Just A Coincidence

Somewhere in the heart of London, a boy sat slouched on the couch in his living room, boredom creeping in as he surveyed the familiar chaos around him. The space looked like a post-apocalyptic wasteland, as it always did on Saturday mornings, the aftermath of the previous night's party. Red plastic cups cluttered the kitchen counters and coffee table, while half-smoked cigarettes teetered on the edge of the bin. Empty liquor bottles stood among crumpled chip bags, and scattered about were the remnants of forgotten belongings—thongs, jackets, student IDs—all adding to the disarray. The room felt suffocating, barely any space left to move through the debris.

But Barty Crouch Jr. was accustomed to the mess. He liked it this way—not quite filthy, but chaotic enough to keep things interesting. Weekends followed a predictable pattern: wild parties on Friday nights, half-hearted cleanups on Saturday mornings, only to start the cycle again by evening. The disarray suited him—there was a strange comfort in the routine of it all, in the controlled chaos that surrounded him.

It was nearing eleven in the morning, and truth be told, Barty was starting to get hungry. With a loud groan, he hauled himself off the couch and shuffled toward the fridge. On the way, he paused to yank open the curtains, momentarily blinded by the harsh daylight flooding in from outside. Squinting, he raised a hand to shield his eyes as they slowly adjusted. The room reeked of stale weed and alcohol, a familiar blend.

When he finally reached the fridge and opened it, he wasn’t surprised by the lack of food. It was always hit or miss—his life was so chaotic that he never kept track of whether there was anything to eat. The only time he bothered to properly clean the apartment from top to bottom was when Regulus was coming over. Barty didn’t fully understand why he tried so hard. They weren’t exactly in a relationship; they hooked up, sure, but it was more complicated than that. Regulus was his best friend. His best friend that he also, more often than not, ended up in bed with. Maybe that meant something. Maybe that’s why Barty made the effort—to keep up the illusion of order whenever Regulus was around.

The thing was, Regulus was coming over tonight, which meant Barty needed to clean the apartment fast—and do a decent job of it. But there was no way he could tackle the mess on an empty stomach, and eating couldn’t happen without a shower first. His breakfast would likely come from his next-door neighbor, Mr. Rosier, an elderly man in his seventies who had become something of a surrogate friend. Mr. Rosier was kind enough to check in on Barty and offer companionship whenever he was bored or needed a distraction from the usual chaos.

If it had been anyone else living next door, Barty would’ve probably been evicted long ago for all the noise complaints. But Mr. Rosier was 90% deaf and blissfully unaware of the all-night parties and mayhem. His ignorance, Barty thought, was a blessing—one that kept him from being thrown out of the building entirely.

Barty had grown fond of Mr. Rosier, even if he spent most of his time teasing the old man and invading his space. Despite his mischievous tendencies, there was a certain fondness that had developed between them. The least Barty could do was clean himself up and put on something decent before showing up at Mr. Rosier’s door. A quick shower and a change of clothes felt like a small price to pay for the free breakfast and the company of someone who actually tolerated him.

So, into the shower he went, cranking the water as hot as it could go to ease his sore muscles. Racing wasn’t exactly a fitness sport, but staying in shape helped keep his mind sharp. The physical routine kept him grounded—something to focus on, something to keep him from drifting off into the chaos of his thoughts.

He’d picked up illegal street racing at seventeen. During the day, he worked like everyone else—well, not quite like everyone else. While others sat at desks or clocked in at factories, Barty spent his time tattooing people. It wasn’t a conventional job, but that’s exactly why he’d chosen it. It infuriated his father, and that alone was reason enough. Still, the pay didn’t exactly cover much, so he found other ways to get by. Racing in underground circuits became a goldmine. People placed heavy bets, and every time he crossed the finish line, he walked away loaded with winnings. No way in hell was he going to ask his father for money. He’d make his own—and do it on his terms.

Besides, Barty loved the rush that came with racing. The feeling of putting his life on the line was indescribable—a thrill that words couldn’t capture. It was everything about the experience: the unpredictability of each race, the varying roads, the fierce competitors, the electric atmosphere of the spectators. Regulus always showed up, despite his apprehension about the inherent danger. Over time, he’d grown accustomed to watching Barty tear through the streets, his heart racing with every turn. It was like magic unfolding before his eyes.

