Chapter Text
In February, Kryostrov's cityscape is even more depressingly grey than normal. Not that the weather makes a difference surrounded by tarmac and high-rise flats. At midday, the sun rises halfway into the sky, obscured by grimy blocks of flats. Although they're miles inland, a sharp coastal breeze blows through the air.
Barty sits on the balcony outside their flat, blowing cigarette smoke out like he’s a kid skipping school. It’s not like there’s much else to do around here.
“One more?” Avery says, re-shuffling the pack of cards.
Barty checks his phone. The last text from Mulciber said he’s coming to pick them up in ten minutes, ten minutes ago. “Nah, we don’t have time.”
“Come on, man, we’ll hear his car coming from a mile away.”
“Maybe if we didn’t have two flights of stairs to go down one at a time,” Barty points out, staring at where Avery’s prosthetic is hidden beneath his trouser leg. Three years on, he still takes one stair at a time.
Avery rolls his eyes, muttering, “fine.”
Barty holds out a hand. Avery takes it, pulling himself up. Living with someone for the best part of three years has turned his brain off to small moments like these. Not that it means anything; Avery is his flatmate, not his friend.
They walk down the stairs step by step. Barty thinks it’s interesting that Riddle could only find them a place on the second floor of a block of flats with no lift, but he keeps that thought to himself. Since the Knights of Walpurgis went underground three years ago, they’ve had to take what they can get.
Like Avery predicted, they hear Mulciber’s car coming before they see it. Apparently it’s vintage, which means its engine splutters like it’s on its dying breath. The distinctive olive green hatchback pulls up to the pavement.
The pit of anxiety in Barty’s stomach grows as Mulciber rolls down the window and stabs a thumb for them to both get in. Tattoos from his stint in prison snake up his neck and over the back of his hands, a buzz cut and a hard expression on his heavy-set face.
In the passenger seat is his recently-wed wife, Octavia, which is probably why he refrains from his usual ‘alright, fuckheads?’ She gazes out of the window, long hair covering the view of her eyes. Only eighteen, she left school to marry into Mulciber’s family to preserve the purity of both bloodlines.
“Alright?” Mulciber says once they get in the car.
Avery leans forward eagerly. “Excited for today’s meeting?”
Mulciber snorts as he pulls out onto the street, accelerating fast. “Don’t embarrass yourself. Riddle doesn’t hand out Marks for nothing.”
Barty’s anxiety tunnels deeper as he watches the buildings speed by, getting closer to the Knight’s headquarters. There’s been talk of him and Avery getting the Mark, the official tattoo of the Knights of Walpurgis, during Riddle’s drive to recruit the younger generation. His plan to topple Dumbledore's government won't work without the youth, according to Riddle.
Barty can roll his eyes at Avery's enthusiasm all he likes, but he's not immune to Riddle's promises. Maybe the revered social honour of being a Knight will transform his waste of life into something worthwhile.
What he’s more concerned about is the process that comes before taking the Mark, a sacrifice to prove one's loyalty. Mulciber had to overcome his fear of blood by torturing two people from the Order of the Phoenix. Barty doesn't have anything easy Riddle can exploit like that. He has no one he'd call a friend, no partner, a dead mother and a father he hasn’t spoken to in years. He can’t imagine how Riddle is going to test him.
Avery leans into Barty, regarding him with the shining eyes he adopts whenever discussing the Knights. Like Barty, it’s the only thing left in his life.
“What do you think he’s going to ask us to do?”
Barty sighs at the question he’s heard at least twice a day for the last week. Avery is only three months younger than him, but sometimes he feels like he’s living with a giddy preteen.
“I don’t know, Avery.” His eyes flick to Mulciber who might know more than them. “He’ll probably put a hit on a Minister. McGonagall, Moody, someone like that.” It’s not like we have anyone else worth killing in our lives, he wants to add. He and Avery have more in common than he’d like to admit– their ‘friends’ extend to the Knight’s social circle, and their parents are dead or as good as.
“That’s too straightforward to earn you a Mark,” Mulciber says with a superior sneer. “But who knows? Maybe he’ll have you making him coffee and wiping his arse while you’re down there. That’s more your speed, isn’t it, Avery?”
Avery directs a glare at him.
Barty interjects, focused on more pressing matters than throwing about insults. “So you don’t know?”
“Not a fucking clue.”
Barty can believe that. Riddle’s inner circle is made up of their parents’ generation: Avery and Mulciber’s fathers were in the original Knights of Walpurgis, Riddle’s school gang. Their generation of young adults has yet to earn Riddle’s trust.
They arrive on the other side of the city fifteen minutes later. Avery’s leg has been bouncing in anticipation the whole way. Barty's nerves are seeped in dread, though he's not sure why. The worst part about his task will probably be lying on his stomach on a roof until his toes turn blue, craning through a sniper lens.
They approach the Knight's headquarters, Bellatrix’s house. As one of Riddle's closest followers, she has retained the sophisticated lifestyle of before the organisation's collapse three years ago. The house stands solitary on the nice side of the island, surrounded by a tall iron gate and monitored by constant CCTV. A gravel path leads up to its façade, sharp-edged and symmetrical.
Bellatrix stands in the stone archway entrance. It looks more suited to a catacomb than a home. Her beady eyes train on her four guests with a smile that twists her lips into an uncomfortable position. Her gaze locks on each person in turn. She has more power than all of them combined, and she knows it.
“Afternoon, darlings,” she says in a smooth voice. She holds out her arms to embrace Octavia first. “Octavia, sweetheart, you look beautiful today. How’s Mulciber been treating you?”
“Very well, thank you,” says Octavia, her smile polite.
“How are things, Bellatrix?” Mulciber asks, stepping forward to place a hand on Octavia’s lower back like he just remembered they're married. He speaks with the authority of the only official Knight out of their four.
“Just marvellous,” Bellatrix says. She raises her eyebrows towards Barty and Avery, smiling at them with hawkish eyes. “Ah, the two stars of the day. I've heard an announcement is in store for you both.”
Avery squares his shoulders. “We’re ready.”
“Are you? That’s lovely, isn’t it?” This time, she doesn't disguise her mocking tone. Her cruel gaze hones in on Barty. “And are you just as ready as your adorable little friend, Crouch?”
Barty doesn’t take his eyes off her, though he can feel Avery bristling beside him. He keeps his jaw locked. “I am,” he says.
She smiles brightly. “Perfect. Come along, then.”
They follow Bellatrix through the dimly lit corridors to the main hall. Her house is adorned with the colours of the Knights: black and deep green. Family portraits and pictures of the Black’s ancestral home are hung in bold frames along the walls.
The main hall is even more archaic and grand. Barty thinks to the single-bedroom flat Riddle has had him and Avery boxed in for the last two years, feeling a prickle of annoyance. He was never like Avery- wholeheartedly sacrificing anything for the Knights. His father was never that important, drifting into obscurity once his wife died, and Barty’s beliefs about the sanctity of pureblood families goes as far as playing along to keep a roof over his head.
Slogans about the purity of the sacred families that used to rule the island hang under the tall windows, about traditional values and preserving the island's culture. Beside it are pictures of members of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's underground group, with bold Wanted signs under them. They call the Knights ‘Death Eaters’ and battle against their beliefs with ferocity.
Around the central table, the families Barty grew up around sit on the long tables. Mulciber and Octavia go to sit beside Narcissa and Lucius. Wilkes, the only other person their age, perks up when he spots Mulciber. Then there are the Carrows, Greengrasses and Bulstrodes, and what’s left of the Blacks after Orion’s death and the space of Walburga’s two sons. There's no trace of the Rosiers who used to sit close to Riddle.
“Morning, Kalum,” comes a voice from behind.
Barty glances behind him to find a small group of elderly women, the only ones who affectionately refer to Avery by his first name. They retain the prestige their lineages deserve, attending these meetings like church services, but their smiles towards Avery are friendly. Three women: Natalia Zabini, Evelyn Hughes and Dorea Black, the ones who raised Avery after his parents died.
“Morning,” Avery says brightly. He doesn’t hold back from hugging them each in turn. It’s the only respite from the lingering, compressed hate in the gloomy hall.
Dorea pinches his cheek affectionately. “Kal, look at you, sweetie," she says. "All grown up, about to become a Knight. I still remember when you were this tall.”
“Oh, stop it, you're embarrassing him,” Evelyn tuts, but she’s also smiling. She pats Avery’s arm. “Off you go, dear.”
Avery smiles proudly. He comes to sit beside Barty at the end of the table furthest away from Riddle.
The numbers aren't close to what they were four years ago. After their unsuccessful attempt to seize Hogvarov, the government building headed by Dumbledore, many Knights were imprisoned, killed or fled the island.
At the head of the table, of course, is Riddle. His steely features are poised. He talks to Bellatrix in low tones, aiming to exude friendliness. His smile can't disguise the dead behind his eyes. It makes Barty grateful that he has nothing good left in his life, otherwise he’s sure Riddle would destroy it without a moment’s hesitation.
Although his lineage isn’t part of high society like the Blacks and Lestranges, this is Barty's legacy. He was destined to sit with these people. His long-dead mother would’ve continued to sit here had she lived past his infancy, and his father would be sitting here if he hadn’t turned to alcohol. This is his life. Riddle would have him killed if he did anything different.
“Good morning.” Riddle’s croaky voice comes out barely above conversation level, but everyone’s conversations cease. He rises to stand at the head of the table. “Thank you all for gathering for today's meeting. Amycus.”
Amycus Carrow abruptly rises. His slicked-back ginger hair sticks to his head, lacking Riddle's composure. “Lucius has prepared a report on our finances and resources, so the main goal of today is to make sure our budget is as efficient as possible. Before that, we have an exciting announcement.”
Riddle’s smile is as wide and twisted as Bellatrix’s. His gaze cuts through Barty like ice while Amycus continues.
“As Alecto said in last month's lead-off, our drive to recruit younger members into the Knights is coming along well. Mulciber took the Mark last year, and he and Octavia from the honourable house of Rowle have recently joined together in the sacred union of marriage to preserve the purity of their bloodlines.”
A ripple of applause runs through the room, the faces of people who have devoted their lives and families to the cause.
“This week, we hope to turn two young members into full-time cadres,” Amycus says. “Crouch Junior and Avery Junior.”
Riddle nods. A sign of dismissal. Amycus sits down as fast as he stood up. With one flick of Riddle's finger, Avery and Barty get to their feet. Barty feels the heavy weight of the room’s eyes on him as he keeps his gaze directed towards Riddle. He forces himself not to even swallow in case it betrays his nerves.
Riddle beams with all the charisma Amycus fell short of. “As you all know, these two young men have been serving the cause for the last five years. Soon, I will give them the Mark, a sign of dedication to the true and noble cause.” His gaze focuses on Avery. “Kalum Avery, son of my dear friend, the late Ivan Avery and his wife Maria Abbott, proved his devotion during his courageous sacrifice at Hogvarov. When he was injured in the good fight for its occupation, he did not accept medical care from the impure.”
Another smattering of applause at Avery’s sacrifice. Barty remembers the story a little differently. They stormed into Hogvarov, guns up, picking off government ministers. Bullets ripped through the air as the military landed. A scream beside him, blood everywhere, carrying a half-conscious Avery to someone who knew first aid. Avery begged Barty not to take him to hospital because they’d arrest him.
Barty remembers clutching his gun tighter as someone pumped Avery with morphine until he passed out so they could amputate his leg before the infection spread. When Avery woke up, there was nothing courageous about the way he cried.
Of course, Riddle doesn’t say any of that.
“Unfortunately, we couldn’t save his leg,” Riddle continues. “But he kept something far more important: his resilience. His resolve.”
Avery’s face shines with honour. Barty can almost feel it radiating off him.
Riddle raises his arms. “So, Avery, will you accept the Mark?”
Barty guesses that it takes Avery every thread of self-control not to burst out with the words which he says calmly. “It would be my honour, Sir.”
More applause, more thin smiles. Barty loses himself in the performance for a moment. He’s snapped back to reality when Riddle’s piercing eyes meet his. Somehow, he doubts Riddle has the same heartfelt speech in store for him.
“Barty Crouch Junior,” Riddle announces, voice smooth as glass. “Son of Bartemius Crouch Senior and the late Polina Vane. For five years, you have served the cause with loyalty. You placed the organisation above all else, when others… wavered.” The malice in his voice makes Barty uneasy. It’s an undisguised dig at how his once closest friends, Regulus, Evan and Pandora, all defected from the cause. “I have a task for you. A final step to solidify your worth and commitment to us."
Barty knew this was coming. He’s not surprised Avery got off the hook; Riddle wouldn’t risk his benevolent act by putting more weight on the golden boy with a missing leg. All the eyes in the room seem to burn into his skin as he waits for Riddle’s next words.
"You'll receive a letter tonight. It will contain a name and address." Riddle scans the crowd meaningfully. “This is a political enemy, someone who must die for the greater good. If they don’t, what will happen?” His voice rises. “Our history, our culture, our blood dies. They want to silence us. This will tell them, we will not be silenced.”
Murmurs of agreement go through the room, determined nods and lips pursed in righteous anger. Riddle has trained them well. Barty’s throat is too tight to mutter something in agreement.
Riddle flicks a finger. Amycus is on his feet again.
“We shall reconvene here next Sunday evening, where Avery and Crouch shall receive the Mark,” says Amycus.
More claps. More voices of agreement. More satisfied smiles. Barty slowly exhales. It’s just as he predicted: a political assassination.
Barty knows how to handle a gun, and himself. Next Sunday gives him ten days to complete the task. This should be straightforward. Yet something dark in Riddle's eyes stops him from relaxing fully.
After that, the meeting continues as normal. Lucius conducts the lead-off on the Knights’ finances, which aren’t improving. Barty is still sore about him and Avery being stuck in a shit-hole while Riddle's friends live in luxury. He mutters something to Avery about their accommodation not getting an update anytime soon, and Avery half-heartedly curses the stairs, but he’s clearly still basking in the promise to receive the Mark.
Barty’s mind runs in circles, wondering whose name is going to be on the letter. It could be a government minister that Riddle doesn’t want to get anyone important's hands dirty over. It could be someone closer. One name comes to mind: his father. If it came down to it, he’d do it. His father left enough hate in his heart for Barty to turn on him if he needs to.
When the meeting ends, the socialising begins. Tea and coffee poured from porcelain teapots, amicable smiles all around. Barty makes his escape as Dorea, Evelyn and Natalia descend on him with congratulations.
He slips out of the hall into the blissfully silent corridor. The air is cool against his flushed skin. He clenches and unclenches his fists, convincing himself that he’s got this under control. He’s assassinated people before, and he’ll do it again. The payoff to become a Knight is worth it a hundred times over.
The hall’s heavy doors swing open. Expecting to be uninterrupted, Barty straightens up with a fright. Fear bolts through him like lightning. Coming towards him, robe shrouding his form, is Riddle.
“Leaving so soon?” Riddle says, his features carved into pleasant cruelty. His act doesn’t slip for a second, even though there’s no audience out here.
Barty feels a prickle of discomfort at being alone with him, but he makes sure to hide it. He doesn’t know why Riddle would abandon his favourite pastime of having everyone lauding over him to come out and talk to him.
“No, Sir,” he says, laying the subservient act on thick. “I just went to the bathroom.” The excuse is flimsy.
Riddle's heavy boots tap against the floor with an echo as he approaches Barty. He seems to tower over Barty despite their similar heights. From his robe, he retrieves a dark object. A gun.
Barty blanches. Then Riddle holds it out, and he realises it’s for him.
It’s a good quality pistol, similar to the models he used to handle before the Knights’ collapse. A suppressor is attached to the barrel, ready for a flawless kill.
“You’ll need this,” Riddle says, holding it out.
Barty takes it. The handle slots nicely in his hand. The pistol was designed for close-range contact. Riddle must be expecting him to kill his target up close, in cold blood, instead of taking the easy way out at a distance.
Riddle clutches Barty’s arm to stop him from pulling away. His fingernails dig into the flesh of his wrist, uncomfortably sharp. Barty doesn’t dare pull away even an inch. His breath hitches as he meets Riddle’s cold eyes.
"If you can't do this for me, save me a job and use it on yourself,” Riddle whispers, his breath hitting Barty’s cheek. A long, painful moment passes before he pulls back. “But I have every faith in you, Bartemius.”
His father’s name, the name Barty hates,. Barty suppresses the urge to shiver as he pulls his stinging wrist away. He understands Riddle’s disdain for him; Regulus turned on the cause, and the Rosier’s fled just before Hogvarov. Why would Riddle trust him when he’s been surrounded by traitors?
Riddle’s disdain for anyone is as good as a death wish, or at least a guarantee of social irrelevance. But the flicker of fear Barty feels facing Riddle alone is just that– a flicker. Riddle has already taken everything from him. His friends, his boyfriend, his mother. He has nothing more to lose.
Riddle sweeps away as fast as he came. There’s a snippet of noise as the doors to the hall open, then they close again. Barty is left standing in silence, a gun in his hand and the weight of Riddle’s expectations pressing heavily on his shoulders.
Becoming a Knight changes everything. He may have nothing left to lose, but he has everything to gain. One assassination mission, and maybe in a few years he’ll be sitting in Bellatrix’s or Amycus’ place, right by Riddle’s side.
~
“Would you and Avery like a lift home?”
Barty lifts his head to find Octavia standing in the corridor. She wears the detached expression he uses himself. He didn’t hear her coming, and he finds the offer strange since they’ve barely talked before considering she’s several years younger. He supposes she’s out here for the same reason as him– breathing room.
“Sure,” he says, glad someone is as eager to leave as him. “When Avery has finished doing victory laps around the hall.”
The ghost of a smile passes over Octavia’s face. “I’ll go and see if he’s ready.”
Barty watches her disappear. He sighs and takes the gun out of his waistband. Its handle is smooth, the perfect weight for its job.
A minute later, the hall’s doors open. Octavia reappears with Avery by her side. Thankfully, no sign of Mulciber.
Avery’s blond hair is tousled and he walks with a bounce to his step, high off the adrenaline of Riddle's announcement.
"Resilience and resolve, did you hear him?" Avery grins, earning him a weary nod. "Anyway, why are you hiding out here? It's fucking electric in there.” His gaze drops to the gun in Barty’s hand. “Oh, shit. Is that a Beretta? Wait, no, it’s a Springfield. What’s the caliber on that?”
Unimpressed, Barty glances at the marking on the side. “Point four-four,” he says as if that’ll make a difference to who he’s going to be shooting.
"Not their best, but still nice. Who gave you it?”
“Riddle,” Barty says flatly. He slots it back in his belt, using his jacket to hide the shape. “Let’s go.”
They leave Bellatrix’s house, and return to Mulciber’s spluttering car. Barty and Avery sit in the back as Octavia takes the wheel. The first few minutes are quiet as they drive out of the suburbs and back into the city.
“Nice little number he gave you there,” Avery says in admiration. “You know they stopped selling those types in the eighties because their main customers were the Russians during the Cold war, but they were so popular another company picked them back up in the noughties and they got so rich that the CEO ended up propping up, like, five military coups in South America just because he could.”
“Of course you know that,” Barty sighs.
Octavia glances at them in the rearview mirror. “Is the task to become a Knight always an assassination?” she asks neutrally.
“You could always get a limb amputated,” Avery says cheerfully.
Barty shoots him a look, finding none of the same humour in the situation. “It depends if you have a better weak point,” he says. “Mulciber used to pass out at the sight of blood. He wanted to work in surveillance, but Riddle saw that as a weakness, so he put him on a torture job, two Order members, until he was completely desensitised to blood.”
“Fortescue and Longbottom, yes, he told me,” Octavia says, something unhappy in her gaze.
Avery notices Barty's tensed shoulders and clipped speech. "I don't know what you're so stressed about, man. You've done shit like this before."
“It’s alright for you, you don't have to do shit,” Barty retorts.
Avery shrugs. His expression is curious as he prods Barty with a finger that Barty has never wanted to break in half more than right now.
“Who do you think you’ve got?”
Barty slaps Avery’s hand away with a scowl. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He turns away to look out the window.
The grey city speeds by as Barty’s mind turns over at a million miles an hour. Tens of faces flash through his mind, high-up government officials that want to relax marriage laws and overcome any trace of blood purity. And then there's his father, his only surviving relative, who's drowning himself in alcohol on the other side of the island somewhere. Maybe Riddle wants him to kill him to show that abandoning the cause won't be tolerated.
They pull up outside their flat soon later. Barty is strangely glad to see the familiar grimy building far away from Bellatrix's mansion.
“Cheers,” Avery says to Octavia as he gets out.
Barty pauses for a moment. It's hard enough being colleagues with Mulciber, he can't imagine what being married to him is like. Pity, another trait a Knight shouldn’t possess.
“Don’t worry about Riddle’s hazing rituals,” he tells her. “Give it a few years, and you’ll become a Knight through your union to Mulciber.”
Octavia blinks, surprised by his assurance. “Right,” she says. Then, since Barty isn’t rushing to reassure her further, “I’ll see you both around.”
The spluttering engine starts up, and the car drives off. Avery spins to him with an overly upbeat expression. "Feeling helpful today, Crouch?"
"Shut up," Barty says, not sparing the name a moment of headspace as he paces towards the flat. Avery’s prosthetic taps against the pavement, several paces behind.
“Are you into her or what?” Avery grins as they wait at the door. “‘Don’t worry about the hazing rituals, babe, leave that to me’,” he says in a mockingly low voice. “Mulciber’s gonna be well pissed when he hears you’ve been chatting up his girl.”
His voice is white noise in Barty’s head. All he wants is some quiet to assess the situation. He might have to shoot his dad and Avery is acting like it's all one big joke. He slams his hand down on the railing, making Avery jump.
“Avery, if you don’t shut the fuck up for once in your life I swear I’m going to put one of these pristinely carved bullets into your remaining leg and then watch you crawl up these stairs."
Avery pouts. “Alright,” he mutters defensively. “Was just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Well don’t,” Barty snaps. The door clicks open, and he has to use every thread of decency in him not to slam it back in Avery’s face.
Barty leaves Avery to make his own way up the stairs as he goes ahead at double speed. Their door is another flimsy piece of wood in the corridor. He goes in. On the floor where a mat should be is a letter.
Barty snatches it up. It’s small, like a birthday card, with no writing on the outside. He tears into the envelope, making a mess as it rips in several places. He doesn’t care. He needs to know what Riddle has planned for him. Bracing to see Bartemius Crouch Sr. written on the paper, Barty unfolds it.
Nothing could’ve prepared him for the name written on the page in small, printed letters.
Evan Rosier.
Hotel Zlatá Koruna, Floor 8, Room 335.
He blinks once. Twice. Folds the piece of paper then unfolds it. The words stay stubbornly the same. Evan Rosier.
A chill runs through Barty’s body as he stares at the paper. His feet are rooted to the floor. He barely registers the sound of the door opening and closing. There must’ve been a mistake. This can’t be the person Riddle wants him to kill.
The Zlatá Koruna isn’t far from here, which means Evan is apparently nearby. It makes no sense. Why would Evan risk coming back when he knows what happens to traitors? He said he’d run and not look back, but here he is, back in the city. How could be he so stupid–
Evan. He can still see the outline of his face, the way his hair fell down his neck like a waterfall, how he’d reserve his rare smiles just for Barty. Being away from him felt like having oxygenless lungs. Every intense feeling from their teenage years rushes back, threatening to destroy him. For several devastatingly brilliant years, Evan was his.
“That bad?” Avery pipes up to say from behind him. He’s never fallen in love, only to be yanked away due to politics far beyond his power. He’s never become attached to someone like Barty was to Evan, like the backs of their heads were conjoined.
“Get out,” Barty spits. He looks up, hanging onto his composure by a thread. His fingers clutch the paper until the corners crumple.
Avery hesitates, but he must see the fury in Barty’s eyes and not want to have his prosthetic thrown down the stairs, which has happened more than once.
“Spoilsport,” Avery mutters before trailing back out of the flat.
As the reality of the situation sinks in, Barty’s limbs feel weak. This was the last thing he was expecting, but somehow it makes the most sense. Riddle wants to test him, so why not give him the ultimate test and make him kill the one thing, the one person, Barty has. Had, Barty thinks, correcting himself. He hasn’t seen or heard from Evan for three years. Maybe this will be easy.
It’s not like he’s been hanging on, waiting for Evan to return. It’s just that there was a chance. A tiny, real chance that at some point in the future he would see Evan again. Maybe they’d reconcile and talk like they used to. Maybe just seeing his face would feel like a warm hug.
Riddle is not only asking Barty to give that distant dream up, but to look it in the eyes and shoot him for the sake of the cause. For the sake of loyalty. It’s been three years. Evan is probably an entirely different person now. Maybe it’ll be easy.
Barty stuffs the piece of paper in his pocket. He shoves the gun Riddle gave him into a shoebox under the bed. The pistol requires an accurate, close shot. He’ll have to look Evan right in his impossibly dark eyes.
Crouched on his knees as bile rises in his throat, Barty reaches behind the shoebox to the glasses case. He picked it up off the street a while back because its flash of colour was the exact same shade of neon green as the strand of hair Evan let Barty dye.
He opens the case and picks up the item inside. It’s a handmade bracelet, purple and green threads tied together in a messy attempt at a gift. Twelve-year-old Barty was knocking his ankles into his chair legs out of boredom at school when Evan held it out. Barty scoffed because boys didn’t wear bracelets, certainly not purple ones. And although Evan didn’t speak much, he gazed at Barty with a look that Barty will never forget. Hope.
The threads are soft under his fingers, the knot at the back still intact. He doesn’t know why he kept it all these years, hidden at the bottom of school bags and under his mattress like some kind of dirty secret. He wore it nonstop in the years they dated, only for it to go back under his bed when Evan left.
Anger hits Barty, a surging rage that Evan could be so stupid as to come back here. He slams the glasses case closed and kicks it back underneath the bed. Evan promised. The day before Evan’s parents fled with him and Pandora to England to avoid being involved in Hogvarov, Evan stood on the doorstep of Barty’s dad’s house with tears streaming down his cheeks.
“This might be the end,” Evan said. His family had to start a new life when they arrived in England to avoid Riddle finding them. That meant cutting all ties with everyone here.
“It won’t be,” Barty replied with confidence. “But promise not to come back here. You need to promise not to go and not look back.”
Evan’s words were bitter in the air. “I promise.”
Until now, Evan has kept that promise. He hasn’t been back to Kryostrov, he hasn’t contacted anyone. He began his new life so he could escape the same fate as Regulus. Until now.
Barty marches out of the flat and along the corridor. He can’t stand being cooped up in his bedroom where everything is spiralling out of control. He shoves open the door onto the balcony. Avery is sitting on one of the plastic chairs.
"I need a tab," Barty demands, not sparing a moment for manners as he holds out his hand. He wishes he were alone, filled with the urge to lash out at something, someone.
Avery doesn't test his patience, getting his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. Barty lights one up and takes a long inhale of smoke, exhaling into the air. He lays a hand on his chest, almost subconsciously. Although he can't feel the knotted scars through the fabric, he knows they’re there.
If Avery wasn't here, Barty imagines himself lifting his shirt and stubbing the end of the cigarette onto his chest, onto a rare piece of skin that isn't already ruined. He's sure the fizz of red-hot pain would clear his mind. The malice in Riddle’s eyes was targeted. Riddle wants him to suffer.
"So, who is it?" Avery asks cautiously after a moment.
"None of your business,” Barty snaps, letting his hand drop down from his chest.
Avery shrugs. “But you're gonna do it, right?”
Barty takes another drag of his cigarette. "Of course I am," he says. Then a moment later, barely audible, "I have to."
Evan left him here three years ago. He fled because he had to, and he broke Barty’s heart in the process. But now, he’s none of Barty’s concern. They’re not in a relationship, they’re not in love. They’re not even friends. Evan might as well be a stranger Barty passes on the street.
Evan is just another political enemy that needs extinguishing, and this is just another job that Barty will complete. Riddle is counting on it.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Little note, the setting is a small fictional island called Kryostrov located in the Baltic region (North Europe sea). It's a self-governing territory, but has shared citizenship with the UK so people from Kryostrov can move to and live in the UK as they please (I wanted the island to be its own place, but I didn't want to complicate this fic with VISAs/immigration issues lol).
Chapter Text
Evan Rosier.
Hotel Zlatá Koruna, Floor 8, Room 335.
Barty sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the folded piece of paper. It’s Avery’s month to take the sofa, so he savours the privacy of the bedroom while it lasts. He must’ve read the note a thousand times since he opened it.
The first thing he did after yesterday’s well-needed cigarette break was look up the hotel. He recognises the name, but he’s not familiar with it. A quick search shows why: it’s on Bellatrix’s side of the city amongst the detached houses and perfected architecture. Images online show a sophisticated building with expensive rooms. Evan must be doing well for himself.
It doesn’t answer the question of why Evan is here in the first place. He must only be staying for a short while if he’s living in a place like that, no matter how well he’s doing. Barty extinguishes the tiny hope that perhaps Evan is here to see him; it’s a delusional thought that he doesn’t entertain for even a second.
Usually, if put on a task, his first call would be to go to Narcissa’s and ask for everything she has on the subject. She oversees all surveillance operations and has successfully hacked into the island’s CCTV system for years. Then her protégé Wilkes would install some bugs and tracking devices, and they'd monitor the situation from afar for patterns of movement to establish the best time and place to carry out the assassination.
This time is different. Riddle gave him the address and pistol for a reason. He's expecting Barty to go to that address and shoot Evan in cold blood. So that is exactly what Barty is going to do.
After a day of being unable to eat or nap or do anything except frustratedly pace around his room, Barty decides to make a move. He keeps taking the pistol out of its shoebox and putting it back, opening then closing the blinds, scrolling through every review of the hotel like that’s going to change anything. On the cusp of March, the afternoons are cold and bright. He tucks the pistol into his waistband, pulling a bulky jacket over it to avoid detection.
He finds Avery in the living room, playing some first-person shooter game on the TV. Plates of unwashed food and empty cans lie scattered around, blinds blocking out the light.
“Can I borrow your bike?” he asks.
Avery doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Are you gonna listen if I say no?”
“Good point.” Barty strides out of the front door without an answer.
The motorbike Avery got last year at an auction is in an even worse condition than Mulciber’s car. The way it splutters to life is not Barty’s main concern, however, as he kicks down on the accelerator. He needs to get to Evan’s hotel, fast, before he can overthink things.
All he needs to do is check no one is around, wait for Evan to open the door, then shoot him in the chest. No noise, limited mess. He’ll call Mulciber to come and pick up the body, and the job will be done. If anything, Riddle underestimated him by giving him ten days. All he needs is one afternoon.
For a Friday evening, the roads are as congested as expected. Barty weaves in between cars, avoiding the annoyed honks as he beelines to the hotel. Fifteen minutes later, he sees the hotel’s white architecture that he’s been staring at on a screen all morning.
Barty imagines this isn’t the type of place where people steal motorbikes, so he leaves it near the entrance. A combination of his bomber jacket, muddy shoes and unruly half-dyed mullet earns him plenty of sideways looks as he enters. A porter holds the door open for him, with a polite “afternoon, Sir.” Barty doesn’t think he’s been called ‘sir’ before in his life.
He ignores the stares as he goes straight through the lobby to the lift. He doesn’t have to consult the letter; the words are seared onto the back of his eyelids. Floor 8, Room 335.
The lift dings as it arrives at floor eight. Barty doesn’t pass anyone as he paces down the red-carpeted corridor towards room 335.
330. 331. 332. Barty counts the gold-plated numbers as he strides up the corridor. 333. 334. And finally, 335.
The door is like all the others in the corridor. A quick glance around reveals no one around, and no CCTV covering the corridor. It’s not the perfect crime, but as along as he removes the body with no mess, it’s pretty damn flawless.
Barty raps on the door before giving himself a chance to think his way out of this. He takes the pistol out of his waistband. Its recoil is practically non-existent, so he props the back of it against his stomach, putting it at chest height. Discreet and quiet, all he has to do is squeeze the trigger and this nightmare will be over.
Blood roars in his ears. As an afterthought, he takes out his gum and presses it over the keyhole to stop Evan from seeing the barrel of a gun pointed at him. A moment of listening to the furious beating of his heart later, the latch clicks from the inside.
The door swings open. Barty’s finger hovers on the trigger. Then he lays eyes on Evan Rosier, the man he hasn’t seen for three years, and everything he was building up to crumbles from beneath his feet.
Standing in front of him are seven years of memories, one face that embodies everything he has missed. Locs of twisted black hair bleached at the ends, black eyes, a broader frame than his skinny eighteen-year-old self. Red lips he used to kiss for hours. It hits him like a gut punch. His hand goes limp, and the pistol tilts down to the floor.
Before this, Evan was just an idea, an abstract memory. But now Evan is a real person and he stands in front of Barty with a stricken expression.
“Barty?” Evan exclaims. His voice is deeper than Barty remembers. He must’ve suspected foul play, as he immediately draws his own gun, a pistol similar to his, and levels it at Barty’s head. His expression is torn between shock and recognition.
Barty is speechless. He realises he lost the opportunity to shoot Evan a moment too late. He lost all his advantage in a split second.
“Evan,” Barty manages to say. He tries to keep his voice level, but it wavers. He’s utterly pathetic, and he completely underestimated what it would be like to see Evan again.
“Put your gun on the floor,” Evan orders. He glares at Barty furiously for having the audacity to turn up like this. “Slowly.”
Barty has no tricks up his sleeves. He’s more afraid of squeezing the trigger on his gun than being shot, so he concedes after a moment. He rotates the gun around his thumb and slowly places it on the floor. When he stands up, he swears he sees the flash of something self-satisfied in Evan’s expression.
“Good,” Evan says. He keeps his gun pointed right at Barty, barely a foot away. “Now get inside, you’re making a scene. Take your gum off the keyhole, too.”
Following armed men into their apartments when he’s just lost his gun isn’t usually Barty’s preferred tactic, but he doesn’t exactly have a choice. He glances along the empty corridor one last time, and peels his gum off the keyhole before stepping through the threshold.
The inside of the hotel room echoes the exterior: spacious, sophisticated, expensive. Barty doesn’t have much time to look around, more focused on the weapon still trained on him. He knows Evan would do it. Evan would’ve pulled the trigger the second Barty opened the door if the roles were reversed.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Evan says, looking Barty up and down to take in his changed appearance. At the furious glint in his eye, staring down the barrel of a gun, the last thing Barty is going to tell him is the truth.
"I heard you were in town,” Barty says, barely daring to breathe. “I wanted to see it for myself."
Evan doesn’t lower the gun. "And you decided the best way to re-introduce yourself was by pointing a gun at my fucking chest?”
“Anyone could’ve been behind that door.”
Evan doesn’t respond, which means he probably accepts this as an answer, finally allowing Barty to exhale.
“Who knows you're here?" Evan asks.
Before Barty can think this through, an excuse comes spilling out. “Some of the guys. They mentioned you were in town.” Fucking amateur, he thinks to himself. He waits for the click of a trigger as Evan realises this is one big set-up. He stares at Evan, trying to take every last inch of him in, so at least if he dies, he’ll die looking at the one person he’s loved. The one person who’s loved him.
Evan stares at him for one long moment, probably thinking back to ‘the guys’ in question. Evan was a convicted fighter, intelligent and good with a gun. He was calculated, reasonable. Riddle wanted him far more than he ever wanted Barty. The flak he picked up for being gay made him quiet around the others, unnervingly so, until in the end, they left him alone.
Finally, Evan lowers his gun. He clutches Barty’s instead.
“Where did you get this?” Evan says, slotting the pistol into his hand. It’s a nice weight, a smooth finish that shows it’s expensive, nothing like the revolvers Riddle gave out to them in school. The question has an edge behind it.
“Where do you think?” Barty says, hoping to copy Evan’s confident tone.
Luckily, Evan raises an eyebrow rather than demanding an answer. He puts the pistol down on the coffee table in the middle of the room. He can guess it’s to do with Riddle, and that’s all he needs to know.
“So, you out of everyone came to see me,” Evan says, no humour in his smile. “How delightful.”
Barty swallows his hurt. It would be stupid to think Evan wanted to see him after all this time. Evan clearly isn’t putting his guard down for a second, and considering Barty was a moment away from shooting him, it’s for good reason.
“How come you’re back here?” Barty asks. He also doesn’t bother hiding the harshness in his tone. You promised, he wants to scream. He promised not to come back to the island that wants him dead, yet here he is, in the flesh and blood.
"I have business," Evan says. "Don’t worry, I'll be gone by next week."
That's when his flight out of here must be, Barty realises. Ten days until Evan is meant to leave. Ten days to kill him. Barty’s eyes linger on his pistol on the coffee table. It’s a few steps away. If he lunged for it, there’s no doubt that Evan would get to it first. Maybe Barty could wrestle him for it, land a few punches, but Evan still has a gun in his waistband. They haven’t seen each other for three years. Would Evan hesitate before shooting him?
A voice snaps Barty out of his distracted silence of trying not to eye his pistol.
“It’s good to see you.”
Barty blinks, suddenly forgetting about the gun as he looks up to meet Evan’s eyes. Evan’s voice is as soft as his gaze. Barty lets himself truly look at him, his bleached hair, round, black eyes and long eyelashes. It’s unfair how Evan’s frame has filled out so well to a tall, broad-shouldered young man. It’s unfair how he’s gazing so fondly at Barty like nothing has changed.
“Yeah,” Barty mutters, not sure how to reply. I’ve thought of you every day since you left. He wonders if Evan knows how much he thinks about him. He wonders if Evan ever spares him a thought, too.
Evan smirks just barely, but Barty recognises the twitch of the corner of his mouth instantly. “Have a seat,” he says. “Do you want a drink? This place comes with delicious coffee, room service and everything.”
Barty opens his mouth to say he hates coffee, before realising Evan is being sarcastic. Of course Evan knows he hates coffee. It’s not a power play, like one of Riddle's calculated challenges. Evan is just winding him up.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Evan shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He goes into the kitchen area, leaving Barty’s pistol on the coffee table.
Barty hesitates before taking a seat. He sinks into the comfortable sofa, the late evening sun shining through the window. His pistol is right in front of him. He could pick it up, point it towards the kitchen and finish the job before Evan knows what hit him. Surely now is the right time.
His hand twitches, adrenaline rising in his chest. It’s just another person. Just another job. A person with long eyelashes and deep black eyes and a face that embodies his teenage years–
“Just to warn you, the water tastes a bit like chlorine,” Evan says. His voice is too close. Too late.
Barty tries to keep his breathing under control as Evan puts two glasses of water on the table. They hit the surface with a clink. The pistol just inches away from his glass feels like a test. Barty meets Evan’s eye, trying to figure out if he’s off the hook or if Evan knows exactly what’s going on.
Evan’s expression is frustratingly blank. He always had a good poker face. Barty tries to match it, taking a sip of water to distract himself from his racing heart. It’s just a job. The first rule of hit jobs is don’t humanise the person. Don’t let them thank you, don’t have a drink with them, don’t get chatting because the more time you spend with them, the harder it’ll get. The key is to forget they’re a human and shoot them before your conscience can catch up.
Barty has already failed spectacularly. He decides to dig the hole deeper. Maybe Evan has some valuable information he can pass on to Riddle. Maybe Barty is too curious about what Evan’s been doing for the last three years for his own good.
“So, how come you’re staying in a place like this for a whole week?” Barty says, looking around at the polished marble counters and luxury furniture. He doubts he could afford to spend one night here, let alone ten.
“I’ve recently come into some money,” Evan says vaguely.
Barty guesses Evan’s definition of ‘some’ is a lot more than his. The Rosiers come from old money, painted family portraits hung above fireplaces, practised dinnertime etiquette. Barty knows he’s loaded because Evan spent most of it on him: fancy dinner dates, hiring cars for joyrides, expensive jewellery. And when Evan ran out of money each month, they’d sit on park benches drinking vodka from the bottle, walk around the woods and box-dye each other’s hair.
Evan’s expression has clouded over a little, so Barty doesn’t push him for an answer.
“How’s England been?” Barty asks instead.
The question must be too prying, because Evan’s expression becomes even more closed. He sits back, crossing his arms.
“Rainy,” he says. “How about here?”
Evan is definitely onto him, Barty thinks at the clipped answer. Two can play at that game.
“Cold.”
Evan’s scrutinising eyes burn through Barty’s skin. He takes this moment to lean back, opening his knees and raising his jaw slightly. He doesn’t break eye contact as he rests his hands on his thighs, exhaling quietly.
Evan is fucking teasing him.
Barty's face heats up just looking at him. All the times Evan would sit like that and he'd climb on top, or kneel down, or do whatever Evan asked of him flash through his head. Heat flushes through him, and Barty kicks himself for being so easily effected. Familiar, long-lost feelings stir in his stomach. Maybe this would be easier if Evan wasn’t so pretty.
"What are you really doing here?" Evan asks, pretending the question is innocent when he looks like sin all spread out on the sofa, legs open.
Barty feels himself unravelling as he clenches his clammy hands together. “Don’t even fucking try it,” he says with a biting glare.
Evan cocks an eyebrow. "Try what?" he says. "You seem a little distracted, Barty. My eyes are up here."
Barty was definitely not looking at Evan's crotch, not even in the vicinity. He's just being wound up. That doesn't stop his cheeks from going red as he stares resolutely at Evan's eyes.
"Riddle sent me," he ends up saying. It’s nothing Evan hadn’t already deduced. "He heard you were in the area, so he sent me to keep tabs on you." It’s a rational, passable lie.
Evans's gaze is sharp again as he sits up. "To keep tabs on me?" he echoes cynically. “The fuck does that mean?”
Barty feels more comfortable going back to the distanced, accusing tone. “He just said I’d be best for the job. He knows you trust me. Or did once,” he adds awkwardly.
“What does he think I’m going to be doing?” Evan snaps. “I didn’t come here to spy on your shitty little group. I couldn’t give two fucks what you lot are doing. If Riddle hadn’t noticed, I’ve been gone for three years. Does he think he’s really that important to me?”
Barty’s eyes widen slightly at furious words. It’s rare Evan lets his feelings escape, so he pushes for more.
“Why are you here, then?”
Evan’s expression is stony. "I came to bury my mother."
The bleak words settle into the room for several silent moments. Barty’s frown lifts in shock. He knew Evan’s mother, Camille, as a competent member of the Knights, married to Marcus Rosier who went to school with Riddle. She always sat beside Bellatrix or Walburga at meetings. She was kind to Barty and made him stay for dinner whenever he came over to their house. Most of all, she was a healthy woman in her forties nowhere near the end of her life.
“She died last month,” Evan says, his gaze sliding down to the floor. “Hit and run.” He scoffs. “I know who was behind it. Riddle had it in for us, his old pal abandoning the Knights. He kept my dad alive to show him what happens to traitors. It had been three years. I suppose we thought we were safe.” He glances at Barty’s surprised expression. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t,” Barty says. It’s the truth. He can’t tell Evan that he’s not in Riddle’s inner circle, that they’ve been in hiding since Hogvarov and progress is slow. He can’t tell Evan that the thing to confirm him into the organisation responsible for Camille's death is to murder him, too.
"Yeah, well." Evan shrugs. "Mum grew up here. She always wanted to be buried in the church where she was baptised and got married. Dad said it was too dangerous, but I don't care. This is what she wanted." His gaze darkens. "I came here to show those fuckers I'm not scared of them. My mum's going to get the burial she deserves."
Barty gives him a sceptical look. "You didn’t think they’d come after you, too?"
"If they wanted me dead, I'd have had a sniper trained on the back of my head the second I walked out of the airport,” Evan says. “It's been two days, and I'm still walking around alive. Clearly I'm not their priority. Riddle wanted to humiliate my dad, not pick off some kid who left the Knights years ago."
Barty has a pit of dread in his stomach at how wrong Evan is. Not being able to tell him is killing him. The news of Camille’s death weighs heavy in the room. She was always kind to Barty.
"And if they want me dead, they can have at me," Evan says quietly. "My mum’s dead, I got kicked out of uni after getting hooked on heroin, Dad is so ashamed I'm gay he won't look me in the fucking eye. Everything's gone to shit, so I'm going to bury my mother and by the end of the week I'm either on that plane back to England or I'm dead, and if it’s the latter then it’s not my problem to deal with."
Evan's fingers are trembling once he finishes speaking. Barty doesn't know what to say. It feels like Evan has just given him a free pass to kill him. Evan’s gaze flicks to the pistol on the table between them. It’s as if he knows the real reason Barty is here all along, and he just doesn't care.
“You started using again?” Barty says. The year before Evan left, he spent a few months buying substances off one of the older boys. Barty managed to convince him to quit before it could ruin his life. Evan vowed not to go back to it, but with Barty not around, why shouldn't he?
There’s shame mixed in with Evan’s numb expression. “Don't look at me like you're the pinnacle of good coping mechanisms.” His eyes drop to Barty's chest for a second, but it's long enough to remind Barty how much Evan knows about him. The stranger in front of him not only knows, but has lived through his darkest, most intimate moments.
“I'm not judging you,” Barty says defensively.
“Well, it's not exactly a surprise, is it?” Evan says bitterly. “I knew a friend of a friend was dealing. I was in uni, living alone, it didn’t matter what I did. I ran into the police when I was high, made up some story about it being my first time using after my best friend killed himself. I was lucky they put me in a rehab program instead of jail. I’ve been clean for sixteen months.”
“That’s good,” Barty says uncertainly. He hates to think of Evan living alone in a flat, doing drugs just to take the edge off, so far away from him.
“Yeah,” Evan mutters. His gaze is vacant, somewhere else completely.
Barty’s eyes go to his pistol again. He’s not in any state to shoot Evan now, even if Evan is implicitly asking for it. The clock above the sofa says he’s been here half an hour.
"Do you want to do something tomorrow?" Barty finds himself asking. He's got nine more days to complete this job. Although every instinct in his brain tells him just to get it over with, his heart can’t.
Evan looks up, caught in a rare moment of surprise. "Like what?"
Barty shrugs, not having thought that far ahead. “We could get coffee or something. My treat, as my condolences about your mother.”
Evan narrows his eyes. Then, seemingly deciding that Barty’s sole purpose isn’t to drain information out of him, he dredges up a smile. “Okay. Coffee, tomorrow. What time are you picking me up?"
"Do I look like I own a car?" Barty scoffs. "I’m sharing a room with Avery, that’s how fucked everything is.” He bites his tongue to stop himself from going on a rant about how not even the pistol belongs to him.
Evan arches an eyebrow. “So you ask me on a date but you’re going to make me walk to the café, and you can’t even invite me back to yours after because you’ve already got another bloke in your bedroom?”
Barty does a double take. It takes a conscious effort to snap his jaw closed as the heat creeps back into his cheeks.
“Who said it was a date?” he blusters. He meant it as a catch-up, maybe an information-gathering mission. “And it’s not like Avery’s my fucking boyfriend.”
Evan’s smile broadens at how Barty’s cheeks get so easily hot with frustration. It lights up his whole face.
"I’m teasing," he says. "Why don't we meet at the park, our usual place, let's say midday. We can walk to the café from there."
"Sure." Barty nods a little too enthusiastically. The fact that Evan remembers their ‘usual place’, a bench in the corner of their local park, is enough to make his stomach flip. This is so wrong.
Evan picks up the pistol which has been innocently sitting on the table during their conversation. He hands it back to Barty, not flinching as Barty takes it. Barty’s lies must have worked.
"Say hi to Riddle from me," Evan says sweetly, though there's darkness bubbling under the surface.
Barty takes the pistol and tucks it into the back of his waistband. He definitely will not be telling Riddle about this conversation. He lets Evan lead him to the door. This view of him from behind tugs at Barty’s heartstrings further. He could take his gun out and shoot him in an instant, and Evan is just walking with his back to him like he knows Barty won’t.
Filled with shame, sadness, longing, joy, too many emotions for Barty to deconstruct, he avoids Evan’s gaze as he steps out of the room.
“See you tomorrow,” Evan says. Hope mingles in his voice.
“Yeah,” Barty mutters. He strides back towards the lift without looking over his shoulder. Nine days to experience what he has been robbed of for years, and then he will put an end to this.
~
Barty revs the motorbike down back roads, weaving through cars as he rides the high of seeing Evan again. He feels like he’s flying. The years apart haven’t changed Evan beyond recognition- he’s still the same quietly confident boy Barty knew. Almost immediately, the dread settles in. He has to kill the one thing that makes him feel alive.
He wheels the motorbike into the garage, ready for the next time Avery wants to try and almost kill himself by riding it with his prosthetic. He ended up telling Avery who was on the letter, figured out he’d find out soon enough. Avery’s exclamation was as shocked as Barty felt. “Evan Rosier? The guy we went to school with?”
Barty shut down any further conversations. From Avery’s point of view, Riddle just wants him to kill his best friend from school, which is still a task in itself.
“Did you crash?” Avery asks when Barty comes in. He’s sitting in front of the television, distracted with a laptop in his lap.
“No.”
“Good, cause I forgot to tell you the brake was acting faulty last time I used it.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” Barty says sarcastically. He flops down beside him, putting the gun on the table to stop it from digging into his back and reminding him of the task he wants to forget.
“I’m guessing you didn’t do it, then,” Avery says. He doesn’t wait for Barty to respond before pointing to his screen. “I’ve been waiting to see if you message about needing a pick-up. Wilkes is proper excited about this. He’s re-tapped your spare phone and all your bank cards.”
“He’s monitoring my bank cards?” Barty scoffs. “How the fuck is that going to help anything?”
“It's just to keep tabs on you. Narcissa's instruction.”
Anxiety hits Barty that their conversation earlier wasn't as private as he thought. “Have they bugged Evan’s hotel room?”
“I didn’t ask,” Avery says. His eyes turn to Barty in expectation. “So, what happened? Was he not in or something?”
Barty tries to push away the disturbing possibility that Wilkes was listening to their stilted conversation mixed with bouts of slight flirting. Not his most professional job, but then he didn't say anything compromising, either.
“He was in,” Barty says. He glances at the pistol, picturing it lying innocuously on Evan's sophisticated coffee table. “I convinced him to let me in. We talked for a bit.” His tone softens. “He said he came back to bury his mother. She was killed last month in a hit-and-run, Riddle’s doing.”
“Oh, shit,” Avery says, eyes wide. Then, looking a bit put out, “no one told me about that.”
“Yeah, well,” Barty mutters, going to justify his actions. “I’m going to let him do that first. Give him a chance to say goodbye.” As they’re coming out of his mouth, he realises the words are too fond, too soft. Riddle would hurt him for even thinking like that, sharp fingernails piercing into his skin.
Avery looks rightfully confused. “Why didn’t you do it straight away? You’re just making it harder for yourself.”
“Let the man bury his mother,” Barty snaps. “He’s going to be dead in a week and it won’t matter if I did it today or tomorrow or in ten days.”
“Maybe,” Avery shrugs. “But if you’re having trouble finishing him off, you should imagine he’s like Regulus.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” growls Barty. He never wanted Regulus to die, but he’s not going to admit that. Regulus was the worst kind of traitor- he was going to expose Riddle's crimes with evidence to shut down the Knights of Walpurgis. He was assassinated at the first hurdle. Barty is still hurt that Regulus told no one about his mission, probably because he knew he’d die and didn’t want to implicate anyone else. Regulus was alone at the end, and now Avery is suggesting the same applies to Evan?
“You were mates with Regulus, but you agree he had to die,” Avery says, as if that’s a given. “It was a sacrifice for the greater good. That’s how things work. We’re both getting the Mark at the end of next week, just think of it like that.”
Barty knows he’s in a bad place when Avery is taking on the sensible role. His words could be reassuring, empowering even, if he loved Evan a little less. If he missed Evan less than the overwhelming ache that has stuck with him for years.
Unlike him, Barty isn’t looking forward to getting a skull tattooed onto his arm, but Avery is right. It’s a personal sacrifice for the greater good, and it has to be done.
If he could go back and save Regulus, he'd do it a million times over, but that's not the point.
Annoyingly, Barty feels a kick of excitement when he thinks about his and Evan's meeting tomorrow. So you ask me on a date but you’re going to make me walk to the café, and you can’t even invite me back to yours because you’ve already got another bloke in your bedroom?
He takes the pistol back to its shoebox under the bed. Having lunch with the subject of his assassination mission is up there with his worst ideas of all time, and yet for the first time in three years, he feels alive.
Chapter Text
It’s not often Barty makes an effort with his appearance. Avery doesn’t care what he looks like moping around the flat in sweatpants and an unwashed t-shirt, and he couldn’t care less what dog walkers in the park think when he passes them. The only time he makes an effort is during the Knights’ monthly meetings, and even that's nothing special.
Today, however, he admits to himself that he’s tried. He’d say he’s not entirely sure why, but that would be a lie. From the moment Evan set eyes on him, he remembered what it’s like to be desired again.
So he puts on jeans and styles his hair and wears the rhinestone-studded belt he’s had forever. Avery catches him shaping his eyebrows with Vaseline and finds it the most hilarious thing in the world, so Barty locks the bathroom door and wonders if he’s doing too much. He decides to leave the eyeliner. This is a professional mission, after all.
He looks at his improved appearance in the mirror and sighs. This outing is utterly unprofessional, but it’s his last barrier to becoming a Knight and finally achieving some social recognition. He refuses to fade into nothing like his father. He’s going to make something out of his life, and Evan isn’t going to get in his way, shaped eyebrows or not.
The park is in the centre of town, down the road from their old secondary school. Not wanting to chance Avery’s dodgy motorbike, Barty takes the walk, hoping to clear his head. He left the pistol in the shoebox under his bed. He meant what he said to Avery; he’ll give Evan the dignity of burying his mother before he completes the task. Today is free game.
The park is divided into quarters by a path that joins in the middle at a gazebo. In one corner is the children’s playground that Barty remembers coming to at dusk, drinking alcohol their older friends bought them and seeing who could swing the highest.
Flower beds are emerging where Barty walks to his and Evan’s meeting place, a bench in a quiet part of the park. It’s just before twelve when he approaches, but a figure is already sitting on the bench.
Barty squares his shoulders and hopes the wind hasn’t messed up his hairstyle too badly. His eyes land on Evan. This time, he’s able to savour the moment. Evan’s white sweater stretches over his broad shoulders, a delicate silver necklace circling his neck. Below the bleached locs are the gold-studded earrings that Barty got Evan in big trouble over after piercing his ears in school.
Evan wears a smile this time, probably because Barty isn’t pointing a gun at his chest. “Hi,” he says, getting up to greet him.
“Thought I was early,” Barty remarks.
“You are,” says Evan. “It’s just not much fun being cooped up in a hotel room, so I came for a walk.” He looks around at the familiar scenery. “It’s weird being back here.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“Hard to say.” Clearly, Evan isn't making the mistake of trusting Barty with anything. He nods along the path. “Should we walk?”
“Sure,” says Barty.
They begin walking down the path, trees blooming green on one side and flowerbeds on the other. The peaceful scene is a mindfuck for Barty. He never thought they’d be back here, together. For a moment, he tries to forget about Riddle’s mission and lose himself in the delusion that things are like they used to be.
“Have you been anywhere else?” Barty asks. He meant the question innocently, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he realises how invasive they sound. Guilt tugs at his chest when Evan’s expression hardens.
“A corner shop yesterday at about fifteen hundred hours,” Evan says. “I can get you the address if you like.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Barty says, though he can tell he’s lost Evan behind the cold front of this being a surveillance mission. Maybe it’s for the best. He can’t become too emotionally invested in a situation with such a close expiry date.
Evan stops at a bend. Cyclists and dog walkers pass them, so he keeps his voice level, though there’s no denying the furious glint to his eye.
“You might as well have it out. I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time.” He glares at Barty, spreading out his hands. “What do they want to know? Ask me anything, I’ll tell you. Then you can go crawling back to Riddle on your knees, begging for his cock in your mouth–”
“Evan,” Barty interrupts indignantly.
“I’m just saying, before you threaten me at gunpoint again, I thought I’d let you know I’m an open book,” Evan continues. “I would hate if you disappointed Riddle.” His tone veers into mocking, sarcastic, anything except the honesty of yesterday’s conversation.
Barty crosses his arms, irritated. “I’m not here to drain you for information.” He swallows and prepares to lie. “There is no grand mission. I’m just meant to be keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re not, I don’t know, buying loads of automatics and planning to infiltrate Riddle’s house.”
“And if I told you I was?”
“Then I’d have to kill you.” It could’ve been a light-hearted threat in another lifetime.
“Okay,” Evan says, his distant expression fading. “Keep your eyes on me all you like, Crouch. God knows you can’t tear them away.” A smirk curls the corners of his mouth up.
“Shut up,” Barty says witheringly. “You think far too much of yourself, you know.”
“You don’t think enough of yourself,” Evan says smoothly. As he looks him up and down, Barty wonders where he finds the confidence. “I love the rugged mullet biker look you’ve got going on. Not usually my type, but I have to admit, you’re winning me over.”
Barty shoots him down with a glare. Even if Evan means every word, he didn’t have to say it so suggestively in such a public place. It reminds him of when Evan would slip a hand on his thigh under the table at school, then laugh when Barty smacked him away. Like then, he won’t give Evan the satisfaction of getting under his skin.
“Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. His gaze lingers on Evan while they’re doing compliments. Evan looks unfairly good in blond like he knew he would. “At least you finally bleached your hair like I said you should five fucking years ago.”
“You were right,” Evan smiles as if he can read his mind.
Barty puts a hand behind his ear. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.” He ignores Evan’s rolling eyes and pretends to fumble with his collar. “Hold on, if you could just repeat that into the mic–”
“Alright, wanker,” Evan says, shoving his arm. “Are we going to this café or what?”
Barty hesitates at the reminder of their café trip which is feeling increasingly like a date. Going on a date with the man he’s supposed to kill next week isn't one of his better ideas, but he’s in too deep to back out now.
Evan must see his hesitation, and fills the gap of silence. “If you’re stuck on this island so you don’t catch a bullet in the back of your head and I’m stuck in England so I don’t catch one either, we’ll have to make the most of this next week, won’t we?” His smile is bittersweet.
Barty nods. “Yes,” is all he manages to say. And it’s not enough, nothing he could say is enough to match Evan’s openness, especially when he knows Barty is ‘spying’ on him, when their first interaction was Barty pointing a gun at him with the finger on the trigger. Yet Evan is willing to try, just for this short while. He’s willing to put everything aside so they can experience a glimpse of what they once had. Barty doesn’t know whether to read it as nostalgia, love or pure desperation.
They walk to the café on the other side of the park. The building isn’t much to look at, one side of it an ugly grey where graffiti has been scrubbed off and spray-painted back on ten times over. They find a table for two in a quiet corner away from the young mothers talking over coffee and students staring at their laptops.
“Have they done this place up?” Evan says, looking around at the interior. “Something about it feels different.”
“They painted the back wall turquoise,” Barty offers.
“What colour was it before?”
“Blue.”
Evan snorts, and picks up the menu. “Are you getting food? I’m fucking starving. The hotel breakfast ends at nine, so I didn’t even attempt to get up in time for it.”
“Get what you like,” Barty says with a slight smile. This is more relaxed than a date could ever be. “I’ll get what you’re getting. Unless it’s some fish bullshit.”
“Oh, not this again,” says Evan, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a little bitch.”
“How am I a bitch for not wanting rotting fish corpses in my mouth?”
Evan restrains himself from commenting, but his smirk says it all. “I suppose this means I can’t get a coffee, either. You’re the picky one, why don’t you order for us?”
“Fine,” Barty says, snatching the menu off him. He goes up to the counter and orders a black coffee with three sugars, Evan’s favourite for some inconceivable reason, and two sandwiches. Cheese, because he’s not entertaining Evan’s awful fish tastes. The tiny details he didn’t realise he’d forgotten spark into life like yanking dust-covered sheets off attic furniture.
He’s glad Evan isn’t watching when his card declines and he has to get some crumpled notes from his pocket. Date or not, he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of him. He takes the coffee and two plates back to the table.
“Thanks,” says Evan. He wastes no time before taking a massive bite out of his sandwich.
“I don’t imagine it’s up to your hotel’s standard, but I hope it’s bearable.”
Evan looks amused at his despairing expression, thinking back to his hotel. “I blame blind grief on my decision to stay in that place. Not that I regret it.”
At the mention of grief, Barty’s features soften. “You said you’d come into some money?” he says. “Was that…”
“Inheritance, yes,” Evan says shortly. “The house and everything in it went to Dad, but she left money to me and Pandora. Apparently she updated her will just a few months ago. I guess she was expecting something bad to happen.” He stops chewing, gazing vacantly out of the window.
"I am sorry about your mother," Barty says with feeling. Surveillance mission or not, the heaviness in his chest is genuine.
Evan's expression is painfully sad, though he tries to disguise it. "You can tell all your friends I'm not here to stay, if that's what they're worried about,” he says. “I'm done with their bullshit cause. I don't want revenge, I just want to be left alone."
Barty's throat tightens, thinking of Riddle denouncing Evan as a political enemy. Evan could've continued his life like normal. His death will be so heartbreakingly pointless. If only he'd not come back.
"You're staying until next week, right?" Barty asks. It sounds too much like a spy question, but it doesn’t look like Evan minds.
"Right," Evan says. He gazes out at the park where they spent countless evenings after school. "The funeral stuff will be over within a day, I just wanted to spend some time here, where all my memories of her are. It's not like I'm tied down to a job back in England." He looks back down to his coffee. "It's good to be back. It feels like home. But I know I can't stay."
Barty doesn't know how much of that is calculated information and how much is an emotional response. Judging by Evan's sad eyes, he guesses it’s more the latter.
"Is your dad and Pandora coming for the funeral?" he asks.
