Barty’s life has always been a mess, and he knows. From the day he was born, Barty was fucked. His childhood was far from stable, and perhaps the lots and lots of hurtful drops to the bottom of a pitch-black hole is the reason why some people see him as utterly insane.
He has never had consistent friends or a loving father. He was a clown and despite trying his absolute best he never did fit in anywhere. He was always a Crouch or a troublemaker or a weirdo .
Never a friend.
However, in spite of everything, Barty has learned to live with it. Found a bunch of people that actually cared and a lifestyle that ensured he didn’t succumb to an overdose or suicide at the age of seventeen. Life had its ups and downs, and while Barty might have constantly been scraping at the dust on the bottom, he was content right where he was.
During his years growing up, Barty contemplated suicide, murder, and just a lot of sick things in general. He knew his life was unhealthy, knew he should seek help. But he was also always optimistic and continuously told himself things like; at least it can’t get any worse now .
But no. He was wrong. Oh, how he was wrong.
He hadn’t reached rock bottom because it doesn’t exist. Whatever pit-bottom he had been resting on all those years was nothing but a safety net which he has now broken. Anything left to keep him going has now vanished into thin air. Any security is gone. Like a dead leaf in a tornado.
Barty has never had a specific day or time he can pinpoint as the worst day in his life, however despite everything happening around him, Barty instantly knows: Today is the day Barty will break and never be put back correctly again. Today is the day Barty will lose his sanity for good.
Suddenly the ground disappears beneath his feet, and he’s falling . The platform he has built his life on is gone, and Barty is once again plummeting through thin air, watching his life crumble in the span of a millisecond.
All lights go out, and Barty’s stomach does a somersault as gravity pulls him into the darkness beneath. The wind rushes in his ears as it passes him on its way up, while he only descends further, down, down, down. Its violent claws dig into clothes, skin, and muscles, ripping him to shreds, yet all Barty can think is that it doesn’t hurt enough .
Air is forced out of his lungs, but Barty gives it willingly. The darkness pulls him down with rough, calloused hands, yet Barty willingly stretches out his palms towards it. His chest is being smothered by the weight of his breaking heart, and his mind slowly loses connection with his limbs. Everything is just shattering .
His mind, his life, his sanity, his heart-
One second, everything is fine . And the next, it isn’t. One second Barty’s watching the world from his throne, and the next he’s falling. One second, he’s home – like really home. Not the place he grew up nor Hogwarts. But his home . The place he built for himself, designed in the most obnoxious way because the bright colours would annoy his father. The place that, in the beginning, was nothing but a fuck you, dad to Bartemius Crouch Sr., but ended up being his one and only safe space.
The sink in the bathroom, stained by the countless times he had coloured his hair – in the muggle way – became his grounding spot for when he had a panic attack and had to solely focus on keeping eye contact with himself in the eyes and breathing. In and out. In and out. By now, his hands knew what the cold surface felt like underneath fisted hands that would, if given the opportunity, prefer to bruise his own pale skin.
The grandpa pillow on the couch became something to let his anger out on. To hit, or on the worse days, to cry in. And even sometimes – on the better days – something to cuddle up against when he watched Tv or read the news.
The board on the fridge became his first of many inside jokes where he’d write a weird little message that would, a couple of hours later, make him laugh at his own genius. Everything in the small apartment became home. The bed, the outdated paintings, the sofa, the broken lamp, the small marks on the wooden floor from when someone had moved a chair with something too heavy on it.
Barty doesn’t know when it happened, but it all suddenly became so familiar. So easy in a way life had never been. He doesn’t know when the sink became more than just a sink or the pillow more than just a pillow. Doesn’t know when the messages on the board changed from bad jokes to remember to buy more milk, or when his own scrawl got replaced by neater handwriting, reminding him to eat, drink, rest, and exercise.
Because while the apartment slowly became nice and familiar , the tipping point wasn’t a certain thing. The most important part of his home was Evan. With Evan, Barty was home.
Barty bought the flat when he graduated from Hogwarts and needed a place to stay where his father couldn’t reach him. At first, the apartment was meant just for him. There was only one bedroom, one coat by the door, one dirty plate on the kitchen counter, one half-finished book on the coffee table.
However, it didn’t last long, a year to be precise, before Barty’s best friend got into a massive argument with his parents and chose to leave. He packed his stuff, just like Barty before him, and left. With no one else to turn to, Evan showed up on Barty’s doorstep, tears in his eyes, a bruise on his cheek, and a stuffed bag under his arm. He didn’t even have to say anything because the door had always been open anyway.
Even then, the plan wasn’t for Evan to stay too long. He would sleep on Barty’s couch and search for a job and his own place to stay, but in the end, the plans changed.
But like, who didn’t see it coming? Two teenage boys left alone in an apartment with no one to tell them what was appropriate and what wasn’t. Not to mention what a bit of alcohol could ignite.
Really, when Barty thinks about it, how was the two of them ever meant to be just friends .
After some petty arguments, Evan moved into Barty’s bed. His and Barty’s clothing got mixed up so none of them could really identify which pieces actually belonged to whom, and everything finally became pairs. The two coats by the door, the two dirty plates on the kitchen counter, the two half-finished books on the coffee table. Two, two, two.
Home became home because of Evan .
Everything was perfect. Barty was home. Barty is home.
Until he isn’t anymore. His mind is peaceful and quiet. Until it isn’t anymore. Suddenly, his head is buzzing and filled with a roaring, warning about an upcoming storm ready to unleash hell on those a bit too close.
The calm Barty had possessed only a few hours earlier is absent. The ability to wake up and instantly feel happy due to a light snoring next to him is gone. Barty won’t get to wake up with his boyfriend sleeping undisturbed next to him ever again. He can’t trust himself or anyone anymore. It’s all gone and all that’s left is a memory of a tranquil morning.
The sound of bedsheets moving and an arm around Barty’s bare waist.
Gone.
A head hidden in the crook on Barty’s neck and soft skin under Barty’s fingertips.
Gone.
A low groan and a mumbled, raspy good morning. Blue eyes, squinted against bright light. A soft smile far too soft for this world.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
Broken hearts. Broken homes. Broken boy.
