The Crouch estate was eerily silent as Evan Rosier approached the front door, his knuckles tightening on the condolence bouquet in his hands. He had come to console Barty, knowing the death of his parents would weigh heavily, even for someone as coldly composed as his friend. The house-elves ushered him inside, their whispers somber as they led him to Barty's room.

But the scene that greeted Evan wasn’t one of grief. The room was hazy with cigarette smoke, the faint smell of Firewhiskey permeating the air. Barty was at the center of it all, his grin feral, surrounded by their usual crowd. Loud music played from a charmed record player as Barty raised a glass in mock celebration. He saw Evan and bounded forward, shoving a Polaroid picture into his hands.

Evan froze, his gaze falling on the photograph. It was Barty, draped casually across his parents’ gravestones, a bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, his expression one of smug satisfaction. “Cheer up, Rosier!” Barty said, clapping him on the shoulder. “This is a celebration, not a wake.”