"Yes, but they don't fly in until tomorrow," Evan says. "Me and my dad had another big fight, surprise surprise. I said we're burying her here, non-negotiable. He said it was too dangerous, that it'd put Pandora in danger coming back here to the people who killed Mum. I said she wanted this so badly it was practically in her will." He shakes his head. "By some miracle, Pandora took my side, so he agreed to fly in for two days, just for the funeral and wake, and then they're gone. They're staying somewhere else, some bullshit high security place. I told Dad, it's not him or Pandora they're after. Like he gives a shit what I have to say."
The disdain Evan speaks about his father with isn't new, but it's grown much fiercer than it used to be. Barty leans in, curious about what's happened in the years they've been apart.
"You two haven't been getting on?" he probes.
"Understatement of the century."
"Is it because you've been seeing guys?" Barty asks, remembering what Evan spat yesterday. Dad is so ashamed I'm gay he won’t look me in the fucking eye.
"I haven't been 'seeing guys'," Evan says with scorn that somehow makes Barty feel a little better. "But I've told him I'm not marrying a woman, and he refuses to accept it. He still believes in all that pureblood bullshit, even if he's not willing to risk our lives for it." He massages his creased forehead. "Every conversation we've had lately has been an argument. It'll be about the tiniest thing, and then it'll blow up and one of us will storm off. Pandora's given up on trying to mediate. We've ended up just not talking. Getting in touch about the funeral is the first time we've spoken since Christmas."
Barty gives him his best sympathetic look. "That's rough," he says, and he means it. Working in a cutthroat political organisation doesn't allow much time for sympathy, but Evan coaxes it out of him so easily.
"It's whatever," Evan sighs. He takes another bite out of his sandwich, and gestures to Barty. "On the topic of shitty dads, how's our beloved Bartemius doing?"
Barty leans back in his chair, watching Evan’s tongue dart out of the side of his mouth to lick his lips.
"Well, he's not dead," he says, the only positive thing that comes to mind.
The memory of the unhappy years Barty lived in his father's house lingers in his mind like a stain. It was always cold and dark and reeked of alcohol, yelling and bruises Barty should've been old enough to deflect, a man with hatred in his heart and alcohol for blood. He spent most evenings whittling the time away at Regulus’ or Evan and Pandora’s until he had to go back. They fell out of contact when Barty moved out, and Barty never felt the need to get back in touch. Clearly, his dad felt the same way.
"That's a start," says Evan.
Barty shrugs. "I don't know what else there is to say. Once I moved out, we kind of naturally stopped speaking. I talked Wilkes into doing some surveillance on him a few months back. He works at this shitty local casino, drank himself half to death on the weekend. Nothing's changed."
"Well, shit," Evan says, which just about sums up Barty's thoughts on the situation. "Dead mum and absent dad. We're matching. Kinda neat, huh?”
The pain in his eyes is visible, and the attempt at humour falls flat. Although Barty has dealt with these issues his whole life, this is an open wound for Evan.
"Evan..." he tries, going to offer some sympathy.
"No," Evan says in a choked voice. He holds up a hand. "Don't make this serious because I'd really prefer not to cry in public."
Barty bites his tongue. Though he thinks Evan would benefit from a hug, he stays where he is.
"I hope you work things out with your dad,” he says instead. “You're probably just going through a rough patch. I know he can be a dickhead about your sexuality, but that doesn't mean your whole relationship has to crash and burn because of it."
Evan sips his coffee. "Awfully reasonable of you.”
Barty shrugs. "Sometimes I think about how things would be if I'd tried to fix things with my dad," he says, something he's never dared to admit to anyone. One conversation with Evan and he's pouring out his deepest thoughts. It's so easy when the eyes staring back are ones he's trusted for so much of his life.
Evan offers him a smile. "We’ll see."
"So, that's all the news," Barty says, quickly moving on. The tables around them are empty, but he lowers his voice just in case. "Nothing much has changed since Hogvarov. We're kind of just rebuilding ourselves. Slowly."
Evan studies Barty's face. “And are you happy with that?”
Barty blinks. “What?”
“Are you happy with the way things are here?” Evan looks around at the café’s interior which has only had a slight colour change in all the time he’s been gone.
Faced with the judgment of what little his life has become, Barty’s next words are annoyed. “What kind of question is that?” he snaps, protecting his feelings behind his crossed arms. He knows his life has amounted to nothing, hiding out in a shared flat, his life anchored to someone who disdains him, but Evan doesn’t have to point it out. Maybe if he’d had loving parents like Evan, he’d have been on the first plane out of here, too.
Evan senses that he’s struck a nerve, and his expression softens. “You know, back in England, I thought about you sometimes. A lot,” he adds. “I always hoped you’d made something of your life here, or you’d moved away, or just that things had got better.”
The words crawl into Barty’s chest, landing like a gut-punch. So Evan did think about him. Evan hoped for him.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says bitterly. It’s easier to be angry that Evan left rather than face the longing and loss that has caved a hole in his chest deeper with every passing day.
Evan must see the vulnerability hiding beneath, and he persists. “I am sorry for how suddenly I left,” he says, finally addressing the unspoken question hanging over them. “I think about it a lot. I think about all the things I could’ve done differently. I would’ve taken you with me, for a start.” His smile is painful, haunted by his mistakes. “I begged my mum to let me keep my phone so I could contact you, but the only way out was if we cut off all contact with Kryostrov. I would’ve texted, called you from a telephone box or something. I thought about you all the fucking time, I just didn’t have a choice–”
The emotional flow of words become too much, and Barty interjects. He feels sick at the thought of Evan in England, wanting to contact Barty just as badly as Barty wanted to reach him.
“I know, R- Evan,” he says, stumbling over his words as he almost reverts to calling Evan his old nickname. Rosie. Every aspect of understanding is in his eyes when he looks up. “I know.” He prepares another lie, perhaps his biggest yet. “It’s water under the bridge. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Evan bites his lip, hurt tainting his features. Instead of calling out Barty’s obvious lie, he accepts it as a scab Barty doesn’t want to rip off. “Okay.”
The café’s walls suddenly feel much closer, and Barty’s lungs can’t seem to fill with enough air as he breathes in. Evan would’ve taken him with him.
He scrapes his chair back, not sure he can spend another moment staring at the man who brought his world crashing down the day he left.
“I’m going for a smoke,” he says. “I’ll let you finish your coffee.” He doesn’t wait before heading to the door.
The cold air against Barty’s cheeks is a well-needed release from the intense, one-to-one contact with Evan. One thought overwhelms him, buzzing like electric shocks all over his body: Evan thought of me.
Wondering what Evan was doing in England when Barty was stuck in Kryostrov kept him awake for countless nights, and then it invaded his dreams when he closed his eyes. Had Evan begun a bright new future, pursuing his dream career at an acclaimed university? Had he moved on from Barty and found someone else to warm his bed? Had he let Barty fade into the back of his mind, and then out of his memory altogether?
But now he knows, all this time, Evan was thinking about him. The thought makes him want to curl up in a ball and cry, to claw at the floor and scream his lungs out. The years of waiting weren’t pointless. He finally has his closure.
Short of breaking down into tears, Barty lights a cigarette and takes an inhale so long that it makes him dizzy. He has his closure. Evan will bury his mother, then he will complete the job. Everything wrapped up neat and tidy, like it should be. A full circle. He exhales the smoke onto the grass at his feet. This is how things are meant to end.
Almost at the end of his cigarette, footsteps approach. Evan comes to join him, back against the graffitied wall.
Barty throws his cigarette down and stamps it into the grass with his heel.
Evan is the first to break the silence. “Thanks for this,” he says. “It was good to talk.” He claps his hands together at Barty’s silence. “Anyway, I'm sure you've got plenty of business to be getting on with.” No jab about this being a date. He must sense that the mood is too sensitive for that.
Barty hasn’t got anything on for the rest of the day, but he’s not sure his heart can take much more of dragging up all the grief and loss of three years apart.
“It was good to talk,” Barty says. He spares Evan a half-smile. “I’m glad you came.”
“Yeah, me too.” Seeing that he’s not messed everything up, Evan gets out his phone expectantly. “Do you have a number I can add?”
Evan’s willingness to connect with Barty is so overwhelming after so long apart, yet Barty needs it more than he needs air in his lungs.
“I do,” he says. “Just so you know, it’s all tracked by Wilkes from his little rat den. Narcissa’s been training him up.” Too many details, too many names.
“Should be fine,” says Evan. “I mean, Wilkes and the others know you’re here, right? They know we’re talking? This was a very important stake-out, after all."
Barty ignores the jab. “There’s a difference between them knowing I’m here and all our text messages being projected onto a wall in front of an audience."
"Are you worried I’m going to say something inappropriate?”
Barty grabs Evan’s phone out of his hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He types his number in. “There.”
Evan takes his phone back with a smile. “Wilkes-appropriate messages only. Got it.”
“Great,” Barty says. “Text me whenever.” He swallows the stupid lump in his throat. “Like you said, we should probably make the most of the next week while we can.”
The words don’t sound as natural coming out of his mouth as they did from Evan’s. Still, Evan accepts them with a smile.
“Sure.” He hesitates, eyeing Barty like he was going to go in for a hug, before thinking better of it. “See you around, Barty.”
Barty raises his hand in a wave as Evan walks back the way they came, grass and trees surrounding him. Barty’s eyes don’t leave him until he has turned the corner and completely slips out of view.
He shouldn’t keep watching. He shouldn’t have suggested they do this in the first place, let alone come. Yet Barty stares at the spot where Evan was, Evan’s words playing in his head. All this time, he thought about Barty, too.
He takes out another cigarette and starts walking in the opposite direction, forcing himself not to look back. Eight more days, then this will finally be over.
Chapter Text
Barty stares at the patch of ceiling above his bed. The black mould and leaks from the flat above are forming patterns in the white space. He gave up pretending to sleep about forty minutes ago. His mind won’t relax after his café date, which definitely wasn’t a date, with Evan.
The picture of Evan sitting across from him on the wiry chairs of a half-empty café, cupping a steaming coffee while he told Barty that he thought about him all the time he was gone, is seared onto the back of his eyelids. He can still see the moment Evan’s deflective jokes fell away and he spoke with weeping sadness about his mother and his deteriorating relationship with his father.
Barty doesn’t make a habit of getting attached to people; he's learnt his lesson that unnecessary attachments are punished. He’s closest to Avery, and even then he’d never dream of crying in front of him, or resting a head on his shoulder, or smiling at him with his teeth, and in return Avery doesn’t show that side of him either.
But Evan. Barty used to let every tear pour from his body just so Evan could wipe them away. He collapsed into long naps after school in Evan’s bed without a second thought. Their most valuable conversations were the ones Evan never had with anyone else. It felt like a victory when Evan opened up, and an honour that Barty could take him into his arms and show him it wasn’t a mistake.
Used to. Barty isn’t denying that there’s tension, attraction, whatever it is, between them again. Their bond wouldn’t break that easily, but it’s all in the past, fueled by circumstances that can’t be recreated again.
It’s not that Barty is confused on where his feelings stand with Evan, because they’re as vibrant and loud as they always have been. Barty can’t sleep because he knows they can’t claw back what they once had. He can’t close his eyes because when he wakes up, he will be one day closer to losing the one thing he’s loved.
Eventually, Barty gets out of bed, done with restlessly tossing and turning. He can’t think about Evan without driving himself crazy, so he looks for a distraction.
The light in the living room is still on. It’s three in the morning, yet there's no doubt his insomniac flatmate is still awake. Avery claims his best ‘spy work’ is done at night. Barty thinks a part of him is still living out his childhood fantasies of staying up until midnight playing spies.
But Barty doesn’t blame him for chasing the high of spy work. Despite his weaponry expertise, Avery spends most days running around after his three ‘aunties’. He texts Barty periodically: ‘at the dry cleaners’, ‘walking Dorea's dogs’, ‘shopping with Evelyn, she asks if you want anything’. Although Barty wouldn’t wish losing their parents so young on anyone, being raised by three elderly women has made Avery more bearable than the other men their age. There’s compassion inside Avery which Riddle has yet to stamp out, too.
When he goes in, Avery's silhouette is illuminated by the blue light of two computer screens. He sits hunched over the desk in the corner, tapping keyboard keys breaking up the silence.
“What you doing?” Barty says, coming to peer over Avery’s shoulder. The screens are filled with lines of code and instructions that he's too tired to unscramble.
“Writing a script so I can decode the Order's system,” Avery explains, eyes glued to the screen. “Haven’t even got to the gateway, yet.”
“You're really expecting to make a breakthrough in a night that the woman with ten years of experience hasn't in a decade?”
“Worth a try,” Avery shrugs. He glances over his shoulder as if only acknowledging his presence. “You’re up late.”
“Are you my mum?” Barty retorts, earning him an amused huff. The in-joke is the closest they've come to bonding over having dead parents. Watching Avery teach himself basic code and fail to hack into the system the Knights’ most advanced technologists haven’t been able to crack for years isn’t Barty’s idea of fun, so he makes an alternative suggestion. “Wanna go on the wii?”
With how fast Avery turns his head, it seems he wasn’t looking forward to a night of unsuccessful coding either.
“Only if we do shots first.”
Barty is already in the kitchen, reaching for the alcohol. Drunk gaming has become their favourite shared pastime. Since finding out Avery is a harmless- if not sad- drunk, Barty’s skittishness around drinkers has subsided. Avery never has outbursts like his dad did, He usually ends up on the verge of tears, mumbling about his parents or leg or some girl who dumped him.
“I’m player one this time,” Barty says once they’ve got drinks and have settled on the sofa.
“Fine,” says Avery, passing him the controller. “But I get to pick the first track.”
Barty takes a swig of the sour liquid, wincing as it burns his throat. “Fine,” he echoes, already feeling better than he was five minutes ago, staring at his bedroom ceiling in exhausted desperation.
As the cutscreen plays, Barty is reminded of how glad he is not to have ended up with Wilkes or Mulciber when Riddle was allocating houses. He and Avery have formed a bond that they pretend is indifferent co-existence, but in reality it’s deeper than Barty has with anyone else.
He was with Avery through the early days of his amputation, from wheelchairs to crutches to struggling with his prosthetic, and all the psychological fallout of becoming permanently disabled overnight. In return, Avery was with Barty in the emotionally torturous months, years, after Evan left, when he was angry at everything and everyone. Their alliance is a fraction of what he had with Evan, but a fraction is better than nothing.
“There’s no chance in hell you’re winning this one,” Avery says. He swigs from his bottle as the countdown begins.
Barty hovers his thumb over the button to accelerate. Alliance or friendship, right now he’s just glad he doesn’t have to spend the night staring at his ceiling alone.
~
A pounding head and nausea are the first two things Barty is aware of when he comes into consciousness. A door slams somewhere that he ignores, too groggy and comfortable sinking into the sofa, when something hits his shoulder. A hand.
Preparing to tell Avery to fuck off, Barty peels open his eyes to a fright. Standing on the other side of the living room is a man he did not want to see this early in the morning, or in his flat full stop.
Riddle.
A bolt of panic ripples through Barty as his surroundings come back to him. He’s hungover and dizzy, and Riddle is in his fucking flat.
Panic shoots through him. Barty immediately gets to his feet. It’s a small miracle he doesn’t topple back over. He glances around the room, trying to remember what happened last night. The wii controllers on the table and an empty bottle of rum give it away. The blinds are still half-closed, casting the room into a dim gloom.
Avery sits on the sofa, looking as awful as Barty feels with bags under his eyes and tousled hair. He’s clearly just as blindsided by the visit as he’s in the stained shirt he’d never dream of wearing around Riddle or the others. He hasn’t even had a chance to fit his prosthetic on.
“Late night, gentlemen?” Riddle says in his raspy voice. His beady eyes dart around the tip of the room.
“Sorry about the mess, Sir,” says Avery, looking like he desperately wants to start cleaning up. “We didn’t know you’d be coming.” His tone doesn’t have a second of challenge in it, just embarrassment at the state he found them in.
Barty keeps quiet, trying to regain his bearings as Riddle stares through them both. It’s not a new trick; Riddle has infrequently ‘visited’ their flat since they moved in. It’s another kick to remind them who’s really in charge. Riddle owns their flat, their job, their livelihood. He owns their entire lives.
“Indeed,” Riddle says with a cool smile. “Amycus is waiting outside, so I won’t stay long. I just thought I’d drop by while I was in the area.” He slowly paces across the room to the window, not taking his eyes off them. “Avery. I hear you’ve taken an interest in coding.”
Avery nods. He must’ve put the word out. “Yes, Sir, that’s right.”
“I thought your speciality was armament,” says Riddle with a curious tilt of his head.
“It is, Sir, I just thought since we’ve not been buying many new weapons lately, I could expand my skillset into other areas.”
It’s a diplomatic answer, yet Barty still has a slight intake of breath at Riddle’s hard stare. His muscles are tensed, forcing him not to waver with the dizziness he feels.
Surprisingly, Riddle breaks out into an ugly smile. “Excellent.” He steps closer. “It’s admirable to see my men taking initiative.” He looks around the room. “And I do apologise for the condition of your living quarters. You’ve both been hard done by here.”
Although the words themselves are kind, the poised, almost condescending way which Riddle annunciates them makes Barty feel that he doesn’t mean a second of it.
“Not at all, Sir,” Avery says, as if he doesn’t have to hobble up and down the same two flights of stairs just to get out of the flat.
“You’ll be pleased to know that a group with similar interests to ours are looking into funding us,” Riddle continues. His mouth twists into that hawkish smile. “You have my word that your living arrangements will be my first priority.”
Barty doubts that, but he forces something like a grateful smile, and echoes Avery’s pleased thanks.
“Barty,” Riddle says. His voice remains suspiciously light as he holds an arm out. “Walk with me.”
Barty has no choice but to follow Riddle. They go to the corridor by the door, out of hearing distance from Avery. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, taking deep breaths to try and ease the nausea. Getting blackout drunk and passing out on the sofa with a wii remote in his hand isn’t usually such a problem.
Riddle stops at the door. He leaves an uncomfortably small gap between them as he stares Barty down. Barty focuses on maintaining eye contact and not throwing up on Riddle, which he suspects would be the last straw.
“How is your task going?” Riddle asks smoothly.
Barty’s stomach twists. He’s sure Riddle wouldn’t be happy to know that he spent yesterday chatting to Evan over cheese sandwiches and coffee. He hopes he can put the lie in his voice down to being hungover.
“It’s going very well,” he says. “I know it’s usually advised against, but given the situation, I’ve made contact with the subject.” His throat tightens. “I’m hoping to get some information from him before I complete the job.”
Riddle’s look is almost sympathetic. “Barty,” he sighs. “You know as well as I do that he has no information to give.” He leans in until every fleck of darkness in his eyes is visible. Barty doesn’t dare pull away. Riddle’s next words are whispered poison. “You’re weak.”
Barty swallows, his heart pumping faster. Riddle has killed people for lesser crimes than weakness.
“I will complete this task, Sir,” he says, almost desperately. At least that isn’t a lie.
Riddle’s poker face doesn’t give away whether he believes it or not.
“I saw that you have acquired his phone number,” he says lightly, though a hint of a threat hides behind his words.
You’re weak. Barty guessed this was coming, and his reply is a floundering attempt at saving face. There’s nothing to stop Riddle from having both him and Evan killed with one click of his fingers.
Barty’s nod is tight. “Once he trusts me, I’ll take him somewhere where I can finish the job discreetly. No mess.”
“No mess,” Riddle repeats, melodic with mocking. “That’s amusing, Barty, because I’m getting the impression that you’re rather embroiled in mess.”
The tension in Barty's shoulders could break him. For a moment, he thinks this is the end. That Riddle is going to pull a pistol out of his pocket, press it to Barty’s stomach and squeeze the trigger without hesitation. Maybe he’s decided that he can’t trust someone who goes on dates with their assassination targets behind his back.
“I will complete this task, Sir,” Barty repeats like a mantra.
Riddle leans forward until his face is just inches away from Barty’s. “I see potential in you, Barty. I see you as someone I will come to absolutely trust,” he says. “But before that, there needs to be no temptations or hang-ups. Your life must belong to me, and that will only happen once you kill the thorn in your side. Or the rose, I suppose.” He smiles, cruel and chilling.
Barty can’t hide his intimidation at having Riddle’s face so close to his, dangling Barty’s infatuation in front of him like a weakness that needs to be cut out. He has no words. Maybe one day, Riddle will completely trust him, and in return his entire life will be devoted to the cause. He doesn’t want to know what kind of person he’ll be by then.
Riddle steps back. “Avery,” he calls to summon him.
Barty exhales in relief, finally swallowing the rising nausea in the back of his throat. He’s never been more glad to hear the distant sound of two crutches tapping against the floor.
Still, Barty bites the inside of his cheek to disguise his irritation. It would take Riddle five seconds to walk to the living room to speak to Avery, instead of making Avery struggle over with his crutches, balance impaired from a hangover.
It’s a humiliation ritual Avery is only acutely aware he’s part of, but Barty sees it as clear as day. They’ve been kept here for a reason; so they’re humble, dependent and thirsting for more. He supposes this is the kind of sympathy Riddle wants to stamp out of him.
Before Avery reaches them, Riddle leans back in, cruel delight at the only other sound in the apartment being tapping crutches.
“Once you’ve completed this task, you will serve me like he does,” Riddle whispers. “And I will respect you like he respects me.”
Barty isn’t immune to the allure of Riddle’s promises. He’s gone to great lengths to chase Riddle’s approval– they all have. The thought of joining Riddle’s inner circle as an equal still has a shine to it. And right now, it’s the only future Barty sees.
He manages a mumbled, “yes, Sir,” as he realises the funny feeling in his stomach is ambition. He’s overwhelmed with possibility, with the promise that someone as powerful as Riddle could respect someone like him.
Avery appears in the hall with an expectant expression. Barty knows his future doesn’t include the righteous anger he feels directed at Riddle for making his friend suffer like this. His future doesn’t include ‘friends’ at all.
“I apologise for the intrusion,” Riddle says with a pleasant, almost bored smile. “There should be news about your living situation at the next meeting. I assure you that we’ll fix this as soon as possible.” He gives one last look around the deteriorating interior and then, without waiting for their responses, sweeps out the door.
Barty is left staring at the door with a strange feeling in his chest. Riddle knows he’s weak, yet he doesn’t want to kill him. He wants to carve the weakness out and mould him into the perfect Knight. It has to be better than sinking into obscurity like his father. All he has to do is remove the one barrier in his way. The one barrier his heart burns for.
Out of all the remarks Avery could make about Riddle’s surprise visit being an invasion of privacy, or how embarrassing it was to be woken up by their leader after drinking until they blacked out, Avery’s next words are pleased.
“Did you hear that?” he says. “We’re finally getting out of this place.”
“He said that four months ago,” Barty says flatly. But even he can’t help but hope that this time will be different.
Avery’s expression doesn’t waver. “Yeah, but this time we’ve got investors to actually make it happen, and we’ll have the Mark. Do you think they’ll put us in somewhere like Bellatrix’s place?”
The days are numbered until Evan dies and Barty’s soul is handed over to a power-hungry sociopath, and all Avery cares about is whether they’re moving into a mansion.
“There is no ‘us’,” Barty snaps, storming past Avery and towards the bathroom. He needs to spit out the nausea in the back of his throat. He needs to make up his mind. Once you kill the thorn in your side. Or the rose, I suppose.
Barty leans over the toilet bowl, knees hugging the smooth sides. He can’t decide what to feel, and that’s the most frustrating part. He wants too much. He wants Evan’s love and Riddle’s approval, he wants to become essential to the Knights and he wants to grow old in a cottage with Evan somewhere far away from here.
But the task at hand is clear, and perhaps anything more is just a pipe dream. Evan must die, and only then will he be able to give himself fully to the cause. That is his true destiny.
-----------------
Evan
12:05 Hi, are you free to come over sometime today?
I have something to ask you
Barty ignores the two dings from his phone, his eyes glued to the television screen. Avery curses beside him as he passes him on the track in a moment of good luck. Playing on the wii split screen, this time sober and at a sensible time of the day, is one of the few moments of respite Barty gets.
“Fuck’s sake,” Avery exclaims when Barty powers over the finish line a split second before him. Their games continued as soon as Barty finished throwing up in the toilet. He recomposed himself and asked Avery for a rematch, partly to make up for snapping at him, partly because neither of them remembers who won last night.
Feeling smug, Barty glances at his phone while the winner’s cut screen plays. The notification grabs his interest: Evan. The sunshine in his dark life. The weakness that is rotting him. He picks up his phone.
I have something to ask you. The words give Barty an intrigued rush of butterflies. Conscious of Narcissa and Wilkes, and by extension Riddle, tracking everything, he sends a short reply.
12:14 Yeah, when’s best?
12:15 Anytime, I'm in all day
12:15 Ok, I’ll head over now
Barty slots his phone in his pocket and gets up. There’s no time to waste.
“I’m heading off,” he says. “Job stuff.”
Avery snatches Barty’s wii stick with a muttered “quitter,” refraining from asking for details.
Barty checks himself in the horizontal mirror on the wall opposite. He looks the same as yesterday, if not a little tired, but tells himself he’s not going to spend ten minutes shaping his eyebrows with Vaseline again.
“How serious were you about your bike's brakes being fucked?” he asks on the way out.
“Very serious,” says Avery. “But there's a knack to unjamming it. I can show you just in case.”
Barty shoots him a look. There’s no chance he’s taking Avery’s deathmobile. “I'll just get the tram.”
“Are you going to see Rosier again?” Avery asks as curiosity gets the better of him. He frowns when Barty hesitates. “You know what Riddle says about kill jobs-”
“Riddle says a lot of things,” Barty interrupts. It's a risky thing to say, so he goes to correct himself. “As long as I finish the job, it doesn't matter how often I see him. Think of how much valuable information I could get from him about operations in England in a whole week.”
This makes Avery perk up. “You think he'll open up?”
“Once he trusts me,” Barty bluffs. Evan already trusts him, and he has no involvement in Dumbledore's operations in England led by Meadowes. “I'll be back later to hand your ass to you in round two.”
“You're not even that good,” Avery calls after him. “My controller's just shit.”
~
Without a gun uncomfortably tucked in his waistband, Barty has no problems using public transport. Riddle’s visit has cast a shadow over his day, but that doesn’t stop him from being intrigued by Evan’s message.
He takes the tram across the city, then walks to the Hotel Zlatá Koruna, its name emboldened on the side of the building. An usher holds the door open for him with a polite, “good evening, Sir,” making Barty feel momentarily important. He ignores the sideways looks in the lobby and takes the lift to the eighth floor, feeling infinitely more relaxed than he did coming here two days ago.
Without pressing his gum over the keyhole, Barty knocks on the door. A moment later, it opens.
Seeing Evan doesn’t hit him like a gut-punch like the first time, but he’s still overcome with emotion at the man he thought he might not ever see again.
“Hi,” says Evan, his expression relaxing with relief that Barty can’t possibly have earned. “Thanks for coming.”
Evan looks smarter today. His hair is clipped back so it doesn’t fall around the edges of his face like normal, and he wears an ironed white shirt and pressed trousers. Without his usual dash of eyeliner and studded earring, he looks more ready for a job interview.
“Sure,” Barty says. He raises his eyebrows. “You look smart.”
“I’ve been sorting out some business,” Evan grimaces. He gestures for Barty to come in. “My dad and Pandora landed today with my mum. It took a while to convince airport security that we weren’t part of a smuggling ring of dead bodies.”
“Christ,” Barty mutters.
“Yeah.” Evan turns around to face him. “Do you want a drink? I’ve got orange juice, or you can get pretty much anything from room service.”
Sensing he doesn’t want to talk about his disaster of a day, Barty accepts the change in subject. Orange juice has always been his favourite. He wonders if it’s a coincidence that Evan got it.
“Some juice would be good.”
Evan disappears into the kitchen while Barty takes a seat on the sofa. He’s glad that Evan seems upbeat, or at least stoic, rather than collapsing in a heap of despair and refusing to leave his room. When Evan returns with two glasses of orange juice, no bits, Barty starts to think that it’s not a coincidence after all.
Before he asks what Evan wanted to ask him, he goes to make amends for how he stormed out of the café, completely overwhelmed.
“Sorry if I was a bit off yesterday, you know, at the café,” he begins a bit awkwardly.
“An apology?” Evan says. “It really is my lucky day.”
Barty ignores the sarcasm. “I’m just saying, I’m not trying to be an asshole when you came here to grieve.”
“Don’t stress it,” Evan says, waving a hand as if it didn’t keep Barty up all night. “That’s what I wanted to ask you about, actually.”
Barty’s eyebrows shoot up. Despite his personal experience, he feels like he's the last person anyone would go to for help with sensitive issues like grief and loss.
“I’d like you to come to my mum’s funeral,” Evan says. He doesn’t falter. “It’s at two tomorrow. There’s a service at her old tennis club to follow.”
Barty resists the urge to stupidly say “oh”. He thought the last person Evan would want at his mother's funeral is someone still involved in the organisation that killed her. Apart from that, it makes sense. Over the years he spent at Evan's house in the evenings and weekends, he got to know Camille well.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he says, the unspoken context hanging in the air.
“Only my dad and Pandora know how she really died, and they can’t stop you from coming,” Evan says. “You were my best friend for the whole of secondary school and sixth form. It would be weird if you weren’t there. Besides, you're supposed to be on a stake-out, aren’t you?” He musters up a forced grin. “Pretty shit stake-out if you don’t monitor me at the one thing I came here to do.”
Barty narrows his eyes. “Is monitoring you all I’m good for?”
Evan smiles bittersweetly as his voice goes soft. “Please come, Barty. It would mean a lot to have someone there who I don't want to throttle.”
One soft ‘please’ and all the retorts and excuses die on Barty’s tongue. “Okay,” he says. “I don’t have anything to wear, though.”
“I can fix that,” Evan says, getting up and beckoning Barty to follow him.
They go into the bedroom, which up to now has kept its door stubbornly closed. Evan's bedroom is the opposite of the pristinely kept kitchen and living area. The blinds are half closed and his bed is unmade. Clothes are heaped on the floor, and half a bottle of whiskey sits on the bedside table. Barty awkwardly stands near the door, feeling like he shouldn't have such an intimate look into him.
Evan opens a wardrobe to reveal two black suits hanging up. “I brought a spare in case one got lost in transit or something,” he says. He doesn’t bother hiding how he runs his eyes over the entirety of Barty’s body. “We’re about the same size. Might be a little big on you, but it’ll be fine.”
Barty narrows his eyes at the dig Evan makes towards their height difference, which is barely a difference. Evan maybe has an inch on him, two if he’s lucky.
He nods, pretending to be unaffected by the way Evan is gazing at him in the twilight of his bedroom. “Ok. I'll take it.”
Evan's smile is so genuine, so sweet that it physically hurts Barty's heart to look at.
“Thanks, Barty.”
Barty shrugs, looking away. He takes the suit off the hanger and carefully drapes it over his arm. Funerals have never been a favourite of his since attending his own mother’s as a child. Worse still, Camille Rosier isn’t just a distant relative whose funeral he’ll attend out of duty. But Evan asked him to come. Evan needs him.
“Do you want to try the bed?”
The question snaps Barty out of his serious thoughts. He looks up to find Evan looking at him with raised eyebrows.
“What?” Barty says, not bothering to keep the rude shock out of his voice.
“Do you want to try the bed?” Evan repeats, patting a hand on the bed. “Might as well while you’re in here. It’s really comfortable.”
Barty realises his jaw has dropped open a second too late. Shock flushes through him. “What do you mean, try the bed out?” he snaps. If it were anyone else, he’d have stormed out the second such a stupid, half-arsed flirtatious comment came up. But he supposes that’s the problem. It’s not anyone else.
A smirk tugs at the corners of Evan’s mouth. Barty narrows his eyes. Oh, he’s definitely getting off on this.
“Sit on it, lie on it. Whatever you want,” Evan says in a level voice. “Or don’t.”
Whatever game Evan is playing is working, because it’s getting to Barty. His cheeks are flaming hot, and even more embarrassingly, he’s half-hard. This is about the furthest from professional he can imagine.
“Nice try, but I’m not playing into your sick fantasies, Rosier,” he scoffs. As the words leave his mouth, they sound too gentle, too flirtatious. He can’t keep the sharp edge when Evan is looking at him like this, all intense and mocking. He can’t think straight considering Evan just told him to get in his bed.
Evan is smiling properly now, which annoys Barty further. “Alright,” he shrugs. “I just thought your hair would go well with the covers.”
The covers are beige. Barty’s hair is black. He doesn’t even know what that means. He turns away so Evan doesn’t notice the growing issue under his trousers. He thinks he’d die if Evan noticed he was hard. The image of himself lying in bed, Evan climbing on top of him, knees hugging his thighs, slipping his hands under Barty’s shirt–
Shut up, Barty internally hisses to himself. Evan is just teasing him, probably wanting a distraction from the issue of his mother’s funeral. The exhausted rings around Evan’s eyes remain. This is all a distraction to him.
“I bet you say that to all the boys you bring around here,” Barty mutters. It was meant to lighten the air, but it seems to do the opposite. Evan’s eyes don’t leave his. Electric sparks fly between them.
Then Evan must take pity on him, because he finally looks away. “Of course not,” he says, stepping towards the door. The moment is over.
Barty lets out a breath, begging his overworked mind to give it a rest. He wouldn’t be so worked up if he’d actually had sex in the last three years, and Evan wouldn’t be winding him up if he wasn’t trying to distract himself from more pressing matters. This whole thing is a mistake.
Barty thinks if he got onto the bed and beckoned Evan over, Evan would kiss him without a second thought. Maybe they’d start making out, maybe they’d go all the way. But neither of them would be thinking straight, and it wouldn’t mean a thing.
“Do you want me to see you out?” Evan asks politely, slipping back to his distant act.
Barty catches his reflection in the mirror when Evan closes the wardrobe. He sees a soft, pathetic face staring back. He has to kill the person he just promised to go to the mother’s funeral of. He’s going to be a Knight in a week. He wants respect and trust from Riddle, and this is how he’s going about it? Fantasising about mindless sex with his grieving target?
“Yes, thanks,” Barty says. He tightens a hand on the suit Evan gave him, and follows him out of the bedroom. The air of the living room hits his neck, cool and relieving.
He pictures Riddle’s face inches away from his, unsettlingly beady eyes and filed teeth making him look almost inhumane. That’s what this is all for, he reminds himself. His future. He’ll comfort Evan while he can, but he mustn’t forget his future.
Chapter Text
The roads get narrower and lined with hedgerows as they speed out of the city. Barty presses his head against the cold window, feeling the car’s vibrations like a drill.
Although the taxi fare is eating away at his little savings, he thought it wouldn’t be appropriate to take Avery’s busted-up motorbike to a funeral. He’s not sure he can ride it in this suit, either. The trousers are stiff and the tie grips his throat like a hand.
Soon, the cityscape morphs into isolated farmsteads and rolling fields. They go towards the Orthodox Church in the village where Camille grew up. Barty grows less certain as to why he's attending the funeral of the woman who was killed by his organisation with every passing mile. With no live surveillance or backup, he's counting on Evan's assurance that it'll be safe for him. The pistol in his waistband won't be much use out here, isolated and outnumbered.
“Here's fine,” he tells the taxi driver when the church’s distinctive domes loom into view. The driver pulls over and waits as Barty counts out the fare in coins.
The early spring air stings his cheeks when he gets out. He scans the cottages with an air of paranoia, feeling like everyone can hear his footsteps echoing against the pavement. He’s hoping that the Order, who pride themselves on their morals, won't be into picking off twenty-one-year-olds at funerals.
He could pretend that this trip is integral to becoming a Knight, but there’s no point lying to himself. Riddle didn’t ask him to do this. No one asked for surveillance on Camille’s funeral. He’s doing this for Evan, and he’s too afraid to confront where that leaves him.
The church can be distinguished from the surrounding landscape by its white stone walls and two domes circled by gold strips. A large cross hangs above the arched door. Barty spots a priest at the door, the only sign that there’s an event being held at all.
Evan said it would be a small event. None of Camille’s family except Marcus and Pandora are risking coming. Only the people she met from living in England are attending. Barty just didn’t think it would be this... dead.
The priest greets him at the door. Barty can already smell the burning incense. On alert, he surveys the small congregation: a small group of mainly middle-aged women dressed in black. He must stick out like a sore thumb as he joins the back- no pews to sink into- but no one looks his way.
After awkwardly standing at the back for several minutes, the front doors open. Through the door emerges the casket, held up by six pallbearers. The low chatter goes quiet as the organ music begins. Tailing behind the open casket are Pandora, Marcus and Evan.
Barty’s eyes are drawn to Evan. He’s wearing the same suit as Barty, shrouded in black. His sunken eyes are transfixed on the casket in front of him. His expression is one of exhausted unhappiness. All of the lightheartedness that Barty saw yesterday has drained away.
Marcus hasn’t changed much from when Barty last saw him. His haggard face is as stony as ever. Barty bows his head, hoping Marcus doesn't catch a glimpse of the man who 'polluted' his teenage son.
Barty’s throat closes up seeing Pandora again. Just like her brother, three years have matured her soft teenage features into a young adult. A round of memories hit him, almost as intense as Evan’s did, of the friends he grew up with. Pandora felt the loss of Regulus as deeply as him, and their grief caused them to drift apart. It felt wrong talking about things they used to talk about or going to places they used to go with the hole of Regulus’ absence cutting through everything.
The casket reaches the front of the church, and the priest takes his place behind the altar. He gives a sermon about having faith in eternal life and the presence of God in grief. There is no eulogy, just several hymns Barty doesn’t know well enough to sing. Sadness bleeds from the walls of the church with the loss of someone who had half of their life ahead of her.
Barty watches the back of Evan’s head. It stays still, fixated on the priest’s every word, while Pandora’s is bowed, shaking in silent sobs beside him.
Once the service has finished, the pallbearers carry the casket out of the church’s side door. Evan, Pandora and Marcus follow it to the burial site to do the final rites. Barty stays at the back of the small congregation, thinking what a mess this has become.
He told Avery he’d wait until Evan buried his mother to finish the job, but as she's being lowered into the ground, he realises that this can’t be the end. It feels like things are only beginning. It’s the dangerous feeling Avery warned him against having: attachment. If Barty was pulled away from Evan now, he doesn’t think he’d survive the fallout. Seven more days. He will make the most of each one.
Once the burial has finished, people begin to file out of the main doors. Evan and Pandora stand on either side, soberly shaking people’s hands and thanking them for coming. As Barty peers out of the side door, he spots Marcus standing alone in the graveyard. Surrounded by gravestones and dead grass, he stares down at his wife’s open grave, exhaling long drags of his cigarette into the dull air.
Barty approaches Evan at the door while Pandora is busy talking to some others. For the first time, Evan's eyes land on Barty's. Recognition beyond the pleasant nods he gave to his mother’s friends passes over his face.
“My condolences,” Barty says, playing into the charade for a moment. He shakes Evan’s hand, squeezing it for a moment longer than is polite. As their warm skin connects, he realises it’s the first time he’s touched Evan since he returned to Kryostrov.
“Thank you,” Evan replies. His voice is hollow, like everything inside of him has been scooped out. When he meets Barty’s gaze, his eyes pour with unspeakable sadness.
“I’m sorry,” Barty whispers to acknowledge the situation that no one else here knows.
Evan’s expression softens. “I’ll see you at the wake?” His eyes wander to the distant churchyard where Marcus is standing over Camille’s grave. “Assuming I can drag my dad away.”
“Yes, I’ll see you then,” says Barty. He considers offering Evan a hug since he’s not seen someone who looks more in need of a hug than now, but thinks better of it. He tries a smile. “No rush, ok?”
Evan nods, and Barty heads down the path and out of the churchyard. Only when he’s out of the gate does he realise he has no idea where the wake is. Evan mentioned a tennis club, but he didn’t pass on any details. Maybe the lack of details was for his own safety, and Barty hasn’t been as good at lying about the Knights as he thought. Maybe Evan is just too swallowed up by grief to notice.
Not turning up to the wake he promised Evan he’d go to isn’t an option, so he approaches one of the groups leaving the church, two women about Camille’s age.
“Excuse me,” he says. Hopefully in a suit and brushed hair, he’s lost the scruffy outlaw look.
The two women turn around, thankfully with open expressions.
“Do you have the address for the wake?” Barty asks.
“Yes, it’s at the tennis club down the road,” replies the woman with red hair. “What’s the name of it, Helen?”
‘Helen’ squints. “Something foreign-sounding. You’re from here, aren’t you?”
Barty nods, guessing his accent is showing after years of not using English.
“Don’t be rude,” the red-haired woman tuts. She smiles towards Barty. “I’m Rebecca. We were colleagues of Camille in England.”
Realising they’re expecting an introduction. Barty hesitates. Two people coming all the way from England for a funeral triggers alarm bells. They could easily be plants from the Order, sent as surveillance or even to extract information from Barty. Or, as they said, they could just have been her colleagues.
“I’m Barty,” Barty eventually says. If they are plants, it’s nothing they won’t already know. “Camille was a family friend.”
“Awful what happened to her,” Helen says. “I mean, one day you’re working with her and she’s as chipper as ever, sorting all the kids out, offering to cover Rebecca, and the next day some idiot, probably a drunk, hits her and drives off. It really makes you think.”
Barty nods awkwardly as Rebecca pulls an envelope out of her purse.
“Here it is,” she says. “Club Tenissa Sock-ol.” She reads the words haltingly.
“Klub Tenisa Sokol,” Barty nods. It sounds vaguely familiar.
Rebecca gestures to the car they’ve stopped at. “Do you want a lift?”
Grief mustn’t only be clouding Evan’s judgment, because Barty nods as if getting in cars with English strangers isn’t practically a death wish. But Riddle’s training slips from his mind as he gets in the backseat of Rebecca’s car. The most important thing to him is getting to Camille’s wake and making sure Evan is okay.
Barty at least manages to keep his mouth shut for the short journey. His hand hovers near his back, ready to pull out his pistol if anything goes wrong. But nothing does.
Helen and Rebecca chat about how they’ve never been in an Orthodox church before, Kryostrov’s tiny airport and the endless flat fields. When they pull into the car park, Barty thinks they’re genuinely two colleagues of Camille who got a cheap trip to Kryostrov for the change of scenery.
The tennis club itself is everything Barty imagined a socially elite young woman would grow up attending. The venue’s walkway is lined with silver birch trees, and a two-storey clubhouse obscures the view of the tennis courts at the back. Trailing behind Rebecca and Helen, Barty enters the main room.
What strikes him is how light the interior is for a funeral. Tan wooden beams run across the ceiling, and every surface is painted cream. It’s nothing like the gothic, dingy church he was standing in half an hour ago.
While people congregate around the buffet tables, Barty does a quick sweep of the venue. Two exits on the ground floor. The bathrooms sit in an isolated corner, spacious and clean. After his loop, he returns to find Evan, Pandora and Marcus have arrived.
Barty lingers on the outskirts of the room, hoping not to draw any attention to himself. He pretends to be studying the photographs of the club’s past members, black and white pictures of men kneeling in rows. Just as he’s trying to spot a young Camille, a familiar, melodic voice comes from behind him.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Barty spins around. His eyes land on the person he watched from afar in the church, the young woman he's known as a shy pre-teen right through to a late teenager. Though her colourful eighteen-year-old self is nothing like the person standing before him, head-to-toe in black.
“Pandora,” he says with a genuine smile. He self-consciously crosses his arms, aware he might be the last person he wants to see. “My condolences.”
“Thank you,” she says graciously. She glances over to where Evan and Marcus are speaking with the others. “I’m guessing Evan invited you.”
“He did.” Barty swallows. “Sorry to jump this on you.”
“Don't be. You knew Mum, too.” Pandora shoots Evan one of her scrutinising looks, scrunching her nose up. “I know we haven't spoken much lately, but I'm surprised he didn't mention you'd be here. Have you two been speaking?”
“Only since he arrived. I was shocked when I heard he was back.” The words have enough implication behind them for Pandora to understand- he heard Evan was back from Riddle.
“So this is a surveillance job?” she says as sharply as her gentle disposition can manage. She sounds just like her brother in the suspicious way Evan spoke to him on the first few days.
“Not this,” Barty says, glancing around the room full of mourners. “How come you and Evan haven't been speaking much? He mentioned he was having troubles with your dad, not you."
Pandora must decide that her answer isn't going to be too revealing, because she speaks without hesitation.
“It's because of Dad,” she says. “Dad pushes him about something, and Evan digs his heels in the ground. Me and Mum were trying to get them on some middle ground, but it was so bad Evan refused to spend last Christmas with us.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “To be honest, I'm tired of it. Mum's death hasn't done a thing to bring them together. I keep trying to talk to them about her, but they're both as stubborn as each other, bottling things up and refusing to talk about it.”
Barty offers her a sympathetic nod, remembering all the times Evan has stalled a serious topic with a joke or flirtatious remark.
“I got that impression," he says.
“He even got an entirely separate flight and hotel to us,” Pandora says with a helpless shrug. “How am I meant to bring them together if they won't even be in each other's proximity?”
Barty swallows the acidic bile in his throat. He's played out this scene countless times before, but with someone by his side. Him and Regulus sitting in a room at break time, Pandora pulling up a chair to ask the two least adjusted people for advice. Him and Regulus bouncing the worst ideas known to mankind off each other before giving in and attempting to help.
Barty glances to his side, stupidly, just for that sick feeling to bite him when he finds no one there.
“Fixing their relationship isn't your responsibility,” he says, realising she’s not looking towards anyone else. After all this time, she is still looking towards him. “Evan isn’t going to get any less gay, and it’s on your dad to accept that.” He shrugs. “But I know how stubborn Evan can be about things. They just need more time and space. I know that’s the last thing anyone wants to hear.”
Pandora sighs. “No, I get it. It's just hard watching the two remaining members of my family refuse to speak.”
“I bet,” Barty murmurs. With curiosity tugging at him, he goes to ask in hopefully the least invasive way possible. “How have things been besides that?”
Pandora’s smile is flat. “They’ve been better. I'm starting the final year of my art course in September, though. I’m hoping to stay on and do a Master's.”
Barty raises his eyebrows, impressed. “In what?”
She smiles. “Guess.”
Another heartbreaking reminder of how intertwined their lives used to be, it occurs to Barty that he can guess. He spent seven years with Pandora. Every pocket of knowledge he has about her that lay dormant and unused in the back of his mind springs into life.
“Sculpture?” he says. “Relating to some bullshit social issue?”
“You think feminism is a bullshit social issue?” Pandora says. “Interesting.”
Barty snorts. “Am I right about sculpture, though?”
“Yes, it’s how feminism is portrayed through sculptures. I'll probably focus on modern France.” Her smile is bittersweet. “If only Reg were here to give me pointers.”
Barty swallows, his throat dry again. “Yeah, he loved that shit." And now he remembers why they stopped speaking after Regulus died. The bitter aftertaste of something missing is in every line of conversation. Unavoidable grief trapped in each other, unhealed by time and space.
Consumed by nostalgia, Barty doesn’t notice the person approaching until an arm is nudged into his. It’s Evan. He slaps an arm on Barty’s shoulder like they’re good mates.
“There you are,” Evan says, the friendly tone warming Barty from the inside. The arm on his shoulder is a rare show of affection, but Pandora doesn’t bat an eye. She just looks between them like she knows everything.
Barty allows himself a smile. “Hi, Evan.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Evan says. His unaffected mask is nailed on stronger than ever. Barty can see how it must annoy Pandora who just wants someone to grieve with.
Pandora stares at the hand still on Barty's arm. Barty thinks she's going to snap at Evan for wasting the time they could've spent grieving as a family to hook up with his ex, or whatever she thinks this is. He expects her to at least chide her brother for getting involved with someone so dangerous from their life before.
But Pandora's expression remains mild. “I was just updating Barty on my course. I'll leave you two to talk, since you seem so friendly,” she mutters. She gives Evan one last firm look. “Don't leave without me or Dad.”
Evan nods, and she goes back to the others, leaving him and Barty alone in the corner.
“How are things going?” Barty asks. The desperate sadness from before is gone, but Barty can’t tell how much of it is an act. “The funeral was nice.”
“It was,” says Evan. “I saw you talking to Rebecca and Helen.”
“They gave me a lift here. I’ve managed to avoid your dad so far,” Barty says. His eyes wander over to where Pandora has joined Marcus. She says something to him, and he snaps his head over to their corner.
“Probably for the best,” says Evan says. “Remember when he caught us in my room?”
Barty throws him a look. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the evening Marcus came into Evan’s room without knocking, only to find his son tangled up in bed with his ‘best friend’. He'll never be able to get over the horrified look on Marcus’ face as they scrambled into a less compromising position.
“Thanks for reminding me, I’d almost managed to wipe that out of my memory,” he says sarcastically. “Though I feel like there were worse things your dad could’ve caught us doing.”
“Oh, yeah?” Evan smirks. “I feel like dry-humping you in my bed is pretty bad on the scale of things to be caught doing.”
Barty’s cheeks heat up, the image invading his mind. That time sticks out, able to visualise exactly what Evan was doing to him when Marcus walked in- hands everywhere, shirt riding up his stomach, Evan’s mouth on his neck- and god was it worth it.
“At least he knows his son isn’t a bottom,” Barty mutters, because he can’t think of anything else to say.
This makes Evan grin. “I really doubt that’s much solace to him.”
Barty forces himself to focus on some normal conversation. “Pandora mentioned you guys were having issues,” he says, trying a more sensitive tone. “I didn’t realise it was that bad.”
Evan’s gaze darkens. “I bet she said the problem is because we’re refusing to talk to each other, but I’ll tell you the fucking problem.” He stabs a thumb over to Marcus. “Him. He has it out for me. Anything I do, and I mean anything, he’s on my back about. He keeps pestering me about getting a girlfriend, getting a ‘proper job’, hanging around with the ‘right kinds of people’. Didn’t speak to me for months after I got kicked out of uni, oh the shame I brought him. He thinks Mum would take his side, but newsflash, Mum’s fucking dead.” His voice wobbles, and he lets out a long breath.
Short of having anything better to say, Barty attempts to empathise. “What are dads good for, right?”
“Right,” Evan mutters. His eyes search around the room. “I’m just going to the bathroom.” He walks off without waiting for a reply.
Barty stares after him, wondering if he said something wrong. It’s hard to know what to say about Evan and his dad’s fractured relationship, especially when he’s not been here for years of it. After a moment, he decides to go after Evan. As he’s crossing the room, he’s stopped by a man standing in his path.
Marcus Rosier meets Barty’s eye with a furious glint to it. It’s a look Barty remembers well, from a kid on the playground to a teenager sneaking around with his boyfriend. Marcus is taller than Barty and blocks his path with his intimidating frame.
After years away from the organisation, Marcus still holds the self-important haunts of one of Riddle’s closest school friends, tattoos peaking out from beneath his long sleeves. Barty wonders whether he got the Mark lasered off, or whether he keeps it as a reminder of the life he fled from.
“You’ve got some nerve turning up here,” Marcus says in a deadly low voice. Bloodshot eyes, dark rings circling his cheeks, the signs of someone who knows Barty was indirectly involved in his wife’s murder.
"Evan invited me," Barty says tightly. Marcus has had it out for him from the start. He never wanted Evan hanging around Barty from the first day of school; with an unconnected, poor father and dead mother, Barty was nowhere near the Rosier's social calibre.
"I don't care if Camille’s dying wish was to have you here," Marcus spits. "I know what you're wrapped up in.”
“What I’m wrapped up in?” Barty retorts, irritated that Marcus is playing innocent. “You helped Riddle found the Knights. All I’ve done is stick around.”
Marcus’ lips press together tighter. He resists the urge to snap back and chooses his words carefully. “I am well aware of what I was involved in,” he says. “But I’m not anymore, and neither is my son or my daughter. Evan has moved on with his life. He’s moved on from you.” His eyes breathe fury. “So you’re going to turn around and walk out of that door right now. You stay away from my son, you hear me?" His raised voice starts to attract a few looks. "You stay away from my family."
Barty glances around, but Evan hasn’t come back from the toilets and Pandora is nowhere to be seen. He decides against causing a scene, and does as Marcus demanded and walks out of the main door.
He’s moved on from you. Even in Barty’s most insecure moment, he knows that’s not true. Evan needs him as much as Barty is trying to pretend he doesn’t need him back. They’re intertwined in a net of thorns and roses, scratching their skin until it bleeds.
Outside the clubhouse, Barty doubles back around the side of the building. He’s not going to leave Evan here without a goodbye.
Checking each corridor is clear of Marcus, Barty slips through the back of the clubhouse. He pokes his head around the door of the men’s toilets, no sign of anyone, before heading in.
The spacious room is devoid of people. Only one of the stalls is closed, right at the end.
“Evan?” Barty calls.
Thinking he’s come across a stranger, Barty is prepared to trail out and send Evan an apologetic text.
Then there’s a loud snivel. “Yeah?”
Barty could recognise that voice anywhere. His heart sinks; Evan sounds like he’s been crying, shut away in a cubicle to face this all alone.
“It’s me. Barty,” he says, coming over to the closed cubicle.
"I know, you idiot."
The words show that Evan isn’t completely gone, but that doesn’t go very far in soothing Barty’s worries. “Are you alright?” he asks hesitantly. No reply. “Do you want to be alone?”
“No,” comes Evan’s voice, thick from crying.
“Okay,” Barty says slowly. “Are you coming out?”
“No, I’m all snotty and gross.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.” Barty hoists himself up onto the counter, staring at the closed cubicle door. He fills the silence with his voice. “I’m technically not supposed to be here. Your dad told me to leave. I went out the front and doubled back, so if he catches me in here, I’ll be in big trouble. Not as much trouble as when he caught us at it, but you know.”
Filling silences isn’t Barty’s speciality. Although Evan was the quiet one at school, when it was just them, Barty couldn’t shut him up. But now, Barty is the one forcing words out in the hopes they provide Evan some comfort.
“Speaking to Pandora was weird,” he says. “I mean, it was nice, but I remember why we drifted apart. It just feels wrong without Regulus there. It was always us three, and it was always meant to be us three. And I guess the thing is,” he swallows, staring up at the ceiling, “when you left, it wasn’t final. Like, I figured we’d meet again at some point in the future, even if it were decades later. But it’s over with Regulus. Forever. He will always just be a memory.” He releases a shaky breath. “And I know it’s been four years, but imagining how things could’ve been still fucking kills me.”
Silence lingers for several moments. Then the cubicle door clicks open, saving Barty from drowning in a flood of memories.
Evan’s shoulders are drooped, his head hanging low. Tears roll down his face from puffy eyes. All the feelings he couldn’t let himself show in public are pouring out.
Barty thought Evan had been surprisingly upbeat considering his mother was murdered just a month ago, but now he sees it was all a farce. Every strand of zealous flirting and sarcastic remarks Evan has been clinging onto by a thread collapses to reveal his true, vulnerable self.
As Evan steps forward, still not speaking, Barty realises he wants his reassurance, his presence, anything.
“Evan,” Barty says softly, reaching up to cup Evan’s cheeks. He holds them, his cold hands warming on Evan’s skin. He brushes his steady stream of tears away with his thumbs. Evan’s head is heavy, but Barty holds it steady.
"They killed my mum," Evan gets out, half-choked sobs wracking his body. His legs are weak, almost buckling beneath him. "Mum, they- they killed Mum."
Barty’s hard resolve falls away. There’s no one here to pretend for, not even himself.
“I know, Rosie,” Barty whispers. The fond nickname slips out so easily. “It’s awful.” He gingerly puts his arms around Evan’s body. Evan’s head thuds onto Barty’s shoulder, desperate for comfort but too used to covering things up to ask for it.
Barty just holds him. He hasn't had this level of human contact for years. He engulfs Evan’s torso, arms around Evan’s, feeling every part of them fusing back together.
He knows Avery is right; he definitely shouldn’t be here, getting more pathetically attached to the one person who let him in, but he can’t help himself. And when he’ll have to tear himself away, he knows it’ll be like hacking off an arm with a dull knife, but won’t it have been worth it to hold Evan one more time?
“It’s going to be okay,” Barty says quietly at intervals as he rubs circles into Evan’s back. Grief bleeds from him, and Barty will mop up every drop of blood.
After a long minute, Evan finds enough strength to pull away. His eyes are bloodshot and his nose is running, but the tears have stopped.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Bee,” Evan murmurs. His mask has fallen away. The emotion that was locked away is spilling out like water from a burst dam.
Bee. The name makes the hairs on Barty’s arms stand up. Tender familiarity he thought he’d lost for good.
Evan stares at Barty openly. “I’ve been avoiding Pandora because she keeps wanting to talk about Mum, and I’ve been avoiding Dad because he keeps saying ‘Mum wouldn’t have wanted this’ about things that aren’t going to change, and I missed you so much but I can’t let myself be happy that you’re here because Mum’s dead and it feels like I’m never supposed to be happy again.” Emotion gushing out of his chest, he holds out his heart to Barty in both hands.
Barty once again glances to his side at the empty space where Regulus used to be. Barty wants to say that Evan should tell everyone to fuck off and give him space and let him be as happy as he likes. But those hard words wouldn’t come from Regulus’ mouth, or Pandora's. Evan is relying on him, but Barty is made up of fragments of all the people he’s lost, and he will use the kinder fragments to help with this.
“Your dad telling you what your mum would’ve wanted is bullshit,” Barty says scornfully. “The end of it is, she would’ve wanted you to be happy.” He softens. “You don’t need to feel guilty about feeling happy. It doesn’t take away from all the shit stuff.”
Evan snivels loudly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his suit. “I guess,” he says. “I know Mum would’ve wanted me to move on, but being happy just feels wrong, like her death didn’t even matter.”
“That’s obviously not true. You know, Evan, maybe it’s time to stop avoiding things,” Barty says as gently as he can manage. “You could talk to Pandora. Acknowledging your mum’s death with people who cared about her could go a long way.”
Evan gives him a pained smile. “Since when did you become the fucking,” he waves a hand, “master of grieving advice?”
Barty shrugs. “I never talked about Regulus with Pandora, and it wrecked our friendship. It would be a shame if the same thing happened to you.”
“I’m really not in the mood to be playing happy families with my dad,” Evan says, his voice more level. He frowns. “You said he kicked you out?”
“He asked me to leave,” Barty says. “Pretty politely, all things considered. I know I’m not exactly the one to come to about mending relationships with fathers, but you two really need to talk without going into it like you're picking a fight.” He stares at Evan, full of emphasis. “Things aren’t broken beyond repair between you and him, and they’re definitely not with you and Pandora.”
Evan’s sad smile is ironic. “Thank you, Barty, the bringer together of families.”
Barty also smiles. “That’s my name.” He glances towards the door. “So, what do you say? Want to go back out there before your dad finds us both in here?”
Evan takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
That brave front is back on his face, and it worries Barty how quickly he went from broken and sobbing to agreeing to try and build a bridge with his family.
“Evan, it’s your mother’s funeral,” Barty says simply. “You don’t need to be strong or put-together or cry in the toilets so people don’t see you. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to hate your dad, or to not want to speak about your mum, or to feel guilty for being happy. But you can’t keep pretending you’re not feeling any of those feelings.”
He keeps speaking until his hard front, Barty the soon-to-be Knight, is shoved so far down that it might as well not exist. This vulnerability makes him feel human. He feels the fragments of Regulus and Pandora living within him, empowering him to speak bluntly and truthfully. He has never felt more human than when he’s with Evan.
Evan doesn’t try to smile this time. He weighs up Barty’s words, and eventually nods. “Okay. I’ll talk to them,” he says. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Barty smiles.
Evan rolls his eyes. “Sure. I’d better go now,” he says. “I’m already on thin ice for inviting you, I think he’d lose it if he found us two in here.” Before leaving, he pauses, eyes sinking back into Barty’s with renewed trust. “Thanks for this. And thank you for coming. I know funerals aren’t your favourite thing in the world.”
“I don’t think anyone’s a big fan,” Barty says dryly. His glances over the dried-out tear stains on Evan’s cheeks and the suit he just wrapped his arms around. “I’m glad I came. It was nice seeing Pandora again.” He smiles. “And black suits you.”
Evan scoffs, but he doesn't deny it. “I’ll message you, okay?” he says, drawing away. “We should do some less death-y stuff. I’ve still got another week here.”
Six days, Barty thinks. Remembering how fast they’re running out of time sends his stomach churning. He’s a hypocrite for telling Evan to stop bottling up his feelings when the knowledge that he has to kill Evan is held so deeply inside that it’s melted into his heart, slowly poisoning his bloodstream with dread.
He fixes on a smile. “Yeah, we should.”
Evan gives him a wave, and then disappears into the corridor Barty came from. The door swings shut, and Barty is left standing in the bathroom of Camille’s old clubhouse, alone.
Chapter Text
14:50 Hey, are you taking visitors this afternoon?
14:57 yea but only hot ones ;)
14:58 Interesting
Do I classify?
14:58 stop fishing for compliments and get your arse over here
Barty stares at his phone, trying to recover from having Evan call him hot and the embarrassing realisation that Wilkes and Narcissa would see the messages. He spent most of last night staring at his ceiling, playing back every word and touch they shared the day before.
Seeing how distraught Evan was yesterday makes Barty want to do something nice for him. Between getting reacquainted and letting Evan brush him off with light remarks, he hasn’t actually done much in the way of comforting him. Cheeks in his hands, all he’s done is wipe away Evan’s tears.
Today, his mind is crystal clear. It doesn't make a difference whether this is Evan's last day alive or whether he has seventy more years ahead of him. Barty just wants to make today a little better.
On his way to Evan’s hotel, Barty picks up some flowers from the shop by the tram station. Reds and pinks and orange roses with green stems, Evan’s colours. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
He knocks on the door to Evan’s hotel room. Clutching the roses in one hand, he realises how this could look. It’s on him for not minding which way Evan takes the gesture. He can picture how he cupped Evan’s cheeks, holding his head in his hands. Maybe he was just being a good friend, but the butterflies in his stomach whenever Evan meets his eyes are getting harder to ignore.