They live a dangerous life. Every day is a risk and yet Barty didn’t see it coming, absorbed by the fight like always.
You’re too reckless for your own good, baby.
Flashing lights, curses, raised wands, and, most importantly, death. Death and blood. Everywhere. A persistent company, following wherever you go. A loyal dog, and Barty was its master.
Take care of yourself today.
Another body fell to the ground. Someone screamed, and all Barty cared about was that it wasn’t him. Death never scared him. Never had and never would. He was unstoppable and immortal.
Relax. I will.
The thudding of his beating heart sounded like a drum in his ears – like the ones you’d have at a funeral. A funeral march. In the distance, someone yelled an order, but Barty had never been one to follow orders. It was why he was so deadly.
You’re worrying too much.
Around him, the others – Wilkes, Avery, Carrow – hid behind corners and only poked out to attack. Barty could practically smell the fear oozing off them like a disgusting reek. Despite having said they’d fight for the Dark Lord; it was all a lie. All of them had only ever fought for themselves and their own lives. Nothing else.
Being alone had never fazed him, but Barty couldn’t help but notice that he was missing someone by his side, missing a hand in his.
Just don’t want you to get hurt.
It was a quick decision. If the others got to be selfish and hide like cowards, Barty got to be selfish too. Curling his free hand around nothing, Barty dodged a curse thrown his way and turned around to run to safety where he had last seen his best friend.
I promise you. I won’t.
He passed Karkaroff on the way, and though the young man sent him an odd look, Barty ignored him and continued towards the warehouse, death happening everywhere around him. He was sure he had seen Evan around there somewhere not too long ago.
Okay.
It was dark inside, and it took Barty’s eyes a few seconds to get used to the new lighting. He shortly considered if perhaps someone was already in there, waiting, with wand raised, ready to attack a blind and defenceless intruder. But it was all too quiet and as the shadows started to appear around him, Barty could conclude none of them was moving.
I love you.
Maybe he was wrong, Barty thought to himself. Maybe Evan wasn’t in the warehouse at all. Or maybe he had been and had already left again to go join the fight where it was more active.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Barty noticed something. A heavy shadow, and oh, it was a mistake to turn around, he knew it – even then. Yet his body betrayed him.
I love you too.
It’s the moment he’s stuck in now, reliving everything that has ever happened to him before. As if the past could somehow grant him the answers to his useless questions. He’s in danger of falling, but somehow Barty manages to both break and keep standing with two feet on the ground.
There’s blood. And there’s gore. And Barty wouldn’t have a problem with it if it wasn’t for the fact that he can recognize the blonde hair, the t-shirt, and the wand still clasped in a stubborn, but cold hand. The problem is that he knows what colour the eye would be if it opened. Can still picture a beautiful painting Barty would’ve created if he had happened to be an artist.
Sun-streaked golden curls hanging down in front of a symmetrical face with delicate features. A set of very kissable lips and a pointy nose dusted with a light speck of freckles. Rosy cheeks and a pair of peerless blue eyes that Barty has gotten lost in on several occasions. They were always so calm, the complete opposite of Barty, and still they managed to sparkle with light and life. Even if Barty had been a professional painter, he doubts he could’ve ever captured the peace on Evan’s face in the drowsy morning hours and put it on paper.
However, it didn’t matter, because Barty could wake up each morning and turn to find that sedate smile pressed against his shoulder or cheek. It was always such a lively picture, so real in his mind, Barty felt like he could reach out and brush a hair strand behind Evan’s ear. Like he was always right there with Barty.
The realisation that he won’t see it anymore hits Barty like a shot through the heart. He feels like someone has dropped a massive stone into the ocean, and attached to it is he, unable to escape a horrible and torturous death by drowning. He can scream as much as he wants to, but it’ll only kill him faster, making him drown in his own protests and objections.
But still, he won’t stop arguing with the facts laid bare before him, won’t stop saying no, because Barty has always been stubborn and perhaps if he’s persistent enough, he can change things. The boy on the ground will sit up and be not dead or Barty will realise he was wrong. That he does indeed not recognize the hair or the shirt. Now that he thinks about it, he reckons the shirt might be too dark, and the hair–
Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, but Barty refuses to acknowledge them. Refuses to acknowledge anything. Evan is somewhere in the middle of fighting, he tells himself desperately. He’s in the middle of something far, far away from here. He isn’t…
Barty drops to the ground, vision blurry and hands shaking. His inhale feels like swallowing needles, and the sounds are foreign, functioning like a third person in the room. Second, he corrects himself. After all, there’s only one living person in the warehouse.
The person on the floor is dead, covered in their own blood, and their left eye mauled – gone, Barty realises. It’s been dug out. One of those beautiful eyes is missing from its place in Barty’s lover’s face. Because it is him. The person on the floor is who Barty suspects it might be.
Barty can always recognize him. Even blind in a room full of fake copies.
The person on the floor is Evan Rosier. And he’s dead.
A broken sound escapes Barty's lips, and suddenly everything comes crashing down. His sight fails him and his mind is oh, so wrong, wrong, wrong . Feeding him poison and then congratulating him when he chokes on his own blood.
Barty and Evan were supposed to be a forever kinda thing. They were unstoppable, together and endless. A perpetuated duo, Barty finally dared to hope, had earned a peaceful future, because after all those years, after everything they've been through, it would be rude to deny it to them.
The things they've endured – the abuse, the oppression, the will of their separate families – can't all be for nothing. For years and years, Barty has suffered, waiting only for Evan. And for years and years, Evan has suffered, waiting for Barty in the same manner. The two of them have been to hell and back on their own before finding each other and then had to work through even more complications and obstacles. If the world were in any way fair, it would grant them a bit of happiness. It would grant them peace and a calm home. It wouldn’t kill one and leave the other to mourn.
A shrill voice in Barty's head continuously denies the evidence before him because how? How is the mutilated body on the ground Evan? How is Evan dead?
It was supposed to be impossible. Barty believed it to be impossible. Evan is only twenty. He has so many years in front of him, so how can they all be snatched away so fast? How can Evan still look so alive in Barty’s head when he won’t ever get up again? How?
He has survived so much worse: his sadistic father, getting the Dark Mark at only seventeen, being knocked out by a Bludger. How can he survive that, but not this? How can this be the end?
