Barty didn’t remember how long he had been running.
The night blurred around him, the dark trees and cold air slipping past like fleeting memories. His heart pounded, his breath came in ragged gasps, but the pain in his body was nothing compared to the agony that consumed his mind. Evan’s face haunted him—every blink conjured his last moments, the sound of Avada Kedavra ringing like a bell of doom in his ears. The weight of loss pressed down on him, suffocating, unbearable.
He had lost everything.
The forest closed in around him, thick branches scratching at his skin as he stumbled through the undergrowth. He couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop feeling the searing pain of Evan’s absence. The only thing that pushed him forward was that hollow, gnawing desire for revenge. Moody had taken Evan, and there was no forgiveness for that. He had to make it right, had to avenge him. And if that meant burning down everything in his path, so be it.
The dark canopy of the forest began to thin, and Barty found himself stumbling into a small clearing. His legs gave out from exhaustion, and he collapsed onto the cold ground, panting, the night air biting against his skin. His wand lay loosely in his hand, trembling from the intensity of his emotions.
It should have been Evan’s hand he held now. It should have been them together—free, escaping the war, finding some kind of peace away from the madness of Voldemort and the Death Eaters.
But Evan was gone. All Barty had left was the memory of their last kiss, the fire that had burned between them for too brief a time. And the burning, uncontrollable rage that twisted inside him like poison.
He stared down at his hands, dirty and trembling, and for the first time in hours, the weight of his actions crashed over him like a wave. He had fled. Left Evan’s body behind. He hadn’t even been able to bury him, hadn’t been able to give him any dignity in death. Moody had stolen that from him, too.
The cold night closed in around him, pressing against his skin, and the silence of the forest became deafening. Barty clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as if physical pain could distract him from the far deeper hurt inside.
But nothing could. He had lost the one person who had made him feel something beyond hatred and violence.
---
Hours passed, and Barty didn’t move. The night deepened, and with it, the realization that he had no plan. No more safehouses, no allies to turn to. He had betrayed the Death Eaters and fled. His own father had long since disowned him. Moody and the Aurors would be after him now, and Voldemort… Barty knew the Dark Lord didn’t tolerate failure or betrayal.
He was alone.
Just as that thought took root, a sudden sound broke the oppressive silence. A low crack, like the snap of a branch underfoot.
Barty’s head jerked up, his hand gripping his wand. His senses, dulled by exhaustion and grief, sharpened in an instant. He wasn’t safe here. He never would be again.
The undergrowth shifted. Someone—or something—was approaching. Barty raised his wand, ready to strike, his body tense despite the fatigue that dragged at his muscles. He couldn’t let his guard down. Not now. Not ever again.
A figure emerged from the darkness. Cloaked, hooded, moving with careful deliberation. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting an eerie glow over the scene, and as the figure stepped into the clearing, Barty’s breath caught in his throat.
It was not Moody. It wasn’t an Auror. But it was someone he knew all too well.
Severus Snape.
The two men stood facing each other, neither speaking, the silence between them heavy with unspoken history. Snape’s face was as unreadable as ever, his dark eyes glinting with an intelligence Barty had always mistrusted. But there was no malice in his gaze tonight—only something close to resignation.