The hotel door swings open. Evan somehow looks better than ever. His twisted bleached locs fall around his face, framing his glowing skin. Barty’s gaze drops to his lips, which look unfairly soft, before skirting away. His black t-shirt and jeans are a more casual form of the suit he wore yesterday.
“Hey,” Evan smiles. His expression is so open compared to his normal poker face, just for him.
“Hi,” says Barty. He holds out the flowers. “I got you these.”
Evan’s expression lights up in the exact way Barty pictured. Eyebrows raised, the corners of his mouth tilting up as he takes the flowers.
“Oh. Thanks,” he says, bringing them to his face to smell them. “These are pretty. Were the roses on purpose?”
With Evan smiling at him so sweetly, Barty is temporarily lost for words. The butterflies in his stomach are back. It took him years to fall for Evan the first time, but it’s taken days to effortlessly slip back into loving him like he used to.
“Yes,” Barty says, ducking his head to hide the embarrassment that he’s sure has spread to his cheeks. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
Evan’s smile borders on teasing, but he bites his tongue. He gestures inside, clutching his bouquet of roses tightly.
“You said I suit black,” Evan says, seeing Barty’s gaze fixed on him once they go in.
Barty bites back a smile at idea of Evan dressing up for him. He looks good, and they both know it.
“You do,” he says. There’s no point denying it.
Evan pauses in the living area, standing closer than Barty would ever stand to anyone. Barty can see every crease of skin, every hair of each eyebrow, every eyelash. Some stupid muscle memory kicks in, and for a moment, he thinks Evan is about to kiss him.
Maybe it’s the way Evan is expectantly looking at him like he used to do before grabbing Barty's tie and pulling him closer. Maybe it’s their closeness, proximity which Barty has been starved of for years. Maybe it’s his fault, his barely concealed yearning for Evan to stop flirting and just kiss him.
“Do you want a drink?” Evan asks completely normally. “I’ve still got some orange juice left.”
Of course he’s been saving his orange juice for when Barty comes around. Barty nods, finding an interesting spot on the wall to look at. “Sure.”
He follows Evan into the kitchen, watching him get two glasses out from the cupboard. He fills one of the glasses with water, then puts the bouquet of roses into them.
“We could go and put the flowers on your mum’s grave if you wanted,” Barty suggests. That was his initial idea, though they look pretty in the makeshift vase on Evan’s counter, the only flash of colour in the monochrome room.
Evan hands him the juice, and leans against the counter opposite. “Sorry, I don’t fancy it today,” he says. “I’m done with wallowing in grief. Pandora was over this morning, not to mention the wake yesterday once you left. We’ve talked about Mum, you’ll be glad to know.”
“That is good to know,” Barty says. “How was it?”
“You want me to tell you how right you were again?” Evan smiles sadly. “I shouldn’t have put it off so long. I even exchanged a few words with my dad.” He grimaces. “He wanted to know why I invited you, but Pandora changed the subject before we got into a screaming match at the wake. But yeah, it was good, just a bit heavy. I appreciate the flowers, but I was hoping to forget about things for an afternoon.”
Barty nods enthusiastically. Now that Evan and Pandora have talked, he can lean the other way into escapism. He can help Evan forget things this afternoon if that's what will help.
“Yeah, we can do something else,” he says. “Did you have anything in mind?”
“You’re the one who lives here. I’m sure you know all the best spots.”
Barty takes a big gulp of juice while he considers this. He thinks about all the places he and Evan used to go- parks and fields and backstreets and, on occasion, beaches.
“We could get a tram to the coast,” he suggests, thinking the change of scenery might be nice for him. “If you want a bit of excitement, I know someone who could lend us a motorbike with a dodgy brake pedal. He goes by Avery.”
Evan looks unimpressed at the mention of their old schoolmate. “The coast sounds like a bit of us,” he says. “So does a motorbike ride, but how dodgy is this brake pedal? It would be a shame if I joined my mum on the family plot so soon.”
A sting goes to Barty’s chest, and he has to push it violently away because he can't think of that, not even for a moment.
“Well, the bike is already fucked cause he hooked the brake pedal to the left side with the accelerator so his prosthetic doesn’t have to do anything.”
Evan’s eyes widen. “Prosthetic?”
In an attempt to maintain some level of secrecy, Barty realises how little he’s talked about Avery or any of the others. Though he should keep the details to himself, he doesn’t see what harm will come from Evan knowing about Avery’s prosthetic leg.
“He got shot when they sent in the army to flush us out of Hogvarov,” Barty explains, grimacing as splices of memories come back to him. “His leg had to be amputated above the knee to stop an infection spreading. It was a rough few months.”
“Shit,” Evan says with a low whistle. At least he looks distracted from the hurt of talking about his mother. “Was that the thing to break him out of his Riddle-love trance?”
“No chance,” Barty scoffs. “Riddle paid for his physical therapy and a good prosthetic, and then framed it like he’d done Avery this massive service by helping return his life to normal as if he hadn’t just put a few thousand from the Knights into doing the bare minimum not to make his life a living hell.”
At Barty’s heated words, Evan gives him a meaningful look. “You two have become close, then? You barely talked in school.”
Barty shrugs defensively. “Riddle stuck us in a place together after Hogvarov,” he says, the furthest he’s willing to admit their bond has come. “We’ve been living together for over two years. Two years too long,” he mutters.
“Could’ve been worse.”
“Oh, I know. I always thank god I wasn’t put with Mulciber or Wilkes, the cunts.”
Evan snorts. “Nothing has changed there, then.”
“No, they’ve just gotten even more full of themselves and unbearable. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who remembers what happened at Hogvarov,” he frowns. “Everyone’s cosying up to Riddle when we’re more worse off than ever.”
“Maybe people realised what they stood to lose if the Knights went under,” Evan shrugs. “It’s their livelihood, their whole self-worth. The more scared they are of losing it, the harder they commit to it.”
It makes sense, and it’s something Barty sometimes considers. On the cusp of losing everything in Hogvarov, however, he wasn’t thinking about digging the hole deeper. He’d started to visualise a life without Riddle- what job he’d do, the kind of people he'd mix with without being surveilled- and then they went into hiding and everything became even more tight-knit than before.
“We should do it,” Evan says into the contemplative silence.
Barty blinks. “What?”
“We should take Avery’s fucked motorbike to the coast. It'll be fun.” Evan flashes him a grin. “Or are you too scared?”
“I'm not scared,” Barty says hotly. “I drove that thing here last week.”
“Perfect.” Evan has the audacity to wink, to fucking wink, at Barty before dropping his voice lower. “Now you’ll have a guy straddling the back of you, even better.”
Barty doesn't want to comprehend the prospect of Evan wrapped around him while Evan is watching him. “That is not how it works,” he says, though he's secretly happy to see Evan upbeat again. He chugs the last of his orange juice and sets the glass on the side. “Should we go?”
Evan’s smile lights up his face. “Yes.”
~
Not willing to risk crashing the bike with Evan on the back of it, their first stop is Barty's flat. He tells Evan to wait around the corner, well out of sight, as if it's not a risk taking him so close in the first place.
Avery is in the main room in front of the two computer screens, one screen filled with lines of code and the other with a first-person shooter game. The code goes neglected as he stares at his game. Barty doubts he's any closer to cracking the Order's firewall.
Avery glances behind him. “Back already?"
“Can you show me the knack to your bike?” Barty asks.
Avery’s expression clears. He must’ve been waiting around for something to do, because he gets up without a question. “Sure.”
Ten minutes later, Barty stands on the street corner with Evan and a motorbike. He practices unjamming the brake pedal from the back of the accelerator like Avery showed him. Evan looks dubious, but he doesn’t give in when Barty says they can still take the tram.
“Ready?” Barty says, pushing the kickstand up. Although the seat has plenty of space for them both, he’s very aware of how Evan will have to grab onto him.
“I’m trusting this pretty face with you, Crouch,” Evan says mockingly. “Don’t screw this up.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” Barty mumbles back, hoping that he has in fact got this. At least if he can’t unjam the brake pedal, that’s one less job for him and Riddle, he thinks to himself darkly.
The bike wobbles as Evan climbs on the back. He shuffles up until his knees are hugging Barty’s thighs, and Barty has to focus very hard not to think about the fact that Evan’s crotch is pressed into the back of him. Evan slings his arms around Barty’s midriff, holding on just as tight as he needs to. It sends Barty into overdrive, and he tries not to squirm in his seat and give himself away.
“Is this okay?” Evan asks. For all his boundless flirting, this question sounds on the unsure side. The soft question just makes Barty’s stomach clench with more butterflies.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says, patting Evan’s arm in reassurance. He wants to clutch Evan’s hands and melt backwards into his body, but he settles for this. He revs the handlebars. “Hold on tight.”
They speed down the coast road towards the hazy horizon line, where the tall buildings open up to seaside towns and the smell of salt water in the air.
Evan grips Barty’s torso tightly while they overtake cars and swerve through lanes. It feels right, having him here, right where he's meant to be.
The coast road eventually curves to run parallel to the sea. The billowing white clouds meet with the sea in the faint horizon line. Barty drives them past the main beach which is unsurprisingly vacant for a March afternoon. He goes to a quiet, rocky cove Pandora introduced them to years ago.
He pulls up in a small alcove, obscured from the view of the main road. Evan releases his grip around his waist. He hops off, looking around at the cove.
“I remember this place,” Evan says brightly as he stares around at the secluded cove. Tall cliffs surround them, and the narrow beach is made up of seaweed-covered rocks and pebbles. There's not a soul in sight.
“Wasn't this your favourite place to go?” says Barty, walking with him down to the water.
Evan throws him a smirk over his shoulder. “Yeah, cause we could fuck in a cave without anyone seeing us.”
Barty scrunches up his nose. He hadn't forgotten that, but he wasn't going to bring up the fact that this was their old shag spot in case Evan got the wrong idea.
"Not our finest moments,” he says. “I think I've still got scars on my back where the barnacles scraped me.”
“I don't remember you complaining at the time.”
Barty crosses his arms. “Hard to complain about barnacles when I'm being fucked so hard I can't speak.” His face heats up the second the dirty words leave his mouth. He catches Evan's delighted smirk, and shakes his head. “Whatever. Can we stop talking about sex? This was supposed to be a nice, normal trip out.”
Evan works especially hard not to retort something equally as dirty, and nods. “Whatever you say.” He watches the small waves rolling into the alcove, washing over seaweed rocks. “It's nice being back here.”
Barty takes in a deep breath of sea air, relieved with the change in conversation. “Thought it would be.” He nods to a jutted-out rock halfway up the cliff edge. “Do you want to sit up there?”
“Sure.” The sun shines out of Evan’s smile, as always. Barty could stare at the sight all day.
Evan scrambles up the cliff face first up to the protruding rock. Barty uses divets and rocks to hoist himself up. Waves crash over the rocks below them, and the sun catches on the sea, making the water sparkle.
Evan sits cross-legged beside him, looking a million times brighter than he did yesterday as he gazes out at the view. The breeze blows the locs out of his face.
“Sometimes I regret leaving,” Evan says after a pleasant minute of silence.
Barty turns his head with a curious frown. He didn’t think they were going to have a serious talk, but maybe Evan just wants to forget about his mother, not everything weighing him down.
“You said yourself you had no future here,” Barty points out. He remembers Evan turning up at his door days before Hogvarov, saying he couldn’t stay here, that there was no future for him in the Knights.
“That was a lie,” says Evan. “Obviously, that was a lie. I was good at doing the shit Riddle told us to. I would’ve been a valuable asset.” He rolls his eyes. “I know I sound like Avery, but it’s the truth. I had a career here if I’d stayed. And I had you,” he adds, daring to meet Barty’s eyes.
Barty shrugs. “Your parents made the right call,” he says, though it feels wrong to say. “It was too dangerous to stay here. Look what happened to Avery.”
“Look what happened to me,” Evan retorts. “I became a loser with no job prospects, no friends, no ambitions. I relapsed on heroin because I missed my ex so fucking much, I got kicked out of uni and now I’m living off part-time work with no family and no fucking life.” His laugh is humourless. “Sometimes I think I would’ve been better off just staying and chancing it here. I would’ve lost my parents and sister, but my mum’s dead anyway and my dad’s not speaking to me. At least I would’ve been part of something working for Riddle.” His voice is heart-wrenchingly sad. “At least I would’ve had you.”
Barty didn’t realise Evan had relapsed because of him. Because missing him was too much to bear, because he needed to get out of his head in any way just to escape the pain of losing someone he loved. The knotted scars itching on his chest every time he twists his torso, Barty is familiar with the feeling.
"It was an impossible choice," he says quietly. "Either way, you had to lose someone.”
Evan tears chunks of grass out from by his feet. “Yeah, well. I think I made the wrong decision.”
The implied words hang in the air: I should have chosen you.
And it kills Barty, like a knife stabbing through his ribs, because he’d always assumed that even though he missed Evan more than should be physically possible, at least Evan had a better life in England. At least Evan got away, and things were better for him. But even that was a lie.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you after you left,” Barty says, staring out to the sea as he reveals what he’s never dared to tell anyone. “I guessed the first few months would be rough since we broke up so suddenly. To be honest, I was heartbroken, but I thought I’d move on eventually. But it kept going.”
It feels like the world is holding its breath while Barty talks about the heavy weight he’s been carrying around for the last three years. Evan is watching him closely out of his peripheral.
“The first year was particularly rough,” he says. “Stubborn bastard, you wouldn’t even stay out of my dreams. I threw myself into the Knights to take my mind off you. Sometimes it worked. It got worse around your birthday every year. I’d cry a lot. Wouldn’t get out of bed. Thought I’d grown a tougher skin, and then I’d see someone who looked like you or I’d smell something that reminded me of you, and it’d start all over again.”
The bleak words are swept up by the breeze. Barty feels a hand on his arm, tugging the end of his jacket. He looks back to find Evan staring at him with deep emotion in his eyes. Barty’s breath catches in his throat as Evan slides his hand up to his neck. His hand is soothingly cool against Barty’s hot skin.
“I thought of you all the time, too,” Evan whispers. He traces circles with his finger on the side of Barty’s neck. “I never stopped worrying about you, even though I thought you were so mad I left that you’d never want to speak to me again.”
Barty swallows, trying to gain his breath back. He hadn’t noticed how close they were sitting, his knee touching Evan’s leg, until Evan began to hold him.
“I’m not mad, Rosie,” he says. “I never was.”
In the pause that follows, the only sound is the waves crashing against the rocks and the wind whistling through gaps in the cliffs. Evan’s hand rests on Barty’s neck like it belongs there. His eyes drop to Barty’s lips, and Barty knows what’s coming. He knew what was coming from the moment Evan opened his hotel door and let a stranger who just pointed a gun at him come in. He knew when Evan was standing on his dad’s porch, explaining through tears that he had to leave Kryostrov for good.
When Evan leans forward, Barty reaches a hand up to grasp the back of Evan's head. He didn’t know when, but he knew they would find each other again.
Evan kisses him, and every hope Barty was holding onto bursts into light. Lips slightly parted, Evan's hair in his grasp, Evan's hand on the side of his neck. He wouldn't let anyone else have this. He wouldn't give himself to anyone but Evan.
Evan cups Barty’s cheeks and kisses him like he’s made of glass. Gentler than ever before. An assurance that he will keep Barty’s love safe.
Their lips press together, soft, gentle, not needing anything more than each other. Barty wants to freeze this moment in time and keep it forever. He has Evan. He has love, and sun is shining on the chasms of his mind that have been consumed by darkness for years.
When Evan pulls away, stars are in his eyes. Barty can’t stop the infectious smile from spreading to his face.
“God,” Evan murmurs. He clutches the side of Barty’s neck with longing. “I’ve fucking missed you.”
As Barty's heartbeat slows, his brain fires up and he realises how much of a mistake he’s making. This was supposed to happen in a fantasy version of the distant future, not in the present when Evan has just days left to live. They were supposed to reconcile when the Knights was in the dust, where they could live happily together with no barriers. Not now, in the midst of it all.
Seeing his hesitation, Evan caresses Barty's cheek with his thumb. "I know what you're thinking,” he says. “We haven’t got long left together.”
The injustice of it all stings Barty like a thorn in his heart. He stares at Evan despairingly. “Doesn’t that kill you?”
Evan’s smile is bittersweet. “Yes, but we've found each other once, and we can do it again."
“And what if we don’t?” Barty says, the lump in his throat getting harder to ignore. “What if this is the last time?”
Evan’s eyes crease in concern, but his reply is far from anxious. "Bullshit," he whispers.
Barty pauses. He can already invision the sleepless nights, tears that won't stop, the smell of burnt skin as he tosses another cigarette onto the ground. This is going to break his heart all over again. But with Evan right in front of him, clutching him like he never wants to let go, Barty can’t bring himself to pull away and deprive himself of the one thing he’s been starved of all this time. If he were a stronger man, he’d end this now, but Riddle is right. He’s weak, and he just wants Evan to kiss him.
Barty grabs Evan by his jacket and yanks him back into the kiss. His lips work against Evan’s, hard and needy. He drags Evan closer, aching for more.
Evan reciprocates in an instant. He grabs Barty’s waist with both hands, fingers slipping beneath his shirt in a way that turns Barty’s legs to jelly. Evan’s tongue slips between his teeth, surging forward to taste him properly.
When they pull away, Barty’s cheeks are flushed with passion. His eyes are hooked on Evan alone.
“Did I tell you how fucking beautiful you are?” he says, the brash words tumbling out before he can overthink things.
Evan has a lazy smile as he runs his fingers through Barty’s hair. “No, I don’t think you did.”
Barty leans in, pressing kisses down his neck. The way Evan exhales in satisfaction turns his mind to mush. Evan gently grabs Barty’s jaw and tilts his head up. He presses a kiss to Barty’s lips.
“Will you come back to mine?” Evan says, expression painted with lust that makes Barty's stomach flip. The hand on Barty’s waist slides lower, barely stopping at his belt. His voice is low and scratchy. “I need you.”
Barty’s heart hammers in his chest. “You already have me,” he utters, pushing his hips forward so Evan has a better grip of his waist. Anything to be closer to Evan.
Evan kisses him again, hands wrapped around the waist Barty has so generously offered him. Barty’s inhibitions are gone as he kneels into Evan, hooking one leg over Evan’s thigh and dragging his crotch over it until his breath catches. He needs friction, needs more.
Evan must be thinking the same thing as he slides a hand down to Barty’s ass. He welcomes Barty’s rutting motions by squeezing his ass into him to slot them even closer together. Only when Barty's fingers begin to fumble with his belt does Evan stop him with a hand.
“Wait,” Evan says breathily. Finally detaching his gaze from Barty’s, he looks around at their secluded cove. “Not here. You deserve something a little more sophisticated, and a lot less painful."
Barty reluctantly unwraps himself from Evan, taking in deep breaths at the arousal flushing through his body. He doesn't deserve anything from Evan- not sophistication or comfort. Not even his presence. But right now, his mind is too occupied to refuse.
“Okay,” he says with a heated smile. He offers out a hand. “Why don’t I drive us back to yours?”
Evan’s hand is warm and solid in his. He lets Barty pull him up, and they go to clamber back down to where the motorbike is hidden in its cavern. The wind whips through his hair and the ocean spray cools his crimson cheeks.
Evan is right beside him, and his mind is in overdrive from being able to finally kiss him. Their bond no longer exists as a dark memory he tries to push away before the longing overcomes him. It’s visceral, it's right here, holding his hand. Just for today, Barty can lose himself in the delusion that this will last forever.
Notes:
This chapter made me emotional to write :)
Chapter Text
Racing back into the city on the motorbike, Barty feels on top of the world. He keeps licking his lips to get a leftover taste of Evan. Left foot pressing on the accelerator, wind in his hair, Evan's reassuring presence is right behind him.
A massive weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Evan finally knows how he feels about him, how agonising these last few years have been. In return, he knows that Evan has missed him exactly the same.
Although he’s pressed up against the back of him, Evan keeps his arms appropriately around Barty's torso. He leans in to rest his head on Barty's back, hair tickling his neck. It reassures Barty that Evan isn’t just after sex– this goes far beyond that.
Barty parks the motorbike outside the hotel where it was safe last time. He enters with Evan, stealing glances and brushing their hands together like they’re sixteen all over again.
They stumble into Evan’s hotel room with the whole evening to themselves. The door hasn’t even clicked shut before Evan has grabbed Barty’s jacket, dragging him into a kiss.
Barty’s mouth opens in surprise, giving Evan the perfect opportunity to push his tongue into it, desperate for more than their reserved kiss at the beach. Evan tastes divine, and Barty wraps himself around him, kicking the door shut with his foot.
The door slams shut, but they don’t get far from the hallway. Evan drives Barty back into the wall, hands clutched in his hair as their bodies shove together. Evan’s tongue curls around Barty’s, hot and possessive. He kisses like he’s starving and Barty is the only thing that will quench his thirst.
Barty wasn’t prepared for how good it would feel to have Evan’s chest pressed up against his. He pulls off Evan’s jacket so he can get a better feel of him. It drops at the floor by their feet, and Barty grabs his waist with both hands. Touching Evan like this revives him.
“Fuck,” Evan murmurs. His hands skate down Barty’s arms. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, rugged motorbike man.”
Barty’s smug smile is interrupted by an involuntary noise in the back of his throat, one of Evan’s hands sliding between his legs to squeeze his half-hard cock. “I can guess,” he says, his grin a little breathless. From day one, this was inevitable.
Evan takes off Barty’s jacket, and then his jumper. His lips devour Barty’s as he squeezes Barty’s biceps. Barty’s hands slip under Evan’s shirt, drawn to the curve of his shockingly grabbable waist. He pulls him close until he can feel Evan’s heartbeat through his ribs.
Evan lets him take control, just for a moment. But then his hips roll forward, slow and firm, and Barty folds. Every nerve in his body lights up at the pressure against his most sensitive area.
“Fuck, Evan–”
Evan laughs, lips brushing Barty’s jaw. “Say it again,” he murmurs. His fingers trail down Barty’s spine, over his belt loops. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
Barty’s throat is dry, thoughts racing. Evan is staring at him like he’s the only thing that matters. Like he’d wait forever if Barty asked. It’s almost too much. It’s definitely too soon. But if he wanted Evan as a mindless hookup, he would’ve climbed into his bed the first time he suggested it. They both know this is far from that.
“I want you,” Barty whispers, feeling weak at the way Evan is looking at him.
Evan’s smile is dazed, full of too much love for either of them to bear alone. “You want me to what?”
“I want you to fuck me,” Barty says. The words spill out on his scorching hot tongue. Wrapped around his little finger, he would give up his body, his anything for Evan right now.
Evan’s hand skims the waistband of Barty’s boxers. “Yeah?” he murmurs. He presses the heel of his hand into his crotch in a way that makes Barty catch his breath.
Barty could die happy under his hand. He would do anything to preserve this moment, their bodies so close together, adrenaline rushing to the cock Evan is palming through his trousers. He plunges his teeth into Evan’s neck while he still has an ounce of control. Evan’s borderline pornographic gasp is music to his ears. Burst capillaries, he sucks on the skin, hoping it leaves a bruise.
Evan lifts one of Barty’s legs up to hook around his waist, and he starts grinding his hips forward. Barty’s breath stumbles out, hotter and heavier with each electrifying motion. His head is draped over Evan’s shoulder, biting the soft skin.
“Evan, please,” he utters, already strung out.
Evan takes pity on him, and detaches his hips from where they were so gloriously grinding into Barty’s front. “Bedroom?”
When Barty nods, Evan pulls him into the bedroom. His limbs are heavy, feeling like he’s under some kind of spell as he gets on the bed. Evan climbs on top of him, their bodies slotting together. Barty arches his back upwards, desperate for touch.
Evan throws off his t-shirt to reveal his bare chest. The sight alone makes Barty’s mouth water- bumps of ribs, the dips of his waist out to his love handles, stretch marks and curly black hair on his chest. Everything is on show for Barty to admire.
Evan tugs the hem of his shirt, but Barty stops him. “Not my shirt,” he says. The knotted layers of scar tissue on his chest and stomach make him feel anything but attractive.
Evan hesitates, recognition flashing over his face, but his smile doesn’t make Barty feel self-conscious. “Okay,” he says, slipping his hands lowe to undo his belt, and trailing kisses down his neck.
“I’m ready,” Barty says, impatiently unfastening Evan’s belt since Evan seems more than happy to grind into him for the rest of the night.
Evan pulls back. “I don’t have lube or condoms. I can run to the shops–”
He’s cut off by Barty snatching his hand and plunging Evan’s fingers into his mouth. Barty sucks on them, swirling his tongue around with hollowed-out cheeks before releasing Evan’s saliva-coated fingers.
“Problem solved,” he says with a smirk. He squeezes the barely contained bulge in Evan’s trousers. “I don’t care if it hurts. I don’t mind if we don’t use protection, either. I’m clean.”
“So fucking impatient,” Evan mutters, though he can’t hide the desire in his dazed eyes. “You sure?”
“I didn’t start hooking up like crazy the second you left.” Barty says indignantly.
Evan raises his eyebrows. “No one? Not even Avery?”
“Fuck off,” Barty says witheringly. “Obviously not Avery. No one.” An uncomfortable thought flashes across his mind. “Have you?”
“I went on some dates once I got clean, but it never went anywhere.”
Barty tries not to show his selfish relief that it didn’t work out. He takes Evan’s cock in his hand, pumping it a few times to make Evan’s face screws up in pleasure. “So, are we doing this or what?”
Evan gives an amused smile, tangling his fingers into Barty’s hair. “I couldn’t turn down such a pretty boy,” he breathes between his final kisses, before pulling back. “I’ll take it slowly, but tell me if it’s too much ok?”
Evan could rip every shred of skin off his body and Barty wouldn't tell him to stop. He gives an eager nod, arms gripped around Evan's neck like his life depends on it. He’s in the most vulnerable position he could be, yet he trusts Evan with the world.
Evan teases him with one finger, and then two. He puts his fingers back in Barty’s mouth to slicken them with saliva several times. When he starts thrusting with three, Barty arches his back up, leaning into the intense sensation. He needs more.
“You don’t have to be so gentle,” Barty says breathlessly, trying not to squirm under the slow thrusts. He can already tell he’s going to be sore tomorrow by the whine he makes as Evan thrusts his fingers in deeper. “Fuck.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Evan smiles. He shuffles up, making Barty’s breath waver as he positions himself in front of his hole. “Ready?”
“Yes,” Barty says. His face is on fire. His breath runs out when Evan begins to fuck him. His back is arched impossibly high, eyes closed, neck craned to the ceiling. Stars burst behind his eyelids as Evan pushes him to the brink of collapse.
Pleasure begins to override the pain as Barty’s hole takes Evan in, adjusting to the intrusion. He digs his nails into Evan’s waist to grab onto something as Evan begins to fuck him harder. Then Evan hits his prostate, and Barty’s body jolts in pure pleasure. He lets out a loud moan as Evan hits the same spot again.
Evan is muttering affirmations he’s barely listening to. Sucking in short breaths, he’s completely unravelled.
The sensation builds as Evan thrusts in, over and over until it becomes too much. A string of sinful gasps comes from Barty’s mouth as an orgasm explodes through every inch of his body. Triggered by the noise, Evan doesn’t last much longer. He rides out the orgasm, fucking everything he has into Barty for the final few moments.
Barty lies face down in bed, strung out. He doesn’t care that he’s naked and exposed, or that his body is aching and his legs are trembling. Floating in post-orgasmic bliss, he feels at peace.
The room is hot and smells of sex. When Evan kisses Barty’s head, memories of the affection-starved last three years disappear into an unimportant area of his brain. Everything he needs is here.
Evan lazily puts a hand on Barty’s neck just to hold him. Barty lies still, feeling the warmth of Evan’s body beside him, the subtle brush of skin against his.
“You want a shower?” Evan asks after a minute of stillness.
“No,” Barty murmurs, his voice muffled into the pillow. Evan is crazy if he thinks he’s moving anywhere after that. He feels a warm hand on his back, rubbing circles into the fabric. For a long moment, neither of them speak. There’s no need. Their actions say everything either of them could possibly say about yearning and lust and buried love.
Evan slings a leg over Barty’s, hugging them closer. “Barty,” he whispers, a breath quieter.
“Hm?”
“Are we boyfriends?”
This question snaps Barty out of his happy exhaustion. His eyes flick open to find Evan watching him intently. All the longing, the years apart, a breakup neither of them asked for. Seeping through the cracks of his ambitious future plan with Riddle is the childlike urge to give in and make Evan his boyfriend again, as if saying ‘yes’ will fix everything.
It was too easy to kiss Evan, too easy to fall for him all over again.
“Did you seriously just ‘what are we’?” Barty mumbles, trying to offplay the ache in his heart knowing how soon this will all end.
Evan’s face is beautifully soft, curiosity seeping into his eyes. “Well?”
“Ev. Just– don’t,” Barty sighs. “Can we just let this be, no labels?”
Evan scoffs. “No labels?” he says, hiding his disappointment behind rolled eyes. “That’s what people say when they want to shag around.”
“Why would I want to shag around when I have you?” Barty says. He reaches up to try and grasp Evan’s face, but Evan draws away. “I just don’t want to get ahead of ourselves before it ends,” he tries to explain, feeling a kick of guilt. He hates how final it sounds almost as much as he hates the resignation in Evan’s eyes.
Evan shrugs, drawing back his leg so their bodies aren’t touching. Though Barty wants nothing more than to comfort Evan and wipe all the insecurity and disappointment off his face, he can’t bring himself to make a promise he can’t keep.
He closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of Evan all around him. The outside world can press in later, with its noise and expectation and consequences. How simple it would’ve been to say ‘yes’ and let Evan kiss him, love him, all over again.
=================
A table stretches out impossibly long into the distance. People sit either side. Their faces are blurred, unrecognisable, but their clothes are the same uniform, dark robe. Their arms have ink weaved into their skin: a serpent through the mouth of a skull. Their eyes all point to Barty.
Stuck in a chair, Barty tries to move his arms, but they're tied down. He looks around for help, but there is nothing beyond this room. When he goes to scream, his lungs are empty.
“Bartemius Crouch Junior,” a voice announces. The voice of the serpent: Riddle. “Your weakness comes at a price.”
Nails dig into his forearm, and Barty can't move, can't formulate words to defend himself, to try and explain that he made a mistake, that he's not a traitor.
I will serve you like he does. He tries to speak, but the words don’t even come out as a whisper. They pool in his mind like blood.
“Traitor,” the faceless heads hiss. Closer to his head, a raspy voice. “This is no place for the weak.”
Suddenly, a hand grabs his throat from behind. Squeezing his neck, blood pumps in his ears as the pressure grows. Thrashing in the chair, he can’t move. The hand squeezes harder, vision blurring.
“I know what you are.”
Barty bolts upright in bed. His heart hammers in his chest as he blindly looks around. Dread and cold sweat sticks to his forehead. The room is dark and quiet. No faces watch him, no hands clutch his neck. He sinks his hand into his hands– it was just a bad dream.
As his eyes adjust to the dark, he sees one person. Half under the duvet beside him lies Evan. Only his shape is visible in the dark. His slow breaths fill the room, undisturbed by Barty.
Barty gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. He slaps the light on and fills a cup with water. It takes like chlorine. Only one detail from the dream remains. One face, one rasping voice.
The view of himself under the bathroom’s unflattering lights in a shirt and boxers is a stark reminder of yesterday: picking out roses, riding to the beach, sitting on a ledge overlooking the sea. Coming home and having Evan fuck him like he means it. Love bites litter his collarbones. Riddle’s voice echoes in his head as he stares at himself. You’re weak.
Barty doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He shouldn’t have taken his clothes off, shouldn’t have driven Evan to the coast or bought him roses or gone to his mother’s funeral or suggested they get coffee. He should’ve shot him in the chest the moment he opened his hotel door.
The bright light makes his unmarked skin even clearer. He stares at his inner forearm where the Mark will be this time next week. All he sees are the traces of blue veins running under his skin.
”It’s their livelihood, their whole self-worth. The more scared they are of losing it, the harder they commit to it.”
Too many voices in his head. Barty stares at the brown eyes in the mirror. This isn’t who he is. He’s not the kind of person Evan would press morning kisses on the forehead of before getting up to make them both breakfast. He’s not the kind of person Evan would spend every lazy Sunday for the rest of his life with.
His dad is a dead-beat alcoholic and his mother is dead and he’s not worth anyone sticking around for. All he has is Riddle’s validation and the promise of future respect. He has no future in Evan. Even if they managed to flee the island, where would they go that Riddle wouldn’t find them like he found Camille? Like he found Regulus?
The ensuite’s light casts Evan’s bedroom into a dim glow. Barty starts opening the wardrobes, feeling down the sides for the one thing he didn’t bring. He’s grown too complacent. He hates the person he was yesterday, all soft and vulnerable. He can’t let his feelings cloud his better judgment. Evan must die. He knew that from the start.
In the middle wardrobe, his hand stops. A large bump is taped to the wall. With Evan still fast asleep, Barty slowly peels the duct tape off. After a minute of inching it off, it loosens, and the object falls into Barty’s hand: a gun.
Evan’s gun is similar the one Riddle gave him, though Avery could probably point out a hundred differences. Its weighted handle slots easily in Barty’s hand. A suppressor is already attached. With Evan heaving in slow, deep breaths, it’s the perfect crime. Again.
Barty puts the gun down, first relocating the clothes he threw off yesterday. He will complete this task with dignity and decorum, just like a Knight should. Once he’s dressed, he picks up the gun. Clicking the safety latch off, he stands by the bed. His stance is wide, gun aimed at Evan’s head. In the darkness, he won’t be able to see the colour of his blood.
Throughout his life, Barty has become familiar with feelings he’d rather not know. Grief and loss have always taken up the biggest chunk out of his heart, from when his mother died as an child, to having his best friend murdered, losing Pandora and Evan, and falling out of touch with his dad.
This time is no different. It will be just another piece torn out of himself, another life he’ll have to learn to live with as a memory. It will hurt, god, it will hurt, but Barty is familiar with the numb pain of grief. He is prepared to lose another part of himself, to have another life of shared memories surviving only in his brain. He has to be.
Barty levels the barrel at Evan’s head, closing one eye. His stance is unwavering and his aim is perfect. When this is all over, he can grieve what could’ve been.
Adrenaline rushes to Barty’s head so powerfully that black spots appear in his vision. His finger hovers over the trigger. Too long and he’ll lose his nerve. Too long and he’ll climb back into bed with Evan and fall asleep like nothing has changed.
One deep breath. In, and out.
Barty squeezes his finger on the trigger.
Click.
The moment he pulls the trigger, he realises it was a mistake. Time slows as he waits for a bullet to land in Evan’s head. What have you done. The holder clicks. And there is nothing.
No noise. No recoil. No liquid seeping from Evan’s head. Evan is still breathing in and out, the duvet moving up and down with each breath.
Barty releases a tapered breath as his vision blurs, dizziness bringing him to his knees as the adrenaline peaks. When he looks down, his hands are uncontrollably shaking. There is a ringing in his ears. Evan should be dead.
He clicks open the magazine, taking out the tray he assumed would be full of bullets. The magazine is empty. There are no bullets. There probably never were, even when Evan was using this gun as leverage against Barty’s on the very first day.
Barty puts the empty magazine back in the pistol. Hot shame, relief, anger fills his body. If the gun was loaded, his task would be complete. And then Evan’s slow breaths fill the room, and tears prick the corners of his eyes. If the gun was loaded, he might as well have turned it on himself.
With trembling hands, he puts the safety latch back on. He tapes the gun back to the side of the wardrobe. Taking one last look at Evan still sound asleep, he leaves the hotel room.
~
The walk back to his flat is long, but needed. Quiet streets and a clouded sky obscures the stars. Barty imagines how Evan would react if he knew what he’d just tried to do. He pictures Evan’s face twisting in confusion, horror, sadness, which breaks him more.
His hands refuse to stop trembling as he strides through the streets. He can’t believe this is what his life has come to. Attempting to kill the one person he’s ever loved for the sake of proving a point for a man who despises Barty’s weakness. And for what? The fear-driven approval of some elite families ten years down the line? He’s worse than Avery, than Riddle himself.
But it didn’t work. The pistol wasn’t loaded. Evan is still alive.
It’s past two in the morning by the time Barty gets home. He spots the kitchen light is still on from outside. Avery must be awake. The seed of guilt inside of him blossoms into something bigger at the prospect of Avery’s questions of where he’s been yesterday and tonight. Spending the day and night with the man I love, and then trying to shoot him.
The bitter taste in his mouth isn’t regret that it didn’t work; it’s self-hatred. How can he stoop any lower than this betrayal?
Barty unlocks the door, planning to pour himself a glass of whiskey and go to bed. He hopes that things will seem clearer tomorrow morning, but he doubts it. The thought of facing Evan feels impossible.
In the kitchen, he finds two of the last people he wants to see sitting at the table with Avery: Mulciber and Wilkes. They crowd around a pile of playing cards. Avery must be beyond bored if he’s resorted to inviting them over.
Mulciber’s tank top shows off the tattoos snaking up his arms and around his neck. Most notably, the black ink of a serpent is imprinted onto his inner arm, a reminder of what Barty should be working towards. A reminder of who Riddle favours out of all of them.
Barty’s expression darkens. He used to think he’d be safe in his own flat, but with Riddle’s visit and now this, he’s bombarded with the reminder that his life doesn’t belong to him.
“Oh, hi,” says Avery, looking surprised to see him.
“Here he is,” Mulciber says. “Back from Rosier’s shag den so soon? Have you finished him off yet, or are you hoping to get a few more nights' use out of him?”
Barty heads straight to the cupboard to grab a glass and the whiskey, not in the mood for entertaining their jokes. Although it’s not a joke, and everyone knows it. Apart from Avery, perhaps, but he looks more interested in the card game than whatever Mulciber has to say.
“Riddle gave me ten days," Barty snaps. His voice is distant, just like his limbs. The world stopped feeling real when he pulled that trigger. “It's day five, that gives me five more days if you dickheads can’t count.”
“I don’t blame you,” Mulciber shrugs. “I’d be wringing that bitch dry if I had all week, too. What did the messages say, again, Wilkes?”
“‘Only hot visitors allowed’ or some bullshit,” Wilkes says. “Fuckin’ called it. We’ve been taking bets on how many days it would take that fag to try and fuck you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Barty says, clenching his fists. Don’t call him that, he narrowly avoids saying. He grabs his drink, and puts the bottle back in the cupboard with a bang. His adrenaline hasn't found an outlet yet. Barty thought he was going to sleep it off, but it's back, coursing through his veins stronger than before.
“I said day eight,” Mulciber pipes up, “but it seems like I didn't give Rosier enough credit of how desperate he'd be for your cock down his throat.”
At Mulciber's sadistic smile, cruel words hitting him where it hurts most, Barty sees red. Uncontrollable anger pumps through his veins as he lunges forward.
He goes straight for Mulciber. The first punch lands on his jaw, taking him by surprise.
Barty doesn't usually pick fights, especially not with people bigger than him who train weights a stupid number of hours a week. He can usually keep his anger in check, he can take the sly remarks and taunting and everything. Just not today. Not when he’s on the cusp of losing Evan.
Mulciber reacts well to the full force of fully-grown man being flung at him. He grabs Barty’s wrists to stop his punches, pulling Barty to the floor. He loses his footing in the process. They end up jostling around on the floor.
Protests from Avery and Wilkes fall on deaf ears. All Barty hears is blood roaring in his ears, and all he feels is the desire to hurt Mulciber.
Although Mulciber has more brute strength than him, Barty isn’t afraid to play dirty. He claws at Mulciber’s eyes, digging his teeth into the hand that goes to choke him. Mulciber gets a few punches in, but Barty barely feels it over the buzzing in his head.
Then Mulciber manages to grab Barty’s hair and slam his head down. Barty’s face hits the floor, hard. Pain ripples through his body, coming from his nose. He’s momentarily stunned, Mulciber’s heavier weight pinning his arms down. He tries to scrabble for leverage, but Mulciber’s grip holds tight.
Barty’s vision blurs, and something wet is dribbling down his face. Probably blood from where Mulciber smashed in his nose. Still, anger boils as he tries to twist out of Mulciber’s grasp. Then a pain strikes across his face, knocking all the strength out of him.
Back on the floor, staring at the white ceiling, Barty’s head spins with pain, anger and fading adrenaline. He tastes copper in his mouth. He doesn’t try to move. Vision blurring, he wonders if he’s about to embarrass himself by passing out.
In his peripheral vision, he sees Wilkes pulling Mulciber off him and Avery yelling something he can’t distinguish. The ringing in his ears gets louder. He’s looking down the barrel of a gun at the love of his life lying fast asleep.
The sound of a foot stamping on the floor brings Barty back to the room. He looks up, body uselessly lying on the floor in a fight he knew he couldn’t win, to see Mulciber glaring at him from across the room. Blood trickles from his nose where Barty must’ve landed a punch.
“You want to try and beat my ass again?” Mulciber shouts. “See how well that goes for you.” He spits on the carpet. “Fucking bitch.”
Between them, probably stopping Barty from being beaten half to death, is Wilkes who is ushering Mulciber towards the door.
“Keep your mutt under control next time,” Wilkes snaps to Avery. He shoots Barty one last look. “The fuck was that, Crouch? You on your period or something?”
And then there’s Avery, standing over Barty. Barty can’t see his expression as he faces Mulciber, but he can hear the irritation in his voice.
“Are we sixteen?” Avery says, staring between them. “Seriously, Mulciber? Just give us some space.”
Barty knows he’s fucked it when Avery is the voice of reason. He props himself up with his elbow, pain searing through his ribs where Mulciber jammed his elbow down.
Mulciber’s laugh is hollow. “You’re lucky I haven’t kicked out that botched robotic leg yet, Avery. You have some fucking nerve asking if I’m serious when your keyed-up little bitch is the one who started this. The both of you can fuck right off. Watch your back, Crouch.” It’s the last thing he says before throwing open the door and storming out, followed closely by Wilkes.
The door slams shut. Barty listens to the silence for a few moments. He likes to imagine he’s still lying in Evan’s bed, perfectly serene, before any of this happened. Maybe if he’d stayed, Evan would’ve woken him up with kisses and breakfast and they could continue pretending for five more days.
“What the hell was that?”
Avery’s voice punctuates the silence, ruining Barty’s fantasy. A face appears in his vision. Barty manages to prop himself up on his elbows. At least his fingers have stopped trembling.
“He deserved it,” Barty mutters, dragging himself up to sit against the sofa. He breathes in uneasily, his rib twinging with pain every time he inhales.
“I’m not denying that,” says Avery. He grabs the kitchen roll and passes it to him. “But he says shit like that all the time. You’ve never lunged at him before.”
Barty wipes his face with a square of kitchen roll, and then another when the blood drenches the first one. He hasn’t been in a state like this since he lived with his dad. Familiarity doesn’t make it easier.
“Maybe that’ll make him reconsider being such a smug, conceited, homophobic cunt,” Barty breathes, as if Mulciber didn’t just incapacitate him within a matter of moments. Mulciber can crow over anything, but not Evan.
Avery shrugs, sitting on the floor opposite. “Is this about Rosier?”
Rosie. Barty takes a long, painful breath in as he wipes more blood away. His light, his sunshine, his fucking world. How could he even consider hurting someone so dear to his heart?
“I know he was trying to piss you off, but he was kind of right about Rosier wanting to get with you,” Avery continues in his usual frank tone. “We all saw yesterday’s messages. Besides, Rosier totally had a crush on you in school. You’re the only one he ever talked to, and he was always pulling you away so he could get you alone-”
“Alright, I get it,” Barty interrupts. He hates how everyone assumed him and Evan’s relationship was one-sided just because Evan was out and Barty wasn’t. “Doesn’t mean they have to be dicks about it.”
Avery looks expectant. “But are they right? I mean, where else have you been all of yesterday and tonight?”
“Are you my mum?” Barty snaps, only holding back from a ruder remark because Avery’s question seems to come from a place of genuine curiosity. “I wasn’t aware you wanted detailed notes on our every move, including whether we’ve sucked each other off.”
Avery’s cheeks pinken. “I don’t,” he says a little defensively. “I just thought you’d have done it by now. It’s a pretty simple job.”
If Barty was in any fit state, he’d have shoved Avery in the chest and told him to leave him the fuck alone. But sitting on the carpet, bleeding and bruised, all the adrenaline has drained out of him. He swallows thinking of himself standing over Evan’s bed. He can’t admit that he’s already tried and failed.
“Five more days, dickhead,” Barty says flatly. “I'm good at this. I know what I'm doing."
Avery's critical expression softens. "If you don't want to shoot him upfront, I know a sniper guy who can lend you some kit."
The suggestion is at the very least generous. At the most, helping Barty avoid the rules of the task, directly disobeying Riddle’s orders, could be bordering on treason. He’s trying to make this easier for Barty, and maybe Barty feels a little better knowing that Avery doesn’t want him to end up dead for failing this task.
“There's only one sniper guy and I know him too, so just back off,” Barty says, though the fight is gone from his voice. “I’ve got this.”
Avery shrugs. “Fine. Just don’t pick any more fights you can’t win.”
“Alright, Mum,” Barty says sulkily. He knew he could never take Mulciber. He just wanted to punch something, to take his hurt out on someone who deserves it. “I’m going to bed, so don’t wake me up. I need to rest.”
The final sentence is a little too raw. Barty wants to knock himself out and sleep for the next five days until this living nightmare of is over. He wants to wake up and it be someone else’s problem.
“Do you need a hand?” Avery asks as Barty slowly draws a leg up.
Barty has felt worse pain. He doesn’t think anything is broken, and he’s not stooped to the level of accepting hand-ups from someone who’s in no position to haul Barty’s body weight off the floor.
“I’m fine,” Barty says as he pulls himself up. He grabs the glass of whiskey he left on the counter, and returns to his room. He pauses by the door, glancing back at Avery who’s now alone, at a loss with three sets of playing cards on the table.
“Thanks for having my back,” he says. Before he can catch Avery’s surprise, he pulls the bedroom door shut.
Barty sinks into the single bed, finally alone. He knocks back his whiskey, wincing at the burning in his throat. At least he feels real again. Plugging his nostrils with kitchen roll, he tunnels under his duvet, ready to never resurface again.
When he closes his eyes, his mind spins in circles. How has one coffee meeting spiralled into this? Cupping Evan's tear-stained face, arms wrapped around his torso, falling asleep in each other’s arms. Evan is seeping with sadness, that much is obvious. Maybe killing him would put him out of his misery.
A loaded pistol and a hand-made purple bracelet lie inches below him. Somehow, he has to work up the courage to do this. There is no other option.
Chapter Text
Beep beep. Beep beep.
An abrasive noise drags Barty out of the unconscious state he'd escaped into. He knows it’s his mobile ringing before he realises that he’s awake.
The noise keeps going, and he groans as his consciousness sharpens. It feels like his whole body has been rolled under an iron press. Every limb is dull with pain, and his nose is still stinging. He curses the man who picked a fight with Mulciber the night before just to get the self-hatred out of his system.
He gropes for his phone on the bedside table, wincing at the bright morning light from where he forgot to draw the curtains. He finds it and peels open an eye to check who’s ringing him.
Narcissa Black. Or Narcissa Malfoy, as she's now known.
Swallowing the dryness in his throat, Barty accepts the call. Narcissa has been leading the Knights’ surveillance operations for years. He dreads to think what dirt she has on him, especially since he and Evan haven't exactly been covert, texting on registered phones and riding around on Avery's motorbike.
“Hello?” he says, sinking back into the pillow. His voice is sore and scratchy, and his nose throbs with pain.
“Barty. I need to speak to you.” Narcissa’s professional voice comes through loud and clear.
The dread in Barty’s stomach grows at the ominous words. “Am I in trouble?” he tries to say dryly, but he can't hide his anxiety.
“No,” she says. “Can you come to mine this afternoon? I have something I need to share with you. In private.”
Barty racks his brains, but he knows he’s not going to find anything out over the phone. His current plans for the day consist of drinking more alcohol and finding some ice for his nose. His phone has no new messages from the only name he wants to see, though Barty can't blame Evan when he was the one who took off in the middle of the night without a word.
“Yes, I can come over,” he says. “What time?”
“Half two."
“Okay.” Barty winces as he sits up, pain shooting through his ribs. The duvet has fallen to one side to reveal purple bruises on his shins where Mulciber dug his heels in. “Can you send a car?”
“I’ll send Octavia over,” Narcissa says. “See you soon.”
“Octavia?” Barty says, but she’s already hung up. Is she really going to make him get a lift from the wife of the man Barty picked a fight with last night?
Barty is left staring at the phone, wondering what Narcissa needs to tell him so desperately. She tracks his messages, bank cards, location- anything that could reveal how close he’s become to Evan.
Guilt hits him all at once at the mental image of Evan waking up and realising Barty left without so much as a text. Maybe he’ll be confused, angry, heartbroken. Maybe he’ll check his pistol is still taped to the inside of his wardrobe. Barty hopes that whatever Narcissa has to tell him will help clear his head more than getting beaten within an inch of his life did.
~
Barty knows he looks like shit. Bruises on his ribs and shins aside, his nose is wonky, probably broken, and the skin around his left eye is swollen in the beginnings of a black eye. He was expecting the incredulous look Octavia gives him when he gets into the car.
Octavia says nothing. The car’s atmosphere is loaded with the unspoken knowledge of what happened last night. Barty can't tell what she makes of it, but he doubts she’d side with the hot-tempered man who attacked her husband.
“You’re going to Narcissa’s?” Octavia says, keeping her thoughts hidden behind her blank expression.
“Yes," says Barty.
Only when they’re on the main road, distracted by traffic and road works, does she speak again.
“What happened last night?” Her voice is hesitant, almost concerned.
“Did Mulciber not tell you?” Barty says, surprised. He’s not a complete pushover– Mulciber would’ve gone home with a few bruises himself.
She gives him a sideways glance. “He said you attacked him," she says, "but it looks more like it was the other way around.”
Something unusual creeps into her tone: doubt. It’s pureblood etiquette to be unquestioningly supportive of one’s spouse, but maybe Octavia isn’t as willing to blindly support a man she barely knows.
“It’s not my fault your husband’s a tank of a man,” Barty retorts. “Fucking steamrolled me. Don’t tell him that, though.”
“Only if you stop calling him my husband.”
Barty's eyebrows shoot up. Definitely no blind support for Mulciber on her end. A smile tugs at his lips. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who despises his guts,” he says. He clenches his jaw thinking to last night, Mulciber’s relentless remarks about how pathetically desperate Evan is for him.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Octavia says, panic seeping into her voice.
“I know,” Barty says quickly. “I’m just saying, I know he can be an insufferable cunt.” He glances at her curiously. It’s too soon to be asking these kinds of questions, but he might as well try. “It’s not a happy marriage, then?” he says with just enough irony to keep humour dancing along the edges of their conversation.
Octavia’s expression is closed as she stares straight ahead. “We’re doing fine.” The undercurrent of her plain words suggests the opposite.
Barty leans back in his seat, deciding not to push it. He checks his phone– still no message from Evan. He’s not surprised; he knows it’s on him to make the first move, and he’s dreading how he's going to explain any of this. Maybe he could look into Avery’s offer of a sniper guy after all.
Narcissa’s house is on the same side of town as Bellatrix’s. Unlike Bellatrix, she lives in an ordinary-sized family home with her husband and child. She’s as different from her sister as Regulus was to Sirius. Instead of pursuing Riddle’s direct reverence, she takes an organisational role.
Octavia pulls up on the street of semi-detached houses. Barty doesn’t have many people around him, even less who he trusts. Perhaps gaining an ally in Octavia might be a smart move. Even if she’s like him- an unimportant, overlooked pawn- a few years down the line, she could join Barty in making up Riddle’s closest circle.
“I don’t have your number,” he says, pausing before he gets out.
Octavia’s expression has returned to a blank slate. “I’m married.” Quiet, balanced words. Clearly, she thinks she’s said too much.
“God, no, not like that,” Barty scoffs. At Octavia’s doubtful look, he realises it’s not obvious that he’s not trying to hit on her when all he’s done is shit-talk her husband and ask for her number. “I’m already seeing someone,” he explains, swallowing away the reminder of Evan’s soft ’are we boyfriends?’. “I just meant we’ll probably be working together in the future, so it would be good to keep in contact. Besides, you think I’d want to mess with your cunt of a hus-” He stops himself. “That cunt Mulciber after this?” He gestures to his bruised face.
His self-deprecation coaxes a tiny smile out of her.
“Okay,” Octavia finally says, getting out her phone.
With Octavia’s number, and hopefully a future ally, successfully acquired, Barty gets out of the car.
The pit of anticipation in his stomach is back. Narcissa probably has something to say about how much time he’s been spending with Evan. Maybe Riddle is getting bored and brought forward the task's end date. Maybe Avery snitched about how Barty seems to have zero desire to kill Evan, and Barty’s about to be shot in the head and dumped in a river for falling in love with a traitor.
Narcissa opens the door with a reserved smile. Barty rethinks the being shot and dumped in a river theory when she politely invites him in.
Like Octavia, she has a curious look at the state of his face. “Don’t ask,” he says, not wanting to replay the furious burning emotions that led to his attack on Mulciber.
Thankfully, Narcissa doesn’t. “Come through,” she says. “It’s just us today. And Draco, of course.”
Barty breathes a little easier knowing her intimidating sister or uptight husband Lucius aren’t lurking around. He doesn’t mind being alone with her- she’s one of the few Knights he can stand. And as Regulus’ cousin, he’s spent plenty of time with her over the years.
“How come you sent Octavia to get me?” Barty asks, wondering if that was some kind of test.
“She was already on her way, so it wasn’t much of a detour to pick you up,” Narcissa replies.
Barty raises his eyebrows, wondering if Octavia is going to become her next protegé. “Are you teaching her code?”
“No. We’ve got a meeting at three, so I offered to meet her beforehand.”
Barty’s mind goes blank. “What meeting?”
“Full of questions today, aren’t you, Barty?” Narcissa sighs wearily. “It’s a women’s meeting, so unless you have a sudden change of lifestyle, I'm afraid you're not invited.”
Barty wasn’t aware there were women only meetings, but decides not to question it. He looks around the living room, the picture of domestic bliss that Barty never had growing up. Matching sofas and pillows, books and toys piled up, every corner baby-proofed with tape. Draco, Narcissa’s six-month-old son, is lying face-up on a colourful mat in the middle of the room. He gurgles happily when Narcissa comes in, and Narcissa bends down to kiss him on the forehead.
“Octavia mentioned she wasn’t getting on with Mulciber,” says Barty, a white lie that he hopes will earn him more information about the state of their relationship.
Narcissa raises her eyebrow like she knows exactly what he’s doing. “She had an arranged marriage the moment she left school to a man four years older than her. Would you be happy?”
“Not if the freak I married was Mulciber,” Barty mutters.
"Right." Narcissa’s smile is tight. “Enough gossip. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
She gestures him to the far corner, a multiple screened set-up with wires and keyboards everywhere. Barty thinks it’s ironic that the surveillance hub of such a self-proclaimed sophisticated organisation is in a young mother’s living room.
“Have a seat,” Narcissa says. She clicks on the central computer, clicking through several tabs before getting to an audio file. It’s dated to yesterday. She turns the volume on and presses play.
You don’t know what you’re doing to me, rugged motorbike man. Evan’s voice comes through the screen, distant but each word clear. Barty’s eyes widen as he realises what this is- an audio file from inside Evan’s hotel room.
I can guess. Barty’s face flushes hearing his own voice played back to him.
Fuck, Evan–
Say it again. Tell me exactly what you want.
Narcissa taps the space bar. “I'll stop it there. We both know what happens next. Suffice to say, that wasn't one of my favourite listens.”
Barty’s face is flaming hot. He buries his face in his hands as he remembers everything that happened last night, from Evan messily making out with him in the corridor to Barty begging them to go to the bedroom to Evan fucking him into the mattress. At no point were they subtle or quiet.
“I didn’t know you had fucking bugs in there,” he groans, too embarrassed to meet her eye. He can only thank god it wasn’t Wilkes monitoring him as Narcissa regards him with raised eyebrows.
“Mind your language,” Narcissa frowns, glancing at Draco obliviously gurgling away on his play mat. She meets a very red Barty’s eyes. “The bugs are on the back of the toaster, on top of the third wardrobe and on the underside of the coffee table. I suggest either Rosier happens to find them, or you take your… conversations elsewhere.”
Barty's eyes widen. “Are you not going to tell Riddle?” he says. Then, as questions whizz through his head, “why would you sabotage your own surveillance?”
“I would hardly call not wanting to listen to you two having sex sabotage,” Narcissa says, ignoring Barty’s embarrassed wince. “I have plenty of other surveillance on you. Regarding Riddle, I doubt he wants to know your activities in this level of detail. And even if I did tell him, this doesn't change anything. He's expecting you to kill Rosier regardless.”
Barty frowns slightly. “So why are you telling me about the bugs if it makes no difference?” If it was one of the others, the answer would be obvious: to humiliate him. But Narcissa’s expression is neutral. She’s not taking any pleasure in this.
Narcissa looks him directly in the eyes. “Because I know you're not going to kill him.”
A hot flash of panic. The words cut to Barty’s core. His throat feels like sandpaper, his guard suddenly up.
“You don't know anything about me,” he snaps, crossing his arms. He doesn't know what Narcissa is doing- whether she’s trying to blackmail him or play him for information or something else. She’s also wrong. Barty aimed a gun at Evan’s head and squeezed the trigger. He’s already completed the task. He has already killed him.
“I know you care about Evan very much,” she says, reverting to Evan’s first name instead of the detached 'Rosier'.
Barty doesn’t take his guard down. “No shit. That’s the whole point.”
A frown flickers over Narcissa’s face, but she doesn’t bite back. Her gaze turns to Draco, who’s attempting to crawl over to his stuffed animals.
“I was like you, Barty. I was young and ambitious and I wanted respect within the Knights,” she says. “So I worked hard and I got it. I thought it was my right, my destiny, to end up where I am now. My life was the Knights, like it always had to be.” Eyes trained on Draco, her voice softens. “But then I became a mother. It might seem to you like nothing has changed- I’m close to Riddle, I’m doing the same surveillance- but that’s not true. My perspective has changed.” She glances around, but they’re alone. “I’m not part of this collective suicide mission anymore. There are more important things, like my son's well-being. He needs me. I can’t endanger myself anymore, for his sake.”
Barty’s eyes widen. Each word is more traitorous, more treasonous than the last. She could be shot for views like that. The organisation comes above everything, they’re taught that from the start. Anyone who isn’t willing to sacrifice themselves is out.
“Why would you tell me that?” he says incredulously. This could be an elaborate hoax, right down to the way she’s staring fondly at Draco. “You know I have to report you for that.”
A desperate edge enters Narcissa’s eyes. “This isn’t some kind of test, Barty. I’m telling you this in confidence because I want you to know that I’m with you.” She pauses. “My dear cousin, Regulus. Your friend.”
Barty’s eyes dull. Four years later, the stinging loss is still present. His closest friend throughout school, torn out of life before he could reach adulthood. He doesn’t understand why this is relevant. He doesn’t know what Narcissa is ‘with’ him in in the first place.
“What happened to him wasn’t justice or vengeance,” she continues. “It was a tragedy. It was unfair that he died so young because of politics.”
Regulus was a traitor, and he deserved to die. That’s what Riddle says. That’s what everyone says. Yet Narcissa’s words seem genuine, which just makes the anxious churning in Barty’s stomach worse. Narcissa is one of Riddle’s most trusted allies, and now she’s burdening him with the information that she isn’t fully supportive of the Knights? Every bone in his body screams traitor, tells him to run and call someone more important who can deal with this.
But then he thinks about Regulus, the way he’d slump down next to Barty in lessons and rest his chin on his hand, speaking with expressive eyes and swinging his legs underneath his seat. He thinks about Evan’s closed eyes, chest moving up and down as he slept beside Barty in utter trust.
His heart hardens and years of hopes freeze in the matter of seconds. He has one job. One job that he’s already completed, if it wasn’t for one empty magazine.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” he says. The response is too weak, too questioning. If this is a test, he’s already failed.
Narcissa exhales with relief that he hasn’t flipped at her treasonous words. “Because I think if he'd had someone on his side, Regulus could have made it out alive. He didn’t have to die, and neither do you or Evan.”
Regulus didn’t have to die. The words plunge into Barty’s chest like a knife. It’s such an unfair thing to say, wrapping his body in pins and needles. He’s tried to stop obsessing over how things could’ve been different- if Regulus had escaped, if Evan had stayed. Thinking of all the brighter, better possibilities was slowly killing him. He can’t go back.
“You’re wrong,” he snaps. “Regulus died because he was a traitor, and now Evan has to, too. This fantasy of yours where we all skip off into the sunset together doesn’t exist. It didn’t exist from the day Regulus died.” He refuses to let his voice wobble. He can’t think about how things could be different, because that would mean giving himself hope.
“Perhaps,” Narcissa says. Her expression is distanced, disappointed.
“I don’t think you’ve thought this through,” Barty continues angrily, quick to dismiss any glimmer of hope. “If I don’t kill him, Riddle kills me and Evan will wind up dead anyway. It’s not like we can run away. Camille was killed in England three years after she left. There’s no future where we make it out of this.” His words are raw, and he feels the annoying stinging of tears in his eyes. “The only way we don’t both end up dead is if I kill him.”
Narcissa looks sad. “Perhaps,” she repeats. She looks at Draco, her voice back to normal. “I need to know that you won’t tell anyone what I’ve said today.”
It’s a risk, another test. Or maybe her emotions are genuine, and she just doesn’t want to see more people she grew up with die for the sake of a cause she’s no longer invested in. Barty doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. None of this makes a difference to his task.
