Chapter Text
The first thing Barty can remember from Platform 9 and 3/4 is Evan's face.
Barty had spent the morning in a downright panic, clothes and personal items strewn across not only his bedroom, but every spare surface in the adjoining ones, as well. The house elves were in a state - his suitcases had been perfectly packed and waiting in the entrance hall mere hours before, and they'd squeaked and fluttered about at the mess he was making before he snapped at them to get out. He needed - he needed something, he didn't know what, but surely he'd know when he saw it.
He'd dressed quickly that morning, in an outfit he'd meticulously put together over the past month, but one look in the mirror had told him immediately that it was all wrong. It didn't send the right message! He wouldn't make a good impression, looking like this. First impressions were important; his father was insistent about that. And this outfit - the trousers needed to be hemmed, his shoes were a shade off, and, Merlin, why on Earth wouldn't his collar lay flat? He looked like a walking disaster, and that's all anybody would think when they saw him. Father would never live down the shame.
A harsh rap at the door had Barty whipping around, turning wild eyes on his father, who frowned deeply as he took in the state of the room. "For Godric's sake, boy, it looks like a tornado has gone through here. Quit stalling and be in the hall in five minutes. I've a portkey waiting." A snap of his fingers summoned two of the house elves, who hastily started repacking the bags Barty had ripped apart, and his father receded from the doorway.
Barty blanched. For all his worry about his appearance, he'd almost managed to be late. Honestly, that would be just as bad an impression. He yanked a different shirt out of one of the elves' hands and changed quickly, taking just a moment in front of the mirror to adjust his hair, and then set off for the entrance hall, leaving the house elves to manage his luggage.
With one hand on the portkey, the sensation of falling through space was familiar, if unsettling, but all too soon Barty and his father landed in a noisy crowd of people. Muggles, Barty was sure, from the odd way they dressed. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, then remembered that such an expression was 'unbecoming', and quickly schooled his features and straightened his shoulders. He peered around at the muggles but, although they were parting naturally around him, none looked at him or seemed to notice that a young boy and his father had suddenly appeared in their midst. A glamour, then.
They made their way together through the crowd. Barty looked up at his father a few times, curious if he might have any parting words - or reprimands. But the man was silent as he led the way through the muggle station, not even sparing his son a glance. He, too, did not let his thoughts betray him, his expression carefully blank. His 'serious face,' Barty had called it growing up. When 'serious' was the word he used to describe his father.
He soon realized why, as the crowd thinned around them and the fashion of those nearby became more familiar. A few lifted hands in greeting to his father, who nodded curtly. Ah - of course there would be colleagues here, people whom his father would want to impress. Barty subtly ran his hands down his shirt, hoping there were no wrinkles from the portkey trip. When he could see a sign to his left that said 'Platform 9' and a sign to his right that said 'Platform 10', Barty's pulse began to quicken - out of excitement or fear, he couldn't be certain. They passed briskly through the brick wall separating the two.
It took barely a breath for his father to peel away towards a group of older men, leaving Barty alone on the platform.
The Hogwarts Express was a sight to behold. If Barty didn't know better than to open his mouth and gawk at it, he very well might have. It was a good thing his father had warned him in no uncertain terms not to do that, lest he be confused for a muggle's child. The train gleamed as if freshly polished, its red-and-black lacquered body exuding a sense of importance and grandeur and, well, magic. Rhythmic puffs of smoke escaped the chimney as Barty watched, transfixed. He'd never seen a train before, beyond a toy he'd once received. But he'd had to keep that hidden from his father, so he never got a chance to play with it much. The real thing in front of him was beautiful, really. Barty became more convinced that his feelings were that of excitement.
He turned to look back towards his father, who was engaged in rapt conversation with the older wizards. Barty approached cautiously, knowing the consequences of interrupting, but his father turned to him rather immediately. "Well, we're here, boy. The elves will have loaded your things. I'll be here to fetch you for Christmas. Don't do anything stupid."
Don't do anything stupid. This was one of his father's political strengths, Barty knew. He could always make his point so succinctly, layers of messages wrapped up into four short words. Don't do anything stupid. Don't wear the wrong clothes. Don't be late. Don't make faces that tell everybody what you're thinking. Don't get sorted into the wrong house. Don't get yourself into trouble I'll have to deal with.
Don't embarrass me.
Barty nodded and his father turned away and that was that.
