“Oh, thank Salazar,” Evan groans as the last puffy eyed first-years trail out of the common room and down the stairs to their dormitories. It’s so late that the flames in the fireplace have turned to embers that are barely flickering now. They have been waiting for hours now for the commotion of students reuniting after Christmas break to die down, Evan curled up in a large velvet armchair in a tucked away corner and Barty sprawled on the carpet in Evan’s feet.
Barty, who has charmed his chess set so he can play alone, looks up from the board and watches as the other boy snaps his potions book shut and stretches like a cat, scrunching up his nose.
“I thought they’d never leave,” Barty sits up and rests his head on Evan’s knee. Now that they’re alone, he doesn’t have to be afraid to touch him. Humming softly, Evan cups his chin, trailing his thumb along his jawline, a lazy smile on his face. Looking furtively around the common room one last time to make sure they’re truly alone, he leans over and brushes his lips over Barty’s.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, and his heart rattles in his ribcage as Barty melts into the kiss. This past Christmas break lasted way too long for his liking and he’s beyond thrilled to be back at Hogwarts, away from his family, so he can pretend just a little longer that he’s still a child and not a soldier.
They rarely get moments alone like this: Mulciber and Avery are always in their dorm room, loud and obnoxious, and completely unaware that their presence is unwanted, and although they usually enjoy Regulus’s near-constant company, they wish he would leave them alone sometimes. He’s still at Grimmauld Place tonight; he never comes back to Hogwarts earlier than necessary (Merlin forbid that Walburga would ever let him out of her sight for any longer than she was absolutely required to), and they know he’ll be walking out of the fireplace in Slughorn’s office bright and early tomorrow morning, right before classes start, but for now it can be just Evan and Barty.
There’s a pleasant chill in the Slytherin common room once the fire has fully died out, and the two of them sit in the semi-darkness and the quiet, relishing in each other’s touch. Barty is soft and warm, and smells like sandalwood and amber, and tastes like firewhisky and cigarettes, and something so quintessentially Barty , and Evan can’t help it but sigh softly into his mouth. Barty has unbuttoned his shirt and his tie hangs loose around his neck, so Evan lets his hand wander over his collarbones, his sternum, his nails scratching lightly down his skin. He can feel Barty break into a smile mid-kiss; he wishes it could always be like this.
“I can’t wait to show you something,” Barty says, finally pulling away from Evan. He takes his hand in both of his, rubbing circles into his palm; they’re only this gentle around each other, only this kind and soft with each other. Guilt is a bottomless pit in Evan’s stomach when he thinks about all the things his father would say if he even saw the person Evan was when he was with Barty. Still, he shoves his fears and doubts somewhere deep inside where he can’t find them, where they can’t cloud these tender little moments he can steal away.
“What is it?” he whispers, reaching to push the dark messy strands of hair falling over Barty’s forehead. There’s a mischievous glint in his green eyes, a spark Evan knows very well. “What did you do?”
Barty glances over both of his shoulders, the shadow of anxiety briefly flashing over his face, like he’s more afraid of someone finding out what he’s about to show Evan than he is about someone catching them making out in a dark corner. Then, he slowly starts to unbutton the sleeve of his shirt, then meticulously rolls up the fabric.
“What are you doing?” Evan snaps, letting go of his face. Something twists in his stomach before it fully dawns on him what Barty is trying to show him. Barty’s face lights up as he proudly lifts up his left arm for Evan to see. The pale skin—once immaculate, perfect, untouched—is now scarred. The ink is still fresh, glistening even in the gloom of the unlit common room, the snake twisting down Barty’s flesh, forever trapped in the jaws of the ghastly skull. The empty space around it is red and irritated, a dark and angry blotch of raised skin.
“No,” Evan rasps, and he blinks rapidly, hoping that the next time he opens his eyes, the Mark will be gone. He can feel the scar on his own arm pulsating, throbbing in rhythm with his heart, which is hammering violently in his chest. There’s a smile on Barty’s lips, a hopeful spark in his eyes as he looks up at Evan, not quite noticing how distressed he is.