“Yeah. Fine. You owe me,” he adds, irritated that Narcissa has burdened him with her traitorous thoughts. Maybe his body will end up in a river somewhere after all.
Narcissa smiles thinly. “And you owe me, so I suppose it cancels out.”
“Whatever,” Barty mutters, refusing to look at the audio tape still on screen. “Delete that and we’re even.”
Narcissa agrees, and shows him deleting it although she probably has a dozen backups in case Barty threatens to rat her out.
Barty won’t allow himself to get false hope, but he thinks about her words. He thinks about Regulus, and what it would’ve taken to save him. He wonders if there’s a possibility he and Evan can make it out. But that’s too dangerous to think. Hope is too dangerous.
Five days left with Evan, and this isn’t going to be one of them, not with the memory of last night burning like fire in his mind. He needs to go home, get an ice pack on his nose and clear his mind from this influx of new information.
All he feels is hopelessness recalling Camille’s funeral. Even if they run, they’ll never be safe. It will take far more than Narcissa’s support to save them.
==============
Barty spends the rest of the day determinedly doing nothing. He shuts himself in the flat, holding ice on his nose. He puts his phone in his room to stop himself checking it every minute for a non-existent text from Evan.
He sits in the living room, switching between television channels and half-listening to Avery talk about code and firewalls. He does what he’s always done and lets the guilt gnaw away at him in silence.
Narcissa’s words are a welcome distraction from thinking about the previous night, particularly Evan’s reaction to waking up alone. Barty doesn’t want Evan to think he’s abandoned him or that he thought it was all a big mistake, but what else does leaving unexplained imply?
He didn’t have to die. Another uncomfortable thought that he tries to avoid is Regulus. Barty turns the television up louder. Regulus died a long time ago. Who does Narcissa think she is, dropping his dead friend into the conversation like that’s going to soften him up to her traitorous ideas?
Barty goes into the bedroom to check his phone for the tenth time this hour. No text from Evan. It would take more than Narcissa’s support to save their lives, but first Barty needs to work on saving their relationship so his last memory of Evan isn't arguments and empty chats. When the pain in his unattractively swollen nose has gone down, an apology for running off would probably be a start.
Chapter Text
The next morning, Barty can’t put it off any longer. The moment he wakes up, his mind is on one thing: Evan.
He reaches for his phone before he can process the thrumming pain in his nose and ribs. The lockscreen is empty. Evan hasn’t messaged.
It’s no wonder that Evan has gone furiously silent at being abandoned after they slept together. It was a shitty thing to do, especially on top of everything Evan is already dealing with. But there was also the pistol levelled at his head which doesn’t make leaving without a text seem so bad. Barty has no plans to jeopardise his mission or their fragile relationship by admitting what really happened that night.
He tucks Riddle’s pistol in his waistband and puts his bomber jacket on. The mirror reflects a sight for sore eyes: a purple ring around his left eye, swollen nose and a bruised jaw from where Mulciber stamped his face into the hard floor. Grabbing Avery’s motorbike key off the hook, he heads out.
Barty drives towards Evan’s hotel with grim determination. He can still feel the ghost of Evan’s lips on his. Narcissa’s audio file runs through his head at mortifying intervals. Even she could tell it wasn’t a meaningless hook-up; she risked everything to tell Barty that she supports him and Evan’s escape.
The sideways looks have escalated into full-on stares as Barty walks through the hotel’s lobby. An usher stops him to ask where he’s staying. “Room three-three-five. Evan Rosier,” Barty says without hesitation. The usher looks up the name on his iPad before reluctantly nodding Barty through.
He knocks on Evan’s hotel room door three times, and waits. The pistol is cold against his back. Three more days. Maybe he can end things today.
He waits, and knocks again, and waits another minute before deciding Evan must be out. Hoping Evan hasn’t looked through the keyhole and left him out here, he gets out his phone. The dodgy app he downloaded last week works within seconds of putting his phone up to the key card reader. It unscrambles it, and the light buzzes green.
The interior of Evan’s hotel room looks the same. The living room and kitchen are in pristine condition, and when he checks the bedroom, the blinds are closed and the bed is empty. No sign of Evan. Thankfully, his clothes are still in the wardrobe and his suitcase is slotted under his bed.
Following Narcissa’s advice, Barty looks for the bugs she directed him to. A flush creeps up his chest when he finds the one in the bedroom that recorded their passionate night together. He takes the tiny recording device off the wardrobe and stamps on it with his heel, grateful that Narcissa went out of her way to warn him. If Wilkes had heard any of their overly familiar exchanges, it would be grounds for execution.
He does the same for the other two bugs, one under the coffee table and one on the back of the toaster. With his task done, he sets his pistol on the coffee table like Evan did on the first day, and sits on the sofa. There, he waits for Evan to return.
A nerve-wracking fifteen minutes later, the key card buzzes. Barty sharpens as the door opens. The familiar padding of Evan's footsteps comes down the hall with a rustling plastic bag. He must've gone for groceries.
Evan rounds the corner. His eyes widen at the sight of Barty on the sofa. Bleached locs falling around the sides of his face, the black sweatshirt he was wearing when they biked to the coast, his eyes are deliciously deep and brimming with emotion. Any hard resolve Barty had falls away at the sight of him.
“Barty,” Evan exclaims, dropping his bag and coming over. “Christ, what happened to you?”
Barty stands up, willing his knees not to crumble under the pressure of how Evan’s gaze is pouring with concern. Like he cares, really cares about him. His legs almost don’t make it when Evan’s first instinct is to cup Barty’s cheeks. His grasp is so gentle, so caring, and he pulls away when Barty winces.
Barty is momentarily lost for words. He’d anticipated anger, confusion, fury at being abandoned. He pictured a blame-fuelled shouting match where Evan yelled at him for being so selfish as to ruin his life after his mum just died. He hadn’t expected worry. He hadn’t expected Evan to cup his cheeks like he’s made of glass.
“I knew something was wrong when I woke up and you weren’t there,” Evan says, frowning at the bruises littering his skin. “Did you get called away on a job?”
At the innocent question automatically giving Barty the benefit of the doubt, Barty realises that whatever act he was planning to put on has already failed. His heart hurts and his legs feel like jelly. He can’t believe he pointed a gun at this man. He can’t believe he thought he could survive without him.
“No,” he says, swallowing any emotion behind a flat voice. “Sorry. I should’ve texted you.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Evan says, his expression twisting with confusion. “What happened, then? Why did you leave?”
Barty flounders for words. “I just had to- I had to go,” he mumbles.
“Why haven’t you messaged me for an entire day and a half? Do you know how fucking worried I’ve been?”
“Evan–”
Crimson floods Evan’s cheeks as the reality of Barty’s abandonment sets in. “Don’t ‘Evan’ me. What the fuck is your problem? You come back to mine for sex and then you leave in the middle of the night and don’t even bother to text me afterwards like I’m some sort of drunken hookup? Is that all I am to you?”
“No, obviously not,” Barty fires back defensively. Heat rises in his voice at Evan’s blissful ignorance. “You don’t get it, ok? I can’t just do whatever I like. I’m on a job, in case you forgot.”
“Oh, a job,” Evan says with bitter mocking. “Important Barty has a job which involves him taking me on his bike to the coast, kissing me in front of the ocean, begging me to fuck him in the ass and then running off in the middle of the night without a word. What the fuck is your problem? Seriously?” He shoves Barty square in the chest with furious eyes. His protective worry has gone.
Barty staggers back, though Evan’s shove isn’t forceful in the slightest. Not a bone in his body wants to shove Evan back, or hurt him in any way like his desire to punch Mulciber. That doesn’t mean he’s not annoyed at how easy this has been for Evan. Evan has no secret agenda, no future to uphold, and no kill job.
“I don't have a problem,” Barty retorts. “You're the one who's making a big deal out of nothing.” His words are unfair, but he can’t tell the truth, that this mission has brought him to his breaking point.
“Nothing?” Evan raises his voice to say. “Was it nothing when you confessed how much you’d missed me, how you got depressed every year when my birthday came around? Was it nothing when we made out in front of the sea, or when you were moaning my name into my mouth like you couldn’t get enough?”
The words hit Barty where it hurts. Evan isn’t cruel, but he’s good at saving up his insults for when he needs them.
“It was sex,” Barty spits, though they both know it was so much more than that.
“Yeah, and you do that all the time,” Evan says sarcastically. “How many guys have you shagged since I left, again? Or were you too fucking heartbroken to even touch anyone? Poor little Barty, waiting for his boyfriend to return.”
Barty glares at him. “You’re an asshole,” he spits. And god, does he want to kiss Evan more than anything. Tension setting the air alight, Evan looks perfect like this.
Evan steps forward, his face inches away from Barty’s. He doesn’t bother to disguise how his eyes drop to Barty’s lips like he’s thinking the same thing.
“You need me,” Evan says dangerously quietly.
Barty holds his composure, determined not to break first. Their lips are just inches away. “I don’t need shit from you,” he hisses.
“While we’re both lying, I loved waking up in the morning to an empty bed, no note, no text like you couldn’t wait to see the back of me.” The hurt in Evan’s voice is crystal clear. He’s staring at Barty so intensely. Barty can’t think of a more beautiful sight than his eyes full of emotion, lips wet, the atmosphere charged.
He breaks and leans in to kiss Evan, but he’s stopped by a hand on his neck. Evan’s cold hand rests against Barty’s skin, stopping him from closing the gap. The touch alone puts him in overdrive.
“You left me first,” Barty murmurs through wet lips. There’s no anger or accusation behind his words, just the ugly truth.
Evan’s grip loosens, and he drops it to clutch Barty’s shirt. “Fuck you,” he utters, before yanking Barty forwards into a kiss.
Their lips collide in a burning rage of anger and betrayal and secrecy. Evan yanks Barty forward by his shirt, another one buried into his hair, demanding and harsh. Barty ignores the throbbing pain of his nose as Evan bumps against it. His bruised ribs hit Evan’s torso. The only thing he cares about is being closer to him.
Barty slips his hands below Evan’s sweatshirt to clutch his waist. Their tongues smash together, teeth colliding, messy and hungry. Evan is walking Barty back to the kitchen with a controlling hand in his hair. Barty lets himself be pushed around. He’d let Evan do anything.
Next thing he knows, his back is thudding against the kitchen counter. Evan wedges him up against the marble surface, hips greedily thrusting against Barty’s. He makes a point of grasping the place between Barty’s legs which is bulging with an erection.
“Does being yelled at turn you on?” Evan utters, staring at Barty arched against the counter for him. “Looks like you never fixed your daddy issues.”
Barty barely registers the words as Evan begins thumbing his growing erection through his jeans. Explosions of pleasure run through him alongside the cutting words. Evan could say anything, and his knees would go weak and he’d kiss him regardless.
“Can I blow you?” Barty murmurs between sloppy kisses. Desperately grinding into Evan’s leg isn’t going to last long. He wants Evan to feel the same explosions of pleasure as him.
Evan hesitates, and his grip loosens as the offer catches him off guard. “Seriously?”
“Thought you liked me on my knees,” Barty says. He kneels down for effect, putting his mouth level with Evan’s crotch. He doesn’t break eye contact with Evan’s hungry gaze.
“I do,” Evan says, fondly cupping Barty’s jaw as the heat leaves his voice. “But I did just yell at you about your dad and you having no game since I left.”
“No need to rub it in,” Barty says with a small smile. He comes back up to kiss him again. “It’s not like I was being all sunshine and rainbows, either.” He pauses, caressing Evan’s neck with a hand. “I shouldn’t have left like that. Let me make it up to you.” His hands go to Evan’s belt.
Evan has no objections. “If you insist,” he breathes. He hoists himself up onto the kitchen counter, lying back on his elbows. “Is here alright?”
Barty pulls open Evan’s legs as his answer, and Evan practically moans at being exposed like this. Barty eagerly perches between his legs. He doesn’t waste any time before taking all of Evan’s cock in his mouth. The heightened emotions fuel him as he pushes Evan’s cock as far down his throat as he can go without gagging.
Evan lies back, neck craned as Barty’s tongue swirls around his cock. He grabs fistfuls of Barty’s hair, in the rough throes of lust and desire. Evan doesn’t bother keeping quiet. He moans as Barty gets faster, shoving his hips forward so he’s half fucking Barty’s mouth.
Barty’s eyes are watering as he makes an effort not to gag. The noises Evan is making are magical. The hand in his hair tightens as Evan’s legs clench, trembling.
“Right there,” Evan groans, thrusting into Barty’s mouth until his body goes slack. “Fuck, Bee.” His voice is shaky, half-moaned as an orgasm explodes over him. “God, I fucking love you.”
The words hit the hot air like dynamite. Barty snaps back. He watches Evan orgasm on the kitchen counter where he just fucked him. Evan’s eyelids flicker shut in a post-orgasmic state. He’s so fucking beautiful, but Barty can’t focus.
“What?” he says. The word comes out quiet, uncertain. His throat feels sore and his lips are wet and swollen. He should be riding it out with Evan, but his defences are back up in an instant.
I fucking love you. The words throw him out of his love-dazed stupor immediately. They’ve never said that to each other before. It was implied, obvious through everything they did. But Evan can’t say that to him now as if they’ve got a whole future ahead of them.
Evan sits up, his expression flickering with the realisation of what he just said. He should apologise. He should say it was a heat-of-the-moment mistake. Surely he can’t be as selfish as to burden Barty with his love now.
“Barty,” he says carefully, in a tone that suggests he’s not going to do any of those things.
“Stop,” Barty says. “Just stop.” He turns away to allow Evan to re-dress himself, and maybe to hide his stricken expression. This wasn’t supposed to happen. His only chance of completing his task was through convincing himself that everything had changed. How is he supposed to kill the man who loves him? How is he supposed to kill the man he loves?
“Can we talk?” says Evan a moment later, once he’s pulled his jeans back on. He stands behind Barty in the middle of the kitchen.
Barty doesn’t turn back. Looking Evan in the eyes might kill him. His voice comes out choked, accusing. “Why would you say that?” he says, pathetic and small. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Take it back, now.”
“Barty. Please, look at me.”
It takes Barty all the strength he possesses to turn around and face the realisation he’s been shoving away. Of course nothing has changed. He just didn’t want to admit he’s still in love with the man he has to kill.
Evan’s expression is perfectly serious. His poker face is gone as he regards Barty with all the emotion in his heart.
“I’m not going to take it back,” he says. The words are softer than light. “I’m sorry. I know why you’re upset. I know you think we’re almost through-” He stops at the hand Barty holds up.
Barty didn’t know when he started crying, but his face is suddenly wet with tears. He wipes them away with his sleeve. You’re weak. He’s weak for Evan, and he can’t stop.
“Just don’t,” he whispers. Maybe if they keep playing pretend, going on dates and kissing and pretending that this never has to end, maybe Barty can keep a fragment of his heart intact. When Evan is gone and he only lives in Barty as a memory, he wants that memory to be as bright and as beautiful as possible, not steeped in arguments and tears and pointless love confessions.
Evan steps forward. “Bee,” he says. The nickname undoes Barty. Evan gently tilts his head up so Barty’s tear-stained eyes meet his. “I mean it. I love you."
“No,” Barty gets out in a choked voice. His touch unravels him, leaving his heart bare and unprotected. “You’re just saying that."
"I'm not,” says Evan. “I'm sorry, but you're not so good at giving head that I completely lose my mind. I know we didn’t say it before, but I loved you back then, too. I've missed you so much."
The tears streaming down Barty's cheeks collapse into full-on sobs as Evan cuts the string of plausible deniability that was holding him together. He turns away so Evan doesn't have to watch the snot and tears streaming down his face. Shoulders shake with sobs of emotion. He doesn't want his world to leave again.
"You're making this so fucking hard for me," Barty murmurs, the words thick from his closed-up throat. And then his words run out.
The embarrassing realisation that he can’t stop crying hits Barty when he takes a breath in to calm himself down, and bursts into another round of sobs. They uncontrollably seize him until he’s crying like a baby. His heart feels like it’s palpitating as he sinks to the floor. Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s going to die here, on Evan’s hotel kitchen floor.
Evan says something about water and tissues that Barty isn't listening to. He can't do this anymore. He can't lose the one thing he has.
Evan must put this embarrassing breakdown down to him leaving soon, and that would upset Barty, but not as much as this. If Evan was leaving for England at the end of this week, Barty would still have hope. He'd still dream of the far-off day when the Knights have disbanded and he and Evan can reconcile in the way that makes him weak in Riddle's eyes. He'd still have something to hold onto.
But at the end of this week, he won't have anything left.
Through tear-filled eyes, Barty shakily unlocks his phone. He has to do something that isn't sitting curled up in the corner, crying. He has to find some kind of hope to latch into.
The noisy sobs subside to wet streams of tears as he scrolls through his contacts list. Surely there's someone he can talk about this impossible situation with. It’s too much to bear on his own. His eyes hover over Avery's number. If he phoned Avery, called in all his favours, said he's in love with Evan and begged him to take this task off his hands, he's sure Avery would kill Evan himself and let Barty take the credit for it. It would only take one text to arrange.
Then there's Narcissa who made her support for him clear yesterday, her empathy when talking about Regulus and Draco and Evan. But how is she going to help besides sneaking them out of the country so they can be hunted down for years to come? His new contact, Octavia, sits just below her. Even he's not delusional enough to think a nervous kid who's just left school- Mulciber's wife- could help him.
Broken nose, black eye, his face a mess of tears and snot, curled up on the kitchen of the man he loves, the man he's supposed to kill. If Riddle wanted to break him, he succeeded.
"Found them."
Evan comes back from wherever he went. He sits on the floor where Barty is trying to recompose himself, and holds out a packet of tissues.
“Got you some of that nice chlorine water as well,” Evan says. He sets a glass on the floor beside him.
Barty takes a tissue and noisily blows his nose. He doesn't think he's ever going to live this down. It's not like his mum has died and he's letting out a dam of repressed emotions like Evan rightfully did. He's just weak and pathetic.
“I need to go home,” Barty says. It’s the first thing he’s said since he started crying. If he says much more, he might start up again. He needs his bed and an ice pack for his nose and somewhere where he’s not scorching in the heat of Evan’s love.
“Are you sure?” Evan says, placing a cautious hand on Barty’s knee. “You’re welcome to stay. We could watch TV, or I could make us some food or something.”
“No. I just need to be alone for a bit.” Barty’s voice breaks, and he massages his temples where a headache is forming. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I can’t believe I’ve just cried like that like a fucking idiot on the floor.”
Evan must judge the situation as too delicate to be making jokes, because he just squeezes Barty’s knee in reassurance.
“You’re alright,” he says. “It’s not stupid to cry. I know everything is a lot right now.” His mouth is downturned in the disappointment of finally confessing his love aloud to Barty and receiving a breakdown in return.
Barty wipes his face dry for the last time. He sips the glass of water and practices his blank ‘I’ve-not-just-been-sobbing-my-heart-out’ expression. He can barely bring himself to look at Evan. It’s too painful, like an exposed nerve being nicked at with a razor over and over.
“Why’d you have to be so fuckin’ reasonable?” he mumbles into his glass. This would be so much easier if Evan was a little meaner, a little less considerate, and a lot less in love.
Evan doesn’t reply to this. Instead, he broaches Barty with a question of his own.
"What happened to your face?"
Barty scoffs humourlessly. "Picked a fight with Mulciber. He won."
Evan bites his lip, but doesn't ask him to elaborate. His thumb caresses Barty's knee in circles. "I'd like to take you out for dinner,” he says. “I was going to ask you tonight, but it’s fine if you need some time alone. We could do tomorrow evening. I’ll arrange everything. All you’d have to do is be there for the taxi.” He smiles. “Don’t worry about dressing fancy. You look beautiful in anything. You’re even pretty when you cry.”
With puffy eyes and a pounding head, Barty doubts that. But Evan is making it as easy as he can for Barty to say yes. So easy that Barty finds he has no counter-arguments, no excuses left. He wants to do everything before the ticking time bomb on their relationship blows.
His hand finds Evan’s, and he loops their fingers together. “Okay,” he says, pulling him closer. When Evan kisses him, Barty wraps his arms around his shoulders, wanting nothing more than an endless hug. The years of distance should’ve driven them apart, but here they are, scrambling for each other’s love more than ever before.
Evan’s breath tickles Barty’s neck as he holds him in the hug for a long moment. When they pull away, his smile is bittersweet.
“I’ll text you a time and a place,” he says. “We'll do something fun to take your mind of things, ok?” He squeezes Barty’s hand. “Sorry about the mean shit I said before. I was just angry.”
“I deserved it,” Barty says, earning him a huff of agreement.
“Just a bit,” smiles Evan. “So, are we on for tomorrow?”
Barty sniffs, feeling rather sorry for himself. “Yes,” he says. He has truly ran out of words.
Evan gives him a hand up. He doesn't mention the half-finished glass of water and tissues on the floor. He just tells Barty to text him if he needs anything, and walks him to the door.
~
The cold air helps clear Barty's head. Recovering from his sobbing session, his head is still pulsating and his eyes are bloodshot. At least his cheeks are dry.
He goes into the first alley he finds, slamming his back against the wall and fumbling with his cigarette packet. Something has to give.
He lights the cigarette on the third flick of his lighter. It glows orange in the dingy alley, and he sucks in a drag like he's coming up for air. Without thinking, he pulls his shirt away from his chest and brings the cigarette under it like he has done countless times before.
It's not like Evan's addiction. It's just a bad habit. He doesn't need this. That's what he tells himself as he hungrily stubs the glowing orange embers into his stomach like his life depends on it.
Pain shoots through his body. He grits his teeth, craning his neck up as he twists the cigarette further into his skin. This is for loving Evan. For leaving him. For every mistake he's made. It burns through his skin, sizzling white hot.
It stubs out. Barty drops it. He stares at the circular, red wound burned into the skin of his stomach.
He doesn’t want to go home to the room he was stewing for all of yesterday, to Avery who’ll have more questions he doesn’t want to answer. Yesterday’s meeting with Narcissa comes to mind, and he finds his feet leading him somewhere he hasn’t been in years.
It’s a long but doable walk to the cemetery where Regulus Black is buried. He takes the route away from busy streets and high-rise apartments towards the coast. He’s not sure what he’s hoping to find in the place where Regulus’ name is etched into a marble slab. Maybe a part of himself that he’s forgotten, some strength to get him through this situation. Regulus would know what to do.
As one of the sacred founders of the island, the Black family plot is located in the oldest cemetery on the island. It sits half a mile inland in a field, near where the cliff edge falls away into the distant ocean.
Wind whistles through the grass as Barty cuts through fields on foot. Behind him, the cityscape disappears behind the hills. Out here is vast and solitary. Pain cuts through him every time his shirt brushes against the raw, burned skin. There is no running, no hiding from his thoughts.
Barty could make up an excuse about the cemetery being so out of the way that he’s never got time to put aside an afternoon for it. In reality, he doesn’t like visiting Regulus’ grave as a dark reminder of everything he has lost. He understands why Evan didn’t want to go to his mother’s grave. Years of his life, fragments of his personality and a whole chunk of his memory lies dead under a marble slab. It’s easier to push that thought away and forget he ever had Regulus to begin with.
Today, there is no hiding. Barty has already stamped on the bugs in Evan’s hotel room to protect them from the people he works for. He’s already shouted at Evan and kissed him and listened to him come while he admits that he loves him. The floor has already collapsed under him, he’s cried and gone silent and blown his broken nose so much that his nostrils are red and sore, burnt the skin off his chest just so he can breathe again.
My dear cousin, Narcissa said while recounting a traitor she should be happy is dead. It’s the same overly fond way Barty spoke about Evan to Avery. Every emotion he has turned away is right here, choking him until he’s forced to confront them.
He enters the cemetery through the main gates, walking along the muddy grass to the Black family plot. Some headstones are mossy and decrepit from hundreds of years of exposure to the elements. Others are clean, with flowers placed in pots beside them.
Regulus Arcturus Black.
2001-2018.
Regulus’ gravestone is made of polished black marble like the rest of his family. A tall cross stems up from the grave, towering over the other ones surrounding him. It’s the least that can be done for the Black’s second son.
Surprisingly, there are fresh flowers placed in the iron basket attached at the side, a bunch of blue dahlias. Barty spots a note attached, two letters.
W- x.
He thought Walburga, Regulus’ mother, had long since stopped caring about him, but it seems not. It’s some consolation that someone else’s heart still bleeds for him.
Barty stands over Regulus’ grave, sick emotion rising like bile in the back of his throat. He’s only been here once, the July after Regulus died on what would’ve been his eighteenth birthday. He still remembers how it rained. It took weeks to feel dry again.
“It’s me,” Barty says aloud. His voice is small in the vast countryside. It feels stupid talking to a slab of marble.
A part of him hopes that some part of Regulus is listening to the familiar voice six feet above him. Another part of him is thankful nothing of Regulus remains, otherwise he’s sure it’d be filled with hate that Barty hasn’t visited sooner.
“I still think about you,” he says. Each word gets swept up by the wind. “I haven’t stopped missing you just because you took the easy way out, you freak,” he adds in a bitter breath. “Narcissa said you didn’t have to die. She had the audacity to tell me that yesterday, like that’s going to help anything. Do you know how long it’s been? Four years and two months. Four fucking years, Reg.”
The seed of weakness that was planted in Barty a long time ago has wrapped its vines around every vein and capillary in his body. Inescapable.
“I don’t know what to do,” he bleakly continues. “Evan left, but he’s back now. Riddle wants me to kill him. Narcissa wants us to make a run for it. I think Evan does, too, but he knows how dangerous it is.” He tries to picture Regulus’ face, but the details have been blurry for a while. “I know you’d call me an idiot for overcomplicating things. I know you’d tell me to take Evan and run and not look back, but I’m not like you. I’m weak.”
His body feels too heavy to hold up, so he sinks down to the floor for the second time today. He sits on the muddy grass without a care. When he reaches out a hand, the marble of Regulus’ gravestone is smooth.
“Evan said he loved me.” He bites down a bittersweet smile imagining Regulus rolling his eyes. Of course he loves you, you bloody idiot.
“If he dies, the pain I felt when you died is going to follow me for the rest of my life, but so much worse,” he whispers. Although the words come out small in the rural wasteland, they’re still too loud. “And there’s Pandora. I saw her at Camille’s funeral. Things never got better between us. I think killing Evan might kill her, too.”
If ghosts existed, Barty has no doubt that Regulus would haunt him for the rest of his life for killing Evan and ruining Pandora’s life. Their friend group of four used to be indestructible. Is their legacy for half of them to be dead by twenty-one, and the other half to live the rest of their lives plagued by grief?
Barty just wants things to be uncomplicated for once. He wants his mother to be alive and his dad to be present and he wants to be sixteen again when all his friends were alive and the Knights were less demanding and he spent every day with Regulus and Pandora at school, then his evenings with Evan. He’d give anything to go back.
He’s not like Avery, he has no resolve or determination. He has a vague goal of gaining Riddle’s respect, the fond memory of a traitor and too much love for someone who is about to die. He’s sitting in the mud in front of Regulus’ grave because he has nothing else.
“I know what you’d tell me to do,” Barty whispers. “It’s the same thing that got you killed.” He traces each perfect curve of the words carved in marble with his eyes.
He can almost hear Regulus’ voice rolling off the ocean in the wet air. Take Evan and run.
Chapter Text
The vaseline has made a reappearance. This time, Barty feels marginally less ridiculous about shaping his eyebrows in front of the bathroom mirror. This is the final step. He’s already had a shower, styled his hair, dashed eyeliner under his eyes and put on the nicest aftershave he could find.
He hopes Evan will like his outfit, smart jeans and a shirt he purposefully left untucked in case Evan needs easy access to his waist. Just the thought of getting to touch him again sets his nerves alight, and he releases a long, pent-up sigh. He wonders if Evan will let him take him away to some secluded corner where they can finish what they started before his breakdown yesterday.
This evening, Barty is determined not to think about the humiliation that was yesterday. He’s nervous about seeing Evan again, but he knows Evan won’t mock him for it– his touch was all comfort and reassurance before he left.
His phone pings.
18:50 the taxi is here :)
Barty grabs his wallet and keys. His half-finished eyebrows will have to do. He passes Avery in the living room. Avery seems to have given up on cracking the Order’s encrypted systems and has reverted to video games.
“I’m going out,” Barty says on his way past.
Avery doesn’t look away from the screen. “Okay.”
Barty pauses. The game is playing an unimportant cut scene. “Are you not going to ask me where I’m going?” he says. He thought Avery would at least notice how he’s all dressed up.
“No,” Avery says innocently.
Barty shrugs it off and leaves him to his game. He walks to where he agreed to meet Evan around the corner.
A taxi waits on the corner of the street. Black, expensive. When Barty asked where they were going for dinner, Evan said it was a surprise. The allure of a proper date gives him a shiver of excitement.
Evan gets out of the taxi to greet him. His smile is dazzlingly familiar. As always, he looks stunning: smart trousers, a green shirt in the shade that suits him most, and a gold stud beneath his hair that catches the light.
“You look great,” Evan says as Barty approaches. He gives Barty an indulgently long once-over, not afraid to let his gaze linger in a way that gives Barty butterflies.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” Barty says, also staring for longer than is appropriate.
In one motion, Evan comes forward to peck a kiss on his lips. He steps back so fast that Barty blinks, unsure if he imagined it.
Evan opens the taxi door with a flourish of his hand. “Your carriage awaits."
“Thanks,” Barty says, ducking into the back as if Evan’s gentlemanly act isn’t already making heat pool in his stomach. This is why Barty fell for him in the first place– Evan makes him feel like the most important person in the world.
A driver pulls out of the street without a word.
“Do I get to know where we’re going?” Barty asks casually. He leans back, attempting to catch his best angle by tilting his jaw up.
“That nice Thai place near the park,” says Evan.
“The posh one?”
Evan flashes him a smile. “We’re moving up in the world. I know it’s not our usual thing, but we can always bin it off and get pizza from the corner if it’s shit.” His smile wanes. “If you want to do anything else expensive, tell me. I don’t know what to do with all this bloody money.”
Barty wouldn’t know where to start in making a dent in Evan’s inheritance. Even Evan taking him out to a fancy restaurant feels like they’re two kids playing dress-up.
The taxi pulls up to the restaurant near the park. It’s an understated building with a red and maroon facade. Inside, the lights are low and soft music accompanies hushed conversations. It's about half full of people in suits and evening dresses. Evan tells the server that they’ve got a booking for two.
As they follow the server to their table, Barty has that same feeling when the usher held open the door at the Hotel Zlatá Koruna. He feels like a fraud walking amongst people who exist in circles beyond him. Then Evan glances over his shoulder to check he’s still following, and Barty’s self-consciousness eases.
They’re seated in a booth in the middle of the room. Barty does a sweep of the room, checking there are no familiar faces lurking in corners. Inevitably, his eyes fall back on Evan, whose attention is solely on Barty.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” Barty remarks, despite the countless times he must’ve walked past it.
“I vaguely remember coming here for a birthday once,” says Evan. “It’s a nice place.”
“Yeah,” Barty smiles. He allows himself to sink into Evan’s eyes from across the table. Yesterday seems like a distant memory with Evan’s dark eyes staring back at him. From beneath Evan’s green shirt, a silver necklace line catches the light.
Evan’s eyebrows arch after a few moments of silence. “If you’re just going to stare at me with those fuck-me eyes, I don’t think I’m going to last to the end of my meal.”
Barty’s stomach turns over, even though Evan is definitely winding him up. “I am not looking at you like anything,” he says indignantly. His stomach flips when Evan’s knee bumps into his under the table. He tells himself to get a grip; a single brush of the leg can't hold this much power over him.
Evan makes a non-committal noise as a waitress comes over to take their order. His knee doesn’t move from where it’s comfortably pressed into Barty’s leg.
Evan orders wine for the table. It comes a minute later. Barty watches the waitress fill their two glasses and leave the bottle on the table. He raises his eyebrows at Evan when she retreats.
“Are you getting off on cosplaying all the rich fucks we know?”
Evan swirls the crimson liquid in his glass around. “Yes, I’m quite enjoying myself,” he says. He takes a sip of the wine. The liquid stains his upper lip a darker red.
Barty refrains from telling Evan how much he’d like to lick it off him, and turns the conversation to an unanswered question.
“Do you have any plans for spending the inheritance?” he asks. “Or do you not want it?” Considering it’s money he got after his mother’s assassination, he would understand if Evan wants nothing to do with it.
“I knew you were just after my money," Evan grins. When Barty gives him a hard stare, he sighs. “I don’t know. I’m not putting it in savings so I can earn interest off her death like my dear father suggested, but it’s an awkward amount. Not enough to buy property, but it could get me through university if I wanted to try a second time. Maybe I should just donate it to charity or something.”
“Do you want to try uni again?” Barty says curiously. “You did architecture, right?” It was always Evan’s goal, long before the Knights took over their lives.
“Yeah, I got two years into an architecture degree.” Evan’s gaze wanders, looking lost. “It was fine, but I don’t know if I’d re-do it.”
“Another subject, then?” Barty prompts. “You liked computing, code, all that stuff, right? If you hadn’t had left, Riddle definitely would’ve paired you with Narcissa.”
“Maybe. I just don’t know if I’d want to do a three-year course on it.”
From all the time Barty has known Evan, passive has never been one of his personality traits. He always had ideas, plans, aspirations. First it was to go into architecture and design, and then it was to work in surveillance for the Knights. That’s why Evan’s lack of plans is disconcerting. It’s almost like he’s given up on a future.
“What’s the alternative, then?” Barty asks. He realises how accusing it sounds a second too late.
Evan shoots him a look. “I didn’t know this was an interrogation,” he says sharply.
Barty nudges his leg into Evan’s. “It’s not,” he says. “I was just wondering, because you haven’t talked about your plans once you get back to England.” He swallows the lie down easily. It’s too easy to pretend that Evan will get that plane back to England on Sunday.
Evan stares at the table in sad consideration. “That’s because I have no idea what I’m doing,” he says. “I’m probably going to go back to my shitty job, I’ll visit Pandora when I can afford the train, I’ll argue with my dad when I see him at Christmas for our yearly get-together. Maybe I’ll go back to uni, maybe I’ll blow all the money on crack and die of an overdose on my twenty-second birthday.”
Barty stares at him, horrified. “That's not happening,” he says firmly. “Besides, I thought you were clean.”
“I am,” Evan shrugs. “Would be a pretty good way to go, though.”
Barty doesn’t know what to say to this. The dullness behind Evan’s eyes shows he's completely serious. When Evan left, all Barty could think about was how much his life was ruined. He thought Evan would have such a better one in England. The last thing he imagined was Evan losing his passion for life: whittling away his family and career and everything that shaped his future. Lost in his own grief, he underestimated how much Evan would suffer from their forced split as well.
Evan must see the pity in his eyes, because his jaw tightens. “Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is commanding, but not angry. “I don’t need your pity. I’m just– I’m fine, Bee. It’s life.”
The words don’t make Barty feel any better. “I don’t pity you,” he says. “It’s just sad how we had all these dreams when we were kids, and the reality is a depressing shit-stain of nothingness. It’s a waste of potential.”
“It is,” Evan says with a dry smile. “It’s not like you pictured yourself working for Riddle for the rest of your life when we were younger, either.”
Barty shrugs it off. “I didn't have any potential to begin with. What else would I be doing?” Bitterness singes his tongue. He didn’t have career goals like Evan did, but Barty used to dream of a life outside the Knights before it consumed all parts of his life. He dreamed of running his own successful business and proving to his dad that he’s not a useless waste of life after all. And when Evan left, he dreamed of life after the Knights. He pictured a quiet cottage and morning coffee and plants lining the windowsill. They’d be excitement, but also stillness and love.
Before Evan can argue otherwise, the waitress comes over with two plates. The reminder that they’re not arguing alone in Evan’s hotel room brings them out of the conversation they probably shouldn’t be having in public.
“Looks fucking delicious,” Barty says once they’re left alone with two steaming plates of curry.
Evan accepts the change in subject with a smile. “I’ll tell them to put that on their reviews.”
They tuck into their food. The creamy vegetable curry makes a welcome change from the porridge and pasta Barty usually eats en masse.
Evan has noodles in his curry, and Barty watches him suck them up from the bowl.
“So, have you been giving Riddle a play-by-play of all this?” Evan smirks, catching him staring. “He must be thrilled with his resources going into watching us go on dates and fuck for a week straight.”
The mention of Riddle’s surveillance sends a nasty shock to Barty’s system. The last thing he needs while trying to escape reality with Evan is the harsh reminder of the deadline he’s running from. It must register on his face, because Evan looks apologetic.
“Sorry. We don’t have to talk about it–”
“No, it’s okay,” Barty says. He offers him a smile. “It’s how we found each other again in the first place.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame our grand reunion wasn’t more romantic,” Evan says half-jokingly. “I never thought it would come out of my mum’s death, then you showed up at my hotel pointing a gun at me like the romantic you are.”
“Sorry about that,” Barty says, rolling his eyes to brush over the torrent of emotions that were buzzing through his head that day. “I thought about our reunion a lot,” he admits.
Evan meets his eyes. “Yeah?”
Barty plays it off with a shrug. “I know it sounds stupid, but I knew we’d see each other again. I just didn’t think it would be so soon.” He grits his teeth. “Under such difficult circumstances.”
The wine stains Evan’s lips red as he smiles. “That’s really sweet, Barty.”
“Shut up,” Barty mutters, ducking his head. “I'm just sorry I've taken up so much of your time when you came here to grieve your mother.”
“I’ve had plenty of time for that,” Evan says. “If you weren’t here, I probably would’ve driven myself round the bend, anyway. It’s been really nice to see you.” His gaze softens. "I don't want to go back to being strangers."
Barty's body clenches like a fist. This conversation was inevitable, he was just hoping to put it off until Evan realised that Barty isn’t the same person he left three years ago. But that has backfired, because they’re the same people with the same shared memories and the same flame of love that is burning stronger than ever.
He should reject Evan’s advances, stop stringing him along with a fantasy that can never happen and complete his job. But how can he look Evan in the eyes, the man who wants to be with him, and tell him he doesn’t want a future with him? Evan would detect the lie in an instant.
“What do you mean?” Barty says weakly. He knows exactly what Evan means. It’s what the memory of Regulus was screaming for him to do from below a marble slab. Take him and run.
Evan leans forward in his chair. “I mean, I don’t want to walk away from you for a second time. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.” He pauses, but his words are straightforward. “I want to be with you.” He stares at Barty as uncertainty enters his tone. “Am I completely delusional, or don’t you want to make this work, too?”
“You’re not delusional,” Barty says hotly. His next words stick in his throat at Evan’s question. The booth’s walls suddenly feel claustrophically close. It’s too real, and the finality of Riddle’s task weighs heavy on his heart.
Evan holds eye contact. “So, will you come to England with me?”
And for one dazzling moment, Barty makes the mistake of hoping.
“I obviously want to be with you,” he says in a flippant tone that doesn’t match the seriousness of the conversation. “In a perfect world, we’d go to England and live out the rest of our lives there. I just don’t know if that world exists.”
Barty’s potential futures stretch in front of him. One path ends with his body in a river by the end of this week, having failed to complete his task. Another is getting over the first hurdle of killing Evan, staying in the Knights and gradually working his way into Riddle’s inner circle. The last path stretches out like shimmering sunlight catching on waves. Him and Evan disappearing off somewhere, going into hiding until the Knights catch up to them.
Hope is dangerous, and so alluringly easy.
“Of course it exists,” Evan says. He lowers his voice, a line of desperate pleading entering his tone. “It would be so easy. We’d just get on a plane and go and live away from all of this.”
It hurts Barty to pause and think of excuses to avoid the fact that neither of them are getting on that plane. “It’s not that easy,” he says dismissively. “You know it’s not. They have constant surveillance on both of us. I’m sure Riddle has me pegged as a flight risk with you here. There’s no chance I’d be able to get on a plane.”
“I thought you had fake ID.”
“They’d still flag you on the system.”
“Then we take different planes.” Evan’s voice grows harder with resolve. “Wait a few days before following me until Riddle doesn’t think you’re a flight risk. Wait a few weeks, months, years until it’s safe to come and find me. We’ll be smarter than my mum was, we’ll work something out. I don’t care how long it takes, I’m not leaving you here again.”
Barty looks away, bobbing his leg up and down in frustration. The problem with this plan is the glaring plot hole Evan doesn’t know about. Of course Evan can pick holes in every part of his argument because he’s overlooking the main flaw: he’s not making it back to England.
When he looks back, Evan’s expression is open. Barty only recalls seeing it at Camille’s funeral and at the coast after they kissed. It’s the unhinged desperation that reminds Barty that Evan isn’t as put-together as he makes it out to be. Evan has as little to lose as Barty. He’s made it clear that he has nothing left for him in England.
“What if you stayed here?”
Evan scoffs scornfully. “Yeah, if you want to die by the summer,” he remarks. Then he swallows. “I’ll stay. Of course I’ll stay. I don’t care, Barty, I just–.” He rubs his hands together, sighing in frustration.
“Hey,” Barty says quietly. He holds out a hand over the table. “It’s okay. We’ll work something out.” The words drip from his tongue like poison. Even though it’s a bare-faced lie, he can’t leave Evan in a state of desperation in his last days alive.
Evan clutches his hand like his life depends on it. Barty supposes it does. He’s just glad to see a flicker of hope in Evan’s eyes.
It’s probably good timing when the waitress comes over to top up their wine. They spend a few moments watching her pour the bottle until their glasses are half full. The restaurant’s surroundings fade back in, quiet music and conversations around them to take the edge off their own conversation.
They eat in silence for the remaining few minutes of their meal. Barty doesn’t know what to say that isn’t a complete lie, and Evan must be afraid of being rejected if he brings it up again. Once Barty has speared his last piece of carrot, he excuses himself to go to the toilet to relieve some of the pressure between them.
Will you come to England with me?
The question seems to echo around the bathroom’s large chamber. Barty walks beside the long row of half-open stalls on a carpeted floor. The unflattering lighting shows his grim expression in the tall mirrors. His black eye is colourful, but the swelling has gone down and his nose isn’t painful to the touch.
His head is buzzing loudly with too many thoughts. Evan is ready to leave for England with him at the snap of his fingers. He’s also prepared to risk his life by staying in Kryostrov solely to be closer to Barty. He’s also ready to blow all his money on cocaine until his body gives up on itself if things don't work out.
Amidst the sadness about wasted potential and how things have turned out, anger swirls inside. Evan could have made something for himself. He had the chance Barty never did to start afresh, to build something for himself, and he blew it. But can Barty look Evan in the eyes and blame him for not moving on as if Barty hasn’t been waiting on the day Evan returns all this time?
He turns away from the mirror, resting against the countertop. The marble countertop is cold, but the coldness runs deeper. Take him and run. Too many distinct voices running through his head. You’re weak. And yet, he can’t hear his own. I’m not leaving you here again. Make a future for himself here or risk everything to be Evan? He knows what he wants. He’s just too scared to face it.
The bathroom door swings open, startling Barty. He goes to pretend to wash his hands when he sees Evan’s familiar figure at the door.
“I've paid,” Evan says, hesitantly coming in, uncertain where they stand after their conversation.
Barty is just as uncertain, but that doesn’t stop him from stepping forward and capturing Evan’s face in his hands. His lips find Evan’s, and he kisses Evan with all the power he possesses. His hands tangle through Evan’s hair as he holds him, trying to kiss all the things he can’t say into him. I’m sorry for lying to you. I’m sorry for not giving you the chance to fix things.
Evan hesitates in surprise. Then all the stiffness eases away, and he kisses Barty back. He wraps his arms around Barty’s lower back, melting into the embrace. His lips are soft. He holds Barty like his entire world is in his arms.
When Barty pulls away, his glare is stern. “If you relapse, if you even think of buying a single ounce of a single drug, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Evan’s smile is bittersweet. “Supportive as ever.”
“Remember how hard you worked to quit?” Barty continues, just one of the many thoughts racing through his head. “Why would you throw all of that away? For what? Because you’re not talking to your dad and you dropped out of uni? It’s not the end of the world. You’ve got so much more to give–”
Evan presses a finger over Barty’s lips. “Stop talking.”
Allowing himself to be silenced, Barty shuts up and kisses him. The restaurant isn’t busy, so someone walking in is the least of their concerns. Their lips connect, desperate and steeped in love. Barty’s arms demand Evan to come closer as he hooks them around Evan’s neck.
Evan’s tongue slips between his teeth before biting Barty’s lower lip. His cold hands are below the shirt Barty left untucked, massaging his fingers over Barty’s hipbones. Barty pushes his waist forward to give all of himself to Evan. When they pause for breath, Evan presses his forehead onto Barty’s.
“I’ve already thrown it all away,” he says breathily. “It doesn’t matter what I do anymore.”
Barty caresses through his hair with a small frown. “Of course it matters.”
“Only when I’m with you,” Evan says. His pupils are dilated as he stares at Barty with pure love.
When their lips crash together, hands don’t stop where they were. Evan pushes Barty backwards until he hits against the countertop. Arms hooked around his neck, Evan begins grinding his hips forward into him. Barty makes a happy ‘mhm’ into Evan’s mouth at the bursts of pleasure.
Evan's hands venture beneath his shirt. Barty wasn't thinking, lost in how good it feels, until Evan's hand catches on yesterday's burn mark. Red and barely scabbed, he pulls out of the kiss with a wince.
Evan stops with a frown. He lifts Barty's shirt to stare at the angry circular mark.
“Christ, Barty,” he utters.
“Don't,” Barty interrupts, shame rippling through him. He pushes Evan's hands away, letting his shirt fall back down. “Just leave it. Please," he adds in a whisper.
Evan hesitates, but when Barty kisses him again, he doesn't protest. Barty slides back into the kiss, redirecting Evan's hands to his waist. Sadness bleeds into the air, but they have each other.
At Evan all over him, Barty can’t resist shoving his hips forwards to give Evan something to grind into. He can feel himself getting hard, and that makes him more restless until he’s rutting into the leg Evan has shoved between his thighs. Their lips messily collide as their hands fumble around each other. Barty groans into Evan’s mouth at the pent-up sexual frustration he can’t release in this position.
Evan is smirking when they pull away. “Enjoying yourself?” he says teasingly, as if it isn’t obvious. He trails gentle kisses down Barty’s neck, making Barty's knees weaken. “Why don’t we go home and I fuck your brains out?” The sinful words sound deliciously soft from his lips.
Barty kisses him again. “There are ten completely empty stalls over there.”
“Impatient,” Evan tuts. “I’m not going to fuck you in a bathroom stall like a heathen.”
“Oh, because you’re so classy,” Barty says, elongating each word as he slides his hand down Evan’s chest, fingers skirting over his trousers’ waistband. “I’m ready for you. Do something about it.”
“So fucking needy,” Evan mutters, though he glances around at the empty stalls in contemplation.
Just then, a noise comes from nearby. It’s a quiet rustle, a tap, a noise Barty can’t place. One thing is certain: it’s in this room.
Barty pulls away from Evan in an instant, staring along the length of the bathroom. It’s a long room, and he didn’t check every individual stall, stupidly assuming half-open ones meant they were empty. The noise came from the far end.
“Who’s there?” Evan announces. He draws a pistol out of his waistband, holding it low with the safety still on. Barty gives him an incredulous look of ‘did you seriously bring a gun to our date night?’ He didn’t notice it while his arms were around Evan’s neck, rutting into his thigh. Evan just nods towards the end cubicle, and begins cautiously stepping towards it.
They get halfway down the bathroom when the last cubicle door swings open. No one breathes for a moment. Barty prepares to duck and roll. Then, before he can even process what it means, he hears the familiar tapping of metal against the floor.
Avery comes out of the stall. One hand is held up in surrender and the other clutches a laptop. His face is painted with the embarrassment of being caught.
“Oh my god,” Barty exhales in furious relief. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Evan lowers his gun at the familiar face. It’s not like Avery is in a position to shoot them with his hands up or make a run for it with his leg. Something about Avery's laptop and embarrassed expression tells Barty that this surveillance wasn’t organised by Riddle.
“Avery?” he snaps, storming forward. He's starting to think the Knights have a serious problem with voyeurism. “What the fuck are you doing cowering in a bathroom stall like a pervert?” He eyes the laptop Avery is holding. If Avery was recording his and Evan’s conversation about potentially leaving together, there is no chance Riddle will trust him to complete the mission tomorrow. Letting Avery walk away would be a death sentence for him and Evan.
Avery looks uncomfortable, but he doesn’t make a move, especially not with Evan standing in the background with a pistol.
“I was just listening,” he mumbles.
“What did you hear?” Barty says, forcing Avery to look him in the eyes. “Tell me what you heard, or you’re not walking out of this room.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” says Avery, panicked. His voice flares up indignantly. “Just you two…” He tails off with an awkward look.
Barty doesn’t step back. “Why have you got your laptop? You bugged us, didn’t you?”
“No,” Avery pouts. “I tried to attach a mic to your pocket, but it wouldn’t connect to my laptop, and then I bugged the wrong table so I’ve been sitting in here listening to a random couple argue about whether they should call their babysitter or not.”
“Really?” Barty says. He recognises the annoyance in Avery’s expression at frustration at himself rather than him trying to hide a secret. The nervous adrenaline tapers out realising Avery heard nothing of their conversation at the table.
Avery glares at him for rubbing his failure in his face. “Yes. Really.”
“Bad luck,” Evan pipes up to say.
Satisfied Avery isn’t harbouring life-threatening information, Barty steps back to where Evan is standing a pace behind him. He fixes the schoolmate he hasn’t seen in years with a piercing look.
Avery awkwardly meets Evan’s eyes. “Rosier,” he says formally, trying to claw back some dignity.
Evan’s mask is back up in an instant, an amused smirk on his face to hide the fact that he was just falling apart in Barty’s arms. “If you wanted a show, you could’ve just said,” he says. “I would've come over to you and Barty’s place, really given you something to get off on.”
“I was not ‘getting off’ to anything,” Avery snaps defensively.
A fraction of the deep flush on Avery’s face is mirrored in Barty’s cheeks as he remembers exactly what Avery has been listening to for the last ten minutes. Relationships and sex is a topic the two of them rarely broach, which makes it all the more embarrassing that Avery caught what he thought was his straight flatmate snogging the lips off his childhood best friend. And that’s not even considering the hit job.
“You’re such a perv,” Barty snaps, a mix of irritation and shame flushing his cheeks. “How long were you going to sit in your stall jacking off to us for?”
“I wasn’t– Barty,” Avery says, sounding offended. “I didn’t think you’d come in here, and how the hell was I supposed to know you two would be shagging at the first opportunity?” He looks a little hurt. “You never told me you were gay.”
Evan snorts loudly, and Barty gives a withering sigh. “How is that any of your business?” he retorts. “Why are you even here in the first place? Did someone put you up to this?"
Avery narrows his eyes towards Evan. “I’m not telling you in front of him.”
“Great to see you, too, Avery,” Evan says smoothly. His gaze flicks to Avery’s right leg where the trouser falls over the prosthetic. “Don’t worry about keeping me in the loop. It seems like I’ve already missed a lot.”
“I wouldn’t have to keep you in the loop if you didn’t abandon the cause like a traitor in the first place,” Avery fires back.
“Funny how that happens,” shrugs Evan. “At least I didn’t lose a leg for a man who doesn’t give a shit about me.”
“At least my mum didn’t die because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
“Mate, your mum’s been dead far longer than mine.”
Barty sighs at their back-and-forth. Despite the guns and the vague notion they could easily knock out a few teeth, it feels like they’re back in school. This time Evan is standing up for himself, which should be a nice change, but he knows Evan’s smooth confidence is just another mask to hide his true, vulnerable self.
“Okay,” he interrupts, a rare shot at being the peacemaker. He jerks his head towards Avery. “Great, your bugs failed, now can you fuck off?”
“I don’t know, Barty, I think Avery wants to stick around and find out what we get up to next,” Evan smirks, slinging an arm around Barty's neck.
“Go fuck yourself,” Avery says witheringly. He tucks his laptop under his arm and hurries past them. “Have fun with your boyfriend while you can.”
The bathroom door swings shut, and they’re left alone again. Evan turns to Barty with raised eyebrows.
“What a ray of sunshine,” he says sarcastically.
Barty releases a dramatic groan into his hands. “What the fuck just happened?” He sees Evan's eyes anxiously darting around. “I had no idea that perv was spying on us. He probably just wants to be involved. I wouldn’t give it too much headspace.”
Alone again, Evan’s sarcastic mask fades into what it was before a ghost of the past spooked him.
“He’s not changed a bit, has he? Right down to the shitty frosted tips.” Concern flashes across his face. “Is this going to affect your job? I know he didn’t hear us talking at the table, but sleeping with the person you’re meant to be monitoring still isn't great.”
"It's great for me," Barty smiles. "And no, it won't change anything. I’ll talk to him and ask him not to say anything, but even if he does, Riddle won't care.” Fingernails digging into his arm, a cold hand around his neck. “He chose me because we knew we were close.” He wanted this. He wanted me to suffer.
Evan accepts this answer with a nod. “Do you want to get out of here?” he says. His eyes dart to the end cubicle again, suggesting that seeing Avery has shaken him up more than he’s willing to admit.
“Sure,” says Barty, also not keen on sticking around. He would kiss Evan again, but the air is suddenly tense. “Are you okay?” he ventures to ask.
Evan snorts. “Barty Crouch asking people if they’re okay? What has the world come to?”
“Evan–”
“I’m fine,” Evan interrupts. His voice sounds tired, but he holds out his hand. Barty takes it. “Why don’t I walk you home? It should be a nice night.”
No quip or suggestive smirk. Seeing Avery must’ve brought things crashing down to reality. Maybe he’s reminded that the Knights are more than an abstract shady organisation, and they will hunt him and Barty down if they leave. Barty can almost see his fantasies dying in his eyes.
Barty nods, not wanting to push him. “That sounds good,” he says. With Evan’s hand in his, he lets himself be led out of the restaurant and onto the street.
Evan was right about it being a nice night. The sun has set in the late evening, leaving stars scattered amongst the dark sky. A crescent moon hangs low in the distance. Its white glow illuminates the streets in the dark spots where streetlights don't reach.
They walk through the park, sticking to safe topics of conversation. Evan finds it amusing that Barty’s never come out to Avery, and Barty says he had no reason to. It feels like no time at all until they arrive at the street corner the taxi picked him up from.
Barty stops under a streetlight, not willing to go any closer to his flat. He tries to savour this moment, remembering how the darkness envelopes the side of Evan’s face in shadows, but all he can think about is how they’re running out of time.
“I'd invite you in, but I don't think Avery wants to see any more of us,” Barty says with an apologetic smile. Evan is right; he’s going soft.
“That's okay,” Evan smiles like he's convinced they're going to have countless more quiet nights together. “It was nice taking you out on a proper date.”
“You're quite the gentleman,” Barty says dryly.
Evan brightens at the compliment. “When can I see you next?” he asks. “My plane leaves the day after tomorrow, and I want to finish that conversation about moving away together.” He holds a finger up before Barty can protest. “I know you don't think it'll work, but we've got to at least try. Don't we?”
Barty squeezes Evan's hand. “I want a future with you more than anything,” he says. “I just can't see one where we don't end up dead in three years, and that's if we're lucky.”
“Would that not be worth it?” says Evan, desperation filling his eyes. He has nothing left but the man in front of him.
Barty stares at him, at a loss for words. How is he supposed to say yes to that when just yesterday he was kneeling at the grave of someone who fled, and its backfiring tore Barty apart? If Regulus had asked him whether he should risk running away or take a long, unhappy life working for the Knights, Barty would’ve told him to stay alive in every universe.
But this isn’t the same. Evan doesn’t have the chance at a long, unhappy life, and Barty loved Regulus, but not in the way his soul feels tethered to Evan.
“I don’t know,” he mutters. Two weeks ago, he thought he had everything figured out. Keep his head down and obey Riddle until their next strike for power. Keep Evan’s bracelet under his bed and Regulus out of his mind. It was so simple, and now nothing is certain anymore.
Evan's half-smile is understanding. “We’ll talk.”
“Okay,” Barty murmurs. “We'll talk.” He reaches up to trace along Evan’s jawline with a finger. He wishes they could stay like this forever.
Evan gently tugs Barty forward at the waist, burying his hands beneath his jacket. They spend an indulgently long moment just staring into each other’s eyes, lips inches away, before they close the gap with a kiss.
Standing under the only surviving streetlight on the street in the city where they fell in love, they collapse into one.
~
Once Barty gets into his flat, his misplaced love and uncertainty surrounding Evan and the future is swallowed up by the more pressing matter of his flatmate being a vile pervert. The living room light is on. He steels himself to meet eyes with the man who just listened to him moaning into Evan’s mouth from a toilet cubicle.
This is the second person to catch him and Evan in an intimate moment. It's another reminder that anything he and Evan have in Kryostrov isn’t theirs. It’s public property, it belongs to the Knights. He’ll never be able to have Evan here, and he’ll never be able to give himself up in return.
Avery is sitting at the desktop setup, clicking between two computers and the laptop he held in the bathroom. He spins around at Barty’s footsteps.
“What the hell was that?” Barty says as a greeting.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Avery says defiantly. “Why were you and Rosier at that restaurant?”
“I know you’re not familiar with the concept, but we call those ‘dates’,” Barty retorts. “And don’t try and pin this on me. Give me one good reason you have to be spying on us.”
“I didn’t have anything else on,” Avery says a little sulkily. “You’ve barely been home all week. I just wanted to see what you guys were doing. I thought I could find something useful out for Riddle.”
Barty pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he utters, holding back a particularly venomous jab at Avery’s lapdog tendencies. He flops down on the sofa. “That's what you get for looking for something you shouldn't have. Bloody spying on us because you’re ‘bored’.”
“Well, I’m not going to be bored for a while now,” says Avery, tapping the laptop. “Gotta figure out why the bugs didn’t connect to the system.”
“Probably because you can’t code for shit,” Barty mutters. The anger has faded from his voice. He can’t bring himself to hate Avery for snooping around out of boredom, especially with the lack of remarks about him and Evan. He knows if it was Mulciber in that cubicle, he’d never live this down.
As if sensing his thoughts, Avery turns around fully to face him. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” he says with hurt accusation.
“Tell you what?”
Avery juts his chin out. “That you and Rosier are fucking.”
“We’re not ‘fucking’,” Barty says bitterly. “He’s-.” He cuts himself off before saying something that would put him in more trouble.
Avery raises his eyebrows. “He’s what? Come on, man, you never even told me you’re into guys. You’re telling me I’ve been trying to set you up with girls all this time for nothing?”
Barty buries his face into his hands. At least Avery’s words aren’t cruel; the Knights’ official stance on sexuality is relaxed. They only care about blood purity, so as long as Barty marries a woman and continues the pure bloodline, it doesn’t matter who he fucks as a horny teenager. Avery knows it doesn’t matter.
Barty decides there’s no harm in telling him part of the truth. It’s not like his feelings will change the mission or Riddle's opinion of him.
“We dated in school,” he says plainly.
Avery’s eyebrows practically shoot off his head. “What the fuck? When?”
“For, like, three years.” Barty smiles to himself. “Became a thing when we were fifteen. It was in one of those parties at Mulciber’s place when his parents were out. We had too much to drink, and you know, horny fifteen-year-olds.” Him and Evan all over each other in a dark bathroom, alcohol finally removing their inhibitions after months of painstaking flirting at school.
Avery pulls a face, but he withholds from making a comment.
“We didn’t tell anyone because my dad would’ve been a prick about it,” Barty continues. “So would’ve Mulciber and Wilkes and a bunch more people we didn’t want to deal with. It’s nothing personal I didn’t tell you. Then he left.” His eyes glaze over, before he shrugs. “Now he’s back.”
“What, so you want to be boyfriends again?” Avery says.
“No,” Barty says, tunnelling the hole of plausible deniability deeper. “We’re just, I don’t know, doing whatever until Sunday. I’ll kill him on Sunday,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I have to stay away from him until then.”
Avery looks a bit uncomfortable. “What about Riddle? I need to tell him this.”
“Tell him what, that you caught me and Evan at it?” Barty scoffs, causing Avery’s cheeks to redden. “He won’t care. I’m pretty sure he knew this was going to happen. He chose Evan for a reason.” His eyes turn down. “That bastard wants me to suffer,” he murmurs, barely audible because he shouldn’t be saying things like that.
Avery has nothing to say to this, probably realising that he’s telling the truth and this was all part of Riddle’s plan.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “But why didn’t you tell me about you guys? Would’ve saved me having to permanently scar my ears.”
Barty rolls his eyes. It’s too complex to explain that Evan is his: his secret, his memories, his love.
“I didn’t want to make it weird since we’re sharing a place together,” he shrugs, a half-truth. “A weird amount of guys suddenly got an ego complex when Evan came out and thought he was trying to come onto them.” He throws Avery a look. “I didn’t want you getting any ideas, because believe me, I wouldn’t come near you if you were the last guy on earth.”
Avery looks a little offended. “What? I’m not that bad looking.” He pretends to think. “Crouch, be honest–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“If you weren’t gay for Rosier, would you be gay for me?”
“See, these are the kinds of dumbass questions I was trying to avoid,” Barty says, getting up so he doesn’t have to listen to an onslaught of ridiculous scenarios Avery is undoubtedly thinking up. He needs to properly think through everything Evan said tonight.
“Did you and Regulus ever do it?” Barty hears called after him as he shuts his bedroom door. He sinks on the bed, grabbing the melted ice pack from the side, and begins to think. Tomorrow is his last full day with Evan, and the day after that, Riddle is expecting him to be dead. Everyone is expecting him to be dead.
In the silence of his room, Narcissa’s voice is the one that emerges loudest. Regulus didn’t have to die, and neither do you or Evan. Anyone’s voice but his own, because Barty can’t face the realisation that he’s starting to think that she’s right.
