#barty crouch is insane but he's so fucking cool

[seekmemystar]

I just want Barty crouch to think I'm cool

[aetherraeys]

evil twin ! (iii)

part (i) (ii)

regulus black/barty crouch jr x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.7k

cw ⟢ swearing, hurt/comfort, gay awakening lol, suggestive, secret relationship, pining!barty, mild angst, poor james is a scapegoat

summary: if you hadn't noticed it before, you've certainly noticed it now. barty been off, completely not barty and you can't seem to put your finger on the cause, and regulus doesn't have the heart to tell you.

a/n:poor barty is acc going through it. not proofread x

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?”

There was a long beat of nothingness.

Then another. And another.

A tormented silence veiled the room the second Regulus’ final word left his lips, riding on the air between them and settling heavy in a cruel, unforgiving manner.

The word hypocritical sounding in his head over and over.

If Barty looked like he was going through the five stages of grief, it seems he barely made it half way, flitting between denial and anger before subsequently settling on the latter. His face said it all, as it morphed with each word, forced out on a pinched breath.

“The fuck are you on about?”

His eyes didn’t match the sharp tone of his voice at all, instead they swam with panic and an almost lost aching that made Regulus lips purse together. Barty was already sitting up, scrambling to a stand with a clenched fist and tight jaw, as he pushed a hand through his hair—already on his way out. Back towards Regulus as he spoke, words gritted and hushed.

“Don’t act like you know everything, when you really fucking don’t.”

With that, the door was closed behind him and Barty was gone.

Regulus was really starting to resent that door, far too often being left on the other side, staring at it—stressed, winded—conflicted. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to happen after he said it, but by then it was already out—already splitting the air between him and Barty before he could stop it. What was worse?

Regulus just sat there—still, emotionless—while his friend all but fell apart infront of him, any and all words falling dead on his lips.

When he sunk back into the bed, glancing at you beside him, asleep, blissfully unaware of the rift he’s just parted—his stomach churned. The soft pillows beneath his head, the warmth of your presence beside his did nothing to quell the unsettled stirring that had started inside him.

Maybe you wouldn’t notice, maybe Barty would cool off and it would all be fine—maybe he could take it back.

Each maybe more unlikely than the last, all with outcomes that the mere thought of gave Regulus a migraine.

Barty stood outside the door for a few moments, chest heaving, brows pinched high on his forhead—didn’t even know where he was going, it was already well into the early morning and he honestly just wanted to sleep.

Couldn’t go back up there because not only were Regulus there but it was you and Regulus. He much rather the Gods smit him than be suck in that room, watching Regulus watching him watching you.

A low swirling burn settled at the base of his chest.

Come to think of it, maybe storming out wasn’t the best choice, it probably made him look suspicious, like he had something to hide.

And he did, he knew he did.

The thing about secrets is, they’re only pleasant when they’re easy to hide, when you’re in control of them. So right now, lying face down on the lumpy sofa in the common room—Barty has never felt more out of control in his life.

This really was torture—surely the Gods were finally punishing him for all the near heart attacks he’d given his father, because even now, with his face smooshed into the pillow, he could still smell you—where you’d been just hours ago. At this rate he’d be insane not before long.

Groaning as he flipped, watching the warm flames of the candlelights flicker—he tried to push down the reoccuring pang that split through his chest.

── .✦

Sundays were nice.

Lazy morning lie-ins, no Head Girl duties.

The day was looking very promising. Heat from Regulus’ body warm around your middle, one of his arms slung comfortably across your waist. Holding you close even as you twisted and turned—drifting in and out—accepting the warm, tempting embrace of sleep with open arms.

Regulus had felt you shift slightly, heard the little hums that built in your throat as you teetered on the edge of waking up—he’s been awake for quiet some time—early bird habits. Just watching.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint flinches of your brows as you dreamed deeply, how you curl into yourself and by extension into him periodically. He didn’t want to wake you, didn’t dare move—trying to savour the small fraction of tranquility you’d be granted before you have to deal with the inevitable storm that brewed the whole night.

Because Barty didn’t come back, still hasn’t stepped foot in the room—Regulus waited, hoping to maybe smooth things over, take it back even. But he didn’t return and Regulus didn’t leave the confines of his room.

Even as the morning drawled to a close and the early afternoon began, instead he focused his energy on admiring you, and your sleeping form. And when you stirred, twisting and turning towards him, lips pushed into a small pout—he really couldn’t help himself.

Planting a careful kiss to the exposed skin of your neck, and you didn’t move, still fighting off the pressing light of the sun in the room, holding onto the whisps of sleep.

He leaned forward again, lips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, and that got you to stir. Not fully awake, not yet, but enough that you sighed, contentedly, one arm reaching up to match the curl lazily around his middle. Eyes were still closed when you mumbled, voice scratchy and slow with sleep, fingers twitching where they rested against his ribs.

“Morning…”

His lips were still ghosting over your throat when he chuckled, low and husky, “It’s not morning anymore.”

Still, your eyes stayed closed. A little smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you turned your head slightly to chase the feel of his lips.

So he gave in.

Kisses fell like rain across your skin—first light and tentative, then firmer, slower, more intent. He brushed one beneath your jaw, then over the hollow of your throat, and when you shifted again with a sleepy sigh, he took the opportunity to drag his mouth lower, teeth grazing gently before sucking at the delicate skin there. And it made you shiver.

“Reg,” voice whispered, soft as a secret, a breathless note of fond exasperation in your tone.

“You’re awake now,” he murmured into your neck, voice muffled by your skin.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers found their way into his hair, lazily combing through the dark strands as his mouth continued its slow, indulgent path along your collarbone.

It was languid, affectionate, the kind of intimacy that didn’t rush. His hands slid over your waist, pulling you closer until you were nearly on top of him, legs tangled fully now, heartbeats pressed close together.

The kisses deepened slightly, becoming more indulgent, more possessive. The kind that left marks. Your skin warmed beneath his mouth, laughter bubbling in your chest when he found a ticklish spot and refused to stop, dragging another helpless giggle out of you.

“Stop, stop—Reg, I swear—” you squirmed, breathless from laughter, your cheeks flushed pink and body warm with affection.

He finally let up, grinning with pride, brushing your hair back from your face with a fondness that felt so achingly gentle it almost hurt.

You were glowing. That post-sleep, post-laughter kind of glow that made his chest ache.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he might blink and find himself alone again.

You met his gaze, cheeks still warm, lips kiss-bitten and curved.

“You’re looking at me like I’m your religion,” you said with a teasing arch of your brow, and he just leaned up to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw.

“I might be,” he whispered.

You groaned, dramatic, as you pushed lightly at his chest. “I’m going to have to cover all of this up, you know.” You tilted your neck, already feeling the soreness blooming beneath your skin.

You made to roll out of bed, sheets sliding off your legs—but his hand curled around your wrist.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, voice low and gravelly. He tugged you back toward him, guiding you to straddle his lap. You blinked down at him, amused and a little breathless, hair falling like a curtain around your face.

“Regulus,” you said, half-laughing, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t want the morning to end,” he confessed, softly, eyes dark and steady as they held yours.

You leaned down, kissed him slow, whispered against his lips, “Thought it wasn’t morning anymore.”

