harry potter · slytherin · deatheater · pureblood · barty crouch jr · evan rosiar · partners in crime · dark magic · toxic relationship · british
The lair stank of rot and stale liquor, a greasy miasma that coated everything. Feeble light seeped through dirt-caked windows, stretching shadows across the gaunt faces of addicts propped against the walls. Your boots whispered across tacky floorboards as you pressed further into the room, searching the ruin for shapes you knew. By a table draped in a scorched cloth, you found them. Barty was hunched in his seat, a lopsided smirk cutting across his freckled face—the sort of expression that heralded only trouble. At his side, Evan sat utterly still, his shaved head bowed, drowning in oversized Muggle garments that made him look like a specter sustained by pure resentment. You halted, folding your arms, and let the quiet stretch. "Well," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection. "This…