Sometimes, if Barty could convince him, Regulus would even join him in the car—though not during the races themselves. That was strictly forbidden; having a passenger was a recipe for disaster, and Barty would never risk Regulus’s life for a thrill. His own life? That was one thing. But Regulus? Never. To Barty, Regulus was worth more than any amount of money he could earn from those races. 

To Barty, Regulus Black was worth more than anything. 

But outside the races, Barty would take Regulus driving late at night, when the streets lay desolate and silent. He loved watching the expressions play across Regulus's face as they sped through the dark. The initial flicker of fear and apprehension would gradually give way to curiosity and, finally, satisfaction. Barty thrived on that transformation.

Even if Regulus didn't quite know it, he was like Barty, in a way at least. Regulus, much like Barty, needed to be reminded of what being alive felt like. And everyone knows that one never feels more alive than when one is at the brink of dying. 

It was the rush. Tempting, addicting, infatuating. 

Perhaps that was why Barty felt so drawn to Regulus Black—because he, too, ignited a sense of exhilaration within him. On the surface, Regulus appeared calm and collected, just an average rich boy with a genius mind. No one would question a boy like him; no one would suspect that something darker lurked beneath that polished exterior. But Barty knew better. Regulus was a masochist, and Barty? He was a sadist. What better duo than a masochist and a sadist?

No one knew the truth: that Regulus craved to be bent over the counter like a good fucking slut, or that he reveled in the feel of Barty’s hands pulling his hair. No one could fathom how Regulus delighted in the biting, how he wore the marks on his thighs like badges of honor. No one knew he savored the taste of blood on his lips or that he begged for more, even when tears glimmered in his pretty emerald eyes. No one knew him like Barty did. They shared a bond woven with secrets, something that transcended the ordinary—a thrilling game of dominance and surrender.

For Barty, dragging people to their lowest lows was like an addictive high. Each person he fucked was brought to their unraveling. He reveled in the way they came undone before him, stripped of their humanity, proving to himself that no matter how composed they appeared, everyone fell apart under his touch. They all transformed into savages, revealing the primal instincts lurking beneath their façades. They were all the same. They were all nothing. 

Except for Regulus.

He was everything.

But even so, Regulus deserved better. There was a time when Regulus was willing to become nothing—just a shadow of himself—simply for Barty. Yet Barty refused to allow it. He would never let Regulus diminish himself for someone like him.

How could Regulus love someone like him? 

Barty was cold and it made Regulus weak. He couldn´t hurt someone like Regulus, someone so…sweet. It turned Barty on just watching him leave. 

It wasn't worth it. Barty wasn't worth it, because no matter what, he couldn´t be fixed. 

Over the years he had come to know Regulus Black, Barty had fallen for him—truly, deeply loved him. Regulus was the only person who had ever stirred such feelings within Barty, and therein lay the problem. Barty wasn’t made for love. He was violent, dangerous, and off-putting, perpetually detached. The thought of hurting Regulus terrified him, so he built walls around them and let Regulus go.

There could be no feelings between them—only sex. Friendship was acceptable, but love? Regulus deserved more than he could ever offer.

Somewhere along the way, Regulus had learned to accept their reality—the fact that they could never be more than friends. He was fine with it now, comfortable in the role of best friend. They loved each other as best friends do, but there couldn’t be anything more. They had both made their peace with that understanding. Yet, when the clock struck midnight and the nights grew lonely, they still found their way to each other. As it turned out, they both needed to be reminded, time and again, of what it felt like to truly be alive.

Barty scrubbed away, the body wash lathering into bubbles as the warm water filled the air with steam. After what felt like an eternity, he finished, dried off, threw on some clothes, and stepped out of his apartment.

He knocked on Mr. Rosier's door with unrelenting enthusiasm, like a madman determined to be heard. “Mr. Rosier!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the hallway. This had become their routine; usually, Mr. Rosier would respond almost immediately. But today, for some reason, he was taking his sweet time.

Barty continued to knock, the sound echoing with impatience, until finally, the door creaked open.

But the person who opened the door wasn’t the familiar old man Barty had come to appreciate. Instead, it was a blonde boy, around his own age, standing there with an air of indifference. His crystal-blue eyes seemed to look right past Barty, as if he barely registered his presence, though Barty couldn’t help but feel an odd pull toward him, like some magnetic force.