Chapter Text
Barty hasn’t been back to Regulus’ grave. He hasn’t spoken to Narcissa or Octavia, and he hasn’t texted Evan. After last night’s date, which ended in outing himself and his relationship to Avery, he went straight to sleep. This morning, he got groceries and did a work-out and put the television on. Anything to fill the silence that makes his head flood with uncertainty about the future.
Avery has been surprisingly normal about him and Evan. He decided not to tell Riddle, probably too embarrassed to admit he spent his Saturday evening crouched in a toilet cubicle with a faulty bug system listening to his two school friends getting it off. Barty ought to be grateful, but the annoyance that Avery was spying on them cancels it out. He’s just glad Avery seems more preoccupied with his coding than grilling him about Evan.
Barty’s leg restlessly bounces up and down, waiting for Evan to summon him so they can finish yesterday's discussion. When he does, Barty is going to tell him the only thing he can: the truth.
Over last night and this morning, his mind has settled on the only viable option. Making a decision about murder or destroying his life with grief is impossible, so Barty isn’t going to make it. He’s going to tell Evan the truth and let him decide what to do. Maybe Evan will save Riddle the trouble and end Barty’s pathetic existence right there. Maybe he’ll understand, and they can work something out like he promised. Maybe after all the lies and deception, Evan won’t want anything more to do with him.
After this week, the only thing he’s sure of is that Evan deserves a chance: to live, to run, to kill. He has to give Evan a chance.
“You said you were going an hour ago,” Barty says. He stands behind Avery's chair, peering over lines of code on the double screen.
“Auntie Natalia's washing isn't going anywhere,” Avery retorts, typing a string of digits onto the last line. Clearly, there's more glamour in coding than sorting out an elderly woman's washing.
“You already tried that,” Barty points out.
“Well, what would you suggest?” Avery says in exasperation, thoroughly annoyed at not being able to work it out.
“Call your pal Wilkes and see what he has to say.”
“He’s not my pal,” Avery mutters. He throws Barty a look over his shoulder. “Your fault for lunging at his best mate.”
“Are they still not speaking to you?” Barty asks. He couldn’t care less about Mulciber or Wilkes’ opinions, but he feels a little guilty for making Avery’s friends ignore him.
Avery shrugs as though he doesn’t care. He leans into the screen, muttering something about semicolons. A moment later, Barty’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen: it’s Evan.
He excuses himself and slips into the bedroom to take the call, especially conscious that their conversations are being recorded, if not actively listened to.
“Hi,” he says, wondering if Evan’s in some kind of trouble. Instead, a cheerful greeting comes down the line.
“Barty,” says Evan. “How are things going?”
“Is this a social call?” Barty says with an edge to his voice.
“Yes,” Evan says, like it means nothing. “You should come over.”
At Evan’s unfazed attitude, Barty thinks maybe he should take a leaf out of his book. Narcissa might be listening, but she’s already rooting for them, and Wilkes can't humiliate him much more than he already has.
So he playfully narrows his eyes. “Evan, are you giving me a booty call at three in the afternoon?”
“I want to see you,” Evan practically whines, putting on the pouting voice he knows Barty can't resist. “I’m leaving tomorrow. We need to talk, and we need to fuck.”
Barty smirks. “In that order?”
“Preferably the opposite.”
“Let me think about that,” he says slowly.
“Fuck you,” Evan says with zero malice. “Come over to mine. Wear something nice. Or don’t, it’ll be on the floor either way.”
A flush creeps up Barty’s neck, as unprofessional as always. “Fine,” he says. “See you soon, Rosie.” Admittedly, the ‘Rosie’ slipped out.
Evan’s voice is just as sweet. “See you, Bee.”
The phone call ends, and Barty starts looking around for a comb and vaseline. Guilt washes through him at playing along with Evan's continuous flirting only to turn up and ruin the mood by revealing Riddle's task. Evan deserves better than someone who won't call themselves boyfriends or say 'I love you' back. He deserves the truth.
After doing himself up and accidentally applying far too much aftershave, he returns to the living room. His gun is shoved in his waistband beneath his bomber jacket as an afterthought. It’s today or tomorrow.
“I’m going out,” Barty says, passing Avery who hasn’t made any progress judging by his unchanged screens.
“Ok.” Avery doesn’t peel his eyes away from the screen, but he sniffs at the aftershave. “Fucking hell, are you planning to kill Rosier by an asthma attack?”
Apparently it’s a given that he’s going to see Evan, though Barty supposes it doesn’t take a genius to work that out. He slaps Avery on the shoulder. “Have fun failing your project.”
“I'm going to crack it,” Avery calls after him.
~
Barty uses Avery's motorbike to get to the hotel. He'd rather not be reliant on such a dangerous vehicle, but at least he knows how to unjam the brake pedal now.
He ignores the hostile looks he gets in the hotel's lobby at his black eye, and takes the lift to the eight floor, room 233.
Evan answers the door within a beat of him knocking. He barely takes one look at Barty before dragging him inside and kissing him.
Barty almost topples over in surprise, grabbing Evan’s shoulders to steady him as he tries to remember how to kiss. The door slams shut behind them- Evan’s foot- as he reciprocates Evan’s needy tongue easing his teeth open. He was joking about it being a booty call, but it seems like Evan wasn't.
When Evan pauses for breath, desire shines in his eyes. "Hi," he grins with wet lips.
"Hi," Barty says. “What’s all this about?”
“I was just thinking about you, and I thought, why sit here and jack off by myself when I could get you to do it for me?”
“Interesting,” Barty says, moving his hands over Evan’s chest, edging down to his belt. He wants to touch Evan more than anything, but the weight of his imminent confession holds him back. “Listen, Evan–”
“Ah-ah,” Evan interrupts, pressing a finger over his lips. “Whatever you're about to say, save it. We can talk after. I might not hate you so much after you've made me come.”
Either he's joking or Evan has guessed by Barty's anxious expression that it's bad news. His bold words make Barty’s cheeks hotter, and he nods.
“Okay,” he concedes, though it's not much of a concession to be able to fuck Evan. He pecks a kiss on his lips, then slides his hand lower to squeeze over his trousers. “What do you want from me? You want me to wank you off like we’re fifteen hiding in Mulciber’s toilet off our face at some party?” He finds the way Evan’s pupils dilate adorable.
“Yeah,” Evan murmurs, wrapping his arms around Barty’s neck. At last, Barty has managed to make him flustered. Evan presses short kisses around his face, from his cheeks to his forehead. With his arms lifted high, his shirt lifts with it to reveal a few inches of his waist.
Midway through melting under Evan’s kisses, Barty almost starts salivating seeing Evan’s shirt ride up. It’s an invitation to grab his waist which Evan accepts by leaning closer. He begins thumbing the erection growing in Evan’s jeans to hear Evan’s voice catch in his throat.
“This feel good?” Barty says in a low voice. Evan’s back is pressed against the door, most of his weight resting on Barty, leaning onto his shoulders as Barty feels him through his jeans.
Evan is already strung out, nestling his face into the side of Barty’s neck. “God, I want to be inside you,” he utters, hot breath tickling Barty’s neck.
Barty begins to undo the catch of his trousers. “Let’s take these off, then,” he says, more than happy to play along while he still can.
“Mhm, come to the bedroom first,” Evan says. He drags Barty away from their spot in the hall and towards his room.
Barty happily follows, pushing away the distant dread as butterflies overwhelm his stomach.
“Sorry if I was being a bit depressing yesterday,” Evan says as he pulls Barty into his room. “It threw me off seeing Avery again, too.”
“You weren’t being depressing,” says Barty. “It was good to talk about things.”
Evan barely gives time Barty time to think before his hands are on his belt. “Let me make it up to you.” He immediately gets on his knees, fingers undoing the catch.
Barty’s knees almost buckle from a rush of butterflies. “Don’t you want me on the bed?” he says weakly. At this view of Evan from above, his knees feel weak and Evan hasn’t even started.
"Whatever you want, Bee," Evan says. He follows Barty to the bed and helps him shuffle out of his clothes. His bomber jacket gets thrown off, and Evan puts Riddle's gun on the table without a word. Barty lies on his back, propped up by his elbows, Evan crouched between his legs. This position is heaven enough to begin with.
Evan massages his inner thighs with both hands. It's nothing like the harsh, desperate way Barty went down on him several days ago. "Lie back, darling.”
“Darling?” Barty snorts, but he’s cut off by his own sharp intake of breath as Evan takes his cock into his mouth. So he does as he's told and lies flat on his back.
With Evan’s head buried between his legs, Barty doesn’t have a single negative thought in his head. His back arches as Evan’s wet mouth familiarises itself with him. He clutches at the bedsheets for something to hold onto as Evan sets every nerve of his body on fire. This isn’t where he thought he’d end up when he was sitting at home, bored, half an hour ago.
He groans through his teeth as Evan takes it deeper, not wanting to moan aloud, but it’s difficult when Evan’s tongue is curling around the most sensitive part of him. Evan’s head plunges between his legs over and over until Barty’s thighs are trembling.
“Please, Evan,” he whimpers, body flushing white hot. He threads a hand through Evan’s hair to feel the up and down of his head. No one else could reduce him to a sweating, whimpering mess in the matter of minutes.
Barty’s body clenches like a fist as Evan tips him over the edge. He clutches Evan’s hair as though his life depends on it. Shameless moans spill out in a long string of curses. Evan keeps going until Barty is squirming beneath him, draining every drop of pleasure out.
Evan’s lips are wet as he grins at Barty’s body lying limp on his bed. “You alright?” he says. He brushes the hair out of Barty's eyes and plants a kiss on his forehead.
Barty smiles as he gazes at him, high on love. “Very alright.”
He pulls Evan into a hug, and Evan's comforting weight slumps onto his chest. The incessant buzz of worrying and dread has gone quiet. He's barely thinking about the deadline or the mission or anything about borrowed time as Evan kisses his chest.
“Will you come for a shower this time?” asks Evan. The hum of his voice sends vibrations through Barty’s body.
Barty doesn’t move. “In a minute,” he murmurs, keeping his arms wrapped around Evan. He could stay here forever.
“Will you hold this for me?” Evan asks a touch too innocently as he takes Barty’s hand, and guides it down.
Barty smirks as his hand wraps around Evan’s hard cock. “Dirty bastard,” he mutters, starting to pump his hand up and down.
“I apologise for ruining our nice moment,” Evan says, not sounding sorry in the slightest. His breath gets tighter as Barty’s grip moves faster. “Why don’t we finish this in the shower? Wouldn’t want to make a mess.”
Barty retracts his hand, and hugs his arms back around him. “Okay,” he says. “In a minute.”
Evan puts his head back onto Barty’s chest, his body relaxing completely. He doesn’t make a move or suggest they talk about something or do anything else. He just lies here, head rising and falling in time with Barty’s breath.
~
When Evan offered to order them some wine from room service, Barty said it was early, but he’d have some if Evan was. Evan came back from the kitchen with an orange juice and a coffee.
After their shower, Barty should be nothing but relaxed. His body is floating in the bliss of hot water on his skin and Evan massaging soap onto his back, and there was making Evan come by barely touching him which he's pretty proud of. He sits on the sofa opposite Evan, sipping his juice.
Barty's hair falls to his neck in wet strands. Freshly showered, Evan is glowing as he slouches on the sofa opposite, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he drinks his coffee. And yet, anxiety gnaws at Barty.
Evan said they should fuck and talk, and now they've done the first one, they have to talk. Barty isn't any better prepared for what he's going to say. How will Evan react to finding out Barty's been on an undercover assassination mission this whole time? What if he thinks every moment they spent together was a ploy to earn back his trust? Knights have done worse.
"Avery's spent all morning trying to work out where his bug went wrong last night," he begins on a more neutral topic. "I don't think he has the patience to keep up an act for that long if it wasn't genuine."
Evan's smile is cautious. "I figured someone would've paid me a visit if he'd caught our whole conversation on tape. There's no way they would've given me a chance. Imagine the embarrassment if Riddle lost us both.”
"Yeah,” Barty says with an uneasy half-smile.
“What did Avery say when you got home?”
Barty allows the topic to wander, taking the chance to put off the confession for another minute. “He was surprisingly cool about it. I told him we dated in school, and he was very like ‘what the fuck, why didn't you tell me’, oblivious idiot. He’s not going to tell Riddle,” he adds after a beat. “I told him it wouldn't make a difference what we got up to, and I guess he agreed.”
When he puts it like that, it sounds like another person is rooting for him and Evan, but Barty knows nothing could be further from the truth. Avery is keeping quiet out of embarrassment, not loyalty. Evan has to die tomorrow no matter how Barty feels, no matter how many times they kiss or fuck or exchange I love yous. The dread is back, clawing at his chest. He's running out of time.
“That’s nice of him,” Evan says, slightly suspiciously. “I felt like a slur was on the tip of the tongue when he saw us.”
“No, he’s not like that.” Barty’s mind goes to Wilkes spitting a slur across the room just to wind him up, Mulciber slamming his head onto the floor until he couldn’t move.
Evan’s eyes are fixed on him in an unspoken question Barty didn’t realise was being asked. No more putting it off.
“Have you thought about what I said yesterday?” Evan says. The mood shifts the moment the words leave his mouth, sober with the dread that encompasses both of them.
Barty dares to meet his eye. “Yes,” he says. He has to tell Evan the truth: Riddle’s mission, the gun, why he showed up on that first day. Then their futures will be in Evan's hands.
Evan swallows nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He stares at Barty, knowing that his whole future depends on this one conversation. Will Barty tell him to stay in Kryostrov, will he risk trying to escape with him to England, or will he end things altogether?
Barty’s gaze brushes over the pistol on the table. He’d rather Evan buried a bullet in his head than point it at the defenceless love of his life again.
“Why is your pistol unloaded?” he asks. The question is weighted.
“Because I wasn’t planning to use it,” Evan says. “I bought it for defence, figured the sight of it would scare off Riddle's minions if they tried anything. If me waving a gun at them didn't discourage them, I didn’t have a chance in the first place. It was half price without a magazine.” His voice grows quieter. “I also wasn’t going to shoot someone just to keep myself alive.”
Barty looks at him sadly. Of course Evan was stupid enough to buy an unloaded gun to half-heartedly protect himself in the city teeming with people who want him dead.
It barely takes a second for Evan’s eyes to widen in recognition. He hasn’t given Barty access to his gun, which means Barty must’ve taken it. His tone sharpens as he realises Barty’s question was a confession.
“How do you know it's unloaded?”
The atmosphere is charged. Barty can almost hear the electric silence. “That time I left in the middle of the night, I found your gun,” he admits.
“You didn't ‘find’ it,” Evan says harshly. “It was taped to the inside of my wardrobe.”
Barty lets out a breath. “Ok, yes. I looked for it, and I found it.”
“Why?” Evan frowns. “Why would you look for my unloaded gun in the middle of the night, and then put it back and fuck off without a word?”
Barty steels himself for the next part. He’s been rehearsing lines in his head all day, but he’s only decided on one. “I've been lying to you.” The words spill from uncertain lips, and the rest of the script is a blur he’s already forgotten. “This was never a surveillance job. Riddle put a hit on you.”
Evan’s eyes widen as he watches Barty, barely daring to breathe.
“He wanted me to do it, to prove I’m loyal to the cause.” Barty swallows the lump in his throat. “It was meant to be my initiation into the Knights. After this, I receive the Mark and officially become one of them.”
It sounds pathetic aloud. After everything they’ve experienced together in the last eight days, Barty can’t stand that he’s justifying attempted murder by being let into Riddle’s political club.
Evan’s features sharpen with piercing concentration as he takes in each word. He doesn’t move, barely breathes, as he stares at Barty in realisation. His silent judgment is unnerving. Barty had no idea what to expect- an argument, a fight, a breakdown- but not silence.
“So, that night, I took your gun. I was going to kill you,” Barty continues. A painful stab in his chest reminds him of how he stood over Evan’s sleeping body, gun pointed at his head, adrenaline coursing through him. “I only realised the magazine was empty when I pulled the trigger.”
Barty never wants to see this expression again. Evan is looking at him like a dog about to be shot in the head by its beloved owner, betrayal painted over his crumpled features.
“You tried to kill me,” Evan says flatly, as if his life wasn’t one mistake away from ending. His eyes dart over Barty, still trying to figure him out, stark realisation painted on his features. He shows no anger. He’s just quiet and confused, and that’s a million times worse.
“I can’t excuse what I did,” Barty says. “I was sent to your hotel on a hit job, but the second you opened the door it was already too late because I hesitated,” he says, the words tumbling out in guilt and regret and self-hatred. “I knew I had to do this otherwise Riddle would have us both killed, but I convinced myself I’d just give it one more day, then one day became two, and you were inviting me to your mother’s funeral and I wanted to cheer you up, and the days ran away until I realised I was in love with you again.”
He sniffs, staring up as his throat burns. “Obviously, I never fucking stopped loving you, and when you started talking about us going to England I realised killing you wasn’t the only option, and I got confused and scared and now I have no idea what to do because we’re probably dead if we try and leave, but maybe it’s worth it, I don’t know anymore and I just need you to choose for us.” He looks at Evan, whose expression has collapsed into softness he doesn’t deserve. He blinks his tears away. “I need you to choose.”
Considering the last eight days have now been painted in a drastically different light, Evan is surprisingly calm. His expression loses the edge of confusion. Something clicks, and he gets up.
He reaches for Riddle’s pistol that Barty put on the table in the middle of them. Barty’s heart leaps into his mouth, but he doesn’t try to stop him. He can't pretend he doesn't deserve it. Maybe Evan will find a way to escape to England and live a brighter life without the man who lied to and betrayed him.
Evan’s hand wraps around the smooth handle, and Barty flinches as he clicks the safety latch off. He’s not ready to die, but he doesn’t move. He wanted Evan to choose, after all.
Then, Evan flips the gun around on his thumb and holds it out to Barty. Barty takes it. Evan looks up in grim determination to meet his eyes.
"Do it," he whispers. His voice is hard, but not angry. It’s commanding, decisive, everything Barty wanted him to be.
The pistol feels wrong in Barty’s hand as he looks at Evan in confusion. “What?”
“Shoot me,” Evan says firmly. “We're both going to die if you don't.” He stares right down the barrel, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as the only sign of his nervousness.
Barty lowers the gun. “No, Evan, that's not-” he scoffs. “You don't understand.” It can’t end like this.
“I understand perfectly,” Evan says. “I get it, Barty. Everything makes sense now. I understand everything you've done since the day I saw you again. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking straight when I accepted that it was a surveillance job.” Guilt twists his features. “I should’ve known there was more.” His look at Barty is no different from the dozens of times he’s met his eye over the last week. “I don't blame you. If you want me to hate you for lying, it’s not going to happen. I probably would’ve done the same if I were in your shoes. I know how fucked up Riddle’s hazing rituals are.”
“You should hate me, though,” Barty says indignantly. All this time bearing a secret so heavy it threatened to tear him apart, and Evan is barely reacting. “I’ve been lying to you this whole time. I tried to kill you, and you don't even care.”
“Of course I care,” Evan spits with vehemence. “I care so much, that's why I'm asking you to do this. I don't want you to die.” His voice trembles, emotion finally spilling out. “The day I left Kryostrov, it was only a matter of time before they tracked me down. Mum's gone, now it's my turn.” He reaches forward to grasp Barty’s hand that’s holding the pistol. “You've got to live. One of us has to live.”
The days where everyone in his life was alive is long gone. Barty knows that to live means to lose people, and all the people he's lost have chipped away another part of himself. His mind goes to Regulus, crying on the gravestone of a boy he hasn't seen in four years.
However much his mind tries to lock the grief out of his head, his body remembers. It remembers the alcohol and pain and brought Regulus to him in dreams because it didn't understand where that person had gone. The desire not to lose Evan is more than a feeling, it is a visceral reaction pulsating through his body.
Idiotic, melodramatic words are spilling from his lips before he has the chance to think about how unfair this all is.
"How am I meant to live without you?” Another marble headstone, another lifetime of memories that have nowhere to go, another part of him that will die with the person he loses.
And Evan frowns, he frowns and grits his teeth to force himself to say what he doesn't want to. "Fuck's sake,” he says in exasperation. “Can you spare me the dramatics and just get this over with? You're about to be a fucking Knight, you should be up to this. I'd rather not have to shoot myself just because you're too much of a coward to do the one thing you have to.”
The heated words are for effect, a last-ditch attempt to make Barty angry enough to shoot him. Barty doesn't fall for the bait, not when Evan's wide eyes are pouring with emotions that he dreamed of being able to see again.
At the prospect of Evan taking this into his own hands, Barty clicks the safety back on in an instant. He pulls the magazine out, and pockets the six bullets to disarm it completely. Letting Evan decide has made him realise that Evan is making the wrong choice. He wants them both to live. They’ve got to at least try.
"No," he says. His hands are trembling again as he tucks the pistol safely away. His body must know when it’s close to destroying the one thing it needs.
Tears prick the corners of Evan's eyes. His body sags, but his words keep coming. "Barty," he says in an impossibly sad voice. "I didn't know they had a hit on me. I thought maybe we could sneak off on a plane, make it to England or something, but they're never going to let us go. Do what you need to do, and don't feel guilty about it."
"But I love you," Barty breathes, hardly listening to Evan trying to put logical space between them. "I didn’t say it before, but I fucking love you, Rosie. I love you so much."
Evan comes forward, grasping the sides of Barty’s face. "I heard you the first time, idiot,” he murmurs, tangling his fingers through his damp hair. "I love you, too."
Only love pours from him, not hurt or betrayal. Barty doesn’t deserve this. As their lips fall together in a broken kiss, he knows he doesn’t deserve this reaction. Maybe Evan should’ve shot him so they wouldn’t have to worry about what comes next. But wrapping his arms around Evan’s neck, he’s just finally glad that there is a next.
The wall that stopped tomorrow breaks down with every touch, every moment Evan kisses away his doubts. Finally, he can see a future.
Tears slip down Barty’s cheeks and graze Evan’s skin. He can’t let go of him. It pains him how quickly Evan offered him an easy way out. He could secure his future in one moment. He has closure, he has permission to do this. Evan wants to die and Barty needs to kill him and it should be simple.
When they pull away, their limbs remain intertwined. Evan meets his eyes. Barty sees himself staring back. The distance between them felt like suffocating, but now they're together, they can finally breathe again.
"We're getting out of here, together," says Barty with firm determination. "And don't even try to argue with me. Everything you said yesterday about how we can make it off this island still holds up, hit or not. We’ve got to at least try.”
Evan can’t argue at his own words he used yesterday to try and convince Barty to run with him. His grip doesn’t move from Barty’s hair, caressing a thumb on the nape of his neck.
"How are we going to get off the island?” he says. It almost sounds rhetorical, like he doesn’t believe they can.
Barty's body pumps with adrenaline, forming a plan that might get them both killed tomorrow. When Evan stares into his eyes, waiting for him to choose, he knows this was the right decision.
His smile borders on delirious. "I think I know someone who can help.”
Chapter Text
The cashier doesn’t meet Barty’s eyes, let alone smile as she hands him the cheap flip phone he snatched off the shelf. Schools are out, the kids outside the cornershop pestering anyone who passes to buy them cigarettes. Barty takes the change, and slides the new phone in his pocket before leaving.
Evan gave him his card so he could take out cash to avoid the transaction being flagged up on the Knight’s system. Barty isn’t taking any chances. With an untraceable flip phone and an invisible cash trail, he walks back to the Hotel Zlatá Koruna.
Narcissa was the first person that came to mind when he thought of someone who would help him and Evan safely leave the island. Her insistence that he and Evan didn’t have to die was a flashing sign that she wanted to help them escape. He hopes she has a plan, or at least that she hasn’t changed her mind about helping them.
Their other options are limited. They could stay on the island and go into hiding until Riddle loses interest, but their best chance of survival is to leave now. Barty doesn’t think anyone else can help. Avery is too loyal, too tied to the Knights by his parents’ legacy. The fact that he didn't tell Riddle about his and Evan’s relationship doesn't mean that he's prepared to further help them. He also has Octavia’s number, but her quiet resentment for Mulciber doesn’t prove anything.
His ten days run out tomorrow. Barty plans to be long clear of the island by then.
The usher holds the door open for him as usual. The staff must be getting used to seeing the bruised face in their lobby because he makes it to the lifts without trouble.
Evan answers the door, hurrying him inside with the paranoid look he adopted the moment Barty explained his plan to phone Narcissa.
“Did you get it?” he asks, eyes darting over him.
Barty produces the flip phone from his pocket with a smile. “Ta-da.” He hands Evan his card back. “I resisted the urge to run off with all your money, too.”
Evan doesn’t say anything as he stares at the flip phone that contains the key to their future. They return to the sofa where Barty types Narcissa’s number into his new, untraceable phone. His thumb hovers over the dial button. Before pressing it, he nudges Evan’s arm.
“You okay?” he says quietly. He tries to meet Evan’s eyes, but Evan is focused on the phone.
“This is so fucking stupid,” Evan mutters, clasping his clammy hands together. “You’re acting like I didn’t know Narcissa, too. She was one of Riddle’s favourites, and she was smart about it. She’ll report us the second you make this call, and we’ll be sniped from a rooftop the moment we walk out of this building.”
Barty takes one of Evan’s hands, drawing him away from where they're anxiously clasping each other together. He squeezes the clammy skin in reassurance. “Evan. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one.”
“Trust you?” Evan scoffs, snatching his hand away. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Why would I trust you after everything you’ve told me today?”
While he makes a good point, Barty knows he’s just lashing out in fear. If Evan honestly didn’t trust him, they wouldn’t be sitting here together, preparing to flee the island. That doesn’t stop the words from hurting.
“Do you want me to call her or not?” Barty asks. Evan was the one who suggested the burner phone in the first place.
“No,” Evan says sulkily. Then a moment later, “fine. But if we get sniped, I’m haunting your dead body for the next billion years for being so stupid as to ask one of Riddle’s closest allies for help.”
From his eyes glazing over as he handed Barty the gun to shoot him with, everything has changed. Evan is no longer lethargic and sad, on the verge of giving up. Everything changed the moment Barty unloaded the gun. Now his future is worth fighting for. The stakes have risen monumentally, from a life he didn’t care about to a future with Barty. At the first glimmer of hope, neither of them can afford to mess this up.
“Noted,” Barty says. He presses the dial button, puts it on speakerphone and waits. As it rings, Evan puts his hand back in Barty’s.
The call goes through. There’s a beat of silence.
“Narcissa,” says Barty. “It’s me.”
“Barty,” Narcissa’s voice comes through, mildly surprised.
“Can you talk?”
“Yes, I’m at home right now. No one else is in.”
Evan shakes his head at the neutral voice, mouthing ‘hang up’. Barty is thinking the same thing. The words are too poised. It sounds like someone is listening in.
Then Narcissa lowers her voice into the same serious tone she took when she confronted Barty the other day. “Did you rethink our conversation?” she asks. “I haven’t changed my mind.” She pauses at their silence. “The line is secure. You’re free to talk.”
Barty meets Evan’s eyes. She wouldn’t admit that if she was being listened to. Evan must think so too, because he gives a reluctant nod.
“We need your help,” Barty says. He hesitates, but there’s no point sugar-coating it. He’s already done enough to have him killed as a traitor. “Me and Evan need to leave the island before tomorrow evening.”
Narcissa breathes out. “Good,” she says, the smile audible in her voice. “That’s good.” Her tone slides back to professional. “You’ll need fake IDs for the plane. I know someone who can do them for you tonight, but it’s expensive and they only take cash.”
Evan nods, and Barty replies, “we can do that. Evan’s got money, but I’m guessing it tells you when he makes a cash withdrawal.”
“Correct. Wilkes caught a twenty-euro withdrawal earlier. I told him I’d keep tabs on it, but if you make another one, he’ll be on it. They don’t trust you enough as it is.” The sound of tapping keys comes through on her end. “You’ll need to take eight thousand out for two passports. If we arrange a time, I can delete evidence of the transaction the moment it comes through.”
Barty mouths ‘eight thousand?’ at Evan. It’s more than he was expecting, but then he’s never had to buy an emergency illegal passport at such short notice before. Evan just nods. His grip on Barty’s hands has loosened as he realises that Narcissa is genuine about working with them.
“Okay, when’s a good time?” asks Barty.
“Let’s say five on the dot. If plans change, call me,” Narcissa says. “Once you’ve taken the cash out, you’ll need to put it somewhere where I can pick it up. It’s too risky meeting you this close to the end of your job.” She grimaces. “Tom will already have questions for me when he finds out I didn’t see your IDs on the plane manifesto.”
Barty swallows, the weight of how much danger he’s putting her in pressing down. With Evan’s hand expectantly clutched in his, he continues.
“What about that bird-watching book at the library?” he says, thinking back to a dead-drop location he’s used a few times.
“Ok,” Narcissa agrees. “Put the cash in there as soon as you withdraw it. Your passports should be there by tomorrow morning.”
Barty exchanges a half-smile with Evan. Finally, a concrete plan that doesn’t end up with one or both of them dead. So much could go wrong, but they have hope.
“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.
“One more thing,” Narcissa says. “You’ll need somewhere to go once you arrive in England.”
Barty hadn’t thought that far ahead, but it seems like Narcissa has been prepared for this from the start.
“Do you know a place?” he says sceptically. If it’s on the Knights’ radar, he doubts it’ll be safe.
“The Order has a safehouse,” Narcissa explains. “I’ll send Dorcas’ details over, and you can phone her when you get to England.”
“Wait, the Order?” Barty interrupts. “Why would we be any safer with the Order? They want us all dead.”
“They want the Knights dead, and you’re leaving the Knights,” Narcissa corrects him. “I’ve been in communication with Dorcas for a while. I’m certain she’ll offer a place to two runaway fugitives from the organisation she’s trying to take down.”
Barty frowns at the traitorous name plastered on every wall of Bellatrix’s house, and Evan doesn’t look convinced either. “Thanks, but we’d rather take our chances in England than get locked in one of the Order’s safehouses to be waterboarded for information," he says.
Although Barty was being serious, Narcissa huffs out an amused breath. “Goodness, no, it’s nothing like that,” she says. “They might want some information in exchange for hosting you, but Dorcas doesn’t run torture sites like Tom.”
Barty narrows his eyes at Narcissa being on first-name basis with Meadowes. They must be closer than he thought, which makes him wonder whether this is a different kind of trap, leading him into Meadowes’ path to take down the organisation she wants out of.
“I didn’t know you two were close,” he says. This sounds below the board– there’s no chance Riddle knows that Narcissa has been in contact with the leader of the Order of the Phoenix without flaunting it to everyone in a monthly meeting.
“I’ll text you her number,” Narcissa says, smoothly moving on. “If you want to a chance out there, you’ll call it once you arrive in England. I don’t know the location of the safehouse, no one in the Knights does, but Dorcas will give you details. Ok?”
Barty blinks several times. Right now, getting to the airport with fake passports feels like a task in itself, let alone what they’ll do when, or if, they make it to England.
“Yes, ok,” he says, thinking they can discuss it later. It’s not like he and Evan have any better plans.
“Good luck,” Narcissa says abruptly. The line rings out. She hung up.
Barty puts down the phone with a hundred things left unsaid. He was going to say how much he appreciates the help, how she didn’t have to go out of her way to do all this, ask why and for how long she’s been in touch with Meadowes, and how he can make sure none of this can be tracked back to her. Instead, there is silence. Narcissa must be confident that him and Evan escaping to England will be thanks enough.
“That went well.”
Evan’s voice cuts through the tense air. His expression is surprisingly optimistic. He even musters up a smile as he nudges Barty. “Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Barty says distractedly. He frowns. “Meadowes’ safehouse?”
Evan scoffs. “Yeah, like we’re that stupid. The passport thing sounds promising, though.”
“You've changed your tune.”
Evan shrugs. “A lot has changed.” He wraps an a around Barty’s shoulder and pulls him into a kiss, slow and soothing. He doesn't let go to whisper, “are we really doing this, Crouch?”
Barty is smiling like an idiot when Evan pulls away. He'll never tire of the feeling of his lips. “Yes,” he grins. “We're getting the fuck out of here.”
~
Barty isn’t happy with Evan walking about in the city in case Riddle has grown tired of his indecisiveness and ordered a wider hit on him, but he can’t exactly withdraw eight thousand euros from Evan’s account by himself. He reluctantly lets Evan go to the bank to take the money out. Meanwhile, a text buzzes through.
D: 0739440617
It’s from the same number he dialled earlier: Narcissa. It must be Meadowes’- or Dorcas as Narcissa seems intent on calling her- phone number, the one she directed him to call once they arrive in England. He saves it in the flip phone, and then writes it on his arm just in case.
Most things he knows about Dorcas are shrouded in myth and propaganda. She grew up in the Knights alongside Narcissa, but when their bloodthirsty politics became too much, she defected to the Order. Riddle paints the picture of a hysterical young woman who works as Dumbledore’s lapdog from overseas, using her 'sexual deviance' of sleeping with her female colleagues to discredit her. Yet her face is on every wall of Bellatrix’s house, the leader of the Order and the Knights’ prime enemy.
Narcissa secretly being in contact with her is another sign of her betrayal. Barty doesn’t know how long they’ve been in contact or what they’ve talked about, but if Narcissa trusts her, then maybe this safehouse is his and Evan’s best bet at safety.
When Evan returns half an hour later, some of the tension in Barty’s chest eases.
“I bring gifts,” Evan says, pulling out an envelope. He opens it to show a wad of cash in a colour Barty has never seen before: the purplish-red of €500. “Sorry I was so long. They brought the manager of the bank in to question why I needed eight thousand in cash, started doing all these validity checks. I told them I was buying a second-hand car, and they believed me in the end. I tried to do it as close to five o’clock as possible, but it ended being about ten minutes after.”
Barty admires the money, their ticket out of here. “It should be fine,” he says. “She would’ve waited.” He holds up his mobile. “Avery texted me.”
Evan peers over to read the message.
16:57 Are you coming back tonight?
“Clingy bastard,” Barty mutters. “Do you think I should reply?”
“Yes, we want him to think everything’s normal,” says Evan. “Do you think it would be less suspicious if you went home tonight and we met up in the morning?”
Barty shakes his head. “No chance I’m leaving you here on the day I’m meant to kill you.”
Evan smiles. “Then reply with something normal. We don’t want him wondering whether you’re thinking of doing a runner.”
Barty types out a reply that he hopes will put Avery’s concerns to rest.
17:25 I’m spending tonight here
Will finish the job tomorrow morning
A response comes through a moment later.
Ok
Turn your location on I cba to track it through narcissa's shitty app
The response is ordinary enough, so Barty replies back. Or just don’t track my location you creep.
No I’m bored
Also wilkes is busy so I’m meant to be keeping tabs on you
Lucky you
Barty turns his location on and leaves his mobile on Evan’s kitchen counter, planning not to move it until tomorrow morning. He takes the envelope of money Evan hands him.
“I’ll take this to the library,” he says. Right now, things feel remarkably low-stakes compared to the tension that has held the last nine days together. They just need to follow Narcissa’s instructions and prepare for their escape tomorrow. He gives Evan a smile. “Won’t be long.”
Evan kisses him before he goes, reminding Barty what he’s doing everything for. He takes the money and heads to the dead-drop location.
The library is located in the middle of the city, not far from the hotel. Barty doesn’t risk taking Avery’s bike in case the number plate is caught on CCTV. He wears one of Evan’s jackets, keeping the hood up and his head down.
Tall, square pillars hold up the library’s beige stone that makes up the building. The doors are wooden and tall, and luckily not manned by an usher like the hotel.
He slips in without a problem, avoiding the front desk and going into the main room. A cloudy sky creates a gloomy atmosphere as light comes in from a ceiling of glass windows. Most people in the open room are quietly sitting at the tables and computers.
Right at the back, the nature section was chosen for a reason. Most of the books are covered in a thin layer of dust, their ancient spines taped or glued together. He traces the surname of the authors until he gets to the designated dead-drop.
A Beginner's Guide to Birds of Costa Rica.
Barty wonders which Costa Rican bird fanatic bought the deteriorating book for the library. He opens it to find the pages are cut out to form a makeshift box. Checking no one’s around, he transfers Evan’s wad of notes to the box. He closes it, and leaves the library with his hood up.
When Barty gets back to the hotel, everything is going suspiciously well. He has no new messages from Avery or any of the others, and Evan has begun to pack some of his clothes into a bulky backpack. He was tasked to kill Evan by tomorrow; he would've thought someone would be checking in on how the mission is progressing, if not Riddle himself.
Maybe he mistakenly thought he was more important to Riddle than he actually is. Or maybe Avery and Narcissa have stopped any flags being raised about him spending the night at Evan's hotel.
Evan keeps scratching the back of his neck and looking out of the window to the grey cityscape. Planes fly low over the sky to the airport on the other side of the city. The television is playing in the background, though curled up on the sofa together, neither of them are paying much attention to it.
"We should go to bed soon," Barty remarks. The sun set a while ago, and the quiet television is making him sleepy.
"Yeah," Evan mutters distractedly. He rests his head on Barty's shoulder as his gaze goes nowhere in particular. "What are we going to do once we get to England?"
The question of what next lingers heavily in the air with them so close to something they never thought they'd reach.
"I don't know," Barty sighs, "but maybe Narcissa is right about the safehouse. It's got to be better than getting caught by the Knights and being made an example out of."
"Riddle's fucking obsessed with our group, isn't he?" Evan says, the reminder of Regulus at the forefront of their minds. Either they're bound to the same fate as him, or they'll escape like he never could.
Barty tugs at Evan's sleeve. "Come to bed," he says. Evan gives him a tired smile, and lets him pull him along to the bedroom.
Barty could unfortunately count on one hand the number of times he and Evan have slept in the same bed. Barty never wanted to risk involving Evan in one of his dad's drunken tirades, and Marcus never liked having Evan's disreputable friend over for the afternoon, let alone the night. Once he caught them together, Barty was banned from coming over for good.
There was the dreaded night this week, when Evan invited Barty to his bed despite knowing he was tangled up in the Knights, and Barty shattered his trust by pointing a gun at him while he slept. He’s surprised Evan is willing to sleep beside him a second time.
Evan has no qualms in taking the majority of his clothes off and climbing into bed as if they've done this a million times before. After the gun incident, Barty doesn't know what he's done to earn back his trust so quickly.
"You okay?" Evan says lazily as Barty hesitates.
"Yes," says Barty, looking around for something more comfortable to wear than his jeans and jacket. "Can I borrow some clothes?"
He realises his mistake when Evan's expression breaks into a mocking smirk. "Are you too shy to strip, darling?”
"I’m not shy, and I’m not your ‘darling’,” Barty snaps, though the lies show in his flushed cheeks. "I just don't want to sleep naked. What if, I don’t know, Riddle bursts in in the middle of the night and we need to make a quick escape?"
Evan snorts, many remarks on the tip of his tongue, but he holds back. He points to the middle wardrobe. "There are some shirts in there. Go wild." He smiles. "You're so cute."
Barty gives him a middle finger and goes to look for some appropriate clothes. He finds a baggy T-shirt and shorts, which smell like Evan he's delighted to find as he slips them on. He gets into bed, a little awkwardly at first, but Evan pulls him into a hug without a second thought.
"Alright now?" Evan murmurs. He tangles his hand through Barty's hair and kisses the top of his head.
The sweet affection turns Barty to mush. "Yeah," he says, before burying his head into the nape of Evan's neck. With Evan's arms around him, their bodies melting into one, he feels every tensed muscle in his body relax.
Uncertainty clouds his vision of the future, but at least it's not a brick wall anymore. The arms around him belong to Evan, his entire life belongs to Evan, and there is finally a way out of this.
~
Despite it being the night before their great escape, Barty sleeps like a baby. It didn't take him long to fall asleep on Evan's bare chest, and he wakes up to a shuffling beside him. He’s wearing Evan’s clothes, lying in Evan’s bed, sinking into the comfortable feeling that he could stay here forever.
The adrenaline of getting cash and passports and fake IDs sorted means he hasn’t had time to think about the gravity of the situation, of leaving the place he’s lived and everyone he’s known for his entire life.
The mattress wobbles slightly, and Barty opens his eyes. A snippet of sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, casting the hotel bedroom into a soft morning light. Evan is sitting on the other side of the bed. The sunlight falls on his back, illuminating every ridge and muscle definition on his dark skin. His bleached locs fall to his neck. Barty just watches for a moment, amazed that he belongs to this beautiful man. It doesn’t matter what he’s leaving behind when this is his future.
Then the anxiety hits him, and he sits bolt upright. “What time is it?”
Evan turns around. “Oh, you’re awake.” His smile catches up to his face a moment later, accentuating the bags under his eyes. “It’s just gone nine. We’ve got loads of time.”
Barty exhales in relief. “You look like shit,” he remarks at Evan’s washed-out expression. When Evan shrugs, he regrets saying it. He’d probably also feel like shit if the boyfriend he was planning to run away with revealed he’d been sent to kill him and had already tried to.
Barty shuffles over to Evan’s side of the bed, not yet confident enough to tentatively rub circles into his back. He has much further to go to prove himself.
“Did you sleep alright?” he asks. He hopes Evan picks up on the implicit I’m sorry that he carries heavily in his chest.
“Kind of,” Evan says. He focuses on fastening his belt around his jeans, bare back facing Barty.
Barty can immediately tell when something’s wrong. Evan never exploded into temper tantrums or furious rants when he was upset, he got quiet and distant and shut everyone out. His heart hammers in his chest. Is Evan having (understandable) second thoughts?
“What’s wrong?” he asks. After three years of emotionally distancing himself from everyone, tactful questions aren’t his strong suit. Or maybe he’s making excuses to avoid facing the fact that this is all his fault.
Evan turns around to meet his eye. His answer is painstakingly straightforward.
“I kept waking up in the night thinking you’d be gone,” he admits.
Barty’s body sags. The bags under his eyes make so much sense. Even though Evan's trust is fractured, he's selfishly relieved that Evan’s concern isn’t caused by cold feet. He doesn’t know what he’d do with himself if Evan called this whole thing off.
“I know it’s stupid,” Evan says. “It’s kind of just hard to believe any of this is real.”
“It’s not stupid,” Barty rushes to assure him. “It’s pretty rational, all things considered.” He swallows the lump of guilt in his throat. “I know I’ve fucked up, but I promise I’m not going anywhere. If there’s any way I can prove myself to you, tell me and I’ll do it.”
Evan reaches his hand out to thread through Barty’s fingers with a sigh. “You’ve already proved yourself to me, Bee,” he says. “I know you, and I know you’re being genuine. There’s just this stupid voice in the back of my head saying this is all a set-up and you’re going to leave, or change your mind and shoot me to cover your own ass.” He tries a smile to offset the weight of his deepest insecurities, but it falls flat.
“Evan…” Barty says sadly, his mouth downturned in all the ways he’s broken Evan down by breaking his trust over and over.
Evan holds up a hand. “Don’t. Just-” He reaches up to clutch the sides of Barty’s neck. “You’ve saved my piece of shit falling apart life, ok? Once we get to England, none of what you did to get us to that point will matter.”
Evan’s logic never fails to astound Barty. It’s a tragedy that Evan doesn’t realise that he should be put on a pedestal and worshipped, not thrown in the mud and stabbed in the back by someone who won't even call them boyfriends. Evan’s hands feel perfect holding him, but it should be Evan being held and reassured.
“I don’t get a free pass to treat you like shit just because things might turn out fine in the end,” he says vehemently.
“Tough luck, 'cause I’m giving you one,” Evan murmurs, and he leans in to kiss him. It’s a purposefully long drawn-out kiss that staunches the words of protest on Barty’s tongue.
Barty kisses him back while his heart fizzles with discontent. Of course Evan doesn’t see that he deserves the world when Barty has been treating him like the dirt under his shoe. This is no one’s fault but his own. All he can do right now is kiss Evan back.
When he manages to detach his lips from Evan’s, words so rare that he could count on his fingers how many times he’s said them come spilling out.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, barely an inch from Evan’s face.
Evan’s eyes are unfocused, lips slick as he presses a kiss to his lips. “You don’t need to be sorry. Just see this through with me, okay?”
“Okay,” Barty says instantly. Not a bone in his body is having doubts or second thoughts, and his body burns with relief that Evan isn’t either. He’ll have to leave his long, weeping apology for another time.
Evan seems more interested in kissing the life out of Barty than listening to anything he has to say. He hooks a leg over Barty's lap, hair spilling over his neck. He doesn’t care about Barty’s morning breath or his unbrushed hair or the fact that he’s still wearing Evan’s clothes from last night. He just grabs the hem of his shirt and slots their bodies together.
It’s barely a minute before Evan is pushing Barty back, and Barty leans back until he’s horizontal. Evan attacks his mouth, not giving him a chance to talk as he straddles Barty, resting on his elbows.
“We don’t have time for this,” Barty half-heartedly murmurs when the innocent kiss begins to lose its innocence. He’s not in a rush to stop the most attractive man from toplessly grinding on him, but they do have a plane to catch.
Evan pulls his tongue out from between Barty’s teeth for half a moment. “Don’t we?”
“Once we get our own place–” Barty says, his words punctuated between kisses, “–we can fuck all we want.”
Evan’s smirk is unsavoury. “What if fucking, right now, was the only way to prove yourself to me?” he says suggestively, teasing his hands under Barty’s shirt.
Barty scoffs as if he’s not getting hard at the mere position Evan is kissing him from. “You really don’t need to emotionally blackmail me into sex.” He puts his hands on the thighs Evan has hugging his waist. “Look where you’ve got me.”
Evan kisses him again, playing with his tongue in his mouth. “Mhm, so you’re saying we can fuck?”
“No, I need to go and pick up our passports,” Barty says, which takes unbelievable restraint on his part. “Horny bastard,” he mutters for good measure.
“It’s nine in the morning,” Evan points out. “We need to be at the airport for twelve, earliest. I’m sure you can spare ten minutes of your precious time to satisfy your darling boyfriend.”
Barty is trying especially hard not to stare at Evan’s exposed chest, but it’s proving increasingly difficult. The idea of being used to satisfy Evan’s needs just turns him on more. His insides are burning up, and he finally melts under the pressure.
He grabs Evan’s jaw and pulls him back into the kiss. “Five, then I’m going.”
Evan’s smugness falls away. His open grin is everything.
Chapter Text
Barty walks towards the public library. He hadn’t planned for the day he escaped Kryostrov and left the Knights to start with being fucked into the mattress so hard it feels like his legs will be shaking for the next week, but things happen.
Spending the morning with Evan has alleviated the worst of Barty’s worries about today falling apart, but anxiety still lingers. Today is the day Riddle is expecting him to kill Evan. Even though he’s barely in contact with anyone from the Knights, it feels like all eyes are on him. He either completes the mission and becomes accepted as a Knight or fails and ends up on the hit list of traitors.
The library is busier than it was yesterday. Barty goes straight to the nature section. The thick book on Costa Rican birds is where he left it on the shelf. He flips open the book without pausing to think about all the things that could’ve gone wrong since Narcissa spoke to him yesterday.
Instead, he opens the book to find the wad of cash gone. His tense shoulders deflate: two burgundy passports are slotted into the box. He can’t resist glancing inside.
The picture lifted off his current passport is plastered on the inside of one: ‘Fabiyan Tsybulenko’, a twenty-four-year-old born in Kryostrov. He checks the other one. Evan’s picture is next to a similar set of details with the name Lukas Petrov.
Sliding the passports into his jacket’s pockets, he notices two strips beneath them with ‘Boarding Pass’ written on.
Name: Fabiyan Tsybulenko
From: KRYOSTROV To: LONDON HEATHROW
Date: 15MAR
Time: 13:01 Boarding time: 12:45
Flight: A0118 Gate: 2
There is an identical boarding pass assigned to Lukas Petrov. Whispering a million thanks to Narcissa’s pristine organisational skills, he pockets the two passes. All that’s left to do is get to the airport and board the plane without being shot in the head or imprisoned for identity fraud.
With everything he and Evan need to leave, he returns to the hotel.
“Were they there?” Evan asks the moment he opens the door.
Barty’s grin is charged with adrenaline as he holds up the two burgundy passports. “All done for you, Lukas,” he says. “The boarding passes, too."
Evan scans over his passport and boarding pass. His expression breaks with the relief Barty felt when opening the book.
"Narcissa really has her shit together, doesn't she?" he says, scanning the information. "I didn't think I'd made this much of an impression."
"It's not about us," Barty says. When Evan looks up, he smiles tautly. "It's Regulus. She regrets not helping him when she had the chance. I guess this is her penance."
Evan mouths an "oh," at the reminder of Regulus, who got to this point before being murdered in cold blood. "I know it sounds stupid, but do you think he's, like, watching over us?"
Barty knows in the desperation of having someone permanently gone, the mind goes to dark places. Imagining Regulus' spirit watching over them seems like one of the tamer fantasies.
He tries a smile. "Are you kidding? He'd be cheering us on. 'Stop fucking and get to the bloody airport'," he mimics in Regulus' aristocratic drawl.
Evan snorts. "Right."
Their oncoming mission is closer than ever. Barty nods, his body light with anticipation. In a few more hours, they'll be out of the place he thought he'd never leave, with the man he feared he'd never see again.
Stalking goes both ways. Avery's phone location puts him at Bellatrix's house all morning. Since their flat is on the way to the airport, Barty suggests that he drops in and picks up some of his stuff. Evan says there's no point risking everything for some clothes, but Barty tells him there's nothing to risk since Avery is out, and it's not just clothes he wants to grab.
Barty turns his mobile off and leaves it in Evan's hotel room so it can't be tracked. Riddle's gun is tucked in his waistband in case of emergencies, ready to be disposed of before the airport.
Armed with a flip phone, a fake passport and a boarding pass, he leaves the hotel. Evan is right behind him, carrying a bulky backpack and Lukas Petrov's passport.
The airport is too far to reach on foot, so they're back on Avery's dodgy motorbike. Barty hopes Avery will find it once he’s gone. He speeds through backstreets and shortcuts, hoping to avoid being flagged on any CCTV.
Soon, they reach the grey block of flats where he and Avery have lived for over two years. After a week of fancy dates, beautiful scenery and a luxurious hotel room, Barty hates that Riddle stuck them here even more. The deteriorating greyness seeps from each cracked pavement and high-rise building. He's convinced living here was punishment for being friends with three traitors.
Evan waits with the motorbike while Barty goes inside. Slowly unlocking his flat's door, he untenses: Avery's shoes are gone and there is no sign of life.
Barty goes straight to his room. He hauls an old backpack out of his wardrobe and begins stuffing his favourite clothes in. Ones that don't fit get strewn onto the floor. It won't matter what Avery thinks happened, as long as he and Evan as long gone.
A niggling part of him feels bad for abandoning Avery without a goodbye, leaving him with Wilkes and Mulciber for friends and Riddle who will probably blame Avery for having a traitorous flatmate. Hopefully Avery will be able to work out what happened, and maybe knowing Barty couldn't have done anything differently will be enough.
His thoughts take a more sentimental turn as he prepares to leave the run-down flat he’s grown to know as home. There’s nothing subtle about the way Barty forced himself to stop making friends after Regulus’ death. He remembers the nights he’d lie awake, telling himself never to make the mistake of caring about someone again.
But as he packs away his belongings, he can’t keep pretending Avery isn’t his friend out of spite for a situation that's long gone, feelings he vowed he’d never let himself have again in case it ruined him for good.
Clothes packed, he reaches behind the shoebox under his bed to retrieve what he really came for: his bracelet. He's kept the purple threads for too long to lose now.
Suddenly, there's a noise. Barty stands bolt upright. Through the thin bedroom door, he hears the recognisable sound of the front door squeaking open.
Heart pumping in his mouth, Barty grabs his gun. He levels it at the bedroom door in anticipation, ready to defend himself no matter what. His clothes are everywhere, bag half-packed. It’s obvious where he’s going.
Footsteps that Barty can barely hear over the sound of blood roaring in his ears approach the bedroom door. He clicks the safety off and prepares to shoot whoever opens the door. Then, the noise sharpens into the tap of a prosthetic leg: Avery.
The door swings open to Avery, thankfully alone. Shock twists his features at Barty standing in his room with a gun pointed at him, clothes everywhere and a bag slung over his shoulder.
"Barty?” he says. Confused horror laces his words.
Barty instinctively lowers his gun. "Let me leave." He meant it as a harsh command, but it comes out more like a plea. He didn't want to involve Avery in any of this. The feeling that Avery is his friend, despite the defences he put up after Regulus’ death, hits him right in the gut.
Avery glares at his bag and clothes. "You're running away, aren't you? With him," he says, spitting him like poison. "I knew it. I knew you were going to do this."
Annoyance clouds Barty's features. Anyone else would've shot him in the chest by now. Barty would’ve shot anyone else in the chest, too.
"Bullshit," he snaps. "If you knew so well, why didn't you stop me sooner?"
"Why did you wait so long?" Avery retorts, fury, panic, desperation heightening his words. "I thought you had a plan. I thought you and him were going to disappear in the first week, or at least before today, but you never did and now I can't let you leave." Amidst it all, there is shame. Shame that he's sunk to the traitorous level he thought he'd never stoop to.
Barty stops short. I thought you had a plan. Avery didn't fail to tell Riddle about him and Evan out of embarrassment– it was out of hope that they'd escape before time ran out. Naïvely, his estimation of Avery was so low that he didn't think he knew what was really going on. It turns out he did. Avery gave him a chance, and Barty blew it.
"Yes, you can," he says, hoping to appeal to the part of Avery that has protected him for this long. "I'm going to walk out, and all you have to do is say you arrived five minutes later and missed me."
"I can't do that," Avery says with hard determination. His eyes narrow, and he doesn't move from where he's standing in the doorway. His goodwill has run out.
“Don't be stupid,” Barty says. "I have a gun."
“You're not going to shoot me.”
Barty narrows his eyes. “Aren't I?”
“No," Avery says, unperturbed by the loaded pistol Barty is holding. "It's too late. You have to call off your escape and shoot Rosier like you were always meant to." His voice is level. "I can't let you get on that plane.”
Rabid determination fills Avery's eyes. Letting Barty go would mean defying the only constant he's had since his parents' death. It would mean dishonouring his dead parents, defying his father figure, giving up his own integrity, his future. Avery's stance is steady, prepared to fight for this. He can't give Barty another chance.
“If you think you're going to ruin this for me, you're delusional,” Barty says. His ticket out of here requires one squeeze of the trigger, but Avery must know he doesn't have it in him.
Avery rolls up his sleeves. Since his amputation, he's built up his arms and chest. He and Barty haven’t scuffled since living together, but how hard can it be?
“You should’ve killed Rosier the moment you saw him,” Avery spits. The words are annoyed rather than spiteful. Barty could’ve saved them both this trouble by simply completing his job.
Barty steps forward to throw the first punch, a right hook that should go straight into the side of Avery’s head. Avery dodges, and the forward force brings Barty stumbling forward. He ducks beneath Avery’s punch, and charges back.
He connects with Avery’s body with a thud, and they both crash onto the floor. The purple bracelet falls out of his hand as they claw at each other’s hair and eyes. Unlike his fight with Mulciber, Barty has the upper hand. He uses his legs to grip around Avery and force him down.
Avery throws a few painful punches, one of them landing on Barty’s barely healed nose. Pain sprouts in Barty’s vision. It takes a minute of struggling to finally get his arm around Avery’s neck. Avery is on top of him, but he’s facing away from Barty and can’t move out of the headlock.
Avery claws at the arms around his neck, but he can’t break free. Barty keeps him in the headlock, panting as he tries to regain his breath. It takes all his strength to hold Avery in place. He’ll choke him out if that’s what it'll take.
Moments later, Avery frantically taps his arm. Barty doesn’t think tapping out rules apply, but he loosens his grip slightly to let Avery breathe regardless.
“I've already sent the text,” Avery blurts out, taking big gasps of air. His nails dig into Barty’s arms which have loosened just enough for him to breathe.
Barty doesn’t make the mistake of moving from his secure position. “What?” he says. When Avery just gasps for air, he shakes him. “What fucking text?”
“Everyone knew you were a flight risk,” Avery breathlessly says. “Wilkes has been monitoring you and Mulciber thought it's stupid how much time you've spent with Rosier and Bellatrix said Riddle never believed you'd do it, he just wanted an excuse to kill you and Narcissa has been checking every single flight leaving the airport to make sure you're not on it.”
His jumbled stream of words continues. “I got notified when you turned your phone off at the hotel and it was obvious what was happening, I was at Bellatrix’s and Riddle looked so smug he just knew it was always going to happen–”
“He set me up for failure, I already knew that,” Barty snaps as if it doesn’t drain him to hear that his mission to become a Knight was no more than an excuse to execute him. Everything Riddle said about loyalty and respect was a lie; he never had an ounce of trust for Barty, how can he after Regulus?
“What text?” he repeats.
“I said you're leaving,” Avery says. “They'll be waiting at the airport.”
“Who?”
“Mulciber and Wilkes. They wanted to be the ones to get you and Rosier.”
Knowing that two people who won’t hesitate to kill him or Evan in cold blood are waiting at the airport for them makes a weight drop in Barty’s chest. He fumbles in Avery’s pocket for his phone, and gets up. Avery looks relieved to be released as he catches his breath, lying static on the floor.
Unlocking the phone, Barty looks at the last message Avery sent: to Wilkes and Mulciber. Yep he's here now, will be heading to the airport after. You go I’ll try and stop him.
“You fucking bitch,” Barty utters. He's just about to take out the SIM card so he can't do any more damage when his balance gets swiped from beneath him.
He comes crashing down to the floor. Before he can process what’s happening, Avery scrambles on top of him, his hands grabbing Barty’s neck.
“I can't let you leave, man,” Avery says darkly, his hands tightening until Barty is choking for air. “I was supposed to be keeping an eye on you. Riddle will kill me if found out I let you go.” The most prominent emotion in his eyes is fear.
Barty tries to grab at the carpet, at Avery’s eyes or anything to get the hands off his neck. Breath running out, he finally finds a point of balance to shove his knee into the side of Avery and topple him over. He sucks in breaths, dizziness rushing to his head all at once.
Before Avery can pull him back down, he puts all of his strength into a right hook into Avery's head. This time, it connects. The wind is visibly knocked out of Avery is he crumples to the floor in a semi-conscious heap.
With a pistol on the table, Barty could end it right now. He could make sure Avery never bothers him with his toxic loyalty to the cause again. He has plenty of bullets left. Then Riddle’s voice echos through his head. You’re weak. He knew Barty wasn’t strong enough to kill Evan, that was the whole point, so why should he bother being strong enough to kill the only friend he has?
Blood pumping in his ears and throbbing pain in his torso where Avery landed several decent punches, Barty can’t think straight. Avery is incapacitated, barely moving as he rasps in breaths from the floor.
He and Evan have to get to the airport before Wilkes and Mulciber do, otherwise they're never getting off this island. With one last look at Avery, he grabs his half-packed bag and strides out of the flat.
Evan is where Barty left him, sitting on the back of the motorbike in the alcove around the corner. His face opens with confused worry at the state of Barty- clothes out of place and blood freshly dripping from his nose. Everything hurts and his heart is beating too fast.
“What happened?” Evan says, holding out an arm to slot behind Barty's neck. “Are you ok?”
“No time to explain,” Barty says, hooking his leg over the seat. “We need to get to the airport, now.” He revs the engine. When Evan grabs his waist without a question, he stamps on the accelerator. Ten minutes drive to the airport. He hopes they can make it before Wilkes and Mulciber do.
The island’s only airport has one terminal and two gates. A plane lands every half hour, so Mulciber and Wilkes will be able to track exactly which plane they’re going on and where they’ll land.
Barty’s head is pounding, he can’t decide whether it’s from fear or being strangled. They park outside and slip into the large, glass building. Taxi drivers and couples with suitcases and tired families are milling about. Barty is glad they can blend into the thin crowds, which will hopefully stop Mulciber or Wilkes from shooting them in broad daylight, though he wouldn't bank on it.
“So, what happened?” Evan asks quietly as they go through the winding automatic doors.
Barty ducks his head lower. “Avery showed up,” he says with a grimace. “He tried to stop me from leaving, but I managed to get out. Bad news is he already texted Mulciber and Wilkes to say we’re heading here, so they'll be on our tail.”
Evan scours the airport's open entrance. “You think they’d shoot us in here?”
Barty’s look is grim. “Yes.”
Their senses are bombarded with colourful signs and voices and a robotic voice announcing upcoming flights over the tannoy. Shops wrap around the airport at all angles, people sitting on the long rows of chairs in the centre, large suitcases everywhere. Barty follows Evan to the check-in desk on one side of the centre.
Between Barty's scruffy black mullet and Evan being one of the few people of colour here, they’re probably the most recognisable pair in the airport. Barty glances around the shops and seating areas, looking out for Mulciber’s distinctive neck tattoos or Wilkes’ thick-framed glasses. They’re both tall, well-built and should be easy to spot, but it’s difficult to pinpoint them in the sea of white faces and brown hair.
The smartly-dressed woman at the check-in desk smiles towards them. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”
“We’re here to check in,” Evan says. “Lukas Petrov and Fabiyan Tsybulenko, to London.” The names slip off his tongue in the natural way he’s been practising all morning.
The woman taps the information into her computer, and nods. “Flight one-one-eight. Do you have your passports?”
They get out their passports. Barty has a sick feeling in his stomach as they hand them over. They’re high quality, but not flawless. Maybe Mulciber and Wilkes won’t have to shoot them after all if this fails.
Evan's shoulders are rigid beside him. Barty wishes he could give him more than empty assurances. The woman scans through the passports.
“What’s your reason for travel?” she says, handing them the passports back.
“Holiday,” Evan says, like they agreed.
“Why haven’t you booked a return journey?”
Evan exchanges a look with Barty, but he continues. “It’s cheaper to buy them separately.”
“When are you planning to return?” she asks. “If you’re staying for longer than six months, you’ll need to apply for a VISA.”