Evan feels like he can’t breathe.
“Barty,” he says, more sternly now, the urgency in his voice more apparent, “what did you do?”
“I can be on your side now,” Barty whispers excitedly, gripping Evan’s knee. “You and I, we can fight together now. And Reggie, too—”
It takes him a while to realize that Evan is trembling, his breaths shallow and shaky. Beads of sweat are covering his forehead, trickling down his nose. White spots blur his vision, and Barty’s voice is muffled, like he’s talking to him from very far away.
“--and can you imagine the look on my father’s face when he finds out? Oh, I can’t wait for it, if anything can kill the bastard, this will be it—”
He remembers very little from that night. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor. His skin burning up, like flames licking along his chest and neck and arms, like a thousand little ants crawling along his skin. Lying in a pool of his own vomit, barely able to open his eyes. The metal foot of the bathtub, shaped like a snake, its eyes twinkling in the dark. His father’s angry roar, the slam of a heavy mahogany door down the hallway. The screams, so loud and inhumane he had kept trying to figure out what kind of creature could be capable of emitting such a noise before he had realized it was him. His throat aching, raw and torn as he sobbed silently through the night. His blood violently red against the green and silver of the checkered floor. Cruciatus , ringing in his ears, his father’s voice unwavering. His own muffled I won’t do it , over and over through gritted teeth and hot wet tears, You can’t make me, I won’t do it .
He remembers his mother’s hand on his forehead, pushing the bleached locks away, her touch stone-cold and cruel. The morning light spilling through the shattered windows. Lying in the broken shards of glass, snot leaking down into his mouth, his lip split. The metallic taste of blood on his tongue, whose blood, where had it come from, surely not his own?
He remembers, Cruciatus over and over again, and then when he would still not give in, even though every cell in his body felt like a naked wire, and he didn’t know where the pain ended and where he began, the tip of his father’s boot in his stomach—He remembers.
“You chose this?” his voice cracks as he looks away from Barty. He can’t face him right now. The ghost of his own muffled, distant screams pierces his ears.
He remembers finding Regulus on the floor of the prefect bathroom, his face paler than the ghosts’, the shadows under his eyes purple like bruises. Me too , he had whispered, the recognition instantaneous, and they had sat together in the dark, in the quiet, their hands gripped together tight enough to hurt.
He remembers the Dark Lord’s red, pupil-less eyes, the tip of his wand burning into his skin, the choked-down sobs as the ink branded his skin, the Dark Lord’s triumphant laughter merging with his own excruciated wails—He remembers, and it’s all he can see when he looks at Barty’s arm now, the snake twisting on it identical to the one burned into Evan’s own skin.
“You did this willingly?” he persists, because Barty has fallen silent, sitting down on his heels, looking hurt and confused. “Barty, did you do this of your own free will?”
He refuses to touch him now; he’s afraid of what he will do if he’s skin to skin with Barty, terrified because he doesn’t recognize the feeling in his stomach.
“I did— I don’t understand—”
“You went to the Dark Lord,” Evan’s voice is barely a whisper, each word rolling off his tongue like barbed wire, “and you asked to join his ranks?”
“Yeah,” Barty says softly, “For you—”
“I didn’t ask you to!” Evan snaps, and realizes Barty has reached out to touch his arm and he’s pushed him away, his hand violently shaking.
“I don’t understand—”
“They tortured me,” he spits out. He would’ve never admitted this to Barty, would have never let him know the pain they’d put him through for this, but he has gone and done this now, and he has ruined them, “I didn’t want this, so they tortured me, until I was on the brink of death, so I would join him!”
His chest is rising and falling rapidly, panic sweeping over him and pulling him under, as he hisses, “I didn’t choose this, I didn’t ask for it—and neither did Reggie.”
Barty licks his lips, but he doesn’t say a word.
“They tortured him, too, hurt both of us,” the words are tumbling out of Evan’s mouth now, an avalanche of everything he’s kept unsaid, “They would have killed us, so we had no choice but to, and you—”
At last, he breaks. Something snaps inside him, and he crumbles, and Barty’s holding him, but he doesn’t want him to, because he feels like he has plunged a knife straight into his heart. Gently but sternly he presses his arms against Barty’s chest, pushing him away.
