rebel rebel, how could they know?
“Alright, next week, Hufflepuff. It’s our first match of the season, and we’ve got to give it everything we have,” Dorcas ordered, nodding at the huddle of Slytherins around her, dressed in disjointed combinations of Quidditch uniforms and muggle athletic clothes.
“Do we really need to waste everything we have on Hufflepuff?” Barty muttered under his breath.
Evan, who was standing to Barty’s right, leaning on his broom, let out a snort. Clearly Barty hadn’t lowered his voice enough. He spared a glance at Evan, who smirked in agreement at Barty’s comment.
They’d been having moments like that recently. Shared looks, private jokes. Evan had begun to relax a little around him, allowing himself to laugh at Barty’s antics, though still unwilling to participate in them. Barty supposed it was a sign they were getting closer. It slightly terrified him, especially considering that, no matter how much time they spent crowded around Barty’s record player, he still just couldn’t crack Evan. In the meantime though, he’d began teasing Evan as much as he could, trying to get him to argue back.
“Practice tomorrow, 6am,” Dorcas said, clapping her hands together. Everyone groaned. “Don’t blame me. The fucking Gryffindors booked our usual slot.”
They broke apart from their clump, heading towards the changing rooms to grab their things. Barty sped up his pace to catch up with Evan.
“You ought to punch Potter for taking our practice time,” Barty jeered, knocking his shoulder into Evan’s.
Evan sighed. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“Are you joking? It made you, like, ten times cooler in my book.”
“Your definition of cool frightens me,” Regulus put in.
“I’m not the one who thinks dusty old books are cool.”
“Excuse me for intellectually stimulating my–”
“Merlin, could you get more pretentious? Sorry I don’t sit around and write poetry like you and Evan.”
“Why am I involved in this?” Evan wondered aloud.
“Because you, Mr. Rosier, have upgraded from Reggie-level lame to James-Potter-punching level cool.”
“Oh, joy,” Evan deadpanned.
Regulus hit both of them with their Quidditch bags. “Let’s go eat, morons.”
Slinging their bags over their shoulders, they began to trudge up towards the Great Hall. It was September in Scotland, that odd time when it was no longer summer but not quite autumn. The leaves had yet to fall and the rain had not yet begun, but there was a slight bite in the air that made being high up in the air on a broom a slightly unpleasant experience, especially without a full set of Quidditch robes on.
“Barty, you better not sleep through practice tomorrow morning,” Regulus said as they walked up the hill.
“I’m appalled at the accusation.”
“At least our first match is Hufflepuff,” Evan offered.
“You never know,” Regulus warned, “They could’ve improved over the summer.”
Evan raised a brow at him. “Fenwick?”
Barty snickered. Benjy Fenwick was a notoriously clumsy player on the Hufflepuff team. Barty wasn’t quite sure why he kept playing year after year, but he wasn’t complaining. The Hufflepuff team was often so focused on preventing on-pitch accidents that they hardly spent any time searching for the Snitch.
“Never say never, Evan,” Regulus remarked, as they climbed up the steps to the dorm.
Shrugging their robes off, the three boys changed into clothes for dinner.
“How was practice?” Pandora said as the three of them sat down at the table, Dorcas already seated to Pandora’s right.
“They weren’t half bad,” remarked Dorcas, biting into a chicken leg.
Barty rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to lie, Dorky. My flying today was sexy as fuck.”
Regulus held out his fork to Evan. “Please stab this into my eye so I never have to listen to Barty again.”
“Perhaps it’d be more effective to stab it into your ear then.”
“Barty, I’m this close to strangling you.”
Barty winked at Regulus. “Ooh, kinky.”
Regulus sighed dramatically, and Barty kicked him under the table.
“Ignoring them,” Dorcas began loudly. “Evan, your form is superb. You must have practiced over the summer.”
Evan smiled tightly, looking down at his mashed potatoes. “Yeah, I guess so.”
What was that about? There was no need for Evan to be modest about his flying. Even Barty had to admit Evan was one of the best chasers he’d ever seen. Secretly, he was jealous to no end. Evan moved about the pitch so gracefully you’d have thought he was born on a broom.
Barty told him as such.