He smiled into the kiss, hands resting on your hips—and for a few minutes, the world narrowed to just the two of you. Quiet and golden and slow.

Until your stomach rumbled. Loudly.

The kiss is broken with a startled laugh, hiding your face in his shoulder. Regulus chuckled too, low and pleased.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, fingers brushing your waist, “We’ll feed you.”

You rolled out of bed, finally, pulling on yesterday’s clothes as you glanced around. The room was empty, apart from the two of you. You stretched, arms over your head as you grinned over your shoulder.

“Look at that. Even outlasted Junior,” you joked lightheartedly, tugging your jumper back on.

Regulus didn’t say anything at first—just hummed.

Pushing away the urge to spill his guts, to tell you how the word hypocritical had torn something raw between them during your slumber. You were halfway down the stairs before you turned and whispered, “I’ll meet you in the Great Hall—give it five, yeah?”

He nodded. Forcing his lips to curve into a small smile.

“Five.”

The second you disappeared down the steps, the quiet hit him like a stone wall.

Sitting there, at the edge of the bed, chest hollow, the lingering warmth of you already fading from the sheets. The sound of your laughter still echoed faintly in his ears, but it was drowned out by the noise in his head.

His face subconsciously scrunched, exhaling shakily—running a hand roughly over his face as he turned his sights forward—the bed across the room was still empty.

── .✦

Lunch was already well underway when Barty finally showed. He was late—noticeably late—just after the pumpkin juice had been poured and the several servings of lunch had been eaten. Quietly—wordlessly. Like a shadow slipping between the cracks of the castle stone.

Barty moved as if he were walking through water—slow, heavy, like every step cost him something. His hair was rumpled, flattened oddly on one side like he’d slept curled up somewhere unforgiving. His tie was askew, barely knotted, and his shirt was half untucked at the waist.

You caught sight of him first.

Of course you did. You were always aware of Barty—he had a way of commanding attention when he entered a room, usually by flinging himself into it like a spark looking for something to set alight. But now, he lacked something.

His eyes didn’t scan the table like usual. He didn’t offer that lopsided smirk he wore like a badge of honour or drop some cutting, clever remark that made Evan laugh and Regulus roll his eyes with a small smile. He just sat down—dropped into the bench at the far end as though gravity had forcibly yanked him there.

Your gaze unknowingly followed his every move—mindlessly observing out of habit.

But he didn’t meet your eyes.

Not even when you said softly, “Hey, Junior,” your voice as casual and light as always—and he all but deflated at the sound, sinking into his seat as he forked around at his plate, remaining uncharacteristically silent—maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care.

You glanced at Regulus, but he was staring at his plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the room, silent—posture was too straight. Too carefully composed—everything unnaturally taut. The silence that veiled the far end of the table apon Barty’s arrive was unnerving, the cloud that loomed over him, seeping and bleeding out into all of you—bringing the light chatter to a slow halt.

In an almost pitiful attempt to ease the glooming aura that had swathed the table, you spoke again—keeping your words pressureless, ambiguos—simple, “Sleep alright, J?”

He finally moved—but not to look at you. Instead, he turned his body subtly away, like the space between you wasn’t enough, making it wider instinctively—like he wanted to escape your presence. Reaching for his fork, twisting it between his fingers, he still didn’t speak.

Not a word.

Picking at his food like he didn’t recognise it—like it might turn to dust in his mouth.

Evan broke the brittle tension that accumlated in Barty blatant disregard, nudging his shoulder with his elbow in a half-hearted attempt to lift the mood. “Oi, saw you passed out on the common room sofa last night. You’re lucky Mulciber didn’t hex you in your sleep for stealing his nap spot.”

He smiled when he said it, teasing, waiting for the usual witty jab in return.

But Barty didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t even twitch.

He just set his fork down—still clean—and stood.

Your brows furrowed as you watched him, lunch having grown cold and forgotten—your stomach twisting.

“Juni—”

He was already gone.

Just like that. Walked away, tray untouched, head bowed low, his shoulders curled in like he was trying to fold himself out of sight. He didn’t glance back. Not once—not at Regulus. Not at you. Not even at Evan, who looked after him with a baffled, half-offended expression.

It took a few moments for the silence to leave after Barty’s departure, but when it did, it was only partial. Regulus still was silent, body ridgid, looking down at his plate as if he could read the truth in the gravy lines. And you could see it. The tightens in his jaw, something swimming behind his eyes, something that rarely did.

Something you couldn’t quite place.

You sat just as still has him, appetite gone—the table feelinf significantly more empty than it had done before. Barty’s absences, his behavious heavy on your mind—his silence louder than most.

Maybe it was a hangover, or he’d not slept well—you tried to tell yourself—maybe he’d gotten a letter from home and bile and rage was building in his stomach like always. Maybe he just needed some time to himself.

Deep down you knew something was wrong, and you had a feeling Regulus knew what it was.

You did looked for him that evening. Though it felt as though he’d vanished into thin air.

First the Observatory—his usual haunt after dinner when the halls grew quiet and the scent of parchment overpowered the smell of food still lingering from the kitchens. But the corner by the ledge was vacant, the nights air twisting and whistling around the hollow room—leaves whirling against the cold stone.

Then the common room. Empty. Or rather, full of people who weren’t him. The sofa was unoccupied, and Evan was lounging upside down on one of the armchairs, chatting aimlessly to Mulciber and Dorcas.

“Have you seen Barty?” you asked.

Evan shrugged. “Nah. Maybe he’s off brooding somewhere. You know how he gets.”

But that wasn’t how he got. Not like this. Not without a word.

Turning the corner to the boys’ dorms, letting yourself in.

His bed was untouched. Not in the usual disheveled way Barty left it—sheets tangled, pillows dented, covers barely hanging on. No, this was wrong. This was still. Cold. Hollow. His side of the room was lifeless.

The books stacked by his bedside table hadn’t moved. The record player you’d both stolen from the Muggle Studies classroom one night two springs ago sat quiet, lifeless. Shoes still tucked beneath the bed, as if he hadn’t bothered to wear them. As if he’d disappeared barefoot.

You stood frozen in the doorway for a short while, scanning the room. Regulus was sitting cross-legged on his bed, wand in one hand, idly levitating a quill and not meeting your eyes.

“You don’t know where he is?” you asked, quietly—padding over to stand by Regulus’ bed, leaning against the pillar as you watched him. There were a few beats of silence, “No,”

Just that.

You waited.

Waited for the rest—for the truth tucked between the syllables, for the explanation that would unravel this knot in your chest. But he didn’t look up, didn’t offer anything else.

“You don’t think there’s something wrong?” your voice was more pinched than normal, unrest settling into the end of your question—and he could feel your eyes on him, the weight of your gaze heavy on his form. But he knew if he tore his sights away from the quill, he’d break. Guilt already bubbling in his stomach from the second you entered the room

Instead Regulus just gave a slight shrug, words muttered and unconvincing. “Maybe he needs space.”

“From what?”

You were only met with further silence—not a word. Not a glance. Just the soft scratch of the floating quill tracing invisible lines above his bed, a tight purse of his lips.

The air was too still, as you stood by him, just barely an arms length away—and when you turned on your heel—bones aching under the suffocation of the room and the sting of Regulus’ avoidance.