“Say something, Barty,” he hurls at him, but he has gone ashen. “Come on, you’re so brave, running off to the Dark Lord, so say something.”
“You never—” Barty licks his lips again, looking lost. “You never said anything, Evan, I didn’t know—”
“Do you believe in all that?” Evan asks. His ribcage feels too tight for his lungs. “That he’ll reform our world? Make it better ?”
Evan’s words drip with poison. He doesn’t actually want Barty to answer, he’s mortified of having to face what he might find out if he does. Barty was his safe place, his fortress, and he can feel the walls he built up to keep them guarded from the rest of the world crumble.
"I'm not a good person," Barty says, looking up at Evan, practically begging him to meet his eyes. He won't. "I will do whatever I have to to protect you."
"Even this?" Evan's voice trembles as his gaze finally lands on Barty, disappointment etched into the dark marble of his face.
"Especially this."
“You’d kill? Torture? You’d die for a cause you don’t believe in?”
‘Yes!” Barty raises his voice now, balling his fists, and hurt twists his features into a grimace, “I would! I would do it for you! So I could be right there next to you when you go off to fight this war—so I don’t have to lose my mind every time you leave, not knowing if you’ll come back. I would do anything .”
He grabs Evan’s face and presses his lips hard against him; it’s an angry, violent kiss. Evan doesn’t taste Barty anymore. He tastes his own blood and vomit that night he lay on the icy bathroom floor.
“I don’t believe you, Barty,” he says evenly, stepping away from him. “You can do whatever you want to to spite your dad, but don’t you dare pin this on me. Don’t you dare look me in the eye and tell me that the blood you’re going to spill will be on my hands. This is not on me.”
The silence that lays between them is thick and heavy. It almost crushes Evan’s bones to dust.
“You never told me,” Barty says. “You never said they hurt you. I thought—”
“ I wanted to protect you . I wanted to keep you away from all this.”
When Barty doesn’t respond, Evan keeps going, the words pouring out of him. He gently smacks his fist against Barty’s chest. “You’re so lucky,” he whispers, his fist landing on Barty with every word, “to be born away from all this, to not be burdened with a duty you don’t want, to not have been branded a murderer by virtue of your family name from your very first breath, you’re so lucky and you’re throwing it away—”
He heaves, and heaves, and then the tears come as he folds into Barty’s embrace, letting his arms envelop him fully.
Barty’s lips brush his ear. “I love you,” he murmurs, soothingly running his fingers through his hair, “I love you, and I know you look at me like I’m a monster, but I just want to keep you safe.”
We’re just children , Evan thinks. He doesn’t let go of Barty because he fears his feet won’t hold him. They’re only seventeen, their lives should be theirs and theirs alone, but they’re not, and he’s never been more afraid. He desperately yearns for their carefree youth, when they weren’t branded for slaughter, when they weren’t about to walk out of school and onto a battlefield.
“Shhh,” Barty whispers, holding him gently in his arms. “I’ll keep you safe.”
*
He doesn’t end up keeping him safe.
On the day Evan Rosier goes down in battle, he’s not even supposed to be there.
“Why would you volunteer for the mission?” Barty snaps. He angrily slams his glass of firewhisky on the table and the amber liquid splashes out. “Why would you do something so mind-boggling stupid?”
“Because,” Evan snaps right back, slamming a kitchen cupboard just as angrily, “Moody is going to be there. Need I remind you how many of ours he’s taken down?”
Barty grits his teeth, shooting daggers at Evan.
“I won’t be alone,” he hisses. “Rowle will be there. Karkarov, too. Snape, Crabbe, Goyle—” he lists the names off almost viciously. “You’re being so fucking daft right now, risking your life like this—”
“Reggie’s gone,” Evan cuts him off, his voice hollow. “He’s gone, and I won’t lose you too.”