It was always Barty, watch out or You're going to get yourself killed, Crouch. Never Evan, slow down or Damn it, Rosie, why did you do that?
Barty was the one in danger of dying young. It was never Evan.
Despite participating in Barty's insane schemes, Evan was always safe. He always managed to get out of life-threatening trouble. Evan was the one who came to visit Barty in the hospital wing. Never the other way around. Only once did Barty ever consider that his best friend might not be so invincible as he had convinced himself.
The memory still haunts Barty to this day.
Evan wasn't even a part of the Quidditch team, so of course, no one ever worried for him. Least of all Barty. Regulus was the one on the pitch. He was the one people were eyeing.
It was a quiet, chill game, nothing out of the ordinary, and since it was well known that Ravenclaw didn't stand a chance, there was no actual competition from their side. Both teams took it very calmly, and once in a while, Barty could even see some of the Slytherins chatting lazily with someone from Ravenclaw. The whole game reminded Barty more of a training session rather than an actual game.
However, suddenly – Barty doesn't even know where it came from – a massive ball flew through the air heading in their direction. None of them had time to react, and Barty's first thought when the Bludger passed him by only a few centimetres was, wow, that almost ended badly .
His second thought was: too early.
By the time Barty had turned his head, Evan was already on the ground and the Bludger on its way again. Around them, students started screaming, the lucky ones managing to dodge the flying death-ball before it returned to the pitch, unaware of the chaos it had left in its wake.
There was blood – just like now – and Barty remembers thinking, is he dead? Remembers grabbing Evan by the shoulders, shaking him and screaming to get his attention. Remembers Evan not answering and Barty panicking.
He was so lifeless in Barty’s arms, and for the first time ever, Barty felt utterly terrified. No matter how much he yelled or yanked at Evan, he got no response.
At some point, the professors showed up and made everyone calm down before carrying Evan’s lifeless body to the hospital wing. They let Barty follow, which was a wise decision since Barty wouldn’t have stayed away unless they physically forced him.
After all those years, Barty still doesn’t know if the Quidditch match ended or continued after they left. All he knows is that when Evan woke up several hours later, Barty knew the trace of Evan’s new scars better than his own features.
Until ten minutes ago, it was the most horrifying experience in Barty’s pathetic life. His father could hit him a thousand times, and Barty would endure it with a smile on his lips if it meant he never had to see Evan so pale and small ever again. He’d let Mulciber and the older Slytherins hex him until he wouldn’t be able to recognize his own face, as long as it meant he didn’t have to spend another night wondering if Evan would ever wake up.
And he thought he did. He thought he managed to shield Evan from the gruesome world with his own broken body, thought he managed to keep Evan safe by ruining himself. Thought that perhaps if he let some greater power tear apart his mind, soul, and body, Evan would be kept out of the equation. Barty could live with pain meant for two, as long as he didn’t have to fear for Evan’s life. But somewhere he must have gone wrong. Somewhere he must have fucked up real bad.
Somewhere, karma is laughing at him, lecturing him about debt and suffering.
Because now, Barty isn’t just wondering if Evan is dead. He knows Evan is dead. Just like during the accident in fifth year, Evan is lying lifeless on the ground, blood smeared across his face. However, unlike the accident in fifth year, Evan is actually dead this time.
Thousands of words are stuck in Barty's throat, but even if the sounds came, there would be no one to hear it. Tears soundlessly roll down his cheeks, and Barty quickly wipes them away. The sight before him doesn’t change.
No, Barty begs. Don't take him from me.
Not yet.
With shaky hands, Barty carefully reaches for Evan, brushing a blonde curl away from his ruined face.
He gets no reaction.
He does it again, shifting impossibly closer this time.
Still, there’s no reaction.
Everything inside Barty is silent, and oh, Barty does not like the feeling. He feels so, so empty. So meaningless. There’s no reason to almost get himself killed if Evan isn’t there to pick up the pieces. And now that the situation is flipped and Evan is the one in need of being picked up, Barty finds that he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to get up from the floor, and least of all how to get Evan up again. It’s like his body has already decided to give up the second it’s faced with a task that requires being gentle.
Barty isn’t gentle. Evan knew that. Now he doesn’t know anything anymore.
Barty pulls Evan into his lap, wrapping his arms around the corpse as if it can somehow hide the crime that has happened, and Barty buries his face in Evan’s hair. He’s aware his embrace might be too tight and desperate, but his body refuses to uncurl and let Evan free again.
The whole world feels dull, and maybe that’s why Barty’s sobs seem to come from somewhere far away. Maybe it’s why everything feels like a badly written movie that Barty’s grown bored of.
“Poor man ,” he comments objectively, watching himself shatter on a dirty floor from somewhere far, far away. His expression is careless, and his demeanour indifferent, yet he can’t stop watching himself break apart, intrigued by the pain.
Green eyes filled with regret and agony and a hand covered in blood. Someone else's blood. Someone he cares for. Someone he loves. Someone he has lost.
Barty screams, hugs the broken body in his lap, hammers his fist into the dirt, and nothing changes. He shakes Evan by the shoulders, yells at him to get up, tries to force him, and nothing changes. Evan falls back into the pool of his own blood, and Barty hides his face in Evan’s chest. His hand fists in Evan’s shirt, and there’s no heartbeat underneath Barty’s cheek. His body doesn’t move, not even when Barty hits Evan’s torso to try to show Evan’s heart what to do.
And when nothing changes, Barty cries, hoping that someone hears him and takes pity on him as he is.
Lost and broken.
And then he repeats. Starts pleading again, before yelling and hitting stuff, including himself and Evan. Time slows down and speeds up, changing tempo every second, and Barty can’t understand, can’t think, can’t halt.
Normally Evan would be the one to pull Barty out of his haze of anger or sadness. Normally Evan would be the one to show Barty the correct way out of the maze his own mind has created. But now that he’s gone, no one comes to find him. Barty is forever and always lost in his own darkness, left to face all the damage alone. All the violence and screaming. Chaos and insanity.
His own past is coming for him now that he's vulnerable. Every mistake resurfaces, haunts him, and though nothing connects, Barty thinks that maybe if he had been better back then, he could've saved Evan now.