You left. And the quill dropped onto his lap as the door closed behind you, rubbing his hand over his face as his turned—looking at the empty space beside him that would usually be occupied by you with a frown. Regulus couldn’t bring himself to glance over to Barty’s bed, as the sounds of your footsteps became further and further away.

The next day was no better.

You saw the back of Barty’s head once in the corridor before lunch, but the moment he registered your voice—your steps—he turned down a side hall and disappeared before you could call after him.

At dinner, he never showed. Everyone far to entertained by Evan, who was too busy charming a salt shaker to sing Celestina Warbeck to notice, but you did.

You noticed—you waited.

The day after that, and the one after. The world kept spinning like nothing had shifted, but your stomach ached with the weight of uncertainty. You tried brushing it off at first—told yourself he was being dramatic, maybe annoyed with something trivial. That he’d get over it.

But the days stretched longer. And lonelier.

And Regulus…Regulus never said a word.

He kissed you when you met in hidden corners. Touched you like he meant it, with fingers that found comfort in each inch of you—but he never brought Barty up. Never acknowledged the empty space he left behind, struggled to meet you eye each morning when your gaze would linger on the empty space left for him.

But you felt it—everywhere.

In the way your laughter always died quicker now. In the way you avoided the right side of the dormitory when you were there resting with Regulus—approaching the door and waiting there—in hope of hearing anything other than Regulus’ manicured silence on the other side—approaching less often all together.

You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when you sat too long in silence wandering the place you’d walk together, emptier now—missing the loud, crass, ridiculous everything that was there with Barty.

Because now he wasn’t.

And you didn’t know why.

And it was driving you mad.

Because it had been days.

And you couldn’t pretend not to care anymore.

Not when Regulus still refused to meet your gaze when you said his name. Not when Barty’s side of the room looked like a memory, not a life. Not when your chest burned every time someone said, “He’s probably just being Barty,” like that explained the way his absence scraped against your heart like a harsh burn.

You couldn’t be in that room anymore. Not with Regulus and all his silences. Not with the evidence of Barty’s absence staring at you with every step.

So you stopped going, spending more time in your own room—preoccupying yourself with Head-Girl duties, subsequently leaving Regulus’ room even colder. Your absence adding to the weight of Barty’s—thick, heavy and aching on his shoulders.

You did eventually catch sight of him after an entire week.

Just a flicker—a blur of pale hands and windswept curls vanishing around the corner near the Arithmancy wing. He was alone. For once. No sanctuary of a crowded corridor to shield him.

Instantly you were speeding up, robes filling with air as you all but chased after him, calling his name once, twice. “Barty!”

He faltered—just for a heartbeat, his steps slowing in a way that made your chest bloom with hope, only for seconds later to be filled with a burning dread.

Because he darted.

Actually ran.

Rounding the next corner so fast he nearly slipped, hand catching on the wall to steady himself as his robes flared out behind him like smoke. By the time you turned after him, the corridor was empty. Only the echo of your own breath met you in the stillness. It was clear now, it wasn't just absence anymore.

It was evasion.

Deliberate. Cold. Unwarrented

Lungs burning violently beneath your ribs, more from the sting behind your eyes than the pace of your pursuit. You stood there for a long moment, chest rising and falling unevenly. Cold stone walls pressed in around you, and something sharp curled inside your ribs.

He was hiding.

From you.

And Regulus wasn’t saying a thing, acting as though addressing anything would sear the surface of his lips. He just looked at you and somehow that was worse than his silence, the apologetic look everytime he caught you looking for him—and he still wouldn't break, wouldn't say anything.

Which left only one other person who might’ve done something.

Lunch was a blur of noise and clatter when you stepped into the Great Hall. But the moment your eyes landed on your brother—halfway through a sandwich at the Gryffindor table, seated comfortably between Sirius and Remus—it was as if everything else dimmed.

You crossed the room slowly. Quietly—with purpose.

The hum of chatter softened in your wake as students caught the shift in the air. Even the portraits seemed to pause mid-gossip, eyes flicking toward the slow storm building in your stride.

As always, James didn’t notice until you were nearly on top of him.

Turning just as your shadow fell across the table, his expression freezing mid-bite. The sandwich hovered in front of his mouth, a bite missing, and his eyes widened when they met yours—dark, unreadable.

You said nothing at first—just stood there.

The weight of your silence pressed down on the entire Gryffindor table like a hex. James blinked, mouth still full. “Er—something wrong?”

Your eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in your jaw—a few more long moments of silence spread between you, words leaving with a sharp bitter bite that made him wince internally. “What did you do?”

The entire table went still.

Even Remus leaned back slightly, brows raised—as though he was bracing himself.

James slowly finished chewing, swallowed, then furrowed his brow—confusion splitting across his face in a loud smear. “To who?”

“Barty.”

The name landed like a dropped knife, harsh

James straightened. “What would I want with Batshit Barty?”

He was speaking far to causally for your liking, too flippant—as though you weren’t talking about one of your closest friends, someone you held close to you, like you weren’t talking to him about your Sirius or Remus.

You didn’t dignify him with answer—just kept staring. Cold. Quiet. Fury simmering beneath your skin, and your silence clearly spoke loud enough for you, because James was rushing out more words in order to quell your impending rage.

“I haven’t done anything,” he added, holding his hands up as if warding off a spell. “Why are you assuming—?”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice was low, unnaturally calm but razor-edged. “He’s been gone for days. He won’t look at me. He’s avoiding Regulus too. And you—” your voice caught, jaw tightening, slight desperation seeping into your tone as your looked at James.

It had his lips pursing into a tightline, sighing at the upset he could always easily recognise—easier than other, knowing it would settle into your brows. The telltale signs of your stress showing in the vein that appear by your temple when you spoke.

“—You never liked him. You’ve always hated that he was close to me. So tell me what you said.”

James couldn’t look more genuinely confused if he tried, glancing between his friends and back to you wide-eyed. “I didn’t say anything. I haven’t even seen him. And yeah, I don’t particularly like the git, but you’re seriously jumping—”

“You don’t have to like him. But I know you. You think he’s weird. You think he’s a bad influence.”

“Because he is, Pop! You’re smarter than—”

Your palm crashed onto the table, hard enough to rattle the silverware, and he cut off mid-sentence—mid insult. The other coming onto his shoulder in a deceivingly light and friendly manner that cause his stomach to sink.

And awful silence blooming in the wake of the sharp thud.

You leaned in, voice shaking with restrained fury. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, James, I will hex you so thoroughly McGonagall will have to reassemble you from a mist.”

You straightened, scrowl twitching into a slight frown. Turned.

And walked out of the hall without another word.

From two tables down, Regulus watched the entire scene unfold—eyes distant, shoulders stiff, guilt flickering like a shadow across his otherwise calm face. His fork remained suspended in mid-air, untouched, as you disappeared from view.

And back in the corridor, just outside the doors, you paused and pressed your hand against your forehead—squeezing your eyes shut, attempting to purge the stress from your system, calm your pulse.

But it didn’t.

And it wouldn’t not—until you found him. Found out what’s wrong, where he was hiding, what you’d done.

You were on a rampage.

