How?
Barty was fine. He really was. Ask anyone and you know what they'd say? That he was fine.
He was fine when Regulus died. When he just left and didn't come back, Barty was just fine. It was just any old Tuesday and any old mission. Regulus sent them an owl saying he might not be back for a while. A while turned into two weeks, which turned into two months or three months or however the fuck long it took. Then his face popped up on the front page of the prophet and Barty had to find out one of his best friends was dead through a paper that had been left out in the rain for three hours prior up until the point when Evan realized it was there and picked it up for them. He had gotten out of the shower to eat breakfast when he looked out the window and found Evan staring at the paper in the middle of the driveway, completely soaking and on his knees. Barty ran outside. He didn't expect it. He couldn't have expected it.
Then it was Dorcas. Fucking Dorcas. They were his best friend, y'know? Even more so than Regulus. Dorcas was the first person that sat with him on the train to Hogwarts. They didn't even like him very much at first, really. It was just sheer, dumb, fucking luck that Barty made a good enough impression to warrant them to stick around for a bit. Then the others same and their little group was formed. His safe place. But Dorcas was always there, he thought they would always be there from the beginning to the end. And sure, they left when they found out about the marks, but that wasn't really leaving, was it? They were still alive. He still saw them in the halls, still knew that they were somewhere out there, living. Death? Now that's leaving. They always had to fucking one up him. He heard about it through the prophet as well, although he heard their name whispered through Death Eater meetings for weeks longer than Regulus' name ever was. They took seven Death Eaters down. Fucking show off.
And then... then it was Evan. Evan.
Barty should have done more. He should have tried harder. It was his fault, really. He didn't move fast enough; he should have seen it coming. He saw it all. He saw all of it. He'll always see all of it. Every fucking time he closes his eyes. Evan's laugh ringing through the air. The flash of green. His face slacking and his head falling onto the floor with a sickening crack that made Barty fall to the floor in the purest fucking form of grief he's ever known and probably ever will know. Evan was everything. Everything. Maybe not even that can describe all that he was. Is. Was?
Is. All that he is.
Evan wasn't even a good person. None of them were, except maybe Dorcas. They did the right fucking thing--of course they did--and still ended up getting killed like the rest of them. Merlin, Barty hasn't seen Pandora in fucking years either. Maybe she's dead too. Maybe he's the winner, the king of the hill. Barty's the only one left standing, isn't he?
Evan was a horrible person, but he was so beautiful. He was a contradiction. He was the most terrifyingly gorgeous thing Barty's ever seen. Evan killed people. He tortured them and killed them and sometimes Barty thinks he stopped caring about what he was doing. It's not as if Barty didn't do the same. It came with the territory. But at the same time, Evan saved Barty's life countless times. Physically and emotionally. Evan is the reason he breathes.
Barty can't close his eyes without seeing him. Did you know that? It's the color of his hair, how he used to ask Barty to run out to the muggle stores and buy a box of bleach because it worked better than any spell did, and Barty fucking did it because he'd do anything for him. How he bit his lip when he read something interesting. How his favorite color was a dull shade of yellow. How he used to whisper about how much he wished they could get a house together and live by the beach he used to visit with his aunt in France. Barty remembers it all. He remembers it all. He remembers it all. He remembers
He remembers too fucking much. His memory is too fucking good, too clean and sharp and fucking loud. It's too loud.
Because that's all there is. All he can hear and see is Evan and Dorcas and Regulus and Pandora and fucking Evan again because he's always there. He's a ghost and all Barty wants to do desperately be able to turn around and see him but he never can. Because he can't, because he doesn't deserve to, because of whatever the fuck he did wrong to make him deserve this.
Barty's killed people. They all have. Evan did. Regulus did. Maybe now it's his turn. Maybe that's what this is. Death.
Death shouldn't have to hurt this much. He always thought that it would be quiet. Dead people are always quiet. They're simple, easy. Peaceful. Not peaceful. They're absolved. They don't have to deal with their head pounding and their memories flashing so vividly against their eyelids that they can't see anything but pain and misery and death and death and death and
Barty grabs his wand. It burns his hand as he picks it up. He stares at it and sees Evan stealing it from him when he was trying to get him to study. He sees himself screaming as he chases after Evan's murderer. He sees Dorcas twisting it around their palm and comparing it against their own. He sees everything, yet he sees absolutely nothing but the cracked wood of the one thing that's stayed with him through it all.
His hands are shaking. He can barely breathe. They just need to stop. Anything, anything to just make it all stop.
"Obliviate."
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
"-ou know that won't work, Crouch"
"Try me, Mead-"
"-ove you."
"I lo-"
"-ink there's no way that'll work, Barty."
"You still doubt me, Bla-"
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
"-go with the Lestranges, they'r-"
"-lease stop, don't do this, don't-"
"-lice, run, take Nevill-"
"-on't hurt him please, ple-"
"-hat did you do? Oh, no. No, no no no n-"
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He's fine.
He doesn't know how it got to this point. He didn't mean to. he really didn't mean to. he didn't mean any of this. it wasn't supposed to go like this.
sometimes he can think. sometimes it all comes crashing down as he pieces the last few weeks of his life together, before it's all wiped away again like a sandcastle at the beach and he has to do it all again, as it gets worse and worse each time he wakes up. and he keeps waking up. it keeps happening and it isn't supposed to keep happening, but it does. why does it? why can't it just stop?