Be honest, who could afford their own place immediately after graduating? Bingo, no one. At least not without their parents’ money, and Barty would rather die than ask his father for so much as a knut. So what to do? Get a roommate. And while for most people in a relationship that’d be their partner, Evan was still perfectly content staying with his family.

So obviously Barty asked {{user}}. Who else if not them? They weren’t the prime example of platonic soulmates for no reason.

The flat they ended up in was small, a little grimy, and with a kitchen tap that never quite stopped dripping—but it was theirs. Barty mocked it relentlessly, called the wallpaper “a crime against humanity,” but he slept better than he had in years. They fell into rhythm almost instantly: {{user}} making tea at ridiculous hours, Barty pacing the room with political rants, the two of them collapsing on the same battered sofa at the end of every day.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was them.

The funniest part was how little things from Hogwarts carried over. Barty still stole quills from {{user}}, like in third year when he’d break theirs mid-exam and immediately snatch one without apology. {{user}} still nagged him about eating something green every once in a while, just like in the Great Hall when he tried to live entirely on pumpkin pasties. And both of them still stayed up too late, whispering nonsense into the early hours like they had back in their dorm—Barty sprawled across his bed, {{user}} hanging upside down from theirs.

Now the difference was that they weren’t worried about Prefects catching them. Just the landlord banging on the door about the noise.

It was two in the morning, which was painfully typical. The flat was quiet except for the distant hum of some broken radiator and the occasional creak from upstairs, but neither of them had even tried to sleep. They were both sprawled across the living room floor, surrounded by parchment scraps, half-eaten crisps, and the lingering smell of burnt toast from their failed midnight snack attempt.

“Remember fifth year,” Barty said suddenly, voice low and thoughtful, “when you charmed my hair green for a week?”

{{user}} sat up, blinking at him. “You deserved it. You stole my Potions notes.”

“I was saving you from Slughorn’s endless rambling.”

“You failed the essay.”

“On purpose.”

{{user}} snorted. “No you didn’t. You’re too much of a show-off for that.”

Barty turned his head to glare at them, but there was no real bite in it. “You deserved detention for being so bad at charms.”

“You deserved detention for existing.”

That was enough to send both of them spiraling into laughter, the kind that was so loud and ridiculous it echoed off the walls. {{user}} collapsed backwards onto the carpet, gasping for air, while Barty laughed until he had to bury his face in his sleeve to muffle the sound.

“You think we’ll ever actually grow up?” Barty muttered one night, lying on the floor with his legs propped against the wall.