There's a harsh voice in his head, spewing poison words, and Barty can't identify it, but it's pulling him apart at the seams. It knows all his flaws and insecurities, and it rips, rips, rips, until there's nothing more to rip at.
And that arrogant and confident mask he has built for himself cracks. After having spent years believing he couldn’t take it off even if he wanted to, Barty’s smug attitude is torn apart and stomped on like a rejected love letter. After years and years of functioning as his only defence, his mask gets ripped to shreds as easily as if it was made of paper. And now that it’s gone Barty realises, he doesn't recognize the little boy underneath, who’s nothing more than a lump curled up around itself in a corner of his old bedroom.
It’s crazy how vivid his mind is able to recall Barty’s childhood room. The dark blue walls, empty because his dad hated everything without purpose, and the withered flowers on the windowsill. A monkey stuffed animal with wear marks lays discarded on the symmetrical rug in the middle of the room, and a half-filled water glass stands untouched on the chest of drawers. It’s been years since Barty last spent a night in this room, but he suddenly realises that he knows where every single item belongs. Even himself.
The boy on the floor, eleven years at most, looks up with swollen red eyes, an apology shining in them, and Barty already knows that he does not like this. Way too many memories are returning way too fast. Younger Barty squints against the light from the lamp above the bed, and Barty’s glad that young him can’t recognize himself, even up this close. Glad that he has changed so much no one would ever link this Barty with that one. Really, they are closer to strangers than anything else.
However, Barty has a feeling that if his insides had a face, it would wear the one before him.
Young Barty looks fragile. Barty isn’t really sure how to describe it. He looks like he’s going to break if you pat him too hard. He looks how Barty feels. And as the young boy’s curious countenance fades, a broken one replacing it, Barty knows it’s his cue to leave. He might have changed on the outside, but on the inside, Barty’s still a little boy, crying himself to sleep at night.
His younger self reaches for Barty with a silent plea in his eyes, and as his hand almost grazes Barty’s leg, Barty stumbles, falling backwards in his desperation for a way away before the younger him will realise the truth about their future.
I can't help you , Barty wants to tell his younger self, but no sounds leave his mouth as he digs his fingers into the floor and uses it for leverage to crawl backwards. I'm just as lost as you.
Panic enters the boy’s eyes as if it dawns on him that Barty’s trying to leave him – just like everyone else, Barty knows, feeling the guilt slowly wash over him. However, he doesn’t halt his attempt at escaping his past. Maybe his insides are calling him a coward, but Barty is too far gone to care for anything but to keep going, keep standing and keep breathing.
Young Barty gets to his knees and lunges for the stranger on his floor but his hand misses, grasping air as he silently screams, no! Don't leave me! Please!
Barty blocks out the imaginary, yet so horrifying and real sounds of the broken pleas coming from the broken boy he once was, continuing to crawl backwards and put distance between himself and his younger self. It hurts, but Barty knows from experience that the pain only ever gets worse and the screams more heart-wrenching.
I'm sorry I left you.
No! Please! I'll do anything!
I'm sorry I can't help you.
I don’t want to be alone! Please!
I’m sorry.
Barty isn't sure if he's most ashamed or thankful when his hand finally grips the edge of the floor. However, he refuses to rethink anything as he pulls himself the last metre with deaf ears and blind eyes, before letting gravity do the rest of the work and topple over into the deadly free fall. His own screams of mercy haunt him on his way to the bottom, and now that the darkness and empty air somewhat generate a frail security, Barty lets himself feel guilty. Some part of him even wishes he had been brave enough to step into the light and show his younger self what shell they'd turn into. What pathetic excuse of a human being all these years had resulted in. His poorly done tattoos, box-dyed hair, and dark circles underneath his eyes.
Wishes he had told himself that no, it never gets better and no, it never gets easier.
Barty tilts his head back and though it might be sadistic, he finds that he enjoys the way the wind ruffles his hair, relishes the sensation of his stomach feeling like it has been blown up into his chest, the feeling of being weightless. The feeling of living just before dying. He has tried it before. Maybe he’s in no better state than his eleven-year old self, but at least he’s gotten used to the feeling of falling by now.
Flying.
That was what he used to call it once. It was just another shitty coping mechanism, but really, besides direction, what was the difference between flying and falling, actually?
Slowly, darkness envelops him, blocking out any light from his childhood room up above him, and Barty knows that it won’t be long. Soon he’ll reach the bottom, splatter out and lose his breath, and think that he’s finally going to die, only to sit up a few hours later and realise he’s still on the floor in his room.
Brimming with anticipation, Barty closes his eyes and tries to stay calm even as the clingy shadows dig their claws into his clothes and pull to speed up his fall. It’s a thing that never stops scaring him. The darkness that speaks to him in that silent manner that everyone here does, even Barty and his younger self. Welcome back , it says. You’ve been missed.
But the voice and the hands never caress him like they have missed them. They grip him like they’re scared he’s going to leave. Like they’re going to rip him apart too. Like he’s not a guest but a prisoner.
Barty squeezes his eyes shut to keep them from accidentally opening and seeing the horrible monsters he has already glimpsed too much of. Anytime now, he thinks. Anytime now his back will collide with a cold floor and free him from the hurting grips.
Cold fingers slide up his side, and the thrill in his stomach disappears as the speed is increased again. His head is roaring, and it feels like he’s underwater and in danger of being squashed together by the massive pressure.
Almost there, Barty reassures himself, biting his tongue to keep in a scream. He fears he might not be able to stop screaming if he first starts. Like there’s too many feelings inside him and they’re all suddenly looking for an escape route.
Anytime now .
He was wrong, Barty realises as the darkness continues to plunge downwards with him in tow, like a meteor, finding pleasure in nothing but destruction. He never got used to the feeling of flying. He’s still just as scared as he was the first time.
Now! He should reach the bottom now .
But he doesn’t. Barty continues falling, continues shattering, and by now he’s too far down for his younger self to hear as he starts screaming and crying too, starts calling and pleading for someone that never shows. An absent father, a spineless mother, a dead boyfriend. There’s nothing but darkness and an endless free fall filled with sorrow, panic, and pathetic weeping.
