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Barty Crouch Jr. was a masterpiece of contradictions - a Ravenclaw who hated books, a perfectionist who longed to ruin himself, a son who worshipped the father whose approval he'd never earn.
The first time Evan Rosier kissed him, it tasted like firewhiskey and rebellion.
"Stop thinking," Evan murmured against his lips, fingers tangled in Barty's perfectly combed hair. "For once in your life, just feel."
Barty wanted to protest that he was Ravenclaw, thinking was what he did - but then Evan's teeth scraped his bottom lip, and coherent thought dissolved into static.
Across the room, his Transfiguration essay lay abandoned, the ink smudging beneath a carelessly dropped quill. Somewhere in the castle, his father would be giving another speech about proper wizarding decorum. And here Barty was, letting a Slytherin ruin him in the best possible way.
"You're mine now," Evan whispered later, tracing the fresh Dark Mark on Barty's forearm with something like reverence. The pain had been excruciating, but nothing compared to a lifetime of his father's disappointed stares.
Barty laughed, giddy with the freedom of his own damnation. "I was always yours."
Outside, thunder rolled across the Hogwarts grounds. Somewhere, Regulus Black was drowning in his own noble choices. And Barty?
Barty was finally, gloriously alive.