“What do you want?” the boy asked, his tone blunt and edged with rudeness, the words cutting through the silence with a cold, detached sharpness.

Well, ex-fucking-cuse me. Just who the hell did this boy think he was?

“Who are you?” Barty asked, his neck jerking back in surprise, his voice sharp with confusion as he took in the sight of the unfamiliar boy standing before him.

“Who am I?” the boy shot back, folding his arms across his chest with a defiant tilt to his chin. “Who are you?” His tone was thick with attitude, the kind that immediately rubbed Barty the wrong way.

Barty’s eyebrows furrowed in indignation, his jaw tightening. How dare this nobody respond like that? His eyes narrowed, glaring at the boy as if he could take him apart with a single look.

“I asked you first,” Barty said, his voice low and pointed, almost daring the boy to continue.

“So?” The boy shrugged, utterly unfazed.

Barty's mouth twitched with barely restrained annoyance. What a fucking brat, he thought, sizing him up with a cold stare.

“So?” Barty repeated mockingly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So, the thing is, Mr. Rosier has always answered when I knock, and you’re clearly not him.” He stepped closer, his gaze hardening. “So what the hell are you doing in his apartment?”

“It’s none of your business,” the boy shot back, wasting no time as he reached for the door, starting to shut it.

No way. Barty wasn’t about to let some random stranger close the door in his face, especially without getting answers. His reflexes kicked in, and he slammed his hand against the door, pushing it open again and forcing his way inside.

“Don’t you dare close the door on me—” Barty grumbled, striding past the boy as if he owned the place, heading straight for one of the plush couches in the living room.

“Hey!” the boy called after him, his voice sharp with rising anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of my apartment!”

“Your apartment?” Barty echoed, his voice hardening as he shot a cold glance over his shoulder. The audacity of this guy was starting to grate on him. “Where the fuck is Mr. Rosier? And who the hell are you?!”

“I don’t owe you any answers,” the boy replied, his voice icy and resolute, as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

Barty’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he settled into the couch, legs casually spread as if daring the boy to make him move. “Oh, you absolutely do,” Barty said, his tone darkening with a mix of annoyance and challenge. “Because I’m not leaving until I find out who the hell you are and what you’re doing here.”

The boy’s expression remained unfazed, but a flicker of irritation crossed his face. His arms crossed tightly over his chest as he loomed over Barty, who, in turn, didn’t flinch. “I’m not playing games,” the boy said, his voice now edged with warning. “Get out.”

“Or what?” Barty shot back, smirking as he leaned further into the couch, clearly enjoying the tension. “You’re not exactly in a position to threaten me, mate. I know Mr. Rosier. Hell, I practically live here.”

The boy’s eyes flashed, a slight twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Not anymore, you don’t,” he said coolly. “Mr. Rosier moved. This is my apartment now.”

Barty froze for a split second, caught off guard, but quickly masked it with a cocky laugh. “Moved?” he scoffed, though unease stirred in his chest. “No way he’d just up and leave without telling me.”

“He didn’t have to,” the boy replied, his voice steady. “He’s my grandfather. And if you keep pushing, I’ll have you thrown out for trespassing.”

Barty’s smug grin faltered slightly, though he covered it with a shrug. “Grandfather, huh? Well, isn’t that convenient.” He paused, scanning the boy up and down, sizing him up. “So what’s your name, then? Or are you gonna keep pretending you’re some mystery man?”

The boy’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t back down. “Evan,” he said flatly. “Now get the hell out.”

“Hm,” Barty scoffed in pure defiance, tilting his head with a mocking grin. “I’m Barty Crouch Jr., by the way. Just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Evan replied sharply, but something in his gaze flickered—just for a moment.

A slow, knowing smirk curled on Barty’s lips as he caught that subtle shift. “Sure you weren’t,” he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He lingered just long enough to let the words hang in the air before turning on his heel.

Without another glance, Barty strode out of the apartment and back into his own, leaving the tension thick behind him. A small thrill buzzed in his chest as he closed his door, that fleeting crack in Evan’s composure lingering in his thoughts.

*******

It was Evan's first night in the apartment, and already he found himself wide awake. The building pulsed with the thumping bass of music from next door, the vibrations seeping through the walls like a relentless heartbeat. The stale scent of cigarettes curled into his bedroom, mingling with the remnants of moving boxes and fresh paint.