Forever.
Barty’s bound to fall forever. Bound to fly forever .
…
Barty’s head snaps up the second the footsteps reach his ears. How he manages to hear anything beyond the screaming in his head is a mystery.
Fortunately, the newcomer doesn’t see him immediately, and Barty quickly snatches his wand from the ground, preparing himself for more fighting. More death and violence. Barty doesn’t smile, but some twisted part inside of him revels in the opportunity to kill, kill, kill. It’s what he’s good at, after all.
The woman turns her head, squints in the direction of Barty, and suddenly her eyes widen as she realises she isn’t alone. Yes, Barty thinks, fear me .
She’s fast, Barty has to give her that. If he hadn’t been so absorbed by his own hatred and sorrow, she might even have been a worthy opponent. Key word being might .
She’s dead before she manages to do anything beyond lifting her wand, and Barty watches her lifeless body fall to the ground with a feeling of wanting more growing in his chest. More death. More violence. More revenge.
Pain, Barty realises. He wanted her to feel pain. Wanted – and still wants – the world to suffer for what it has brought upon him. His Evan is gone. He’s not coming back, and someone is going to have to pay for that. Most likely in blood.
The sound of unsteady breathing breaks through the wall in his head, and Barty is surprised to find that there’s no one else it can possibly belong to, so it therefore has to be his own. The only thing surrounding him is death, and death doesn’t have a sound. It doesn’t breathe. It’s disturbingly quiet – that type of silence that makes you prepare for beyond the worst.
Barty watches the woman’s body from where he still sits on the ground. A sneer rests on his face, and Barty has honestly no idea why it’s even there. His mind has gone quiet, the voices are missing, and Barty stays where he is, patiently waiting for them to return when he in reality knows they won’t. He waits for a feeling of regret or sympathy for the woman, but the only thing the scrambles of his shattered brain manage to gather is that the woman’s arm looks weird from this specific angle. Crooked. Like it has bent during her fall.
Barty sniggers to himself, almost turns to Evan to tell him that exact thing because he shares everything with Evan. However, Barty manages to stop himself before he makes a mistake he’ll definitely regret. The slight smile on his lips disappears, and the need to cause pain and chaos wells up again.
Revenge.
Whoever attacked his Evan – Barty’s fucking Evan – is going to suffer. Not die. Barty’s not that merciful. He’ll make the motherfucker suffer, make them regret ever touching anything belonging to Barty, and when they beg for death, Barty will laugh them straight in the face and ask if Evan begged too.
He’ll take his sweet time, make sure he enjoys every single second, every scream and every stripe of blood, before the end inevitably comes and life finally loses the scraps of meaning it’s got left. After that, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, what we’ll want.
Perhaps, he thinks, he’ll leave – Just like Regulus. Disappear without a word and leave everything behind. The war, Hogwarts, his parents, everything there is to leave behind. He’ll go alone, except for Evan, that is. He’ll travel the world, search for a place Evan would call beautiful. And then maybe, if he’s strong enough, he’ll bury Evan by a giant oak or on a hill with a clear view of the sunset or perhaps by the sea, where he could write Rosie in the sand every day, only to watch the ocean wash it away and erase Evan too.
Or maybe, Barty acknowledges, maybe he’ll just break down, unable to let go, and cry with Evan lifeless in his arms.
A scream outside brings Barty out of his haze. He doesn’t flinch or react fiercely like he might have once, simply forces all emotions into a box he locks and stores somewhere in the back of his mind where it won’t be in the way. If he’s lucky enough, he might never have to deal with it again.
Barty’s thoughts are back to revolving about revenge and endless pain as he turns to examine the corpse behind him for anything that could help him identify Evan's murderer – Barty’s target. Though his mind keeps pointing it out to him, Barty tries to ignore that the body he’s kneeling over is his Evan. It hurts too much.
The corpse is covered in blood since an eye has been carved out, meaning the murderer has to be covered in blood too. Also, Evan was good at duelling; it would take an experienced witch or wizard to bring him down.
He has to go now, Barty knows. If he wants any chance at catching the murderer, he has to go now. He has already wasted too much time mourning. It was something his dad used to say. Mourning is a waste of time. It won’t change anything. However, you can – if you stop mourning.
In a quick act of panic, Barty grabs Evan’s hand, holding it tightly in his own and pretending that it’s still warm. That it can still squeeze back. Though he wants to go – has to go – Barty isn’t sure he can get up even if it's to bring his broken heart a bit of peace. There’s some part of him that’s scared that it’ll be the last he sees of Evan ever if he leaves. But it’s a stupid thought. Barty will always come back for Evan. Always .
With a small kiss pressed to Evan’s forehead, Barty pushes off the ground, forcing himself to keep walking until he feels the wind pulling at both his hair and clothes, almost guiding him across the muddy ground. The sun has disappeared for today – hiding – and Barty thinks it might be for the better. For Evan, Barty’s sure, he would’ve brought death and agony upon even the sun.
The parking lot is still filled with fighting, and though Barty wants to just throw himself into the battle and find that one motherfucker who had been stupid enough to go for Evan, he isn’t exactly immune to being hit by a spell.
He needs a plan.
Rolling into place next to a few familiar faces behind an abandoned muggle car, Barty’s shoulder collides with the boy closest. Despite the loud outburst it gains him, Barty doesn’t turn around before he’s certain his legs don't accidentally poke out from his hiding spot.
“Crouch, where the fuck have you been?”
Barty keeps his face neutral and voice low as he chooses to ignore Mulciber’s question and addresses Lestrange, who apparently is the one Barty bumped into. “I have to get out there.”
Lestrange furrows his brows, and behind him, Mulciber throws his arms into the air, muttering insults under his breath. Barty contemplates pinpointing that Mulciber has yet to participate in the actual fight, but he manages to remind himself that he has more important things to do than smear Mulciber before letting the words out.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Lestrange asks, and Barty can’t help his snigger.
“I once asked your wife that question,” Barty says. “Wanna know what she said to me? I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you since I’ve only ever heard you’re crazier. ” Barty smiles. And for a split second, he feels like he might actually be insane. It would explain why he has been feeling so calm and controlled for the last couple of minutes.