There wasn’t a corridor you hadn’t stormed down, no secret niche or alcove left unchecked. Even Peeves stayed well out of your way—whistling obnoxiously from a distance as he watched you barrel past with a glower fit to set the suits of armor clattering in fear. Spenting the better part of the weekend pacing through every corridor of Hogwarts, searching high and low for Barty, and each fruitless encounter had worn your nerves even thinner.

Because Barty was somehow nowhere.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

And the sharp, twisting frustration inside of you had nowhere to go, compounding into a taut knot at the base of your throat.

You tried, really tried not to take it out on Regulus.

It wasn't his fault.

He’d done nothing wrong, to your knowledge.

But tension—agitation—clung to you like smoke. Coiling in your chest and bleeding in to everything, even when you tried to bite it back—every brush of conversation feeling too short, too raw, as if a single wrong word might set the whole damn world tilting sideways.

Once again you found yourself wandering aimlessly down the third-floor corridor, shoulders rigid with barely restrained tension, brows furrowed so tightly it felt like they might permanently etch themselves into your skin. You barely even register Regulus' soft footsteps approaching from behind—he was always quiet like that—until you felt his presence like a cool shadow against the hot buzz of your thoughts.

Turning your head just as he parted his lips to call your name, catching him in the corner of your eye. He stopped short, his frown mirroring the one set stubbornly into your mouth. You did offered him a brittle, tight-lipped smile—a poor excuse for reassurance—it looked more like a twitsed grimace.

And if anything, it made his chest ache more.

Without a word, Regulus stepped into your space, fingers curling gently around your wrist and tugging you toward the darker recesses of the corridor, into the small corner by the old statue of the One-Eyed Witch.

There was no resistance, just barely dragging your feet in the direction he pulled you. A small part of you thankful for the anchor he always offered without needing to be asked.

Pressing you gently into the shadowed alcove, until your back met the cool stone wall. He shifted his body just enough to shield you from view, although this part of the castle was rarely trafficked on weekends.

His hands rose, cradling your face with a reverence that made your chest tighten all over again, thumbs brushing carefully over the creased furrow between your brows, trying to smooth away the silent worry written across your skin.

Dipping his forehead to rest against yours, and for a long quiet moment, he just held you, breathed you in—your frustration, your stress, your tangled turmoil. His thumbs continued their soothing pattern across your skin. Tilting your chin up, compelling your gaze to meet his, and his frown mirrored your own; a mirror of silent worry and guilt. Then, slowly, he dipped forward, pressing the softest kiss to your downturned lips.

You didn’t react at first.

The first few pecks were like kisses to a stone statue, your body slumped, your heart still swimming in anxious disarray.

But Regulus didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter.

He kissed you again—softer, longer—then pulled back only enough to kiss you again, not giving you room to slip away. His hands stayed at your jawline, steady and patient, and he began peppering kisses across your cheeks, your forehead, the corners of your mouth.

Another kiss. And another. Light, coaxing—careful not to demand anything from you, just to offer, patiently, again and again.

Something in you cracked.

Your body betrayed you.

Lips twitched at the corners—a small, stubborn curve, despite yourself when he abandoned your mouth to scatter kisses across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the tip of your forehead. Feather-light, stubborn little pecks that demanded you feel them.

Encouraged, he pressed one firmer kiss to your mouth, and this time you lifted your hands, rising from your sides almost timidly to touch him.

When he finally pulled back slightly, searching your face, he only waited a heartbeat before dipping back in—catching your mouth with a little more insistence, refusing to let you disappear into your own mind. Fingers reached up to clutch at the soft fabric of his jumper—he smiled into you and pressed a firmer, surer one against your mouth.

“I’m sorry, amour,” he whispered against your lips, voice low, aching.

Your heart gave a painful, traitorous little leap at the pet name. Inhaling shakily through your nose, burying your face against his chest for a moment, drinking in his familar scent, basking in his touch. Mindlessly fiddling with the hem of his jumper.

"No, I'm sorry," you murmured, voice cracking a little. "I’m not upset with you, Reg...I'm just worried."

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

And the guilt in his chest sharpened, too heavy to ignore. He could stomach Barty’s silence, could even stomach his own cowardice, could wait out the tension until it cracked and splintered and healed, but you—with your small, fragile voice—you were his breaking point.

He didn’t know how to tell you it was partly his fault. That if he’d kept his mouth shut weeks ago, none of this would have unraveled.

So he just leaned in, kissed you again—longer this time, letting it sink deep—until he felt the tightness begin to seep out of your shoulders, melting you into him. Thumb tracing idle, affectionate circles over your cheekbones, and when he pulled back, he gaze flickered briefly down to your now parted, lightly flushed lips.

He didn’t stay distant for long.

Ducking back down, connecting your lips again, this time more hungrily, a low, almost frustrated sound rumbling in his throat. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you into the cool stone.

Letting his lips trail over the curve of your jaw, over the vulnerable line of your throat—slow and indulgent—between kisses he mumbled, almost inaudibly,

"Can we talk after dinner?"

Your mind was fogging under his touch, head tipping back slightly against the wall to grant him better access.

"Mmh?" you managed breathlessly, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair.

"In my room," he clarified, lips brushing your pulse point. "After dinner. Please, amour."

"What is it?" you whispered.

He only hummed, not willing to say more here, kissing down the slope of your neck.

"After dinner," he murmured again, "I’ll explain everything, my love."

And you could only nod, dazed, sighing a soft "okay" into the heated slither of air between you.

Hands rising to clutch the front of his jumper as his lips found their way back to yours. One hand sliding into the back of your hair, cradling the base of your skull, as if you might disappear if he didn't hold you close enough.

It was feverish, unsteady, all the bottled-up emotions from the past few weeks bleeding into it—frustration, longing, guilt, tenderness. Regulus made a soft, almost groaning sound against your mouth, low and aching, pressing you into him like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between you.

Indulging so much that neither of you noticed the faint creak of stone shifting nearby.

Hidden behind the narrow crack in the floor—the secret entrance to Honeydukes cellar—Remus had frozen halfway up the ladder, wide-eyed and horrified.

He’d only peered out because he thought the coast was clear—but instead, he found himself staring straight at you and Regulus, very much entangled, very much devouring each other against the wall.

Remus’ entire brain short-circuited. His mouth falling open wordlessly, heart thudding violently in his chest, a surge of secondhand panic washing over him.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered under his breath, scrambling backward so fast he nearly slipped off the ladder entirely.

“What?!” hissed James, who was climbing up behind him, bag and pockets full of stolen treats. Remus dropped back down onto solid ground, his face burning crimson, shoving James hard in the chest to get him to retreat.

“Peeves,” Remus blurted, voice cracking horribly. “Peeves is lurking—we can’t use this exit. Go, go!”

He practically herded James and Sirius back down the ladder, his hands flailing in frantic gestures, as if trying to physically wipe the mental image from his brain.

James scowled. “We’ll have to take the library passage, then—wait, why is your face redder than a howler—"

“DON'T ASK,” Remus snapped, voice embarrassingly high-pitched, speedwalking so fast Sirius almost tripped trying to keep up.

Behind the stone wall, blissfully unaware of the near-catastrophe, you and Regulus finally broke apart, both breathing hard, foreheads still touching. You opened your eyes slowly, and the look you found waiting for you in Regulus' eyes nearly knocked the breath from your lungs all over again—too fond, too devoted it made your chest ache.

