#Evan “I'm gonna point everything out in the most brutal and unanaesthetic way”

[myboybreakscoffins]

Haunted by Things We Refuse to Accept

rosekiller microfic — suggestive dialogue, violence, angst, hurt/no comfort, suicidal behavior, canon compliant — word count: 1229

Regulus stormed out of the room, kicking down the door without bothering to contain the anger he felt. The crash of the wood against the frame echoed through the castle, perhaps loud enough to make the Gryffindor tower shake and Potter suspected that he wasn’t going to get lucky that day.

Barty huffed as he leaned against his desk “I always wanted a revolving door,” he scoffed. For a person who prided himself on being calm and collected, Regulus Black easily lost his temper when things didn't go his way, and, in this particular case, when Barty didn't perform up to his expectations.

“Make fun of it all you want, Jr.,” Evan said bitterly from the edge of his bed, where he hadn't moved during the entire heated argument, “But Reg's right.” 

“Not you too, Rosie!” Barty groaned. “Don’t be boring, why don’t you try having your own opinion for once?”

A vein throbbed in Evan’s forehead, the only sign that Barty’s dig had hit its mark. Barty was tired of meaningless conversations. He had already managed to infuriate Regulus; now, he intended to amuse himself by cracking Evan’s ever-present poker face. But Evan refused to take the bait, clinging stubbornly to what little patience they both knew he didn’t have.

“Having your own opinion isn’t the same as contradicting everything just for the sake of it,” Evan pointed out. “It’s one thing to hate your father, and another to stand directly in his line of fire just to piss him off. At least he believes in his cause. You? You just want to infuriate him.” 

The smirk vanished from Barty’s face. His shoulders tensed and his thin eyebrows found themselves furrowed in the middle of his sharp face.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Rosier?” Barty's voice indicated danger, like gasoline had been spilled in the room, and Evan’s next words could be the spark that set everything ablaze.

“Honestly?” Evan exhaled. “Everyone has the right to be stupid, but you’re abusing the privilege.” Evan stood up, stepping toward Barty, who instinctively squared his shoulders. “You're a fool, Barty. You're so caught up in blindly opposing your father that you don't realize that you end up doing the same thing as him. You act like you don’t care about anything, like nothing and no one can control you. But you seem pretty eager to kneel before the Dark Lord.”

That was it.

They would go up in flames.

Barty lunged, grabbing Evan by the collar of his green hoodie, yanking him forward until only inches separated them. “What the hell do you know, Rosier?”

To Barty’s dismay, Evan grinned.

“I think six years attached to your rib gives me an idea.” His tone was maddeningly dispassionate, his eyes locked onto Barty’s. He placed both hands on the brunette’s chest, slow and deliberate—before seizing Barty’s shirt collar and pulling him even closer with sudden force. “You’re the only one who can cling to someone all day and never notice a damn thing.”

Barty’s insides were swimming, static crackled everywhere. He was furious, and Evan was digging under his skin, prying him open.

“You think you have a smart mouth, don’t you?” Barty ground out through clenched teeth.

Evan laughed. “You have no idea, Crouch. One of these days, you should put it to the test. Maybe it’d surprise you.”

Any other time, Barty might’ve been amused by the implication. But right now, his vision was red. His father was a hard line no one crossed unpunished.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll break that pretty mouth of yours,” he threatened.

Barty barely had time to register the shift before pain exploded in his left calf. His legs buckled, sending him crashing back against the desk, the blonde on top of him. Before he could react, Evan yanked him forward and, with no hesitation, drove his fist into Barty’s jaw.

“You’re a hypocrite, Crouch,” he spat, landing another blow. “You have the nerve to mock us for not wanting you to throw your life away, but the second your daddy issues come up, you lose your fucking mind? Don’t make me laugh.”

Barty roared, tackling Evan, and the two of them hit the stone floor, rolling, fists flying.

“Atabraquium!” Pandora’s voice rang out as the door burst open. Instantly, invisible ropes snapped around both boys, yanking them apart and leaving them immobilized.

“For Salazar’s sake, what the f—?” Dorcas skidded to a halt behind Pandora, her wide eyes darting between her battered, panting friends with bruised faces and bloody knuckles.

“Oh, not this again…” she groaned.

“When are you going to grow up, Barty?!” Evan yelled, still struggling against the spell. “It’s a fucking war! Stop making excuses that’ll get you killed. Unlike Reg and I, you have a choice!” 

Barty’s chest heaved, his lips curled in a snarl. “And you think that my bloody father would be a better choice? Are you for real?”

“To stay out of it. To fucking survive, you bloody idiot!” Evan’s voice cracked.

Barty Crouch Jr. finally stilled. The ropes held him down, but it was the weight of his emotions rumbling in his chest that truly kept him from moving.

A heavy silence settled over the room—thick, suffocating, as if someone had vanished the windows that separated them from the depths of the Black Lake.

With a flick of her wand, Pandora released the spell but no one moved.

Then, in the quiet, Barty’s voice—small, muffled—broke through.

“What’s the point of surviving if you guys aren’t going to be here?”

Faced with such a statement, their expressions hardened, softened, fractured. Barty was a boy of relentless emotions, who gave laughter and fury in equal measure—but vulnerability? That was foreign to his face. And somehow, that made it worse.

That made it real.

A long minute passed before Pandora and Dorcas moved, falling to their knees beside them, whispering healing charms over split lips and bruised knuckles.

Barty and Evan didn’t look at each other again.

Once the magic had mended their wounds, Barty got up, making for the door but Evan’s voice stopped him just as he reached the threshold.

“You have to live, Barty. Even if none of us can be with you.”

Barty froze, his fingers curling around the doorframe, knuckles white. Then, he turned his head just enough for them to see the sharp edge of a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. “You lot can fight for your morals, or pretend to fight for your parents' cause. My father can rot in his self-righteous war.” Barty’s jaw clenched, and when he spoke again, his voice dripped with something raw and twisted. “I don’t give a damn fuck about that shit.”

Pandora’s lips parted, but before she could say anything, Barty's smile stretched wide—hollow, aching, a quiet devastation that stole the air from them.

“If you can’t stay with me,” he said at last, voice eerily steady, “then I’ll follow you to hell,” and before being swallowed by the darkness, he added “I’d rather drown in blood and fire surrounded by all kinds of strange and terrible things than live a long, boring life, alone and dead inside.”

And before anyone could say anything else, the door slammed shut behind him.