“Crouch,” Mulciber calls out again, and Barty shifts his gaze to the other boy again, internally preparing for bullshit. “Where’s Rosier?”
Barty feels his insides go cold.
“Dead.”
Barty doesn’t hesitate, giving Mulciber a harsh look as he says the word. Once again, he feels the need to destroy, to grip at the seams of the world and rip it all apart, just like his own world has been torn.
A hint of surprise, and sadness, and maybe even fright flashes across Mulciber’s face, and if he has any more objections to Barty’s prior statement, he decides to keep it all bottled up inside. Which probably is for the better. Barty suspects he might look like death himself, ready to ensure no one escapes tonight without having paid in both blood and tears. Barty has already paid his debt; now it’s someone else's turn.
“I have to get out there,” Barty repeats, fixing his gaze on Lestrange again. “Now.” A look of utter fear has taken over Lestrange’s face, and for a second, Barty contemplates leaving and figuring it out himself. Then the other man seems to regain some sort of control over himself.
“O- okay,” he stutters, turning to cast a sidelong glance at the others next to them. When none of them meets his gaze, he looks back to Barty, this time with a firm expression. “I’ll cover your back. Lead the way.”
Barty nods, shooting a glance over the Muggle car to get an idea of where most of the Order members are. It has gotten dark, and the only light sources around the parking lot are the streetlamps and the occasional glimpses of flashing lights in red, green and blue. A few metres from the car they’re hiding behind, a body lies lifeless on the ground. However, as Barty surveys his surroundings, he makes sure not to look the person in the eyes, scared to be met with yet another face he knows.
Two Death Eaters are in the middle of a battle to the left, and Barty promptly gets up and starts running directly for them, hoping Lestrange follows. Both Death Eaters are wearing masks, so Barty can’t recognize them. Internally, Barty curses himself for losing his own mask. Someone is definitely going to scold him for not wearing it. Hopefully, the darkness will offer him a bit of cover.
Barty fires blindly before he’s even guaranteed to strike, and a manic smile spreads across his lips when he hears someone shout in surprise. A death machine , that’s what he is, Barty thinks as he throws himself headfirst into the fight, once again losing himself in the violence and anger – the pain.
Barty loved Evan Rosier. He still does. But maybe – just maybe – there’s a part of him that can’t help but let out a sigh of relief at the situation. Now he doesn’t have to try to be careful and tender when in reality he’s clumsy and rough. He doesn’t have to try to create something fragile with hands calloused and made to ruin. He can return to the danger and the feeling of owning his own life after years and years of being trapped in a home that was only ever a house, forced to live by someone else’s rules.
Like this, on a battlefield, the only one who’s in control of his life is himself. At any second, he can choose to throw away everything, and it feels good to remind himself of that. To remind himself that he’s free .
Barty knows Evan would sigh at him if he knew how Barty is handling his death, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Evan’s not here, and Barty’s not free; he’s lonely and desperately gasping for air with his head underwater.
He’s scared to break down, scared to have to get up and live. Because if Barty is death, Evan is life, and without him, Barty has nothing. No one. All there’s left is death – the need to kill, to destroy, to feel and hand out pain.
So, Barty lies to himself. Tells himself that he doesn’t care if it’s only a bad coping mechanism. That it works and Barty is better off alone. Free . If flying and falling can mean the same, then alone and free can too.
Barty’s laughing like a maniac, feeling the adrenaline course through his body every time he fires another curse. It’s empowering, dangerous because he’s not really trying to be careful, but nonetheless good . A dopamine rush to his fried brain. The stinging pain of something he should fear, but actually thrives in.
Barty doesn’t know how long he goes, doesn’t know how many people fall victim to his blinded sorrow, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop again. But suddenly, something catches his eye, making him halt in an instant. Someone. A man. Covered in blood. And with a bandage around his left eye.
For a second, Barty thinks he might faint, fall to the ground, curl up and cry, and never get up. Then the psychopath inside him regains control over his limbs, and Barty feels the calm creep all over him, silence roaring in his head.
Barty’s a predator.
And he’s just found his prey.
“Crouch, we have to go.” Someone tugs on his arms, but Barty refuses to take his eyes off the mutilated man less than twenty metres from him. The man hasn’t seen Barty yet, and even if he had, Barty doesn’t think he would’ve recognized the danger he’s in.
“Now,” the boy by his side urges, and Barty realises it’s Lestrange. “The Order has called for backup, and they can arrive any second now. We have to go! It’s an order.”
“Go, then,” Barty sneers, pulling his arm out of Lestrange’s grip. “And don’t get in my way.”
“Crouch, we-”
Barty doesn’t stay to hear what else Lestrange has to add, quickly running towards the only man in the whole world Barty might hate more than his dad. Evan’s murderer .
The man doesn’t see Barty coming, and though Barty could disarm or kill him instantly, he doesn’t. Instead, he fires a spell, passing him with a few centimetres. The man doesn’t jump, Barty will give him credit for that. He simply turns his head towards Barty, his eyes shining with a calm Barty recognizes from when he looks in the mirror after an especially dangerous fight.
When Barty kills him, he wants the man to fear the name Barty Crouch Jr., wants him to regret everything that has led him to being left at Barty’s mercy. Barty doesn’t want him dead – not instantly, at least. He wants a fight. He wants to get to know the way Evan’s murderer fights, wants to know what became the end of Evan. And when Barty’s done playing with his food, he’ll carve the man’s other eye out and finish what Evan started. He’ll feast on his screams, drink his blood, and dance on his corpse.
A feeling of fulfilment fills Barty’s chest as Evan’s murderer casts the first spell, marking the beginning of his own end. Barty dodges easily, already bored. If the man brought down his Evan – his talented and amazing Evan – he has got to be a better fighter. Barty fires, aiming directly for the man’s chest, yet still only testing his opponent.
Evan’s murderer shields himself with a spell in the last second, but Barty sees the surprise at the speed and preciseness on his face. Barty grins darkly, waiting for the counterattack he hopes will be way more deadly, way more worthy .
It is. The sky flashes up in red for a second before Barty blocks the attack with a green light flash. Barty has always preferred to fight when it’s dark. Despite the lack of view, everything is just prettier. It has always reminded Barty of fireworks.