Regulus’s name feels like a gut punch for both of them. It’s been months since either of them even dared to utter it, and now it hangs in the silence between them like a ghost. In a few wide strides, Evan’s standing in front of Barty, cupping his chin with his hand, thumb gently caressing his jawline. “Remember what you said to me? That you can’t sit around and wait for me wondering if I’ll even come back? I can’t do that either, so don’t ask me to.”
Barty swallows, then nudges Evan’s nose with his, tilting his face back for a kiss. He doesn’t know that it will be their last.
Evan Rosier is not supposed to be there when they sneak into the Ministry in the dead of night. He’s not supposed to be there when Alastor Moody raises his wand and sends the curse flying at him. Barty glances back over his shoulder—as he always does, always keeping an eye on Evan, always aware of his whereabouts, never too far that he can’t step in if he has to, but this time he’s on the other end of the room, backed into a corner, dueling three Aurors at once—just in time to see the green light slam into Evan’s chest.
The world slows down to a halt. He feels like he’s freefalling. Evan’s body hits the ground with a thud, the mask slipping to reveal the shocked look forever frozen on his face. The thud echoes, and echoes, and echoes, until it becomes one with Barty’s heartbeat. Somebody’s wailing, he realizes dully. It sounds like an animal. He blinks once, twice. Then realizes that it’s him, that the inhuman noises are coming from his throat, guttural.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s not in control of his own body. All he can think of is, Evan wasn’t supposed to be here .
He blinks again, and now he’s on his feet. He doesn’t know when he got up. There are corpses on the ground next to him, and he doesn’t know whose they are, and he doesn’t know how they got there. He’s running, feet slapping the concrete floor. Evan’s body is lying right there, limbs twisted unnaturally, and he wishes he could just pretend he was sleeping, but he can’t—
Everything is a blur. He’s standing in front of Alastor Moody, and there’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He’s raising his wand now. The curse comes flying out of the tip of his wand but Moody dodges, so Barty hurls another one at him, then another.
He watches as Moody’s face rips open, a wide gash right across his eye. Barty is vaguely aware that the blood spatters on his face, blood, and something else too— Moody’s eye , he realizes, bits of it, or at least that’s what he thinks it is, and then he’s laughing.
He’s on the ground, and doesn’t remember how he got there. His head is on Evan’s motionless, dead chest. He remembers, slowly, as if waking from a dream, that he was looking for a heartbeat. There is none. All sounds are muffled.
There are hands on him. Rowle, he thinks, or maybe Karkarov, someone tugging at him, pulling at his robes, and he wails again, but the hands are insistent, grabbing him, trying to pry him away from Evan.
“Crouch, we have to go NOW ,” someone yells, and the sound rings in his ears, echoes accompanied by his own empty laughter, and the hands pull at him again as they apparate, abandoning Evan’s broken body on the Ministry floor.
The world turns into a blur. All he remembers are snapshots, broken, distorted moments, out of order and without sound, the only background noise his echoing, maniacal laughter.
He’s standing in front of Severus Snape, wand pressed into his throat as Snape croaks out, “Longbottom. He cares for Longbottom. She’s like a daughter to him.”
He’s standing over Alice Longbottom’s body as she wriggles in his feet, screams ripping her throat raw, her body convulsing from the pain he’s inflicting on her. He hopes this will hurt Moody as much as losing Evan hurt him. He’s laughing, and Bellatrix next to him is laughing too, but hers is a joyous, jubilant laugher. Her hair is spinning around, and it looks like black snakes hissing out, and it blurs, and he blinks, and he’s surrounded by dementors.
He’s standing before the Wizengamot, shackles around his wrists, the metal cold but not as cold as Evan’s body under him on the Ministry floor— he’s laughing and his father’s empty stare burns through him.
He’s in Azkaban, twelve years that feel like centuries, every second spent back on that floor, the concrete under him, the frozen stare on Evan’s face, the mask slipping to reveal his empty eyes, his rigid body lying there, lifeless, and he’s laughing even though nothing’s funny at all.
When he looks in the mirror one day and sees Alastor Moody’s reflection staring back at him, the laughter wilts in his throat. For the first time in over a decade, he doesn’t have to look at the face of the man who killed Evan Rosier.