Without the weight of his father's gaze, released for a few months at least, Barty felt more confident taking in the scene. All around him, families were engaging in heartfelt goodbyes, children wrapped up tightly in their mothers' arms, their fathers looking on fondly. Barty raised a slight eyebrow at a small girl with pig tails who was sobbing loudly as she clung to her overwhelmed parents. If their clothes weren't enough to distinguish them as non-magical, that display certainly was. Pureblood children knew better than to behave like that.
His eyes skipped over the crowd once more and landed on another boy who looked to be around his age, the only one standing alone on the platform - well, other than Barty himself. Barty wondered why. Were his parents busy today? Had they been here, already given him hugs and well-wishes, and simply left early? Or was it something else - did he not care for his parents? Did they not care for him?
Perhaps people wondered the same of Barty, when they saw him standing alone, but it was nothing so emotionally involved as that. His father was just preoccupied with climbing the ranks of the Ministry, that's all, and his mother simply never left the house any more, so naturally she wouldn't be here to see him off.
The boy didn't exactly look like someone you would hug and cry over, but then again, Barty didn't really know too much about that. His clothes fit the wizarding fashions, and looked expensive and well-tailored - a pureblood, then. His golden hair was combed neatly back from his face and, even from this distance, Barty was quite certain it had been trimmed recently. No, this was not somebody uncared for. And yet he was standing alone, the only unmoving point in the flurry of activity and noise around them, like the eye of a storm.
Like Barty, the boy was scanning the platform around them slowly, his blue eyes and cool and calculating. Barty watched him as he too noted the girl still blubbering with her family, his lip curling. Barty felt strangely pleased at the sign his own thoughts on the matter were reciprocated, although he of course wouldn't make a face like that. He kept watching, even while hearing his father's reprimand in his ear, Don't stare, boy. He kept watching, because he knew the boy would turn those cold eyes on him next.
Indeed, the boy continued his slow perusal, and his eyes caught on Barty's, noticing his stare. He tilted his head slightly, eyeing Barty. His lip curled up again, but it didn't feel mocking. They stood there for a moment, sizing each other up, and then the boy's shoulders relaxed just a tiny bit and he nodded his head towards the open door of the train.
Barty took a moment to consider this. The boy was pureblood, surely. That would certainly please his father. He clearly came from money, although Barty couldn't place his features from any of the powerful family heads his father often met with. He was well-dressed and on time - Barty could appreciate a solid first impression, even if he wasn't very good at them himself. The boy seemed to share a similar... distaste, for the scene around them. They had one thing in common, at least. And Barty was intrigued, honestly. He thought... well, it didn't matter what else he thought. The boy seemed a good fit for what was expected of him, that's what mattered. He moved forward.
The two boys stepped up into the train one after another. Barty was immediately captivated by the feeling inside, the warm scent of magic. Not that he wasn't used to magic, of course, but this felt quite different. In his father's house, magic felt purposeful, clinical, austere. The sense inside the train was that of comfort, almost... protective. Barty shivered slightly. It was nice, that's all.
He trailed the blond boy down the interior hallway, peeking into compartments as they passed. Mostly, it was older students reuniting with their friends, smiling and chatting animatedly about their summers. The younger students were still out with their families, probably. Maybe he should feel bad about it, but as he watched the other boy checking compartments, Barty was secretly grateful that he wasn't the only one alone.
Finally, an empty one was found. Barty perched carefully on one of the heavily cushioned benches, but the other boy sort of fell onto the seat until his back was pressed against the window and one leg was propped up beside him. It was rather graceful, though.
"Merlin, am I happy be in here. It's just so loud out there, don't you think?" The boy sighed and tipped his head so he could look outside again, making faces at the scene.
Barty blinked. Yes, he thought so too. But you don't just start complaining to someone you don't know. What if they judged you for it? What if they went and told everybody and your whole reputation was ruined before you'd even gotten to Hogwarts? For a pureblood who certainly had been told how to make a good impression, he wasn't very skilled at maintaining it once he started talking.
The boy raised an eyebrow. "Are you mute or something? Don't just stare at me like that, I know what you're thinking."
"I'm not mute," Barty said petulantly, clearing his throat. "And you definitely don't know what I'm thinking."
"Oh please, it's written all over your face."