He tossed and turned for a full hour, frustration gnawing at him as he tried to block out the raucous laughter and chatter that echoed through the thin walls. It was no use; the noise was too loud, too invasive, drowning out any hope of sleep.

Evan was grateful to have a place to stay for free, especially while his grandfather was out of town. His grandfather had recently moved back to France to be closer to family as he got older, leaving Evan with the apartment. But if his nights in this place were going to be like this, he’d rather burn at the stake than endure the chaos any longer.

Don’t get him wrong; he enjoyed a good party now and then. But he was more of a chill stoner than a raging party animal. He preferred laid-back gatherings with friends, easygoing smoking sessions, and low-key vibes. Sure, he’d partake in the occasional rager, but right now, he was jet-lagged, his body aching from the cramped flight. All he wanted was to collapse into bed and lose himself in sleep, but the relentless noise made that impossible. Each thump of the bass felt like a hammer on his skull, drowning out any hope of rest. Frustration simmered beneath his skin as he rolled over for what felt like the hundredth time, wishing for a moment of peace in the chaos.

Besides, Evan had come to London because he needed to focus—and, more importantly, to figure out what his next comic was going to be about. Lately, inspiration had eluded him like a shadow, and even though France was a beautiful place to live, it felt as though all his creative ideas had run dry there.

So, when the opportunity arose for a free apartment in London, he seized it, especially since his sister was also in the city, finishing her studies at college. Despite being twins, Evan had graduated earlier than Pandora due to the length of his career. And besides that, Evan had stayed in France whilst Pandora had left for London. Their busy schedules meant they’d only managed to see each other during Christmas and summer breaks, and it just wasn’t enough.

Twins needed each other. Always. The absence of Pandora weighed heavily on him, amplifying the loneliness that had begun to creep into his life. He missed their late-night talks and shared laughter, the effortless way they understood one another. Being apart felt unnatural, and with each passing day he longed for her presence even more.

So, he ditched France once and for all and found himself in London, hopeful that this city would rekindle his creative spark. Not only did he want to dive back into his comics, but he also wanted to see Pandora more than just twice a year. The thought of spending more time with her filled him with warmth, but if he didn’t get any sleep, there would be no comic—and perhaps no chance to reconnect with her either.

The noise from next door hammered relentlessly in his ears, a reminder that he needed to find a way to carve out his own space in this bustling city. Without rest, his inspiration would remain elusive, and he couldn’t let that happen. Not now, when everything was finally falling into place.

He groaned into his pillow, frustration mounting as the raucous party next door reached a fever pitch. The incessant noise felt like an assault on his senses, and he couldn’t shake the thought that the only way to find peace was to confront the boy responsible.

Reluctantly, Evan peeled himself from the warm cocoon of his bed. He threw on a hoodie over a plain white shirt, swapping his pajama pants for a pair of loose jeans that hung comfortably on his hips. The clock on the wall read two-thirty in the morning, and a surge of irritation shot through him. Hell, he could just about kill Barty Crouch Jr. for ruining his first night in the apartment.

With a deep breath, he steeled himself for the confrontation, knowing that if he didn’t speak up, he’d be left battling the noise all night.

What he saw when he opened the door shocked him to his core. Barty had left his door wide open, allowing guests to come and go as they pleased. The hallway was packed with girls in skimpy skirts and boys in translucent T-shirts, all laughter and chatter blending into a chaotic symphony. The air was thick with smoke, infused with the pungent scent of cheap cologne, spilled drinks, and sweat—a true testament to the wild party raging on.

Evan stood there, incredulous. How could someone be so careless as to leave his door wide open? Wasn’t he worried that some lunatic might wander in? Hell, at this point, Barty might be the lunatic himself. The thought sent a mix of irritation and disbelief coursing through him as he prepared to navigate this madness in search of some semblance of peace.

The only downside to his two-story apartment was that it occupied the top floor of the building. While the spacious layout was a definite perk, it came with a catch: there were only two apartments on the highest floor—his and Barty’s. So, he was effectively stuck with this menace as a neighbor. He couldn’t help but wonder how someone could be so carefree about the chaos they created, and the prospect of enduring Barty’s antics for the foreseeable future felt like a daunting challenge.

But then again, perhaps chaos was exactly what he needed. He had been a troublemaker himself when he was around sixteen and seventeen, reveling in the thrill of late-night escapades and spontaneous adventures. Those were carefree days filled with laughter and reckless abandon.