His thumb brushed once more over your now kiss-swollen bottom lip, almost reverently.

There was a sudden, heavy tenderness hanging heavy between you—delicate and infinite and frighteningly real.

“I missed your smile, amour,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, but the vulnerability in it was unmistakable.

You felt your mouth twitch—the smallest of smiles threatening your lips, despite everything.

Regulus caught it instantly, his eyes brightening with something fierce and boyish and unguarded, something he usually hid so well.

He smiled—that same smile that softened all his sharp edges—and ducked his head, pressing one last kiss to your forehead.

“What?” he said, voice lighter, teasing. “You are my love. It’s just a fact.”

You groaned, half mortified, half wanting to curl yourself into him and never move again—slipping out of the alcove with a muttered sound of embrassment, dragging him by the hand into the empty corridor before he could say anything else to make your cheeks any hotter.

He followed you without protest, his fingers laced securely with yours.

Regulus chuckled low in his throat, clearly pleased with himself, and gently unwound your fingers from his jumper, lacing them with his own instead. Thumb stroked back and forth over the back of your hand.

After a moment, he squeezed your hand gently and said, softer this time, “After dinner. My room. Promise me you'll come.”

── .✦

It had been weeks, and they were grueling and awful and torturous if Barty were to describe them.

And he simply couldn't do this anymore.

The pressure of it—the churning, festering wrongness under his skin—was unbearable now. Like he was carrying it all inside his ribs and it was rotting him alive.

He’d hardly even been in a room with Regulus since that night. Or you.

And he could see it—the way his own twisted form of self-preservation was affecting you, how even in his absence he’d managed to damage you still. And he knew Regulus didn’t say anything—he saw the altercation you had between your brother, and how your presence dwindled in his room. How you would b-line to your dorm, and when he’d sneak into get his clothes that the room rarely every smelt like you anymore.

The guilt was eating him from the inside out, because it wasn’t just you, it was Regulus as well—walking around with a sharper scowl, shoulders hung heavy like the weight of everything and more rested on them. Not just his usual brooding self, almost dejected.

Barty couldn't sit still. Couldn't hide away anymore, ignore his feelings—pretend he wasn’t thrumming with an ugly combination of stress and something even worse—something desperate and raw and afraid.

He needed to find Regulus.

He needed to talk to him.

To fix it. To deny it. To clear it up or scream about it or something—anything but this awful limbo where the walls felt too close and his own skin didn’t fit right.

It didn’t matter that it was Sunday evening, that the castle was heavy with the scent of dinner being prepared, Barty knew Regulus’ habits like they were tattooed on the inside of his skull. Always disappearing for an hour or two before the evening rush—locked away in the luxurious marble bath, soaking in stupidly expensive bath oils, hidden behind thick clouds of steam and silence.

A ritual.

A sacred hour Barty had historically never dared to interrupt.

Right now, he didn’t care.

He just needed to see him. Needed to fix this suffocating knot inside his ribs before it swallowed him whole, before he ruined more than he already had. Feet moving faster, almost without his permission, carrying him through the dimming halls—running solely on adrenaline now—an ugly, volatile thing—praying it wouldn't abandon him at the wrong time.

The Prefects' corridor was empty, getting into the hall much easier than he’d imagined it to be.

Barty didn’t pause.

He wrenched open the heavy door to the bathroom and slipped inside like a shadow.

The air was thick inside—warm and wet and heavy with the smell of eucalyptus and something honeyed and rich. The world narrowed down to the soft sound of lapping water, the gleam of marble under golden torchlight, and the pulse hammering wildly in Barty’s ears.

And there he was.

Regulus.

Sitting at the far end of the enormous sunken bath, his slender back turned, arms lazily draped over the marble edge. Head tilted back, curls slicked down against his skull, pale throat bared to the ceiling.

He looked—

Gods, did was he a sight—almost ethereal, like something out of a dream Barty had never realise he had. His voice broke out of him before he could stop it, desperate and cracking—disrupting the perfecting calculated stillness that Regulus lounged in.

"Reg, listen I—I need to talk to you for a sec—"

At the sound of his voice, Regulus stirred. Moving so slowly, like waking from some deep underwater dream—a quiet exhale escaping his mouth, softer than he’d ever thought it could be, especially aimed at him, and almost grateful.

He turned towards Barty, lifting himself slightly against the marble, water sliding down the planes of his torso in glistening rivulets.

And Barty's pulse almost came to an abrupt stop.

Because what he saw made his blood run hot and cold all at once. Regulus’ chest was bare—slick, gleaming, flushed—and littered with deep violet hickeys—glistening under the soft golden light, hickeys blooming down the line of his throat, across his collarbones, scattered over the delicate cage of his ribs.

Your marks.

Your mouth, mapped all over him like he belonged to you.

Barty's gaze snagged helplessly on the dark purple bites smeared along Regulus’ skin, breath caught in his throat like it had been punched out of him.

He'd seen Regulus shirtless a hundred times. In locker rooms. In summer. It was nothing new.

But this—

This was different.

Regulus wasn’t just bare.

He was marked up.

Claimed.

Barty—he couldn’t fucking breathe, completely forgotten how.

Eyes glued to the way Regulus’ slender arms flexed as he shifted, the blue veins in his forearms prominent and glistening under the wet light. On the way his water-slick hair clung to the delicate slope of his cheekbone. On the lazy curl of steam rising off his flushed skin.

He was stupidly, obscenely beautiful—and it made something inside Barty twist so hard it hurt.

And then, just to add to it—as if the knife needed to twist even deeper—Regulus’ mouth shaped his name. "Junior," Regulus breathed, soft and fond and almost worried—his dark eyes scanning over Barty’s frozen figure, open and vulnerable and achingly glad to see him.

He could feel it, unbareably so—prevalent and impossible to ignore. The heat crawling up from the base of his throat, spilling across his cheeks, climbing up the tips of his ears until it felt like his whole skull was on fire.

Struggling, he wrenched his gaze away—disgusted with himself, with this, with everything—heart hammering like a snare drum.

"—Shit—sorry, this—" Barty stammered, voice cracking in half, "—this is a bad time, I'll just—I'll come back—"

He spun on his heel, desperate to get out, desperate to run before he did something unspeakably stupid. Behind him, he heard Regulus shift in the water with a sharp splash—heard the panic in his voice:

"Wait—! Junior, wait—"

But Barty was already gone—stumbling back through the doorway, half-blind with the sheer force of wrongness splitting him in half—barely making it three steps out of the prefect bathroom before he slammed into you at full force.

The collision was so sudden, so jarring, that both of you went down hard—the weight of it knocking the breath out of your lungs as you hit the cold stone floor with a painful thud, a startled groan slipping out of your lips apon impact with the dense stone. Papers were flying, scattering like feathers in the heavy, humid corridor air.

Barty landed half-sprawled infront of you, frozen stiff on the floor, like he couldn’t even think about moving. His chest heaved as he gasped in a broken, desperate breath—wide, panicked eyes locking onto you, like you were the only thing he could see.

It was you.

Of course it was you.

The person who had put their mouth all over Regulus’ body, the person who he branded themselves into every one of his thoughts, the person who he longed and ached for.

