Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/10020056. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Underage Category: M/M Fandom: Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling Character: Bellatrix_Black_Lestrange, Other(s) Additional Tags: Explicit_Language, Sexual_Content, Drama, First_Time, Romance Collections: HPFandom Stats: Published: 2006-05-02 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 44651 ****** Citric Acid ****** by Uko [archived by HPFandom_archivist] Summary Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr. slash. “I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed.” Notes Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at HP_Fandom, which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on HP_Fandom_collection profile. ***** Chapter One ***** Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to JKR and assorted companies. I just write fluff and porn with them. Citric_Acid Chapter One Whenever I thought of him we were just sitting together. He would be reading the Prophet or perhaps listening to the Quidditch scores on the wireless with a knitted brow and his lip pressed between the gap in his front teeth. I would be just watching him. Usually my idealistic adolescent mind would have us beside the Hogwarts lake, reflecting the majestic sunset above. It was then that his hair looked best. People called him a “blond,” but such people were unimaginative dolts; to me it was the hue of hot pouring honey and soft apricot fuzz. It was spun brass and gold with the texture of candle-flame. Such beauty to me was challenged only by his eyes. These were dark brown, almost black, with heavy lashes, which in this light would seem shot through by bolts of molten bronze. Thinking back, he was probably not conventionally attractive with his pale peppered face and short steady figure, but nothing could have convinced me of this. To me, he was perfect. Not that I ever told him this, of course. I was a teenager and to have voiced such feelings to him or anybody else would have been met with derision at best. Indeed, had anyone ever waxed so poetical to me about a fellow student I too would have laughed. I would have thought them stupid and foolish, largely because I knew them to be mistaken; it was I who was in love with the most beautiful boy in the world. Their feelings could only be inferior to my burning passions. Mere trifles. Immature. But, despite all the sophistication and superiority of my amour, I would rather have eaten Bubotuber pus than divulge anybody my inner feelings. The most sympathetic female ear could not have coaxed me from this firm line. It just was not done. And it was certainly not done when you, like him, was decidedly adolescent and decidedly male. So for the six years I knew him I kept it quiet -- openly, at least. In public it was all wank-mags and Page Three (one of the few bits of Muggle culture fully -- and enthusiastically -- embraced by my fellow Slytherins, or at least the boys). Indeed, even in my most private moments in bed or the showers, he seldom cropped up. Usually it was Octavia-Babcock-and-her-Collosal-Knockers who took the starring role, and to great effect. But, for whatever reason, he did not. When I did think about him (and I did often, make no mistake) it was in such romantic ventures as that I have described. The most erotic fantasy I pursued in those little scenes was to perhaps shyly press a kiss on his sulking mouth. Needless to say it was love at first sight. It always is when you are twelve and lonely. I had started school the year before at an advantage; I was pure- blood, with a wizard lineage that extended beyond the Norman invasion and a family tree without too many forks. I was sorted into Slytherin where my family name, Black, gave me something resembling prestige. Certainly it gave me connections; I already knew almost half of my house through genetics or association. Moreover, I had relations there; a brother one year above me, and a couple of girl cousins in Fourth and Fifth form respectively, so I at least had the benefit of having relatives to cling on to did first-year prove too traumatic. This should have helped but, unfortunately, not even that could cure my crippling shyness. I was never unpopular or bullied or the like. My surname provided me some prestige in a house that eats its own. After my initial famousness bought by blood, they soon came to discover I was quiet and awkward and left me alone. I had acquaintances, people to hang about with during lessons or break, but no one who I could consider a true friend. I was not unhappy, but I was lonely. This was not helped by my brother who had already carved himself a reputation as part of the school’s most notorious and admired quartet. Indeed, he was one of its leaders. The fact that he was outrageously handsome with his fashionably-long, sleek black hair, pale grey eyes and cheekbones you could cut rocks on did nothing to alleviate my inferiority complex. I was not what the Muggleborns would call ‘minging’ exactly, but stood next to him I felt positively plain. My dark hair, a touch curled, never possessed the silkiness of his, my eyes were a dull blue, and whereas I had the famous Black cheekbones they were always somewhat marred by the fact I spent a large part of my school life fighting a losing battle with that old teenage nemesis, acne. Furthermore, he was the first Black in generations to have been sorted outside of Slytherin -- into Gryffindor, even -- and this had somehow affected his attitude towards me. When he had come home the summer after his first year he had been cold and distant, very different to the playful, loud-mouth brother I remembered. When I then started Hogwarts and had the indecency to be sorted into Slytherin, his manner quickly turned to outright hostility. “The Regular Black,” he called me; a lame pun, but it still hurt. He thought me conventional with my short hair, my love of tradition and my willingness to submit to family expectation. I just did not understand what he was rebelling against. I first set eyes on him in the Great Hall, September 1973. It was the first day of the winter term and it was the Sorting. It was his Sorting; he was one year below me. I did not notice him at first. He was lost somewhere in that rabble of terrified first-years, perhaps chewing his bottom lip as he did when he was nervous, or slipping his fingers through his fringe. I was sat on the end of the Slytherin table with a group from my year, acting my usual introvert self though managing to offer up something every now and then. They talked of holidays and summer and the sinister rumblings going on in parts of the country with brash, eager voices. I barely listened. I was hungry and tired. My fingers traced circles on the table top. When the Sorting began I scarcely raised my eyes. Names were called but I paid little attention. Those with surnames beginning with A were first, followed naturally by the Bs. I cringed. I had been one of the first to sit up there on that stool last year, several hundred pairs of eyes on me, to have the hat placed on my head. It had um-ed and ah-ed a bit, before deciding ambition and cunning was where I was at (I was not so sure) and placed me in Slytherin House. I remember endeavouring to catch the eye of my brother but he had turned his face away. When the Cs came along I happened to look up. I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and then turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed. His face was fraught with nerves. All the blood had drained from his cheeks, making the freckles stand out like grit on snow. The area about his eyes, which were wide and dark and liquid like those of a startled deer, was tinged with grey. The dry lips, always pouting, were partly open, exposing a gap between his front teeth. His jaw worked anxiously. Not that I really noticed any of this at the time. I did afterwards, running it over in my head countless times after lights-off. I would grin into my pillow then, hooking my hands into my armpits, hugging myself. It was silly, I suppose, but then I was infatuated. No. At that moment all I saw was him in all his -- imagined or real - - loveliness. Surreal, almost angelic. I saw the swathe of fringe across one eye, very soft, suffused in the glow from a hundred hovering candles. The back of his head was scruffier. Occasionally he would reach up to smooth it, or tug fretfully at his fringe. I saw his delicate down-turning mouth and wanted to touch it with my own. I saw those working hands, small and soft and pale, and wanted to take them, to squeeze the cushiony pads of the palms with my fingertips. I wanted him, and it was almost palpable. A revelation. “Oi, Reg, are you alive?” The voice jerked me out of my reverie. I do not know how long I had been staring but it seemed both the longest and shortest instant of my life. I spun round. There were two blood-hot spots burning in my cheeks. “What?” Aloysius Roughstone blinked at the savagery of my tongue, unaware he had interrupted anything important. “I said-- never mind. But blimey, I wasn’t expecting that.” In the searing flush of my embarrassment I snapped again: “Wasn’t expecting what?” Roughstone shot me the most peculiar of glances. “Barty Crouch. I thought he was sure to be one of our lot.” “Barty-- what?” “Bartemius Crouch. Junior, that is. The blond just been Sorted. His father’s a big shot up at the Ministry.” He paused, then added significantly, “One of ours, of course.” Barty Crouch. So that was his name. Roughstone was right; the name was familiar, but I did not think about that right now. I was staring over at the boy who was carefully descending from the stool. He brushed down his robes in a motion that sent a strange tremor up my body. His eyes darted about and, for a moment, he held still. Something thoughtful seemed to pass across his face, a bright flash, and in a fraction of a second he seemed calmer. He stood up straight -- a delicate poise unusual in one of his stature, fixed in the S- curve of his spine -- and began to make way towards his table. I swallowed, my throat robbed of all moisture. “His father’ll not be pleased when he finds out his son’s been made a Hufflepuff,” remarked Roughstone, to smirking assent about our group. I looked at him. “Hufflepuff?” I must have said it in the right sneering tones because Roughstone nodded, mouth curling. “Yeah, exactly. Mind you, he looks like a Hufflepuff.” I could have hit him at that moment. He did not “look like a Hufflepuff.” Hufflepuffs had never in my entire year at this school made the hair stand up on my neck. I had never looked at one of their slow, drivelling kind and found myself, for that moment, believing it was just them and I in the room. That everyone about us were just frail shadows or an assemblage of grey dust motes, and we were the only two real human beings on earth. No Hufflepuff soaked up all the light in the room and shone like he did. I did not hit Roughstone. Instead, I swung my back towards him, and found the boy -- found Barty. It was true. He had picked his way between two other Hufflepuffs and perched there. I felt a twinge of disappointment. They were cheering him, clapping his shoulders, and I found myself hating them with every atom of my flesh. He, for his part, did not smile and ignored their caresses. Soon, the commotion died down and we awaited the rest of the Sorting. They awaited, that is. I, for the rest of the evening, found myself driven to distraction. I tried not to look at him too often; Slytherins are renowned for their ability of discernment and I did not want to be seen by Roughstone or any of the others to be constantly darting looks towards the badger table. So I kept my peeping discreet and infrequent. My first instinct did not seem to have been a fluke. Whenever I looked at him, at the fold of tarnished gold over his right eye and the spatter of freckles across both cheeks, the feeling came back in a fresh new wave. What is more is that it seemed to grow more potent with each calculated glance. I did not notice when the Sorting ended, nor when the food appeared on the table. Unseeing, I groped for something. Found my fingers crease about an orange. I unwrapped it absent-mindedly and placed each segment on my tongue. The chewed pulp slid down my throat but I could not taste it. All senses seemed diverted. When we were sent to our dormitories I tried to lag and accidentally-on-purpose merge myself with the Hufflepuffs, to perhaps get a little closer to the boy. But I did not see him. I peeled off, disappointed, and followed my house in the direction of the dungeons. That night I lay sleepless. All my previous fatigue seemed washed away by what had happened. I was bright and awake and in love. The world was suffused in a new colour. Something had happened. I turned over. The pillow, dark green cotton, brushed my mouth. I closed my eyes and imagined it was the dint of jaw beneath his ear. My fingers bunched the quilt and I dreamed it was his hair, wheat and tawny across my knuckles. I sucked my lip, tasted citrus, and smiled. After that even the mere smell of an orange sent my mind tumbling back to that table in the Great Hall, and that moment when everything had changed. * * * * * Over the coming weeks I managed to gather information about the elusive Bartemius Crouch junior. I went about it prudently, with as much subtleness as my twelve-year-old self could muster. I was pleased by my own cleverness, discovering in me the Slytherin disposition which hitherto had never really been implemented. I found his father -- the senior Barty -- was a rising star in the Ministry, tipped for great things, a fervent and straight-laced man. His name was often in the papers. He and his family lived in the Lake District a few miles east of the market-town of Penrith. They were fairly well-to-do and had a staunch pure- blood pedigree, not to match my own but certainly nothing to sneer at. Barty himself was a somewhat withdrawn individual (a relief to hear if I am being honest; my brother was extroverted enough for me) but understated and dryly humorous. His classmates liked him, though they could not quite pin him down. His birthday was on the 22nd of April. He was, true to his house, hard-working and, not so true to his house, very bright. He used an Ollivander wand made of blackthorn and dragon heartstring. He had a passion for Quidditch and followed the Wigtown Wanderers. He was subscribed to the team’s monthly newsletter, the Daily Prophet and Which Broomstick? magazine, which were delivered to him by a short-eared owl called Phoebe. He was an accomplished pianist and collected models of vintage brooms. His favourite sweet was a native to his county; a Muggle concoction called Kendal mint cake. He wrote with a hen harrier quill and always in scarlet, unless it was an essay in which case he switched to the more stylish emerald green. He often lagged behind after a lesson, especially Potions and Charms, to talk to the teacher about things he found difficult, and as a result was always last out of class. Sometimes he talked about his mother. He never talked about his father. This all seems rather obsessive and it was. How I managed it without anyone suspecting anything -- at least, I do not think anyone suspected anything -- is nothing short of a miracle. Or perhaps it is just testament to what a cunning little bugger I became from then on. But suddenly life at school seemed much improved. I had purpose, something which I had been sorely lacking in my first year. I collected facts on him like other boys collect Chocolate Frog cards, jotting them all down in the back of a notebook. I memorised them, repeating them like a mantra. I am relieved to say I never quite reached the stage where I was writing his name enclosed by wee pink hearties, or repeating “Mr Regulus Crouch” to myself over and over, though I suspect I had moments when I was dangerously close. Now, brandishing my arsenal of details, all I needed to do was meet him. This proved the difficult bit. Inter-house relations were frowned upon in Slytherin and certainly when they involved Hufflepuffs. Ravenclaws were tolerated. Gryffindors…well, then you were just a house-traitor, but that was expected in Slytherin which promoted the eithics of “every man for himself” and “stuff the lot of them”. Hufflepuff, however, was completely out of the question. Even I in my love-addled state found myself uncomfortable with the idea. My glorious boy could not be one of those dullards. The hat must have made a mistake. Moreover, he was a year below me. Other than the practical difficulties this entailed -- I never had a lesson with him, obviously -- there was the expectation of one’s peers. If inter-house friendships were frowned upon then association with the younger years was downright intolerable. It was just not done. The younger years were scabs, juveniles, not learned in the ways of the world like us elders. Never mind that I was only a second-year myself; the fact of the matter was there was still a form below me and he was in it. This made things very hard. I was never the type to go against a set-in-stone institution and I did not want to draw attention to myself as my brother had by going all radical and swerving right off course into insanity. I was happy being conservative, ordinary. I did not care to question the customs which had worked perfectly fine for my noble forefathers and should therefore be entirely adequate for me. On the other hand, I was besotted. I would have to make an exception. I had memorised his timetable, which made my strenuous task a little less gruelling. This had proved one of the easier bits of information to procure; all Hufflepuff first-years had the same lessons, after all. A few days after the Sorting I had accosted one of them in the corridor as he had been scrambling along with it in his hand, frantically looking for the Potions class. “What are you hiding?” I had snarled, and pretended to disbelieve his insistent squeaking that it was his timetable. “Hand it over immediately!” He obeyed, shaking in horror at the contemplation of this great Slytherin’s wrath. “Hmm!” I had grumbled in a fashion which told him something had given me great displeasure. “This won’t do at all. I’ll have to make a report.” Ignoring the wee Hufflepuff’s indignant wails, I copied it down into my notebook. Then I crammed the bit of parchment back into his sweaty paw. “Don’t ever let me catch you down here again,” I told him, stern but secretly swelling with glee. He nodded, too terrified to speak, and scampered away up the passage. “Oh, and by the way,” I shot at his retreating back. “The Potions classroom is that way.” I spent hours planning how I would have it happen. My plots were often extravagant, usually ridiculous, and would take nothing short of half a pint of Felix Felicis to have them happen. I did at one point invent a plan to develop the singular gold potion but one look at the length of time, the ingredients and the degree of skill required to brew it put me right off. I was a decent potions-maker for my age but this concoction required a master by anyone’s standards. Eventually, and much to the annoyance of my shrewd inner-snake, I decided to go for the crudest and most pragmatic plan. I waited for him outside Potions. I chose Potions for a number of reasons. For a start it was near my common room; nobody would suspect any ulterior motives in my lurking about the vicinity. Secondly, other than those leaving the dungeons there would be no other students hanging about as there were no other lessons down here. Thirdly, the class ended right before break-time, so there would be no other class arriving for the lesson and I would not be required to be anywhere. Fourthly, I understood it to be one of the lessons he usually stayed behind for to ask something of the teacher. Fifthly, I knew the Potions master, Professor Slughorn. He was both my Head of House and very fond of me. He accumulated kids with talent or celebrity like schoolboys collect bird eggs or butterflies, pinned and mounted for all to see. I was not especially bright but my marks were good enough and my connections, ancestral or otherwise, made me an irresistible catch. I believe my elder brother had also been asked but had refused, probably on the grounds that Slughorn was a Slytherin and therefore evil. I did not care. I enjoyed the parties Slughorn put together for his favourites and the presence of my brother would have ruined them for me. As it was, I got lucky first time, Felix Felicis or no. I arrived to see the first-years streaming out, chatting amongst themselves and ignoring the skulking serpent in their midst. He did not emerge with them. I smiled. Thus far, everything was going to plan. The corridor was soon devoid of students and I was left hanging, looking terribly suspicious I am sure. I could hear Slughorn’s voice, rich and fat and opulent as himself, booming from the room. This was followed by Barty’s, which I recognised having nigh-on stalked him for a couple of months. The effect on me was something akin to having the base of my spine touched by a live wire; strange and thrilling. I shivered deliciously. They continued talking for a while, Slughorn in that vast, enthusiastic way he had with favourite students. Eventually, after perhaps ten minutes, he gasped: “Good lord, look at the time! You should be off. It’s a glorious day and with winter on the way you need to catch as many of them as possible.” “Yes, sir.” His voice was enchanting, like wet silver-trimmed lace. I heard him shuffle about, packing his ink and parchments into his satchel. Then, “See you next lesson, Professor, and thanks for the help.” “Not at all. Toodle-pip!” replied Slughorn cheerfully. I heard Barty’s leather-clad feet clicking towards the door. I readied myself. He was getting closer and then-- I stepped out, straight into him. With an “Ooph!” he bounced, no, ricocheted, off my elbow. Two potions books he had been carrying, one the standard level set text and the other evidently borrowed from Slughorn, fell from his arms. A corner of Magical Drafts and Potions embedded itself into my toe. “Oh, sod,” I said. Then, as the pain registered, I repeated it again but with feeling. “Oh, sod!” The walking into him had been part of my plan. Having a veritable tome spear my foot had not. For a moment all I could do was hop, mouthing all the foul words I could remember under my breath, eyes streaming. Then I suddenly remembered what I was here for, stopped hopping and turned to look at him. “Dear me, I’m dreadfully sorry. I was just-- are you okay?” It was a fantastic act, worthy of a play by that 16th Century Muggle chap they're always on about. “Yeah,” he murmured. He was looking rather shaken, in the best way possible of course. His fringe was scattered across his forehead and I think I must have caught him in the diaphragm because he groped vaguely in that area, a bemused expression on his face. I quashed the urge to brush back the hair and rub his tummy better. “Boys! Are you all right?” Slughorn came wobbling up behind Barty, looking perturbed. He saw me and blinked. “Regulus!” “Sorry, sir! I was just heading for the common room to get something and I accidentally walked into this fellow here. Sorry, what’s your name?” God, I was fantastic. “Barty. Barty Crouch,” he replied, sounding breathless. Slughorn patted him on the shoulder. I did not wrench the hand away, but it was a close thing. “You’re all right aren’t you, boy? Nothing broken?” “No. No, I’m fine. I was just surprised that’s all.” He bent down to scoop up his books and I bit my lip at the sight of that hair spilling down over his face in a shimmering brown-gold wave. He stood back up. “Excellent. Not the best way for you two to meet, really, but so long as no one’s hurt…” “Meet, sir?” I asked, cocking my head and mustering all my boyish charm. “Oh yes. Young Crouch here is quite the student! Very good at Potions -- not a natural, mind, but awfully dedicated. And his father we all know about! Doing very well for himself at the Ministry. Knew him at school, I did.” I looked at Barty. “You’re a member of the Slug Club then? Me too.” I paused then, frowning. Barty’s face had changed, stiffened, when Slughorn had mentioned his father. Oh ho ho! I thought. So that’s why he doesn’t talk about his dad. He doesn’t like him! “Yeah,” he finally said, though it came out forced. He was staring at the books in his arms. “Right. I’ll be off now. See you.” I watched him retreat down the corridor, chewing my lip in thought. Then I turned to Professor Slughorn. “I’ll be going too then. See you tomorrow, sir.” I padded out of the classroom and then, when out of earshot, pelted in the direction Barty had taken. I crashed through the doors and saw him there, squatting on the floor and pressing the books into his bag. He was looking at me, apparently mystified. “Hullo?” He frowned. “I just want to say I really am sorry about that. I wasn’t looking where I was going and-- well, yeah. I think I gave you a bit of a bump.” “No, I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about it.” He started to make his way down the corridor, swinging the satchel over his shoulder. I jogged after him, aligning myself with his elbow. He gave me a look comprised of a raised eyebrow and cocked head. Balls to subtlety, I thought. “Didn’t you say something about going to your common room for something?” he remarked. “It’s not important,” I mumbled back. A tinted light shaft passing through one of the stained-glass windows lit up his features in colour. I noticed details I had never detected before. Three freckles like Orion’s belt on his jaw. A dimple in the left cheek but not the right. Something shrewd and amused about the small down-turned mouth. I’ve never seen him this close up before, I realised. “Really?” There was something telling in his voice. That dimple deepened. I looked away. “Yeah, really,” I replied, more moodily than intended. A rush of guilt washed over me and I turned back to him, drawing to a halt. He, to my relief, stopped too. Face cocked. “Hi, er--” I said, suddenly awkward. “I’m Regulus Black, but my friends call me Reg.” Barty lifted an eyebrow. The m-shaped mouth curled up at the corners. “That easy, eh?” I felt another hot flush. “I thought Slytherins didn’t make friends with Hufflepuffs?” he asked, a delicate mocking tone under the red velvet lap of his tongue. “I never said you could use it,” I snapped. “Oh.” A note like disappointment. His mouth relaxed. “All right then.” “You can though.” The smirk returned, more broad this time. “Good!” Then he held out his hand. “Hello, my name is Barty Crouch, but my friends call me Barty. How d’you do?” I grabbed the hand and grinned. His palm was cool and dry, soft as I had imagined. A delicious wave ran up my arm. He did not seem to notice it. He shook, then let go. There was a brightness in his eyes not entirely due to the stained-glass. “How d’you know I was a Slytherin?” I asked, as it occurred to me. “You mentioned going to your common room and unless another House has suddenly Apparated itself near the dungeons…” “Oh yeah.” “Well, that, and you’re a Black. Blacks are always in Slytherin.” “My brother isn’t,” I corrected. “He’s a Gryffindor.” “Ah yes. Sirius is it? The one with the--?” “The orange hair? Yeah. That one. He did it to annoy Mother. Ziggy-something he says; I’ve no idea. A famous Muggle I think. I wouldn’t know. It worked, anyway. Mother was furious.” I paused mid-ramble, then added, “And he looks like a twat.” Barty sniggered, and it was nice. I felt pleased with myself. I had made him laugh. “Isn’t he chummy with the Gryffindor Seeker?” he asked. I nodded. “I don’t suppose you know what they’re planning to pull off in the next Hufflepuff- Gryffindor match, do you?” “No. Me and Sirius don’t exactly get on and he wouldn’t tell me anyway. You like Quidditch?” “How did you guess?” “Intuition,” I lied. The bell rang then, breaking that first conversation under the tinted-glass. I wanted to stamp my foot and swear like a petulant child but instead just said: “Well bugger. It looks like I’ve taken up your whole break. You didn’t even step outside…” “No, it’s fine. It was nice,” he replied, smiling with the non-dimpled side of his mouth. My heart fluttered against my ribcage like a bird against cage bars. “Perhaps we should meet up sometime? If you want to, that is. I know what you Slyth--” “No! I’d like that!” I replied, perhaps too eagerly. If I was too eager he made no sign of having noticed. “All right then. See you whenever.” And with an elegant wave of white fingers he traipsed off down the corridor. I stared after. Then I turned and sprinted back up the stairs towards my class, my chest feeling fit to burst. It was a good day. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * AUTHOR’S_NOTES 1: Purple prose Thoroughly intentional. This is for a number of reasons: (a) I want this fic to be from the point of view of a Regulus who has grown up a lot since the circumstances described (and, indeed, is close to his own untimely end), and whom is taking the piss out of how he was back then. He’s mocking his self- important teenage self. (b) That’s how his twelve-year-old mind saw Barty. He thought he was perfect and angelic and all that, which he was not, of course, but that’s how he perceived him. And last but not least: (c) it’s really fun to write like this. I’ve no idea why, but I enjoy it far too much, and so long as I don’t take it too far and start referring to eyes as ‘orbs’ I can’t see the harm in it. If the word ‘orbs’ in connection to one's optical organ comes up ever, you’re free to stamp on my fingers. I’ll deserve it. 2: Barty/Regulus I’ve never seen this pairing before, which I find a bit odd. I mean, they were in school together about the same time and both became Death Eaters. One rebelled against his family by becoming involved with Voldemort, and when he did it he did it properly. The other became mixed up in it because it was what his family expected of him, but getting there realised that it was not what he wanted and attempted to get out of it, which I think is quite an interesting parallel. That would usually be enough for fandom to decide they were rutting like bunnies all through school, but no. I’m not saying it’s not been written before prior to this, of course; I’ve been in the Harry Potter fandom enough years now to know that there’s probably a huge archive and Live Journal community dedicated to it somewhere, buried amongst the masses of other stuff. I’m just saying I’ve never seen it despite my searching. If anyone would like to correct me, please do; I’d love to read other stuff. That is pretty much the reason I decided to write this fic, actually, other than not wanting to do my exam revision. If you can’t find it, write it yourself. That, and if you’re going to write pairing-fic in the HP fandom, make up your own ship or go for something very small. Less wank that way. 3: Chapters This fic was originally written as a single document but due to its size I decided to chop it into more manageable chunks. If the chapter breaks appear a little sporadic, that would be why. 4: Phoebe Phoebe is goddess of the moon and hunting; another name for the Greek Artemis. Barty is not, I repeat, not, a fan of a certain American sitcom with access to a TARDIS, as fun as that might be. Sorry if this author’s note appears condescending -- it really isn’t meant to be. It’s just I have come across a review online somewhere for something in which the name Phoebe was used, presumably for the same implications I used it for, in which the reviewer complained that it wasn’t a very Harry Potter-esque name, was it? I just thought I’d avert any such potential criticism with a forceful yes, it is actually. Ahem. ***** Chapter Two ***** Author's notes: Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr. slash. “I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed.” =============================================================================== Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to JKR and assorted companies. I just write fluff and porn with them. Citric_Acid Chapter Two We did meet up again, though only rarely. I think Barty was sensitive to how awkward it would be for a second-year Slytherin such as myself to be seen to be wandering off into Hufflepuff territory too much. He was certainly very restrained about the whole thing. When we met it was usually at a time when not many other people were about, late-evening in the library and such. I would have dearly loved them to be more frequent but I saw the sense in his decision. Besides, I was afraid of pushing it and scaring him off. I make it sound like an illicit love affair. It was not, at least not officially. I remained desperately infatuated but as far as he knew we were just friends. We would go wandering about the grounds at sunset, which was drawing ever-earlier as the Highland winter set in, and talk about Quidditch or homework or the teachers we reviled. It was at this time I began to appreciate Hogwarts for being a boarding school. Boys behave differently at boarding school. That is not to suggest they are any less obnoxious or any more mature. Lord no! But there is a physicality that does not seem to exist outside of that particular environment. Boys are more…touchy-feely. They are free to walk about arm-in-arm, or lie against one another, even flirt, so long as no one suspects you are anything but a red-blooded heterosexual. Some boys even seem to use it as a means of asserting their straightness. It was an utterly perplexing state of affairs to me, but a brilliant bit of luck. A bona fide Slytherin, I wielded it to my advantage. Barty had grown up in an upper-middle class pure-blood family and knew full well what boarding school expected of him. It was in his nature to be physical. So sometimes, when walking about the lake, noses running from the icy mountain air, cheeks pinched to apples, he would grab me by the wrist. In those moments I would forget the cold, my body lit by some inner fire, hottest where his fingers wrapped my thin bones. Other times we would sit on one of the benches, partially obscured by the naked rose bushes, and he would lie his head in my lap, sometimes reading, sometimes just lazing with eyes closed. At such times I might allow myself to hook a bit of his fringe and comb through it with my fingers. I would try to count the colours in my head; corn, platinum, cinnamon, strawberry... then he would grin and, not opening his eyes, mouth, “Pouf.” He was only joking but I still blushed. One evening in mid-December he caught me in the library, poring over homework, fretting my quill with my teeth. He glanced around, saw there was no one who would care if they saw us together, and padded over, thudding his bag down on the heavy oak. I glanced up. “Evenin’.” “And you,” he replied gracefully, drawing up a chair. “Busy?” “Latin,” I scowled, putting down my quill which looked very sorry for itself. “I just can’t get my head round it. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it?” This was back in the days when Hogwarts still taught Latin. Barty’s year were the last to have it as a compulsory subject. It was discontinued due to lack of interest and the Professor in charge, a certain Notaro, announcing to staff he would be going into retirement as soon as they were done with it. I cannot say I was much disappointed by the decision though I wished it had been taken before I started at Hogwarts. This is more than can be said for my mother who was made livid by the announcement. Something about it being the language of wizards in times gone by, a direct link to one’s ancestors. That the fact they were ceasing it was a sign of all those abysmal half-breeds and Mudbloods having too much power in the Ministry these days. Taking away our traditions! She, of course, had failed it at O.W.L. “As it is,” he said, answering my question, “I do.” “Beyond first-year I mean.” “Yes,” he smiled. “My mother was a tutor for kids before they came to Hogwarts and she taught Latin, up until she retired because…well, never mind about that. But yeah, I’m quite a dab hand at it. How much have you got to do?” “An essay. It’s in after the holidays, mind, but I’ll never get it done at home. Mother and Father are even more useless than I am at it and Sirius would rather get into bed with a Lethifold than help me.” “Bit much to do in an evening, then. You’re not going home for Christmas tomorrow, are you?” I shook my head. “Mother and Father are on Ministry business. I’m going home the next day though.” “Well, there’s a bit of luck then. Neither am I. My parents must be going to the same thing.” He paused, chewing his lip. “So how about you pop round to the Hufflepuff common room tomorrow and we’ll do it then?” I flushed red and murmured something vague, knitting my fingers in mortification. Barty shot me a queer look. “I’m not asking you round for an orgy!” (I blushed hotter; eleven-year-olds should not know such things!) “It’s just there’ll be no one there tomorrow, not in my dorm’ anyway. They go home tomorrow. So if you come round some time in the evening…it’s just it’ll be quieter there and we can have something to eat while we’re at it without that--” (he gestured to Madam Pince) “--eating us alive.” I was quiet for a moment, hands working furiously. He sighed and added, “We can go to your dormitory if you pref--.” “No, no, you’re all right. I’ll turn up. What time?” “Six okay? Everyone will have gone home by the time it gets dark, I imagine.” So it was set. I was to be in the Hufflepuff first-year dormitory at six o’clock next evening. I was both excited and petrified by the prospect; this was to be truly alone with my lovely boy and, though I did not intend to try anything on, that was still something of significance. On the other hand I would have to handle myself with subtlety and care which would have Salazar himself proud. I spent that night lying in bed thinking, all though I am not sure about what. It was not like I was going to do anything. It all came off without a hitch. As Barty had promised his entire dormitory had gone home and manoeuvring me through the common room without any of the sad acts staying over for Christmas was done without difficulty; there was only one of them there anyway, and he was napping in an armchair beside the glowing hearth. The layout of Barty’s dormitory was different to my own; smaller, cosier. Like a sett, I thought, to reflect its badger-like inhabitants. Stranger was the sheer amount of Muggle culture prevalent. A boy across from him had one of those strange static posters of theirs reading “England Cricket Team 1971”, and another beside it with “The Ashes”. Another boy had a “Monty Python’s Flying Circus” picture right above his bed, though who Monty Python was I had no idea. Although underground -- beneath the kitchens, if the pervading smell of hot bread and mince pies was anything to go by -- there was a mellow, warm sort of glow about the place, like a summer afternoon despite the fact it was below freezing outside and the sun had set over two hours ago. Barty beckoned me over to his bed while sitting on a chair close by. I sat down on the mattress and looked about my new surroundings. A film of orange-yellow netting hung overhead. The black-painted board which separated Barty’s bed from the boy’s next to him was covered in bits and pieces stuck by Spellotape. Pictures of stunning luxury brooms clipped out of the Which Broomstick? and Top Flier magazines. A Wigtown Wanderers scarf was pinned up by thumbtacks, with ticket stubs and posters of various team players beneath. A few sheets of music, well- thumbed at the corners, fastened by a corner. A photograph of his mother sitting, sallow-cheeked but grave and dignified as an oak-tree, stuck to his headboard. On the bedside table was a small portable wireless, silenced. Adjacent to this was a collection of models; vintage brooms, very beautifully crafted, hovering perhaps an inch above the table. Perched precariously alongside was a platter of cheese, crackers and mulled Butterbeer. “You’re a Cleaver, then?” I indicated the Quidditch scarf and he nodded once, head buried in a Latin textbook. Waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing I lay back on the bed. There must have been three separate eiderdowns there, thick and yielding beneath my groping fingers. I turned over onto my belly and nosed a breath. I could smell him on the pillows, an assortment of scents. Something from the Lakes; mint cake and heather, perhaps. The delicate must of parchments, like a library. Leather-bound books. And something altogether darker, like liquorice or red wine. “What on earth are you doing?” He had looked up from his book to stare at me. Deciding that “smelling you” was not the appropriate response I rolled onto my back, stretching out like a big black cat on an old armchair. “Your beds are so much more comfy than ours!” I beamed. Inwardly, I patted myself for a lie well-managed. He grunted in reply. “Probably harder on your backs, too,” he remarked with characteristic dryness. “Now, this essay. Do you want to get on with it or what?” Curled up like some old dear’s favourite moggy and immersed in the intoxication of his scent, I did not, but I sat up all the same. He had his hen harrier quill perched between his fingers, white and pale-grey with a lick of black, holding it like a cigarette. I pulled from my pocket my own, though suddenly ashamed by its rattiness. Despite the homework, the rest of the evening was delightful. We conjugated verbs in harmony while eating water biscuits with Cheddar, Wensleydale and Caerphilly. The blue Stilton contributed its own distinctive odour to the boy’s-sock pungency of the room. At one point Barty reached out and switched on the wireless. Soft piano notes melted with Latin grammar. I even learned something. “We ought to do this again some time,” I said when the evening drew to a close. “I’ve learned more from the last few hours than from this entire term.” He smiled in response. “Yeah, maybe.” He stuck out a hand then and grasped my fingers, squeezing them gently. “Merry Christmas, Reg.” Burning like a Christmas pudding, I squeezed back. “Merry Christmas.” * * * * * I went home the next day in a more seasonal mood than I had felt in years. The feeling did not last long. Mother had somehow forced Sirius, who would have spent the holiday at school or with the Potters if he had his own way, to come home. Lord knows why. They spent the entire day screaming, or at the very least making snide remarks, at one another over the Christmas goose. I hid myself behind a mound of meat, roast potatoes and pigs-in-blankets and tried to make myself invisible. My father, who was a reticent man though as equally into the pure-blood politics as my mother, had already left the table with his wireless and a plate of goose with bread-sauce and was presumably somewhere in the drawing room with his gold-tipped cigars, favourite armchair and the fireplace. At one point, during a row which had started when she had announced that today we remembered the great fathers of this house and to which my dear sibling took offence, Mother shrieked, “Why can’t you be more like your brother?” I knew there would be trouble then and attempted to hide myself in the mashed potato. Sirius turned to me. His hair was no longer orange and his mouth set into a grim line. The eyes were like cold iron. There was nothing at all idiotic about his appearance now. “Do you believe the tripe she’s spewing?” he asked me. His voice shook. I dug my fork into the gravy and mash miserably and replied: “I wish you wouldn’t go about causing arguments. It’s Christmas.” At this he flung down the knife which he had been waving and jabbing during the whole dispute and left the room. I stabbed my bit of Christmas pudding dismally, lifted it to my mouth, and pulled a silver Sickle from my teeth. * * * * * I was waylaid on the landing going to my room that evening by a fuming Sirius. “Oh, God, what is it now?” I grumbled. I tried not to notice that his eyes were slightly swollen. “I want to know your answer to what I said at the dinner table: do you believe what she was saying?” I did not like this. I did not like being forced into this conversation. Loyalty to my mother, my family, my house and my blood, rose up against what I realised then was love for my brother. Love for the Sirius I had once known, the Sirius before Hogwarts and Gryffindor, the Muggle influence and the new friends. Before the rows and the cold, months-long silences. “I meant what I said. I don’t see why you keep causing argu--” “Answer the bloody question, Regulus,” he snarled. I did not answer. My feelings were too messed up, too confused and my tongue too unrefined to voice to them. He must have seen this on my face because, rather than storm off swearing or cuffing me about the ear as he might usually have done, he carried on talking. “You’ve got to realise it’s rubbish! You go to Hogwarts. You’ve met half-bloods and Muggleborns. You know they’re normal and you know she’s a nutter.” “They might be all right people but that doesn’t mean-- that doesn’t change the fact that they-- they’re ruining our traditions! They’re changing our way of life. You, with your Muggle music, with your records--!” I finally spluttered, confused, unable to quite wrap my head, or tongue, around what I was trying to say. He looked at me. “Yeah, me with my records. For Merlin’s sake, Regulus, it’s hardly the first time a wizard’s used Muggle technology. You listen to the wireless don’t you?” I nodded. “Well, there’s Muggle technology for you. Both Mother and Father use it too and you don’t see them frothing about it. They’re hypocrites, Regulus.” I fumbled. “But…but that’s different. We changed it. We made it better!” Sirius shook his head. “Balls. We just changed the way it works. We use magic, they use ‘lectric’. We call it wireless, they call it radio. But it’s the same bloody thing.” I did not want to hear any more of this but he continued regardless. “How about photos? We use them, right? Muggle invention. We just use a potion instead so the pictures move. Toothpaste? Shampoo? Muggle. Wizards just steal ideas, Regulus, then pretend it was their own all along. They think that altering an ingredient makes it acceptable. But that’s bollocks. You get people like our parents who think they can use all this stuff and then rant on about how Muggles and Muggleborns and half-bloods are ruining our culture. Bollocks bollocks bollocks! Don’t you think the very least we could do is let a few of them in? I mean, it’s not like we don’t need the new blood. There’s so much consanguineous” (a new word, I thought) “marriage in our family tree it’s no sodding wonder everyone’s completely barmy.” I had never heard Sirius talk like this. He had always been bright, with that sort of natural intelligence and ability to learn without really trying that makes you want to be sick, but he was usually too busy making an arse out of himself or others to make any real use of it. He must have been planning this conversation for hours, since the ruined pudding at least. Naturally, I responded with equal rumination. “You’re such a Muggle-lover.” Something in his face jerked and from that moment on any chance of myself and my brother ever reconciling slipped away. The birch grey of his eyes hardened to black coal. “Fuck you, Regulus.” I was too stunned to speak. He began to stalk away, back to his bedroom, and I thought that was it but then he stopped. I felt a cold feeling in my chest, like an asp wrapping about my heart. He looked at me over his shoulder. “One day you’ll really regret listening to them. You’ll be really sorry you were ever such a gullible idiot, I promise you. One day, because you believed the shit they say, you’ll end up in trouble, really serious trouble, like dead or Azkaban trouble. Then you’ll fucking regret it.” And he vanished into his bedroom. * * * * * I reacted to this incident by locking myself up in my room and writing nearly two-feet of parchment to Barty about what had happened, what an idiot my brother was, how he just did not understand! All the while, Sirius played loud guitar music through my walls on that magically-enhanced Muggle machine of his. When I signed my name I did not add "xxx" to the bottom of the paper, nor did I seal the wax with a loving kiss; the Black crest did that for me. However, for a moment I held it to my face and drew in a breath, remembering the bookish- ness of his scent on the pillow. Then I hooked it up to the talons of the family owl (a Great Grey called Nero) and sent him on his way northwards to Cumbria. Then, if memory serves me correctly, I spent the rest of the evening moping about on my bed and wishing Barty was there. Then I slept and I dreamed of that face, sweet and pale as condensed milk, each freckle a perfect fragile star. * * * * * For once in my life, school could not start quick enough and, as the beginning of the new year of 1974 rolled in, I was filled with anticipation. I wanted to be at Hogwarts, away from my broken, quarrelling family and with my darling boy. Not that we had broken contact or anything; we conversed almost daily by letter and I hoarded them as though they were love notes and I the smitten girl. But they were just not the same. Cumbria was an awfully long way away from London. I needed to see him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and when I did see him again I was hit by that same electric rush as when I first set eyes on him in the Great Hall. He had grown ever so slightly plumper over the hols, just enough so my practised eye would notice, and was glowing from the break and too much rich food. He did not greet me -- we were in unsuitable company at the time -- but he smiled and my heart hurt with love for him. Some days later we met up in private (ooh, so forbidden!) and he squeezed me roughly, wonderfully, about the shoulders. I could have keeled over and died for the joy of it. We talked into the night, long after it was time to return to our respective dormitories, curled into an alcove of the castle walls. I knew that at any moment Peeves could appear or that foul Squib with his equally foul cat, but I could not have cared less. I was happy here in my cubby-hole, pressed shoulder- to-shoulder with Barty, feeling the heat radiate off him, the rough scrub of his robes and the smooth brush of his skin. As our reunion ended he slid his fingers into my hot, sweaty palm and asked me if I would like to join him in the Astronomy Tower on Saturday. My reaction to this must have been clear on my face, because he laughed and crushed my knuckles gently and told me I was a rubbish Slytherin. He said he had some Astronomy homework to do up there and it was usually pretty much deserted. We could have a better conversation there. I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak, then we bid one another goodnight and made our creeping way to bed. To my shame, Filch caught me and cackled and wheezed in that vile way of his, then cracked me about the ear-hole. Not used to being treated this way by a mere Squib with less magic in him than a house-elf, I gawped at him before snarling, “Do you know who I am?” He did it again and I shut my mouth. I got a week of two-hour long detentions for that, cleaning toilets in the Muggle fashion. It could have been worse. In the old days a student might have been strung upside down by his ankles for a couple of hours, but with Dumbledore now at the helm such tradition was dying out. Not so far as to stop the Squib hitting me with his filthy paw, mind, but enough that I did not have to spend an evening imitating a masochistic bat. As it was I turned up to the Astronomy Tower an hour late and stinking of bleach. Had there been any romance to kill I am sure that would have done it, but in this case we genuinely were here to do homework. In the winter, due to the sun setting so early and no lessons on weekends, the Astronomy Tower was made free for pupils to use on a Saturday for Astronomy and Divination study. Few used it for such. It was well-known by students and teachers alike that any stargazing being done remained resolutely on terra firma. There were few other people in the Tower and he had chosen a corner which was devoid of others. When I approached he was staring into a telescope with a flurry of star charts tossed carelessly around his knees. Somehow, however, he sensed me coming (probably the smell) and waved distractedly across his shoulder. I took the telescope beside him, placing down my own textbooks and parchments. “You reek,” he informed me pleasantly. I grunted in reply, twiddling a knob on the eyeglass. The time passed comfortably, sometimes in silence with him mapping the course of the January constellations and myself poring over astrology books. “When’s your birthday?” I asked, although I was already flipping to Taurus. “Twenty-second of April,” he replied, not moving his eye from the lens. I wondered how he could draw maps without even looking. “Hm, Taurus,” I said after a calculated pause. “Apparently you are patient, reliable, persistent, determined -- there’s the Hufflepuff in you -- and loving. You are also jealous, possessive, resentful, self-indulgent and inflexible. Sound familiar?” He snorted like a bull at me. I paused a moment, then went for it. “You’re also compatible with Virgo. Well, that’s me then. We may as well get it over with. How’s about a kiss?” This was it. He would either take it for a joke or, if his instincts were up to scratch, run for the hills. For once he removed his eye from the telescope. He scrutinised me for a moment, face unreadable. Then he bent forward, and kissed me on the cheek. All the blood in my body immediately ascended and accumulated in my face. I burned as though there were a couple of fried eggs sat on my cheeks. I thought my eyes might roll from their sockets. He pulled back and regarded me dryly. “‘Loving’ enough for you?” he asked and smirked, the dint in his cheek catching the shadows. I made a face like a guppy at him in some attempt to say something and finally settled on astonished silence. He, meanwhile, returned to his telescope. “It’s all rubbish that astrology stuff, anyway. How can the month someone’s born in have anything to do with how they act or who they end up marrying? Complete twaddle.” At that particular moment I wanted to politely but firmly disagree, but I was still in shock. My fingers quivered across the skin under my ear, branded in that swift brush of dry and lovely lips. My hand shook. Finally, I gathered myself together, coughed, fumbled. I brought the book to my knees. “I suppose you’re right,” I said, managing to control my voice. “Though it sometimes hits the mark; Virgo and Libra don’t get on, according to this. Well, that’s me and Sirius to a tee.” “How about Taurus and Capricorn?” he asked suddenly. He had turned again from the lens and there was a strange look on his face. I skimmed the relevant passages. “‘A match made in heaven,’” I laughed. He gave a short, sharp laugh that surprised me. “Like I said; complete twaddle.” After that was a long hushed period in which I, with my clumsy hands, managed to spill my ink bottle twice and get black finger marks all over the equipment. Cross, I swore at the bottle and was immediately shushed! by some snotty Ravenclaw prefect. Forgetting my good breeding, I pronged two fingers in her general direction and sulked at my homework. “So why don’t you and Sirius get along then?” asked Barty, out of the blue. “I thought I’d made that obvious over the holidays,” I replied, feeling rather hurt. I had written a veritable thesis on the subject. He shook his head without removing his eye from the glass. “No. I meant before that. Have you never got along or…?” “Oh, we used to,” I answered. “Before he came here. We used to be proper brothers, you know? I mean, we only had each other really. We’d see some cousins occasionally but they’re girls and one of them’s a bit of a loon. But we were close. We’d play Quidditch and fight and he’d--” I was about to say “fart on my head” but decided that Barty as a lone child might not understand this, unless there was a side to Mr Crouch no one knew about. “Well, he was all right, you know? Then he came here and got together with that Gryffindor lot and it all changed. He never had any trouble with Mother and Father’s political views before but after that he just went crackers. Started arguing every time someone brought it up, causing rows for the sake of it. It’s them he hangs around with. That Lupin fellow, I know he’s a half-blood and I’m pretty sure whatsisname is too -- Pettigrew, that one. And Potter…well, Potter’s line’s clean as far as I know but his family are the biggest bunch of blood traitors this side of the Weasleys. He’s just doing it to be cool or rebellious or something, I’m sure of it.” It felt good to tell this to someone who listened. Someone who made soft noises of accord as I spoke. Someone who perhaps knew what it was like to be estranged from a family member you shared the same home as. I wanted to ask him about Mr Crouch but remembered his reactions any time it had been brought up before. That’s not for now, I thought to myself. But I would make sure to ask one day. * * * * * The following months passed with little action. April saw his twelfth birthday roll in, so for a short while at least we were the same age. I met him outside after lessons in a soft drizzle, cloak pulled over my face. I hated the rain, a feeling he did not share. Something to do with living in the North, I believe. “Happy birthday,” I growled from beneath my hood. I passed him two parcels. “Oh, thanks,” he said, evidently surprised. “I didn’t think you’d bother.” Fat chance, thought I. “Open that one first,” I said, pointing to the flatter of the packages. He obeyed, tearing it open with the zeal of a young child. Two blocks of Kendal mint cake fell from the wrapping. “Good Lord -- how d’you know I liked this stuff?’ he asked. I shrugged at him, not caring to provide an answer. ‘It can’t have been easy to get. It’s Muggle stuff, this.” I just shrugged again. It had been somewhat difficult to get a hold of but I was not going to tell him that. “Well, thanks. I’m dead glad you got me it; I’ve been craving it something awful recently and Mother doesn’t usually remember to include it with her monthly packages.” He slid the blocks into his pocket. “Don’t forget the other,” I said, looking at it under his arm. “I haven’t,” he replied. He slid a finger beneath the green paper and Spellotape, and tore it with one stroke. The package spilled open, disembowelled, and at the same moment came a soft humming and a flurry of movement. Something buzzed past his ear like a house-fly and did an abrupt turn about his head. “Oh my God.” It was a model of a vintage broom, a very elusive and expensive model. I saw his hand protrude from his cloak and the broom completed one more circle then came to land, hovering just a little above his palm. He gazed at it with his mouth open. “It’s an Oakshaft 79!” he gasped. “Do you know how much these are worth? How much they’re sought after?” “I’ve an idea,” I said wryly. What I didn’t say was, “Of course I know, you divvy. I’ve been looking for the bloody thing for four months.” “It’s a proper Glidwell model as well! Look at the detail! Each separate bristle! Moving parts! The perfect balance! And -- oh my God -- the wand-wood finish!” “Undoubtedly the most beautiful broomstick ever made,” I smiled. “Yes. Absolutely yes. I mean, it was a bit slow and it cornered like the Knight Bus but that’s just not the point is it? Just look at it. What I’d kill for the real thing.” He gave a moan of ecstasy. “I never thought I’d own one of these.” Then he swung round, stood on his toes and hugged me with one arm about the neck, the other still busy balancing the toy. “Thank you thank you thank you!” he whispered into my ear and squeezed me until I could not breathe. * * * * * Summer came round much more quickly that school year than my previous lonely one and before I knew it the holidays were upon us. Mine and Barty’s farewell was brief; a soft punch to the shoulder, a flicker of fingers across the wrist, a nod. Then that beautiful gold head was gone, vanishing into the crowds of King’s Cross and on its way to the grey North. I was left to find my brother and locate my parents, who would be ready with a Portkey to transport us to twelve Grimmauld Place. * * * * * I was thoroughly miserable that summer. I wrote letters by the dozen and he replied to them all dutifully. Poor old Phoebe and Nero were forever arriving at or leaving from windows. I spent great lumps of time pining away in my bedroom. My brother, when he was at home, did much the same. Most of the time, however, he was creeping off during the night to spend weeks on end with Potter and, by all accounts, greatly enjoying himself. I wished I was a little braver, that I had the guts to pinch my father’s broom and bugger off to the Lakes, but I did not dare. So I acted the good son and, for the large part, stayed at home. Occasionally I would be allowed out and about in London. Kreacher, our house- elf, had to attend me at such times, bundled up in the invisible cloak and stuffed away into a rucksack to act as bodyguard-cum-kamikaze did any Muggle give me trouble. What the Ministry would have thought of this little arrangement I have no idea. I spent hours walking around the Royal parks feeling very sorry for myself. I might have succumbed to that most teenage of maladies and started writing poetry, but any tragically romantic mood was soon disrupted by the incessant muttering voice emerging from my bag. Muggles would often look at me strangely as though it were I chuntering away to myself, but thankfully none ever gave me bother and my insane foul-mouthed house-elf was never called upon to throw his life away for his master. Other than my walks about the city there were almost weekly visitations by relatives, or going to see them. One might have though the constant travel to some desolate part of Wiltshire or Berkshire or Sussex would have grown wearisome, but I rather enjoyed it. A Black, I had been subjected to etiquette lessons and expected to show up at the odd dinner party. I liked it even if it was old-fashioned. It was charming. Also, for the first time, that summer I was allowed to stay with the men when the ladies retired; because I was now thirteen, I suppose. Or perhaps it was due to the conspicuous absence of the elder son, which no one mentioned. The men talked politics, discussing the recent emergence of this so-called Lord Voldemort and how they all agreed with him that the wizarding world needed a good kick up the backside. They drank port wine and ate cheese. The port they poured right and passed left and, to my distinct pleasure, I was allowed to join in this particular ritual. The flavour, which was dark-red and fruity, was a surprise to my palate which had formerly been used to only the sickly-sweet taste of Butterbeer. Then they lit cigars and turned the air blue with a smoke that burned my eyes, and talked over coffee. I myself seldom spoke that evening but enjoyed myself, feeling awfully grown up and smugly aware that Sirius had never been invited to stay with the men. This was not usual, however, and most of the time at these dinners or garden parties I hobnobbed with my cousins. These were the same girl-cousins from school who I never talked with there but here, liberated from the shackles of Slytherin demand and the younger years rule, I was free to associate with them. Blacks by name also, they were called Narcissa and Bellatrix. There was another cousin also, their elder sister, but since she had run off with a Muggleborn (and, according to what I could glean from private conversation, was pregnant or had recently given birth) she was no longer discussed. On the tapestry above the mantel at Grimmauld Place was a mark like a cigarette burn where her name had once been. I predicted that soon my dear brother would join my cousin in her disgrace as another lightning strike on that centuries-old tree. “Hello, cousin!” Bellatrix grabbed me by the wrist. Her hand was strong and painful with dark fingers and nails painted bright as blood-berries. I winced. The elder of the two sisters by a year, there was something wrong about Bellatrix even then. A certain degeneration in the region of sanity; not an uncommon trait in our family, to be honest, but it usually happened later. Bellatrix was sixteen and already mad. As far back as I could remember she had enjoyed causing pain. One of my earliest memories is of weeping in earnest after she had killed a little gold moth I had taken for a pet, and of her laughing too wickedly for a seven-year-old. One might suggest a boy who belonged to a family which beheaded its own house-elves once they grew too old to perform basic duties should not cry over the death of a mere lepidopteron, but this had been somehow different. Her wanton cruelty had frightened me then and, as a thirteen-year-old boy being treated as a man, still did. “Hullo, Bella,” I winced, rubbing my wrist. Four pink marks from her fingers lit the flesh. “How is our baby cousin doing?” she asked, tweaking my ear in what I suppose was meant to be an affectionate manner but ultimately just hurt. The glamorous lipstick-streaked mouth smirked at me beneath her low eyelids. Behind her Narcissa approached, her blonde hair bunched and tied at the back of her head. I preferred Narcissa. Although superior and very regal, she could at least carry a conversation without having to inflict some sort of damage upon the other party. “Dear me, what are you doing to our poor cousin, Bella?” she admonished. I saw her eyes, blue like my own but brighter, settle on the purpling mark on my arm. Her mouth, always unhappy, puckered a little more. “Cissy! How nice of you to join us. I was just asking darling Regulus here how he was doing. We’ve not spoken to him all year.” “Indeed,” replied Narcissa pointedly. “How are you?” “I’m fine,” I grimaced. Bellatrix had worked her hand into my hair and what had just been a pressure on my scalp was quickly turning to a kneading sensation as she bunched her fingers, tugging upon the hairs and rasping her knuckles against my skull. “We have heard,” said Bellatrix in a conspiratory tone, “that our dear cousin has been fraternising with a certain Hufflepuff first-year by name of Barty Crouch. Is this true?” Shit, I thought. Well, so much for hiding it. Both were looking at me with inquisitive eyes. I shifted. “Er…yeah, actually. I mean -- he’s not my best friend! Not a friend at all, really. Just…someone I talk with about Quidditch sometimes. You know.” “Not really,” Narcissa said, buffing her nails upon her pale green dress robes. “If I were to talk about Quidditch with somebody -- which I would not -- I would choose a person from my own year in my own house. It’s not exactly an uncommon interest.” “Oh,” I said, put out. “Don’t worry about it,” Bellatrix grinned with a pull of my hair. “It’s not fashionable to have a badger for an acquaintance but you haven’t disgraced yourself yet. Cissy and I did our research before we got here and he’s got a pedigree as spotless as our own. At least you’ve not crossed that line yet - - unlike our other cousin consorting with half-breeds and blood traitors.” “Honestly,” Narcissa added, shaking her beautiful blonde head. The conversation then moved on, to my relief, as I was scared that one of the sisters might have been practising Legilimency on the sly, to matters of politics in general and Lord Voldemort in particular. It seemed the topic of the summer. “I do like the sound of him though,” said Bellatrix at one point with enthusiasm. “The wizarding world needs a person like him. A figurehead for the pure-blood movement! As soon as I leave school…he sounds right up my alley!” “Funny,” murmured Narcissa under her breath. “I thought that spot was occupied by Rodolphus Lestrange?” Bellatrix guffawed and cuffed her sister on the shoulder. Narcissa winced unhappily. * * * * * August rolled in and I managed to convince Mother and Father that it would be perfectly safe for me to go to Diagon Alley by myself. I took the Floo Network and met Barty in the Leaky Cauldron, also alone. I needed books and equipment and, most importantly, new robes. My mother was obsessive about buying new school robes each year. I am not sure why. Perhaps it was some way of demonstrating that the family fortune had not deteriorated that much. I also needed new dress-robes and this afforded me the chance to prance like a peacock for my boy. I was rather embarrassed at first but it turned out to be good fun. Like all boys we loathed shopping for clothes but this became a sort of game. The previous year the fashion had been black velvet and a cravat of your preferred colour. Some of the more trendy and less traditional designers had taken this a step further, opening up the front of the robes and telling their patrons to wear a white shirt under it. To the pure-blood families this was considered very nouveau riche and distinctly Muggle. Nothing but a wizard’s undergarments should be worn beneath robes. The rage amongst old families this year was silk, imported from the Orient. ‘The Asian Invasion’ they were calling it, and it was cited as an antidote to the Muggle fashions flooding into the market. I loved the red, slippery and glistening like a split orange through my fingers, but decided it was too vulgar and went for the dark-blue. “Ooh, it brings out your eyes,” trilled Barty, in a spot-on impression of Madam Malkin’s Lancashire tones; he was always good at that sort of thing. Though I am sure he was joking it was that comment which made me buy them. Stationary next. Barty brought some new nibs for his pen and two bottles of ink, scarlet and emerald. I, meanwhile, dithered over choosing a quill. Should it be porcupine, which was sturdy and strong and would perhaps survive the year, or the red kite, which was not as tough but far more beautiful? I eventually -- and with insistence from my companion -- succumbed to the fowl. It would be as sad and wilted as my old raven feather by the end of term, but for now it looked very distinguished. Then I bought red and green ink to please him, though slipped in a bottle of black besides. Then a detour to the ice cream parlour. Barty had something minty, and I got something with aniseed in which tasted as though it could burn a hole through the floor. Barty flicked chocolate chips at me and kicked me under the table. I yelped and kicked back. Before long his leather-clad feet were wrapped about my legs and we held still a moment. The feeling of his shoes and hot shins against my bare skin was weird, like it was not on but passing through me. A strange extension of my own flesh and fluids. My hackles stood on end. Then he stuck the boot in and dealt me a right bruise to the calf. “You bastard!” I gasped, and the fight continued. In the book shop he bowed over me as I was skimming through the lower shelf, so close I felt his breath on my ear. A could almost taste the mint ice cream on his mouth and accompanied by the dusty smell of books I was strangely moved, in a way that was unfamiliar to me. A dull ache shooting downwards. A surge of embarrassment washed over me, blood-hot. I looked away, cocking my knees together. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * AUTHOR’S_NOTES 1: Touchy-feely boarding school types I believe I lifted inspiration for the whole paragraph on how the boys in boarding school are more touchy-feely than the average lad, and how this becomes a means of asserting heterosexuality, from Stephen Fry’s autobiography Moab is my Washpot (which is excellent, by the way). When I read it I thought ‘hullo!’ (yes, I watch QI for those who got the reference). I could hardly not include it, could I? So if anyone takes issue with this particular portrayal, take it up with Stephen Fry. Boarding school is a foreign country to me. 2: Monty Python Latin During the whole Latin sequence I was going to make a Life of Brian reference, because my knowledge of Latin is restricted to a few biology terms and dinosaur names. As it was it never transpired, sadly, but I did leave in the reference to Monty Python which would serve as citation in the text, in the form of the Flying Circus poster above the Muggleborn’s bed. A rather useless author’s note, this, but I thought I’d mention it anyway. 3: Lame To all those who got the (fucking awful) Top Flier pun: you are awesome. 4: Astrology I took the stuff Regulus reads from the astrology book from a website online, but I can’t find it at the moment. So, er, thanks, nameless website. You were very helpful. 5: North vs. South This is very briefly alluded to in the text and I thought I ought to mention it, seeing as one of our characters is a (poncy shandy-drinking) Southerner and the other a (boorish yobbo) Northerner. I can’t really go into it here because it would take too much space, but needless to say there is something of a rivalry which goes thousands of years back, and both groups stereotype one another mercilessly. For the record, I am north of Sheffield, which means I should not even be able to find the keys on this keyboard. 6: Kendal Mint Cake This stuff is Godly, despite being about as cake-ish as my arse. Anyone who tells you different probably has no taste-buds or has never had to climb a mountain in North Wales. I always buy it from that nice sweetshop in the Shambles, York, whenever I’m up there. 7: The Asian Invasion The silk robes thing is all the fault of the BBC drama series Casanova, which awoke in me a fetish I had hitherto never suspected. It was written by Russell T. Davies and stars David Tennant, who played Barty in the film version of GoF, and he is delicious. Watch it. 8: Barty’s mimicry Well, I assumed he’d be good at this for the simple fact that he spends an entire year pretending to be a frazzled old Auror with no one suspecting a thing. It has occurred to me in the past that while Polyjuice Potion might change the shape of your vocal cords, and thus the texture of your voice, it can’t change your accent as an accent is something learned. As I always imagine Moody with a Geordie inflection I assume anyone who wanted to use Polyjuice for that amount of time would have to be adept at mimicking their vocal patterns too. Thus Barty the impressionist was born, hinny. ***** Chapter Three ***** Author's notes: Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr. slash. “I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed.” =============================================================================== Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to JKR and assorted companies. I just write fluff and porn with them. Citric_Acid Chapter Three The school year started with a surprise in store. Puberty. It seemed to happen overnight, perhaps two weeks into my third year. One night I dressed into my pyjamas and they were perfectly fine. The next morning I got out of bed and they had trekked some two-inches above my ankles. It was as thought someone had come along in the night and applied a Shrinking Charm to them. After that I grew like a bamboo shoot. None of my new robes would fit. Testosterone had its wicked way with my body and I found I was suddenly crawling with hair and grease and spots and hormones. I looked as though I had the plague. I found suddenly I could eat for England. I had never been a picky eater but I had at least exercised some restraint but now things were different. I astonished the first-years with my ability. I would start with the Full English; bacon, scrambled- and fried-eggs, toast, beans, sausage, black pudding, fried tomato -- the works. Afterwards I would perhaps move on to a couple of kippers, crumpets with jam, sugary porridge, boiled egg and soldiers, devilled kidneys, toasted muffins, butter-slathered Scotch pancakes, hot kedgeree, and would then round it off with three mugs of sweet tea and a pint glass of squeezed orange juice. Where I packed it all I have no idea; I was certainly growing but it was never outwards and in fact I came to resemble, to use the vernacular, “a lanky streak of piss.” Worst of all, my feelings towards Barty changed. Well -- not quite. I still adored him. My chest still hurt when I saw him. I still thought him the most beautiful thing in that God-forsaken place, a beacon of light in an otherwise pitch-black tunnel. But I suddenly knew what it was to want something, to really yearn for it. Sitting together with his weight pressed slightly against my arm was not all I asked any more. I did not understand these scary new feelings. I suppose I was quite innocent in my way. All I knew was that I wanted to touch him like I never had before, and for him to touch me. I wanted to lick him up like butterscotch. This was very disturbing. I began to question myself. I had never really considered myself as such but now the word “queer” began to take on a whole new meaning. Was I? Is that what this strange, tempestuous, animal passion meant? Was I a pouf? To make things more confusing, somebody else entered the picture. Octavia Babcock. I had never really noticed her before other than as recognising her as being a female in the year above me, but now I did. Oh yes, I most certainly did. Most of all I paid attention to the fact she seemed to have suddenly acquired breasts. I did not love Octavia Babcock. At least, I did not love all of or even most of her. I did not want to play my hands through her hair and kiss her freckles and wrap her a thousand times in my arms. But I did want to lick her up like butterscotch and have her lick me up too, and to touch and be touched. It was a very confusing time for me. Nighttimes did not help. I had dreams. Sometimes I would awake with a hardness between my legs, which felt about as small and subtle as a caber at the Highland Games. I was mortified and wracked by guilt. Thinking back on it, everyone else in my dormitory was probably going through the same thing, give or take a few months, but as far as I knew I was the only one in the world. And I could not discuss it with anyone, not even with -- especially not with -- my beloved. I soon learned the remedy to this little night-time predicament, quite accidentally the first time when a simple brush of the fingers had led to surprising results. I was embarrassed and fascinated by this reaction, and tried it again. Soon I was ‘trying it again’ more often than I care to admit, usually on a night. At such times the image of Octavia Babcock would swim before my eyes, her head transplanted onto one of those models from page three of The Sun. I felt terrible afterwards, the shame drying between my thighs. But, whatever I felt in my heart and head, it was ultimately up to my genitals and they, unsympathetic bastards, were at least gratified. My remorse came in even stronger waves when I met up with Barty. He, oblivious to my inner turmoil, carried on the same as ever; taking my hairy paw in his soft plump hand, hooking his arm into mine, lying with his legs across my thighs. The year before I had blushed at his affectionate ministrations but now the blood seemed to migrate in a whole new direction. I was perpetually in a state of aroused terror when around him, with lashings of guilt for spice. Once, he laid his head in my lap and brought up his hand to tug playfully at my hair. His fingers skimmed my cheek with the most exquisite gentleness. I hastily leapt from the bench, nearly spilling him over in the process, and told him I needed the lavatory right now! He must have thought me very odd. I tried to be as normal around him as possible, I really did. It was just difficult. It had been awkward before, but now with this nagging physical urge it became that much harder. When each brush, touch and squeeze became a stimulus…it was nigh on impossible! One day we were sat by the lake, he with a notebook and quill and I covertly watching him, taking joy in the bob of his throat, bluely translucent in the cold, and the brown eyes bright with water. He was telling me about a Wigtown Wanderers versus Appleby Arrows match that morning, which he had managed to listen to on his wireless without Professor McGonagall so much as giving him a glance. In fact, he had even managed to earn his House points. He was very pleased by his own ingenuity and rightly so; Gryffindor’s Head of House was by no means a dim-witted woman and would have flayed him alive had she noticed. “I don’t understand why you’re a Hufflepuff,” I said to him when he had finished. “You’re not at all stupid and you’re more Slytherin than half of the Slytherins I know.” He cocked a lopsided smile at me through wind-chapped lips. “Oh yes? And where does it say Hufflepuffs are stupid?” I squirmed. “Well, you know…it’s just…I mean it doesn’t actually say it officially but everyone knows the house is full of, well, duffers.” “Charming!” “Not you!” I cried in earnest. “I mean, that’s my point, isn’t it? I don’t understand why you’re there.” He was smiling at me with a knowing in his eyes which made me burn. I looked away. “They’re not stupid. Really. They’re just…ordinary. There’s a normal mix of people there. Clever, thick, average -- you know, normal,” he said. He paused a moment, then continued thoughtfully. “And the reason why I’m not in Slytherin is…I’m not sure, actually. The Hat considered sending me there, but when it decided I was more suited to Hufflepuff I’ll admit I was disappointed. I hadn’t exactly been pushing for Slytherin, otherwise it might have changed its mind, but I had the same prejudices as you. I got off that stool and felt mortified. I mean, my mother’s a Ravenclaw and my father’s a Slytherin so…and then it occurred to me. My father’s a Slytherin! Everyone knows you lot don’t despise the Gryffindors half as much as you despise Hufflepuffs. You’ve got a rivalry with Gryffindor and that’s different; it shows you hold them in some esteem, at least enough so you’ve got to prove to them you’re the better house. Hufflepuffs, well, you said it yourself. You loathe us for idiots.” “And…that’s the reason you’re a Hufflepuff? Because Slytherins hate you?” I asked, confused. Barty beamed at me. “Exactly! I realised at that moment that my being a Hufflepuff would really, really get on my father’s wick. Maybe some part of my subconscious realised that when the Hat was put on my head and pushed for me getting into Hufflepuff, just to piss off my father. It cheered me up something proper, I’ll tell you.” “You’re very strange,” I told him. “I can’t imagine what my family would have done had I ended up in Hufflepuff. It was bad enough with my brother going to Gryffindor and -- you’re right, there is less shame in it. They’d have beheaded me and stuck me up with the house-elves.” “Beheaded you and what?” “Never mind. But…why on earth did you want to tick off your dad?” I could not imagine it. Everything I did seemed to be aimed at pleasing my parents. I could not understand trying to rankle them on purpose. It smacked of Sirius to me. “Because I despise him. Surely you’d noticed?” “I had. I don’t understand why though.” He buried himself deeper into his cloak, blowing hot air onto his hands. He buried himself deeper into his cloak, blowing hot air onto his hands. “Well, you wouldn’t,” he said calmly. “Because I’ve never told you.” Now is the time, I thought, and jumped in: “Well, tell me, then. Does he…he doesn’t hurt you, does he?” A quiver of anger fled up my back, ending in my hands which clenched to fists. “Because if he does…I’ve got family in the Ministry, in high places! They could make life very miserable for him!” Barty laughed through the gap of his teeth. “Lord, no! Can you imagine? No, he doesn’t have the capacity for anything as physical as abuse. Keeps it all locked up inside, he does. No. He simply doesn’t like me very much.” I could not imagine anything as otherworldly as this. “What do you mean?” “I mean he doesn’t like me! He doesn’t even love me. Can’t be bothered to drag up even that little bit of paternal instinct for me.” I had never heard such bitterness in his voice. There was a flush of colour on his cheeks, a scald of anger. The fingers wrapped into his cloak clutched harder. A shake in the jutting elbows. I remained silent. “I don’t think he ever has. He’s not abusive or negligent or anything. He just doesn’t give a toss. I could drop off the planet tomorrow and it wouldn’t affect him. All he’s interested in is his Ministry. His fucking job. I don’t think there’s enough heart in him to love anything more than that. Him and his fucking ambition.” He paused, mouth trembling. Then he added: “I tell a lie. He loves my mother. But then you’d have to be dead not to. But that’s it. His career and his wife. No room at the inn left for his fucking son.” The heat of his cheek. The broken-glass fury in his dark eyes. That indignant curl of the sulking lip. I could not not do it. “Well if it helps at all, I like you,” I said. “Quite a lot in fact.” His eyes flicked up to me, the face half-buried in his hood. I could see the pale crimp of his cheek. “I like you too, Reg. Even if you are very odd.” * * * * * Christmas that year was somewhat less dramatic than the year before due to the fact my brother spent it over at the Potters’ cottage in South Wales. In his absence my mother became even more zealous, and I was subject to yet another discourse at the dinner table about the noble line from which I was descended and the plight of pure-bloods in the country today. I did not mind. Unlike Sirius, I rather enjoyed these tirades. My mother may have been barmy but there was a genuine passion underneath the madness which I loved hearing. When she talked about our ancestors and their great deeds done for wizarding kind, I would feel myself brimming with a sort of fierce pride. It gave me a sense of real grandeur, like I was part of something all together bigger and more important. I was no longer the baby of the family, the least talented and least glamorous of the Blacks. Black was an entity, and I at one with it. My blood was its blood and forged of molten platinum. My name was an exquisite truffle dissolving on the tip of the tongue. I was the flesh of a thousand great wizards, a pure and unbroken line, like a strip of gleaming steel, a snare- wire. It extended behind me, strong and supple and brightly flashing. After Christmas dinner I retreated upstairs and wrote a long letter to Barty. * * * * * The new term started. From home I brought a camera, and then Barty and I went on one of our walks around the Hogwarts grounds. It was the dead of winter and the air sung like a wire. A bluster of sleet flogged our faces like a cat o’ nine tails till they were pink and raw with it. Huffing a nimbus of condensation, I removed the camera from my pocket and asked for a photo of us together. He wrapped an arm about my shoulder, bowing me down to his height. His wind-bitten cheek on mine. I took two, holding it out at arm’s length to capture us both. One I pressed one into his cold hand, the other I tucked into a book. A few days later we met up in the library. He dozed under one of the plate- glass windows, which was filled with winter-wet sunshine that day. His eyelashes threw shadows across his freckle-splashed cheeks. Buck teeth visible behind the lower lip, and there was the slightest frown of his lightly-coloured eyebrows. Looking to make sure no one would see, I drew out the camera and took a picture. The snap of it startled him awake. I squirreled it away into my pocket. “What was that?” His eyes wide and black as a rabbit’s. “Oh, you’re awake,” I said, avoiding the question, my face cast down to a book. He mumbled at me and slumped backwards, crumpled with sleep, a bruise of shadow beneath his tired eyes. I felt in my pocket the photograph emerging from the slit of the camera. A spot of warm moisture on my fingers and a slip of hot paper in my hand. * * * * * That night I tucked both pictures away into my notebook, stuck firm with tape. The two boys waved at me from the first photo and I smiled and held it to my face. An inky, gluey sort of smell filled my nostrils, strangely carnal. The cool flat of it on my mouth. A pinch of the lips, a ghost of a kiss. I looked at it. Regulus gaped back in horror, colouring. Barty, with his eyes squinted, grimaced up at me. * * * * * The rest of the school year passed peaceably, to put it diplomatically. “Drearily” would perhaps be more honest. I remained infatuated and Barty, assumedly, remained oblivious. Puberty did not abate but I grew accustomed to it, and managed to gain some sort of control over the more physical details. My guilt did not subside either and I found myself continually sickened by myself, at my brutishness, my disgusting perverseness. I tried to gather all my lust and place it within its own arena; poring -- and pouring -- over the erotic magazines in the dormitory with the other boys, in some pathetic display of masculinity. I phwoar!-ed at the bare-chested and scrawny “birds” with the staples through their middles, but neither my heart nor groin was in it. The dreams still came and I still awoke drenched in sweat and aching beneath, his name on my lips. Summer came and with it the holidays. Remembering last year’s misery, I caught him on the Hogwarts Express and pulled him into a corner. I asked him if he would like to come to London that year, spend some time with me, you know, be a tourist, see the sights? He agreed delightedly, pinched my arm in a playful farewell and left. Shaking and grinning, I rejoined my Slytherin peers in our carriage. I even contributed to the conversation. * * * * * “Crouch?” My mother’s mouth was a barely perceptible line, a bloodless streak between the pale hollow of her pinched cheeks. Watery blue eyes narrowed. Kreacher, squatting beside her legs, blocked the way into the house. Little sod. “Yes, ma’am. Barty Crouch junior,” he replied, with a slight bow and a precise dose of gracious deference. My mother was always one for deference; her surname earned it. “Crouch,” she repeated, tasting the name. I could see the cogs in her mind working. I knew exactly what she was doing; she was reading his DNA. Probing into his genes, looking for a single flaw, a sniff, of Muggle blood. I believe she had the pedigree of every wizard in Britain locked into that fearsome mind of hers. Great trees drawn out, clear as ink and parchment, on the inside of her skull. Then she smiled. A thin blue smile, but a sign all the same that he had passed the test. Barty was clean and free to pass the boundaries of our house. “Welcome to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Master Crouch,” she purred, sidestepping to allow him entrance. “The most noble and ancient house of Black.” “Ha!” I heard from behind her and caught a fleeting sight of Sirius ascending the staircase. My mother’s face stiffened. “Ignore him,” she said to Barty with a poisonous smile. “He is just our other son. He is not important.” Upstairs, a bedroom door slammed shut. Barty was fascinated by our house. I led him round it, pointing out things he might find of interest, and he followed. His hands skimmed across silver and pewter, mahogany and ebony, ivory and hide. Fingers folded about little trinkets and boxes, feeling with their sensitive tips the wrought-iron, the shape of the family crest, the curl of our motto, the extravagant decoration. “Don’t touch that,” I said to him as he reached for a silver snuffbox in the drawing room. “It bites.” He shook his head. “If my dad could see this…” he murmured under his breath, cocking his head to gaze into a bottle filled with a dark-coloured blood. A pair of fingers reached out to pinch at the neck and lift it carefully from its place. Red swirled against opal. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?” I exclaimed. He laughed. “Lord no! But stuff like this sends him crackers. We’ve got nothing like this in our house. I’m horribly jealous.” “Good. Because I’m not sure how much of it’s legal,” I said darkly. Then, seeing the lustre of his eyes as he stared at the bottle, I said, “We’ve got better things upstairs, you know.” The row of beheaded house-elves on the wall shocked him. “I wonder what Winky would think of that?” he murmured to himself as we passed them, and chuckled. I took him into my parents’ study upstairs, stacked with shelves upon shelves of books and manuscripts. I skimmed through the drawers, telling him: “We don’t keep this on display with the other stuff -- a bit too incriminating, you know?” I showed him an ancestor’s wand, hewn from a yew which had been used for a hangman’s tree. “It has no core,” I told him as he held it up to the light for inspection. “But it’s saturated in the blood of dozens of Muggle highwaymen and murderers, which I suppose serves the purpose. A soul-less wand. What my grandfather wanted with it I don’t know. He certainly didn’t get it off Ollivander.” I revealed other items -- a dead Basilisk’s egg from which the toad had been removed just in time; a padlocked book inside which a Banshee’s voice was trapped -- and watched his eyes grow ever-wider in amazement. I was rather amused by it. Dark Magic had been such a large part of my upbringing that I never really thought about how interesting this sort of thing might be to someone who had been sheltered from the blacker side of our craft. I never worried that he might go home and tell his father, however. I trusted him implicitly and knew he would keep his word. Besides, I liked impressing him too much. That first evening I showed him to the guest room. It was not a particularly cosy place, with its heavy chandelier, black wrought-iron bed and ostentatious maroon sheets. Certainly it was nothing to compare with the underground snugness of the Hufflepuff dormitory but he settled quite happily. I perched on the end of his mattress and chatted with him some time, rubbing my fingers across the stitched cotton design of the blanket. Then I bid him goodnight and took to my own bedroom down the hall. For an hour or so I lay twisting and turning, sleep evading my tenuous grasp. My mind was anxious. I hoped he would be okay in the guest bedroom; I had never really liked the room myself. It was too wide, too overbearing, and I had never been able to sleep there on the occasions I had been asked to. This ultimately led to my getting out of bed and creeping back down the hall. Gently, I pushed open his door and peered inside. The room was pitch and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. “Is that you, Reg?” came a voice from the darkness. I nearly cleared my skin. “Oh, er, yeah,” I said awkwardly. I had not realised he would still be awake. “I thought I’d, er, you know, check up…” “Do you want to come in?” I was beginning to get used to the dimness and saw him shift on the bed, hitching himself up on his elbows to look over at me framed in the doorway. “Oh, I don’t think that’s really necessary,” I replied. The hall was cold and I in my vest and boxer shorts. I hopped on my toes to generate some heat. “Come in,” he said. I obeyed on the instant. The door clicked behind me and again my eyes were forced to readjust. I crept across the stone, toes splayed, and felt the iron headboard of the bed. I hunkered down there, picking out his shape in the dark room. “You going to stay down there all night?” he asked and there was something like a chuckle in his voice, broad and bubbly, champagne-gold. “No, I think I’ll be going back to my bedroom in a minute. I just wanted to make sure you were settling in. It’s a bit cold this room and dark and--” “Do stop rambling, Reg.” “Yes.” A moment passed in silence. My knees were beginning to ache. I felt the mattress move as he shifted. “Are you going to get in then?” I froze. “I beg your pardon?” “Are you going to get in? Like you said, the room’s cold but the bed’s warm.” A seductive pat of the quilt. Then, in an excellent mockery of Madam Pomfrey, “We don’t want you catching your death, do we?” “But-- I’m going back to my room in a moment!” I was too baffled to come up with anything better than this. “Don’t be daft. Get in -- go on! I’ve shifted up. You get the warm side.” My resistance ended there. Stiffly, I got up from my squatting position. I felt the bed beneath my hands, buckling slightly beneath his weight. I picked the corner of the quilt and slid inside. The bed was not large enough for two and the sudden press of another warm body was a shock. The slide of skin against my leg. I shuddered and attempted to stay as close to the edge of the bed as possible. “Here, you’re pushing me out. You’re going to have to squeeze up a bit more than that.” My eyes widened in the dark. What on earth was he playing at? I had heard it, in his voice. That teasing tone he often used at Hogwarts. A hint of flirtatiousness in that morose and wicked mouth. Except this now seemed much bigger than silly games at school. I was both petrified and thrilled. Every hair on my neck stood to attention. “Get your arm under me,” he commanded, and I obeyed like a fool. With every limb seemingly fashioned from steel, I slid my arm beneath his head. My hand glanced the soft, downy hair at the base of his neck. Unable to help myself, I curled my fingers in a half-caress. He was now pressed right against my side. I could feel the protrusion of his hip, the bump of his elbow, the glide of his skin. I became suddenly aware of how much smaller than me he was. The smell of him. Peppermint and books and liquorice. The heat of him burned me. My body, not used to such proximity of another human being, took exception and proceeded to make this as uncomfortable a situation to be in as possible. I thought about how especially evil I was. “That’s better isn’t it?” A laugh in his voice again. I am sure -- sure! -- he was taking the piss out of me. I began to realise that perhaps I was not as cunning and devious as I had imagined these past two years. That perhaps Barty was not as oblivious as I had hoped. With a deep sense of humiliation descending, I attempted, with my arm trapped beneath him, to roll over slightly and hide my shame with the ingenious use of angled legs. “Stop buggering about, Regulus. We’ll never get any sleep if you insist on fidgetting all night.” That mocking tone again. Succumbing to the onslaught of mortal embarrassment, I decided to take it like a Slytherin and perhaps grab the opportunity it offered. I found my arm arcing inwards to lie across his chest. I could feel the pump of his heart against my wrist. My fingers crawled upwards and found the echo of his heart-beat beneath the thin skin of his throat. The delicate bulge of the cartilage rings of his windpipe. The projection of his Adam’s apple. He swallowed, and the apple bobbed. “Bender,” came the hot huff of breath at my ear. Then he wriggled closer and placed an arm about my stomach. Softly squeezed. * * * * * Over the following days I gave him the tourist’s guide to London. The weather was kind to us and we would spend hours a day just drifting and talking, and ignoring all other people. I took him to Regent’s Park which was near home and we walked northwards up Broad Walk and saw the wolves in their enclosure. We took tea in the gardens and strolled beside the canal. I showed him Lords, the site of the Goblin uprising of 1651 which a forebear of mine had had some part in suppressing. Another day we took to Camden where we ate greasy chips with wooden forks, drenched in vinegar and salt and wrapped in newspaper cones which smudged the fingers. We wandered into Westminster, the Muggle Parliament, and saw the Clock Tower, rising all gold and sandy-brown into the cloudless sky, more beautiful than any photograph could ever capture. Big Ben struck at two, chiming out over the sinuous brown curve of the Thames. Crossing London Bridge, we stopped to watch the blue steel bascules of Tower Bridge over the water lift to allow passage of a boat. We meandered into Trafalgar Square and saw Horatio Nelson, a naval hero apparently, standing upon his column, canon-bronze lions and plume-grey pigeons at his feet. In Hyde Park we disregarded the nutters in Speakers’ Corner and wound our way along the Serpentine. Another day, much to my surprise, Barty demanded to see Buckingham Palace, home of what is I suppose Muggles’ own equivalent of ‘pure-blood’. So there we went, and peered through the gates along with the gawking tourists. We returned home in the evenings, footsore and weary. But we were weary in that bright-eyed, loose-limbed way of children, all pinked and browned by the sun. Barty, with this fair complexion, was considerably more pinked, and his face erupted with freckles in a speckled band straight across the cheeks like a burglar’s mask. It was not only his face that caught the sun, but his eyes and hair. The mop of his fringe seemed twined with brass thread and his irises engaged within a gold ring. He seemed lovelier than ever to me that summer. At the dinner table, over the veal or pheasant or quail (we fed our guests only the best), I would frequently find myself staring, fork hanging half-way to my mouth, devouring him with my eyes. This was not exactly a recent addition to my lovesick behaviour, but it is considerably harder to watch someone without their -- or anybody else present, for that matter -- noticing when you are but four feet away rather than right across a dining hall. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I suppose, depending how you look at it) my mother never did appreciate Barty like I did and during our meals together would regale him with tales of the house and some of its long-dead inhabitants. Here she would be like a preacher at his sermon, arms flailing like an excited Italian’s. Father was seldom in attendance (he rarely was, guests or no) having confined himself to the drawing room with his cigars and wireless. Sirius, when he was at home, never graced us with his charming company. So it was just Barty and I who had to put up with it. I would not have minded had it just been just myself and Mother but with a guest, and especially such a significant one as this, it was slightly different. I do not believe in that house there was a single item less than one-hundred years old and without its own individual history, and my mother with her intimidating brain discerned it all. The silver goblets, the cutlery, the fine bone china we ate our meat off; she knew the lot. Throughout such discourses I would be continually glancing at Barty, trying to search for signs of boredom, or terror, or both. But I need not have worried. Either due to his superb acting ability or the fact that he was genuinely interested -- I could not be sure which -- he always looked sincerely rapt. In the evenings we would retire to my bedroom where we would spend the rest of the night chatting, usually with the WWN playing in the background and stripping the burnt peeling skin from Barty’s shoulders. This pastime, for the uninitiated, is something like a more revolting version of popping bubble wrap, or possibly chimpanzees grooming one another for ticks, in the curious pleasure it brings. Moreover, it granted me permission to twitch my fingers across that scorched back, the sun-bleached hair trickling down his neck. One evening he took a bath and I waited for him in my bedroom, flicking through a crumbling book on Dark objects I had discovered and thought he might be interested in. When he came into the room he was wrapped up in one of my dressing gowns. His hair fell lank about the collar, dark with damp and threaded with dewy beads like spider silk. He was as soft and sun-flushed as summer fruits. “Better?” I asked, managing to avert my eyes in record time. He nodded; a flip of the fringe and a swish of droplets arcing against the lamp light. “I’ve found a book you might be interested in,” I told him, waving the slender volume between my fingers. “It has nice pictures.” He padded over on feet pale and plump and bare against the grey flagstones, sitting beside me on the bed. Creaking springs, and a thigh against mine. A scant touch of flesh. “Let’s have a look then.” His hand rearing over plucked it away, my fingers snapping down on cold air. He flipped the first few pages. There was the smell of dust; prickly, dry, almost peppery, but it was overwhelmed by the essence of him. So close I could smell the soap clinging to his skin. A foggy heat. Homely, almost. “You’ve got one of those haven’t you?” His finger was on the page, pointing to some item or other. The dark eyes had turned up to mine. He had leaned in closer. Shorter than me, his breath was on my throat, the gentle upturn of his nose almost brushing the corner of my mouth. Low lashes. Teeth on pout. I might kiss him now, I thought. I may very well have done had not a sudden scratching erupted from behind me. Springing from the bed, we both swung round to see there, at the mullioned window, an owl. “It’s Isra!” gaped Barty. “I beg your pardon?” “Isra. My father’s owl. What on earth is he after?” His face was swiftly becoming irritable, jaw tight and eyebrows descending. There was nothing gentle about him then. I walked to the window, clicking open the latch and swinging open the pane. The bird leapt through at once with a blast of warm night air, doing a lap of the room before landing, in a flurry of down and talons, onto the bed post. She was a long-eared owl, a rigid and severe-looking species. A scroll had been tied firmly to her leg. Barty unwound it. The owl, claw extended, observed him dryly with orange-disk eyes. Barty was skimming the letter and as he did I saw his face falter. My stomach twisted in sudden dread. “Is everything all right?” I asked, tentative. “It’s my mother,” he replied. There was a shake in his voice like a wet gulp. “He said she’s got worse.” “Got worse?” He nodded. “She’s been ill for a while. The Healers aren’t sure…” He broke off there, twisting the parchment in his hands. “Do you want to go home?” I asked. My heart hurt to hear my own words, and still more when he nodded. “I think I had better.” “We’re connected to the Floo Network. I…I’ll ask Mother to set it up for you.” As I walked past him I patted him on the back; a tender rap. He was bent over the paper, almost doubled, and I felt the ridge of his spine through white flannel of the dressing gown. He paid no heed. When I returned he was seeing Isra off from the window. He did not turn to look at me. I could see his knuckles, fish-belly pale, squeezing on the painted ledge. The letter was crushed into his palm, smeared with the dampness of his hands and fretted at the edges. As I watched him he began worrying the parchment again, stripping off thin lengths. “Mother’s just getting the fire up for you. D’you need help packing your things?” He shook his head, still straggly-damp from the bath. Then he turned to look at me. His face was set firm but there was a crease at the jaw and I thought I traced blood on the lip where he had bitten it. I squirmed, unable to deal with seeing another boy upset. “You’d better get dressed,” I told him, avoiding his eyes. He nodded and took off to find some robes. I watched after him, feeling the sickness in my stomach thicken so it was almost solid, more like a tumour than nausea. I sat down on the bed and pressed my face into my hands. My mind was a blur. What had I nearly done? I had nearly kissed him, that was what. Had that owl not turned up at that very moment I believe I would have done it. Would have bent forward and pressed my lips to his. Felt the sulking softness beneath my own. Perhaps even lapped my tongue up against that space between his front teeth. And he…well, he would probably have acted like any other teenage boy would and wrenched back. Almost certainly belted me one while he was at it too. I would not have blamed him, either. Boys should not kiss other boys, as well I -- and my guilt - - knew. On the other hand, what did I know? Maybe he would not have. He had kissed me in the Astronomy Tower that time after all and yes, it had been a joke and a mere brush of lips on the cheek at that, but it had meant something, at least to me. It had meant he did not have that almost impulsive, visceral fear of the mere thought of intimacy with a friend most other boys his age had. So perhaps there had been a chance? And, perhaps, the sodding owl had ruined that chance. You’re a selfish bastard, retorted a dog-snap of a voice in my head. His mother might be dying for all you know, and you’re whinging about the fact this ruined the miniscule chance you ever had of pulling him. Arsehole. I was an arsehole, and felt it. A bulge of misery like a stomach ulcer swelled up inside, settling itself alongside the tumour. I knuckled my eyes and snarled viciously at myself. The next second I was up on my feet, pacing about the room, picking up his things. His wand, mahogany-red and polished to perfection to enhance the grain, pressed its weight into the pads of my palm. A few well- thumbed magazines. Some items he had bought from a wizarding gift shop in Soho. I piled them neatly onto the bed then skimmed the room for any lurking items. Barty returned. He had evidently dressed in some haste; I could see his robes clinging to where he had not dried properly, and his buckles were half-undone. I resisted the urge to do them up for him. I saw him eyes flicker across to the bed where his things were heaped. “Cheers,” he said, stooping to bundle them into his arms. He had brought his case, worn green dragon-leather, with him, and he spilled the items carelessly into it. The latch clicked shut; a horribly final sort of noise. “Time to go then, eh?” I could hear the tremble in my voice. He nodded. I could not believe how sickly-pale his cheeks were and how dark the summery streak of his freckles upon them. I made to pick up his case but he got there first, slipping shaking fingers about the handle and pulling it away. A querying eyebrow raised itself in my direction and, for a moment, his natural humour crooked his lip. Then it was gone, and his eyes were dark and distant once more. We walked down the stairs with all the vigour of a funeral march, and came to the parlour where my mother was waiting, her black head fuzzily outlined in firelight. Barty placed down his case neatly upon the rug and scrubbed his hands together. “I must bid you farewell then, Mrs Black. I’ve had a lovely time and it’s a shame it has to be cut so short. I wouldn’t go was it not so important but, well.” He seemed to go even paler then, a distinct greenish tinge colouring his face. “And yourself,” replied Mother graciously. “It is all too rare that my sons bring back friends to meet me, and even rarer still is that friend so charming and of such good breeding as yourself. You must feel free to visit us any time. We would find it most delightful.” Barty smiled at her, inclining his head a little. Then he turned to me. “I’ll be seeing you at school, then. Bye, Reg,” and he held forth a hand and touched my arm with his fingertips. In a moment I had taken his wrist -- a brief fluttering movement -- and lightly squeezed the fine bones there. Then my hand was off him and hooked with its fellow behind my back. I could feel myself turning pink. “See you,’ I said. ‘And good luck to your mother.” A tip of his gold-topped head and then with a shimmer of green powder he had stepped into the fireplace, and vanished. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * AUTHOR’S_NOTES 1: The Sun/Page Three As I am sure most of you know, The Sun is a tabloid newspaper which runs here in the UK. Yes, it does actually exist and was not something invented by The Simpsons, I assure you. I don’t read it but a lot of people do. Wikipedia will tell you everything you need to know about it. Page Three…well, I’ll leave the uninitiated to run a Google Image Search on that one and find out for themselves. 2: The Potter cottage in South Wales I’m using the canon evidence (of Hagrid talking about flying over Bristol on his way to Surrey with the baby Harry; look at a map if you’re not familiar with the geography) of Godric’s Hollow being in Wales to assert my belief of James Potter’s Welshness here. He is not English, dagnammit! Besides, the Welsh need more representation in the HP books. This is the bit when Book 7 comes out and pisses all over that theory. 3: London Calling If any real-life Londoners want to beat some actual London geography into my head with a copy of Order of the Phoenix, they should feel quite welcome. I did do my best with what I had; Wikipedia and a two-night stay I had there in the summer of 2005. Oh, and the film Withnail & I, though I suppose I ought not to mention that. 4: Bubble-wrap Yes, I know wizards probably do not use this, but they should. My excuse is if they use some cheap rip-off of Sellotape then I can’t see why they cannot have bubble-wrap, or at least know what it is. So neh. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. ***** Chapter Four ***** Author's notes: Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr. slash. “I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed.” =============================================================================== Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to JKR and assorted companies. I just write fluff and porn with them. Citric_Acid Chapter Four Mrs Crouch recovered to the relief of all involved and school term brought with it a much happier Barty. I was a fourth year now and the workload was even heavier, the subjects more taxing. It became harder than ever to meet up with Barty between lessons, even now when I barely bothered hiding my association with him. On the rare occasions we did get together it was frequently in the library, and I usually with a Latin textbook and fretful expression in tow. It did not help that after the almost-kiss of the holidays I felt somewhat awkward around him and became quite taciturn in my manner. Our conversation would lull almost immediately after the greeting and Barty must have found me very poor company. It was around this time also that news outside of the school really began taking effect within the castle walls. Lord Voldemort, it seemed, was becoming an ever more prominent figure in the wizarding world. Though the school had never been the most apolitical of places -- students are, after all, among the loudest and most militant of people -- it was at this time it became most obvious. Anti-Death Eater leagues and the like began springing up all over the place and, in turn and focused mainly in my own house, a Pureblood Pride union, spearheaded by my own dear cousin, the elusive Bellatrix Black. Bellatrix was in her final year of school and seemed determined to make her mark upon it before she left. The Gryffindors reaction to this little union was as inspiring and sanctimonious as ever. Furious and frothing, anti-Slytherin feeling hit an all- time peak and house tensions grew. My own brother became a loud proponent of this, along with his half-breed and blood traitor friends. One morning, while walking past him in the Great Hall during breakfast, he lifted his voice so I could hear him discussing my behaviour over the summer with Barty. Infuriated and humiliated beyond belief, I immediately flung myself down next to Bellatrix and her gang, and found myself discussing the rights of pure-blood wizards over the common filth infiltrating our society. So angry was I that I launched myself into the conversation, talking savagely, my mother’s genes asserting themselves. I had heard it all before across a thousand hot dinners, and it came to me as naturally as breathing. Across the table, Bellatrix beamed at me under hooded eyes with something resembling satisfaction. This, as it turned out, would be the theme of the year. She took me under her wing like a rook with a little plump wren, drawing me deftly into that black fold. I found myself coerced to meetings of this Pureblood Pride union, though not entirely against my will. I was not a member per se but stood more at the fringe, occasionally invited to take part but never sharing in its innermost secrets, if it had any. There were other such individuals as myself -- Severus Snape being a memorable example. Snape, a fifth-year at the time and well-known arch enemy of Sirius and his gang, was a talented wizard and a dab hand in the Dark Arts and Potions, but his half-blood status inclined him to suspicion. I know my cousin did not like him. Had it not been for his Muggle sire and quite unimpressive wizarding lineage, I am sure she would have taken him with open arms, but as it was she did not and he remained marginalised despite his considerable talent. I was simply deemed too young and, perhaps, not quite zealous enough. There were several prodigious members of the group I was somewhat in awe of. Rabastan Lestrange, a rather dark and tense fellow, was in Year Six. He looked very much like his brother Rodolphus who had left the year before and who was (if rumour and Narcissa’s snide comments were to be believed) currently knocking brooms with Bellatrix. Rather more twitchy than his unruffled brother, he was nonetheless a formidable dueller with a particularly quick draw on the wand. Narcissa herself was a sporadic member of the group, flitting in and out like a dust-yellow moth, apparently nonchalant but always with a sharp ear and eye, and a poisonous tongue wound like copper coil in her mouth. Evan Rosier and Maurus Wilkes were two other notable members. Rarely seen without one another I still find it impossible to think of them as two separate entities, but rather a mysterious blend known to all as Rosier-and-Wilkes, as though it were a company name rather than two seventh-year boys. Evan Rosier was, if I am looking at it objectively and outside the fourteen-year-old eyes which knew him, the most attractive boy in the year by far. The Rosiers were often remarked upon for their uncommon beauty and their youngest was by no means exception. Bellatrix and Narcissa themselves were half-Rosier, a fact evident in the younger sister’s fine bones and smooth hair. Bellatrix however, with her dark feral features, was always more of a Black. Evan Rosier himself had downy fox-brown hair feathering just short of the chin, and sea-green eyes peering narrowly out from a bone-china face. A small, pale, almost girlish mouth frowned at the world. Long and leggy and lithe, he had the form of an angel and was swooned upon by the ladies of my house, and a few more besides. He never paid attention, which is strange because he was a patronising bastard. Maurus Wilkes was entirely dissimilar to his ubiquitous companion. He played Beater for Slytherin Quidditch team and had the build to show for it; taut and firm as a rail, broad-jawed, with a deep coffee tan and dark curling hair. His eyes were almost black and his mouth always smiling, though in a manner which I found bothered me. Rosier-and-Wilkes: they were inseparable and in my more inquisitive moods I would wonder if perhaps there was something of my relationship with Barty about them. I doubted it, but speculated all the same. This weekend evening Bellatrix was in pouring silk of peewit-green, all gloss and glamour and ferocious charm. It was she who had organised this meeting to take place in the common room; despite not being Head Girl she always found it easy to persuade everyone to leave the place did she need it, homework be damned. I sympathised with the poor buggers, being quite eager to be gone myself but far too terrified to leave. There were several others in the room this evening besides Narcissa, Lestrange, Rosier-and-Wilkes, and Snape. Bellatrix and Lestrange were discussing something with gusto, with occasional word at Wilkes and Rosier. I was feeling as awkward and out-of-place as ever. Narcissa, as lovely as her sister in cloud-blue and silver trimming, was twirling a tress and looking alluringly bored. Snape had bunched himself into a corner of the room, his long face more miserable than usual. Had I not known better I would have suspected him lovelorn; his expression was an uncomfortably familiar one. Embarrassed, I attempted to not look at him and tried listen to what Wilkes was saying. “…It’s absolutely ridiculous. Dumbledore just lets them get away with anything. The Ministry does nothing to help either, what with all these stupid laws being passed to make sure that no one ‘offends’ them and turning a blind eye to the deterioration of our culture as a result. They just waltz in here at eleven years old and act like they own the place. They’ve none of the breeding, none of the learning, they’ve no idea what they’re in for, and then they have the cheek to complain when something doesn’t fit to their Muggle standards. There’s been that kerfuffle recently about the house-elves amongst the Gryffindors…” “Yes!” spat Bellatrix, a gob of bile straight from the gallbladder. “Slavery, apparently. How on earth can it be slavery if it’s another species? They keep cows and things; how’s that any different? Hypocritical bastards. I swear, if I get my own way I’ll show them slavery…” There was some indignant agreement from the boys and quasi-sage nodding. Then Bellatrix’s dark head snapped round and she was peering at me through black bullet-hole eyes. “And what do you think?” she asked. I nearly leapt from my armchair, where I had been suspended in some sort of stupid torpor for the past hour. “Well, um…” I fumbled. My cousin narrowed her eyes at me and I realised this was some sort of test. I carried hastily on. “It’s like Wilkes says, isn’t it? If all they’re going to do when they get here is complain and start fiddling with our customs, what’s the point in joining us? They’re not forced to or anything, and it’s not like it’s completely necessary for us to have them either. All they do is dilute the magical blood and increase Squib births. Hardly crucial to our survival or anything. So I suppose we should just, I dunno, put them back in the Muggle world, maybe a memory charm, and give it up as a bad job.” I stopped there, realising I was waffling incoherently and everyone was looking at me strangely. Bellatrix came over and swooped over me with her oil-green corvid wings. A cool hand found my arm. “You’re far too soft, Regulus, but you’re in the right sort of direction so I’ll let you off. We’ll soon teach you. You’re only little yet, and you don’t know any better,” and she tweaked my arm. The next day a bruise would remind me of her particularly unique means of displaying fondness. * * * * * Aurora Sinistra was a very nice girl in my year, and a fellow Slytherin to boot. She was tall, black and very slender, with beaded hair trailing to her pelvis. She painted her fingernails silver and studded her ears with all manner of metallic cosmic objects. Her non-uniform robes were always of twilight blue, usually velvet, and she strung her throat in pewter chains adorned with moons and suns. Her wrists jangled with charm bracelets of a celestial theme. So it was of no surprise to anyone during her first year to learn she was into astronomy, and she spent every clear night up in the Tower actually looking at stars, which was practically unheard of. Quiet, keen and deadly ambitious - - she was determined to know everything she could about the universe, to the point of reading books on physics, a decidedly Muggle activity in the eyes of some and decidedly mad in everyone else’s -- I rather liked her up until the point I discovered she was seeing Barty. It was the talk of the house, naturally. Barty was a year younger than her, making her a cradle-snatcher, and furthermore he was a Hufflepuff. How dreadfully vulgar! It had always been considered that she would have been better off in Ravenclaw and this sealed the deal. I disagreed. Sinistra was unquestionably a Slytherin, what with her passionate drive and the fact she was only really good at Astronomy and Arithmancy; she was merely mediocre in the subjects that did not interest her. I never said this out loud, mind, choosing simply to agree with whoever was talking and keeping my opinions to myself. Sinistra, for her part, never seemed to care, which had always been another of her defining qualities. The gossip largely died down, though she was rather avoided for a while as though Hufflepuff-loving might be contagious. Perhaps she had caught it off me that time we had been Potions partners. She was lucky he was pure-blood of notable pedigree and Slytherin stock, otherwise I am sure it would not have been so easily forgiven. She probably would not have noticed either way, because she was in bed a lot of the time having spent all night in the Astronomy Tower, whether Filch knew it or not. As far as I knew, she only ever did homework on cloudy nights. As you would expect her going out with Barty broke my heart, at least for a little while. For a time I loathed the very sight of her and became quite sarcastic, which I had never been before. I tried not to be, knowing Barty would not care for it very much and hardly trusting myself to be more important to him than she was, but sometimes it just sort of slipped out. I had always been a gentle sort of person, or at least restrained, but this sparked something of a change. In my mind at least, and behind her back with Roughstone and the other fourth-year boys, I was ghastly. It was after a Ravenclaw-Gryffindor match that I saw them first together. The game had ended with Gryffindor upholding their Quidditch mastery once again thanks to the absurd talent of their Seeker, James Potter, and everyone was drifting back to the castle. It was March at the time but Scotland’s climate had seemingly not been informed of this, deciding instead to treat us to a healthy dose of hail and rain instead. Most people, not overly keen on having the skin flayed from their faces, rushed inside. But not Barty. I had by now become used to the idea that Barty’s veins were filled with pure antifreeze, blaming it on his Lake District heritage, but learning the same thing about Sinistra was a bit of a surprise. It was with my hood pulled over my face, scrambling with the others for the doors, that I happened to glance up and see them wandering off together in the direction of the lake. His hand looked curiously pale wrapped up in hers. I froze to the spot. There, with the sky pissing down on me, soaked through to the bone and pierced by wind it would seem impossible to feel colder, but I managed it. I watched their retreating forms, blurred by grey mist, distorted by rain. A piercing pain, fine as a violin string and razor-edge sharp, cut keenly through my chest. My legs felt oddly weak. I might have collapsed there and then had it not been for a hand suddenly clapping itself on my shoulder. “What is it, cousin?’ The unmistakable musk of Bellatrix’s perfume filled my nostrils and I turned round. Her dark hair was stuck flat to a forehead sallow with cold, her red mouth a bloody slash between anaemic cheeks. ‘What are you looking at?” “Nothing,” I insisted, but too late; she was already peering over my head in the direction of the two figures. Her eyes narrowed, squinting through the sheeting rain. “Is that Sinistra and that toy boy of hers? Ugh. Disgusting. What were you looking at them for?” I muttered something indistinct. “Oh, I see.” A sudden understanding in her voice, dangerously thin. I looked up and her wet face was creased in amusement. “It’s that Crouch chum of yours isn’t it?” I murmured some more, then gave in. Nodded. Bile in my throat, alkaline sour. “Well well well, who would have thought?” she said, then laughed. Scarlet cracked lips and ink-slick mascara; she looked terrifying to me then. A painted gargoyle. I shrunk back but her strong hand was wrapped round my wrist and I felt my bones groan when she squeezed. “Who would have thought what?” I asked, trying to wrench my hand free but failing. She said nothing; just shook her head then ran her palm across my slippery hair. For once there was little violence in her touch. “Remember, Reg,” she said. I looked up at her. I did not recognise her voice. There was something strange about it; she was…grave, serious. Talking to me like an adult. I shot a baffled look at her. She continued unawares. “You’re the last of the Blacks. Sirius is a blood traitor in the making, make no mistake, and will be burnt off the tree sooner or later. Look what happened to Andromeda. Narcissa and I are true Blacks of course, but we’re girls. Any children we might have will have the name of their fathers. You are the only boy worth mentioning left, the only one who can possibly continue the family name. Without you the line is as good as dead. We’re all relying on you. Don’t forget your duty to your family and your kind, otherwise you’re just as bad as your useless idiot brother. Remember that.” She left me standing in the rain, shivering in my drenched cloak, battered by hail, the brand of her fingers cooling on my wrist. Cold. Mystified. Heartbroken. * * * * * There was one advantage to Barty’s relationship with Sinistra, and that was his sudden appearance in our common room one day. This was not greeted with much enthusiasm by my peers, but when one went to complain to Slughorn about the mustelid assault on our snake-pit he responded that a little inter-house integration never hurt anyone. He, of course, was very fond of Barty and I thanked him for it. As a result of this endorsement by the Head of House, Barty became a non-too-infrequent presence in the common room, though he was largely given the cold shoulder by everybody but myself and Sinistra. I am relieved to say that neither Barty nor Sinistra was the type to flaunt themselves in public. It had always been a pet peeve of mine when couples felt the urge to suck one anothers’ faces, loudly and disgustingly in the full view of everyone, with all the decorum of a Dementor. This may sound like the bitching of a single-lonely-randy-lovelorn teenager, but even before Barty came into my life it embarrassed me. That repulsive slurping! The gooey looks! Disgusting. Thankfully, for me, it was more a tendency of the Muggle classes and as a result it was not a common sight in my house and, when on the corridors, the professors would descend like Matthew Hopkins on a hapless half- blood on anyone engaging in such sport. Nevertheless, I was glad they were not of that ilk otherwise I may have been involved in an act of defenestration concerning Miss Sinistra and the highest point of the Astronomy Tower. Although I enjoyed the fact Barty was now a regular presence in my common room, and that our meetings were no longer restricted to clandestine encounters in the library or by the lake any more, I did not enjoy the fact that Bellatrix became rather interested by the whole ordeal. That girl was far too nosy for her own good. Moreover, she seemed to take a liking to Barty. Worse still, the feeling appeared mutual, and I would often return from my dormitory to find them talking and laughing with one another. Whether she did this just to annoy me I am not sure. Certainly it seemed that way, when her eyes would meet with mine and her teeth flash. At such times I would just dig my nails into my palms and grunt a hullo at Barty, who would more often than not turn to greet me. Bellatrix would eventually drift away, smiling all the while like a barracuda. Irritating cow! She knew, and I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew, and so on ad infinitum. She was the last person I would have chosen to confide in had I ever dared and I was not comfortable with her knowing. She was the sort of person the word word “blackmail” was invented for, no pun intended. A Slytherin, to put it another way. To my surprise, though, she never seemed to tell anyone, except perhaps Narcissa who would sometimes shoot me a cool blue look beneath an amusingly arched eyebrow, but then Narcissa was as savvy as her sister, if not more so, and perhaps had worked it out for herself. One day, Barty, Sinistra and I were sat in the common room on some of the hard armchairs about the fire. The place was mostly empty, probably owing to some act of strike against the allowance of a Hufflepuff into our quarters, but that suited me. I was sat across from Barty, who was half-sprawled in the enormous mahogany armchair, looking strange and captivating in the greenish glow of the room. Sinistra had perched birdlike upon the arm of his chair. Her long legs were hanging crossed, cocked under the gloaming satin of her robes. In her hands she played with one of her medallions; I could hear the pewter faintly crunch as she bent it back and forth into shape. Then suddenly she reached over and, quite unconcernedly, combed her metallic-tipped fingers through Barty’s hair. A bolt of sick fury shot through my veins, a rush of blood to the head, and I stared fiercely away into the fire. After a while, Sinistra bent close to his ear and told him she was going to her dormitory to do something and she would be back in a while. He nodded, and she pecked his cheek and then clipped off up the stairs. I scowled sidelong after her, my eyes burning with the glare of the hearth. “Don’t you think you’re a bit young for her?” I suddenly asked. I could not help it. It just slipped out. Barty rolled his eyes at me. “Oh, lord. Not you too.” “I’m not criticising!” I lied. “I just…well, do you?” “No, I don’t,” he said, quite firmly. “I’m thirteen. It’s old enough.” “Yeah,” I said. “And she’s nearly fifteen. It’s not much of an age difference as adults, maybe, but…” “But I’m fourteen soon. And you’re fifteen too in a few months. Should I stop knocking about with you too?” I scowled into the fire. “You know I don’t mean that.” “I know exactly what you mean, Regulus.” I looked back at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?” He did not answer me but gave me a curious dark look from beneath his lashes. Uncomfortable, I looked away again. My eyes were searing-dry by now. I blinked. A period of silence followed, before Barty finally said. “I’m not going to stop seeing her, Reg. I don’t care what other people think, and to tell you the truth I don’t really care what you think either. I would, however, prefer it if you’d just try and get used to the idea. It would make things much easier for all of us. Now, how about we forget this?” I grunted at him, folding my hands into my armpits in a sort of half-hug of myself. “Trouble in paradise?” came a sudden ringing voice and I felt my heart drop. Oh, not…but it was. Bellatrix beamed down over my chair, all razor-blade smile and black eyes. “What do you want?” I snapped irritably. Her eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Oh dear. Someone is moody today. Alas! but surely Hogwarts’ favourite inter- house couple are not on the verge of a messy divorce?” “If you mean Barty and Sinistra, no. They’re doing quite fine. Sinistra just popped upstairs for something,” I said pointedly. She smirked at me but did not take it any further. Instead, she traipsed about my armchair, all scarlet wriggle in new heeled boots, and descended upon Barty. “Hullo,” he said. “Good evening, sweetheart. How is my dear cousin treating you?” Sweetheart? thought I. Irritation rose into my throat. “Quite all right, Bella. We were just having a discussion.” He shot me a look from under her arm. I did not look back. “A discussion? My, but what about?” “The peaks and pitfalls of between-house relationships, and the affect of age upon these,” he remarked archly. “And there’s me thinking you were having a little tiff! Surely, but Regulus here must be a terrific bore? He’s never been much of a talker. Or an intellectual for that matter.” “Haven’t you got better things to do?” I snapped. “Like plotting the revolution and destabilising economies?” She waved a hand at me. “All in good time. Actually, it was about that I wanted to talk to you boys.” I stared sharply at her. “Ah, see, about that. We would but we’ve got homework tonight, and when it comes between overthrowing the government and doing Transfiguration, I’m afraid the latter wins out. McGonagall can be a terrible bitch.” “Quite. But what I really wanted to ask was if Barty here was willing to join our little group?” My eyes swung to settle on hers. “No,’ I said. ‘No, he’s not willing.” “Not willing to what?” Barty asked, pushing Bellatrix’s arm to look at me. I ignored him. “Barty’s not interested,” I told her. “Surely he ought to have a say in the matter?” She pouted. Her eyes flashed. There was wickedness in those set lips, smeared red as the kill for the occasion. “I certainly think so!” barked Barty petulantly. He was staring at me in anger, mouth pressed thin. “It’s my Pureblood Pride Union,” she told him. “For those who oppose the government’s position on Muggleborns and the destruction they wreak upon our culture, and believe in the reassertion of the rights of true wizard-kind everywhere. You’re welcome to join if you’re interested.” “He’s not interested,” I affirmed. “Barty’s not bothered about that sort of thing.” “Who says I’m not?” Barty snapped, glaring, “Now if you’d stop speaking on my behalf, Regulus…” “You wouldn’t be interested, really,” I told him desperately. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said in a thin voice, and turned to Bellatrix. “What about it then?” Bellatrix was looking thoughtful though and I, having known her all my life, knew at once she was up to something. I stiffened in my chair. Don’t you dare. “My cousin may be right, I’m afraid. I’m not sure it is your sort of thing. Your fellow Hufflepuffs certainly wouldn’t like it and if your father found out…” That was it. The evil, evil bitch. Barty’s eyes had clouded over. I saw his nails dig into the soft green of the chair arms. His lips were so thin I thought they might disappear. “As it turns out,” he finally replied after a moment, voice tight as dragon heartstring. “I am interested in that sort of thing. When’s your next meeting?” Bellatrix beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. He winced. “Excellent! I’m afraid the next meeting is yet to be decided but as soon as I know I’ll get Regulus here to inform you. He comes too.” With that, she clattered away up the stairs on her new red heels, looking distinctly like the Kneazle who got the cream. “Why did you say that?” I asked when she had gone, “I know you’re not bothered by that sort of thing.” “Why do you insist on telling me what I am or am not interested in? It’s none of your sodding business, Regulus.” “Barty…” “Don’t ‘Barty’ me. You have no bloody idea,” he snarled. I looked at my shoes and said: “Yeah, well, I just thought trying to rebel against your dad was not a good enough reason.” He spat a look like acid at me. Despite not being able to see his face I felt it on the back of my bent neck. “Get lost, would you? Just sod off.” My stomach hardened to iron. I wanted to vomit. Another period of silence passed before he broke it, this time in gentler tones. “Look, I’m only going to see if I am interested is all. If it’s not for me I’ll leave. It’s not like it’s a lifelong commitment.” I looked up at him. The greenish light was smudged about his eyes, which seemed softer now. I nodded my head. “All right,” I said. “And I’m sorry. I’ll not do it again.” “Was that Bellatrix Black I just saw you talking to?” came a sudden voice to the left of me; Sinistra was back. I bared my teeth silently. What was it with women ruining things for us? “Yeah,” replied Barty. Sinistra balanced herself back on his chair and curled her long fingers about his. I refused to look at her. “You should avoid her. She’s bad business,” she said matter-of-factly. I felt Barty’s eyes turn on me, awaiting my agreement. “She’s my cousin, if you don’t mind,” I growled at the fire. There was a pause, then Sinistra grunted and shrugged her shoulders. “I know,” she said, in a resigned sort of voice. * * * * * I cannot explain what is was that prompted me to speak on Barty’s behalf like that. Whether it was me defending him from Bellatrix (and, indeed, myself; like I said before she knew far too much for her -- or at least my -- own good, and I did not trust her to keep it to herself one little bit), or a curious expression of possessiveness, or what. All I knew is that I did not want him involved in the Pureblood Pride Union if I could help it. Unfortunately my best efforts had gone awry, leaving him only more determined to join. I spent the next few days in a sulking misery, but soon bounced back when I realised that, due to her aversion to my cousin, Sinistra would certainly not be invited to the meetings. So Bellatrix turned out to be useful for something after all. The next meeting came somewhat sooner than expected, prompted by an article in the Daily Prophet which informed us that a certain Cassius Rosier, among a number of other suspects, had been taken into custody for questioning about an incident involving a pure-blood rally and the regrettable proximity of some Muggle hikers. Evan Rosier, the son and heir of this Cassius, was understandably put out about this, and a conference resulted. This was not the first of such arrests but was the first in which one had affected one of our own so closely. I was told to inform Barty and, against my better judgement, did so dutifully. That evening, Bellatrix hounded all the non-members from the Slytherin common room and the meeting took place in relative peace. Barty sat quiet for a time, happy to just observe while Rosier and Bellatrix snarled and raged and spat blood for the best part of an hour. I had never known Rosier to get angry before -- he was usually so collected and above it all -- but supposed that the arrest of one’s father might change the situation. I tried to imagine Barty’s face if Mr Crouch was ever detained in such circumstances and nearly laughed, such was its implausibility. When Rosier’s tirade eventually wore off and he sunk back into his usual icy humour, attention turned to Barty. A new face in our midst was usually remarked upon, naturally, but this time the response was different. Barty was from another house and, more importantly in this case, was the son of the man who was leading the pack when it came to anti-Death Eater feeling at the ministry. As it turned out, in fact, Mr Crouch was responsible for the recent arrests including that of Rosier’s father. There would, it seemed, be some explaining to do. I had not known this about Barty’s father as I rarely read newspapers and took little interest in politics beyond that expected of me. Barty had never mentioned it, so I was somewhat startled by the news. How Barty -- who was clearly not surprised to learn of this -- had had the cheek to turn up to the meeting with the knowledge it was his own dad who had been responsible was beyond me. I began to wonder if Barty, pretty and lovely and perfect as he was, was perhaps not a little mad. He had balls the size of Bludgers at the very least. Evan Rosier was understandably furious -- “Who the fuck’s this?” -- and the others hardly took it better. Barty faced the scene which followed with a stiff-backed grace, and when the chorus of angry voices died down Bellatrix spoke. “I invited him.” A silence, and several pairs of eyes flickered sidewards to settle on one another. There was an uncertain shuffling. Then: “Why?” It was Rosier. He was glowering at Barty with glass-coloured eyes and a mouth reduced to a pencil-thin streak. I would not much have cared to be in Barty’s shoes at that moment, but the boy seemed unperturbed. He did not hold Rosier’s stare but concentrated somewhere on his brow. I wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder, to make some sort of gesture of solidarity, but it would have been a foolish move at that moment. “Because I wanted to,” snapped Bellatrix. “I’m the leader of this group and I’ll invite who I please. As you will all know, Crouch here -- that is Crouch junior, not his father -- has been in our common room as of late due to his seeing Sinistra in fourth year and a friendship with my cousin here. I have taken the opportunity in this time to have some discussions with Barty and assess his character for myself, thinking that perhaps we had an ally on our side, and indeed I think I have assessed correctly. I doubt any of you will argue his pedigree -- his grandmother was a Black -- and he has shown himself to be talented and clever, and would be an excellent asset to our movement.” Bellatrix rarely partook of such speeches except when she was truly ticked off and as a result no one dared answer her at first. Finally, Rosier spoke again. His voice was brittle and dangerous as cracked pond-ice. I regarded him anxiously. “His father. You know what his father has done. H-- how can we ever trust him? What if every word we say will be relayed to that-- that--.” He seemed unable to go on. Bellatrix opened her mouth to reply but it was Barty who spoke first. “I would do nothing of the sort. The reason I’m here, other than to satisfy my curiosity, is to feeling secure in the knowledge I’m doing everything I can to go against my father’s ideals. I detest the man.” Rosier, who had been watching Barty -- whose gaze was now fixed unblinkingly upon his -- turned his face to Bellatrix. Everybody looked at her and I took the opportunity to seize Barty’s hand and squeeze the fingers gently. He pulled it away, shaking his head impatiently. No. “I don’t trust him,” said Rosier to Bellatrix. She sneered at him. “Well, you’d better learn to, because I like him and he’s staying. I’m the boss and this is not a democracy.” She was always a good little autocrat. “Look, if it helps I’d be quite willing to drink some Veritaserum or take an Unbreakable Vow if you like,” Barty put in. I fancied there was almost a glint of hope in his eye. “No!” I yelped, startling everyone. “Don’t be a prat, Barty.” He gave me a withering stare, but Bellatrix came to my rescue. “No, no, you’re all right. No such thing is needed. Not now, at the very least.” Her gaze drifted across the others in the group, quite coolly. They looked away. “Now. I suggest everyone say a polite welcome to our newest -- and youngest! -- member. Look, Regulus, you’re not the baby any more.” Everyone muttered a greeting, and Bellatrix ruffled my head in an attempt to annoy me. I said nothing but sulked superbly. With a grin like a gin-trap she turned to Barty. “I hope you don’t come to the conclusion that this place isn’t for you because of the -- ah -- lack of enthusiasm shown by its members, shall we say? I am sure they’ll warm up to you eventually.” He smiled back at her and inclined his head. Bellatrix bared her teeth further and then, with a voice that glinted like the sleek side of an axe, said: “And if anyone has a problem with the content of this meeting they should feel free to come and discuss it with me any time.” She looked at Rosier. Rosier did not look back. * * * * * Barty’s quiet charisma and young appeal soon asserted itself within the group, and in no time at all he was a well-liked, fully-integrated member. Rosier - - and by extension, Wilkes -- took more time coming round to the idea, as could be expected I suppose, but he soon too fell to his charm. Indeed, he became more popular than I, though it has to be said I was never particularly liked; I was there because I was Bellatrix and Narcissa’s cousin and everyone knew it. Barty, on the other hand, took an active interest and found, after satisfying his initial curiosity, the group was much to his liking and agreed to stay. A voracious reader and eloquent speaker when called upon, he readily threw himself into the debates. Bellatrix was particularly pleased to have had her hunch proven correct, and marched him proudly about on her arm like he was a trophy. She even took to bestowing her painful pinches upon him, which was always a good sign if not a particularly pleasant one to endure. I cannot say I was too impressed by all this. I was rather jealous, to tell you the truth, both of his impressive integrative abilities and also the fact everyone else seemed to love him now. I was there first! I wanted to scream at them, but thankfully never reached the appropriate stage of insanity or inebriation which would have led me to do this. Instead I restrained myself, confining my affection to the odd caress when no one was looking; a furtive touch of the elbow or brush of the wrist. Sometimes he would shrug this away petulantly, and sometimes he would permit it. Barty never let on to his housemates what it was he was doing when he came to the Slytherin common room. They all knew about Sinistra of course, and accepted it with typical Hufflepuff tolerance, but apparently he considered it beyond even their open-mindedness to understand his interest in the union. I thought this a wise decision, and the other members had the good grace to keep their traps shut. He seemed to enjoy this secrecy; he said it made the thrill all the more exciting. I rolled my eyes and smiled indulgently at this. Strange boy. Resigned to the fact he was going to continue taking part in meetings, I had hoped that he would split up with Sinistra. She had made her feelings of his alliance with Bellatrix quite clear, and I anticipated a messy break-up with lots of screaming and throwing things. Unfortunately this did not transpire. If anything their relationship became even stronger, Barty even taking to going up to the Astronomy Tower with Sinistra, presumably to help her put the location to its proper use. I felt very depressed over this, overcome by a feeling of loneliness. This was not their fault; they were always, as I have mentioned, thoughtful about not excluding me the way other couples might, but this did not alleviate the feeling of insignificance that plagued me during fourth year. It got to the point when I refused to meet with him when they were together, and on the occasions I did I declined to speak, instead spending hours in a sulking silence, sometimes uttering a stroppy monosyllabic when they tried to force conversation. This resulted in an irritable Barty, who became very short with me, which in turn led to a more miserable me, creating an unpleasant positive feedback system which I found hard to break. One day during the spring I discovered that the Northern Lights were to be visible that night, as the sky was expected to be clear. Despite all my years spent in Scotland I had never been witness to this particular natural phenomenon, and decided I would have to see it for myself, even if this did require sneaking out of bed some time around midnight. Coming to the conclusion that I would rather not do this by myself, I determined I would ask Barty if he would like to see them with me. I was aware that this sounded all too much like a proposition but was desperate enough to try it anyway. But when I finally waylaid him in the corridors that afternoon and worked up the courage to ask, he replied: “Sorry, Aurora’s already invited me up to the Astronomy Tower to watch them with her. She’s terribly excited about the whole thing.” He did not ask me if I wanted to join them, either knowing I would refuse or because he wanted some privacy, and I was left feeling utterly devastated. I skived off the afternoon lessons, feigning toothache, and curled up in my bed for the entire evening. I did not move, not even for dinner, until lights-off when everyone was asleep. Then, obeying some perverse instinct, I decided I would go out and see them anyway, even if it meant doing so alone. A good half-hour of tip-toeing down stone passageways and a near run-in with Filch later, I found myself outside. The sky was a silken navy rag, interspersed by stars, clear as crystal. No sign of the lights. The air was cold as winter iron, and I shivered, wishing I had had the good sense to bring my cloak. Nevertheless I persevered and then, nearing midnight, saw a bolt of purest gold, like a lit arrow, appear from the north and streak away in a southwards arc. Then the sky rippled all scarlet-green and pale, like some celestial satin sheet being shook. It filled the whole night sky with a queer, many-coloured glow; a flowing, moving, organic thing. It was astonishing, more beautiful than I could have imagined, and I gawped. For a moment I forgot my sorrow but then it came flooding back, a horrid, hope-sucking thing, a shroud of deepest melancholy descending down from that superb sky. Nausea, and drowning loneliness. Then there were fingers on the small of my back. I turned and there he was, looking up at me and smiling a little, raw with cold. Face lit by the Aurora Borealis above. No Aurora beside him though. Just me and him. “Evenin’,” Barty said. I gaped at him. “It’s pretty isn’t it? I’ve just been watching them in the Astronomy Tower but the view’s better from here, wouldn’t you agree? Bit nippy, mind.” “What are you doing here?” I managed to say, still astonished. “I thought you said you were spending the night with Sinistra?” “Oh, I did but she’s terribly into this sort of thing. A bit too enthusiastic if you know what I mean. She can get quite boring. ” I could not help but grin. “So you left her on her own up there?” “I don’t think she even noticed. I couldn’t unstick her eye from the lens long enough to tell her. She’ll see for herself eventually, and I’m sure I won’t be missed. I think I was getting in the way a bit, to tell you the truth. I was going to go to bed but decided to check to see if you were out here. I heard you had a sore tooth.” He raised a sceptical eyebrow at me. I smiled back sheepishly. “Well, you know. I just didn’t much fancy the lessons that afternoon.” “I thought as much,” he replied, and I smiled at this fib. “Anyway, I didn’t see you at dinner and thought you might be hungry, so I brought you some stuff.” And from out of nowhere he produced a bag, filled with bits of cake and cheese wrapped in grease paper. It suddenly occurred to me I was starving. “You’re a star, Barty!” I gasped, and meant it. I grabbed the bag from him. Then with a crumbling bit of Victoria sponge in one hand and a cherry Bakewell in the other, we settled down on the dew-licked grass and watched the shimmering sky rolling above, with his cloak covering both our shoulders. My earlier misery was completely forgotten. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * AUTHOR’S_NOTES 1: Aurora Sinistra Crouch/Sinistra is one of those odd little ships that I like very much, though I suppose that’s not saying very much seeing as this whole fanfic is an exercise in an odd little ship that I like very much. But yes. It is based solely on the bit of GoF in which, at the Yule Ball (I think), there is a moment in which fake!Moody is dancing with Professor Sinistra. Therefore, in fandom’s opinion, they must have been shagging. And who am I to buck a trend? ***** Chapter Five ***** Author's notes: Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr. slash. “I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed.” =============================================================================== Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to JKR and assorted companies. I just write fluff and porn with them. Citric_Acid Chapter Five Summer that year turned out to be an interesting one. There was but one reason for this, and its name was Sirius. Before Hogwarts, Sirius had been like the rest of us. He did not cause trouble, he did not dye his hair orange and, most importantly, he was content to stick with his own kind. He seemed quite happy with this existence. He had always been exuberant and extroverted, Hogwarts or no, and I remembered fondly the mischievous brother who constantly got me into trouble for something he had done. The boisterous brother who play-fought with me. The sympathetic brother who stole potion from Mother’s medicinal case when I had taken out a male cousin’s pet Streeler from its tank without asking and ended up, somehow, ingesting a little venom. Hogwarts had changed all that. The house, his new friends, the situation with Andromeda, his age…whatever it was that caused it had its effect in first year, and he came back distinctly changed. He fought with our parents -- particularly Mother, from whom Sirius had inherited his temper -- constantly, often picking arguments for what seemed the pure sake of it. In the summer of 1976 he seemed even more determined to cause trouble. In fact, there was something about him that holiday which suggested, to me at least, he knew it was going to happen. There was an atmosphere, an electrical buzz in the air, that told me something was on its way. It happened explosively, as was his style, and for reasons I never learned. It was probably something trivial; Sirius was forever using the most petty things to cause rows. He would argue the colour of the sky if it meant trouble. I was in my bedroom at the time, so not in the vicinity, but heard every word any way. I recall a lot of swearing on the part of my brother, and a lot of anti-Muggle raving from my mother, and then the next moment Sirius was raging up the stairs. I heard his door slam so hard a picture fell off the wall outside. This was swiftly replaced by Kreacher, and I called the house-elf in. “What’s going on?” I asked him, all too aware that next door my brother was making an awful lot of noise. “Young Master is arguing with Mistress again and has threatened to leave the house. Mistress is most displeased and has told him he should go. Kreacher thinks it is about time, and that young Master is an ungrateful, Muggle-loving brat, and that he does not deserve to be allowed in the presence of our Mistress. Krea--” “Yes, Kreacher, thank you. Go away now.” A crack and he was gone, and I was left listening to the sound of Sirius packing next door. I heard him bundling away his clothes into his school trunk, followed by his records and the machine they played on. Finally the banging stopped and I heard him leave the bedroom. The next moment his head was poking round the door. “I’m leaving home,” he said. “I know. Kreacher told me.” Sirius snorted. “Is that it then? Is that all you have to say?” I shrugged at him. “There’s not much I can do, is there? You sound like you’re decided and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. I can’t say I’m surprised anyway. You’ve had it coming ages now.” Sirius swore at me and the door slammed closed. It was the last I would see of him until school started again in the autumn. Until then, all I had to remind me of my brother was the smell of burnt cloth and a small neat hole like a cigarette burn. * * * * * The meetings of the Union continued, despite the notable lack of Bellatrix, Rosier and Wilkes. Narcissa, who was in Seventh Year herself now, took over in her sister’s absence, making an effort to actually turn up. Narcissa was less prone to favouritism than her sister, and as a result the “fringe” members such as Snape and, I suppose, myself, were allowed more say in the proceedings. I took no particular advantage of this new found freedom, happy to let others do the talking. Under Narcissa’s rule the Union became a more covert operation of which the Slytherins were only really aware, and for a time at least house tension subsided a little. This was in stark contrast to the newspapers bringing word from the outside, where the rift between the pro- and anti-Voldemort sides seemed to be growing ever wider. Each day reported demonstrations and riots and arrests. I imagined Bellatrix thoroughly enjoying herself in these disturbances, knowing that somewhere along the line she was involved. Mr Crouch’s name also had frequent mention in the news stories as every day he became more zealous in his determination to capture the dark wizards responsible. He was hot-tipped to become the next Minister of Magic, though I never brought this up with Barty, knowing full well what his response would be. It was around this time people stopped using the name “Lord Voldemort.” Though away at school for most of the year, all of us were aware of the feeling surrounding him, and the sudden vogue for referring to him as “You-Know-Who” affected even us. Except in Slytherin house or more specifically, in the Union, where we began to refer to him as the Dark Lord. This, we heard, was what Death Eaters and sympathisers referred to him as and so we adopted it too. Well, that, and it just plain sounded cooler. Narcissa was still in correspondence with her sister, who would suggest to her things to bring up during meetings. She told Narcissa that we ought to be prepared for duelling; all members should be ready to go down fighting. Narcissa introduced this to the Union, which responded with enthusiasm for all involved, myself included. I found the duel practises much more to my liking than the talking; it felt as though finally I was doing something. I was also quite good at it -- at least, I was better than Barty, which was a new experience for me. This annoyed him something awful and I regularly had the enjoyment of the sight of his face flushed and screwed with fury whenever I managed to disarm him during practices. Sometimes he would be so annoyed he would march off after the meeting without saying goodbye, and I was not so smug then. Christmas proved dull that year without my brother to spice it up, and lonely. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, thought it best that I should not be allowed to go out about London any more, which quickly dispensed of any ideas of having Barty stay over for a few days. I think she must have thought I would turn out like Sirius was I permitted near Muggles; perhaps she thought they were catching. I did not mind too much though. Barty barely spoke to me that year. He was always with Sinistra, who I still did not feel comfortable around, or talking with other Union members. I felt self-conscious and stupid, thinking he must be bored of me, and vowed to stay away so he would not have to put up with my company. Things became more interesting a few days before school started again when we went down to the Black estate in the Sussex Downs, where my father’s brother and his family resided. I spent a large part of this time outside, enjoying the clean winter air and rolling England green. The air smelled different here to the smoggy oppression of London, or the pine-sap sharpness of the Highlands. Bellatrix had, since leaving school, also left home and moved into a town-house with Rodolphus Lestrange. However, she arrived for the holiday, bringing with her Lestrange and a certain metal loop round a finger of the left hand. As soon as she saw it Narcissa forgot herself and leapt up, throwing her arms around her sister. Bellatrix announced they planned to be married some time next year, though a date had not yet been arranged. We all beamed. Rodolphus Lestrange was of fine blood, and as heir to the Lestrange fortune would be worth a great deal in a few years time. “It’ll be one of you next!” said my aunt, grinning down at Narcissa and myself. Narcissa cast me a look of blue steel under her yellow lashes, and in the distance I heard Bellatrix scream with laughter. Blushing fiercely, I stared at my feet. Some time into the evening Bellatrix sauntered over, as she was wont to do, and placed herself beside me. Engagement had apparently done nothing for her intrinsic evilness, if her smile was anything to go by at least, and when she reached over to clasp my knee her nails were sharp and carrion-red. “How’s Barty doing?” she asked in that fake-innocent tone of hers. “Fine, I think,” I replied, thrusting her hand from my leg. “Still with Sinistra?” Voice saccharine now. I refused to rise to the bait. She gleaned an answer from my expression, however, and sighed aloud. “Such a waste, eh?” I scowled at her. “Oh, tut. So sulky, so in-love…” and she made to touch me again. Suddenly infuriated, I swung round and caught her arm -- her left arm -- in my fist. A high yelp of pain unclenched my knuckles and I fell back, staring in alarm. Her handsome face was flushed in agony, and she was clutching the place where I had seized her. Her teeth were bared like those of a hurt animal. “I barely touch--” and then I froze. Realisation began to seep in, and my eyes widened in horror. “You didn’t!” She shot me a look of pure venom. “Of course I did, you stupid little idiot! What did you think all that stuff at school was, hot air?” I just stared. Her mouth shaking. I saw her snatch a peek down the long lace sleeve of her jet dress-robes. Then, with one last delicate rub, she stood up. “I’m leaving now. Rodolphus and I have to go, we’re busy tomorrow.” “When did you have it done?” I asked, ignoring her. “Just a few days ago. It’s still a bit raw.” “Can I see it?” “No, you can’t!” she snapped, and without another word turned and stalked from the room. After the newly-engaged pair had left, the discussion turned to gossip. Excited murmurings from the women about wedding plans, what dress-robes she would wear, how beautiful that ring was… I wondered, vaguely, if they knew of that other vow she wore on her left arm. * * * * * My fifth year at Hogwarts proved to be perhaps the most trying of mine and Barty’s friendship, and it was in the summer of 1977 that this general ill- feeling came to a head. It -- the incident -- happened during a meeting of the Slug Club. Professor Slughorn had called a last gathering before the summer holidays began, and I clung to the invitation with enthusiasm. Sinistra, who was not particularly famous, talented or wealthy, who had no prestigious future predicted for her, was not a part of the Slug Club. We would be allowed a guest each, but Barty had made it known that Sinistra -- who had come to the last -- had not much enjoyed herself and chose to miss out on this one. He would not be bringing anybody. This meant that it presented an opportunity for me to have Barty all to myself. I seized the chance with starved and greedy hands. We went together to the Potions room, done up in our dress-robes. Mine were of black silk, a development of the previous fashion but this time more of a long buttoned jacket, waistcoat and narrow trousers, what the Muggleborns would call ‘drainpipes’. It was last year’s trend, and rather unconventional, but I liked it. Besides, I was rather wary of this year’s fashion which embraced flared robes and gauche colour. The meeting was in fact a party of sorts. Slughorn had one at the end of every school year for his favourites, in which sweets and pastries were consumed, and a little booze smuggled. I was chatting with Barty and a girl in my year about the atrocious performance of the Chudley Cannons in the Quidditch match last weekend when Slughorn approached the table and gave a great moan of horror. “We seem to have run out of mead!” he sighed, his corpulent frame seeming to shrink on the very bones. I glanced at Barty who smiled back, quietly humoured. “We can’t have that, can we sir?” I grinned and my house master raised his eyes up to me. “Indeed we can’t, Regulus.” He appraised us under enormous eyebrows and shining scalp, then said, “Would you boys be so good as to visit my office and bring back the two boxes of drink under my desk?” “Of course, sir.” Keys in hand, we scampered away up the passage, a little flushed and giggling from mead already consumed. It was early evening. A sleepy June heat immersed the place, the sun casting a hazy orange bloom across the corridor. It was perfectly empty. “In here.” Slughorn’s office was an extension of himself; everything was soft, ostentatious, rotund. There were a number of boxes of sweets piled about his desk, including his favourite crystallised pineapple. Under this desk were two wooden crates of alcohol. “Wonderful man,” grinned Barty as he drew out a box. “Quite,” I said, taking the other. We made to set off back down the passageway but then Barty paused. “Do you think they can wait a while?” he asked. “I’m sure,” I replied, and we smiled at one another. Snatching up a decanter, a couple of brandy glasses, and a large box of chocolates from Slughorn’s private stash, we flopped down together into an enormous camel-coloured armchair. It sunk beneath us like some voluptuous marshmallow. “Here’s to us!” cheered Barty, pouring the firewhisky. We clashed the glasses and tossed it back. The next moment we were both coughing and spluttering. “Ugh, how do they drink this stuff?” Barty choked, eyes running. I shook my head, unable to reply, and we replaced the glasses and drink. Barty then cracked open the chocolates and we fell to them. There were no nasty surprises awaiting in this box and we were soon stuffed to the brim. “You think we should go back now?” I groaned, feeling quite ill. Barty murmured something but made no move. We were rather comfortable sat together in the chair, pressed against one another. I could feel his hip, his warm arm on mine, our entangled legs…a familiar feeling stirred. I ignored it resolutely. For a time we just sat there, content in our mutual silence, groggy with sun and drink and chocolates. I felt his hand entwine itself with mine, and squeezed back. He smiled sleepily and leaned his head on my shoulder. A blissful surge; I had not felt this happy in ages. And then I buggered it up. I do not know what prompted me to do something so stupid, but nevertheless I did. Perhaps it was the whisky. Perhaps I felt we were more at ease than we actually were. Whatever it was…well. “So, did Sinistra really not want to come because she didn’t like it or was she just making excuses?” Next to me he stirred. His eyes opened and I felt them turn on me. “What?” Unheeding the warning tone in that what? I carried on. “It just seems you two have been going out a while. I’d have thought you’d have got bored of each other by now.” “Not this again.” “I mean, you’re only fifteen,” I hiccupped. “And you’ve been with her for what, nearly two years? Isn’t that just a little bit odd?” Barty sprang up from the chair and stalked over to the far wall. His arms were crossed and his brow etched in fury. He watched me savagely as I followed him over. “I mean…” I carried on regardless. “I mean it’s not like you’re going to get married or anything. It’s not like you’re in love or anything…are you?” He did not say anything, but fixed me with that pinpoint stare. Perhaps if I had shut up there it would have been okay, we could have forgotten about it. But oh no. “You’re fifteen. You should-- you should be out sowing your wild seed…I mean, your wild oats, shouldn’t you? You’re fifteen and you’re practically married!” That was it. He snapped. The next moment he had me by the throat and had swung round, ramming me up against the wall. I gasped in pain. “Shit, Barty. Watch it! I was just--!” “All right,” he was saying. “All right. So you think I should get around a bit?‘Sow my wild oats’ as you put it?” Something was not right. I looked down at that wild face, the dark fierce eyes and trembling furious mouth. I tried to move but he kept me pinned there. “Not exactl-- well I suppose…” “Is this what you want?” he asked, and I suddenly became aware that he was unpinning the buttons of my jacket. “What are you doing?” I squirmed, alarmed. “Is this what you want?” he repeated. His hand had crept inside the front of my robes and was now resting against the buckle of my belt. I felt the fingers begin to work, begin to ease open the leather strap. A convulsive shudder ran up my back. “Get off, Barty,” I whispered. I was shaking, mortified, but unable to move. He smiled up at me in a manner that made me think of Bellatrix. Made me think of the skull now burned into her flesh. “Do you mean that?” He had unattached the belt; I felt the iron buckle’s weight fall loose against my thigh. He slipped in his fingers and-- cupped. I gasped. His fingers began to move, very gently at first. I ached and, quite unconsciously, arched towards him. I could feel myself pressed into his stomach. Could feel the hand, moving, sending spasms, excruciating and delicious, shooting up my back. A current of electricity. My spine wrenched, forcing out my chest, kicking my groin. Almost subconsciously I rocked rhythmically into his curled palm. My head swam. I was delirious. “Now, one more time. Is this what you want?” “Yes,” I breathed. Through red-misted eyes I could see his arm moving, first gently and now almost a sort of abrupt sawing motion. Is that all he's doing?I thought. It had certainly never felt like this all those times when I could not sleep. His mouth was somewhere near my throat. I could feel the heat of his breath casting a fog across my jugular. A dampness there. He leaned in slightly closer and I felt the slightest touch -- a mere brush -- of his upper lip on my neck. That somehow did it. With a noise I had hitherto not known I could make, I bucked up against him. The stones crushed against my shoulder blades, agonisingly, but I hardly noticed. I swore, and then my face was in his hair and I was gasping against it, caught in its smell and colour, its texture in my moaning mouth. Then that familiar hot wetness was between my legs, and guilt -- almost Pavlovian -- rushed in. I collapsed back against the wall. Barty had withdrawn his hand and I was suddenly cold. I slipped down the wall, disintegrating right there. A pile of gaunt limbs and creased black silk. The carnal odour of sex in my nostrils. “Fuck,” I said. I touched the back of my neck and it was slick with sweat. I could hardly bring myself to look up at Barty. “Is that what you wanted?” he asked, for the fourth and final time. He was looking at his hand as though it had turned round and bit him. I could see he was shaking. I swallowed. My throat was completely dry. Then I nodded. “Yes,” I said again. “Indeed.” Looking up from his hand, he suddenly leaned forward and scrubbed it against my dress robes. Then he regarded me for a moment, face impassive. Finally, “Well, I’m afraid it’s not for me. It’s not what I want. I want Aurora. I’m happy with Aurora. I want you to know that.” He marched across the room and with a flick of his wand had levitated both boxes of drink from the floor. He gave me one last look. “Clean yourself up. I’ll tell Slughorn you felt ill and I took you back to the dormitories. Goodbye.” And he left me. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * AUTHOR’S_NOTES 1: Horace Slughorn Anyone else see Uncle Monty from Withnail & I when they read Slughorn? Such a shame the actor already has work in the HP movies, because he would have been perfect. Personally I’m rooting for Tom Baker to get the part, but perhaps that’s just me. Yup, that is all I have got for this set of author’s notes. ***** Chapter Six ***** Author's notes: Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr. slash. “I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed.” =============================================================================== Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to JKR and assorted companies. I just write fluff and porn with them. Citric_Acid Chapter Six The summer holidays that year were a bleak time for me. Without my correspondence with Barty I felt isolated, cut off from the world. I sunk into a deep, black depression, spending hours in my room just staring at the walls. I declined to eat, sometimes not leaving my bedroom for days at a time. Kreacher was my only companion, though, as a good house-elf, I was rarely aware that he had even been there. His presence was announced by the sudden appearance of a tray of dinner or pot of tea not called for. My parents seemed oblivious to me, a fact which did not help alleviate my unhappiness. Even Nero felt the change, often arriving at my window to raise an expectant claw, waiting for me to attach the anticipated letter and send him on his northward flight. But it never came. Under such circumstances I began to change, to become embittered and angry at my situation, to become somehow darker. Then one night I snapped, and at a loss at how to deal with this I stole from the house at eleven o’clock at night, concealed in some semblance of Muggle attire, and went wandering into the city. I walked for hours. Miles and miles through a damp night, puddles at my feet, orange sodium lamps reflected within. The hum of Muggle engines in my ears. Walking until my muscles burned, until the ache within seemed to have manifested itself as something physical. I found myself in Soho, all dazzled with bright city lights, flash neon colours, muffled electric beats. Exhausted, I paused to slump outside a public lavatory. I leaned up against the wall and breathed, and stared up into the starless sky. I did not know what the time it was. All I knew was that I was practically alone, I was wandless, and I was very vulnerable. It may seem surprising then that I felt no fear when I saw him. He was a large man, a Muggle, with hair shaved almost to the scalp, thick knotty fingers, and a tattoo up each arm depicting some laughable portrayal of a dragon. My eyes caught his, and the next moment I was inside the toilets. Only one light worked and thank Merlin for it because what I could see was not pleasant. Cracked mirrors, chipped porcelain urinals, tiles which had perhaps been white at one time. The floor was damp, though with what I could not bring myself to look. There was a stench in my nostrils; piss, shit, vomit. I felt ill, but no compulsion drove me to escape this hellish place. Indeed, it was with no persuasion from the Muggle behind me that I marched directly into the nearest toilet and turned to face him. He followed, and the next moment I was pressed up against the cistern with him gnawing at my jaw. I crumpled backwards. My hands slithered against the slick enamel of the toilet bowl. I was being pushed down, boots screeching on the wet floor. He smelt of sweat and cigarettes. In spite of the revulsion that rose up I felt that familiar animal reaction happening further south. His hands were on my zip and I felt rough red hands take hold. I made no effort to struggle, not even when he lowered his head and took me between his lips. I simply leaned back against the cistern and shut my eyes. I drifted into reverie. I thought of Barty by the lake with the sun in his hair and the lowercase ‘m’ of his mouth and his soft pale hands. Barty who, in my mind’s eye, was fresh and clean and pure as soap. Who had low shadow- black lashes and a scree of freckles on the white slopes of his cheeks, and a gap in his front teeth. I awoke. I felt the mouth drawing on me, and thought of that gap in Barty’s teeth, and then I shivered and cried and came. The mouth removed itself. I tucked myself in. How much? asked the Muggle, and I saw his hands were filled with crumpled bits of paper with pictures of a woman on them. He made to cram them into my palm and suddenly I was horrified. I shoved him away from me and the next moment was running, skidding along the piss-wet tiles and out into the orange-lit street. Galloping into the night like some startled animal, stomach cramping with nausea. I ran until I could not any longer and then collapsed into an alley. There I sat in the rain, stained and dripping, oblivious to the wet creeping into my clothes. I was shaking not with cold but with a acute sensation of revolted horror at what I had just done. I felt physically ill. I wanted to wash, to scrub the skin so hard it peeled, to free myself from the Muggle filth I had allowed to touch me. I thought of those coarse hands, the stench of stale sweat hanging over me, that cold slurping mouth, and turned and vomited into the gutter. Scrambling up, a rivulet of sick streaming past my toes, I stumbled onwards into the dark. How long it took me to get home I cannot recall, but the sun was nigh-on rising when I lurched like a drunkard into the house. I ordered a fire lit from a bemused Kreacher, then sent him upstairs to draw a bath. I stripped myself bare right there in the hall and tossed the steaming clothes into the hearth. Watched them sizzle then catch light. The bath run, I made my way upstairs as quietly as my stiff-frozen limbs would allow, and boiled myself alive. * * * * * I did not sleep until some hours after sunrise, and even then it was but a few scant hours. I awoke feeling groggy and ill, and stumbled into my robes. My skin still looked raw from where I had scoured it so hard with a nailbrush in the bath, trying to rid myself of dirt only I could see. Despite this and the overwhelming stink of carbolic soap clinging to my pyjamas, I could still sense the ammonia reek of the public lavatory, and sour foreign sweat pressed against me. I managed to sneak out of the house to Diagon Alley via the Floo Network. It was still early and there were few people about. I slipped into the apothecary and found there, to my dismay, Rhys Manod staring back at me. Manod had been a sixth-year when I had started school, the heir to a pair of successful apothecaries in Llanelli and Diagon Alley, and here he was now apprenticing in London. I swore when I saw him. Just my bleeding luck. “Blood-y hell, it’s the young Black!” he trilled in that singsong accent when he saw me. “What on earth are you doing here?” I ignored him, making straight for the medicinal potions. I skimmed for a while, finally settling on five separate vials. I was not sure what you could catch from a Muggle mouth, or even if you could catch anything, but reckoned it was better to be safe than sorry. Manod raised his eyebrows when he identified the purpose of the potions I placed on the counter. “Crikey,” he murmured. “You didn’t hang about did you? Who is she?” “Fuck off,” I said. “No need to be rude,” he sniffed, tallying up the prices. “Just a bit young, that’s all. That’ll be three Galleons, two Sickles and five Knuts, please.” I handed over the coins and swiftly smuggled the incriminating items into my pockets before heading out onto the street. Outside I found I could not bring myself to wait until I got home and, stealing into an alley, gulped down a generous dose of each medicine. * * * * * In spite of my hypochondria I did not become rife with disease, my knob did not rot and drop off, and that fear at least was put to rest. It took much longer, however, for the illness in my brain to disperse. For weeks I felt hideous, degenerate, not worthy of treading the corridors of this noble house I infested. I had polluted myself. No better than Sirius, no better than a Mudblood. It became something of an obsession with me; this link between dirt and impure blood. I felt I was somehow less of a wizard because of what I had allowed to occur. It had been different when it had been Barty, no matter how wretched that experience had been. I had felt miserable, yes, but not sullied in the way I did now. Barty might have been a manipulative bastard, but at least he was clean. When the man in Soho had laid his hand between my legs as Barty had in Slughorn’s office, he had passed on to me his inherent impurity. I was contaminated. I suppose I cannot blame the Muggle for what happened, really. A young, not- bad-looking lad loitering about outside public lavatories in the early hours of a Soho morning; what was he meant to think? I had hardly comported myself in a manner that suggested anything otherwise, either. It was just when the money had been offered the warning light had come on, and I had scarpered; then it had really clicked. I felt offended for months, no, years, after that. How dare he think I -- a Black, a pure-blood of the highest class -- was a rent-boy! It took a long while for me to realise that I was as much to blame as the Muggle. Until then, however, I convinced myself he had been lying in wait for me, wanting to pollute me, plotting it, like it was fated to happen, a conspiracy. It was this then, I suppose, after my initial self-loathing had mostly abated, that really catalysed my interest in the pure-blood movement. Until then I had been something of flotsam; carried along by the current, apathetic but compliant. Now it sparked like magnesium to a flame. I became involved. This new flame was fed when I discovered there was to be a pure-blood demonstration somewhere outside the Ministry of Magic, which was within walking distance of me. The whole