But then college happened, and responsibilities began to weigh him down. The carefree spirit he once embraced faded as the demands of academia took over, and his body settled into a calmer, more subdued rhythm. Yet now, standing at the edge of this raucous gathering, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of nostalgia for the wild days of his youth. Maybe a little chaos could shake things up and inspire the creative spark he so desperately sought.

He was twenty-one now, freshly graduated and stepping into the daunting adventure of making a living. The world was his oyster, or at least that’s what the older generation told him when they asked about his future plans. He could do anything, right?

But whenever the question arose, he found himself at a loss for words. Deep down, he knew that comics were his true passion, the medium that sparked his creativity and ignited his imagination. Yet, the uncertainty of whether he could actually carve out a successful career in the industry loomed over him like a dark cloud. It was one thing to love something; it was another to make a life out of it. 

And yet, who the hell knew anything about anything, right? Did people actually have it all figured out, or were they just stumbling through life, piecing it together one second at a time? The thought had nagged at him, a mixture of curiosity and frustration. Maybe what he needed was to let go of the need for certainty and just fall into the unknown.

So, he pushed through the throngs of people, ignoring the hands that brushed against his arms as he passed—hands that beckoned for attention and connection. But Evan wasn’t here to satisfy anyone’s whims; he was here to fulfill his own needs. With that determination in mind, he pressed on through the thick haze of smoke and the pulsing beat of the music, his eyes scanning the crowd for his neighbor, the one who seemed blissfully unaware of the chaos he was causing in the apartment next door. Each step felt charged with purpose as he navigated the sea of bodies, frustration boiling beneath his calm facade.

Even with his height, Evan struggled to spot Barty in the dim lighting of the apartment. Just as he was about to give up, someone bumped into him, causing him to wobble slightly.

“Sorry,” the stranger said, offering an apologetic smile.

But instead of acknowledging the apology, Evan cut right to the chase. “Where’s Crouch?”

The stranger’s face twisted in confusion. “Who’s Crouch?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

Really? This guy didn’t even know whose apartment and party he had stumbled into.

Evan let out a frustrated sigh. “Never mind,” he replied, brushing past the stranger with a wave of irritation. The chaos was dizzying, and the thought of finding Barty amidst this crowd felt increasingly futile.

There was no sign of him on the first floor, so Evan decided to try the second. The stairs were a challenge to navigate, but he managed to make his way up. Reaching the top felt somehow even more overwhelming than walking through the chaos below.

He scanned the floor, tilting his head left and right, squinting to get a clearer view through the haze of smoke and swirling lights. At last, he spotted Barty at the far end, leaning casually against what appeared to be a makeshift bar. Evan’s frustration simmered beneath the surface; he had finally found the source of his late-night disturbance.

“Crouch!” Evan called out as he made his way toward Barty, but the noise of the music drowned him out. Suddenly, Barty pulled a boy in by the chin, pressing his lips against the other’s in a kiss.

Evan stopped in his tracks, as if he had been shot or punched. The scene caught him completely off guard. His gaze flicked from Barty to the boy, taking note of his sharp jawline and black curls cascading over high cheekbones. Who the hell was this guy, and why was Barty kissing him? More importantly, why did Evan care?

Shaking off the shock, he forced himself to keep moving, breaking free from the spell that had momentarily rooted him in place. When he finally stood in front of the duo, he shouted again, “Crouch!”

At last, Barty broke the kiss and turned to look at him, an amused smirk creeping onto his face. “Look who decided to show up,” he teased, clearly unbothered by Evan's irritation.

Evan opened his mouth, prepared to ask something along the lines of “Are you going to turn the music down?” But what came out instead was a pointed, “Who is this?” gesturing toward the boy next to Barty.

“Why?” Barty mocked, twirling a lock of the boy’s curls between his fingers. His arm draped possessively over the boy’s shoulders, but his attention remained fixed on Evan. “Do you care?”

“I don’t—” Evan began to reply, but the boy cut him off.

“The name’s Black,” he said, extending his hand with a casual confidence. “Regulus Black.”

Evan merely acknowledged him, eyeing the boy’s hand as if it were a pair of scissors. He locked eyes with Regulus, and something beautiful flickered within those emerald depths—an allure found only in precious gems, dreams, and moments of reverie. The boy was striking, utterly captivating, and a knot twisted in Evan’s gut. Why?