“No, we’re only staying for a few weeks,” says Evan. He takes a sharp intake of breath and nudges Barty while the woman types on her keyboard.
Barty follows Evan’s gaze to the other side of the building. Fear spikes in his chest when he sees what Evan is looking at. In the entrance to a small shop right next to the security lines stands a man with neck tattoos and another with thick-brimmed glasses: Mulciber and Wilkes. They’re scanning the centre, searching for someone.
“Shit,” Barty utters, turning away. There’s no way to get to the security lines without being spotted. He meets Evan’s wide eyes. “What do we do?”
“And do you have just one bag of hand luggage each?” the woman asks.
“Yeah,” Barty says distractedly. He ducks his head lower. “Is there only one way to the gate?”
The woman nods. “Yes, you need to go through security over there,” she says, signalling with a hand to where Mulciber and Wilkes are standing. “Is that everything?”
“Yes, thanks,” Evan says. He pulls Barty away from their exposed place in the check-in desk and into the nearest shop. It’s a clothes shop, Barty isn’t paying much attention as they press their backs to a clothes rack, out of sight of the main airport.
“Shit,” Barty repeats, staring at Evan as if he knows what to do. “Is it too late to cancel and book another flight?”
Evan shakes his head. “They’ll have someone at the airport until they find us. We need to get on this flight.” His eyes narrow as he thinks of a solution. “We need to distract them. Lead them somewhere, then double back to the security line.”
Barty nods frantically. He pokes his head out of the shop entrance, looking for somewhere to lure them. “We should stay in the airport, otherwise they’ll just openly shoot at us.”
“Right.” Evan has a determined glint in his eye. “What about the toilets over there?” He points to the other side where a corridor leading to the toilets is marked in bold. “They’ll follow us in there, hoping to corner us somewhere quiet, and then we double back on ourselves. It’s a clear line to security.” Two armed officers stand at the start of the security section with long guns. “We’re safe once we get there.”
“Okay,” Barty says uncertainly. The plan is improvised at best. At worst, they could be running into a death trap.
Evan pokes Barty’s hand. “If something goes wrong, you need to go without me, or this will all have been for nothing,” he says firmly, as if he’s already made peace with the fact that he could die here.
This makes Barty’s doubt worsen. “Why would you say that?” he snaps. “We’re getting on that plane, Rosie, whether you like it or not.”
Evan’s smile is soft as he takes Barty’s hand in acceptance. “Okay.”
Mulciber and Wilkes are still stationed beside the security line when they come out of hiding. Barty puts his head down as they quickly pace across the main area through the thin crowds. They’d be stupid not to notice he and Evan weaving through the crowds at a quicker pace than anyone else.
Barty is so tensed in anticipation of a bullet in his back that it’s difficult to walk smoothly. He resists the urge to grab onto Evan’s hand and sprint. Blood hums in his ears as they enter the corridor for the toilets.
It’s a long, windowless corridor lit by bright fluorescent lights. Four doors are at the end: the men’s, ladies’ and disabled toilet, and a steel door that says ‘STAFF ONLY’. A woman comes out of the ladies’, but aside from that, it is devoid of people.
Evan takes them into the disabled toilet at the end. He locks the door, pressing his ear to the wood. “When they go into the men’s, we run back out,” he whispers to Barty.
As Barty nods, a loud noise sounds– the doors to the airport swinging open. Two heavy pairs of footsteps come down the corridor, echoing off the walls.
“Take the men’s, I’ll wait here,” commands Mulciber’s distinctive voice. His footsteps stop in the place Barty and Evan were planning to retreat past. He raises his voice in a harsh taunt. “We’re going to flush you out, you fucking rats.”
Barty exchanges a look with Evan, who gives a desperate shrug. Their plan has already failed. When Wilkes' footsteps come echoing into the corridor towards them, Evan takes a stand.
“Stay back. We’re armed," Evan calls through the crack in the open disabled toilet door. There's no point hiding their location when it's obvious where they are.
Barty exhales when the footsteps stop. Neither Mulciber nor Wilkes have known Evan for three years, they don't know how he thinks or how predictable or skilled at shooting he is. While they'd probably call Barty's bluff, they can't be sure of the same for Evan.
“Long time, no see, Rosier,” comes Mulciber’s taunting voice. “No need to be shy, princess. Come out where we can see you.”
“Go fuck yourself, Mulciber,” Evan calls out. “You come a step closer and I’ll blow your brains out.”
No noise or footsteps come from the other end of the corridor. Barty nods a 'well done' when Evan looks at him. The bluff is paying off, for now. That doesn't change the fact that they're unarmed and backed into a dead end.
"Take your time," calls Wilkes. "We're not going anywhere."
Mulciber’s cruel voice echos off the walls. “Every second you wait is another second I’m keeping your adorable little boyfriend to myself after I shoot you, Crouch.”
Barty’s jaw clenches at the threat Mulciber isn’t trying to hide. His body flushes hot and cold as he stares at Evan in desperation. He’s the one who talked Evan into running away with him, he’s the one convinced they should get on the plane. If anything happens to Evan now, it’ll be all his fault.
Evan holds him back with an arm. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just trying to provoke you,” he whispers. “We need to focus on finding a way out of here.”
Barty swallows and peers out of the crack as he tries to focus on the task at hand. There’s nothing empty about Mulciber’s threats, which makes him more determined to find a way out. He can’t see where Wilkes and Mulciber are stationed, but he can see two options near them: the ladies' on the other side or a metal STAFF ONLY door directly opposite them.
"What do you think?" he says to Evan.
Evan narrows his eyes at the door. "No chance," he whispers back. "It doesn't look like it opens from this side, and we'd be walking directly into their line of fire."
Barty's heart sinks as he realises he's right. Running across the corridor would be too risky, even if they could get through the door. And what’s to say the door isn’t tripped with an alarm, or it’s another dead-end, or they get caught by the staff and held for questioning?
There’s only a certain amount of time before Mulciber and Wilkes will call their bluff, and come down to find out that they’re not armed at all. Maybe they could wrestle their guns off them, but given his unsuccessful tousle with Mulciber last week, Barty isn’t hopeful.
Evan must be thinking the same hopeless thoughts, because he turns to Barty with a sad smile. “Barty,” he says too softly for it to be anything good.
“No,” Barty interrupts. “We’re not dying here. They’ll run out of bullets. Someone’s going to come down here and report them or something."
Evan holds his tongue from sharing whatever ridiculous, self-sacrificing plan he's thinking up. Then suddenly, there’s a loud metal clang just feet away. Through the half open toilet door, Barty sees the STAFF ONLY door they presumed was locked swing open. His eyes widen impossibly. Standing in the doorway, face swollen and bruised, is Avery.
“Guys, I got your message–” Avery begins as he steps into the corridor right outside the disabled toilets.
Taking his chance, Evan shoves open the door. Avery’s eyes widen as he sees Barty and Evan hidden away. Evan grabs Avery’s arm, giving him no time to react before dragging him into the toilet. Bullets whizz past them as Mulciber and Wilkes aim for Evan, but they land in the wall past him.
Evan snatches Avery’s gun off him and levels it at his head. “Don’t move,” he orders.
Barty could almost feel bad for the way he left Avery half-conscious on his bedroom floor, only to become cornered in a toilet with his own gun pointed at his head and two colleagues down the corridor who don’t care if he becomes collateral damage.
Avery guessed that Barty wouldn’t shoot him, but he can’t be sure that Evan won’t. He stays still, eyes darting between the two of them like a deer in headlights.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Barty says in exasperation, though he’s not angry. Avery has just unintentionally got them out of an impossible situation by arming them and showing them a way out. He exchanges a look with Evan- they both saw the metal STAFF ONLY door open.
Avery’s eyes are fixed on Evan, wincing at every movement of the gun. He knows the stakes, and he knows by Evan’s grimly determined expression that he’d shoot him in a split second.
“Avery, what the hell is going on in there?” Wilkes shouts down the corridor. The uncertainty in his voice just fuels Barty- they didn’t plan this, and they don’t know their next moves.
“I’m fine,” Avery calls back, but he gulps his mouth shut when Evan takes step forward with the gun still levelled at his head.
“Tell us about that door you just came out of,” Evan demands.
Avery nods too vigorously. “Yeah, well, I got up when Barty left and it had been like two minutes so I got a taxi to the airport, and on the way here I was looking at the blueprints off this site I saved ages ago,” he says in a fast stream of barely intelligent words. “I had to get a taxi because you’d taken my bike, and I got a text from Wilkes–”
“Avery,” Barty interrupts, sensing Evan getting twitchy. They’re running out of time before Mulciber and Wilkes storm them. “The door."
Avery swallows. “Uh, yeah, it’s a door to a service corridor. Wilkes said he needed backup so I figured I could flank you from there. It goes into the back of one of the shops.”
“Can we open it from this side?” Evan asks.
“Yes, it’s just a regular door.”
Barty breathes a sigh of temporary relief. There’s a way out of this.
“Okay, new plan,” he tells Evan in a low voice. “We shove Avery out, and while they’re distracted we go into that service corridor. It’s risky, but if you fire a few warning shots, they should back off.”
Avery’s expression is stricken. “Come on, man, you think using me as a human shield is going to stop them from shooting?"
“You don’t have a say in this,” hisses Evan. His eyes go between the service door they can see just feet away from their position on the other side of the corridor, then Barty’s determined expression. “Ok. It’s not like we’ve got any better options. Are you ready?”
Barty gives a grim nod. Although his life could be about to get shot into non-existence, it’s a small comfort that Evan is by his side. And there’s Avery, who’s cowering in thinly-disguised terror at the prospect of being thrown into the firing line.
Barty grabs his arm and brings him to the crack in the door. He didn’t shoot Avery before, and he’s not planning on letting him die now, either.
“Listen to me,” he says urgently. “I’m going to kick your leg out. You get on the ground and don’t get up, ok?”
“What?” says Avery.
Barty’s grip tightens. "Do you want to live?"
Avery hesitates. "Yes,” he says, deciding it’s not a trick question.
"Then do what I say."
Meeting Evan’s eyes one last time, Barty gives a nod. He sucks in a breath. This is it.
In one motion, Barty kicks open the toilet door and shoves Avery into the corridor, kicking out his prosthetic to make him fall. Evan fires two warning shots so Mulciber and Wilkes duck back into the men’s, and he and Barty bolt for it.
The few feet across the corridor feel like the longest four steps Barty has ever taken. He and Evan run to the door with bullets nipping at their feet and whizzing past their heads. Barty ducks, and one goes so close to his ear that he hears it ripple through the air.
Evan’s hand is on the metal door handle. It opens out towards Mulciber and Avery, giving them a shield as they jump into a dark corridor. The ping of bullets hit the other side of the door. The metal is too thick for them to go through.
Barty propels into the back of Evan, and they scramble through the corridor. The weighty metal door swings shut behind them. The corridor is long, dimly lit and clearly not meant for customer use.
Evan’s hand grips around Barty’s arm tighter than ever. “You okay?” he says breathlessly.
“Yeah, you?” says Barty, wondering if Avery got down in time. He didn't hear a pained cry.
“Yeah.” Evan’s grip loosens. “Let’s go, they won’t be far behind.”
Barty runs with him down the service corridor to the door at the end. No one is in sight. Just as he’s about to tentatively open it, there’s a loud bang behind them. Without looking back, Barty careers out of the door with Evan right behind.
He winces at the bright lights of a shop. Like Avery said, the corridor opens into the back onto one of the shops. Looking around, it seems like no one saw them emerge from the service door.
“Come on,” Evan says, urging Barty to leave the place where Mulciber and Wilkes will be coming out any moment now. They leave the shop and are plunged into the crowds of people. Barty feels less vulnerable with the safety net of people and not being backed into an impossible corner. For a moment, he thought it was over.
Barty glances over his shoulder so many times it feels like his head is going to fall off his shoulders. He doesn’t spot Mulciber’s steely eyes or Wilkes’ glasses in the crowds of people, yet he doesn’t feel safe just yet. He and Evan don’t speak until they’ve passed the two armed security guards at the security check-in line.
“Do you think we lost them?” Barty says as they join the queue for the baggage scanners.
Evan’s shoulders are rigid, his expression drawn in paranoia. “No, but it’d be suicide to fire at us here.”
It's not what Barty wants to hear. He hopes Wilkes or Mulciber aren’t prepared to martyr themselves to kill them.
They shuffle past the security line in terse silence. Their bags go through fine. The only thing left is a last passport check, then they can board the plane.
Barty stares over his shoulder one last time, but the main airport has disappeared behind a queue of people. Mulciber and Wilkes can't get through here unless they go through security first, and their guns would be detected. Logically, they're safe, but that doesn't soothe him.
Boarding is already open. A bored-looking man repeats the questions the woman at the check-in desk asked, before nodding them through.
"Okay?" Evan asks him. He nudges his hand into Barty's, everything unspoken wrapped in his tight grasp.
"Yeah," Barty mutters, pushing his hand into his. He pulls Evan along onto the boarding bridge and onto the plane. No sign of Mulciber of Wilkes, no bullets whistling behind them. When the flight attendant greets them with a smile, he starts to believe that they made it.
Chapter 14
Notes:
So I use Grammarly to catch typos and errors which hasn’t been working for the last few weeks (hopefully there aren’t too many errors in the previous chapters lol) but now it’s working again so there should be even less 😀
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Barty feels like he's in some sort of sick dream sequence as he follows Evan to their seats. The plane is narrow, only twenty rows from the door to the cockpit. A baby is crying somewhere, and there's a voice talking right behind him.
The last thing that felt real was talking to the woman at the check-in desk. He still smells bleach and hears Mulciber's mocking voice echoing off the corridor walls. Gunshots whizzing past his ears, the rush of adrenaline as they sprinted into the STAFF ONLY door.
Evan looks back to check he’s still following. His expression is pinched with anxiety as his eyes flit around the plane. There's no chance Mulciber or Wilkes could have cleared security, but the feeling that someone is watching them sticks.
"Here?" Evan says when they get to row fifteen. Barty nods.
As people file onto the plane, Barty watches out for men with tattoos or thick glasses. Even Avery's blonde mop, since he seems intent on following them. The minutes pass in terse silence. Then, finally, the plane's ramp begins to swing away from the door.
Barty turns to Evan. “We did it,” he says. He feels like he ought to be smiling.
Evan lets out a long breath as the plane door closes. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he utters, dragging his hands through his hair.
Then emotion ripples through Barty as he recalls a green glasses case rolling away from him.
“Shit,” he exclaims.
“What?”
“I forgot the bracelet. You know, the one you made me in year six,” Barty says desperately. “That's the whole reason I went back to my flat. I’ve just- I fucking forgot it.” He doesn’t know why this is the thing that makes his voice flick up in emotion.
Evan looks vaguely confused. “We’ll get a new one,” he says like it’s nothing.
Barty doesn’t want a new one. He wants the old, loosely tied together threads of string twelve-year-old Evan made for him before things got complicated.
Four hours until they touchdown in London. Right now, Barty isn't thinking about England or Dorcas or the Order's safehouse. He's watching the airport out of Evan's window and thinking about everything they're leaving behind, knowing he can never come back.
Most of it he's glad to see the back of. The streets he walked during the worst parts of his life, failing corner shops and park benches and empty fields. Flat, grey scenery that falls away where the cliffs sink into the sea. He hasn’t spoken to his dad in over a year, and now he’ll never hear his furious voice echoing through his cold childhood home again.
All the faces he’s sat through countless monthly meetings with flash through his mind. He hopes he's seen the back of Riddle’s scratchy voice and Bellatrix’s mocking smile and Mulciber’s harsh tone, though he’s not so sure. He regrets that his last conversation with Avery was with him held at gunpoint, but Avery seems to understand the situation. Maybe he won’t hate him forever.
Barty looks over at where Evan has slumped in his seat with an unreadable expression on his face as a safety announcement comes over the speaker.
Getting backed into a corner by Mulciber was his stupidest decision yet. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for putting Evan in danger like that. Evan left the island with the impression of a tech-savvy Wilkes and Mulciber who had a fear of blood. He couldn’t have known how dangerous they are now.
What’s worse is that Mulciber will be even more determined to catch them now they’ve embarrassed him a second time. If he does catch them, zero empathy will be factored into his punishment. Blood wouldn’t need to be involved. Maybe it'll be the same as Fortescue and Longbottom, turned into mindless zombies who can’t remember their own names.
When they land, they could be in just as much danger as they were in Kryostrov. Everyone knows their flight and destination. As his thoughts spiral darker, he wonders whether it would’ve been kinder to kill Evan when he asked, when they were fully in control. At least then they would've had a dignified end.
A prod on his arm brings him back to earth. Evan is looking at him with a mixed expression.
“You okay?” he murmurs, caressing Barty’s arm with his thumb.
Barty glances around. The row in front of them is empty, and the row behind them has one person wearing headphones. The people across the aisle are chatting amongst themselves. Still, he doesn’t want to detail his fears.
“Yes,” he says. He’s apologised to perhaps three people in his life, but right now he’s not thinking about his pride. “I’m sorry for putting you in this position." I’m sorry I can’t protect you.
Evan’s expression folds into a frown. “I was the one who suggested going into that corridor,” he points out. “Anyway, we got out, didn’t we?”
His touch isn’t firm, and Barty realises his hand is trembling. Guilt tugs at his heart. “Evan, you’re shaking.”
Evan pulls away. “Barely,” he mutters. He didn’t flinch during the confrontation, but now the danger is over, his body is catching up to it. He tries to change the subject. “I never thought I’d say this, but thank god for Avery. It's too bad they’re going to skin him alive for helping us escape.”
Barty frowns at an outcome he hadn’t considered. “He didn’t help us, though,” he says. “It was a total streak of luck that he happened to be there at the right time.”
“You think Riddle’s going to see it like that?”
Barty goes quiet as he thinks this over. Avery wasn’t in Mulciber and Wilkes’ good books in the first place, and they have no reason to defend Avery’s actions which mistakenly led to their escape. He winces imagining Mulciber taking out their loss on Avery. Still, as their plane flies further across the sea, there's no going back now.
“I didn’t know Mulciber had got so… intense,” Evan says.
Barty gives him a sympathetic look. “Ever since he became a Knight, he's completely lost it on this massive power trip. Not that he was all there in the first place.”
Evan huffs in agreement. “So, what’s the plan for when we arrive?”
At his expectant gaze, Barty is relieved that he hasn’t completely broken Evan's trust. He told Evan they were running away together, and now it’s his job to protect him. He can’t mess this up.
“We get the first taxi away from the airport, and I'll call Dorcas,” he says much more confidently than he feels. “I don’t know about the safehouse thing, but there's no harm in calling her.”
Evan nods, chewing on his lower lip. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“We’ll have to see,” Barty shrugs. “But we’ve got four hours to ourselves, so just try and relax, okay?”
Evan narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m made out of glass.”
“We almost died,” Barty says just as defensively. “I almost watched the man I love get dragged away by a psychopath. I’m allowed to be worried.”
“The man you love,” Evan echoes with a genuine smile.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” Barty says, as if he wouldn’t do anything to see Evan smile like that.
“Mhm. I’m having a nap.” Evan slumps to the side, nestling his head into the comfortable space that Barty's shoulder and head creates. He closes his eyes. “Wake me up if we’re about to be shot. Or don’t.”
A smile curls up the corners of Barty’s mouth as Evan’s head rests on his shoulder. It seems that no matter how badly he messes up, Evan continues to trust him. Barty doesn’t know whether to be honoured or concerned. He tilts his head to rest on Evan’s in what he hopes is an apology, a promise that he’ll protect him better from now on.
Four hours until he has to deal with the bullshit his life has descended into since he opened the letter from Riddle two weeks ago. With Evan gently exhaling from his shoulder, he takes this chance to rest.
The four hours drag by. Barty has never been more grateful to be bored. As they begin the descent to London, Barty’s worries surge. He has no idea how many people Riddle has on the ground in England, if any. They'll have to bolt to the first taxi they see and hope for the best.
Evan is on equally high alert as the plane lands. His shoulders are tensed as they exit the plane amongst families on holiday and businesspeople in suits. They bypass the luggage section, weaving through the crowds. There are a hundred times more people here than there were in Kryostrov, much easier to disappear into.
As they get to the automatic doors, they’re almost jogging. Outside, London’s sky is covered in grey clouds. Black cabs line up on the road outside, their ticket to temporary safety.
Ducking their heads, they stride to the nearest available taxi. Getting in a stranger’s car unarmed isn’t ideal, but it’s better than being left in the open.
“Where to?” the cab driver asks, a stocky middle-aged man.
Barty hands him two twenty-pound notes, his only cash. “Close as you can get us to central London,” he says. The more populated the areas they stay in, the better. He turns to Evan, lowering his voice. “We should call Dorcas.” There’s no time to celebrate their temporary success.
Evan’s sigh is tired as they pull out of the taxi rank and onto the congested streets. “Can’t we have a breather first? We made it, Barty. We made it off the island.”
His exhausted plea isn’t worth arguing over. “Okay,” Barty says. He bumps his knee into Evan’s. I know you’d rather just go home, but we can’t let our guard down now.”
Evan turns his head to the window in silent disagreement. Barty isn’t rushing to get to the Order’s safehouse either, but it’s their only hope of protection.
They drive for another twenty-five minutes, until the metre passes the forty-pound mark. They stop in a populated, suburban area that Barty doesn’t recognise.
“Bayswater tube station, if that means anything to you,” Evan says as they pass a sign for the Underground.
“It doesn’t,” Barty says. “You’re the one who’s lived here for three years.”
“I live in East London,” Evan sniffs. “I don’t know where the fuck this is.” He nods at a sign on the side of a building. “There’s a library this way.”
Barty agrees it would be a good, neutral place to set up. Paddington Library has a grand, white facade. Inside is populated, but not packed full. He takes Evan up to the top floor where they find a quiet corner to relax.
An alcove of bookshelves surrounds their desk. Distant but unintelligible conversations make up the background noise. Barty sinks into a chair. He needs many cigarettes and a long nap.
Evan props his head up with an elbow, tucking his chair closer to Barty.
“Are you okay?” Barty says.
“Never better,” comes Evan’s sarcastic reply. He lifts his head up. “I don’t think you should call Meadowes. Or Dorcas, since she’s our new best friend."
Barty’s forehead furrows into a frown. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to live with a bunch of people who hate us for working for the people who tortured their friends,” Evan says like it’s obvious. “How about this: I take out the remainder of my inheritance, we rent a new place with the cash under a false name, and we start working under our fake passports. We dye our hair, wear masks everywhere and CCTV won’t pick us up. They’ll lose interest in us soon enough. We’re not that important to them.”
Barty scoffs. “Of course we are. If we escape without consequences, that means anyone can. Riddle won’t just let us go.” He thinks about Mulciber’s taunting voice echoing down the corridor. “Your plan could work if we’re lucky, but it’s not worth the risk. Think about what Mulciber would do if he got his hands on us.”
Evan frustratedly rolls his eyes. “Who cares about Mulciber?” he says. “He’s an egotistical loser. You don’t need to protect me from him. If he gets his hands on us, we’re both dead anyway.”
Barty clenches his jaw at Evan overlooking their biggest threat in favour of a pipe dream. “Our best chance of survival is the safehouse,” he says. “Its location has gone undetected for months, if not years, and we’ll be surrounded by people who can keep us safe.”
“What makes you think they’re going to keep us safe?” Evan retorts. “The Knights tortured and killed so many of their friends. What’s going to stop them from torturing and killing us to balance things out?”
Barty doesn’t have a response to this because Evan has a point. Potter and Evans were murdered in front of their baby, Fortescue and Longbottom were tortured into psychosis, and Regulus was assassinated before he could reach his estranged brother. Why would their closest friends let them into their safehouse with open arms?
“And even if they didn’t, what kind of life is that?” Evan continues. “Cowering in their house in case we’re caught on CCTV, subject to their constant questions and scrutiny.” His voice breaks. “I want to be with you, Barty.”
Barty’s heart melts at his change of tone. It would be so easy to run with Evan to some dodgy flat, working from their illegal passports until Riddle caught up to them. Maybe past Barty would’ve agreed, but present Barty has seen a glimpse of the long future they could share if they just survived the next few years.
“You will be with me,” Barty says, clutching Evan’s hand in reassurance.
“Not properly. I want to live with you, just the two of us, and do all the things people who live together do. Surely living like that for a few years is better than living in fear for the next decade?”
At the vision of his long, sunny future crashing down due to Evan’s impulsiveness, Barty’s temper rises. How can Evan rob him of the one thing he has continuously yearned for just because he’s ready to give up?
“Why do you think you’re in a position to be making decisions about our future when you’re borderline suicidal?” he snaps. Evan scoffs and looks away. “At this rate, we’re not making it to next week. We need real protection and security. They tracked Regulus down within a week, and he was smarter than the two of us put together. What makes you think we’re going to last any longer? Do you even want to last longer, or do you just want to go and hole yourself up somewhere and die by the end of the month?”
As the words leave his mouth, he realises Evan would probably prefer that to involving himself with the Order.
Evan’s expression is overwhelmingly sad. “I don’t want to do this,” he says quietly. “It’s been three years since I was wrapped up in all this bullshit. Both sides are as bad as the other. They lure us in with promises of protection and sanctuary, then once we owe them they’ll tighten their grip, just like Riddle did, and wring us dry. If we leave them, who’s to say they won’t come looking for us, too? Riddle twisted the knife in our backs, in Regulus’ back, the moment it was convenient for him, and they’ll do that too.”
The more Evan argues, the more determined Barty is that contacting Dorcas is the right thing to do. Narcissa said they’d be safe there, and she got them this far.
Evan continues in a low tone. “I’d rather have a good few weeks before Mulciber finds me than get embroiled in all that shit again. But I don’t want to drag you into my bullshit, Barty.” He looks down. “Maybe it’s better we part ways.”
Barty snorts so loudly he’s surprised they don’t get a noise complaint. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” he says. “You’re delusional if you think I’m leaving you to get hunted down by that freak.”
Evan manages a smile. “I know,” he says softly. His hand finds Barty’s, squeezing to show he wants to stick with him, no matter what.
“Why don’t we go to this safehouse for a bit, just a week?” Barty suggests. “No pressure, no expectation that we’re going to stay. Just to see what it’s like. If we smell bullshit, we leave and do your plan.”
Evan’s eyes are tired. He hesitates for a long moment before eventually replying. “Five days.”
Barty heaves a sigh of relief. Five days is more than enough to convince Evan that the Order is necessary for their survival, and if it’s not, he’ll spend what little time they have left at Evan’s, how Evan wants to live. He glances around their isolated alcove. No one is in sight.
In one motion, he captures Evan’s cheeks in his hands and kisses him. After a surprised second, Evan kisses him back as Barty tries to convey everything his fragile heart is too scared to convey. I can’t lose you again.
When they pull away, Barty’s frown is torn between frustration and softness. He thought moving to England would be half of the struggle over, but it feels like it’s just beginning.
“I can’t believe you’re forcing me to be the sensible one right now,” he says, not letting go of Evan’s cheeks.
Evan lets himself be held. “If this all goes south, I’m blaming you,” he says without an ounce of blame in his voice.
“Reasonable,” Barty says. He draws back and takes the burner phone out of his pocket. “I’ll make the call.”
He goes to one of the two saved contacts on his phone, Dorcas, and presses dial. Evan’s arms are anxiously crossed, his eyes glued to the screen. Then, just as it’s about to ring out, the call goes through.
“Yes?” comes a low, female voice.
“It’s Barty Crouch,” Barty says. “Is this line secure?”
“Yes,” says the voice. “It’s Dorcas Meadowes. Narcissa said that you and Evan Rosier needed help.” Her smooth tone is faintly familiar.
Barty looks at Evan, who reluctantly nods. “Narcissa said you had a safehouse,” he says. “We just landed in London an hour ago and we need somewhere safe to stay. I can explain more in person.”
Barty understands why Evan feels uneasy trusting someone they barely know. He’s half expecting Dorcas to turn them down and tell them it’s their own fault for being part of the Knights in the first place. But then she was in their position once.
“What’s your location?” she asks.
“Paddington Library,” Barty replies. If they’re already blindly going to the Order’s safehouse, it’s not going to make much difference if they know their public location.
“Okay.” There’s faint tapping against a keyboard. “If you turn left, follow the road until you get to a double zebra crossing. At half six, a silver Citroën will stop there. If you change your mind, dump your phone and I’ll pretend we never had this conversation.”
Without waiting for an answer, she hangs up. Barty mirrors Evan’s uncertain expression, but it’s a promising start.
Evan gives a long sigh. “We’d better get to this zebra crossing. then.”
Fifteen minutes later, Barty stands beside Evan next to the double zebra crossing. He doubts the Knights could’ve tracked them here even if they did have people on the ground in London, but his senses stay on high alert.
At half six on the dot, a silver Citroën comes down the road. There’s a queue at the zebra crossing. Barty squints in the window and catches the older yet distinctive face of Dorcas behind the wheel.
They could still walk away from this. They could avoid the risk of the Order and take their chances with Evan’s plan. But as the car pulls up beside them, Barty knows walking away from this isn’t really a choice.
They get into the back as instructed. A pine air freshener gives the car a clinical smell. Barty’s eyes are drawn to Dorcas, who’s dressed in casual clothes and keeps a neutral expression.
“Good evening,” Dorcas says. She pulls through the zebra crossing after they’ve barely sat down. She looks softer than all the wanted pictures on posters around the Knights' headquarters, smile lines and eyeliner wings shaping her face.
“Hello,” Evan says tightly.
Dorcas remains focused on the road. “Have you disposed of the phone you called me on?”
Although he considers lying just to keep the phone handy, Barty knows it’d be dangerous to bring anything traceable to the safehouse. He winds the window down and drops the phone out. “Done.”
Dorcas nods, her expression relaxing slightly. About five years older than them, Narcissa’s age, Barty and Evan saw her in meetings when they were in school. Instead of knuckling down like Narcissa, she went the other way and backed Dumbledore in the election just before they seized Hogvorov.
Naturally, she became an enemy of the Knights and moved to England, where she founded a sub-branch of the Order of the Phoenix. People who grew up in pure families, like Marlene McKinnon and Sirius, fled to it, and their sympathisers like Forescue, Longbottom and Lupin joined them. Barty has no idea what to expect from her branch of Dumbledore’s organisation. Hopefully not dark, padded rooms.
“Where are we going?” Barty asks after a minute of driving in silence.
“Harrow,” Dorcas answers. She glances at them in the rearview mirror. “Narcissa assured me that you’re no longer affiliated with the Knights in any way.”
Her hard but cautious tone reminds Barty that he and Evan aren’t the only ones at risk if this isn’t what it seems. “We’re currently being hunted down by them, so I wouldn’t say so,” he replies.
Dorcas accepts this with a nod. Soon they join a dual carriageway. Every minute they speed away from central London and Heathrow makes Barty feels more secure in their temporary safety.
When Evan’s stomach audibly grumbles, it hits Barty how hollow his own stomach is. It’s half six and their first and only meal of today was breakfast at Evan’s hotel, which feels like a lifetime ago.
“Are you hungry?” he asks Evan.
Evan narrows his eyes slightly. “Am I hungry? I’ve been listening to your stomach rumbling for the last half hour.”
“Can we stop somewhere for food?” he asks Dorcas. A part of him wants to test her boundaries to get a sense of how she’ll react, to see if she’ll lock the doors and continue driving or let them come and go as they please.
“There’s food at home,” Dorcas says, continuing to drive. “I can drop you here if you want, but I can’t guarantee you a place at the safehouse if you’re not willing to follow the appropriate security measures. Staying out of shops with CCTV is one of them..”
It's only fair, Barty supposes. From first impressions, Dorcas is like Narcissa: unrufflable, professional, focused. It puts him more at ease than if she was trying to chat like they were friends. She knows what this means to them. He only hopes the lightness in his chest isn’t false hope.
Eventually, the car slows on an inconspicuous residential street. Dorcas pulls up to the curb and undoes her seatbelt.
“We’re here,” she says.
The house looks like every other one on the street. It’s a tall three-story old Elizabethan house, its dirty white bricks wedged between the two connecting houses. Barty gives Evan one last look before stepping inside.
Instead of a trap, they’re met with a strangely domestic setting for what Barty was imagining as the Order’s headquarters or at least a political outpost. Nature photos are framed on the cream walls. Shoes are stacked on the shoe rack by the door, all women’s judging by their size and style. The house stretches far back with tall, spacious rooms.
No political posters or the Order’s manifesto stuck to the walls, no paintings of Dumbledore or wanted posters of Riddle. It all seems so… normal.
“We’re back,” Dorcas calls up the stairs. It reminds Barty of when Evan’s mother would come in from work and call up to Evan and Pandora. She turns to them both with a more soothed expression. “Just me and Marlene live here. You know her, don’t you?”
“She was in the year above us,” Barty nods.
“Good. She’ll show you to your rooms. Or room,” she adds after a glance at how closely they’re standing together. “I assume you’ll want an early night, and I’ve got some business to sort out, too. We can talk tomorrow.”
Barty nods gratefully. “Sounds good.” It seems too good to be true, but if it’s not, he doesn’t want to be cast out for poor manners.
Footsteps from upstairs approach them. Dorcas pauses before disappearing into the kitchen. “You’re free to leave whenever, but you’ll need to arrange it with me or Marlene. I can’t keep a place for you here if you leave without clearance. Security is our top priority.”
Barty resists the urge to see if the hefty door they just walked through has got laser lines over the front. His pumping heart tells him they’re being trapped, but his brain recognises everything Dorcas is saying as logical.
“Sure,” he says shortly.
Dorcas gives them a curt nod and goes off to the kitchen. A figure appears at the top of the chairs. Long, dirty blond hair half-done up into two buns, dark eyebrows and a pierced nose, it’s a face Barty could recognise anywhere.
“Alright, bastards?” Marlene says cheerfully, as if they’ve been friends for years. She chunters down the stairs with none of Dorcas’ composure. “I heard we were expecting guests. Finally fucked the Knights off on some gay getaway mission, it seems?”
Barty stares at her as she joins them in the hall, slightly speechless. Evan is just as lost for words beside him.
“I thought Narcissa barely told you anything,” Barty manages to say.
Marlene shrugs, wrapping an arm around the bannister. “Well, she said Evan went back to Kryostrov for a week, in which time you two decided to abscond from the Knights for England. Sounds pretty homosexual to me.” Her gaze grows serious for a moment. “Dorcas wasn’t sure, but Naricssa was adamant about us helping you. Something about how she could never save Regulus, I reckon.”
Barty blinks. It’s another truth Marlene has gleaned from very little information. He’s not sure whether to be impressed or concerned, so he tries a joke. “So you didn’t bring us here to waterboard us for information out?”
She scoffs. “God, no. You two don’t have anything to tell us we didn’t already know. People like you don’t get told shit. Now if you were Bellatrix or Riddle, it would be a different story.”
“And you know everything, clearly,” Evan butts in to say sarcastically.
“Oh, he talks,” Marlene says, bemused. She jerks her head upstairs. “Do you want to see your room?”
Upstairs, the first floor is much of the same: homely cream walls, pictures in frames, a patterned carpet. He counts five doors on the landing.
“How many people usually stay here?” Barty asks, curious as to why they’re renting a four-bedroom house in London if only them two are living here.
“People come and go,” Marlene says as she jiggles a key in one of the keyholes. “It’s just me and Dorcas here at the moment. We’re in the room next to you, so don’t get too excited in here.”
Barty’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re together?”
Marlene unlocks the door. It swings open to reveal a decent-sized bedroom with a double bed in the middle.
“Talk about having a defunct gaydar,” she snorts as she shows them in. “The room deadbolts from the inside. It also locks from the outside, but this is the key so we can’t lock you in.” She presses a brass key into Barty’s hand. “Bathroom is second door on the right. Any questions?”
Barty looks around the room, taking in the domestic, comfortable feel, large bay windows overlookin the back garden.
“No,” he says. He glances at Evan, but Evan’s mouth is firmly shut.
Marlene shrugs happily. “Cool. I’ll just be downstairs, then. Try not to wreck the place.”
Left alone in a new room in a completely new house in an unfamiliar area of London, Barty feels a strange mix of vulnerable and secure. It’s obvious Dorcas takes security seriously, and she’s not going to risk an infiltration with her girlfriend here.
Evan drops his bag onto the floor. Barty doesn’t need to be a master psychoanalyst to understand why Evan is so quiet. He said it himself– it’s an unfamiliar place surrounded by people who are naturally antagonistic towards them, not to mention the general feeling of vulnerability after Wilkes and Mulciber’s attack. And there’s the whole his boyfriend trying to shoot him in his sleep, which still flushes him with shame.
“What are you thinking?” Barty asks, trying to glean a reaction from Evan’s unreadable expression.
“I don’t like her,” Evan says simply.
“I like her better than Dorcas,” says Barty. “She doesn’t seem like she has any nefarious plans for us.”
Evan flops down onto the bed, head collapsing into the pillow. “I suppose.” He stares at the ceiling while Barty kicks off his shoes and joins him. “You’re free to leave whenever you want if you fancy getting hunted down and killed out there,” he says in English, mimicking Dorcas’ southern accent.
Barty snorts. “I was thinking that, but I’ve yet to see the fingernail pulling-off devices. I don’t want to jinx ourselves, but we might be in the clear for tonight.” He turns on his side. They’re both dehydrated and hungry and exhausted, and Evan looks beautiful regardless.
Evan manages a small smile when Barty’s hand lands on his neck. “I’m going to start gnawing at your skin if I don’t get some fucking food soon,” he murmurs.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Barty says, pressing a kiss on Evan’s forehead. He holds the person he’s almost lost a dozen times this week, the man he’s put through hell and back just so they could end up in an empty room.
Evan’s dark eyes fix on his. He grabs Barty’s shirt, pulling him closer. Instead of leaning in for a kiss, he buries his head into Barty’s chest.
Barty shrouds Evan in his arms, holding everything he almost lost tightly to his chest. Mulciber’s echoing voice, the weight of Evan’s pistol in his hand, seagulls flying past their ledge on the beach. They’ve made it this far, and the fact that Evan somehow still trusts him fuels him onwards.
Notes:
So this is around where I was initially going to end this fic with Barty and Evan making it to England and living happily together, however there were a few plot points that weren’t tied up (what happened to Avery, how come Riddle never caught up to them & unfinished minor character arcs). Then on a walk I thought up the ‘second half’ of this fic involving the Order and other things. So I'm very excited to post the rest and I hope the continuation makes for a more satisfying read and ending than the original!
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The back of his eyelids are red as Barty eases into consciousness. He opens his eyes, the content feeling of a long night's sleep washing over him. The t-shirt Evan lent him is soft against his skin. Beside him, Evan lies facing him on the other side of the bed.
“Hi,” Evan says, his morning voice coming out deep. The duvet is half-strewn over his body, his topless chest drawing in Barty’s gaze.
Morning light trickles through the blinds of the unfamiliar room. Everything is how they left it last evening, down to the unwashed pasta bowls on the desk and the bolt firmly over the door. Evan is beside him, and there is no island to escape from.
It’s eleven by the time Barty and Evan go down to the kitchen, after an indulgent morning of kissing and Barty checking that Evan doesn't hate being here- he says he'll "survive" five more days. Marlene notices them surface and comes to greet them.
“Morning,” she says. “If you're looking for some breakfast, there’s cereal or porridge in that cupboard. Milk’s in the fridge. Bowls are in there. Go crazy, it comes out of Dumbledore’s pocket, not ours.”
At the bright greeting, Barty feels like he’s at a bed-and-breakfast rather than a safehouse. His stomach grumbles at the mention of food; yesterday's hunger hasn’t fully gone away.
“Is there any news from Kryostrov?” Evan asks her.
Barty blinks. He assumed Evan would sink into stubborn silence like yesterday. Maybe he’s coming to terms with their short stay here.
Marlene also seems surprised, because she swings back around to face him. “Well, we’re all still here, so clearly their trail hasn’t led them here,” she says. “No news from Kryostrov that I know of.”
“Ok,” Evan says with a shrug. It's good news, all things considered.
They eat breakfast together on the small kitchen table, separated by a glass door from where Marlene and Dorcas sit in the dining room. Their promised conversation is due after breakfast. Dorcas has a taut smile for them as they sit down opposite her and Marlene. With both of their laptops open in front of them, Barty feels like he’s at a job interview.
“So, to give you some background,” Dorcas begins once they’re settled, “Narcissa got in contact with me about this situation through one of the back channels we’ve been using on and off for years.”
“You’ve been collaborating for years?” Barty frowns. From his perspective, Narcissa has done nothing but enthusiastically support Riddle and the Knights.
“Not collaborating,” says Dorcas. “We don’t exchange information. It’s more just checking in.” Her gaze flicks down, almost awkwardly. “We were friends in school.”
“They dated in school,” Marlene interrupts. “But you know what they say about a lesbian’s first relationship. Locked in for life.”
Dorcas gives Marlene a sympathetic look like they’ve been over this countless times before, but doesn’t dignify her with a reply. “Anyway, the other day she messaged me saying she was going to help you two leave the island. She mentioned Regulus and her baby. I think she’s been in her head about things.”
Barty’s skin prickles at the mention of Regulus, reminded of the self-sacrificingly bold way Narcissa told him that she knew he wasn’t going to kill Evan. He can see how much Dorcas trusts Narcissa, enough that she’d host them here.
“Yeah, I think so, too,” he says.
Dorcas stares through him. “So, why did you accept her offer? Leaving Kryostrov isn’t a decision to be taken lightly, as you both know.”
Another dig to Regulus that Barty tries to take in his strike. “Me and Evan hadn’t spoken in three years,” he begins, deciding to tell a condensed version of events. “Somehow Riddle knew how close we were in school. When it came to initiating me into the Knights, he chose Evan to test me.”
He meets Evan’s eyes to check he’s not overstepping any marks, but Evan nods for him to continue.
So Barty tells them about the events that led up to their escape: Camille’s funeral, Barty’s decision to leave with Evan, them receiving help from Narcissa. He doesn’t skimp on detailing how Riddle's task was nothing more than a socially acceptable execution. It’s not that he wants to ally themselves with the Order, but he has to make it clear they’re no longer affiliated with Riddle.
Evan’s defensively crossed arms suggest that repeating this whole saga is like a wound being torn off. His expression goes blank at the mention of his mother, but he sits through it, knowing it’s necessary for their stay.
“So, now you’re here,” Dorcas says, “what are your next steps? This place is funded by Dumbledore, obviously unofficially, so we’re not at any loss if you stay. Narcissa didn’t say anything about your plans. She just said you wanted to leave Kryostrov.”
“We’re waiting for things to blow over,” says Barty. “Then we’re going to work and rent under our fake passports so they can't trace us.”
“They know your fake passports, though,” Dorcas says smoothly like it’s not even a consideration. “I knew them as soon as I looked at the plane manifest.”
Barty realises how childish it sounds to ‘wait until things blow over’, but he can't exactly tell her that he and Evan plan to risk it out there on a convoluted suicide mission if all else fails.
“We’ll find a way to live discreetly,” Evan interjects to say.
“Is working with the Order something you’re interested in?” Dorcas asks, again so naturally that Barty wonders if that was her assumption.
“No,” Evan says just as decisively.
Dorcas hesitates, waiting for an elaboration that doesn’t come. “I know that seems like a lot to consider since you’ve just left, but with both of your backgrounds and your inside knowledge, Barty, you’d both be valuable assets.”
“It’s not happening,” Evan says firmly. “Ever. We’re not here to switch sides. We don’t want to be part of any side. We just want to live our lives in peace.”
“Don't we all?” Marlene says with a harsh laugh. “But as you can see, that’s not exactly a choice. They followed you to London, they have your fake passports and real names, yet you’re here in perfect safety. Your future is with us.”
Barty frowns at the assumption. He can feel the furious heat radiating off Evan beside him.
“Bullshit,” Evan says. “The only reason I’m here is because Barty convinced me it was absolutely necessary for our safety. My future is with him, and him only. I’ll fly back to Kryostrov and hand myself in before I join the Order.”
Marlene sits back in her seat with a scoff.
At Evan’s firm assurance, Barty feels warmer. Evan is also his sole future, and he won’t let Dorcas’ promises or Marlene’s half-threats convince him otherwise.
“Yeah, we’re not doing that,” Barty says. “If you’re not willing to let us stay without roping us into the surveillance or politics, then we’re out.” The words are heavy. Their whole future is in the hands of the two people sitting across from them who desperately want them on their side.
Thankfully, Dorcas nods. “I understand,” she says. “I won’t ask you to join us, but my proposal stays on the table. If you ever want to fight against the people who have wronged you your whole lives, we’re right here.”
The rejected proposal hangs in the tense air. Evan and Marlene stare at each other with clenched jaws. Barty directs his final question towards Dorcas in the hopes of stopping Marlene and Evan from lunging at each other.
"Have you heard anything from Narcissa about Kryostrov?" he asks, anticipating some level of chaos.
Dorcas shakes her head. "On the afternoon you left, all communication from Kryostrov went dark," she says. "No messages from the phones I have registered, no activity from any of the Knights' addresses. My guess is that they're rewiring their security systems. Maybe they worked out that someone on the inside helped you."
Although they're thousands of miles away in an armed safehouse, Barty's stomach churns with unease at the blackout. He hopes Narcissa's lack of communication doesn't mean they've found her out.
"I can show you the addresses I've got registered on my systems," Dorcas offers. "You might know some people or places I've missed."
Before Barty can consider what would essentially be switching sides, Evan interjects.
"We can't help you."
Barty doesn't add anything. He promised Evan they wouldn't involve themselves in the Order, and he's going to keep that promise.
At their unhelpfulness, Marlene looks on the verge of cursing him out, but she refrains. Satisfied with their answers, Dorcas lets them go.
Barty isn't sure how to feel about everything aside from vague concern for the people he left behind, which he's only now realising, no thanks to his forced apathy, that he does care about. He distracts himself by switching on the television, in the living room with Marlene's permission.
Daytime television while slumped next to Evan is enough to distract Barty from his anxious spiral of thoughts– cockney soap dramas, trashy gameshows, the local news. He shuffles closer to Evan and smiles when Evan puts an arm around his shoulder, safe with him.
Dorcas stays glued to her laptop for the rest of the afternoon. Barty watches her through the glass dining room door, only looking up from her laptop when Marlene comes in with a sandwich. He can't bring himself to feel bad about not helping them; Evan was right- they're here for their safety, not to switch sides and end up even more embroiled in their political mess.
In the evening, they retreat to their room. The peaceful minutes drift along once the bolt is drawn over the door. Evan kisses him, slowly and with purpose, and Barty indulges himself in his boyfriend’s touch.
Barty picks Evan’s baggy grey shirt off the floor from where he threw it off this morning. “Weird about all the communication going dark," he says, still wondering what's happening on the island.
Evan lies in bed, topless, all the lines and curves of his muscles and fat shining in the low light. He looks like a god, lying there as he watches Barty change.
“Not really," he says. "They had a leak in their system, now they're plugging it. Narcissa's smart. She knows how to cover her tracks."
"I hope so."
When Barty joins him in bed, Evan pulls him closer, just holding him for a moment. His hand runs over the thin fabric of the t-shirt Barty stubbornly keeps on.
“Is it your scars?” Evan murmurs, voice like butter.
Barty supposes it’s a nice way of asking if he’s insecure about the choppy scars on his stomach and chest. Aside from being ugly, they’re a heavy reminder of his upbringing: dark evenings after school, misplaced anger, the lingering scent of cigarettes as his only relief.
“It’s unfair how you want me to take my top off when you look like you’re carved out of stone and all I have are a bunch of gross marks,” Barty says. He tried to sound offhanded, but insecurity seeps into every word.
Evan frowns softly. “Nothing about you is gross,” he says, peppering kisses down his neck. “I'm not saying you have to show me. Just don’t hide them for my sake."
Barty leans into Evan’s touch despite the reminder of things he’d rather forget. "Maybe tomorrow," he says, kissing him back. At least now they have a tomorrow.
Evan doesn’t push it. He just holds Barty in the darkness of the room, slow breathing filling the silence.
The weight of Riddle's mission has been fully alleviated from Barty's chest. No more sleepless nights wondering whether he’ll choose Evan or the Knights. He chose Evan, and his heart soars.
Even now, the grief doesn't fully dissolve. If only he could go back for the boy who's eternally stuck six feet under Kryostrov's bleak coastline.
But it's over and Evan is holding him as they fall asleep. Although safety is still a distant dream, they’re one step closer to the future Barty has always hoped for.
-----------------
“–do you fucking mean you just let them walk right in?”
The mattress is comfortable beneath his body, a duvet pressing down on him.
“–obviously didn’t let them walk in off the streets–”
“–compromise the entire Order–”
“–overdramatic isn’t going to help anything–”
A low, male voice comes closer. “I don’t care what Narcissa said. She’s one of them.”
The distantly familiar voice strikes a chord. Barty blinks open his eyes. He’s in an unfamiliar room. One of Evan’s arms is wrapped around his neck, the other splayed out on the bare mattress.
“Sirius, she’s your cousin, and she’s my friend.”
“Regulus was her cousin too, and she did fuck-all to save him.”
The conversation happening right outside the door sharpens, and suddenly Barty is aware of every word. His heart jumps in his throat as his confused, half-awake mind thinks it’s Regulus outside the door. Maybe he's in some kind of afterlife.
Then a fist bangs on the door, and he’s jolted into consciousness. Regulus died years ago, and Barty is very much alive. Sirius, she's your cousin. He knew Sirius was working for the Order, Regulus' volatile older brother who denounced his pureblood lineage when he was just sixteen. Barty always got the feeling Sirius didn't like him much from all the glares he received back in school. Now, it sounds like he wants blood.
“Open up,” Sirius yells in the same Southern English accent with a twang of French. “Crouch, Rosier, I know you’re in there.”
It kills Barty to hear his voice again. No matter where he goes, he can never outrun the reminder of Regulus.
Evan sits bolt upright. “What the fuck?" he hisses to Barty, furiously getting out of bed.
“Sirius, stop it,” comes Dorcas’ voice. The banging continues.
Barty gets up, at a loss for what to do. Sirius has more than enough grounds to kill them in cold blood, but would he?
“You fuckers think you’re clever hiding out here like rats in a sewer?” Sirius’ furious voice yells. “Open up and face me like men.”
Similar words to Mulciber's taunting threat, Evan throws on a T-shirt and goes over to the window. "I told you this was going to happen,” he spits, fiddling with the lock.
A stab of guilt hits Barty’s chest. He promised Evan they would be safe here. “What do you want?” he calls, mainly to buy them time as Evan looks for a key to the window.
“Sirius is here,” interjects Dorcas’ hard voice. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Do you want me to shoot this fucking door down?” Sirius yells, refusing to let up. “I know what you are and what you do, and I'm not letting you stay here with my friends. You’ve already taken enough of them.” More pounds on the door. “I know you were there when Alice and Frank were being tortured, Crouch, I know you watched and did nothing, or did you join in, too? Did you enjoy draining the fucking life out of them?”
Evan helplessly shrugs at the lack of key. Barty stares at the door, a heavy weight in his chest because Sirius is right: Riddle made them watch Alice and Frank being tortured at intervals to observe the techniques that made them deteriorate. He was there, and he did nothing to help them.
There’s a quiet voice behind the door, but Barty catches it. “They're never going to open the door if you speak to them like that.” It's a rural accent mixed with Welsh: Remus Lupin, Sirius’ long-term boyfriend. Husband by now, maybe.
The Welsh voice is what makes the yelling stop. No key to the window, and no heavy objects to defend themselves with. The bolt on their bedroom door is holding, but they can’t cower in here forever.
“We should open it before things escalate,” Barty whispers to Evan. “Remus and Dorcas aren't going to let him do anything.”
Evan’s expression is dark. “He doesn't need their permission.” After a moment, he sighs wearily, like his suspicions about this place have been confirmed. “Fine. Just open it.”
Barty unbolts the door and takes a big step back. He tries to stand in front of Evan in the hopes of preserving his promise of protection, but Evan makes a point of standing beside him.
The door opens to a small crowd on the landing outside. Dorcas and Marlene have forcibly implanted themselves at the doorframe, blocking the two people behind.
Sirius’ face is a shock to Barty’s system. Cold chills run through his body as he stares at an almost identical face to his dead best friend: the same slanted eyes, tan skin, long black hair, high cheekbones and steely grey eyes. Yet he’s older than Regulus ever was, age painting lines around his eyes and forehead, stubble on his chin. Right now, his grey eyes breathe fire.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sirius demands, glaring directly at Barty. “You have some fucking nerve coming here, asking for our help after everything your mates have done to us.” He spits 'mates' bitterly.
Barty swallows the lump in his throat, drilling back on the apathetic mask he wore in front of Riddle.
“Narcissa told us it was safe here,” he says evenly. At least Sirius is behind Dorcas, out of reach, seemingly unarmed. Beside him, head towering over them all, is another face from the past. Remus looks as much the same as his nineteen-year-old self did: shaggy brown hair, freckles and scars on his cheeks, only his lanky frame has filled out with the years difference.
“Oh, the reliable and trustworthy Knight Narcissa, only Riddle's, what, fourth in command?” Sirius says sarcastically. “Not good enough. If you don’t start explaining, you’re out. You being pals with my dead brother means shit.”
His words wobble as he addresses the elephant in the room, the thread that has connected Sirius and Barty from the start.
A hand lands on Sirius’ shoulder. “Hey,” Remus interrupts, muttering something firm whilst guiding him away.
Before he disappears from sight, Sirius gives them one last furious look. The bloodthirsty, unstable look is the same kind Barty has seen in his cousin, Bellatrix, a hundred times.
Marlene snorts at their frozen positions. “Enjoying your warm welcome from the regulars?"
Dorcas' look is more apologetic. “Sorry about this,” she says. “Come downstairs when you’re ready, and we can talk things through. Probably sooner than later.” With a taut smile, she pulls their door closed.
Evan’s eye is practically twitching when Barty turns to him. “Great,” he exclaims. “This is bloody brilliant. I’m so glad you brought us here, Barty, I feel so safe right now.”
Barty holds his hands up. “Just cause he's pissy about us being here doesn’t mean he’s about to shoot us.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Let’s just go and see what he has to say.”
“Walk towards the lunatic who wants us dead, great idea,” Evan says, pacing around in a restless circle.
“Stay here, then,” Barty retorts. “It was never going to be sunshine and rainbows staying here, but it’s safer than out there and that’s what matters.”
Evan’s eyes are daggers as he strides out of the room. “You’re on thin ice, I hope you know that,” he says, heading for the stairs.
Barty isn’t used to this many people wanting to punch him in the face this early in the morning. He sucks it up and follows Evan downstairs to where his angry fate awaits.
Sirius is sitting down, which Barty takes as a good sign. He sits in the dining room, in between Dorcas and Remus, hands clenched on the table in front of him. Marlene's sceptical gaze follows Barty and Evan as they come in. Barty wonders if she’ll side with Sirius in voting to cast them out.
“I’ve explained why you’re here,” Dorcas says, taking charge of the room. “Obviously, Sirius isn’t happy about the situation, but I trust we can discuss this like adults.”
Sirius' piercingly critical grey eyes must run in the family, because his stare gives Barty déjà vu.
"How can we possibly trust either of you to live under the same roof as us after everything you've been involved with?" he says sharply.
Barty struggles to think of a good, let alone convincing, response to this. Evan just shrugs.
Surprisingly, it's Marlene who comes to their rescue.
"You think we didn't consider the possibility that this is all an elaborate infiltration job?" she tells him. "They've barely asked any questions, they turned down Dorcas' offer to look at our surveillance systems, they arrived with fuck-all devices. If they're here on a mission, they're doing a pretty shit job of it."
"You searched our bags?" Barty says indignantly.
Marlene shrugs. "Wouldn't you?"
"Fine, let's say it's not an infiltration," Sirius says, narrowing his eyes at her. “I don’t see why they deserve our protection after dedicating themselves to the cause we’ve spent our lives fighting against. Bigoted fucking fascists don’t deserve a thing from us.”
“We’re not thrilled to be here, either,” Evan says, his cold tone making Barty wince slightly. “But Riddle wants us dead and Narcissa presented this as our only option for safety. You and Dorcas both left the Knights when things changed. That’s exactly what we’re doing now.”
Barty exhales, glad that Evan is publicly in his corner, even if privately he wishes they were kicked out.
“That’s different,” Sirius says, though his tone is more level now. “I was a kid, and I hated being in it from birth. Dorcas only stayed to get as much information as she could before leaving. We didn’t contribute to any deaths, and we didn’t fight any of their battles.”
“Neither did Evan,” Barty says, backing him in return. “He left when he was a kid, before the seizure of Hogvarov. I stayed, but I never had a hand in your friends’ deaths. I was nowhere near close enough to Riddle for that.”
Remus lays a subtle hand on Sirius’ arm. “We’re not blaming you for their deaths,” he says.
“Aren’t we?” Sirius mutters.
“They’re staying for now, and that’s final,” says Dorcas. “I appreciate your concerns, Sirius, but Evan’s right. They’re seeking sanctuary from the Knights just like we once did.”
Sirius leans back in his chair. The fury on his face is gone, and his expression switches as he stares at Barty. “Can I talk to you, in private?” he says in a completely different tone.
Barty blinks. He can’t draw his eyes away from the intense, grey stare he received from Regulus so many times.
“Yeah, nice try,” Evan scoffs.
“Calm it, I’m not going to stab your boyfriend the second you take your eyes off him,” Sirius retorts. His gaze pierces through Barty. “So?”
All eyes turn to Barty, everyone seemingly as clueless as him. Although his survival instincts tell him that going anywhere alone with Sirius is a bad idea, curiosity overcomes him, and he nods.
He follows Sirius to the small utility room. It’s windowless and secluded, one of the washing machines gently chugging away. There’s just enough space for both of them to stand.
Sirius closes the door behind him and makes unflinching eye contact with Barty.
“My mother’s still there, is she?” he says. Underlying the hard words, Barty realises, is vulnerability. He wants answers, and Barty is the only person who has them.
“Yes,” Barty says. It’s not a betrayal to state the obvious.
Sirius steps closer. “What’s she doing? Is she more involved in things?”
“She kind of disappeared after Regulus died,” Barty says haltingly. Saying the name aloud feels like swallowing knives. “She didn’t show up to meetings for a while, but Riddle didn’t want her grieving a traitor, so he dragged her back into things, made her operations manager for a political assassination. Now she’s back to where she was before.”
“Do people still talk about him?” Sirius says, fast words falling over each other as if he didn’t absorb Barty’s response.
Barty doesn’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “Just as a traitor,” he says. It hurts to admit. “I saw Pandora the other week. We talked about him a bit, and so do me and Evan, if that means anything to you.”
Sirius frowns. “Of course it does. You were his only friends.”
Barty isn’t sure if Sirius is pleased or about to punch him in the face. Sirius hated Regulus for staying in the Knights, and Regulus never got the chance to talk to him before he died. The lack of closure seems to have eaten away at Sirius for years.
“Your mother still puts flowers on his grave,” he offers in what he hopes is some respite to Sirius’ broken family.
Sirius’ expression falls into confusion. “What?”
“I went to his grave the other week. There were fresh flowers, signed ‘W’. Walburga, I’m guessing.”
“Oh,” Sirius murmurs. His gaze becomes distant and unfocused. He doesn’t say another word before turning around and walking out.
Barty is left staring at the space he left, more confused than ever. At least it seems Sirius doesn’t hate him. He returns to the dining room to find Sirius gone and the others talking between themselves. Evan gets to his feet, scanning Barty for a sign that something went wrong.
“Are you ok?” he comes over to ask. “Where’s Sirius?”
Barty looks around with a shrug. “He walked off. I’m fine, he just asked about Regulus.” He musters up a smile. “Do you want to go outside?”
A mild breeze blows against Barty’s face. He sits on a wire garden chair beside Evan who reclines beside him. The back garden is surrounded by bushes and a tall fence, as domestic as the rest of the house. After telling Evan about his confusing encounter with Sirius, they’ve spent the morning in the garden, uninterrupted.
“How long are we staying here?” Evan asks, drawing his eyes away from the sky. Behind the question is everything he’s already said about wanting to escape somewhere quiet, just the two of them, away from scrutiny and raised voices and politics.
Barty’s reassuring smile falls flat. The future is just as uncertain for him. “A little longer,” he says. “Hopefully Dorcas gets through to Narcissa soon, and she can tell us more about what’s happening.”
Before Evan can start another argument, the kitchen’s glass doors slide back. Standing there is a friendlier face with a mild smile.
“Mind if I join you?” says Remus.
Evan goes quiet, so Barty nods him over. He’s never minded Remus. Regulus always had plenty to say about how disgustingly romantic his brother was with him when they were in school, but Remus himself was pretty inoffensive. Barty was surprised when he joined the Order instead of retreating into social solitude– Remus must have more grit than his gentle manner lets on.
“Sorry about this morning,” Remus says, coming to sit with them. “It was just a shock after pretty much a year of nothing to suddenly hear that you’d both left the Knights and Dorcas was hosting you here.”
Barty is relieved that Remus’ gaze is softer, less intense than Sirius’. “I get it,” he says. “I wouldn’t want us here, either.”
Remus gives them an awkward smile. He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out a small bag. “Do either of you smoke weed?” He smiles. “Sorry, I know I sound like an undercover cop. I’m not sure how to ask that in a cool way.”
“We don’t smoke anything,” Barty says.
Evan surfaces from his surly silence to shoot Barty a look. “Weed doesn’t count,” he says. He manages a grateful smile towards Remus. “Sure. Fucking need it after the last month.”
Barty grimaces, but he saves Evan the embarassment of kicking up a fuss as Remus rolls them both a joint. Weed isn’t exactly heroin, so he watches Evan light it without protest. Evan’s expression as he inhales it is the closest to content he’s been all day.