area was having to be put under surveillance for the occasion, with charms and Aurors placed to keep Muggles away. I asked my parents if I could go and they were delighted to agree. I did not even have to take Kreacher with me to make sure I did not get into trouble; perhaps they hoped I would. So it was I ended up outside the Ministry, surrounded by a ring of Aurors, and crushed against a bellowing crowd of my fellow pure-bloods. Naturally, the anti-Voldemort league had also turned up for occasion, and it looked as though things might very well break out into violence between the two factions. The Aurors apparently felt the same way judging by the way in which they brandished their wands. I was exhilarated. My blood was up, bubbling hot in my veins. There was a speaker on the podium screaming on about rights of wizard kind and purity of the race and all that. Roars blew up from our crowd, and boos from the other. Occasionally some missile would launch itself from the opposition, aimed at the speaker, but the Aurors would invariably shoot it down with a well-placed spell. It had to happen eventually. The two opposing sides eventually got sick of just screaming and launched themselves at one another. There were hexes and curses being flung all over the shop, and Aurors putting Freezing charms on people. Some were even duelling in the Muggle fashion -- all fists and kicks and red running blood. I was simultaneously elated and terrified; being underage I had not thought to bring my wand with me. Every hair rising up on my neck, I squeezed myself from the surging crowd. I felt a Jelly-legs Jinx slice the hairs from the back of my neck and then hit some poor chap just across from me. I had got halfway down the road before I heard a sudden explosion, and turned to find half of the clothes shop which concealed the Ministry’s entrance was crumbling into the street. Thinking this was perhaps a touch too exciting, I scuttled off down the road and home. It was reported in the Prophet the next day, and I felt elated by the fact I had been a part of something which had made the front page. Okay, so I had not actually done anything, but that was not the point. The point was I was finally getting involved. I was taking part. Bellatrix would be pleased. I was surprised she had not been there herself, actually, but then perhaps she had more important tasks these days. When the new school year started it was something of a disappointment to me. I had hoped that one of the Seventh Years would carry on the legacy of the Pureblood Union, having finally garnered myself a genuine interest, but no one seemed bothered. I think they rather expected me to take over, being a Black, but the responsibility was not something I wanted. I was always more of a conformist than a leader. Besides, the thought of having to deal with Barty was something I did not want to face. Thus our little group ended, and on rather an anticlimax at that. A shame, I thought. I kept a safe distance between myself and Barty, and he made no effort to seek me out. The incident in Slughorn’s office was too much to bear facing up to and I was not sure we were friends any more. I certainly still loved him but doubted very much my affection was in any way returned. I had conducted myself very badly on our last meeting, and whereas I supposed I could blame it on the alcohol I knew it would be a lie. Alcohol did not make me talk bollocks, it made me speak the truth. I had wanted to say what I did, the mead had simply granted me the courage. I would never drink again, I decided. Thus I spent much of my sixth year alone, more so than the previous year which itself had been something of a dry patch for me. I must have been rather conspicuous because even Aloysius Roughstone thought to point it out. He received a mouthful for his troubles; I had decided I would take no rubbish this year, not from anyone. As a result I was a bad-tempered little sod, and very, very angry. This moodiness was not at all helped by a run-in with my brother one Saturday morning in November. I was not looking where I was going at the time, having my head bent over a bit of mail I had received from Bellatrix; her marriage was to be in the June, during the second week of the summer holiday, and I was to attend. So as it was I didn't notice Sirius and his gang in the corridor until I felt his hand clap down on my shoulder. “Sirius!” I bristled, startled and blushing. “What the f--!” I caught my tongue. “Where’s your little mate?” he asked, in a smirking tone I didn't much care for. “I don’t know who you mean,” I hissed, sliding a hand into my pocket to grip my wand. If I got a head-start… “You know who I mean. The blond. The one you brought home and mooned over all that summer.” “Oh, him. We don’t see much of each other anymore,” I managed, though I was shaking with fury. Sirius smiled in a way that reminded me then, very sharply, that he and Bellatrix were of the same blood, as much as neither cared to admit it. “He’s come to his senses then? Good lad! I’ll have to congratulate him if I see him.” “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare go near him, Sirius, or I swear I’ll…” He was laughing. So was Potter and the little mousy one. The pale, quiet half- blood had his mouth firmly shut and his face firmly averted. “You’ll do what, exactly?” There was a threat underlying his voice, that twinge of instability I knew all too well. The smile was fracturing on his face, and he too had taken a grip on his wand. It’s all going to kick off, I thought. Here, after all these years, in the middle of Hogwarts in front of the entire student body. “Leave him be, Sirius,” said the half-blood then, watching my brother intently. “He wasn’t doing anything.” “Keep your snout out of it, Remus. It’s got nothing to do with you,” he bit back. The half-blood looked away. “Oi, Black!” barked Potter suddenly, and we both turned. Professor McGonagall was striding purposefully down the corridor. She had on her an expression that did not bode well. “What is going on here?” she said in that stern Scots of hers. She did not look pleased. “Just a bit of sibling rivalry, miss,” beamed Potter, tripping on over and taking my brother by the shoulders. “Nothing to worry about. Come on, Sirius, stop mucking about now…” He shot Sirius a significant look. Sirius cast me one last parting glare, then pocketed his wand. “Yeah,” he said. “Just a little brotherly squabble.” McGonagall raised a sceptical eyebrow but said nothing. With Potter guiding him by the shoulders, Sirius and his gang vanished off down the corridor. I was left watching after, trembling, sweat-drenched hand still clamped on my wand. “Are you all right?” asked the professor, regarding me doubtfully. “Yeah, I’m fine. Like he said…” I trailed off. McGonagall gave a curt nod of the head, and clicked off down the corridor in the direction my brother had taken. I watched after her then turned round. Staring back at me were some two-dozen other students, all rapt. “What the hell are you looking at?” I snapped, rather annoyed by now. There were a few grunts and shrugs, acknowledging I had spoken but not exactly answering the question, and then they began peeling off, it being evident there was to be no Black-on-Black duel today. I watched them go and then-- caught the eye of another. It was Barty, with Sinistra, and he was watching me. I held his gaze a moment and then he looked away. The next moment he was gone, and I was left standing quite alone in the deserted corridor. * * * * * What a miserable school year that was. I was glad when it came to an end, with summer peaking its gilded head about the corner, and I allowed to escape home. Home was not much better in the terms of my social life (I was still brutally alone and isolated) but at least I did not have to be so in front of everybody else. Furthermore I was seventeen now, legally an adult, and I had Apparition lessons to keep myself occupied. Bellatrix’s wedding grew ever closer until finally it was but one week away and I made a trip to Twilfitt and Tatting’s to purchase myself some new dress robes. These I got in a shiny pigeon-grey material, very sleek and flowing, with white collar and cuffs and brass buttons. The morning of the wedding boded well with azure skies and blazing sunshine. We travelled up to the Yorkshire Wolds by Portkey and were then taken the rest of the way by Aethonan-drawn, gold-gilt carriages. The church was a lovely mediaeval affair in a village called Wharram Percy. The village had, in its earlier days, been wizard-only, but an influx of Muggles had upturned this state of affairs. Over a great many years the Muggles were driven out by a series of events -- Black Plague, agricultural upheaval, etcetera -- until in the 16th Century they had all vanished, leaving behind the beautiful countryside and old church for wizard-kind to reclaim. Nobody lived there now but the church was used for occasions such as this under charmed protection, and the rest of the time Muggles were free to go digging about uselessly in the name of “archaeology.” The wedding was grand, as I had known it would be. Bellatrix, never much of a hypocrite, had foregone the white and jumped straight for the scarlet when choosing her bridal-robes. Her throat was bound in black silk, and she had on a long black veil and gloves. Not an inch of skin was visible on her arms. Her mouth was painted very red, her lids shadowed, and her boots had heels which could fell a Graphorn. She looked spectacular. The bridegroom had gone for the more traditional black robes, though he too managed to look very dashing. When they exchanged the rings Rodolphus slipped the gold straight over Bellatrix’s gloved finger. I did not pay much attention to the service. I would have, but it was a matter of some regret that when I turned on my seat to talk to a cousin I had not seen in years I happened to notice a familiar flick of autumn-leaf hair. Bellatrix had invited Barty to the wedding. He did not seem to notice me but undoubtedly knew I was there all the same. I felt a blow of sickness to the stomach and turned back round, now quite deaf to the hushed ramblings of my forgotten cousin. When the service ended we spilled outside for photos on the church steps. I did not much care for having my picture taken and tried to slip off, but was captured by Narcissa, striking in kingfisher-blue, who coerced me back by no small threat. Shoved towards Bellatrix, I was caught by the corner of her eye, and she turned to greet me. “My favourite cousin!” She beamed, and I knew she had heard of my recent dabbling in pure-blood politics; I had done some things since the explosion at the Ministry last summer. She hooked me with a hand and reeled me in. “I’ve not seen you in a while. Have you been avoiding me?” “Of course not, Bella,” I replied, extricating her fingers. “Been busy is all.” “Course you have,” she said agreeably. She was in a very good mood. She threw a look about herself, then turned her attention back on me. “I’m a bit surprised you’re not with Barty. You two fallen out or something?” “No, no…” I lied, petrified. I did not want to discuss the current state of mine and Barty’s friendship, and the reason for this, with Bellatrix. “That’s all right then,” she said and, finally catching sight of what she was looking for, barked, “Oi, Barty, over here!” Barty came wandering over and I caught his eye. Blushing profoundly I looked away. Arm in the middle of his back, Bellatrix smirked over at me. “He’s my page boy!” I glanced up to see Barty looking a bit put-out by this. I made an awkward half-smile at him, to which he returned a small twitch of the lip, before looking away. “I was just telling Regulus here what a crap friend he is. Leaving you to find your own way like that!” Bellatrix was saying. Barty shrugged. “I told you, I’ve been here before. My auntie was married here.” “Still,” snorted Bellatrix, peeling back a forelock. “It was bad manners of him.” “It was,” I said, finally raising my face. Barty looked back. “Sorry about that, Barty. Won’t do it again.” He smiled at me, properly this time. “Quite all right, Reg,” he replied. Bellatrix clamped both of us by the elbows. “I want a picture of you two because you’re both so terribly little and cute, and I need one for the album. Then you can both piss off and do whatever it is you do when you’re alone together.” She shot me a particularly significant look, and I felt myself reddening again. When the picture was taken, and Bellatrix had slyly notified me that she would be owling a copy, Barty and I wandered off. We stood far apart, walking in some uncomfortable silence, pressing on through the thick-grown grass. We passed through the graveyard with its centuries-old tombstones, and carried on alongside the pond in which reflected the shapes of bowed trees and hogweed and the shuddering image of the church. Here we stopped, slumping down beside the water in the shade of a crooked willow. “So,” I finally said, breaking the silence. “How’ve you been?” “All right,” Barty replied, not looking away from the rippling pond. “You?” “Fine,” I said, and another interlude of awkward silence passed. We listened to the muffled sounds of the wedding congregation round the other side of the church, and the baas of the sheep at siesta, chewing their cud. “Well, not exactly,” I added at length. “Been a bit lonely, actually.” He turned to me. His hair was longer than I remembered, flicking out at his chin, and seemed perhaps a touch darker, and the bones of his face had shed some of their baby-fat. It was all still familiar though; the lick of smooth fringe tonguing rightwards, the dimpled cheek, the eyes clear as brown-glass bottles. He chewed his lip, as was his habit, then finally said: “I’ve missed you too.” The next moment I was clasping his hand, or he was clasping mine -- I do not remember who moved first -- and we hung on like that. I wanted to seize him by the shoulders and embrace him but felt it would not be right; so I clutched him in this peculiarly restrained and English way, and gazed into his face, and loved him so much it hurt. Finally, he let go. I felt his nails slide against the inside of my palm. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Me too,’ he replied. Then, ‘Friends again?” It needed no answer. Of course. The next silence was not in the remotest bit uncomfortable. He looked on over the water and I watched him, my heart filled to bursting. Then he turned his gaze on mine and smiled, and placed cool fingers over my knuckles in the grass. I glanced at my hand, then looked up and found his eyes. “I love you,” I said. He fixed me with that inscrutable expression of his, at once thoughtful but giving away nothing. I awaited his reply, surprised that I felt no fear whatsoever. Finally he gave a sniff, curled a lip, then pressed a kiss to my cheek. I did not move. “Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s all right. But you ought to know: I’m not a queer.” I smiled now. “I know. And that’s the funny thing: I’m not sure I am either.” His brow creased slightly and we fell back into silence. I considered what I had just said, then added: “Actually, scratch that. I am. Of course I am.” He regarded me curiously. “What about Octavia Babcock?” “Octavia Babcock had tremendous tits,” I replied without thinking. He gave a laugh. “She did!” he agreed, and did not pursue the subject further, as though what I had said explained it. “It’s not as though it’s a surprise,” he finally remarked, tossing a fragment of stone into the still water and watching it wrinkle outwards. “I doubt anyone’ll be much surprised when you tell them.” “You knew, then?” I asked, chasing the shape of the ripples with my eyes. He snorted. “Reg, I’ve known since before I knew such a thing existed.” I smirked. “And here I thought I was being all subtle and Slytherin about it.” “You’re a crap Slytherin,” he said. I smiled. “It worries me, though,” I continued after another pause in which we listened to the blackflies buzzing in a cloud, and saw the fleeting electric streak of a dragonfly bolt bluely across the water. “I mean, I’ve got to marry. I’m the last of the Blacks, if you don’t include my brother and we certainly don’t. It’s my duty to carry on the name. To produce an heir. I have to marry to do that.” “You could have it both ways,” said Barty, plucking up some grass and chewing at the sweet ends. “My uncle on my mother’s side did. He got married to a woman of good blood, turned up to social occasions and produced an heir with her, but he lived with another bloke until the day he died. Everyone knew, but they went about it quietly so it was never remarked upon, you know? He and my aunt had an agreement, I think. He let her have the big house and the money and let her do what she liked, and I think they were quite happy with it.” I mulled over this. “I’m not sure I could do that,” I finally replied. “It’s just…it’s a nice idea and all but…no, I don’t think I could. Mother would kill me for a start.” “Me neither,” said Barty. “I don’t think I could split myself like that. That’s why I’m never going to get married. I’ve been talking to Bellatrix about it and I’ve told her that I’m going to join with Voldemort as soon as I leave school, and dedicate myself to that. I’ve absolutely no intention of continuing the Crouch family name.” “What about Sinistra? What does she think of all this?” “You didn’t hear?’ he enquired, surprised. ‘We’ve broken up.” Now it was my turn to be surprised. “No one told me!” He appraised me dryly. “Are you sure? I’d have thought you’d be doing a big song and dance routine at hearing the news.” “Fuck off,” I smirked. “Well! You never did like her, did you?” “It wasn’t so much that,” I observed. “I was just jealous.” “Good to hear, because we’re still friends.” “Why did it happen?” He shrugged. “Dunno. Suppose it was just getting a bit boring. Spending too much time with each other, out-growing each other, pressure from exams…you know, the usual.” “I wish you had said this earlier,” I told him. “I could have forgot all this love-and-marriage palaver and just had a go at getting a shag.” He poked his tongue out at me. “Fat chance.” Then Bellatrix’s voice came ringing on over the hill; the carriages were leaving for the reception do. I blinked. I had quite forgotten about the wedding. Grinning, we stumbled to our feet, bumping up against one another as we did so. We stood a moment just looking at one another, he with his head a touch inclined. “It’ll be all right, Reg,” he said finally, and took my wrist in his hand. We took off up the hill. * * * * * A week after the wedding an owl I had never seen before arrived at my bedroom window and deposited a small canvas bag into my hands. Upon unfastening it a small bundle of papers fell out onto my desk and scattered. On top of these was a short scrawled note, stating simply, “Love, Bella.” I picked up the square bits of paper and realised they were in fact photographs, with the smell of developing potion still clinging to them. There was the picture Bellatrix had taken of me and Barty outside the church, stood gracelessly apart, flushed with embarrassment. Then there were other photos, taken from the reception afterwards. Here we were closer together, dancing or laughing or pulling daft faces for the camera. Clutching at hands or shoulders, or hooking elbows. Beaming mouths. I grinned, and then the owl plunged its talons into my wrist. After several more strikes of the little bastard’s claws, I realised it wanted the canvas bag returned -- Bellatrix obviously having made it known that this was not to be part of the present -- and I handed it over. Without another hoot, the bird swept off out the window, and I was left with a lacerated hand and the bundle of pictures. I scooped them together carefully, then carried myself over to my wardrobe. I opened it up. On the inside of the door was a small collage made up of photographs of me and Barty, or sometimes just him, taped up, a veritable jigsaw from ever since I had known him. I tacked up the new photos, examined my handiwork, then gently closed the door. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * AUTHOR’S_NOTES 1: Soho bogs Perhaps someone who knows Soho better than I (which would be a few hundred million people, I imagine; my experience of the place is cursory at best) could decide for me which mid-Seventies public loos these are. Personally, when I was writing this scene I was thinking of the Wombwell toilets (a village near me), which are the sort of place you end up in once and only once, and never, ever go back to. Think of the ‘worst toilet in Scotland’ scene in Trainspotting and you’re somewhere near the mark. According to a friend of mine there is a website on the ’net which has these same bogs as one of the top dogging sites in the UK, which I thought was amusing if rather bizarre. I would be too worried about what I could catch by sitting down or touching anything, never mind the frantic, unprotected shafting from a stranger. But I digress. Oh, and while I am here, I thought I ought to point out that the fic is based before the Aids scare of the Eighties, and whereas that does not in any way excuse the lack of protection it does help put it into some perspective. Thought I’d better say before some whinging twat, who cannot tell the difference between what someone writes and what someone actually believes is sensible, moral behaviour, jumps on my back. Same goes for the underage-ness. It happens. That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing, but it happens. 2: Wharram Percy This place actually exists. It is one of many D.U.Vs in England (that is Deserted Mediaeval Village) and exists on the eastern edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. Wharram Percy is the most famous D.U.V, and if you give Wikipedia a poke it’ll give you a very lovely picture of the church and pond by which this scene takes place. As soon as I saw the name of the place I knew I had to use it; how brilliant a name is Wharram Percy? I thought what an interesting idea it’d be if these supposedly deserted villages were in fact areas which wizards use for their own purposes, and they are simply charmed to appear as though they had been abandoned, like the Hogwarts castle. Perhaps I’m just a nerd. ***** Chapter Seven ***** Author's notes: Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr. slash. “I saw a pale head and small body set stiffly, fingers clenched so they dug deep into the palms. The little form stepped forward to the stool, and turned around. And it hit me. Everything changed.” =============================================================================== Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to JKR and assorted companies. I just write fluff and porn with them. Citric_Acid Chapter Seven My final year of Hogwarts, and I loved it. It was the happiest time I had there, perhaps the happiest period of my life. The wedding had given me confidence, a real boost, and I strode about the school like I owned the place. Like a real Black. All my cousins and my brother were gone now, and I was cock of the walk. Or so I imagined in my own head. I do not suppose anyone else agreed, but that did not matter. Any remaining discreetness about my friendship with Barty was discarded with and it was not an uncommon sight to see us walking the grounds together, in full view of all, perfectly at ease. There were some snide comments but I think we dissuaded many from saying much simply by our self-assurance; a lack of victim-mentality alone is often enough to put many a sarcastic twat off. Furthermore, my duel practice had paid off, and when things looked a bit too rough I was not slow on the draw, or averse to using something a wee bit dodgy. So we were left to our own business and that suited me to the ground. Not that anything about our relationship actually changed. Barty had made himself perfectly clear in the holidays, and nothing progressed beyond his inborn casual intimacy. I did not mind. I was content with this state of affairs, just happy to have my friend back and to not be lonely any more. We never discussed what had been said in the summer, or the incident in Slughorn’s office, or anything like that. It was not necessary. One evening, Barty turned up at the Slytherin common room. Despite the break-up of both the Pureblood Union and his relationship with Sinistra he had retained this habit, and these days barely anyone commented upon it. He was treated as the green carpets or mahogany armchairs; a part of the furniture. I was sat up at one of the desks when he turned up, poring over an old N.E.W.T Potions paper, refining my exam skills. He sauntered on over and balanced himself on the arm of my chair. There he watched me finish what I was doing, one leg casually crossing the other, a foot pressing carelessly upon my calf. “What is it?” I asked, putting down my quill. He looked as though he had something important to tell. He sniffed. “I have something to show you. Come to the lake with me.” “I’m rather busy,” I said pointedly, indicating the exam paper. He rolled his eyes and I smiled. “Stop fannying around and just come down to the lake. It’s important.” I raised my hands in mock despair. “Fine, fine. But if I fail Potions I’m blaming it on you.” “You’re shite at Potions,” he told me, which was untrue, and sprang from the armchair. I followed him out of the common room and up into the Hogwarts grounds. It was mid-spring, and there was a damp freshness about the air. The sky was milky with sun, with pinkish candyfloss furls of cloud curling over it and descending on behind the jagged black line of the Forbidden Forest. The lake was glass-black and rippled raspberry with sunset. “Can you see anyone about?” asked Barty as soon as we had settled ourselves. I thought this a very odd question, but cast a look about anyway. “Not a soul. We’re all by our lonesome,” I said, with a leer. Barty narrowed sidelong eyes at me. “Not now, Regulus. I told you: this is important.” At that, he slid his hand into a pocket and withdrew first his wand and then a matchbox. Placing the length of blackthorn between his teeth, he slowly drew open the box and tipped it gently. A spider dropped out onto his hand, and he curled his fingers about it to prevent it fleeing. Then he placed the matchbox down onto the grass, removed the wand from his teeth, and muttered “Engorgio!” “Oh, sweet Merlin,” I muttered as the spider swelled to the size of a small guinea pig. I had never been much a fan of the arachnid family. “But watch this,” said Barty, and the next moment he had pointed his wand at the creature and was muttering something under his breath. I saw the lips move, but could not ascertain the words they formed. It did not take long for me to guess though. I watched as the spider lifted itself onto its back four legs and held itself, as a man, in that unnatural posture. Then it began to rattle up and down Barty’s palm in some perverse form of dance, making impossible little leaps as it did so. It would have been hysterical had I not know what the implications of this were. I looked at Barty, fearful, but his face was averted, concentrated fully on the spider, biting his lip as he focused on the task at hand. “Barty,” I whispered, “it’s illegal…” “Shush,” he hissed back, and the spider collapsed into its rightful position. “And watch this.” He murmured again but I knew what this word would be before he said it. The next moment the spider was shuddering, curling in and contorting its legs, evidently in some great degree of agony I had hitherto not suspected the arthropods were capable of showing. “Stop it, stop it,” I was saying. I felt ill. Barty glanced at me, then withdrew the wand. Instantly, the rodent-sized spider stopped shuddering, though it lay utterly still in his palm. He placed it on the grass. “I can do the last one too,” he said then and looked up at me. There was a wildness in his eyes, which were deep and black as holes in the twilight. He looks insane, thought I. “Don’t--” I implored him, but too late. “Avada Kedavra!” he hissed, and in a flash of light which lit his face in furious green fire, the spider crumpled, not a mark on its furred body, dead. “You could get arrested!” I was shaking despite the relative warmth of the night air. “They could put you into Azkaban for that!” “Only if I do it on another person,” replied Barty, perfectly composed. I hesitated. “Why did you learn how to do them?” I asked. “Bellatrix wants us to. She says that there might be a point in the future when we need this.” “She never told me.” “I think she wanted me to tell you. Said you might have a hard time coming round to the idea,” he answered. He was poking the still-soft corpse of the spider with the tip of his wand. “Bloody well right I do,” I replied, feeling the nausea return in a sickening wave. I grabbed his hand to stop him prodding at the spider. “What on earth would we ever need it for?” “Bellatrix says there’s change coming, and not everybody will like it. She says there could very well be a time, not far from now, when the Unforgivables are perhaps no longer unforgivable.” “I don’t much like the sound of that,” I murmured, drawing my cloak around me. Barty smirked. “Like she said. She always thought you weren’t a proper follower of the pure- blood cause, that you only hung on because it was expected of you and you didn’t want to disappoint your parents. You never really wanted to be there.” “I did!” I snapped, the point rather too on the mark for me to abide. “What on earth does she know, anyway?” “That’s what I said,” replied Barty. Then, “You’ll give it a go, won’t you?” I did not reply. I was staring at the corpse between us. “You’d better shrink that back,” I finally gulped. “You don’t want anyone finding a huge, dead, rat-sized spider in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds. Someone might get suspicious.” He conceded, and returned the arachnid to its natural size. Then, after scrutinising my face, which I am sure was quite bloodless with nausea, said: “Well? Will you?” “I might,” I concurred. Then, after a moment of thought, I asked, “What is it you think about when you do it?” “My father,” he replied bluntly. The muscle in his cheek spasmed slightly when he said it. “Hush!” I hissed. “That’s exactly the sort of talk that’ll land you in Azkaban.” “You asked,” he snapped back. I fell quiet. Finally, he said: “I think we ought to go back to the school. They’ll be wondering where we are.” I acquiesced, gladly, and we traipsed our way back. I settled back down to my mock exam paper, but found the mood had quite deserted me. I had a lot to think about that night. * * * * * I left school with