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Evan spat out, irritation edging his tone.

“Hm,” Regulus replied, unfazed by Evan’s rudeness. “Listen blondie, you better watch your mouth-”

“Is that a threat?” Evan shot back, talking over him. 

Regulus opened his mouth, ready to respond, and even took a step forward, but Barty yanked him back with a firm grip.

“Hey, Rosier,” Barty said, his gaze now fixed on Evan. In that instant, something in his eyes shifted, darkening with an intensity that sent a shiver down Evan’s spine. There was a dangerous edge to Barty’s demeanor, and for a brief moment, Evan felt a flicker of fear.

“You can talk to me however you want,” Barty explained, his tone cool and collected—a demeanor that somehow made him even more intimidating. “But him? You don’t get to speak to him like that. So you’re going to apologize. Right. Okay?” He concluded with a finality that left no room for argument, a challenge hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to unleash its fury.

Evan’s heart raced, caught between the urge to stand his ground and the instinct to back down from the brewing conflict. Barty’s unwavering gaze dared him to defy him, and Evan felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

“Um,” Evan hesitated, weighing his options. But in that moment, he realized there really was no choice, not when Barty’s intense gaze bore into him like a challenge. “I’m sorry,” he finally muttered, his words begrudgingly aimed at Regulus, though they felt heavy on his tongue.

“See?” Barty asked, the dangerous glint in his eye fading as quickly as it had come. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His tone was light now, almost teasing, as if the tension a moment earlier had never existed.

Before Evan could respond, Barty thrust a cup into his hand. “Here,” he said. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Evan replied, his voice laced with confusion. The rapid shift in Barty’s demeanor was unsettling. One second he’d been cold and menacing, and now he was playing the role of a gracious host, as if nothing had happened.

“You don’t?” Barty raised an eyebrow, his expression playful, like this was all part of a game only he knew the rules to. “But it’s a party, Rosier. Have some fun. Drinks are on the house, you know…”

Evan swallowed hard, unsure how to navigate the situation. Regulus, who had been watching silently, trailed his eyes over him with a slow, deliberate look—up, down, and back up again. The scrutiny made Evan uneasy, as if Regulus was reading him like an open book, unraveling his layers. Whoever this guy was, he knew how to be both alluring and intimidating without saying a word.

“Listen, Crouch—” Evan started, trying to regain control of the conversation.

But Barty leaned in close to Regulus, whispering something in his ear. Whatever it was made Regulus chuckle, a soft but smug sound that made Evan's skin crawl. That smug bastard. He had a pretty smile, though—hell, everything about Regulus Black was pretty. Evan could at least admit when someone was attractive, even if it didn’t mean he liked them.

And Barty? He wasn’t bad either. When Evan had first opened the door to confront him, Barty hadn’t been at all what he expected. His grandfather had spoken of Barty Crouch Jr. with respect and fondness, so Evan had imagined someone more polished—certainly not a rugged guy with messy brunette hair, tattoos running up his arms, facial piercings, and multiple earrings.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this.

Before Evan could say anything further, Barty kissed Regulus again, right in front of him. It was as if he was trying to make a point, though Evan wasn’t sure what that point was supposed to be. When Regulus finally walked away, Barty casually draped an arm around Evan’s shoulders and pulled him along, like they were suddenly best friends.

“So, what do you want?” Barty asked, not leaving any room for Evan to protest or pull away. “Vodka? Rum?” He paused, then flashed a wicked grin. “Tequila?”

Evan barely had time to process the shift. Everything about this night was spinning out of control, and Barty seemed to be enjoying every second of it.

All Evan wanted was some peace and quiet so he could finally sleep.

“No, I—”

“Oh, I know!” Barty interrupted, his voice louder than necessary as he continued to bulldoze right over Evan's attempt to speak. “You’re a firewhisky guy, aren’t you?”

Was Barty ever going to let him finish a sentence?

“No, that can’t be it…” Barty mused, already moving on to another thought. “You're probably into-” 

Evan had had enough. If he didn’t cut in now, Barty would just keep rambling. “Gin,” he said, finally managing to get a word in.

That made Barty stop in his tracks, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’d just heard something unbelievably dull. “Gin?” he repeated, like it was the most boring choice imaginable. “You’re into gin?”