“So, when did you two get together?” Remus asks after a minute of pleasant silence. He says it casually, without expectation, like they’re friends having a chat. It makes a change.
Evan gives Barty a look, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Where do we start?”
“Mulciber’s sixteenth birthday party,” Barty mutters. This teases a laugh out of Evan. Perhaps it’s the weed– it’s definitely the weed– but hearing Evan laugh after so much silence is heaven to his ears.
Barty wishes he could reassure Evan in the way the joint seems to be doing, but he knows Evan won’t be happy as long as they’re trapped in this house. But for now, as Remus listens to the story of how they came to be, a breeze on their faces, things feel a little less dire.
Notes:
I had to get my faves Sirius and Remus in here 🙏
Not even his death will stop me from making Regulus the main character 🤞😇
Chapter Text
The next morning, Barty wakes up in Evan’s t-shirt. He yawns and stretches out his arms, feeling less on edge with every passing day. If the Knights had tracked them from the airport, they would’ve raided the safehouse by now. It gives him a dash of hope that they’ve escaped immediate danger.
That doesn’t, however, mean the long-term danger is gone. Evan has a point: how many weeks, months are they going to cower here before they start living in the real world? Years from now, will they ever feel truly safe?
The knock on their door this morning is polite. Evan is breathing deeply, hoping to catch some more sleep while Barty lies beside him. His eyes fly open at the knock.
"Yeah?" he calls.
"It's just me," comes Dorcas' voice. "Something's come through from Kryostrov. I think you're going to want to see it."
Her voice doesn't give much away, but the edge to it makes Barty suspicious. He draws back the bolt and opens the door a crack.
"Is everything ok?"
Dorcas doesn't smile. "Just come downstairs when you're ready."
Evan is sitting up when Barty turns back around, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "What's happening?" he says.
"I don't know," says Barty, "but Dorcas has finally got something from Kryostrov, and she wants us to see it."
Downstairs, the dining room is full of the new faces that remind Barty of yesterday: Sirius’ furious wake-up call, being questioned in the utility room, getting high with Remus in the garden. Remus was fun to talk to, and it was strangely nice to see Sirius after so long. Today, however, is different.
The four of them wear grave expressions. Barty feels like an animal about to be put down as he walks in.
"What's happening?" he says, taking a seat with Evan.
Dorcas has her laptop open. "It's Avery," she says. "The Knights have him.”
The name of the person Barty left behind makes his skin prickle with guilt. He exchanges a look with Evan, who seems just as lost.
“What the fuck does that mean?” he says.
"Dumbledore was sent a video the previous morning," she explains. "I just received it today. They must've worked out you had help from the Order, because it's addressed to you." Her eyes crinkle in sympathy. “The content is slightly sensitive, so I can summarise–”
“I want to see it,” Barty interrupts, his confused dread growing stronger. He’s already abandoned Avery, he’ll give him the dignity of watching what his disappearance has caused.
Dorcas turns the laptop around to reveal the first frame of a video. At first, Barty can barely make out the contents of the dark room. He squints, eyes adjusting, to see a blurry shape slumped in a chair.
Then his eyes widen; it's Avery.
The camera is set up in a grimy room with Avery as its subject. He can just make out the red and purple bruises on Avery's swollen face, and his stump is visible, not attached to his metal prosthetic.
A moment too late, it dawns on Barty that this is a hostage video.
"Jesus Christ," Evan mutters beside him.
By the looks on everyone else's grim faces, they've already watched it. Following suit, Barty presses play.
A wobbly camera pans around the windowless room, one of the basement cells that looks similar to the suffocatingly claustrophobic place where Alice and Frank lost their minds. Barty's breath catches at the state of Avery– his terrified eyes watch the camera move, prosthetic lying in pieces on the floor behind him.
Dried blood trails from his nose, dirt in his blond hair, his face swollen and bruised. His eyes are rooted to the camera in fear.
A man steps into frame beside Avery. "This video is for Barty Crouch Junior,” he announces in a hard voice, “since I know he’s cosying up with you lot in London.”
Although a balaclava covers his face, Barty could recognise that chilling voice anywhere. The same voice that threatened to take Evan away is now holding Avery hostage. Mulciber.
Barty's fists clench until his fingers are white. He can almost smell the blood, feel Avery's fear. He has no doubt that Wilkes is behind the camera. The four who have stuck together for the last three years. This is beyond personal.
“We could find out where you’re staying, but it’d be a whole lot more convenient if you came to us, don’t you think?” the masked figure drawls. After being humiliated in the airport, he can’t lose control again. He bends down, making Avery flinch. “I assume you wouldn’t want your precious sidepiece to get hurt after how much he aided your grand escape.”
Avery looks beyond terrified, and Barty can barely breathe.
“Since this wet dream about Rosier has rotted all your sense, I’ll make this crystal clear for you,” Mulciber says. “If you don’t come back to Kryostrov, Avery is going to die, and before that, he is going to suffer. We’ve already tried some light persuasion tactics.” Avery’s swollen face speaks for itself. Mulciber’s voice turns mocking. “He’s so scared he’s pissed himself, and we’ve barely started.” The camera pans down to a wet patch on Avery’s crotch. His fear is palpable through the grainy screen.
Mulciber grabs Avery’s jaw, forcibly tilting it up. “What do you have to say for yourself, princess?” he says, patting his cheek a fraction too hard.
“Barty, you need to give yourself in,” Avery says, his voice strained and small. His wide eyes scream the opposite.
Hearing his name gives Barty whiplash. His domestic surroundings fade out as he feels like he’s in the grotty room with them. Guilt twists like a knife as the way Avery squirms in the chair, unable to move, knowing he is the direct cause of this.
Mulciber’s eyes are dead behind the mask. “If there’s no word from you by Sunday, you’ll receive another video. By then, your adorable friend won’t be nearly as intact,” he says, standing back up. “And don't go blaming me, Crouch.” Barty can picture his crooked smile under the mask as he annunciates every word. "This is all your fault."
The screen goes black. For a split second, Barty thinks he’s passed out. Then he sees his own face faintly reflected in the darkness and remembers he’s watching a screen.
The video is over, and the message is clear. Go back to Kryostrov or let Avery be tortured to death. Sunday gives him three days to act.
As he leans back in the comfortable kitchen chair, he knew his and Evan’s safety had to come at a price. His thoughts flip between self-sacrifice and explosive revenge. Maybe a counter-kidnapping, but he can’t think of anyone Mulciber cares for– not even his wife or parents. Maybe he should go back to Kryostrov and end this for good.
Evan is the first to speak in the long silence that follows. His low question is directed to Barty. “Are you okay?”
A room of drawn expressions are waiting for Barty's reaction when he looks up. Sirius doesn’t say a thing about it being karma for Alice and Frank- his face is serious, just like Remus’. Even Marlene’s is pinched with the awkwardness of watching Barty’s only friend being used against him.
“I'm surprised they think Avery is a mole,” Dorcas asks, a careful edge to her tone. “He barely shows up on my systems. All I know is that you two were close.”
“Were?” Barty echoes. His voice feels disconnected from his body. ‘Were’ like it’s already over, like Avery is already bleeding out on a basement floor with his nails ripped out and voice gone.
“Are,” Dorcas corrects herself with an apologetic look.
Barty stares at the table, fists clenched. He doesn't feel the need to explain everything to her– how Avery was never important enough to use the main communication system, how he failed to stop Barty at their flat and the airport, how he knew about him and Evan's relationship but didn't report it in the hopes they'd quietly disappear.
His chair scrapes back against the floor with a squeak. The pressure of five sets of eyes waiting for his reaction is too much to bear. He storms upstairs, looking for somewhere quiet to process what he’s just seen.
His worst fear has come true; he’s let someone into his life, and it’s come back to bite him. Avery is suffering and it’s all his fault. Worst of all, he cares. The thought of losing Avery is a physical ache in his chest. It was meant to end with Regulus, but here he is, caring about another person that Riddle has the power to hurt all over again.
Barty paces in circles around his new bedroom, tearing at his hair until the roots twinge with pain. The cream walls and matching curtains mock him, comfort and safety he doesn’t deserve while Avery is locked up in constant pain and fear. The idea that he’d escaped, that he finally had some control over his life, was all an illusion.
A minute later, the door opens. It’s Evan. Of course it’s Evan. Dorcas and the others seem to have already written Avery off as a lost cause.
“He’s fucking insane,” Evan says, closing the door behind him. They both recognised Mulciber’s harsh voice. His expression is pinched with concern, and he reaches out for Barty’s hands. “It’s okay.”
Realising Evan wants him to take his hands out from where he’s desperately tugging at his roots, Barty throws his arms down.
“I’m going to kill him,” Barty says in a fast, uneven tone. “I’m going to kill Mulciber, and I’m going to fucking enjoy it.” Blood pumping in his ears, he holds up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say, oh, Avery was just some arsehole from school, he was just another of Riddle’s lapdogs, there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s war, people die.”
Evan frowns softly. “No, I’m not going to say that. He’s your friend. I don’t think anyone could just get over seeing their friend like that.”
At least one person isn’t referring to Avery in past tense.
“Avery’s so fucking stupid,” Barty groans into his hands. “He should’ve reported us the second he found us out. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking trying to give us a chance when he knew it would backfire.”
“Maybe he thought it was worth the risk.”
Barty lets out a humourless laugh. “No, he just didn’t think. Why the fuck didn’t he shoot me when he found me in our flat? He’s made it so easy for Riddle to pin every failure of this mission onto him.”
“Do you really think if he’d have done things differently, it would’ve changed anything? Riddle needed a scapegoat. It’s just bad luck Avery was the easiest option.”
“That’s bullshit,” Barty says in a raised voice. “What the hell am I meant to do now? How am I supposed to sit around in an all-expenses paid safehouse while Avery’s having his nails pulled out on the other side of the ocean? What if he ends up like Alice and Frank? What if he ends up dead for nothing? And don’t say I can’t do anything, because that’s bullshit too.”
Evan stares at him for a long moment while Barty regains his breath. It’s an impossible situation, they both know it.
“Why don’t we start with what’s definitely off the table?” Evan says slowly. “Firstly, you’re not giving yourself up.” When Barty hesitates, he frowns. “Barty–”
“Ok, fine,” Barty concedes. He feels a little calmer at Evan trying to scrape together the semblance of a plan. “I’m not sitting on my arse doing fuck all, either.”
“Police?”
“Not an option,” he says. “Even if we had a location, they wouldn’t get close undetected. They’d either move Avery to another location and punish him worse for it or kill him and dump the body.”
Silence fills the room as Evan’s suggestions dry up. Barty can still see Mulciber's cold eyes and a sliver of skin under the mask. He’s never felt such hatred towards one person before, not even his own father.
“There’s a possibility it’s all for show and it’s just a stunt to get you to come back without wasting their resources,” Evan suggests.
“No chance,” Barty dismisses. “Avery’s a shit liar and an even shittier actor. Did you not see how terrified he looked?”
“I did,” Evan says quietly. He thinks for a bit longer while Barty paces up and down. “We could get Dorcas to push Narcissa for intel. Since she’s on this vigilante streak, maybe she’ll want to help save Avery, too.”
Barty feels a fraction calmer. Evan has a point– maybe Narcissa will take the risk and save another person. It’s something they can do, at least.
Downstairs, the other four are talking in low tones in the dining room. Maybe if Mulciber wasn’t so obvious about him and Avery being such close friends, pity wouldn’t bleed from their eyes as they regard him.
“You need to get in contact with Narcissa,” he tells Dorcas, too deep into a spiral to care about coming off demanding. “She might be able to help us get him out.”
“The system’s still dark,” Marlene says bluntly.
Dorcas’ flat smile is sympathetic. “I’m afraid their entire communication system has been offline for days. I can’t say when she’ll be back online.”
“Didn’t you hear what Mulciber said?” Barty exclaims, glaring at her closed laptop. “Three days until they ramp up whatever torture methods they’ve got lined up. It's already been one day thanks to Dumbledore sitting on his arse and doing fuck-all. We have to do something.”
As the vulnerable, pleading words come out, he realises there is no "we". Why should any of them care about saving Avery from the same fate their friends suffered through? They could kick him out and tell him to go to hell, and be justified for it.
They all look uncomfortable at the plea for help. Dorcas is the one to address him.
“Barty, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but there’s not much we can do,” she says.
Although she tries to sound nice, the sentiment is obvious: they won't help him. And why should they?
Barty's jaw clenches as he paces out the room. "Fine," he calls without looking back. "Forget it."
Barty bursts back into their bedroom, feeling more stupid and small by the minute. He doesn't know how he's ended up begging the Order for help to solve a problem caused solely by him. The bolt is heavy as he draws it across the door. This is his mess to sort out.
Evan is sitting on the floor, back resting against the bed with a drawn expression. Seeing him safe and well isn’t the stress relief it usually is.
“Narcissa is a dead-end,” Barty says frustratedly, tearing at his hair again. He wants to punch something, wants something to hurt. Instead, his eyes go to the phone that Evan is clutching. “What are you doing?”
Evan glances up, stress creasing his forehead. “I should call Pandora,” he says. “If they took Avery to lure you back, what’s to say they wouldn’t take my sister to get me to come back?”
Barty tries to swallow the sick feeling in his throat. Avery is just a friend, but Evan would go back for his sister in a heartbeat, fractured relationship or not.
“You should tell her to come here, to the safehouse,” Barty says. Pandora was his friend, too, and he won’t leave her to Riddle or Mulciber’s mercy. “That’s the only way we’ll know for certain she’s safe.”
Evan punches in her number. "You think Dorcas will let her stay?"
"She'll have to.”
Evan nods. Barty would be glad he’s not the one to break the news that Pandora has to leave everything she knows to be dragged back into something she left a lifetime ago, but he can’t focus on anything but the video. Mulciber’s voice echoes through his head. How did he not see this coming?
His mind ticks away in search of other options. Avery has weeks, months, more of his miserable existence to live out before they get rid of him, and Barty plans to use that time wisely.
Although communication with Narcissa is impossible, that doesn't mean he can't contact anybody from the island. He has a phone. He could technically call Mulciber or Wilkes themselves, though he doubts that would lead to anything except taunts about Avery.
His contact list holds the numbers he transferred before leaving his old phone behind: Dorcas, Evan, Mulciber, Narcissa, Wilkes and, most interestingly, Octavia.
Barty never noticed Octavia until that day she offered to drive him home after the meeting, but she must’ve been lingering in the background for years. Right now, she's the opposite of unimportant; not only is she married to the man who arranged Avery’s capture, but she'll know where Avery is being kept. She has all the information Barty needs.
When Evan goes downstairs to ask Dorcas about Pandora, Barty clicks on Octavia’s number. The bedroom is perfectly quiet, the midday sun shining through the half-opened blinds. He selfishly hopes the cold atmosphere of Kryostrov, of lying next to a torturer every night, will drive her into helping him.
The phone rings for a painfully long thirty seconds, almost dialling out before it goes through. Barty’s clammy hand slides down the phone; this is his best shot at helping Avery. He can't mess this up.
"It's me," Barty says. Visions of Mulciber leering over her shoulder or her answering in Bellatrix's headquarters ring through his head. “Say no if you're being listened to.”
After a long pause, her voice comes through. “I'm alone, but I can’t talk to you," says her distantly familiar voice.
“Just give me two minutes,” Barty says quickly. “They won’t be able to track this phone once the call ends. Please, Octavia. This is important.”
Octavia’s pause is all the confirmation he needs that at least some part of her is willing to help.
“Has anyone been caught for helping me and Evan leave?” Barty says in the vaguest way possible without implicating Narcissa.
“Just Avery,” Octavia replies after a moment, “but Riddle suspects there’s something more at play."
That explains why they're re-coding the main communication system. Barty knows she wouldn’t be talking like this if her phone was tapped, which leads him to the next question.
“What's happening to Avery?” His throat tightens recalling the dark, windowless video.
“You can’t expect me to tell you that." Her steady voice reveals nothing.
“A video was sent over of Avery all beaten up, his prosthetic wrecked. Mulciber said he’s going to torture him if I don’t come back.” He stands up, pacing up and down the room again. “I don’t get why they’re putting this on him. I can tell you now, Avery has zero involvement in the Order and zero involvement in helping me and Evan leave. He almost choked me out trying to stop me, for fuck’s sake.”
Octavia’s voice is quiet but urgent. “He’s already admitted he knew about you and Rosier’s relationship and didn't report it, which is as good as helping you escape.”
“That’s fucking bullshit,” Barty says scathingly. No doubt it didn’t take much pressure to make Avery admit to knowing about him and Evan. Although it was a lapse of judgment borne out of kindness, he can now be paraded as a traitor for keeping secrets. As sunlight flows through the windows of the safehouse, Barty knows that Avery is paying the price for his freedom.
“Where is he being kept?” he asks, followed by a more pathetic, “is he okay?” At the stubborn silence, he sighs. “Come on, Octavia, I’m not asking you to break him out. I just need to know what’s going on over there. You’ve got to know something.”
After a long pause, she finally answers. “He’s alive,” she says, rushed at knowing she could end up in Avery’s position for telling him this. “They’re keeping him alive until they’re sure you won’t come back. He's with Mulciber. Riddle gave him and Wilkes free rein.” Bitterness seeps into each word. “Avery is a traitor. He deserves every second of it.” Someone else’s hollow words.
Barty skips over the horrifying implications of ‘free rein’. “Give me an address,” he says.
“You really think they’ll spare him if you come back?”
“No, but I need something to work with. I won’t call you again,” he says, hoping to appeal to her situation. “If you needed more proof that Mulciber’s a monster, he's getting his kicks out of torturing his schoolmate to death for information he doesn’t have. Do you want to live the rest of your life with someone like that? Do you think you're safe from him if Riddle turns on you next?”
She’s already given Barty enough information to render her a traitor, yet the pause that follows is even longer. Barty watches the sunlight fall on the bedsheets he and Evan were tangled up together in last night, the cognitive dissonance ruining him.
Eventually, she must decide that she can’t subject Avery to death at the hands of her husband. “Do you know Varnatek?” she says. “The old industrial estate, a few miles inland on the west coast?”
“Yes.”
“Near the crane, look for a red shipping container. There’s a cottage behind it. You’ll find them there. Don’t contact me again,” she whispers, and the call ends.
Barty scrambles to the desk for a pen and paper. He scribbles down the information with a trembling hand: crane, red shipping container, cottage.
Varnatek is a bleak industrial area on the desolate west coast, abandoned half a century ago when the fishing trade dried up. He has a location. With enough backing, he could make it back to Kryostrov and find Avery, he’s sure of it.
The hard part is convincing the Order members to risk their lives for someone they don’t even know, to help him of all people. He'll have to work it to their advantage. Surely they'd take the chance to weaken the Knights' morale and publicly embarrass Riddle by helping another person escape the island?
Just as he’s about to go and tell Evan the plan, a figure appears at the top of the stairs. Evan is holding a phone in his hand and looking slightly less stressed than before.
“She’s coming,” Evan says with relief, joining him in their room. “She’s not happy about it, but she agreed once I explained the situation. I booked her a flight, she's arriving at Heathrow at nine. Marlene isn’t happy with how many people they’re accruing, but Dorcas cleared her stay.”
“That’s great news,” Barty says. Once Pandora is here and safe, that’s one less thing to worry about.
Evan’s eyes narrow. “What?” he says at Barty’s suspiciously bright eyes.
“I phoned Octavia, you know, the poor bastard married to Mulciber,” he says. “She gave me an address for Avery.”
Evan’s wariness intensifies. “Just like that?” he says sceptically. “This is Mulciber’s wife we’re talking about.”
“Hardly,” Barty scoffs. “It was an arranged marriage, and she hates his guts.” He holds up the scrap of paper. “Avery’s being held in Varnatek. It’s in the middle of nowhere, I bet only Mulciber and Wilkes are staying on-site, maybe with one or two others. With Sirius and Remus here, we’d easily outnumber them.”
Evan holds a hand up. “Slow down, Barty. Think about what you’re saying. Octavia gave you a random location and now you want to risk everything to go back there with the Order for back-up? Disregarding how stupid that is, why would any of them come with you in the first place?”
The question stings a little, but Barty pushes on. “Because this is the kind of vigilante bullshit they do. They want to take Riddle down, right? That means getting on the good side of people he’s wronged. Like us. Like Avery. I’m positive I can convince Dorcas to do this.” He appeals to Evan’s clouded eyes. “Will you back me up?”
Instead of reluctance, Evan’s face twists into a frown. “Are you kidding?” he exclaims. “No, I won’t. We’re not doing this. We’re not going back there.”
Barty knows this is the opposite of what Evan wants– to tunnel deeper into politics, to tie themselves to more people, to owe debts they can’t pay off. He wants to be left alone. The problem is, that’s no longer an option.
“I’m not sitting around waiting for Avery to die,” Barty retorts, shoving the paper into his pocket. “If you don’t want to go back, fine, wait for me here, but I’m not walking away from Kryostrov like my entire life there never happened.”
“Are you seriously willing to risk our safety, our lives, for Avery?” Evan says. “I thought he was just a flatmate you stuck with because no one else was around?”
Barty’s nostrils flare at the only person he’s grown close to being dismissed so easily. “You know what happened when you left for three fucking years to come and live away from everything? I had a life, Evan. I spent three years on that island without you, three years living with Avery and getting to know him and listening when he cried about his dead parents and helping him relearn to walk after he lost his fucking leg. We’ve spent so much time together when I had no one else. I had no one.” Wide eyes glare at Evan. “You weren’t there and I cut off my dad and my mum’s dead and I had no one else for three whole years. So you’re crazy if you think I’m walking away from all that like it never happened.”
Barty breathes out heavily with the revelation that he hadn’t even admitted to himself– he cares about Avery more than he’d like to admit. “You’d go back for Pandora,” he says quieter. “Why is it so ridiculous that I want to go back for the closest thing I have to a brother?”
Evan’s expression is serious as he absorbs this. He steps forward. “Look, Barty,” he begins cautiously. “I know you care about him, and I know you don’t want him to die, but you haven’t thought this through. How would we get to the island undetected? How would we get to Varnatek and overpower the people guarding Avery without being killed in the process? What if he’s already dead when we get there?” His eyes flood with sympathy. “I know you’re upset, and I get it, you just got a hostage video of your friend–”
“Don’t do that,” Barty interrupts. “Don’t make it out like I’m not thinking straight. I know exactly what I need to do. I’m going downstairs and telling the others we need to get Avery, with or without you.” He gives Evan one last glare before striding past him and out of the claustrophobic bedroom.
Maybe he’s thinking irrationally, lashing out at the person he loves. The last thing he wants to do is push Evan away. Maybe this idea is doomed from the start. He just can’t lose another friend.
Chapter Text
As the leader of the Order’s branch, Dorcas has to be decisive and commanding. She has a responsibility to this place, to lead and protect the people in it. That doesn’t involve indulging the fantasies of the loose-cannon, slightly deranged near-Knight who’s on the run, so when Barty suggests that they go to Kryostrov, her expression is drawn into a thin, disagreeable line.
Barty is fully aware of this as he stands his ground. He explains who Octavia is and why she’s reliable, and he describes where Avery is being kept. The seat beside him is empty, but he keeps talking, hoping Evan is upstairs reconsidering his lack of support.
“It’d be easy,” Barty reiterates to the four faces watching him. “A small team of us go to the island, fly in on fake passports, and we take a hire car to Avery’s location. We collect him and bring him back here.” He leans forward, trying to appeal to their interests. “Think how much of a blow this would be to the Knights. Me and Evan have just escaped, and then the Order successfully infiltrates an outpost to save another traitor. Morale would be at an all-time low. People would start losing trust in Riddle. This could be the start of the collapse you want.”
By that point, Barty won’t be paying attention to politics. He just needs to collect Avery and leave. The Order can enjoy the political fallout without him.
“You’re brushing over the first part of this plan as though getting to the island undetected will be easy,” Marlene says scornfully. “A mission like that would take weeks, if not months, to arrange and fund, and by then it’d be too late for your mate.”
Dorcas also looks uncertain. “I can’t see Dumbledore approving this in the off-chance it might hit the Knights' morale. Riddle could easily brush it under the rug or fabricate a different reason why Avery disappeared, and that’s if it’s even successful.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Remus nods. His eyes crinkle at the corners in sympathy. “I’m sorry about your friend, Barty, but we’re not teenagers anymore. I’ve got a disabled mother to look after, and me and Sirius have an adopted son–”
“A son,” Sirius interrupts.
Remus gives him a smile. “We have a son. What I’m saying is, people are relying on us not to do these crazy suicide missions anymore.”
Barty grinds his teeth together as the excuses hit him from all angles. Only Sirius is left to speak, which is unusual. Barty regards him with an edge of desperation. Without someone in his corner, he’ll be going back to Kryostrov solo. Sirius’ gaze is guarded, unreadable.
At that moment, Evan appears at the dining room door. His gaze flits over the serious room, ending on Barty. After their fight, their eyes don’t quite meet.
“What’s happening?” Evan asks, coming to sit next to Barty regardless. He follows everyone’s gaze to Sirius, who is waiting to speak.
“This isn’t about Avery,” Sirius finally says. He smiles, dark eyes glinting dangerously. “Isn’t it obvious? We need to go back to Kryostrov to kill Riddle.”
Stunned silence follows. Dorcas’ frown deepens, while Barty’s eyes widen with shock. Beside him, Evan’s drawn features have also broken into surprise.
“Think about it,” Sirius says steadily. “We’ve been planning Riddle’s assassination since the birth of the Order. We know how to get to Kryostrov undetected. Is this not the perfect time to execute that plan, instead of lurking in the shadows for another three years? We have an ex-Knight with us who left less than a week ago. Communication is dark now, but we have Narcissa as an inside contact. Dumbledore’s position in government is strong. There’s no better time than now.”
The more he talks, the more Barty’s chest swells with confidence. He doesn’t want to give himself false hope, but Sirius seems convinced about this, and that’s enough to make the others doubt themselves.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Remus says, giving Sirius a look as if he didn’t hear him stress the whole disabled mother and parenting situation. “We can’t just jump in at the first opportunity.”
“First opportunity?” Sirius scoffs. “It’s been over four years since he killed my brother. We’ve passed by hundreds of opportunities.” He nods towards Barty as an afterthought. “And we’ll kill two birds with one stone by rescuing Avery.”
Barty returns Sirius’ nod, hope blooming in his chest. “I know you couldn’t give less of a fuck about Avery, but this is bigger than him. If you’ve already got a plan, what’s stopping us?”
Marlene spins her head to Dorcas. “This is what I’ve been saying,” she says, suddenly changing her tune. “I keep saying we’re ready to take on Riddle, and Dumbledore keeps blocking our suggestions like he thinks we’re kids playing soldiers. He’s not ready to risk his reputation in case Riddle’s death gets linked back to him, and he never will be. We need to forget about asking for his permission and initiate the plan ourselves.”
It’s a bold statement. Even Sirius’ eyebrows raise at her scathing assessment of Dumbledore, but no one disagrees. They’ve all suffered more loss at the hands of Riddle than Dumbledore can understand.
Dorcas struggles to mask her internal deliberation as she glances between Marlene, her friends and Barty and Evan. “Dumbledore has been obstructive at times,” she eventually admits, “but this operation relies on his resources. I’ll need to talk to him and see if he can clear it.”
Barty’s chest deflates with relief. Sirius and Marlene are in, Dorcas is attempting to remain neutral but is leaning towards their side. All eyes turn to Evan, who’s next in the circle. Barty half expects Evan to start cursing them all out and storm out of the safehouse for good, so it’s a welcome surprise when his expression remains calm.
“The Knights killed my mum,” Evan says simply. “I want them gone as much as the rest of you.” His eyes dull, knowing it’s something he wants no part in but has been sucked into anyway. He glances towards Barty. “We won’t be able to live freely until Riddle’s dead.”
Barty offers him a tight smile, an apology wrapped up in his eyes. He knows this is the last thing Evan wants to do, but it seems like Evan is prepared to stand by his side instead of running into the safety of solitude again.
Remus, the only voice of disagreement, lets out a long sigh. “This isn’t something we can decide on now. We need more time to plan and assess and run things past Dumbledore.”
“We don’t have time,” Barty says. “Either you’re in or out.”
Remus doesn’t pay attention to Barty’s comment, his gaze going to Sirius for support. A conflicted line is buried in his forehead as he weighs up the risk of losing the people he has left versus the reward of killing the man who has wrecked his life.
Sirius nudges him. “Please, Moony,” he says softly. “For Lily and James.”
Remus’ look is pained. “Weaponising our dead friends, great,” he says sarcastically, though something overshadows his words. He turns to Dorcas with a nod. “We might as well tell Dumbledore our proposal, and see what he thinks.”
Barty breathes a sigh of relief as a range of expressions runs through the room– anticipation, adrenaline, and most of all, determination. The sooner they get to the island, the sooner he can find Avery and come back to begin his life with Evan.
Dorcas starts giving out instructions as the room bursts into excited murmurs. His feeling of desperate powerlessness when he watched Mulciber’s video has subsided. It turns out he was the catalyst to kick their pre-made plans into action. All they need to do is convince Dumbledore that they can finish the job discreetly.
He turns to Evan who’s silently glaring at the others. “Did you mean what you said?” he asks quietly.
Evan’s eyes are tired. “If killing Riddle is the only way we can be together, then yeah, we have to at least try.”
Barty gives him a small smile. As he looks around the room of people he thought he left in the past, it strikes him that the chair opposite him isn’t truly empty. He supposes, beneath it all, this is all still for Regulus.
Four years later, Barty is forcing himself to go back to the place, the people, Regulus died trying to flee. Regulus is strong enough for both of them, even when his legacy is the only thing left. Barty won’t disappear into the shadows with Evan like they could so easily do. He owes Regulus that.
~
For a dramatic plan to assassinate the leader of the organisation that has devastated all of their lives, the next few hours are strangely subdued. They’ve agreed to prepare for the plan with or without Dumbledore’s permission. That means a lot of sitting in silence in front of laptops looking at shipping forecasts and ordering tinned food.
Dorcas tells them that she has a contact who owns a boat. Their plan involves sailing to the island, undetected by Kryostrov’s coastguard, with weapons on board and without needing passports. Barty has never been on a boat before, but he’d do anything to avoid another airport situation.
As the afternoon wears into the early evening, Evan is glued to his phone, awaiting regular updates from Pandora. Barty scribbles a basic map of the island to give to Marlene, featuring Varnatek and Riddle and Bellatrix’s houses, the most likely locations where Riddle will be.
He nudges Evan once he’s finished explaining the layout of Bellatrix’s house. “Are you not hungry?” he says, pushing the plate of sandwiches towards him. Evan hasn’t eaten all day, since breakfast was overshadowed by a hostage video and lunch was postponed due to the sudden flurry of planning.
Evan shakes his head, his phone glued to his hand. “I’m fine.”
Before Barty can consider the ethics of force-feeding, Evan decides to pick Pandora up from the airport. He brushes off Barty’s insistence to come with him. Images of another airport chase run through Barty’s mind, this time without Avery to accidentally save them, but then Remus volunteers to go with Evan. Barty has to let him go. They can’t be attached at the hip forever.
Evan lays a comforting hand on his shoulder before he goes, squeezing the skin. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “See you soon.”
Barty watches them leave, anxiety twisting his stomach into a knot. While he trusts Remus, he’d rather be the one tasked with keeping Evan safe. He just hopes the Knights aren’t waiting at the airport for Pandora like they were for him.
The wait for Evan to return is excruciating. Barty gives Dorcas as much information as possible, locations and weapons and dynamics to the best of his abilities, to distract himself.
Working with the people he’s vowed to destroy is easier than Barty thought. Although he liked the promise of power that Riddle dangled over his head, he was never politically invested in the cause. Working with the Order is the same; a means to an end– to his, Evan’s and Avery’s safety.
Barty wonders whether he can convince Evan to stay in London while he embarks on the mission to Kryostrov. He desperately doesn't want to put Evan in danger again, but he doubts Evan will happily let Barty run headfirst into danger while he stays here.
After what feels like an age, the doorbell rings. The clock claims it’s only quarter to ten.
“They’re here,” Sirius says, getting up.
Dorcas also gets up to welcome Pandora, or more likely do a security check. Barty doesn’t bother with etiquette as he rushes ahead to the front door, before stopping. He’d feel stupid for running into Evan’s arms and suffocating him in a hug, especially as he’s only been gone two hours and there’s still the minor issue of Evan possibly wanting to punch him in the face.
In the front garden, behind Remus, behind Pandora, stands Evan, fine and in one piece. Barty’s body sags with relief at seeing Evan not in any of the horrifying scenarios he’s been imagining. Evan’s eyes find his, and their gazes connect for several long moments. All the reassurance Barty needs is in his deep, black eyes.
“Did everything go alright?” Sirius asks, and Remus is letting himself in and Dorcas is greeting Pandora, and Barty becomes more aware of his surroundings as his breathing returns to normal.
Pandora stands beside her brother, stopped on the porch by Dorcas. She looks much different from when Barty last saw her, dressed all in black for Camille’s funeral. Today, she explodes with colour: a rainbow tie dye t-shirt, long green skirt, dozens of handmade bracelets, hair overflowing around her shoulders. She has about ten crystal necklaces around her neck, all different colours. Her expression is tainted with annoyance rather than the sadness that Barty saw at Camille's funeral.
“Hi, Pandora,” Barty says a little awkwardly when her gaze lands on him.
“I can’t believe this,” Pandora says. Her voice is soft and melodic, but her glare between her brother and Barty is sharp. “Barty, what the hell is going on? You know the dissertation that’s worth my entire university grade is due in two months, and Mr Worry over here didn’t give me enough time to pack all my acrylics.”
“Would you lay off?” Evan groans as if they’ve been over this a hundred times. He comes inside, nudging Barty’s hand as he steps past. At the brief touching of skin, Barty’s insides warm up, relieved Evan doesn’t hate him.
They wait in the hall until Dorcas has checked Pandora’s bags and pockets. She confiscates her mobile before finally nodding her through.
“Evan, do you want to show Pandora her room?” Dorcas says. She smiles politely towards Pandora. “I’m afraid you can’t come into the kitchen or dining room at the moment. Privacy reasons.”
“Sure,” Pandora says. She pokes Evan's arm, and Evan sighs before leading her upstairs. Barty isn’t far behind.
The only remaining spare room is smaller than the rest, a single bed pushed up against the lilac wall. It’s crowded with the three of them in, so Evan takes them to him and Barty’s room.
Pandora stands by the window, glaring at the two men watching her in quiet defiance for a long moment. She left this world with Evan three years ago, except she never looked back. While Evan became an addict and fell apart in Barty’s absence, Pandora is thriving with her degree and new friends. She’s so far removed from any of this that Barty feels the distance between them defined by far more than Regulus’ death. She feels like an acquaintance, an echo of someone he used to know.
Pandora stares at Barty. “Evan explained the situation to me. I am glad you’re here, Barty,” she says more softly. “It’s good you two are together again.”
Evan rolls his eyes. “Can you skip to the part where you call our plan to save Barty’s friend stupid?”
“Mulciber and Wilkes have Avery,” she says. “Is that seriously a good enough reason to risk everything for? Why would you go back to the place you just escaped from? And don’t say revenge for Mum, because that’s not a good enough reason to also get yourself killed,” she glares towards Evan, before turning on Barty. “Don't say revenge for Regulus, either. This won't bring him back."
Barty winces, though she’s right. Nothing will bring Regulus back, but it’s not about that anymore. It’s about saving what he does have. He can’t dispute that it’s dangerous, the same argument Evan was using this morning, except now Evan’s loyalties seem to have changed.
“Jesus Christ,” Evan utters. “Just leave us to it, Pandora, you’re not involved in this.”
“Why am I here, then?”
“Because I don’t want you to get kidnapped by a bunch of psychos,” Evan snaps.
Pandora nods as if he’s just proved her point. “So why isn’t Dad here, or do you not care if he’s kidnapped and held hostage?”
Barty would rather leave the family squabbles to them, but this time he interjects, having Evan's back in return. “They didn’t go after my dad,” he says. “They’ll see how little Evan and your dad have communicated, and realise they can’t leverage him as bait.”
Pandora shakes her head, making her necklaces rattle. “I can’t believe you two,” she says. “Have you thought this through at all? Barty, clearly I’m desperate if I’m appealing to you for some common sense, but don’t you see this plan to go back to Kryostrov is downright stupid?”
Barty used to enjoy taking her side to wind Evan up, and it’d make Regulus giggle as Evan launched an attack on Barty, but everything has changed. Pandora is nothing more than an old friend, and she’s no longer his priority.
“We know what we’re doing,” Barty says firmly. “All you have to do is sit tight.”
Stuck with two people who won’t see her side, Pandora grabs her bag. “I’m setting up a grid of protective crystals in my room,” she sniffs. “Citrine. It’s a good thing I brought them. But it’s going to take more than crystals to protect Dad.” She gives Evan one last glare before storming out.
The door shuts behind her. Barty understands how frustrated she must feel, that after three peaceful years Barty is suddenly dragging her brother to hell and back, involving him in politics and danger she thought they’d long since left behind. But it was never truly over, as Camille’s death and the hit on Evan showed.
Evan runs a hand through his hair, not disguising his fed-up sigh. “You’re so fucking lucky you’re an only child,” he says. Then, a moment later, “I should go and talk to her. She’s just worried about Dad. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Barty lets him go, feeling a stab of guilt at the bags under Evan’s eyes and his downturned mouth. He can obsess over Avery all he wants, but that doesn’t take away from Evan’s nightmare of a day- the boyfriend who promised they wouldn’t involve themselves in this is now dragging him back to the place that wants them both dead, he’s had to pick up his frustrated sister out of fear she’d be captured, and he still hasn’t eaten anything.
Barty can fix one of those.
He goes downstairs to where the others are poring over ordinance survey maps and blueprints and laptop screens in the dining room. In the kitchen, he pours a generous helping of dry pasta into a pan and waits for it to boil.
Considering his mind has been spinning all day, he enjoys the few minutes spent doing a menial task like making pasta for his boyfriend. It reminds him that he’s a real person outside of this political nightmare.
Then the guilt kicks in, and he remembers the fear ingrained into the screen of Avery’s prison thousands of miles away. He needs to get away from this safehouse and back to Kryostrov where he can actually do something, and his first step is talking to Evan.
He returns to his bedroom with a bowl of pasta and a glass of water. Evan joins him soon later, clicking the door shut behind him and drawing the bolt for good measure.
“Fuck me,” Evan sighs, flopping into bed. His skin is flushed. “Remind me never to take my sister away from her sculptures again. She gets so crabby, and that's with the fucking citrine crystal ritual circle on her floor.”
The way Evan has shed his uptight demeanor and collapsed onto bed is endearing to Barty, who sits beside him.
“I made you pasta,” he says, tapping the bowl.
Evan sits up, taking the bowl with a strained smile. “This is nice of you, Bee, but I really don’t have an appetite.”
The nickname makes Barty’s frustrations melt away. He brushes the locs of hair out of Evan’s face, lingering on Evan’s skin which is hot to the touch. “You’ll feel worse if you don’t have something,” he says, something Pandora used to say a lifetime ago. “I even added some dried basil. It’s basically a Michelin star meal.”
Evan spears a few tubes of pasta without enthusiasm, but obediently eats them. Barty feels like it’s obvious who’s to blame for Evan’s anxious state– yelling at him, convincing the others to return to Kryostrov, roping Pandora into this so she can berate Evan for Barty’s mistakes.
“Sorry for being a dickhead this morning,” Barty says a minute later. He has no issue apologising to the man beside him. He would shroud Evan in a hug forever if that would keep him safe.
Evan shrugs. “You were a correct dickhead. I’d go back for Pandora, so it’s kind of hypocritical to expect you to leave Avery there. I guess I underestimated how close you and him were, but I also just wanted to keep you safe.” His dark, uncertain eyes land on Barty’s. “If we do this, things will be completely out of our control again.”
“I know,” Barty says guiltily. “I just can’t see another way of getting Avery out of that hellhole.”
Evan puts his bowl on the bedside table so he can hold Barty. His fingers seamlessly link through Barty’s hands as he quietly speaks. “I can’t lose you a second time.”
Barty melts into the easy affection, sliding a hand onto the side of Evan’s neck. He holds Evan like he’s held him a thousand times before, like Evan is all his. It’s beyond selfish to rope Evan into this mission; it’s dangerous, like Pandora said.
Barty rubs his thumb along Evan’s neck, across the hot skin and tendons and pulsating blood. Evan’s eyes are fixed on him, fully relaxed in his grasp. It’s a look of absolute trust, and Barty can’t break that again.
“I don’t think you should come with us to Kryostrov,” he says.
Evan’s expression shifts, but not to surprise. With Pandora convincing him not to go, he’s probably considered it himself.
"Why not?" he says.
“My only goal is to rescue Avery,” Barty explains. “I know you have experience, but you won't be able to do anything they can’t. Not to mention that Pandora is here, and she needs you.” His next words are softer. “You’d be unnecessarily endangering yourself by coming along.” His thumb brushes along the familiar skin. “I can’t lose you either, Rosie.”
Evan’s expression has crumpled into a frown. “But what if I can protect you? What if you go to Kryostrov and disappear because I wasn’t there?” Anger burns in his eyes. “No one here cares about you like I do. You’re an idiot if you think they won’t sacrifice you in a second to save their own skins.”
“What if we go and both end up dead?” Barty retorts. “You need to be there for your family, and I need to free Avery. If we split up, we both get what we want. I know you want us to just disappear together, but this goes beyond us, and don’t you think that’s what makes everything worth it?”
The words dissipate into the air. The lamp’s soft, orange glow highlights one side of Evan’s face, from his jawline down to where his t-shirt’s neckline dips below his collarbones. His knee is pressed against Barty’s thigh, their breathes filling the quiet space.
“You know, when I first saw you again, I thought you’d become some hardened thug,” Evan smiles. “But you’re the same soft bastard underneath it all.”
Barty shakes his head as if he’s not melting beneath tender eye contact. “All your fault,” he whispers back, and it’s the truth. He only realises how much he cares about things when he’s got Evan, the person he loves, beside him, painting the world in a new colour of light.
“Okay,” Evan eventually says.
Barty blinks. “Okay?”
“You go to Kryostrov and sort out their bullshit. I’ll stay and sort out my family. Neither of us end up dead."
Barty knows the decision doesn’t come lightly, especially when they’ve spent so long apart. It’s only for a week, he reminds himself, and then this will truly be over.
“You think Dorcas is going to let anyone around here die?” he says with an encouraging smile. “She runs this place like the bloody navy.”
Evan leans in to kiss him through a smile. He tastes like basil and tomato sauce. He feels like hope. As his fingers curl through the strands of Barty’s hair, Barty is more confident than ever that he can claw something positive out of the ashes of broken trust and past mistakes.
~
None of the Order members seem happy with Evan staying behind, but Barty is getting used to being public enemy number one. He brushes off Dorcas’ insistence on Evan's gun expertise and point-blank refuses to entertain Marlene's version of the plan that includes Evan.
Barty eats breakfast with Evan and Pandora at the small kitchen table, while the others eat in the dining room. Remus has a passing smile for Pandora which is the furthest any of them go to acknowledge her. They retreat to the bedroom after breakfast.
The threat of the hostage video sits in Barty's chest, just below his rib cage, a constant sickening hum. He spent most of last night listening to Evan’s breathing while he lay flat on his back, too exhausted to get up but too disturbed to fall asleep. Perhaps he shouldn't care so much, but it's hard to do anything when he knows Avery is locked in a basement, suffering under Mulciber's unchecked cruelty.
“You’re lucky I brought my crystals,” Pandora says, sitting on the bedroom floor beside Evan. She takes rock after rock out of her backpack.
“Yeah, I feel so lucky right now,” Evan says sarcastically. He glances to where Barty has collapsed into bed. “You alright up there, Bee?”
Although Barty shouldn’t be letting his guard down with someone else here, let alone letting Evan fondly call him ‘Bee’ in front of anyone, he’s too tired to care. Also, it’s just Pandora. She’s sat with them a thousand times while they fawned over each other, and she’s never minded, unlike Regulus who had a snarky remark the second they locked eyes.
“Mhm,” he says, making a pillow out of the duvet so he can watch Evan and Pandora bicker. He notices the half a dozen necklaces slung around Pandora’s neck. “How long did it take to get through airport security with all those?”
“They’re actually made of bamboo,” Pandora says, running her fingers over them.
Barty buries his head into the duvet. “Of course they are." The bed is soft, and Evan and Pandora’s voices are quiet and familiar. When he catches himself drifting off, he doesn’t stop himself.
Pandora is here and Regulus is not, and the space in the room could be filled with Avery but Mulciber has him, and will Evan really wait for him to come back? His fuzzy mind is too tired to comprehend much. He closes his eyes, hoping Dorcas will have good news for them when he wakes up.
It should be impossible to wake up more tired than before, but Barty manages it. His head is pounding and his sore eyelids need peeling open. And there’s Evan, sitting right next to him in all his beautiful glory.
Barty barely knows where he is, all he knows is that he feels comfortable with Evan so close to him. He goes to touch Evan to remind himself that they’re here, together, before the overwhelming rush of feelings about Avery and Riddle and the Order come back.
Evan’s skin is soft and his eyes are kind. Staying with him was the best thing Barty has ever done. He pulls Evan down towards him, hooking his hands around his neck and burying his face in Evan’s chest.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Evan says, hugging him back. “You were out ages. Did you not sleep well?”
“No,” Barty mumbles into his chest. Although it’s the best thing for both of them, a part of him wishes Evan was coming with him to Kryostrov so he didn’t have to miss out on moments like these.
About to drag Evan down so he can collapse onto his whole body, a flash of yellow catches his eye. Barty catches sight of Pandora sitting on the floor, occupied by reams of thread.
“Oh shit,” Barty mumbles, pulling away. “Pandora. You're… here.”
Pandora looks up. “Yes, I am.” She notices Barty's hesitation, the way Evan still has a hand tangled into Barty’s hair. “You don’t need my permission to hug.”
Evan smiles, pulling Barty back into his chest. “Of course not,” he says. “We're destined to be, remember?”
Barty is too sleep-deprived to grasp what's going on, but he knows Evan is hugging him and it's warm and safe and he doesn't want this to end. This is all he has ever wanted.
When Evan releases him, he rubs his eyes and squints at the clock. Four in the afternoon. “Fuck me,” he exclaims. “Have I been asleep for five hours?”
“Evan made sure you weren’t disturbed,” Pandora says. She holds up half of a knitted scarf, pink and yellow stripes. “I’ve been teaching him how to crochet.”
Evan throws her a look. “I already knew how to crochet because you forced me to learn when I came up for our twentieth birthday instead of doing something normal like going for a meal with your friends.” He sighs. “Jokes on me for having nothing better to do than visit my weird sister.”
Barty looks down at Evan’s lap at the blue threads crocheted into an uneven but recognisable pattern. “You made a fish.”
Evan hands it to him. “Yeah, it’s for you. I thought it would be kind of cute, since you like fish. Alive fish.”
The small, crocheted fish is light in Barty’s hand. Looking at its misplaced black eye, he wonders if he’s woken up yet or if he’s hallucinating the fact that Pandora is here and Evan has crocheted him a fish. He admires the handmade stitches, smiling that Evan decided to make something for him. It’s sweet, but he won’t admit that in front of Pandora.
“I told you not to make a fish for a vegetarian,” Pandora says, as she continues crocheting her scarf.
“I’m not a vegetarian,” Barty says defensively. “I just don’t like eating dead animal guts. Or fish. It’s gross.”
“Barty…” Evan begins with a smirk at an argument they’ve had countless times.
“It wouldn’t hurt to admit you have basic empathy for animals," Pandora sniffs.
Barty runs his fingers up and down the bumps of the crocheted fish. “It’s nice,” he admits. “Dodgy eye, though.” He bumps his knee into Evan’s leg to let him know how much he likes it. Evan smiles, and the painful weight he went to sleep with eases slightly.
“You said you’d call Dad when Barty woke up,” Pandora says to Evan, dragging the tone of the room down.
The nerves of the operation and Avery’s capture rush back to Barty as Evan’s face twists unhappily. There’s no escaping where they are or why they’re here: Avery has been taken, and Barty needs to go back to Kryostrov.
“He isn’t going to pick up,” Evan pouts, grabbing his phone from the table. “He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“He would've been busy before,” Pandora says. “You know how bad he is at answering his phone.”
“Only when I call.”
Barty drags his weary body out of bed, parting with Evan's warm grip. “I’ll leave you two to it,” he says, earning him a glare from Evan. “I’m going to see if there’s any news from downstairs.”
“How thoughtful of you,” mutters Evan. He reluctantly goes to call his dad as Barty slips out of the room.
Dorcas looks up when Barty comes into the kitchen. By her unmoved expression, he can tell that she doesn’t have any good news for him. He decides to save himself the awkward ‘your friend is being tortured and there’s nothing we can do about it’ conversation and heads to the back door.
He hasn’t been outside all day, and he longs for the wind on his face. Maybe it’ll wake him up a bit. A cool breeze rustles through the garden's tall bushes to where he sits on the wired garden chair. Light from the kitchen spills out over the grass, almost reaching him, as the sun prepares to set in the west.
As the bushes and trees around the garden become dark shapes, he wonders what will happen to the Knights if they kill Riddle- they’ll probably elect a new leader, like Bellatrix or Amycus, who’ll step up and continue his legacy. Or maybe they won’t, and the Knights will crumble from within.
It can’t have been more than ten minutes before the kitchen door slides open. The heavy noise catches Barty’s attention. He looks up to find the silhouette of Sirius standing there.
Sirius steps out onto the patio, sliding the door shut behind him. Like Evan, there are tired bags under his eyes and his hair is sticking out in multiple directions. Barty still can’t get over seeing his distinctive grey eyes, the ones he spent so long staring at a lifetime ago. High cheekbones, fine black hair. It’s nauseating to accidentally catch a glimpse of him, because his brain, just for a moment, mistakes him for Regulus.
“Mind if I join you?” Sirius asks.
Barty shrugs. He was rather enjoying the peace and quiet of the dark garden, but he can’t exactly tell Sirius to fuck off in his own house.
Sirius takes the chair opposite him, appearing completely calm. He unzips his jacket pocket and holds out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”
It feels like someone has socked Barty in the stomach. The gesture reminds him so viscerally of Avery that he can almost hear Avery’s bright voice, counting out cigarettes and sitting on the steps outside their grey flat.
“No,” he says. Guilt flushes through his body as the grainy footage he’s been trying to push away resurfaces so strongly that he can almost smell the metallic blood on Avery’s face.
Sirius takes one out and flicks his thumb down on the lighter until it lights. After a few drags, he kicks his legs up onto the other chair.
“Sorry about the other day, you know, waking you up in the morning,” he says, in a careful way that suggests he’s been meaning to broach it for a while. “I just heard you two were here and I kind of lost it. I thought we were being infiltrated, and I was the only one not dumb enough to realise.”
“I get it,” Barty says, swallowing down the thoughts about Avery. To win Sirius’ trust, he can spare a bit of honesty in return. “Evan had a hit on him in Kryostrov. I was meant to be the one to kill him. We needed somewhere to escape, and Narcissa suggested here.”
Sirius raises his eyebrows. “You and him, then?”
“Yeah,” Barty says, holding back a small smile.
“I won’t say I didn’t see it coming,” Sirius says with a slight smirk. “Although I can’t take full credit. Regulus was always banging on about how you two should just kiss already. I thought he was jealous, but then he had that weird crush on James, so I figured he got over you.”
The air is weighted with shared grief, dragging up memories that would’ve gone forgotten if they weren’t here.
Barty shoots him a look. “He didn't need to ‘get over me’. We dated for two weeks when we were fourteen.”
Sirius snorts. “True.”
At Sirius’ willingness to talk, Barty begins to inch out of his shell. If he and Sirius are embarking on a life-threatening mission soon, he might as well be on speaking terms with him.
“I know you weren’t doing it for me, but thanks for backing me up in there,” he says awkwardly. Sirius’ conviction for going back to Kryostrov might be the thing to save Avery.
Sirius leans back, exhaling smoke. “Usually, I'd be less willing to give out favours to Riddle's followers, but my brother spoke highly of you. You were his only real friend in the end.” His voice grows more raw. “I regret not being there for him, but I'm glad he had someone he could trust before he died."
At the end, Regulus had retreated into himself so severely that the only person he'd speak to was Barty. Even his relationship with Evan and Pandora broke down in the last few months. It’s strange hearing it said aloud, confirmation that Barty’s grief hasn’t all been in his head.
“Yeah, I'm glad too," Barty mutters. “Doesn’t mean you can’t hate me for almost becoming a Knight."
Sirius exhales more smoke into the air. “I'm not going to sit here and say you had the Avery thing coming because of Frank and Alice. No one deserves to see their friends suffer like that. Even if they survive, knowing someone you care about was hurt like that, it gets in your fucking head.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I sometimes think about what Regulus was thinking in those last moments. Whether he was thinking about how much I hated him.”
The image is bleak, yet it pinpoints something Barty couldn’t put his finger on until now. Avery must hate him. He must be sitting in the basement of a secluded industrial estate, hating Barty for betraying and leaving him, while the two people he thought were his friends torture him. He can't let Avery die thinking he has no one in this world.
Barty doesn't know how he can help Sirius when he can't even get over Regulus himself, but he owes him more than silence.
"I'm sure, right at the end, he was thinking about the good times.”
The noise Sirius makes is a strangled laugh-cough, moving between anger and sadness. He throws his cigarette onto the ground. "I fucking need this to work,” he says darkly. “I can't live with that bastard still alive. We're gonna get your mate back, and then we're going to get revenge for Reg." His smile is painted with stark desperation. "I don't care what it takes. Everything goes into this."
The words are a breath of fresh air after so much careful planning and inaction. Finally, someone understands the stakes, someone else is driven by desperate loss that overwhelms everything else. Someone still aches for the boy that died four years ago.
The door slides open, snapping Barty out of his spiralling thoughts. Evan steps out, trying not to look surprised by seeing them sitting together. The smile Barty gives him in light of their last conversation and the wonky-eyed fish is soft, and Evan reciprocates it.
"Remus has updates for us in the dining room," he says.
Sirius is up in a shot, stepping through the sliding door to find Remus. Barty follows closely behind.
"Made a new friend?" Evan murmurs as they step inside. His hand brushes over Barty's lower back, small, casual affection that reminds Barty what he's doing this all for.
"Friend is a strong word, but he’s no longer at my throat," Barty says. He pauses at the door with a wan smile. "He still talks about Regulus."
"Yeah?"
"It makes it feel real."
Evan smiles sadly, rubbing his back in mutual understanding.
Barty steps inside. “Did you reach your dad?”
“Nope,” Evan says, “but he replied to Pandora’s text, so I’m pretty sure it’s just me he’s ignoring.”
In the dining room, everyone is gathered around the table except Pandora who Dorcas classed as a ‘civilian’, making her unable to listen to their plans.
“Remus, do you want to go first?” Dorcas says, gesturing to him.
Remus regards the room with nervous anticipation. “After some heavy-handed persuasion,” he begins with a pointed look towards Marlene, “Dumbledore has given us the go-ahead. He thinks it’s too soon, but Marlene made it clear that we're going with or without his support, so he's going to help us do it properly.” He looks down at a sheet. “He’s allocated a small team to help us who will meet us at the island.”
Barty listens eagerly as the information unravels. It hits him how real all of this is. Suddenly, they’re not a small team of miscreants with vague plans to kill someone they all hold personal grudges against. They have resources and backing from a high member of government. They have a plan.
Dorcas nods. “We’ve also got a go-ahead from Bill who owns the boat. He’s at our disposal for the few next weeks.”
“How long does it take to get to Kryostrov by boat?” Barty asks. His heart is beating faster as everything starts to fall into place.
“Two to three days,” says Marlene.
“That gives us plenty of time to plan,” Dorcas says. “We can’t do anything until we’re there, so we should leave as soon as possible. We can iron out the details on the boat.” She looks around. “I propose we leave the morning after tomorrow.”
“That soon?” Evan says, surprised by how quickly this is moving.
Marlene answers the question, sounding perfectly convinced. “We’ve had this plan ready to perfection for years. It’s just a matter of execution. Literally,” she adds with a dark smile.
Barty exchanges a look with Evan. He thought they’d be more surprised, but between them there is just anxious determination. They're doing this, one way or another.
~
Maybe it’s Pandora’s grid of healing crystals two rooms across that fills Barty with a calm feeling tonight. Bolt drawn across the door, slipping into Evan’s baggy t-shirt, he finally sinks into bed with Evan.
Barty lies in the darkness, listening to Evan's slow breaths. Wondering why he suddenly cares about Avery so much, the answer is woven into Evan's hair, threaded into his skin. None of it mattered before Evan came back. Barty was living on autopilot. He killed and watched people kill and felt nothing because life became unimportant.
But then Evan came back.
It was like surfacing from a coma, plunging his head into ice, waking up after a nap after school to find his headache gone. His eyes were closed, and Evan opened them. Evan is the puzzle piece that makes him feel alive.
Barty was starting to worry that Evan’s entire world had become him. His entire world is Evan, but that’s different– Evan isn’t flawed and hasn’t hurt him or broken his trust. He worried that Evan was building his whole foundation on something cracked.
But Evan agreeing to stay with Pandora shows that he’s growing in other directions. Uncurling, letting in light that isn’t the intense, overwhelming pull of love.
“Rosie?” Barty whispers. Minutes of silence have passed, just their limbs intertwined half underneath the duvet.
“Hm?” murmurs Evan. Neither of them need to open their eyes to feel the emotion pouring from one voice to another, like their blood vessels are pumping towards one heart.
“Will you wait for me?”
The day after tomorrow, Barty will prepare to leave on an expedition that could kill him, or worse. He’ll get on a boat and watch England disappear into the horizon with dread in his stomach. But for tonight, he clutches Evan, his whole life in his grasp.
Evan’s reply is instant. “Of course,” he murmurs into the back of Barty’s neck, hot breath ruffling his hair. “The night you're back, we're going to have the best sex of our lives.”
Smiling, Barty kisses Evan’s neck a few times, letting all the emotions seep out of him. “The crochet fish you made is really cute.”
“Mhm, apart from its wonky eye.”
“It gives it character.”
Barty can sense Evan’s smile in the dark. Although everything he cares about is rooted in Evan, he also has other things, just like Evan has other parts to his life. He is determined to break Avery out of there. Pandora and Evan want to put it all behind them, but it’s not over for them, and it’s definitely not over for Barty.
They’ve found each other again for the last time. If their hearts are beating as one, what’s one more week apart?
Chapter 18
Notes:
Not to disrupt the rosekiller with a cheeky hostage subplot but I really wanted to expand on Barty & Avery's relationship and the whole Knights thing, but don't worry the rosekiller is far from over!
Chapter Text
Despite living on a small island his entire life, Barty has never actually been on a boat. The most waterborne he’s been was when he went on a pedalo on a lake on a school trip in primary school. Sailing the North Sea in a cabin cruiser is a big step up.
Barty sits in the cabin, distracting himself from the vastness of the sea in all directions by keeping his gaze firmly inside. He kissed Evan goodbye early this morning, leaving him and Pandora with a friend of Marlene’s. He’s holding onto the look in Evan’s eyes, a deep promise that they will see each other again.
If Barty could see himself in this position three weeks ago, he’d think he was having a psychotic break. It feels wrong to be surrounded by the most prominent members of the Order on a mission to assassinate the man he’s been working for his whole life. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of Dorcas in the same position as the ‘wanted’ posters stuck up in Bellatrix’s house, and wonders if betraying everyone he knows is the right thing to do.
Then he remembers every bad part of the last ten years with a sick feeling in his throat. Countless deaths, Alice and Frank’s torture into oblivion, Camille being targeted to humiliate Marcus, Riddle’s hit on Evan that was supposed to end up with him and Barty dead, Mulciber’s taunting words as he stood by Avery’s helpless body. It’s not about politics anymore, if it ever was. It’s about protecting the people he cares about.
The cabin cruiser is just big enough to host the five of them and the boat’s owner, Billius Weasley. Bill, as Dorcas and the others have been familiarly calling him, is the older brother of Arthur Weasley, one of Dumbledore's allies in government. Bill says he prefers to keep out of politics.
The Dulce Luna has a rounded hull, cracks in the white paint at the waterline showing its age. The wooden deck is scuffed with years of boots and fishing hooks scraped across. Inside, the tight cabin is lined with mahogany panelling.
Travelling through the North Sea towards the Baltic, Bill sits at the wooden wheel. The engine hums, a faint tang of diesel in the air.
Much to Bill’s disdain, the boat has an in-built Wi-fi hotspot. Dorcas and Remus are hooked up to their laptops. Barty has been trusted with a gun for the first time since arriving in London. The pistol's weight in his pocket is strangely comforting.
It has been decided that Marlene and Remus will go with Barty to Varnatek, while Dorcas and Sirius will find Riddle. It’s all dark on Narcissa’s end, but Barty can guess where Riddle will be: Bellatrix’s house, Riddle’s well-guarded coast house, or a safehouse in the heart of the city. It’s a simple assassination mission, just like Barty’s was, except with a whole lot more moving parts.
“So we pick up Avery from Varnatek and then meet you back at the boat?” Barty summarises.
“He’ll need medical attention, possibly onsite,” Dorcas says. “That’s what Poppy’s there for.”
“Who the hell's Poppy?”
“Poppy Pomfrey, she’s our doctor,” she explains. “She’s trained for situations like these.”
Barty holds back from pulling a face. Dorcas’ plan is far from his vision of how things are going to go. He's not letting Mulciber walk away from this, and he's certainly not letting this Poppy Pomfrey get her hands on Avery before him. This is his mess to fix.