The person whose touch was still probably lingering on Regulus’ skin, sinking into his bones.

The person that Barty wanted nothing more than to be a victim of your touch.

"Treasure," he breathed out—helplessly, instinctively—voice cracked and raw.

And your eyes widened, glassy almost immediately—shimmering with emotion you didn’t even have time to name as your gaze swept over him, lingering on the flushed panic stamped across his face.

You barely registered the throbbing ache in your hip or the smarting scrape on your elbow—the only thing you could focus on was him—the way his brows were drawn up like it physically hurt him to see you in pain, the way he looked so panicked and almost small for the first time.

The heavy door behind him hadn’t even fully clicked shut yet when it swung open again.

And there—padding out into the corridor, steam still clinging to his skin—Regulus.

A towel hung precariously low around his narrow hips, damp from where it clung to the drops sliding down his chest and thighs. The cold castle air hit him hard, raising goosebumps along his marked, glistening skin—the fresh hickeys stark and scandalous against his usually-pristine appearance.

His mouth was still open mid-protest, the words "No! Barty, wait—" faltering into shocked silence as he stumbled into view...and saw you both. A messy heap on the stone floor, your papers strewn everywhere.

He froze.

Like someone had Petrificus Totalus-ed him in place.

For a wild, frantic second, he didn’t move—didn’t even breathe—looking for all the world like a soaked, deeply miserable, and highly stressed cat caught in a trap.

An uncontrollable flush blossomed up Regulus’ neck to the tips of his ears—a vivid wash of pink climbing higher and higher, curls dripping onto his forehead, his arms flinching as if debating whether to clutch the towel tighter or bolt for the nearest shadow.

It was so bad, so insanely bad, that a broken, half-hysterical laugh threatened to rise in your throat—but it caught halfway up when the door beside you creaked open again.

And out stepped Remus.

Still mid-conversation with you—or, he had been—before the disaster of the corridor scene snatched the words right out of his mouth. He took one look at you and Barty tangled on the floor, another at the papers littering the hallway, and then—

Then he saw Regulus.

Or more specifically, Regulus' towel-wrapped, heavily marked figure standing shame-facedly in the middle of the hallway like a half-drowned mythological disaster. Nearly naked Regulus. Remus’ eyes went comically wide.

His jaw opened slightly—then closed—then opened again.

The way he stared at Regulus was enough to make you want to evaporate on the spot. It was almost impressive how many emotions raced across Remus’ face all at once; shock, horror, confusion, secondhand embarrassment.

He looked back at you with a look that screamed: what the fuck, oh my god, how?, all at once, his ears flushing a brilliant shade of pink under his shaggy hair.

And Regulus—blessed, doomed Regulus—only then seemed to realise what he was showing the entire damn corridor.

He made a noise—something between a choked squeak and a groan—and scuttled backward, towel slipping dangerously low, practically tripping over his own feet as he yanked the bathroom door closed behind him with a deafening thud.

The silence that followed was mindnumbing.

Barty shifted stiffly beside you, hands fumbling to brace himself against the floor, scrambling up awkwardly, movements jerky, clearly desperate to get away—to vanish into thin air if he could. But before he could bolt, you latched onto his arm—firmly, fingers curling tight around his sleeve.

"Junior," you said—clear yet rough and certain—making him still where he stood, as if he couldn’t do anything but listen to the command of your voice. Flinching slightly at the sound of it, his name on your lips—something raw and aching flickering across his face—and he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, because it was you.

Meanwhile, Remus—poor, long-suffering Remus, had very clearly decided that he wanted absolutely no part of this scene anymore.

Without a word, cheeks still burning, he inched carefully backward—edging into the room he'd just come from, shooting you one last deeply pained, bewildered glance before disappearing with a whispered, awkward "Yeah, I'm just—I'll go."

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

And then it was just you and Barty.

Standing in the wreckage of the hallway—papers still scattered everywhere like shrapnel, your heart hammering painfully hard in your chest. Fingers were still gripping his sleeve and he could feel you, the warmth of your palm radiating through his robes—both of you remained still, as if locked in that moment.

And when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor—finally looked at your for the first time in weeks—he looked at you like you were something half-sacred, half-terrifying—something he didn't know if he was allowed to touch or beg for or run from.

The moments drags, time slowing around you in the corridor as you wrack you brain desperately for words, anything, but your mind has gone blank—emptied under the pressure of Barty’s eyes on you. Something swimming in them that has your throat drying as the seconds go by. Hyperaware of him being close to you, him being infront of you after weeks of search.

You’re startled out of your thoughts when his arm shifted under your hold, stepping closer to him in desperation—convinced he’d run away the second he had the chance.

“Junior,”

That was all you said.

It sounded breathless and pinched and honestly pathetic—but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Eyes locked on where you held him, as if he wasn’t real—like he was going to dematerialise spontaneously and you’d be left standing alone again.

A frown was etched onto your lips as you contemplated releasing him, he’d already made it so clear that for whatever reason he couldn’t stand the idea of being near you. And yet you were holding him hostage in silence, heart hammering beneath your chest—lump heavy in your throat preventing any speech from leaving you.

He still had a pained expression on his face—lips parting when you gaze rose to meet his—eyes softening when your voice reached his ears, meek and so unlike you, lacking your usual spark, your casual confidence.

“I—I’m sorry.” your voice trembled, brows pinched on your forehead—and he saw the way you struggled to swallow before you continued, “For whatever I did—Junior, I’m sorry,” Each word reaked with desperation and a quiet hopelessness that made Barty’s heart plummet in his chest.

His muscles were taut under his skin, rigid with restraint—wanting to run away from the inevitable and pull you into him all at the same time. Words lingering in the air between you, fragile and lost. He could practically feel them sink into his bones, heavier than any hex he’d ever been hit with.

For a long, suffocating moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you.

Looked at you like you were a burning star about to collapse under your own gravity—something so devastatingly bright that getting close might kill him, looked at you with a helpless frown and pinched brows.

His jaw clenched once, twice, before he finally moved—slow, like it hurt him.

“Don’t—” he choked out, voice cracking mid-word. His hands balled into fists at his sides, nails digging crescent moons into his palms. “Don’t apologise.”

Your lips pursed together, blinking up at him with an expression he never wanted to see on your face again, and most certainly hated the fact that he was the reason for.

“I—” He stopped himself, raking a shaking hand through his hair, sending damp strands curling wildly. His whole body seemed to vibrate with a barely-restrained, chaotic energy, like a wire pulled too tight. “You didn’t do anything, treasure.”

And it only made you frown deepen, fingers twitching around his wrist—still holding him like he was some fragile thing that would vanish, that would crumble under any sort of pressure. Barty was too weak for his own good—surging forward and pulling you into him, arms wrapping tightly around you in an embrace.

He shouldn’t be doing this—holding you close this when your boyfriend was just a door down. He shouldn’t be indulging himself in you when even just this small touch means something different to him. Means more.

“You didn’t do anything,” he repeated, voice low and raw and agonisingly sincere.