“Don’t be modest, Rosier,” Barty teased. “You fly like you came out of the womb on a broom.”
Barty watched as Evan’s grip on his fork tightened, and he saw Pandora shoot a worried look at Regulus.
Evan looked up for a moment, before pushing back from the bench.
“I’ve got to go, um–” Evan mumbled, his head hunched down. Dropping his fork on his plate, he practically ran out of the dining hall.
“What was that?” Barty asked, as the table fell silent. “You should go after him, Barty,” Regulus said, his voice firm.
“Me? Don’t you think you’d be–”
“Go.”
“Reg, I don’t think that he wants me to–”
“Barty, go,” Pandora spoke.
Though the list of people afraid of Regulus dragged on and on, Barty was a thousand times more afraid of Pandora. Mostly because she was wise that Barty knew there was no hope arguing with her. He would most certainly always be wrong.
“Fine,” Barty grumbled, rising from his seat.
“He’ll be in the astronomy tower,” Regulus murmured, pushing pudding around with his spoon.
“How do you know?”
“Does it matter?”
Barty left for the astronomy tower, quite honestly not as fast as he could’ve been going. What the hell was he supposed to say to Evan? He wasn’t even sure what had happened, though he assumed it was somehow his fault based on Regulus’s reaction. That’s what he got for giving Evan a bloody compliment, he supposed.
As he approached the last set of steps towards the tower, Barty slowed. He had no idea what he was getting into, but it felt real. Barty tended to avoid real when he could. Frankly, he preferred to pretend everything was alright until he was absolutely forced to confront it.
And really, was he the best person to comfort Evan? Wouldn’t Evan’s own twin be better for the job? Or, Merlin, anybody else in Slytherin? Send bloody Mulciber in there and he’d probably manage to do a better job.
Fuck it. He might as well go in rather than standing in the stairwell like an idiot. As he climbed, he smelled the distinct smell of cigarette smoke.
“You know, some people would say resorting to drugs is an unhealthy way of dealing with emotions,” Barty said, pausing in the doorway.
Evan looked up from where he sat by the window, his legs dangling under the railing. In the dim light, Barty could see his face streaked with tears, which jarred him. It’s not that he thought Evan incapable of tears, it was just– Actually, no, he did think Evan was incapable of tears. He seemed far too level-headed for that.
“What do you want, Crouch?” he replied. Barty could tell he was trying to keep the tears out of his voice. He knew because it was a feeling he knew well.
“Are we on a last name basis again? I’m hurt.” Barty pushed off the doorway and took a step into the room, shivering slightly. His sweater and school pants were not nearly warm enough for the open-air room.
“Go away.”
Like the masochistic idiot he was, Barty walked across the room, sprawling next to Evan on the stone floor.
“Are you okay?” Barty whispered, staring straight out of the window. He couldn’t look at Evan’s face. For Evan’s sake or his, he wasn’t quite sure.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Evan sniffed, taking a long drag of the fag. His fingers trembled as he tapped out the ash on the iron rail.
“Maybe because you’re crying two hundred meters above the ground?”
“Rosiers don’t cry,” Evan snapped, jerking away from Barty.
“Then who the hell is sitting next to me right now?”
“Weren’t you sent to comfort me, not torture me?”
“I thought you weren’t crying?” Barty challenged. Like he said, masochist.
“I wasn’t.”
Barty hummed. “Okay.”
They sat in silence for a moment, their legs hanging high above the Hogwarts grounds.
His friends were right: Barty hated silence. Usually. But for some reason, it seemed more tolerable with Evan. Even enjoyable. Perhaps the sensation of smoking assisted with it, but Barty never felt like he needed to say anything.
Except, perhaps silence wasn’t the comforting that Regulus had ordered. Barty took a breath and tried again.
“It was meant to be a compliment, Evan. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Evan peered through the railing, eyes fixed on something in the distance.
“Canada is about three thousand kilometers from here.”
“Hm?”
“That way,” Evan nodded. “West. You could fly and hit Newfoundland in a couple of days.”
“How do you know this?” Barty asked.
“My father has a book of maps. I used to flip through them, try to figure out how far I could go without him finding me.” Evan glanced sideways at Barty, as if searching for a reaction.
“Newfoundland, huh?” Barty remarked.