This time, Barty doesn’t wait up, firing two curses towards him at the same time. Red. Blue. The man staggers, and when he casts a sidelong glance at Barty, his eyes glint with understanding. Barty’s not an easy target, not someone he can just brush away.
Barty fires again, stepping closer, and he’s almost about to laugh when the man blocks Barty’s attacks and sends a spell back before Barty can strike again. Oh, how he loves fear .
After that, it’s all a blur of light flashes and spells grazing both of them, but still, the pain is not enough to knock either of them out. Evan’s murderer is good at duelling. Once he gives in to the fight, the longing for destruction and pain, his hits are ruthless, and Barty finds that he’s sweating and his breathing ragged. At least the man seems to be just as exhausted and hurt as him, he comforts himself with.
“Barty!” Lestrange’s voice cuts through to him from Barty’s left. Suddenly, a spell flies past Barty in the direction of his opponent, and it’s distraction enough to attract Barty’s attention.
“No!” Barty yells at Lestrange, feeling his own fear flare. “Don’t touch him! He’s mine!”
Barty’s aware he sounds utterly out of his senses, but he can’t bring himself to care as he pushes Lestrange and turns just in time to block another flash of green. The man is Barty’s to kill. Barty’s only. And anyone who dares to come in between them will learn what real pain feels like.
Barty grabs Lestrange by the collar, trying to push him back and away. The backup members of the Order are starting to show up all around them, and Barty’s aware they’re slowly getting outnumbered.
“Barty,” Lestrange tries again, but Barty gives him another push before letting go completely and turning to his opponent. He won’t flee. He won’t stop fighting until he gets what he came for: revenge . He’ll die fighting if necessary.
“Go,” Barty ushers over his shoulder, firing as many spells as possible in the same direction. He’d like to drag it all out even more, but there’s not much more time to take from. What he has already got has got to be enough.
Finally, a spell lands, and Barty watches as Evan’s murderer stumbles before falling, watches as his wand drops to the ground. Watches and feels the satisfaction run through his veins. His heartbeat sounds like a drum in his ears, and his head feels on fire. The world slows, and for a second, Barty feels like everything might be somewhat okay again.
“Alastor!” a girl's voice yells, breaking the haze in Barty’s head, and Barty remembers the name, repeats it over and over in his head as the girl drops to her knees next to Evan’s murderer – Alastor, Alastor, Alastor-
Arms wrap around Barty’s middle, instantly pulling him backwards, and Barty shouts, fighting to free himself.
“Crouch!” Lestrange’s voice comes next to his ear. This time he sounds more determined, yet Barty doesn’t slow his attempt at freeing himself. “We’ve got to go! Now! You don’t have the time!”
He does. Barty knows he does. All he needs is three seconds to ensure Alastor is dead. To send one last deadly spell and end it all. The suffering.
“Let go of me!” Barty yells, giving Lestrange an elbow in the ribs. The boy grunts in pain, but his arms stubbornly stay locked across Barty’s stomach.
“There’s too many, Barty! And there’ll be more in a second!” He’s scared, Barty realises. Lestrange’s voice is shaking, and for a second, Barty halts, letting his gaze fly across the parking lot to take in the view before them. The night lights up every other second, announcing every time a new member of the Order appears and it suddenly hits Barty that he might not have enough time.
More people start running towards Alastor and the girl, and Barty instinctively knows this will be his only chance.
“Rodolphus! Let me go!” Lestrange must hear the desperation in Barty’s voice because for a moment he seems to consider, halting his frantic attempts at dragging Barty away. It’s all Barty needs, and in less than a second, Barty gets his arm free, firing a curse in Alastor’s direction. There’s too much space between them, and the curse hits the ground right next to him. Beside him, the girl looks up, making eye contact with Barty as he fires another spell. Barty thinks she looks slightly familiar.
Suddenly, the girl is on her feet, and Barty can do nothing but watch as she blocks Barty’s attack at the last second.
No! Barty’s mind protests helplessly. Abruptly Lestrange tightens his grip on him again, resuming to pull and urge him away from the danger where still more Order members continue to emerge. No!
Barty won’t make it. The realisation hits him hard, and Barty practically goes limp in Lestrange embrace. In front of him, the girl stares him down with a hateful glare, and suddenly Barty realises why she seems familiar.
He knows her. Or knows of her. Alice Longbottom. Former Gryffindor beater.
Barty isn’t sure if she recognizes him too, but he hopes she does. Hopes she curses his name, like he curses hers.
Behind her, someone runs to Alastor, grabbing him by the arm before apparating themselves and Alastor away from the danger. Away from Barty. Barty’s going to kill them all. He’s going to hunt Alice and her sorry little family down, make them regret ever crossing paths with Barty.
“ Barty! ” Lestrange yells in his ear, and this time, Barty doesn’t fight the boy’s attempts at pulling him away. Fired spells light the night around them, but for some unfortunate reason, none hits Barty and puts him out of his misery. Someone is yelling. Barty thinks it might be Lestrange telling him to run, but Barty can’t hear beyond the roaring in his head.
He didn’t make it. Alastor is going to get healed. He’s going to survive. Barty failed. Evan’s dead, and Barty failed him.
Across the parking lot, Alice doesn’t move, keeping her eyes locked with Barty’s, and Barty refuses to look away, forcing her to see his anger and madness. However, their eye contact is broken as Lestrange manages to pull Barty behind a muggle car.
“Crouch.” Lestrange slaps him across the face, and Barty’s about to hit back when he continues to speak. “Listen to me, you stupid shitface . You’re going to apparate back to the Malfoy Manor. Right. Now . No shortcuts, do you hear me?”
“Evan. I have to get Ev-”
“Crouch, you’re going straight back to the Malfoy manor. Someone else has taken care of Evan. Now, go! ” Lestrange gives Barty no time to object before disappearing into thin air and though Barty heard Lestrange’s orders perfectly fine, he doesn’t follow them, apparating to the warehouse first.
Barty stumbles the second his feet hit the ground. His whole body is shaking, and his head is thudding. Now that he’s inside, the tumult from the battle is muffled, and Barty’s ragged breathing suddenly sounds very shallow and exhausted.