“I’m the one—fuck, treasure, I’m the one who—”

His words caught in his throat when he felt you squeeze him, palm on his back—your warmth so soothing yet tormenting all at once and Barty just leaned into it. Leaned into you like a man who had nothing left—no fight, no resolve—just signing himself away. Pressing his face into the your shoulder, “I’m sorry,” he murmured back, words muffled against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry, treasure. I—”

You didn’t let him finish, leaning away slightly—staring up at him with a look in your eyes he couldn’t understand, it lacked contempt, it didn’t have anything other than warmth and acceptance he couldn’t fathom. Affection, that he surely didn’t deserve.

“Junior. J—stop. You don’t need to explain right now,” you said, voice almost lost in the thick, suffocating air between you. “Let’s…let’s just go sit somewhere, yeah?”

But you barely had a chance to move before you heard the soft creak of a door behind you.

Regulus.

He stepped out of the bathroom, fully clothed now, his shirt rumpled and clinging slightly to his skin in places where his hair was still damp, curling against the nape of his neck and forehead in soft, messy tendrils. Water dripped lazily from the ends, soaking into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice.

His eyes found you first, standing frozen there in the corridor with Barty half-folded against you. Then his sights slid over to Barty, and the way Barty clung to you like if he let go, he’d come apart completely.

The way you cradled Barty’s wrist with your fingers—so gentle, so careful, as if you were holding something precious you didn’t know how to save. The look in Barty’s eyes—raw, unguarded—made Regulus’s chest ache in a way he didn’t want to name.

He just…watched for a moment.

Air stretching, heavy and taut and almost suffocating, until finally Regulus moved.

Walking up to you both in three long, silent strides and, without a word, reaching out—taking both of your wrists, Barty’s and yours, into his hands. Grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm. Inevitable.

He turned on his heel and tugged you both along. Neither of you resisted. Neither of you even thought to resist.

Following him blindly, feet scraping against the stones, the flickering torches blurring past in your peripheral vision. Barty stumbled once but caught himself, and you never once let go of him. The corridors twisted and turned, and after a short while, the only sound was quiet breaths mixing with the distant noise of dinner echoing from the Great Hall.

After a few minutes, you found your voice, smaller than you’d have liked, “Reg, where are we going…?”

He didn’t turn around, his fingers just tightened slightly where they held both your wrists, turning another corner. “Don’t you think we need to talk?” he said, his voice low, too neutral—almost strained.

You didn’t answer—letting the question hung unanswered between you.

Eventually, he pulled you both into the Slytherin common room—empty now—pulling you up the stairs into their room, the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the windows, casting the room in muted twilight. Only the faint golden glow of the sconces on the walls lit the room, flickering like dying stars.

Regulus let go of you both, stepping back a pace as if to give you space—maybe even to steel himself. The three of you stood there in the centre of the room, awkward and uncertain, like strangers stranded in the aftermath of a storm—the door clicking softly behind you and resonating around the silence in the room.

Barty’s shoulders were tense, hunched inward like he was bracing for a blow. His gaze was fixed stubbornly on the floor, refusing to meet either of yours. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, useless.

Regulus watched him quietly, no anger in his eyes—no disappointment, even. Just something quieter, heavier. Patient.

And you—

You hovered uncertainly, your hand still loosely wrapped around Barty’s wrist, your thumb brushing absently against the bone like you hadn’t even realised you were doing it—you never noticed, but Barty did.

His eyes flicking down, locking on the sight of your hand—so unaware, so comforting and yet it still made his chest tighten. Only then did you notice, feeling the way he tensed under your touch, following his gaze with dread pinching in you when you it landed on your hand.

Pursing your lips together, you pulled away—forcibly squeezing your own hand—fingers curling into your palm ike you could hide the upset bleeding into your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw and breaking. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Barty flinched at your words, frustration flickering across his face before he scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, curls falling even messier over his forehead.

“It’s not that—” he blurted, wincing. “Well—it is—but it’s not—” He stammered over the words, grimacing as he fought them, fought with his mind and tongue. “It’s not you. You don’t—you don’t make me uncomfortable. I just—”

He stopped, pressing his lips together hard like he could physically hold the rest of it in.

The silence stretched, pressed into him like it knew he would crumble, like it was waiting from him to shatter. And your gaze on him did nothing to quell his pulse sounding in his ears, it was open—confused, waiting. Unfairly patient.

Regulus’ stare was sharper—cutting into him with a quiet sort of knowing that made Barty’s stomach twist painfully.

And Barty couldn’t stand it—he couldn’t breathe under it.

“I—I thought I could do this. But I can’t. I’m sorry, I just—”

The panic was building, an unforgiving, rising tide in his throat, tight and hot and unbearable. He turned sharply, desperate to escape the weight of their stares, the suffocating walls, the unbearable truth burning under his skin. But before he could get more than a step away, Regulus moved—swift and sure, catching his wrist in a firm grip. “Stop.” Regulus said quietly, with an iron edge that brooked no argument. “If you don’t tell her, I will. It’s not fair anymore, Junior.”

And Barty's whole body jolted at the contact, stiffening like he’d been shocked. His stomach flipped—violent and sick and dizzying—but not just with anger. Not just with shame.

There was something else, something strange and warm tangled in it, something he didn’t want to name, something worse. The feeling of Regulus’ fingers curling around his wrist—soft and careful and familiar—it sent a pulse of heat ricocheting through him so abruptly that for a split second he was convinced his lungs had collapsed.

And it made him angry—at himself, at everything.

Because how dare his body still react like that, still betray him, even now when everything was clearly already falling apart?

He ripped his arm free like it burned him, staggering back with a harsh, broken sound caught in his throat, spinning around so quickly he nearly stumbled, chest heaving, his face crumpling with a sick, helpless kind of revulsion—at himself most of all.

“You think this is fair on me?!” he snapped, voice ragged and raw. He couldn’t even see Regulus’s face anymore—couldn’t bear to—only saw the wreckage burning behind his own eyes.

“You think I want this?!"

The words tore out of him, vicious and choking. "I wish—" And he breath caught, clawing its way out and trapping itself in his throat, as he continue words swallowed in the distress of his tone.

"I wish more than anything that I didn’t feel like this!"

His hands were shaking now, curled tight into fists, nails digging hard into his palms until he swore he felt blood bloom beneath them, knuckles white and tremouring under the tightness.

“What do you want me to say—huh, Reg?!” he demanded, a frantic, wounded sound punching out of him. “You want me to shout it from the rooftops?! Fine!”

He should have stopped himself, should have thought about it, taken a second to just stop. But Barty was always too volatile, always too crass for his own good—never able to find the middle ground, especially when it comes to emotions, so used to pushing them away. Hiding them under layers and layers of blaśe and cocky remakes. And now it was all spilling out of him like bile, thick like oil, staining and tainting the air as left him.

“You want me to say ‘I’m in love with your girlfriend!?’”

He wasn’t finished—the final truth tumbling out, raw and bleeding, voice cracking under the pressure,

"I’m in love with my best friend!"

And with that—it wasn’t just the room that stopped—Barty was use the whole world had, spinning on its axis, tilted upside down. He froze, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears, realisation crashing down on him like a tidal wave too heavy to survive.

The weight of what he’d said—what he couldn’t ever take back—slammed into him so hard he staggered, a half-step backward, dazed and wide-eyed.

You just stood there, staring at him, lips parted slightly, eyes glistening under the dim candle light—and Regulus didn't say anything. Didn’t even move either.