Evan sighed softly. The sound was almost melodic.
“I’m sure it was a compliment. It’s just,” Evan trailed off.
Barty could feel his hesitation. “You don’t have to tell me. I can get Pandora or Dor–”
“I wasn’t born on a broom,” Evan said, his voice steadier now. “But I was practically shoved on one the minute I could walk.”
Barty said nothing, just continued to hold onto the railing.
“My father, well, he doesn’t really pay much attention to me. When he’s not angry, that is. The only time he does is,”
“Quidditch,” Barty finished.
“Yeah. It’s all I’m good for, in his eyes, so every time I come home, he– well, he works me to the bone. Forces me to spend twelve hours a day practicing, loses it whenever I make a mistake. I would fight back more but I don’t want him to,” Evan swallowed, stumbling over the last few words.
“You don’t want him to hurt Pandora.”
Evan’s eyes flicked to his, shining with surprise.
“You know?”
“I know,” Barty affirmed, “More than you think.” He was thinking about his mother. She was the only reason he conceded to his father. The same way Evan did with Pandora. It was easier to withstand the pain than to watch someone you love be hurt. No matter how much it killed you in the process.
Evan lied back on the floor, his fag long burnt out. Barty followed his move.
“So this summer…” Barty surmised.
“My form better have been fucking spectacular,” Evan relented. “Because I was practicing fifteen hours a day.”
"Merlin, I'm sor-"
“How do you know?” Evan asked,. “Your life is fucking perfect.”
Barty laughed humorlessly. “I assure you, it’s not.”
“But your dad–”
“No.”
“I thought–”
“It’s a story for another time," Barty asserted. "But, you know, I think Dorcas was right.”
“Right about…” Evan questioned.
“I think we are more similar than I thought,” Barty breathed, more to himself than to Evan.
Evan rolled over onto his side to face Barty.
“Now that is a terrifying prospect.”
“I’m not so bad when you get to know me, Rosier.”
“I guess we’ll see,” Evan conceded.
“I guess so,” Barty replied, flipping over to face Evan as well. His skin was dark enough that Barty could barely see him in the dim moonlight, but he could make out a small smile on Evan’s lips.
“And we are on a first name basis, Barty. I was being an arsehole”
Barty laughed. “I’m glad to hear it.”
"Glad to hear we're on a first name basis, or glad to hear I'm an arsehole?"
"Can't it be both? I'm a thoughtful, nuanced lad."
“Though we both know you only came up here because Regulus forced you to.”
“Actually, it was your sister. She scares me half to death.”
Evan chuckled, rolling back onto his back. “Instilling fear is a Rosier family tradition.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Barty protested.
Evan patted him on the hand. “Sure, you aren’t.”
Barty grinned in spite of himself. “I’m doing it.”
“Doing what?” Evan asked confusedly.
I’m finally cracking you.
“Don’t worry about it, Rosie,” he singsonged. It wasn’t hopeless. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but it did.
“We are not on a nickname basis,” Evan declared.
“Oh, you love it.”
“I can assure you I do not.”
“Agree to disagree?”
“What does that even mea–”
And on they went, as they made their way down to the dorm. Sure, Evan’s eyes were still red and puffy, and perhaps Barty still hadn’t gotten an explanation for about half of the things that completely perplexed them about Evan, but, for now, Barty had gotten Evan to argue with him. Which, masochistic tendencies excluded, felt like a win, because at least he wasn’t still doing that whole stone statue imitation thing anymore. Little victories, right?
And, if nothing, it was a testament to Barty’s abilities to annoy the fuck out of anyone, which were in serious jeopardy for a minute there. Order was restored, even if it was just for a night.
As Barty laid in his bed that night, his thoughts drifted to the two boys sharing the dorm with him. They were the same, he supposed. Boys from broken families, pretending everything was alright. They all did it in different ways – Regulus lashed out, Evan was closed off, Barty overcompensated with humor. It was funny, that all Barty needed to finally understand Evan was to realize they both had shit fathers. Or maybe cruel irony was a better description. Either way, he supposed he finally had Bartemius Sr. to thank for something, besides the god-awful namesake. In some perverse way, he had given Barty his friends. Thanks a lot, dad.