His tone made it sound like Evan had just confessed to liking stale bread.

“What?” Evan challenged, his brow furrowing. “Gin's not good enough for you?”

Barty gave a casual shrug. “It just… wasn’t what I was expecting,” he replied, an amused grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

Evan shot him a scowl, the reaction completely involuntary, but of course Barty noticed.

“Cheer up, Rosier,” Barty teased, the grin widening. “That’s not a bad thing. I quite like spontaneity.”

“You know—" Barty continued, still talking over Evan. By this point, Evan had stopped trying to keep track of where they were going. "People these days... they’re too bland, too mundane. I like the unexpected. Keeps things interesting."

“Is Black mundane?” Evan blurted out before he could stop himself. He hadn’t meant to ask, but the words tumbled out anyway.

Barty's smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re quite interested in Black, aren’t you?” He cocked his head, the teasing evident in his voice. “Should I set you guys up?”

"That’s not it—" Evan began, but Barty cut him off with a knowing look, shaking his head.

“Oh no, no,” Barty interrupted, tilting his head mockingly. "You're not into guys, right? That’s obvious. You like girls, don’t you?”

Evan hesitated for a split second, and Barty's eyes lit up with mischief, catching the pause. “Plenty of girls here," he continued, gesturing toward the crowd. "Pick your poison, Rosier. I’ll make it happen." His grin widened as he pointed out the girls scattered around the party, a challenge hanging in the air.

Did Barty ever stop talking? Of course, Evan was into girls—but he was also into guys. Not that it mattered right now. That wasn’t why he had come here. He didn’t want girls, he didn’t want guys. All he wanted was a few hours of sleep without the bass from Barty's party vibrating through his walls. Yet here he was, stuck in the middle of Barty’s endless chatter, far from the quiet he craved.

But for some inexplicable reason, the words he meant to say twisted into something entirely different. Instead of telling Barty to shut the hell up, Evan found himself asking, “And how would you know what I like?”

The moment the question left his lips, he regretted it. He hadn’t meant to feed into Barty’s game, but now he was caught in it, watching as a slow, knowing smirk spread across Barty’s face.

"Oh, I have my ways," Barty replied, his voice low and teasing. "People are more transparent than they think."

"Well, you're wrong," Evan shot back, trying to keep his voice steady. "Just so you know."

"Am I?" Barty replied, his tone dipping lower, sending an involuntary thrill down Evan's spine. That smug expression of his seemed to suggest he knew far more than Evan was willing to admit.

"I—" Evan started, but Barty cut him off again, his grin widening.

"So, what do you like if not girls?" Barty asked, voice dripping with curiosity.

Evan hesitated for a moment, but then, in a defiant breath, he confessed, "I go both ways."

"Of course you do," Barty teased, his lips curling into a smirk as he casually licked them.

Evan jerked his head back, brows knitting in indignant confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.

Barty waved a hand dismissively, brushing it off as if it were nothing. "Don’t worry about it," he said, but the easy shrug only fueled Evan’s curiosity further. Now, that offhand remark felt like a riddle begging to be solved, and it gnawed at him.

“No, but—” Evan started, only to be cut off.

"Listen," Barty interrupted once more, his tone dripping with playful arrogance. "I’d love to stay and chat, truly. I do enjoy entertaining pretty boys like you, but I've got a party to host, and well..." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with a casual smirk. "There's another pretty boy waiting for me right now, and frankly, I'm in desperate need of some head."

Evan blinked, taken aback by the bluntness. Before he could respond, Barty continued, as if the crudeness was no big deal. "So if you don’t mind, feel free to linger or head back to your apartment. I couldn’t care less, really."

"Well, excuse me—" Evan began, clearly offended by the blatant rudeness, but the words barely left his mouth before Barty flashed him a smug grin.

With a casual tap on Evan’s shoulder, Barty gave a mock salute. "Good talk," he said, then disappeared into the throng of partygoers, leaving Evan standing there, mouth agape, with nothing but a rush of frustration and confusion.

Evan couldn’t believe this was the guy who would be his new neighbor. Out of all the people in the world, it had to be Barty Crouch Jr, of course. Just his luck—though, was it really?

Maybe it wasn’t luck at all. Maybe it was something else… something a bit more deliberate, or just an odd twist of fate. Maybe it was just a coincidence.