The ground is empty, covered in blood, yet empty, and Barty feels his shoulder sag with relief. Leaving Evan to be found by the Order was probably the worst thing Barty could imagine.
Feeling like he could drop the floor any given time, Barty apparates away before anyone accidentally finds him.
The wind rushes around him, and as Barty feels solid ground under his feet again, he isn’t sure if he even has the strength to vomit, falling to his knees in an instant. Around him, the others continue their hectic conversations as if Barty didn’t just appear out of nowhere, looking like absolute shit. Barty doesn’t care though. He’s not in the mood to talk to anyone.
His failure courses through his body like a second heartbeat, and Barty keeps his eyes fixed on the floor between his hands, silently begging himself not to cry.
There’s a sympathetic part of his brain that reminds him that Barty can’t be certain Alastor was Evan’s murderer. However, Barty denies it right away. The missing eyes couldn’t be a coincidence. Not to mention that there’s a part of Barty that just instinctively knows . He doesn’t know how he knows , but he knows .
“-How they knew, it doesn’t make sense!”
Barty forces himself to take a series of deep breaths before carefully pushing himself up into a sitting position.
“Relax, Carrow, it’s not a big issue. We were unprepared, they weren’t. Next time we’ll get them.”
Several Death Eaters restlessly pace back and forth in the foyer of the infamous Malfoy Manor while others sit against the wall and look just as dead as Barty feels. If Barty’s completely honest, he can’t stand the place. It’s too dark and gloomy. Reminds him of his dad’s old office.
“But do we now? Do we?” Suddenly, Carrow stops dead in his tracks, turning to face Yaxley with an expression that screams trouble. Behind them someone sighs, sensing the fight about to happen. “Do you seriously think we'll get them next time? Because let me tell you- Hey ! Watch it, Crouch!”
Barty ignores Carrow’s outburst and continues past him and into the living room where more Death Eaters are scattered everywhere. A white-haired man, sitting in the middle of a big couch, greets Barty; however, Barty doesn’t bother acknowledging Malfoy, continuing his search undisturbed.
Lestrange stands next to Mulciber and Avery. Their heads are inclined just a tad, and Lestrange uses his hands to make small gestures as he talks. Just before Barty might overhear them, Avery gives Lestrange a warning glance, and Lestrange immediately shuts up, turning around to find Barty behind him.
Pretending like they weren’t most likely gossiping about him, Barty says, “Evan. Where is he?”
For a second, all three of them look at him as if he’s insane, and Barty feels the urge to strangle someone well up in him. Lestrange said someone had taken care of Evan, and Barty believed it because he checked himself. It suddenly dawns on Barty that it might have been a lie from Lestrange’s side to get them to safety as fast as possible.
Perhaps someone else got to Evan first. Someone from the Order. A wave of fear washes over him, and Barty can’t help but chew on the inside of his cheek.
“Evan,” he repeats, his voice a mere sneer. “You said someone took care of Evan.”
“Someone did ,” Lestrange confirms, snarling, but Barty isn’t sure if he trusts him. He needs to see Evan, needs to hold his body, needs to be the one who buries him.
“Then where is he?” Barty yells. He thinks he might attract attention from other people around them, but Barty can’t think beyond the screaming in his head. The shrill voice, telling him it needs to destroy, to kill, to inflict pain.
Again, Avery and Mulciber share a confused look, and it does nothing to soothe Barty’s anger and growing panic.
Evan . He needs Evan . Needs to know his body is safe. After all his mistakes and failures, it’s the only thing Barty can do for him now.
“Where is he?” Now Barty’s sure he’s got the whole room's attention. Everything is silent. Everything but Barty’s head.
“Crouch,” Mulciber tries, lifting a hand and holding it outstretched towards him like he’s a wild animal that needs to be tamed. Barty pulls back, snarling as he does so. There are too many people around him, and it feels like the walls are closing in, suffocating him. There’s not enough air, and Barty can’t breathe, can’t focus. “Rosier’s dead.”
“I know. I know!” Barty insists, running his hands through his hair. His sight is failing him, splotches of black appearing everywhere, and Barty thinks the world might have started spinning. He’s going to die. “But where is he?”
Barty’s frantic. He’s heaving for air and about to pull his own hair out. Evan , his mind repeats. He needs his Evan.
Evan’s not here.
He needs-
Evan’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not-
“Crouch,” Mulciber says, and something in his voice makes Barty look up and meet his gaze. There’s understanding in his eyes as if he suddenly gets what Barty means. However, Mulciber’s next words make Barty’s blood run cold. “Rosier died during a battle, so we did what we would’ve done with anyone else.”
Suddenly, it dawns on Barty.
No.
Inside him, something breaks, breaks, breaks.
Mulciber continues talking, and Barty wishes he could interrupt, wishes he could get the word no out, but nothing but a choked-up whimper makes it past his lips.
No.
“No one deserves to be left to the enemy, Crouch. We did what we had to.”
Stumbling away, Barty greedily gasps for air, his lungs contracting around nothing. His legs feel like they’re going to fail him, and his heart feels like it might fall through the floor and leave him forever.
No.
Barty meets Mulciber’s gaze, and though Mulciber has got to see the silent plea in his face, the tears and the pain, there’s no remorse in his expression as he utters the devastating words, shattering everything Barty has left.
“We burnt his body, Crouch.”
Barty thinks he hears his spine crack as he falls to the ground, dissolving into weeping. A horrible scream leaves his lips, and Barty hammers his fist against the floor. He doesn’t care that there are people watching him, he can’t feel anything but the pain filling up the hole in his chest where his heart should be.
It’s not fair, Barty repeats to himself. It’s not fair. Evan’s dead and Barty’s not. Evan’s dead and his murderer isn’t. Evan’s dead and Barty doesn’t even get to bury him.
Barty’s alone. He’s free. He’s falling. He’s flying.
Around him, time continues to go, and people continue to breathe. Yet the air doesn’t fill Barty’s lungs, and Barty thinks his pointers might have stopped working, freezing a few minutes before midnight.
Almost there, but not quite.
Almost successful, but still a disappointment.
The world continues, but not Barty’s.
Barty’s world is dead.