adequate exam results and no real plan of what it was I wanted to do with myself. Go into the Ministry, I supposed, though I cannot say that the idea exactly lit me on fire. Still, I had an inheritance headed my way and my parents were willing to put up with me a little longer. I was sure I could sponge and dillydally a little before joining the rat-race of the civil service or government. The conversation with Barty that evening remained fresh in my mind even when I returned home that summer, until one evening I was watching Kreacher sweeping the hearth. He was hunched over, the toast-rack of his ribs standing out, and muttering to himself as he worked. I found myself raising my wand to point it at him. I thought of the Muggle in the toilets, with his rough red hands and tongue, and that familiar sense of revulsion came rushing in. Imperio, I hissed. Nothing happened. I was not angry enough. Then Kreacher turned and caught my eye. He regarded me strangely for a moment, till I finally snapped: “What are you gawking at? Get back to it, you useless lump!” He did so, and my eyes were drawn back to that knobbly ridge of spine protruding under the stretched-tight skin, like grey balloon-flesh. I considered having another go and went to raise my wand again, but found I could not bring myself to do it. Incensed by my own incompetence I stormed from the room. * * * * * It was a short time after my parents had returned from their annual visit to the Rosier estate in County Cork that we received the letter from Mr Crouch. It was an invitation to a dinner he and his wife were putting on for members of the Ministry, and my father, being such, was invited along with his family. A little later a separate parchment reached me, delivered by Barty’s short-eared owl Phoebe, asking if I would be making myself available. Of course, I wrote back in earnest. Dressed in satin of deepest green, I took the Floo with my parents to the Crouch household in the Lake District. We were received by Mr Crouch and his wife. I had seen Mr Crouch in the newspapers, but was now allowed a proper chance to look at him. He was a rigid man of unbending posture, not especially tall but with such a stance he gave that impression. He was immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place. He looked nothing like his son except perhaps a sleek tint of his hair, which in his case was greying, and a certain speculative expression. I shook his hand stiffly, being far too biased in favour of Barty to make any attempt at liking him. Mrs Crouch looked much more like him. Her eyes were dark like her son’s, and she had the same turning nose and small mouth. To my informed mind she looked a little unwell; a hollowness of the cheeks and greyness of the flesh. But she held herself beautifully, with that same relaxed but elegant carriage of her son. When she greeted me I was surprised to hear that she, unlike her husband and Barty, had a thick Cumbrian accent. It sounded odd coming from that delicately refined mouth. Greetings done, I abandoned the Crouches and my parents to small-talk, and went off in search of Barty. The Crouch house, or cottage as I supposed it was, was smaller than ours but had that same depth of age, that same thrum of magic, which told me that it had been in the family many years. I picked out objects of interest with my eyes; a very beautiful grand piano in the parlour with ivory keys polished to perfection, a number of breathtaking watercolours of the surrounding country, and shelves upon shelves of books, nature and Latin especially prevalent. Unlike our house there was not a sniff of Dark Magic. I finally found Barty conversing with one of the Boneses. He caught my eye over her shoulder, and gestured his head slightly to signify that he had seen me. Breaking off his conversation with the Bones, he sloped on over. “Glad to see you made it. No problems with the Floo?” “None at all,” I replied. He looked at me archly, then reached out to brush some ashes from the front of my robes. “Has Bellatrix arrived yet?” I asked. Barty blinked. “Of course not. She isn’t invited. Ministry-only, remember?” “Oh, yeah,” I replied, and did not go any further into it. “You’ve met my parents?” “Yes. Mother and Father are talking to them now. Your mother is charming.” Barty smirked slightly. “Creep,” he said. We talked a while, with Barty occasionally having to break off conversation to greet a new guest. All the while I swirled my drink anxiously, not quite sure of myself in this atmosphere. Barty had evidently been subject to a number of such parties, because he was immaculate and charming, even without the partiality of my eyes which loved him. I was picking at the buffet table, which was excellent, when Barty sauntered on over and squeezed my hand gently. “Want to go outside and catch some air?” I agreed and we slid on past the adults with their talk about Ministry affairs and business, through the scullery, and outside into the back garden. Barty took a deep breath. “Thank God for that. It was getting stuffy in there.” I took a moment to observe the house which, having arrived by Floo, I had not managed to view before now. It was a large cottage, built of sturdy whitewashed stone and streaked with ivy. There were no neighbours which, to me who lived in the town, seemed rather odd and unnatural. Very nice though. I told Barty so. “It’s all right, I suppose. I like the area around it better though.” Indeed, from what I could see over the hedges the countryside about it was glorious; curling steams, distant peaks, dipping hills alive with broom and gorse and heather. It was a very warm afternoon and the fragrance of the latter’s bloom was powerful on the heavy air. I drew in a great breath. It reminded me of Barty, of the smell of the Lakes that lingered on his clothes and in his hair long after school had started in the autumn. I looked about the garden, which was vast to my city-bred eyes, and spotted a number of structures; pens, coops, stables and the like. “You keep animals?” I asked, indicating the enclosures. Used to,” replied Barty. “At least, Mother did. Some sheep and cows, couple of chickens, and an old jennet. But since her health started deteriorating we’ve had to get rid of them. She couldn’t look after them any more.” “I’m sorry about that,” I said, and felt I meant it. He shrugged his shoulders, gaze fixed somewhere else. Then, he turned to me and kissed me on the lips. “Shall we go back inside?” he asked. “Yes,” pronounced my mouth. We returned to the mob and conversation. Barty threw himself into it, but I could not focus. I probably seemed aloof, but it was not intentional. My mind was just elsewhere. “What’s up with him?” Someone remarked irritably after he had attempted to draw me into discussion and failed quite miserably. “He’s away with the fairies,” replied Barty and grinned at me. I mouthed sod off at him, and he protruded his tongue and gurned in return. “Come and meet my mother,” said Barty later, after a sit-down meal of grouse. “I already have,” I replied, still too belly-full and shell-shocked to feel much up to it. “Come and meet her properly.” He grasped me by the arm and led me through to the kitchen. Here sat Mrs Crouch, quite alone at a table, with the great black Aga glowing beside her. “’Ere, Mam, this is that Regulus Black Ah’ve telled ye abaht,” said Barty as soon as he saw her. He pushed me gently forward. “Aye, we’ve met,” said his mother. She produced an hand and I took it. “Ah’ve ’eard lots about ye.” “Likewise,” I smiled, shaking her hand. It was very thin, filled with tiny brittle bones. “Me an’ Regulus’ll be goin’ aht in a bit,” said Barty. I frowned at him. What on earth had happened to his voice? “Ye’ll be laikin’ aht then?” Returned his mother, appraising her son with those same black-brown eyes as his. Barty snorted. “Mam, Ah’m seventeen! Ah divvent ‘laik’ aht any more.” I was very puzzled by all this strange talk. I had always known Barty had a talent for mimicry, but him doing it to his mother seemed beyond odd to me. I said nothing, though. “Aye, sure you dunnae. Well, whatever ye like. Ye can borrow the brooms aht back if ye like. Tek ’im ovver Windermere. The toon-folk like that.” “Will do. Cheers, Mam.” He leaned forward to bump his lips against the bone of her cheek. “And divvent ye be back too late, son, ye ken? Ye dad wants ye ’ere.” “Dad can sod himself,” muttered Barty under his breath. “I ’eard that,” said Mrs Crouch, disapprovingly. “Sorry, Mam,” And he kissed her again. ‘See ye later, then. Ta-ra.” “What was that all about?” I asked when we had left the room. “What was what about?” he replied, genuinely puzzled. “The voice. What were you putting that on for? You don’t talk like that.” “Oh!” Confusion fled his face, replaced by a grin. “Oh, I always talk like that with my mother. I’ve done it my whole life. Don’t know why. It’s sort of automatic.” I shook my head at him. “Honestly. You’re a bloody mystery to me, Barty, I swear.” He just grinned. “How about we get them brooms and we can get out of here, then? I’m a bit fed-up of all these tedious Ministry-types and their mindless chit-chat.” I agreed. We wandered back to the garden, where Barty produced two old brooms from one of the old pens. They were rickety old models, not capable of more than forty miles per hour, but competent enough. We mounted them and set off. The day was warm but travelling like this sent a blast of mountain ice straight down the back of the dress-robes. I gasped. It was a glorious, invigorating feeling, which numbed the toes and blooded the face. Water sprang into my eyes, and I had to wipe it away to see the gorgeous sights below and about me. Cumbria spread out beneath me. Fells, woodland, pastures, moors, fen, lakes, streams, marshes, unravelled like a patchwork quilt. As we flew, first southwards and then an about turn north-west, Barty named the large lakes, and some of the smaller tarns too. Ullswater, Haweswater, Windermere, Buttermere, Crummock, Bassenthwaite. He pointed out mountains and places with fantastic colourful names like the Old Man of Coniston, Hardknott Pass, Saddleback, Cockermouth and Ravenglass. He knew the place like the back of his hand; I wondered how many times he had flown over it like this. Occasionally we alighted for a few minutes to allow our poor saddle-sore rears a rest, and to enjoy what we were seeing on a closer level. We landed on bogland at one point. A safe place, he said, because few Muggles wandered here. I, knee-deep in peat, was less enthusiastic. It was here I learned something about Barty I had hitherto never imagined. We were sat on the one bit of dry land we could find and I was staring at an odd plant I had found. It had small white flowers, a yellowish stem and a sort of pink-frilled, wet-looking head. “It’s a sundew,” he said, when he saw what I was looking at. “Carnivorous. It catches insects in the pink bit with this sort of glue you can see on it.” And he indicated the glittering droplets caught up in the hairs. “How on earth did you know that?” I asked. It was not normal, a seventeen-year- old boy knowing that sort of thing. “My mother. She likes nature and I was indoctrinated at a young age. She taught me all the Latin names too.” And then, to prove it, said, “Drosera rotundifolia. Round-leafed sundew.” “You really are a bumpkin, aren’t you,” I remarked. We carried on with occasional stop, him pointing out the odd bit of botany or bird-life. I found it all rather baffling. I had never, in my six years of knowing him, suspected this side to his personality. He really was a mystery. Eventually we landed one last time in a -- far more comfortable -- area of farmland. Here were smooth, boulder-less slopes of grass, with dry-stone walls and lengths of flowering hedgerow all about. We had been flying for hours. It was almost ten o’clock, and the midsummer sun was giving its last bow before settling down for the night. I, at least, was exhausted, and Barty did not seem much brighter. We found a warm hill and relaxed there, taking in the last of the day’s rays, perfectly at ease. Barty seemed in no rush to get home despite what his mother had said, and I was fine with this. I was happy here. People could wait if they wanted me. “It’s nice here, isn’t it?” I said in a bleary sort of way, peering out over the gold-drenched hills. “Mm,” murmured Barty by way of reply. His eyelids were half-shut with the lashes throwing vivid shadows over his stippled cheeks. He was lying on his back, one leg crossing the other, languid as a basking cat. I felt the urge to touch him, and did, reaching over to curl my fingers in the crevice of his elbow. He looked at me from the corner of his eye, then sat up. Plucking up my hand, he removed it from his arm and placed it with care on the grass, as though it were fragile as an egg-shell. Then he fixed me there in his stare and for a time held me like that, like a snake hypnotising a mouse, and I thought, something is going to happen. Then he was on me. His hands were on the back of my head and his mouth crushing against mine. I gasped, feeling the clash of teeth together, the smash of lips. I toppled over backwards, the sheep-cropped grass prickling at the back of my neck, and him pressing down on me above. I whimpered, parting my mouth against the other, and felt his tongue slide across my bottom lip. Almost tentatively (if anything in this entire situation can be described as such) I touched it with my own. Then grasping great handfuls of the front of his robes, I pulled him down on me, dragging him closer, wanting to feel every inch of his body on mine. I curled my tongue upwards and felt that gap in his teeth, tasted it, and drew hungrily on it. We let go. He pulled back off me, gasping, rather startled, though whether it was by his behaviour or mine I cannot say. It had been fumbling and awkward, my teeth felt loose, and my lips were bloody-raw, but it was wonderful. I sat back up, shaking, panting heavily for air, not quite daring to look at him yet. “Crikey,” I finally said, and turned to face him. He was still looking a bit shocked and his mouth was stained pink, like one who had been eating summer berries. All the front of his robes were twisted where I had grabbed them. I coughed in embarrassment and readjusted my own. “Suppose we ought to be heading back,” I said, picking fragments of grass from my hair. For a while he did not say anything, and I realised I must have fucked it up something proper. I had caught him at the wrong time and now he was humiliated. Feeling the red rising into my face, I said: “Look, I’m sorry about that. I won’t say anything about it to anyone, I promise. Why don’t we just go home and forget the whole thing ever happened, eh?” “No,” he said. “Sorry?” “I said no.” The next moment he was back, clasping at my shoulders and kissing me earnestly, though not so savage as before. I had hold of either side of his face in no time at all and was pressing back with equal fervour. Then he drew back and stared at me, raw mouth parted slightly, chewing his lower lip, but he did not let go of my shoulders. “Regulus,” he said. “I want you to fuck me.” I was a bit startled by this, as I am sure you can imagine. In all my best and naughtiest dreams I had never expected this. I blinked at him by way of reply, then said: “I beg your pardon?” “I want you to fuck me,” he said, and I knew I had not misheard. “Think of it…think of it as a goodbye present.” “Goodbye?” “Because you’ve left school,” he said. “And I’m not going to see you again for a long time.” “Are you-- are you absolutely sure about this? Are you absolutely sure of what you’re asking?” I certainly was not. “Yes,” he replied. “And you’ve not been catching Billywigs?” “No.” “Right,” I murmured. “Right. I’m going to have to think about this.” He laughed then, face bright with mirth. “Like balls you do!” He grinned, and pushed me to the ground. His mouth was on my throat now, nuzzling, applying little catlicks and nips here and there. His nose rubbed against my jaw, then he was dropping kisses there. His knee had slipped between my legs and he rocked gently. I groaned, and arched, baring my throat for his eager attentions. My fingers found his hair and I yanked him down, feeling the hot wetness of his tongue slick against my skin, the hollow of my neck. I could not quite fathom what had happened, what had brought this on, and right then I could not have cared less. All I cared about was his insisting lips in the corner of mine, and the hand slipping under me and caressing gently the small of my back. All I cared about was the weight pressing down on me, and that rhythm against my body. I felt a hand sliding down my side to draw up the edge of my robes, to skim with cool fingertips the skin of my thigh, and caught it with my own. “Not yet,” I hissed, and the next moment had flipped him off me and pressed him into the grass. I caught him between my legs and pinned his arms. He squirmed beneath me and I shuddered, closing my eyes, feeling my blood rushing and pumping, forcing itself harder against the walls of my vessels. I squeezed my thighs slightly, pressing his hips with my knees. He grabbed me by the hair - - and half a lug -- and crushed our mouths together. Freeing my lips and tongue, I now applied them to his ear. I felt the charge shoot up his nerves when I nipped softly with my teeth. The same electric sensation occurred again when I drew along its outline first the mouth, then the tongue-tip, then sucked gently on the lobe. I pressed my weight harder upon him and he grunted, then gasped: “Eh, gerroff a sec’. There’s a fucking boulder stuck in my back.” Without shifting I slid a hand beneath him and located the offending item. It was not much more than a pebble, and I displayed it to him with some amusement. “Princess and the bloody pea,” I grinned, then kissed him tenderly. He, with his hands now liberated, crawled them down my back and squeezed my arse somewhat vigorously through the satin. “Cheeky,” I hissed, and he laughed and nipped my nose with his teeth. I leaned forward to nuzzle his face, to touch with the tip of my tongue each freckle there. I wanted to taste the pepper of every one of those freckles, to rub my nose in them, to sniff and sneeze and fill my brain with them I felt the palm of his hand caressing my neck, stroke-stroke-stroke, and then glide upwards on the saline slickness there. A finger placed itself by the corner of my lip, a cool pressure, then slid into my mouth. It curled into my lower lip. I closed my mouth about it and sucked gently, Barty watching me the whole while with his upper teeth showing. I opened up again, releasing the wet finger, and kissed the palm of his hand, then drew my tongue across it. I could hear Barty’s breaths echoing in his chest as though in a deep cavern. He withdrew his hand, brushing the side of my cheek as he did so like one removing an eyelash, then slid it down my side. The green satin was thin and clinging, and I felt each dancing finger touching me, trip-trip-tripping against every hollow and dip of my body. He began to peel up my robes again and this time I did not try to prevent him. The inside of my thighs was hot and sticky, and the sudden application of cold dry fingers was a delicious shock. There they traced circles, and I hissed between my teeth and squeezed myself against him. He smirked impishly at me, a glimpse of imperfect teeth, and pushed against me. I felt the press of his erection on my leg and unconsciously moved against it. It was his turn to hiss then. He began to unbutton the front of my robes while simultaneously dragging them up my legs with the free hand. Realising what he was attempting to do, I grabbed his wrists and came crashing down on top of him as I did so. “Ooph! Christ, Reg, what was that for?” he wheezed, winded. “Not here!” I was saying, not listening to him. “Not in front of everyone!” “In front of who?’ He despaired, exasperated. ‘The place is deserted! And where did this sudden humility come from anyway?” “We’re on a hill! If someone was to come by…” “We’re on the edge of a mountain range. The whole place is fucking hills! We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s sunset, and nobody knows we’re here. No one’ll see!” he snapped back, rather annoyed. He had not let go of my robes. “I…” I hissed. “Fine. Fine! But if my mum comes looking and finds me here, stark-bollock-naked and sat on top of another fella, I’m blaming you.” “Just shut up and get naked,” replied Barty in characteristic bluntness, then smirked, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He peeled me open like an orange, loosening the buttons and then sliding the whole garment over my head. A traditional sort of wizard, I had on nothing underneath save a pair of underpants and these were disposed of in no time at all, along with my boots which I kicked off. I felt myself blushing then and attempted to cover myself up. “Oh, stop being so modest,” said Barty. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” He grabbed me then, wrapping me up in his arms and kissing me. The unanticipated application of velvet against my bare, ultra-sensitive skin came as something of a shock, and I am afraid it could very well have ended rather stickily there and then had I not conjured an image of Cornelius Fudge into my mind and focused on that for a few seconds. That put the brake on my rampaging libido long enough to calm my body down, and I could breathe -- somewhat - - easily again. “Now you,” I huffed against his mouth. He obeyed without quarrel, holding up his arms so I could whip the robes off with ease. I hesitated then. I looked at him. I remembered the nervous eleven-year-old at the Sorting, back in 1973 when I had first laid eyes on him. I remembered thinking he was the angelic, perfect, sexless. The most beautiful thing I ever set eyes on. Suddenly, I could see that was not true. Now, in the latter days of his teenage years, I saw him for what he was, how much he, or perhaps how my perception, had changed since then. I saw a light scatter of blondish wiry hair across his chest and legs and beneath the arms, and the lean male tautness of his body. The flushed skin glossy with a film of sweat. The coffee stain of a birthmark near his navel. He was short, and his hands too small, and his teeth crooked. This was not the flawless, virtually androgynous shape I remembered, or imagined, from back then. But it was still utterly beautiful. Now, however, it was real. It was flesh and blood and perspiration, it was smell and taste and touch. And that was a thousand times better than the fevered imaginings from a naive, infatuated mind. “I love you,” I said when I slipped my hand between his legs. With my free hand I touched his parted lips, then pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss on them, and said it again, and then again, against them. My hand began to move and he gasped into my mouth. I pushed against him. He leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands into the grass, and I held him between my thighs and rocked gently. All the while I pressed cool lips to his cheeks and collarbone and jaw and throat and brow and eyelids. “Soft sod,” he was saying, but his voice was husky. I smiled against his brow, then suddenly was reminded of something. “Have you-- have you brought…you know. Preparation?” Barty’s eyes flew open. “Bollocks,” he said. “No, sorry. I didn’t think.” “It’s all right. It’s fine like this.” It was, and I doubted I could have lasted long enough to see it through anyway. I could feel the familiar shootings, down to my middle. The muscles in my stomach and thighs were tightening, and the soles of my feet drenched in sweat. He too did not look as though it would take much more. His fringe, usually so sleek and exquisite, was strewn and stuck to his brow. He had his head drawn right back, thrusting out his chest and Adam’s apple. I ducked my head and pecked his throat, right there, on the fruit. He bent his face to look at me, all smudged eyes and glowing cheeks. Then he returned the favour by placing his mouth, and tongue, to one of my nipples, occasionally removing it to allow the breeze across, then applying it again. The continuous substitution of hot wet mouth for cool drying wind, and back again, was strangely exhilarating, and the pace of my hips against his quickened. “Shit,” he swore, and then again, panting into my ear, “shit!” Neither of us were far from it now, and even the image of Cornelius Fudge’s fat pudding face could not have stopped it. Not that I wanted to. All I wanted now, I thought, was to be able to hold on long enough so as to see him. I got my wish. He came swearing, and gasping, and shuddering against me. I saw his face at that moment, bleared-bruised eyes and teeth on lips, and ribcage pushed out. Then he plunged forward, pressed his nose into my shoulder, and bit me. That was it for me, and I came collapsing down on top of him, gasping to his ear. I felt limp and empty immediately after, and lay there on top of him, panting heavily, limbs tangled and the sweat sticking between us. Finally, I peeled myself off and sat back on my haunches. He propped himself back up, breathing deeply. “I think I need a wash,” he said, and held out his hands. The heels were black with muck. Grinning, and a little bashful, I agreed. We collected our things, which seemed to have ended up an extraordinarily long way from us and hurried them on, both aware that it was near twilight and our parents would undoubtedly begin looking for us soon, if they had not started all ready. My satin robes were badly smudged and crumpled, but right then I did not care. “I suppose that was ‘laking’, eh?” I remarked, buckling a boot. “Laikin’. And yeah, I suppose it was,” he returned, and smiled. Grabbing our brooms, Barty led us to the nearest body of water, where we dipped our faces and gave a cursory splash of our bodies. I attempted to give my robes a going-over with a cleaning spell, and brush my grass-scattered hair into some semblance of order, but when I asked Barty how I looked he replied: “Like someone who has just been well and truly fucked.” Catching a sight of my reflection in the water, and realising I looked exactly that, I gave in. Barty had not even tried; his hair was splayed all over and his lips were taking on a bruised tinge. “I’ll tell them we were mountaineering,” he said, making me smile. By the time we arrived back at the cottage, the sun had set and the first slice of moon could be seen silvering the fells. I was beginning to feel quite sore by now, and the distinct cologne of stale sweat was upon me. We limped back to the pen where the brooms were kept, and then crept into the house. “Ye’re late,” said Mrs Crouch, and on catching sight of us raised her eyebrows. “Christ, lads, what ’ave ye been doin’ with ye sens?” “Mountaineering,” we both replied at once. She looked rather dubious. “Ye parents ’ave gone ’ome, Regulus. They said ye’d know ’ow to get back on ye own.” “That’s right,” I replied. “I’ve a lift waiting for me.” Then I shook her thin white hand and said my goodbyes. “Ah’ll walk wi’ ’im a bit, Mam,” said Barty. “’E’ll only git lost otherwise.” We did just that, pressing on over the hills, walking together in absolute silence. Finally, I stopped. “They’re picking me up from near here,” I said. “Time to say goodbye, then,” smiled Barty, with the moon melancholy in his eyes. “Yeah,” I replied, and took his hand. Held on with that customary reserve. He clutched back, almost desperately, and the next moment I had him in an embrace and was crushing him close to me. “See you when you leave school,” I said. “Try and keep out of trouble,” he mumbled back into the crook of my neck, taking hold of my wrist. I laughed. “It’s me, Barty. You know how cautious I am.” “I know. But be careful, anyway. Don’t do anything stupid when…well, you know.” I pulled back from him, and pressed his knuckles with my free hand. “I’ll be okay,” I replied, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “See you, then.” I watched him retreat over the black hillside, till all he was a pale, silver- licked speck in the distance. Then he was gone and I alone under the moon and stars, with the mountain air whistling down from the fells, bringing with it the scents of the Lakes. The smell of heather, and books, and something altogether darker imprinted on the inside of my nostrils. I turned. Some distance away was a yew, a great solitary tree with its serrated black edge turned to the sky. Beneath it I could see a figure. I made my way towards it. “You took your time,” it said. “I was busy,” I replied. The figure sniffed, then drew down its hood. Bellatrix’s smoke-burned eyes gazed out at me from a moon-bleached face. She held out her hand. Her arm was bare. In the lunar glow I could make out the shape of the skull and the serpent like a live tongue in its jaws. “Are you ready?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, and took her hand. Her nails were the colour of yew berries. We Apparated into the night. THE END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * AUTHOR’S_NOTES 1: Cumbrian dialect If there are any authentic Cumbrians reading this, please go ahead and pick the dialogue between Barty and his mother apart. I’m not familiar with the area or the accent, other than that which I have gleaned from living in the Yorkshire, sources such as Wikipedia and dialect books, and the animated film and novel The Plague Dogs. So if anyone knows owt about the North Cumbrian dialect, please go ahead. The Scottishisms are correct, right? 2: Jennet Cumbrian word for a female donkey. I think ‘jenny’ is the more recognised term nationwide, though I can’t say I am much of an expert on donkeys. 3: Laik/Laiking Yorkshire/Cumbrian word meaning ‘to play’. From the Old English lacan and Old Norse leika (thank you, Talking for Britain!). In my experience of the word you always lop off the G. Pronounced something like ‘lake’ with the flat northern ‘A’, but for some reason in my primary school we always pronounced it ‘lek’ or ‘lekkin’, which kids from other schools never seemed to do. But then, we also refused to use the word ‘playing’ because we got it into our heads it always, always alluded to sex, and was therefore zomg rude!! I miss being a kid. 4: Lake District names and places Sorry about this but it has such wonderful place-names that I had to share a few. I’m particularly fond of Ravenglass myself. Yes, all the places mentioned actually exist. 5: Lug Seeing as my beta pointed it out with an "eh?" I thought I had better explain. Lug = English slang for 'ear'. It's a good word and that's why I'm keeping it, confusion or no. Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!