At this, Barty stilled again. He'd tried, hadn't he? Father had said not to make a face and he hadn't. Okay, maybe he'd just gotten a bit flustered in all the commotion and the excitement of the day, but surely he wasn't so obvious. Rather than respond and risk giving himself away any more, Barty just looked down at his hands, folded neatly on his lap. He was sure his cheeks were burning with shame. This was going awfully and he'd barely said a sentence. He'd just have to escape this compartment as quickly as possible and go find some other purebloods to befriend and hope this boy wouldn't tell anybody what a terrible, terrible first impression he had made.
An expensive, shiny leather shoe hit his own and Barty jumped a bit, eyes widening as he raised them to see the other boy smirking again. "You're odd, mate, I'll give you that. Good thing I like odd. Name's Evan." He held his hand, and Barty shook it firmly. He knew he had a good handshake; he'd practiced it with his father many times. Too bad eleven-year-olds like Evan typically didn't care about that.
"Barty Crouch. Junior. What's your last name?"
Evan rolled his eyes. "Oh, you're one of those, are you? It's Rosier, don't get your pants in a twist."
Rosier. An old bloodline. Powerful, rich. Surely capable of teaching Evan not to refer to someone's pants upon introduction. Despite himself, Barty laughed, a little sheepishly.
"You going to tell me why you're all tense, Crouch?" If anything, this just made Barty tense up more, and it was Evan's turn to laugh. "C'mon, I don't bite. Get out of the corner."
Barty opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. He might have done that a few times, honestly, unsure of how much was safe to share. Evan waited patiently, his blue eyes wide and curious. Oh, to hell with it. Evan already thought him odd; how much more damage could be done?
"It's just... today is my first impression on people I'll be spending seven years if not the rest of my professional career with and it's loud and people are crying and my shoes are the wrong colour and I don't even know you and you can already tell what I'm thinking and I don't even like this shirt," Barty let out in a long breath.
Evan paused for a second, considering him, before leaning back and grinning. "Well, your shirt looks fine, mate, and even if it didn't you'll be wearing a robe soon enough, so that's hardly cause for concern."
Barty shot him a dirty look, still reeling a bit from the force of everything he'd said. Evan didn't look put off, though. In fact, he almost seemed pleased that Barty had chosen to share with him.
"And, well... maybe I'm just good at reading you." He gave Barty a cheeky smile. Barty felt himself warm. Nobody was good at reading him. He didn't think he wanted anyone to be. Did he?
No, definitely not.
"Anyways. Do you like Quidditch, Barty?"
The conversation flowed smoothly, after that, and Barty was fairly sure that everything he'd said to Evan would stay between them. Evan was a little bit calculating, that was for sure, but he also seemed sincere. Barty found he quite enjoyed the other boy's company. They ended up having a lot in common, and Barty wondered if this was what it was like to have a friend. He liked it.
There was a moment, when they met back in the compartment after changing into their school robes. Evan gasped and pulled a face, staring in horror at Barty. "Mate! What's wrong with your robes? You don't think... maybe that awful shirt you've got on underneath is messing with your silhouette?"
Barty blanched and peered desperately into the slight reflection the window provided, patting at his chest and pulling on his sleeves. He looked a disaster, he was sure of it. Everyone would think so. Everyone would take one look at him and know despite his last name, he was no good, he was nothing at all.
It took an embarrassingly long time to notice that Evan was biting back a vicious laugh. Barty glared and swatted at him. "You're a twat."
"You'll get used to it."
The day stretched into evening outside of their little compartment, and Barty grew a bit somber, ready to pull himself together before meeting the rest of his peers. Evan must have been right about his ability to read him, because he gave Barty a critical look as he straightened against the bench and started nervously adjusting his robes for the fourth time.
"You know, Barty," Evan said casually, turning to gaze out the window. "It's going to be quite weird not to see anybody we know for the next few months."
Barty felt his stomach turn over. Yes, that was exactly what he was worried about.
"Nobody knows who we are. We can be anyone we want to be."
"We can always be who we want to be," Barty argued, ignoring the weight of the words on his tongue.
Evan was silent for a while, staring serenely out the window, but Barty could see the slight tension in his jaw. "What I mean to say," he started slowly. "Is that we can be anyone we want to be, and nobody who knew us before will even know about it."
He turned away from the window to catch Barty's gaze. Barty, who was barely breathing as he registered what Evan was saying. What Evan knew, without him breathing a word. They stared at one another for a long moment, until Barty's racing heart began to calm.
"It might be what I'm looking forward to most of all," Evan mused quietly. "What about you?"