At the basics of a plan being established, there's not much else Barty can do. He spends hours staring at the choppy sea wondering what could go wrong. By nighttime, he’s grown accustomed to the faint smell of diesel and the engine’s hum. The sun sets over the horizon in the west. The oranges become pinks, then settle into navy before black takes over.
Worst case, Avery is already dead. Although they're expecting another video tomorrow, that doesn't remove the chance that Avery's body could've collapsed or Riddle ordered that Avery be killed. Alternatively, Octavia could have given them a false address to lure them into the middle of nowhere to be sniped at. Maybe Bill takes a wrong turn and they end up in the Arctic, or a storm hits and the boat capsizes.
Worst of all, Evan isn't waiting for him when he gets back. Maybe he’ll have come to his senses and realised that he doesn’t want to spend his life with an unstable man who tried to shoot him in his sleep, lied about an assassination and burns himself for fun. Pandora could talk some sense into him and he could leave like she did to begin a new life.
But Evan held him, hot breath against his neck, and he promised. He promised he’d be there when Barty came back. That is what keeps Barty going all day, in the middle of the ocean surrounded by people he once vowed to kill.
At night, they take turns on the two beds. When it’s Barty’s turn, he shuts himself in one of the rooms, wearing Evan's t-shirt ‘for good luck’. He’s fallen asleep beside Evan for the last six days, and he already misses the strong arms around him, gentle breathing beside him.
Wrapping his arms around his own body for warmth, he should’ve told Evan that he loved him.
~
“We should be arriving Monday night,” Bill tells them over breakfast the night morning. Today, they travel through the Kiel Canal and begin the passage over the Baltic Sea.
Dorcas and Sirius sit on one corner of the sofa, staring at a laptop as they coordinate drivers and escape plans. Marlene and Remus both seem dedicated to saving Avery. Though Barty is glad they’re taking it seriously, Evan’s warning about the Order using and discarding them at the first chance they get pops into his head.
Although it makes him uneasy to admit, he knows Evan is right. Remus has a son and a mother to care for, and Marlene has ambitions that don’t involve dying at twenty-two while trying to save someone she doesn't even know. They don’t owe him their lives, and they certainly don’t owe him their loyalty.
When it comes down to it, no one in this cabin will have his back. With the gun pressing into his side, that idea doesn’t scare him. This is between him and Mulciber, after all.
Barty’s dominant thought is that today is Sunday. He hasn’t forgotten Mulciber’s promise to send another hostage video through, proof-of-life to bully Barty into coming back to the island.
He asks Dorcas about the video over breakfast, then at midday, then multiple times in the afternoon. With every hour that passes, he gets more agitated. He goes on deck for fresh air, bounces his leg up and down until it cramps, anxiously rubs his hands together until the skin starts peeling.
They pass through the Kiel Canal in the afternoon, entering the Baltic Sea. One more night, and then they’ll arrive at Kryostrov’s north port, ready to coordinate with Dumbledore’s people on the ground.
In the evening, Barty catches it. Sirius and Dorcas are talking in low tones, fixated on Dorcas’ laptop, but this time is different. Their gazes become stares, expressions hard and serious. When Sirius glances up to look directly at Barty, he knows what it is.
“Has the video come through?” Barty says. It's hardly a question.
Dorcas takes off her headphones. "He's alive," she says, as if that's any comfort.
Barty immediately comes to sit beside them. “Show me.”
Sirius is between him and Dorcas, a welcome gap between Barty and the laptop screen. “I don’t think you want to see this,” he says. The care in his words puts Barty on high alert.
“I need to know what state he’s in if I’m going to be rescuing him,” Barty snaps. He dreads to think how worse it’s got, knowing Mulciber wasn’t bluffing.
Dorcas and Sirius exchange a look, and just as Barty is about to kick up a storm, Dorcas passes her laptop to Sirius. The line across the bottom reveals the video is one minute and ten seconds long. Barty braces himself and presses play.
The setting is the same as before: a grotty, windowless room lit by an overhead light. The first few frames show Mulciber walking back from the camera, a balaclava covering his head.
“Time’s up, Crouch,” Mulciber declares. He walks around the outskirts of the room, stepping back to reveal Avery.
Somehow, Barty isn’t prepared for what he knew was coming. His throat dries up at the sight of Avery. His hands are pinned behind him, his prosthetic leg long gone. His head hangs awkwardly forward, like he could be unconscious, but his chest is rising too fast as evidence of life.
Avery’s lack of shirt shows his pale, bruised skin. His ribs are pronounced, swollen bruises on each one. It looks like they haven’t fed him in the last five days.
Mulciber steps back, revealing a long, metal rod that glows red at the end. He taps the rod lightly on the floor, like he’s wondering where to start, taunting the action before it begins.
Avery doesn’t say anything this time. He doesn’t even look up. Barty stares at the screen in speechless horror. It looks like agony. Worse still, Avery looks completely destroyed.
Roaring fills Barty’s ears as the seconds painstakingly pass. He wants to tear through the screen and drag Avery out. Stuck on a boat, still days away, he is completely helpless.
Just as Mulciber raises the metal rod, the image stops. Barty blinks, thinking the fabric of reality is cracking, before realising Sirius has paused the video.
“You need to keep a clear head,” Sirius says, passing the laptop back to Dorcas. “Watching the rest isn’t going to help anything.”
“What happens?” Barty says, looking up in desperation. Shame sparks inside that he's too weak to watch the reality that Avery is living out. "What does that bastard do?"
Sirius’ expression fills with sympathy, awkwardness as he glances away. “He burns Avery until he passes out.”
Barty flinches. It hurts to hear the unbearable agony his friend is going through at the hands of someone who seems to enjoy causing such pain. Mulciber is going beyond himself to make Avery’s life hell, to prove himself to Riddle as a merciless Knight.
And although Mulciber couldn’t possibly know, because only Regulus and Evan ever knew, burning Avery feels hauntingly personal. Maybe it’s due to Mulciber’s fear of blood, but using the way Barty hurts himself to hurt Avery feels like a personal attack. A taunt.
Helpless fury courses through him. “Is that the whole video?” he asks. Avery must be sitting in that room thinking that no one cares about him, that no one is coming for him. He must have no hope at all.
Sirius grimaces. "Mulciber tells you to come back to the island again, plus all his slimy, smug bullshit. He’s clearly on one big power trip.”
“He’s a Knight,” Barty says in a hollow voice, a fact he’s sure they already knew. “He has to prove himself by doing sadistic bullshit like torturing his friend.” He clenches and unclenches his fists, Avery’s emaciated body flashing up when he closes his eyes.
"I know this isn't what you want to hear," Dorcas says cautiously, “but Dumbledore is taking this as a good sign. If the Knights are so paranoid that Riddle authorised the torture of Avery I's son, things must be falling apart."
The noise Barty makes is scalding and humourless. Trust Dumbledore to find the positives in the senseless torture of his friend. He hadn't considered the broader implications of Avery's torture. To him, Avery is just his flatmate, not the son of Avery I, Riddle's schoolmate. How close the Knights are to collapse makes no difference to the pain and fear Avery is experiencing.
Out of the steamed-up windows, rain lashes down on the deck, putting visibility at a low. Barty stays seated in the suffocating cabin, staring at the floor and letting their conversations wash over him. Sirius and Remus are mumbling something about Alice and Frank, Mulciber’s video undoubtedly making old wounds resurface.
It doesn’t matter how important Avery is, how well Dumbledore thinks things are going or whether everyone here is only helping him to try and heal their own wounds. All that matters is getting to Varnatek, freeing Avery and killing Mulciber.
~
The afternoon wears into the evening. The lashing rain continues, keeping Bill occupied at the wheel as the boat nauseatingly rocks side to side. By dinner time, he has no appetite. All he can think of are bruises on Avery’s chest, Mulciber trailing the rod against the floor and a windowless room.
His only consolation is that everyone on this boat is just as determined to destroy the Knights as him.
A sleepless night continues into a grotty morning. Remus keeps throwing up in the small toilet, saturating the place in the smell of vomit. Marlene eventually opens the cabin windows, letting the cold air and rain blast in.
By the evening, Bill announces that they’re six hours away from Kryostrov. They’ll be arriving at the North habour at midnight, ready to meet with the others. Dorcas talks them through who they’re meeting on the island, drivers, a doctor, ‘communication coordinators’ which Barty isn't entirely sure about. The team is purposefully small to keep their profile as low as possible.
“I've got something,” Dorcas suddenly announces after dinner. For the first time in a long few days, her gaze is lit with intrigue.
“What is it?” says Marlene.
“Remus, you’re going to want to hear this,” Dorcas raises her voice to tell Remus, who's currently retching in the toilet.
Barty sits upright in his seat, his boredom giving way to nervous anticipation. A moment later, Remus surfaces from the toilet with flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he says apologetically. He clutches a plastic bag for safety as he comes and sits down.
Sirius rubs a soothing circle into his back. “No need to apologise,” he says. “Better out than in.”
Dorcas barely registers their words as she stares up from her screen. “Narcissa has made contact.”
The cabin gets as quiet as it can with the waves crashing against the hull. They haven’t heard from Narcissa since Barty and Evan boarded the plane six days ago.
“She says she couldn't communicate for a while due to devices being monitored and changed, but she has a message for us,” Dorcas says, reading from the screen in front of her.
“To keep it brief: how Crouch and Rosier escaped was a scandal. Riddle is making an example out of Avery, but people know Avery isn’t as powerful as he’s making out. They think the Order is involved.
“Dorea Black made an appeal to Riddle at the last meeting to release Avery. She said what most people were thinking, that the Order is to blame. Riddle and Bellatrix championed her as a traitor. Bellatrix shot her yesterday. They say anyone who allies themselves with Avery will die as traitors.
“Tom is losing his grip. Dorea's friends are outraged by her death. Some families are unofficially planning to leave the island. People want out. And then she asks for updates on our current plans,” Dorcas finishes saying. She looks up to gauge everyone’s reactions.
Shock ripples around the cabin. Dorea Black is dead, and the Knights are unravelling.
For a moment, Barty’s heart tightens with sadness. Dorea was there from the moment Avery’s parents died, taking him in along with Natalia and Evelyn, and she fought in his corner until the end. She must’ve known Riddle would come down hard on her for supporting Avery, maybe even that she’d pay with her life. Hopefully that thought will provide a sliver of consolation for Avery when the news reaches him, if Mulciber hasn’t already been dangling it over him.
Barty isn't surprised that Dorea was killed for supporting Avery, the ‘traitor’, but he is surprised that his and Evan's escape is all it took to destabilise things. His place within the Knights was unimportant, small, obedient. He never thought his escape would have such a significant impact.
“So it’s all going to shit?” Marlene says, shock echoing in her voice.
“This is great,” Sirius says, equally as stunned. He looks around for reassurance. “This is great, right? They’re doing all the hard work toppling the Knights themselves. All we have to do is sweep in and hammer the nail in the coffin.” His hand remains on the shoulder of a queasy-looking Remus, squeezing in excitement.
“Exactly,” Dorcas nods firmly. “Riddle is losing his grip if he’s started executing elderly women. He knows he’s losing.”
Confident nods all round. Narcissa’s message is the first sign that things could work out in their favour. Instead of riding on determination and loss, they have a real chance of defeating the Knights.
Seemingly right at the heart of what will put the nail in Riddle’s coffin, Barty feels the least out of place he has for a while. His far-fetched plan made out of desperation a few days ago has solidified into something real. For the first time, hope blows in with the sea breeze.
At midnight, adrenaline keeps Barty awake. The last few hours have been calmer now the rain has stopped. The first signs of Kryostrov on the horizon line emerge from the low-hanging stars. As the boat hums closer, the stars turn into the lights of the harbour’s entrance.
The north side of the island is flat, the water drawing into the rocky beaches. Barty can barely make out the outline of the land against the dark sky. On the endless dark sea, approaching the large headland, he feels impossibly small.
The North harbour is nothing more than a tiny bay, about ten boats docked against the stone sea wall. No lighthouse or round-the-clock security allows Bill to dock the boat undetected.
Bill throws the ropes over to two men on the pier, and they wrap the thick ropes around metal stumps, bringing the boat against the wall.
On the deck, a cold wind combs through Barty’s hair. He takes a long breath in while Bill finishes tying up the ropes. The cabin’s door creaks behind him, followed by a single pair of footsteps.
As much as he tries to avoid looking, Barty catches a glimpse of Regulus out of the corner of his eye. Only it’s not Regulus, of course. Standing beside him on the boat’s scuffed deck is Sirius.
His poker face mustn’t be very convincing, because Sirius’ eyes narrow. “Why do you always look at me like that?” he says. Out in the open, the words are swallowed up by the night.
“Like what?” says Barty.
“Like you’ve seen a ghost.” A sarcastic smile curls Sirius’ lips.
Barty exhales through his nose and looks away. “You look so much like him,” he mutters, almost hoping the wind will sweep his words away. “You already did before, but now..." he tails off, not sure how to say it.
“Now I’m on testosterone?” Sirius offers with a helpful smile. “Or now I haven’t showered for three days straight?”
Barty shoots him a look. “The first one.”
A long moment of silence passes as Barty stares out to sea. There’s not much more to be said, just the bittersweet pain of remembering someone who’s long gone.
“I know,” Sirius sighs. The cabin’s door squeaks open behind him, and Dorcas steps onto the deck. She accepts the hand Bill offers her and steps off onto the pier.
Before following suit, Sirius leans in. “I'm planning to propose to Remus in his mother’s cottage,” he says. “It’s a beautiful place in South Wales, the headland is stunning.” His eyes fix on Barty’s. “I need you to make sure my future husband makes it out of this.”
Reflected in his eyes is everything Barty feels himself: the overwhelming fear of losing someone he loves. So instead of pointing out that Remus is more than capable of handling himself, he nods. Satisfied, Sirius claps him on the arm before jumping off the boat to join Dorcas.
Barty is one step behind. For the first time in three days, his feet stand on solid ground. He’s back in Kryostrov, and he will finish what he started.
Chapter 19
Notes:
I’m very excited for the next few chapters, however I will give an additional warning for descriptions of physical & psychological injury. Let’s just say I ended up toning things down in the edit because Avery’s subplot made me so sad I stopped writing for a while 😭
Chapter Text
The view out of the van’s window is a change from the endless sea visible from the Dulce Luna. The landscape is flat and dark as they speed down the single-track country road. On their right, the sea is disappearing into the darkness, while fields pass on their left.
Barty grips the pistol tightly in his hand as they speed towards Varnatek. Marlene and Remus also sit in the back, quiet now that they’re separated from their other halves. Remus and Sirius hugged for a whole minute when they parted at the dock. Barty was surprised to see how many people were there to meet them, three cars with a whole team of Dumbledore’s people.
Doctor Poppy Pomfrey is with them, a middle-aged woman with greying hair. She shook Barty’s hand firmly and said she was here to help return Avery safely. As part of Dumbledore’s team, Barty naturally doesn’t trust her, though she seems genuine enough.
Marlene busies herself by clicking the scope onto her sniper. Dorcas appointed her as head of their team, so Barty is now grudgingly under her command.
He doesn’t anticipate Avery to be well-guarded, due to his physical condition and the fact that Mulciber is heading this operation, not someone important like Bellatrix or a Carrow. It’s not a high-level operation like the torture of Alice and Frank was. Avery can’t give them any information; he’s just being used to send a message about traitors, and Mulciber gets his kicks in the process.
About half an hour later, the coastal path approaches a dark structure. The tall gates of Varnatek are unmistakable. Large, empty warehouses and cranes loom against the black sky. The driver clicks the headlights off as they slowly approach the entrance.
“Stop here,” Marlene tells the driver. “We’ll go in on foot.” Wearing a bulletproof vest, carrying a sniper and a pistol tucked into her waistband, she isn’t taking any chances.
The driver pulls up behind the gatehouse and cuts the engine. The once well-guarded lodge has been overrun with rust and weeds curling up the building’s sides. Barty sees the outline of the old cranes in the distance and squints to try and discern their colour in the darkness.
“I’m three, Remus is four, and Barty’s five,” Marlene says, reminding everyone of the walkie-talkie situation. “We’ll keep them on silent until we’ve located the targets, and we’ll patch in when we need your help, Poppy.”
Armed with a medical bag and a fold-up wheelchair, Pomfrey nods.
The three of them set off through the wasteland of the abandoned industrial estate, towards the distant cranes which loom large in the moonlight. Weak torches guide them across cracked tarmac and gravel. The midnight air is sharp, shells of factories and warehouses surrounding them.
Barty scans the empty buildings for anything resembling the cottage that Octavia described. All he sees is the rusted metal of abandoned machinery and the pale glow of moonlight in puddles.
As they approach the cranes, Barty’s footsteps get softer, his ears fine-tuned to every crunch of gravel underfoot, every whistle of wind. Then he catches a flash of olive green, and his skin prickles with recognition.
“Cut the lights,” he says, clicking off his torch, closely followed by the others. They’re plunged into darkness. On the other side of the empty yard is a beaten-up car parked in a patch of dirt. Its damaged bumper and olive green paint are unmistakable.
“That’s Mulciber’s car,” he whispers. He points at the building just behind it, much more domestic-looking than the others, no doubt the cottage Octavia referred to. “That must be where they’re keeping him.”
The cottage stands isolated amidst the tall cranes, probably an old control centre. It’s too far away to see many details, but Barty can just make out the fractured dusty windows. No light comes from any of the rooms. Apart from the car, it looks like no one has been here for decades.
“Let’s pause here,” Marlene says. She crouches behind an oversized electricity box and gestures for Remus and Barty to do the same. Taking her sniper off her shoulder, she swings it around to point at the cottage.
Barty uneasily waits for her judgment. From here, the weak moonlight sets everything into shadows. Mulciber could be staring at them from the window for all they know.
Suddenly, a light upstairs turns on. Yellow light pools from the house onto the yard in front.
Barty ducks behind the electricity box, heart pounding. “Shit,” he hisses. They must’ve seen the torches.
Remus and Marlene have dropped to the ground, hyperalert expressions suggesting that they’re expecting a bullet to whizz past them.
“Did they see us?” Remus whispers in a hushed voice.
Marlene waits a moment before propping her sniper lens up onto the electrical box. “I can’t actually see anyone,” she mutters. “The blinds are closed.”
“We should go in,” Barty says, not risking peeking his head over the box. “If they’ve seen us, there’s only a matter of time before backup arrives. Avery has to be in there.” He swallows harshly as he imagines Avery just metres away, cowering in the darkness of a disused basement.
“It’s too risky,” Remus says. “We don’t know how many people are in there or what kind of weapons they have.”
“I’ve already told you,” Barty snaps, barely managing to keep his voice hushed. “There’ll be two or three of them in there, with pistols like us. We have the element of surprise, we can easily pick them off.”
Marlene remains still as she tracks the movement behind the upstairs blinds. “Remus is right,” she says. “We should wait until we have more information.”
Barty’s fingers tighten around the gun. She and Remus are more than happy to wait until backup comes, and then they’ll have no choice but to retreat. With Avery almost in his grasp, he’s not letting this chance go. He’s spent countless nights wondering if he could’ve done something to help Regulus. He’s not making the same mistake twice.
“I’m done waiting,” he hisses. Clicking the safety latch off his pistol, he emerges from the electricity box. He stays low to the ground as he jogs towards the cottage.
The upstairs light remains on, but Barty doesn’t see any light downstairs as he approaches the windows murky with dust. His footsteps barely make a sound against the tarmac. He flanks the side of the house, out of view of the windows, and glances back. Although he’s prepared to go in alone, he’s relieved to find Marlene and Remus right behind him.
Marlene holds a hand up. “You two take the front, I’ll take the back,” she whispers. Her furious gaze pins down Barty. “Shoot to disarm, not to kill. That’s a direct order from Dumbledore.”
Barty bites back a snarky reply about how he doesn’t take orders from Dumbledore, because he wouldn’t be here if it weren't for him. He gives a short nod. Remus and Marlene exchange one last look, and then Marlene peels away around the back of the cottage with her semi-automatic pointed forward.
Barty approaches the front door with his pistol up. The handle rattles, resolutely locked. He glances behind him, and Remus nods. So he steps back, and in one motion, stamps his foot through the door with all his strength.
The door flies open with a bang. No more hiding their presence.
At no immediate sign of life, Barty creeps through the hall with his finger on the trigger. The interior is even more derelict than the outside. The wallpaper is peeling off the dirty walls, shattered glass and rubbish everywhere. It confirms what Barty suspected about it being a discreet job; if it were important, they’d have found a better place than this.
He pauses at the first doorway on the left. It has no door, just an empty frame. In one quick motion, he spins inside with his gun raised. Adrenaline surges as he prepares to shoot. Instead, the room is empty. It doesn’t even have furniture.
Remus is right behind him, pistol raised and torch up. He gestures to the next empty doorway across the hall. Barty nods in agreement.
Just as they’re about to carefully approach the second doorway, there’s a static. Marlene’s voice comes through the walkie-talkie clipped onto Remus’ belt.
“One guy upstairs I don’t recognise,” comes her voice. “I’ve disarmed him. Rest of the rooms up here are clear.”
Her voice is too loud in the silent downstairs. Barty realises that it gives their location away a second too late.
Bullets crack through the air. They fly past Barty, barely inches away, and land in the wall behind him.
Barty dives back into the empty room, pressing his back against the wall. Remus is safely by his side.
Blood pumping in his ears, Barty fires two warning shots back. The bullets go into the doorway opposite where whoever shot at them is hiding.
Since their location has been revealed, Barty sees no point in risking not being able to see. He clicks the light switch on. Light floods from their husk of a room into the corridor and the room beyond.
The crackle that gave them away arises again as Marlene's voice comes through. “What's going on down there?”
“We're being shot at,” Remus replies with the walkie-talkie pressed to his mouth. “Cover the stairs, don't come down.”
Waiting for the right moment to fire, Barty hears footsteps running down the corridor away from him. He pokes his head out, thinking the person opposite is gone. Instead, he’s met with a gun levelled at him from the doorway opposite. It fires three shots, causing Barty to duck back into the room.
Pain bolts through his leg, and for a moment, Barty thinks he's been shot. But it stings his left thigh more like a slap, and his vision isn't tunnelling like it would if it had hit him. The thick padding of his trousers must've provided some protection– the bullet has only grazed him.
“There are two people down here,” Remus mutters into his walkie. “We haven’t got either of them.”
Towards the back of the house, a heavy door slams shut. Then a voice just across the corridor, from where Barty was just shot at, turns his blood cold.
“Where the fuck are you going?” the voice hisses, only to get no reply from the person that has escaped to the back of the house.
The harsh, refined Slavic voice is unmistakable: Mulciber.
Adrenaline hits Barty like a train as he realises the person they're in a stalemate with is Mulciber. High-pitched ringing in his ears. He has to stop himself from charging across the hall and undoubtedly getting himself shot in a more critical place than the thigh.
Remus must share his concerns because he holds a hand in front of Barty. He clicks his walkie on. “We're at a stand-off with Mulciber in the two front rooms,” he says. “Someone else ran towards the back.”
“Copy that,” comes Marlene's robotic voice through the walkie. It's the only thing grounding Barty as he clutches the pistol until his fingertips turn white. The throbbing pain in his thigh is nothing compared to the anger surging up his throat.
“Mulciber,” Barty spits, his voice echoing off the empty walls. He no longer cares about the element of surprise. They're going to settle this for good.
“Oh, it's you,” comes Mulciber’s voice from across the hall. Dismissive, almost disappointed, like he was after a challenge and instead an angry kid has stormed in with no backup. Like he didn't want Barty to come back to the island at all, and the videos were just for fun.
"You asked for me,” Barty calls. "Here I am."
"Well, isn't this adorable?" says Mulciber, his voice too light for the situation. Taunting him like always. "You know, I really didn't think you'd come back after running off with Rosier attached to your dick, but you proved me wrong."
Barty's nostrils flare at the mention of Evan. Beside him, Remus scoffs slightly, and it reminds him that Mulciber's words are just meant to rile him up into making a mistake.
Remus edges towards the doorway with his gun level. “Keep him talking, I'll see if I can get a shot at him,” he mutters. He sends a warning shot across the corridor, then ducks back. A moment later, three shots crack through the air and land in the wall behind them.
Barty gestures Remus back with his hand. "Let me handle this," he whispers heatedly. Amidst his promise to Sirius to keep Remus safe is the more pressing issue– he wants Mulciber to himself.
“Who have you roped into helping you on this little rescue mission, then?” Mulciber drawls. “Don’t tell me you guilt-tripped Rosier’s English mates into coming all the way over here on a pointless rescue mission?”
At the casual questions, it hits Barty that Mulciber has no idea that he's here with the Order. That gives him a boost of confidence that they have the upper hand.
“Why would it be pointless?” Barty calls in return, fear shooting through him at the prospect of Avery not being here to save. “You said you’d keep Avery alive for months.”
“He’s alive, alright,” Mulciber scoffs. “He’s just not very… communicative. Doesn’t do much aside from sit in his own piss with that dopey look in his eyes. Didn’t take much to break him.”
Barty clenches his hands, blood rushing to his head. Imagining the smug look on Mulciber’s face makes him more furious. “You sick fuck,” he yells. “He never did anything to you.”
“He’s a traitor,” Mulciber spits back, like he truly believes it. Then his tone returns to mocking. “It’s a shame Riddle told me to hold back on the videos. Some of the stuff we have on that camera, Crouch–”
“Fuck you,” Barty shouts back. He sticks his arm out to squeeze his pistol, but an empty click shows the magazine is empty. He swings his semi-automatic from over his shoulder. Amidst his mindless fury, he manages to give Remus a warning nod. He’s done waiting.
Barty steps out into the corridor and starts unloading his entire magazine into the empty room Mulciber is hiding in. Gunshots crack through the air as he steps forward, approaching the door with all the courage he possesses.
Mulciber sticks an arm out to fire from his pistol. Barty presses himself against the wall to avoid the slow shots that are no match for his gun.
Amongst the cracking of gunshots, a pained voice cries out. Got him.
Barty charges into the abandoned room opposite, artificial light flooding in from the room he and Remus were in. Mulciber has collapsed into a heap against the wall, face screwed up in pain as he clutches his upper arm. Seeing Barty, he raises his gun, but his reaction times are off.
Barty kicks the gun out of his hand and snatches it off the floor. He only notices how fast his breathing has become when he finally pauses, gun pointed at Mulciber who is slumped defenceless on the floor. Remus’ voice is behind him, saying words he can’t decipher into his walkie-talkie.
Mulciber keeps his chin tilted up, clinging to a shred of dignity. “Congratulations,” he utters sarcastically, his breath laboured as the blood drains from his face.. Blood bubbles out from beneath his clothes, pouring from his arm in a deadly stream.
After everything Mulciber went through to prove that he'd put his phobia for blood behind him, his complexion still pales at the red liquid pouring from his arm.
“Look at you,” Barty spits, finding the queasy look Mulciber has towards his blood-stained hand ironic. “You think Riddle’s going to respect you now? You think he gives a shit about anything you do? You’re a fucking pawn in his game. You’ve ruined yourself for someone who doesn’t even care about you.”
Mulciber laughs, a hollow sound. “Oh, really?” he breathes. “You weren’t there when Riddle talked about me at the last meeting. He told everyone how grateful he was for me taking care of your traitor friend.” Power surges to his eyes, hungry and desperate. “They worship me.”
Barty keeps his rifle levelled at Mulciber's head. “No one will remember you in a week. Even your wife hates your guts.”
Mulciber keeps his head tilted up tauntingly. “Talk all you like. Riddle chose me to get information out of your pal.” His gaze flattens, drawing in a shaky breath, like he’s accepting it’s the end. “Avery deserved second of what he got.”
Barty’s eyes are on fire as he prepares to unload the rest of the magazine into Mulciber’s head. “You’re sick,” he repeats, but it won’t make a difference. It won’t undo what Mulciber’s done, and it certainly won't make Mulciber feel bad about anything. A voice interrupts his rising adrenaline.
“Barty.” It’s Remus’ voice. “He’s incapacitated,” Remus continues firmly, coming to stand beside him. “Marlene said no deaths. He’s going to bleed out, anyway. You’ve got his gun, let’s go.”
Barty doesn’t tear his gaze away from Mulciber’s cold, steely eyes. Even at the end, there is no remorse, no regret. The corners of Mulciber’s mouth curl into a crooked smile despite the bullet in his arm, despite his cold sweat and white complexion. No empathy, no fear. Any flicker of emotions was buried too far under, too long ago to resurface, even now.
“Is that Remus fucking Lupin?” Mulciber breathes, blinking slower as blood pours onto the floor by his arm. “Oh, this is good. You fucking– you fucking traitor, Crouch.”
Barty doesn’t owe Mulciber anything, let alone an explanation. “Where’s Avery?” he demands, keeping the gun pointed at Mulciber’s head despite Remus’ warning.
Knowing he’s on the verge of death, Mulciber manages the closest thing his dead eyes can get to a smile.
“I wouldn’t bother with him. I told him you’d never come.”
Bang. One last bullet cracks through the air.
Blood splatters on the grey wall behind. Mulciber’s body slumps to one side, and then falls to the floor with a sickening thud. Blood pools around his head from the bullet wound in his forehead.
His eyes are closed. Mulciber is dead.
Fingers trembling, Barty slowly lowers his gun. He worried that he’d continue to feel hollow, but catharsis rushes through his body like a warm embrace. Standing over the body of the man who caused so much pain to the people he cares about, the blood continuing to seep out of him, is a reward.
Remus mutters something like ‘Christ’, but when Barty turns, his expression is mild.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, staring at Barty’s leg.
Amidst the adrenaline, Barty fazed out the throbbing in his thigh. The wound has begun to bleed through the thick fabric of his trouser leg, wet and sticky as blood trickles out.
“It’s just a graze,” he says, not wanting to waste any more time. “Let’s go.”
Remus gives him a long sigh before leading the way. “Marlene said the rest of the house is clear,” he says, keeping his gun up as they return to the main corridor. He clicks the walkie. “We’re done here,” he says. “You said Wilkes went down to the basement?”
His walkie crackles, and Marlene’s voice comes through. “That’s right. Come to the back of the house, left in the kitchen.”
They go through the derelict house, avoiding corners that are thick with spiderwebs and lines of empty beer bottles. The kitchen light is on, another ugly artificial glow. Marlene stands in front of a metal door, seemingly unscathed with her pistol in her hand.
“Wilkes is down there, I assume with Avery,” she says, tapping the metal door labelled ‘STORAGE’. Her gaze flicks to Barty’s soaked thigh. “What happened with Mulciber?”
“I shot him,” Barty says shortly.
Marlene’s eyes narrow. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Do you fucking care?” Barty retorts. “He was better off dead. Now can we focus on the matter in hand?”
Marlene clenches her jaw. “You’re on thin ice,” she snaps. “I’m going to open the door and talk to him, get a sense of what’s going on down there. You follow my lead or you’re out,” she says, gaze trained on Barty. “Clear?”
“Fine,” Barty mutters. His voice drops as he realises how close they are to Avery, one metal door and an ex-colleague away. Although he’s backed into a basement, Wilkes holds all the power, and he probably knows it. “Just tell him not to shoot Avery."
Marlene gives a curt nod. “Your friend is our bargaining chip. We want him alive.”
She swings open the metal door. It could be the entrance to hell for all Barty’s concerned. Dirty concrete stairs lead down onto a darker level, the walls cracked and grey. The same fluorescent lighting from the videos Mulciber sent waits for them at the bottom.
“You’re outnumbered, Wilkes,” Marlene calls down the stairs. “Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on your head.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Barty bites down on his tongue hard to stop himself calling out to Avery.
“Is Avery with you?” Marlene asks. Her voice echos off the blank walls.
Finally, a voice echos back. “Yes,” Wilkes says. The panicked high pitch gives him away instantly– he is backed into a corner with no plan, no bravado. “My gun is pressed into the back of Avery’s head,” he calls harshly. “If you shoot, he’s dead.”
Barty breathes out an anxious breath. Too many guns, too many highly-strung people waiting for an excuse to shoot.
“We can all get out of this alive,” Marlene says. Thankfully, her words are reassuring, full of logic that Wilkes can’t ignore. “We want Avery, and you want to get out of here alive. Let’s make a deal. You walk away from this, and leave Avery with us.”
“Bullshit. You’ll shoot me the second I step away from him.”
“Fine, alternate deal,” Marlene says. “We want information out of you. We need you alive. That’s your bargaining chip. You give us what we want, and we let you walk. That’s non-negotiable,” she raises her voice to say. “You’re not in a position to refuse.”
“I’m in a position to wait until backup comes,” Wilkes says, though the edge to his voice is nervous.
“There’s no backup coming,” Marlene says scornfully. “Your friend upstairs is tied up, and Mulciber is dead. Our people are heading to Riddle as we speak. The Knights are over.” Her resounding words ring through the basement, rendering Wilkes speechless. “Now we’re coming down these steps so we can talk. If you shoot at us, you’re dead. Make the right choice.”
As she props the door open fully, Barty nudges her arm. This is his mess, his mission, and he should be the one at risk if things go south.
“I’ll go first,” he says.
Marlene waves him away. “Stop trying to be the hero and get behind me.”
Barty does as he’s told. They descend the stairs one at a time, him sandwiched between Marlene and Remus as they walk into the firing line of someone who wants them all dead. Barty’s whole body is tight with tension, waiting for the crack of a bullet shot, for pain to ripple through him. Instead, it’s silent. He should’ve known Wilkes is too smart to risk trying to shoot them.
When Barty reaches the bottom of the stairs, his stomach turns. It’s the setting he saw through the two hostage videos, but so much worse.
Fear clings to the walls, ingrained in the cold concrete floor. The only piece of furniture is a chair in the middle of the room. That’s where Avery sits, limbs tied to the chair legs. Wilkes stands directly behind him, crouching to shield himself. The barrel of his gun is pressed into the back of Avery’s head.
Dread sinks like lead in Barty’s stomach as he finally sets his eyes on Avery. This is so much worse than the videos. Avery’s head is tilted down, eyes glued to the floor. His dirty blond hair is greasy and mixed with dried blood. He looks utterly hollow.
His skinny body is a wreck. Burn marks cover his chest, stomach and arms from the video Barty was too scared to watch. Mulciber’s iron rod has melted the top layers of skin off completely, the wounds black and yellow at the edges. And then there are the bruises. Black and red and fading green bruises cover his ribs, face, arms, swollen skin.
His frame is skinnier than its usual self. His lips are chapped and dry like he hasn’t eaten or drank for days. Barty’s stomach turns over, nausea hitting him as he catches sight of the metal rod in the corner of the room that was used to burn him. He can’t begin to fathom how excruciating the pain must’ve been.
Behind him, Remus mutters into his walkie-talkie. “Poppy, we’re going to need you down here ASAP.”
Wilkes keeps his pistol pressed into the back of Avery’s head. Although he doesn’t have the same sadistic streak as Mulciber, he‘s just as loyal to the Knights. He stares at the three of them and scoffs sardonically.
“You fucking traitor, Crouch.”
Barty narrows his eyes. “Put your gun down. It’s over.”
Wilkes’ eyes pierce through him. “You killed Mulciber,” he says. The name makes Avery visibly flinch, like he’s waiting for Mulciber to come charging through the door.
It’s not a question, but Barty answers anyway. “Yes.”
“Bastard.”
Avery still hasn’t looked up, as if he’s accepted the fate of a bullet in the back of his head. He looks like Mulciber described him: broken.
Marlene is the first to break the silence. “Do we have a deal?”
For someone with three guns pointed at his head, Wilkes is surprisingly calm as he keeps his pistol on the back of Avery’s head.
“I don’t make deals with the Order,” he spits.
“Do you want this shitty basement to be the last thing you see?” Marlene retorts. “Put your gun on the floor, and we all walk out of this alive.”
Barty barely breathes as he waits for the crack of a gunshot, for Avery to slump forward and blood to pool on the floor. A true Knight would die before giving themselves in. Yet being shot in an abandoned basement in the middle of nowhere with no one to see isn’t much of a martyr’s death. Wilkes must realise that, because he lowers his gun.
Shameful guilt paints his features as he drops his pistol, admitting defeat. The tension from Barty’s shoulders releases. Finally.
While Marlene and Remus deal with Wilkes, Barty’s attention goes to one person. Avery’s gaze remains on the floor, no change since Wilkes’ gun was removed from his head.
Barty approaches him carefully. Although most people he grew up around were traumatised in some way, he’s never had to comfort someone who’s been through this level of physical and mental torment.
“Hi, Avery,” he begins with. He crouches beside him, scanning his exposed body which is covered in too many injuries. At this distance, he sees Avery’s lips are tinged blue. The bruised bags under his eyes sit on a gaunt face.
Avery sits like a statue. His shoulders and torso muscles twitch at intervals, out of stress or involuntary nerve damage, Barty can’t tell. “Let’s get you out of here, ok?” he says. He flips his pocket knife out of his pocket and starts sawing through the zip ties. They’ve cut into his wrists, leaving inflamed open sores.
Avery doesn’t say anything. Once his limbs are free, his shoulders curl inwards, ducking his head. He winces with every slight movement, the untreated injuries clearly causing him pain.
“Avery?” Barty says. “It’s me. Barty.” His heart breaks as Avery crosses his arms over his body in an attempt to hug himself. Two words come to mind. Two words he never thought he’d say to anyone but Evan. “I’m sorry.” Whispered, strangled words.
At this proximity, he sees everything. Mulciber knew how to cause pain without blood. Fingerprint-shaped bruises are everywhere over his arms, neck, collarbones. No wonder he won’t speak if everything he said was used against him.
“I don’t need you to say anything,” he says. “Just look at me if you understand what I’m saying.”
Avery turns his head. He looks up and meets Barty’s eyes for a split second. There’s no pain or anger. Just emptiness and humiliated red seeping into his cheeks.
“Barty?” he whispers, like he doesn’t believe it. His breath rattles when he speaks.
“Yeah,” Barty says quietly. He stays crouched beside him. “We’re here to take you somewhere safe. We’ve got a boat on the north port that’s going to take us to London. There’s a safehouse there, where the Knights won’t be able to find you.” His expression crumples. “I’m sorry for dragging you into all this, but it’s time to leave the island.”
Avery doesn’t look like he registers the words, a vacant expression on his bruised face. He doesn’t try to leave the chair as if he’s accepted that his entire life is now contained in this room.
He’s unrecognisable from the person he was two weeks ago, doing Dorea’s washing and trying to learn code and teasing Barty about his boyfriend. While they wait for Pomfrey, there’s a bitter taste in Barty’s mouth as he worries if Mulciber has broken Avery beyond repair.
Chapter 20
Notes:
Happy 20 chapters and 100k to me 🎊
Chapter Text
As soon as the basement door closes with a heavy clang, leaving him and Avery alone, a sense of dread sticks to Barty's insides. The fluorescent overhead light flickers at intervals. He can’t imagine what it would feel like to be trapped here alone with no hope of escape.
While they wait for Pomfrey, Barty stays crouched in Avery’s line of sight, trying to think of something to soothe him. Nothing comes to mind. He’d probably rather be left to die than have people fussing over him and looking at his most vulnerable moments.
“I killed Mulciber,” he says in a low tone. “I killed him for both of us.”
Avery’s lashes flutter in recognition. His left hand spasms again, but he doesn’t move from his inwardly curled position on the chair. His breath comes out in front of him at shaky intervals, and Barty realises how cold he must be. Avery hasn’t even got a shirt in the cool basement.
He doesn’t want to start with the sympathy that Avery hated after his amputation, but he can’t just do nothing.
“I’m just going to put my coat over you,” he says, taking off his coat.
Avery doesn’t protest as Barty lays his thick coat over his shoulders. His arms stay curled around his body instead of going into the sockets, but it offers him a shred more dignity.
Barty stands back and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until it hurts. How could he have let this happen? Could he have done anything differently, or was Avery becoming the scapegoat inevitable?
By the time the basement door heaves open, Barty feels like he’s been trapped in this tomb for well over an hour. The walkie's clock claims it's only been fifteen minutes. He can’t imagine how long the last week has felt for Avery, unable to do anything other than sit with the anticipation of pain.
Footsteps come down the stairs and Avery curls in on himself, more paranoid, flinching with every step. A middle-aged woman with greying hair appears. She has a medical bag slung over one shoulder and a fold-up wheelchair in her hand.
Her expression slips into sympathy for a moment, and then she puts on some plastic gloves and approaches them calmly.
“Hello, Avery,” she says, coming over. “I’m Poppy, I'm a doctor. I’m here to help.”
Avery’s breath rattles in his chest at the unfamiliar voice.
“Wait,” Barty tells her.
Pomfrey reluctantly hesitates. “I’m here to help you get out of here safely, Avery,” she says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Avery’s body has tensed like he can’t believe the pain has come to an end. Barty knows he needs medical treatment urgently, but he’s also not about to give Avery the mental torment of enduring another person he doesn’t want near him.
“Can you give him some space?” Barty says, standing between them both.
Pomfrey purses her lips sympathetically. “I know he’d rather be left alone, but his situation is critical. He looks severely dehydrated, he’s at risk of organ failure if he doesn’t ingest some liquids immediately.”
“Let me do it, then,” Barty says. He narrows his eyes, the tunnelling feeling of powerlessness striking again. “We’re not in your custody. He can refuse treatment, and he’s clearly fucking refused it, so just back off.”
A shadow of irritation passes over Pomfrey's face. She gestures Barty to the corner to speak to him in a lower tone. “You need to let me do my job,” she says firmly. “If he won’t speak, we go by implied consent.”
“Bullshit,” Barty retorts. “Do you want him to fucking die of a heart attack?” He points at the medical bag. “I’ll give him liquids, just tell me what to do.”
After a long sigh, Pomfrey must realise he’s not budging. She hands him a cloudy water bottle from the bag. “This is liquid IV. He needs to drink about a quarter, no more. We don’t want to overload him with fluids.” She puts a white pill into his hand. “See if he’ll take this, too. It’s a strong painkiller. It'll help, but he really needs to be on a drip in hospital.”
“Hospital isn’t an option,” says Barty. Avery’s name would be flagged the second he’s checked in, essentially projecting a flashing ‘I’m here’ beacon into the sky.
“I know,” Pomfrey says. “I’ll do the best I can. None of his wounds look infected, which is a good sign, but his stump looks to be in the early stages of infection.”
Barty didn’t notice Avery’s stump. When he looks over, he sees it's red and inflamed.
“What happened to your leg?” Pomfrey asks. Her gaze is diverted at Barty’s thigh, a throbbing pain which he completely forgot about.
“Bullet grazed it,” he says shortly. “I’m fine.”
Pomfrey’s sigh is slightly despairing. “I’ll need to look at that once we get back to the car. You can’t look after Avery if you get an infection, can you?”
She owes him nothing, yet she genuinely seems to care about making sure they’re alright- or at least doing her job. Barty is glad of the calming presence. He’s not used to being spoken to softly like someone cares for him, so he nods in agreement and returns to Avery armed with the liquid IV.
He crouches down next to Avery with the bottle. “I’ve got some water for you,” he says. Avery’s eyes flit up expectantly. When Barty unscrews it, he opens his mouth to accept the water.
“Uh.” Barty blinks, his stomach turning over again. Of course Wilkes and Mulciber didn’t even untie his hands to let him drink himself. He can’t bear the thought of Mulciber towering over him, taunting Avery with what his dry lips, his fucking organs, desperately needed. “You can do it yourself if you want,” he says unsurely.
Avery also looks awkward as he closes his mouth. He slowly reaches for the bottle, as if he’s expecting Barty to snatch it away, before starting to thirstily gulp it down. Barty feels bad for taking it off him, but Avery returns it without a question. He takes the pill with suspicious but exhausted eyes. Barty doesn’t blame him for not trusting anything again.
Pomfrey wheels over the wheelchair, deciding not much more can be done stuck in the basement. Barty is also more than ready to leave the claustrophobic place.
“Are you ready to get out of here?” Barty says. He knows Avery hates wheelchairs even more than he hates crutches. His prosthetic was everything to him.
Avery manages a short nod. Slowly, Barty lifts him up and onto the wheelchair, heeding Pomfrey's instruction to not stretch his chest.
Avery lands harder than he would’ve liked, breathing heavier as his wreck of a body is moved for the first time in seven days. Safely in the chair, Barty wheels him towards the stairs.
Barty's first gulp of fresh air is joyous. He never thought he’d be as happy to see the dark night sky as now.
He takes charge of wheeling Avery back towards the car, avoiding the room containing Mulciber’s lifeless body. Barty takes solace in the fact that Mulciber didn’t die a heroic death; it was pathetic, in the dark where no one could see him, miles away from all the people he worshipped and pretended worshipped him in return. With any luck, his body is never found. He hopes he rots there.
Pomfrey shines the torch ahead of them as they stick to tarmac paths between empty warehouses.
“I want to go home.”
For a moment, Barty thinks he’s imagined the words, but when Pomfrey glances over, he realises it was Avery who spoke.
He stops wheeling the wheelchair and comes around to regard Avery. His eyes are vacantly set forward at nothing in particular. This time, aching sadness comes from his eyes.
“Avery, we can’t go home,” Barty says in his normal tone, trying not to talk down to him. “It’s not safe to go back there.”
The crease in Avery’s forehead makes his whole face crumple. “I want to see Mum.”
Barty's throat closes up. Even in their least lucid moments, neither of them bring up their long dead parents as an unspoken rule, like they're proving that they've moved on. In his darkest moment, Avery’s mind clearly goes to one place.
“Your mum isn’t here right now,” he says, unsure if Avery actually believes his mother is alive or if he’s just letting his deepest desires spill out. “We’re going to the van so we can get you somewhere more comfortable, alright?”
Avery has tears in his eyes, not registering a single word.
Barty looks up to Pomfrey, at a complete loss. She points the torch ahead. “He needs rest,” she says. “Let’s keep going.”
They keep going to the van. Avery doesn’t speak again. Eventually, they reach Varnatek's gatehouse where they entered. A van is waiting for them around the corner, its headlights illuminating the space. Remus and Marlene are gone, presumably with Wilkes.
“I’ve arrived at the van with Avery,” Barty says into the walkie-talkie.
Marlene’s crackling voice answers. “We’re around the corner with Wilkes. He’s refusing to speak, but we’re working on it.”
Satisfied, Barty focuses on the matter at hand. Pomfrey clears a space on the van’s floor, placing down layers of blankets. She instructs Barty to lift Avery over, which he manages to do. Avery finally lies flat on his back on the make-shift bed. He winces as his legs stretch out for the first time.
“Barty?” Avery says, fear rippling through his tone.
Having leaned back to put his guns down, Barty quickly comes around to the back where he’s lying.
“I’m here,” he says quickly. He feels a stab of guilt when Avery visibly relaxes. He hasn’t done anything to warrant this level of trust. He looks over Avery’s bruised body, a coat half slung over his shoulders and his wet trousers sticking to him. “Do you need anything? More painkillers, water, food?”
Pomfrey clears her throat softly. When Avery doesn't reply, he leans back to where she’s standing outside, monitoring the situation.
“I’m afraid you can’t offer him food yet,” she says. “His body might not be able to handle it. Our main priority is antibiotics and rehydrating him.”
Barty reluctantly nods. He watches Avery’s left hand involuntarily spasm at intervals, along with one of the chest muscles. Pomfrey explains it’s due to nerve damage from the burns. She gives him more water and antibiotic pills to give to Avery, then directs him to wrap bandages around Avery’s stump. Avery stares at the van’s grey ceiling, refusing to close his eyes.
Once he’s given Avery another quarter of the liquid IV bottle, Avery’s eyes focus again as he cranes his head at the van around him. He looks confused, almost lucid, and Barty jumps in to explain.
“We’re in a van near the coast,” Barty says. He hesitates, knowing Avery won’t like the truth, but he tells him anyway. “The Order helped me leave Kryostrov. We’re with them at the moment. They’re the reason I got you out.”
“No,” Avery whispers, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not a traitor. I said that, but they didn’t believe me–” his throat closes up with panic. “I don't know anything."
At the first sign of him talking about what happened, Barty feels sick. The picture sticks in his head: Mulciber demanding information Avery didn’t have, Avery eventually cracking and making up lies just to make the pain stop. But it didn’t stop.
“I know you’re not a traitor,” he says clearly. “I know you didn’t help me escape. Riddle just wanted someone to blame.”
“Riddle wouldn’t do that,” Avery murmurs, barely audible. Fear seizes his eyes. “Where’s Mulciber?”
“Mulciber’s dead,” Barty repeats in frustration. “I shot him in the head myself. He’s gone now, forever.”
Avery curls back up, shoulders turning inwards. His gaze goes somewhere else.
Although Avery has had his moments, Barty has never seen him as disconnected from reality as this. He snaps his head up at Pomfrey. “What’s wrong with him?” he demands.
Pomfrey watches from several feet back. “His brain hasn’t processed that he’s left yet,” she explains.
“So this is normal?” Barty asks with a swallow. It feels like his friend is broken. Maybe Pomfrey doesn’t realise the gravity of his nonsensical words, so he spells it out. “His mum died when he was eight.”
Pomfrey takes the remark in her stride. “He’s dehydrated, undernourished and sleep-deprived. Things will improve once he’s rested and has had some food. He’s experienced prolonged torture and solitude, Barty. It might take some time for him to connect with reality again.”
“But he’s going to get better, right?”
“Better than this, definitely,” Pomfrey says. The ominous ‘but he’ll never be like he used to’ hangs unspoken. “For now, we need to focus on his physical health. Can I look at his burns, or are you going to insist you do it yourself?”
Barty mirrors her sigh, wiping his exhausted eyes with his fists. “What do you think?”
After dressing Avery’s wounds, the sedative kicks in, or perhaps sheer exhaustion, and Avery falls unconscious. Pomfrey takes it as a good sign, coming closer to inspect his burns and bruising.
“Perfect,” Pomfrey says as Barty presses the gauze over Avery’s last visible chest wound. He secures it with tape while Avery sleeps, the burns now safely under a layer of antiseptic and gauze. “He seems calmer with you around.”
“I don’t get it,” Barty says, bitterness stinging his tongue. “Why would he trust me? I got him into this mess.”
“I don’t know how close you two are,” Pomfrey says, “but right now he’s scared and confused and he needs a familiar face.”
Her patient explanation soothes the self-hatred Barty is drowning in. Avery must be clinging to their bond as the only thing he has left.
“Now let me take a look at your leg,” Pomfrey says.
Barty reluctantly sits on the edge of the van, deciding not to argue. The walking had made his trousers chafe against the injury. He sucks in a breath as he pulls down his trouser leg.
Blood has soaked his entire thigh into a bloody mess. Pomfrey wipes around the wound with antiseptic wipes. An inch of flesh has been flayed off by the bullet, bleeding slowly. Pomfrey closes it with butterfly strips and applies more cream.
With Avery soundly asleep and his wound dealt with, the wider issue arises; they’re stuck in Kryostrov until Sirius and Dorcas assassinate Riddle. Barty would happily sit by Avery’s bedside until he’s healed, but he has Evan to think of. Evan, who’s waiting in London for him, clinging onto the promise of a safe future with Barty. He’s not sure where Avery fits into his future, but he knows he has to get back to Evan.
While Pomfrey promises to keep an eye on Avery, Barty paces over to the other car. It’s around the corner of a warehouse just outside of Varnatek’s gates. Three men he doesn’t recognise are hanging around close to Marlene and Remus.
Remus catches sight of him and comes over with Marlene.
“Where’s Wilkes?” Barty asks.
“Back of the car,” says Remus. “Don’t worry, two of the guys are watching him, and he’s handcuffed. He’s refusing to speak, though.”
“Have you actually applied any pressure?” Barty says with narrowed eyes. He could do half the things he and Mulciber did to Avery without feeling bad.
"It's early days," Marlene says. “Narrow fucking miss back there,” she adds with a long sigh, diverting the topic to the house, the last time the three of them were together.
“Mulciber only knew where we were after hearing you over the walkie,” Remus points out.
Barty nods at her confused look. “He’s right.”
Marlene scoffs. “Okay, my bad, but I did make up for it by going blind into the basement with that fucking freak." She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I could sleep for twelve hours straight. Is no one else tired?”
“Considering it’s two in the morning, and I spent most of last night throwing up, yes,” says Remus.
“What’s the plan?” Barty asks with an edge to it, reminding them that they’re not at a social gathering. As much as he’d like to sink into the makeshift bed in the back of the van, there’s still so much to do.
“Right. The plan,” Marlene says. “I could patch into Dorcas’ walkie, but like you said it might give their position away, so I’d prefer to wait for them to contact us.”
“We should drive somewhere safer than here,” Remus says. “Their backup could be on its way.”
“I know a sheltered layby about twenty minutes from here.” Marlene's gaze scrutinises Barty. “Is Avery fine to be driven?”
“I think so.”
“Great.” She throws him a look. “You’re allowed to smile, you know.”
Barty’s mouth opens slightly in shock. “What?”
“We got your friend out. Your boyfriend’s safely at home. If it was up to me, we would’ve skipped this bullshit and gone straight to assassinating Riddle, so count yourself lucky we're here at all.”
“Pleasant as always,” Remus mutters.
“It’s not my job to be pleasant,” Marlene bites back. She stares at Barty. “So?”
Barty isn’t sure what she wants him to say. Things felt so dire just minutes ago, hauling Avery’s half-dead body up the basement stairs where he’s been kept for a week. Now with the fresh air blowing on his face, Mulciber dead and Avery recovered, he realises she’s right- it’s only up from here.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”
With Avery unconscious on the van's makeshift bed and Wilkes restrained in the other car, they drive out of Varnatek. Barty’s van trails behind Marlene’s car, following the coast road for a while. Barty’s eyes burn from a lack of sleep as it approaches three in the morning, but he keeps them stubbornly open.
The occasional streetlights look like stars out of the van’s slanted window. Flat, dark fields on one side and the ocean on the other, he feels like he could be travelling through space.
He chugs one of the water bottles for strength. Blood loss and lack of sleep aren’t the best combination, yet his discomfort is nothing compared to what Avery has been through, and that motivates him to stay awake as they head to a second location.
They pull into a lay-by twenty minutes down the coast road as promised. It’s off the road, in an empty car park surrounded by trees.
Avery is still knocked out from the sedative and exhaustion. His expression is finally peaceful as he breathes in and out. Barty asks Pomfrey to watch him again as he goes to the car with Wilkes in, hands handcuffed in front of him, lit up by the car’s yellow light.
“Let me talk to him,” Barty says to Remus and Marlene, interjecting before they can protest. “You won’t get anywhere unless you apply some pressure. I know him, I know what questions to ask and I can tell when he’s lying.” He regards Marlene who seems unconvinced. “Do you want to help Dorcas or not?”
Marlene scoffs. “We need Wilkes alive, and last time I let you loose, you killed someone. Why should I trust you not to do the same with him?”
It’s a good question, because she shouldn’t trust him, not in the slightest.
“Because we want the same thing,” Barty says. “We both want Riddle dead. Wilkes has information that could help both of us. He’s more use alive to me, too.”
Marlene looks over to Remus for help, and Remus shrugs. “He won’t talk to us,” he says.
With a long sigh, Marlene pinches the bridge of her nose. “You love to fucking test me, Crouch,” she utters. “Fine. Just keep him intact, he might be useful later. You put a bullet in his head, and Avery’s not coming anywhere with us.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Barty says. Despite his underlying anger, his goal isn’t to get away with killing Wilkes. He wants information, and maybe to land a few well-deserved punches in the process.
With Marlene’s go-ahead, Barty approaches the black car. He asks the men for some space, and they clear out. Just Wilkes is left in the backseat. Barty revels in the way Wilkes flinches as he slams the car door shut.
Wilkes has got out of this unscathed, hands carefully handcuffed in front of him. Barty wants to tighten zip-ties around his wrists until he bleeds, leave him out in the cold and not feed him for a week straight.
“Are you happy?” Barty asks. His pistol is resting on his lap, barrel pointed towards Wilkes. Only a seat of space is between them.
Wilkes stares forward. “I don’t speak to traitors.”
Barty holds complete satisfaction in landing a punch to Wilkes’ face. His fist connects with his jaw with a slap. Just because Evan changed him for the better, gave all of this violence a purpose, doesn’t mean he’s gone soft. Wilkes clenches his jaw, blinking as he waits for a second punch.
“I asked you a question,” Barty raises his voice to say. “Are you fucking happy with yourself? Are you happy you’ve tortured an innocent man for days on end for nothing?” He swings his arm around and whacks his fist onto Wilkes’ nose as hard as possible. He knows the sting of pain Wilkes feels as he doubles over with a strangled noise, because he felt it just two weeks ago, Mulciber making his nose sting for days.
“So you’re up on your moral high-horse now,” Wilkes says, sucking in a breath. He finally looks at Barty, eyes steel. “You think I’m the bad guy for doing my job? You fuck a guy from school for a week and suddenly you’re absolved of everything you’ve done for years by my side?”
“Shut up,” Barty snaps. At least Wilkes is talking. He draws closer, a pistol that he can’t use clenched in his hand. “You ruined Avery for what? He doesn't know a thing about the Order.”
“How was I meant to know that?” Wilkes explodes. Fear and defensiveness coats his voice as he regards Barty. “You’re not fucking blind, you know how it looked. He knew you were planning to run with Rosier and said nothing, and then he helped you escape at the airport.”
At the mention of Avery’s unwilling, harmless involvement out of the good of his own heart, anger flares through Barty. He swings his arm around to land another punch on his nose.
“Wrong,” he yells as Wilkes groans in pain. “He was trying to help you. Look what you’ve done to him, have you got any idea what you’ve done? He's asking for his fucking mum like he actually believes she'll appear."
Wilkes presses his back against the car door to put as much space between them as possible. Blood trickles out of his nose. “I didn’t touch Avery,” he breathes.
“Did you fuck," Barty spits. He moves over into the middle seat and slams the barrel of his pistol into the side of Wilkes’ neck, just like Wilkes held it to the back of Avery’s head in the basement. “Now,” he says in a dangerously low voice. “Tell me where Riddle is.”
Wilkes cranes his neck up, head crushed against the window as Barty’s pistol stays pressed into the soft part of his neck. At this distance, Barty sees he’s breaking a sweat, fear in his eyes he’s desperately trying to hide, blood running from his nose onto his upper lip.
Seconds of silence pass. Barty leans closer, hoping Wilkes can see every emotion reflected in his pupils. “If you don’t start talking, I will pull this trigger,” he says. “You know me, Wilkes. Does it look like I'm bluffing?” His words are heavy. He promised Marlene he wouldn’t, but the desire to hurt Wilkes, to make him bleed out like Mulciber did, is overpowering.
Wilkes’ fast breaths eventually turn into words. “Fine,” he utters. With Mulciber’s corpse lying not far away, he mustn’t think it’s a bluff.
Barty retracts his gun, just enough to let Wilkes sit normally. “Talk,” he orders.
“No one’s heard from Riddle in two days,” Wilkes says. He was always good at excuses, and the words are a fraction too measured for Barty to believe them.
“You expect me to believe that?” Barty scoffs. It doesn’t make sense. Riddle is almost omnipresent; his absence isn’t a thing.
Wilkes makes a scornful noise. “I don't care what you believe, that's the truth,” he says. “We were keeping in contact through the Carrows, but they went quiet two days ago. So I got in touch with Narcissa, and she said Riddle, the Carrows and Bellatrix have gone radio-silent. She said they're probably just lying low for safety.” Even he doesn't sound convinced at this.
Barty’s frown deepens. The four most important people in the Knights going silent makes no sense, unless Narcissa is trying to stir up trouble through false rumours.
He presses the gun closer, anger rising again. “Why the fuck were you still torturing Avery if you had no fucking orders to do so?”
“Look, man,” Wilkes says breathlessly, seeing the wildness in Barty's eyes. “Riddle told us to take Avery somewhere quiet and drain him for information until he was dead. He didn’t want updates, he wanted his problem to go away.” He winces at the pain in his nose, his voice becoming more appealing. “I told Mulciber to lay off-”
“Shut up about Mulciber,” Barty says harshly. “I’m trying to think.” His eyes burn and his thigh is throbbing, fuzz behind his eyes. “I just need to think.” The words come out aloud. Everything hurts and nothing makes sense. It’s like he died the last time he saw Evan and everything after has been a bad dream.
If Riddle has really gone dark, that means he’s scared. Scared of the Order or scared of his own people turning on him, Barty doesn’t know. But he does know that Narcissa is still on their side, spreading the word about Riddle’s absence to stir up more unrest.
“I'm sure you've heard that some families are planning to move to England,” Barty says to get Wilkes' reaction. "People want out."
A flicker of uncertainty passes over Wilkes’ face. “I don't know anything about that." When Barty's fist clenches, he elaborates. “I've been hold up in that shithole for the last week. How am I supposed to know what’s happening back there?”
“You heard about Dorea?” Barty asks. It seems Wilkes has no further information about Riddle for him.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Avery?”
Wilkes looks a little uncomfortable. “Mulciber did,” he says in a way that tells Barty everything he needs to know.
Barty slides the pistol back into his jacket. He doesn’t look back as he leaves the car, slamming the door behind him. He hopes Wilkes flinched again. If he’s lucky, his nose will be broken, too.
He goes to tell Marlene and Remus the news: Riddle and his closest followers have gone off-grid. It can only be good news for them. Either they’re in hiding or they’ve left the island altogether. Without Riddle’s leadership, the Knights will surely collapse inwards.
It’s already begun, it began the day Riddle gave him a high-stakes assassination mission that he knew Barty wouldn’t fulfil. Riddle has crafted his own grave out of cruelty and overambition. He underestimated the lengths Barty would go to to secure a future with Evan, how much Sirius still cares about his long-dead brother, the extent of grief-driven determination every Order member has.
Riddle picked the plot, dug the hole and assembled the casket. He carved his marble gravestone the day he founded the Knights of Walpurgis. All they have to do is lower his casket into the ground and end this for good.
(Previous comment deleted.)
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