focus he usually reserves for explosives.
Which, to be fair, is one of Evan’s favorite pastimes.
Barty’s eyes go a little glassy when he stares at fire. His dark curls fall into his face and he doesn’t bother moving them. The flame reflects in his pupils like something alive.
“You know,” Barty says thoughtfully, “I could do a lot with this.”
“I’m just saying. Hypothetically.”
“No hypotheticals involving arson.”
“You’re limiting my creative freedom.”
Evan reaches up and gently pushes Barty’s wrist downward so the flame isn’t quite so close to the sofa cushion.
“Your creative freedom has already destroyed three chairs, one cauldron, and most of Mulciber’s eyebrows.”
Mulciber, who is across the room playing wizard chess with Regulus Black, calls over without looking up, “Worth it.”
Regulus says, “No it wasn’t.”
He closes the lighter again.
Then he rolls onto his side so he’s facing Evan properly, chin propped on his hand.
“You’re being weird,” he says.
“No, like—” Barty gestures vaguely with the lighter. “Sentimental weird.”
Evan looks deeply offended.
“You stole me a present.”
“I acquired an object you might find entertaining.”
“You kept it in your pocket.”
“It was convenient storage.”
“You were going to give it to me.”
Evan stares back with the blank, aristocratic patience of someone who has absolutely been caught and is determined to pretend he hasn’t.
“Oh my god,” he says. “You were.”
“For practical purposes.”
“I am many things,” he says coolly. “Adorable is not one of them.”
Barty grabs the front of Evan’s robes and drags him back down onto the sofa.
“I did not get you a lighter.”
“You got me a lighter,” Barty repeats, delighted.
Evan pinches the bridge of his nose.
Across the room, Regulus glances over briefly.
“Is Barty having a personality breakthrough again?”
“Yes,” Evan says flatly. “Unfortunately.”
Mulciber moves a chess piece.
“Give it a minute,” he says. “He’ll relapse.”
Barty ignores them entirely.
He flicks the lighter open again.
The flame flares to life.
Barty holds it up between them.
“You know what this means, right?”
Evan eyes it suspiciously.
“It means,” Barty says, with the air of someone inventing a ritual on the spot, “that we now have a thing.”
Barty gestures dramatically with the lighter.
“Like couples have things! Songs! Places! Weapons!”
Barty leans closer until their noses almost touch.
“You’re the one who started it, Rosier.”
“You literally handed me the power of flames.”
“I handed you a pocket tool.”
Evan looks like he might actually throw Barty into the lake.
Instead, he reaches out, takes the lighter from Barty’s hand, and shuts it with a sharp click.
Then he tucks it back into Barty’s pocket.
“There,” Evan says. “Now it’s yours.”
Then Barty’s grin comes back, brighter and softer this time.
“You’re disgustingly romantic,” he says.
Barty hooks a finger into Evan’s collar and pulls him closer.
“You stole a lighter for me.”
“I redistributed a lighter.”
“You carried it around waiting to give it to me.”
“I was evaluating optimal transfer timing.”
“Barty,” he says slowly, “we are dating.”
Evan sighs the sigh of a man who has made catastrophic life choices.
Then he leans forward and kisses Barty anyway.
It’s quick and a little crooked because Barty is still grinning into it.
When they pull apart, Barty immediately reaches into his pocket and flicks the lighter open again.
The flame dances cheerfully.
“What?” Barty says innocently.
“If you burn down the common room—”
“—I’m not helping you hide the evidence.”
Barty leans over and kisses him again.
When he pulls back, he says, “You absolutely will.”
Evan looks at the lighter.
Then back at the lighter.
Across the room, Regulus watches this exchange with the tired resignation of someone who knows exactly how this will end.
Mulciber nudges a chess piece forward.
“Five galleons says the curtains go first.”
