Chapter Text
The classroom smells like dust and dry-erase markers and the faint bitterness of burnt coffee.
Evan Rosier takes the seat by the window because it’s the farthest from the door and the farthest from everyone else. The sun is already slipping low, light angling through the blinds in thin, gold lines that stripe the desks like prison bars. He drops his backpack at his feet and folds his arms, jaw tight.
Detention.
A whole semester of it.
Across the room, Barty Crouch Jr. hasn’t sat down yet.
He’s leaning against the teacher’s desk like he owns it, sleeves pushed up, tie loosened just enough to look deliberate. His gaze flicks over Evan once — quick, assessing — and then away, like Evan isn’t worth the effort. Like Evan hasn’t been circling him for years.
“You’re in my seat,” Barty says eventually, voice smooth, irritatingly calm.
Evan doesn’t look up. “There aren’t assigned seats.”
Barty hums. “There are now.”
Evan finally meets his eyes. Something electric snaps between them — not anger exactly, not curiosity either, but the sharp awareness of another person who knows how to push. Evan smiles without warmth.
“Get here earlier next time.”
Barty’s mouth curves, slow and dangerous. He takes the desk directly beside Evan instead, close enough that Evan can smell his cologne — something clean and expensive and wrong for detention.
They don’t speak after that.
The door creaks open and Professor Green sweeps in, heels clicking like a warning shot. She drops a stack of worksheets onto her desk and eyes them both with thinly veiled disappointment.
“Rosier. Crouch. Congratulations,” she says dryly. “You’ve earned yourselves after-school detention. Every weekday. Until the end of term.”
Evan stiffens. He’d known, logically — the fight in the hallway, the broken trophy case, the shouting match that had half the school watching — but hearing it aloud makes it real.
Every weekday.
Barty doesn’t react at all. He just tilts his head, like he’s curious how long it’ll take Evan to crack.
“You’ll sit. You’ll work. You’ll speak only if spoken to,” McKinnon continues. “I’ll be grading in the next room. If I hear so much as a whisper—”
She lets the threat hang, then turns and leaves.
The door shuts.
Silence rushes in.
Outside, the last bell rings — freedom for everyone else. Evan exhales slowly through his nose, fingers tapping once against the desk before he stills them. He refuses to look at Barty again.
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
The clock ticks too loud.
“You started it,” Barty says finally, voice barely above a murmur.
Evan scoffs. “You insulted my debate team.”
“You insulted my intelligence.”
“Because you’re insufferable.”
Barty laughs — a quiet sound, sharp at the edges. “You noticed.”
Evan turns, anger flaring hot and familiar. “What do you want, Crouch?”
Barty’s eyes flick down to Evan’s mouth before he can stop them. The pause is barely a second — but Evan catches it.
Something shifts.
“I want,” Barty says slowly, carefully, “to survive this semester.”
Evan snorts. “Dramatic.”
“Practical,” Barty corrects. “We’re trapped together. Five days a week. Hours at a time.”
“And?”
“And I don’t intend to make it miserable.”
Evan studies him — the careful posture, the controlled voice, the way Barty never seems to do anything without calculation. Evan recognizes it. He lives inside it.
“You’re the one who escalates everything,” Evan says.
Barty’s smile fades just a fraction. “You escalate me.”
The words land heavier than either of them expects.
Silence again. Thicker this time. Charged.
Evan looks away first.
The sun slips lower, light fading to gray. Evan pulls out his notebook, pretends to read. Barty does the same. Their elbows brush once — accidental, brief — but Evan’s pulse spikes anyway.
He hates this.
Hates the awareness. The proximity. The way Barty exists like a question Evan doesn’t want to answer.
Outside, the hallway empties. Inside, the room feels smaller by the minute.
At exactly four-thirty, the door opens. McKinnon peers in, satisfied to find them still seated, still silent.
“Same time tomorrow,” she says. “Don’t be late.”
The door closes again.
Evan stands immediately, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Barty watches him. “See you tomorrow, Rosier.”
Evan pauses at the door. Doesn’t turn around.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he says.
Barty smiles to himself.
He already is.
⸻
Evan doesn’t realize how tightly he’s gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles start to ache.
The car hums beneath him, tires cutting through the quiet suburban streets like he’s fleeing a crime scene. The sky is bruised purple now, streetlights flickering on one by one, but Evan barely sees them. His mind is still back in that classroom — dust, silence, him.
Barty Crouch Jr.
The way he’d looked at Evan like this was inevitable. Like detention wasn’t a punishment but an experiment.
Evan exhales sharply and presses harder on the gas.
“This is so stupid,” he mutters to the empty car.
A whole semester. Every day. Trapped in a room with someone who knows exactly how to get under his skin. Someone who doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down — someone who matches him in a way Evan hates.
His jaw tightens.
It shouldn’t matter. Barty is just another problem. Another arrogant, sharp-tongued boy Evan will outwork and outlast like he always does.
So why does his chest feel tight?
Evan slams his palm against the steering wheel once, the sound cracking through the car. “Get a grip.”
The radio crackles on accidentally — some half-sung love song — and Evan snaps it off immediately. He drives the rest of the way in silence, thoughts spiraling, anger bleeding into something messier and harder to name.
By the time he pulls into his driveway, the engine is still running and Evan is staring at nothing, pulse loud in his ears.
He hates how Barty looked at him.
He hates that he looked back.
Evan kills the engine, grabs his bag, and steps out into the cooling air — jaw set, spine straight, mask firmly back in place.
Tomorrow, he tells himself, will be easier.
It won’t be.
⸻
Barty doesn’t turn the radio on.
He never does.
The car smells faintly of oil and old leather, the dashboard lights casting everything in a dull amber glow. The road home is familiar — too familiar — every turn memorized, every stoplight timed. His hands rest loosely on the wheel, relaxed enough that no one would guess how fast his thoughts are moving.
Detention.
Evan Rosier.
Barty exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite.
A whole semester trapped in a room together. The administration really had outdone themselves this time. They could’ve chosen anyone else — loud idiots, repeat offenders, boys who would’ve taken the punishment at face value.
Instead, they’d paired him with someone interesting.
Evan’s voice echoes in his head — clipped, precise, bristling with restraint. The way his jaw tightened every time Barty spoke like he was peeling something back, layer by careful layer.
Barty glances at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Calm. Composed. Unbothered.
A lie.
He hadn’t planned on noticing things — the way Evan stood like he was always ready for impact, the way his eyes sharpened when challenged, the way he looked angry even when he was silent.
Anger recognizes anger.
Barty’s fingers tap once against the wheel, slow and thoughtful.
“This is going to be fun,” he murmurs to the empty car, tone almost fond.
The house appears at the end of the street — dark, looming, windows blank and watching. Barty’s expression smooths immediately, the last trace of amusement draining away. Whatever he’d been feeling tucks itself neatly behind his ribs, locked down and buried.
He pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine.
For a moment, he just sits there.
Not thinking about the house. Not thinking about his father. Not thinking about the silence waiting on the other side of the door.
Instead, he thinks about detention.
About Evan Rosier sitting three desks away, pretending not to care.
Barty smiles to himself — small, sharp, and entirely private.
Tomorrow will be worse.
And somehow, that makes it better.