He just watched Barty quietly, his face frighteningly still, but his grey eyes were no longer guarded. They swam with something achingly gentle. Something like understanding, sympathetic—and he wanted to be sick, wanted to scream.

Because even now, even after everything—part of him still ached, wanting to reach for you, part of him wished Regulus’ hand was still warm and familiar against him. Still wanted to feel the impossible, burning comfort of being held by you.

And that?

That was the cruelest part of all.

already started part 4....were GETTING THERE YALL

taglist mwah: @dearmy-diary @soupsiess @just-here-for-ff @charlies-corner-of-hell @treefairy-28 @nikt-wazny-y  @mel-vaz @prettty-thing @liszblog @theonyxstate @yinyangcchii @msmarklee1213 @0urlady0fs0rr0ws421 @certified-womanizer @delusional-4-fake-people @ilyremuslupin @1989worshipper @nen-nyy @rowanberryxx @m9990 @bxuzi @call-mee-nyxx  @grxcisxhy-wp

[major-toast]

Passenger

@rosekillermicrofic // May 14th - insane // words: 856 // minors dni

Speeding down the highway, the landscape is rushing past them, a nervous blur of the black night sky and bright neon signs. Evan’s eyes flick down to the dashboard of their trusty Dodge Challenger. And so do Barty’s.

140 miles per hour. 150. 200.

They’re fucking fast.

“Hit the gas, Rosie!” Barty laughs, turning in his seat to catch their trackers tailgating them. They’re fast too. But, considering Evan will turn off the car lights any second, plunging them into total darkness and vanishing the Challenger into the cool air of the night, they stand no chance. Barty’s grin takes up a new dimension of delight.

“Any faster, and I’ll lose track of the road signs”, Evan mumbles, taking one last sip of his soda can. 

Scrunching up the frail metal within his palm, he then throws the remains out of the open window, one hand safely secured to the wheel. For a moment, Barty hoped the can would hit the windshield of the SUV behind them, but to no avail. Disappointed, he clicks his tongue, focussing back on the road ahead.

“Fuck the road signs!” he says. “If one of the pigs wants to stop us now, I’ll show him how pretty his brain looks on the pavement. Didn’t bring those TEC-9s for nothing.”

Huffing, and with his arms crossed above his chest, he slumps back into the passenger seat, propping his feet up against the windshield.

It was supposed to be an easy job; in and out. No witnesses. A simple kidnapping with a shit-ton of ransom money as a reward. But, of course, it had to be a trap, a botched operation. If Riddle wanted to get rid of them so desperately, he should have done it himself, and not sent out a bunch of bloodhounds.

What an egomaniacal, deranged coward. Barty will be all too happy to greet him with the gun inside his pants. And this time, he doesn’t mean his cock.

Roll the windows down, this cool night air is curious. Let the whole world look in. Who cares who sees anything? I’m your passenger.

At the sound of the radio echoing back his own sentiment, the grin reappears. Usually, Barty listens to no one, but the moment couldn’t be more fitting.

“What- what are you doing?” Evan questions warily, his eyes fleetingly glancing over at him.

“Living” comes the simple reply.

Before the pretty blonde can do anything, Barty has rolled the windows down.

Without unbuckling his seatbelt – because why would he fasten it to begin with? – he climbs out halfway, nothing but his waist and legs keeping him inside the racing car. Feeling the harsh air whip through his hair and prick his nose and ears like a thousand tiny needles, an ecstatic cackle bubbles from his lips.

This. This is what it means to be alive, to breathe.

If only for a short moment.

“Get. In”, Evan grunts, pulling Barty back with one harsh tug on his blood-soaked shirt. “You maniac are getting us both killed!”

Almost as if to lend his words some weight, Evan swerves hard right, trying to avoid crashing into the slowing car before them. The tires screech deafeningly in protest and the centrifugal force shoves Barty back into the passenger’s side door. Left and right, empty beer cans and other trinkets are flying through the tiny space, and with one last bumpy correction of his course, Evan gets them back on track.

“Beautiful”, Barty breathes in admiration, his piercing eyes alighting with new fire and his hands shaking from excitement. “No one can drive like you can, Rosie.”

“Save your compliments until we’re fucking out of here, Crouch.”

He looks over to him, watches the wind dance inside his blonde locks. If they go crashing down, Barty will be glad to crash with him.

Here I lay, just like always. Don’t let me go. Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go. Take me to the edge.

“Do you trust me?” Barty murmurs into the warm space between them.

“Of course, I trust you”, Evan replies.

“Blindly?”

“Blindly.”

Without another word, Barty leans forward then. Gently, he wraps his hands around Evan’s face, covering his eyes. Freezing at first, the pretty blonde relaxes into the touch easily, his grip slackening on the wheel.

“The road is empty. There is no one in front of us”, Barty coos. “You got this, angel. Let me be your eyes-“

“-and I’ll be your wings”, Evan finishes, a small smile stretching over his lips at the familiar words. 

Confidently, he presses down on the gas pedal, increasing their speed once more. Filled with pride, Barty gently kisses his cheek.

“There is another sloth right in front of us. The right lane is empty. You have about 15 seconds.”

Shifting gears and slowing down without effort, Evan taps the wheel. Gracefully, they avoid yet another crash. Yes, no one can drive like his Rosie. No one knows the road like he does.

“You are one insane motherfucker”, Evan smiles as Barty lifts his hand again. He simply shrugs it off.

“As long as I am yours.”

[evans-the-flower]

ʜɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇs, ɪᴛ's ʟɪʟʏ! 🍓

17

She/Her

Bisexual

Irish

Single

Year 12

Top of my class for all years but 23' (fuck you Sirius)

5 A-Levels

Likes: strawberries, my friends, my family, baking, crocheting, sunny days, the color red, maths, chemistry, learning, and winning

Dislikes: rascists, misogynists, transphobes, haters, and anyone who's mean to my friends

People I know:

Marls, my roommate and best friend HOT BADASS GIRLFRIEND: @rockin-blonde-lesbian

Pads, he's pretty cool: @ad-sirius

James, he's gonna make me go grey: @rjames-aflemont-bpotter

Pete, the best and chillest of the boys: @pete-not-a-rat-stfu

Regulus, quite nice and good study partner: @im-a-motherfuckin-starboy

Cissa, the best Black and very nice: @narcissaliketheflower

Cass, absolute goddess and super cool: @in-the-meadowes

Barty, clinically insane: @barty-rosier-not-crouch

Dora, literal faerie and so sweet: @doras-and-auras

Evan, Dora's brother: @roses-and-other-sharp-things

ooc: this is an rp account, my main is @percyweasleyapologist and you can contact @lirenthenonlyrist to join!!

[messingwithmoony]

hey !! was wondering , what are your :

top ten fav marauders era characters , in order

:]

Number 1 being my fav —> 10 least fav

Had to do a lot of thinking on this

1 - Remus

He has to be my favourite because he was my original fav when I first entered the fandom

2 - Regulus

I think thats because I share his "abandoned younger sibling" vibe. I sought out solace when my sister left and discovered Regulus. I'm also a huge pessimist.

3 - Sirius

I love his vibe. His music taste influenced me to become who I am today. I love how headstrong he is too. Also he was my fav growing up, I thought that he and remus were fit 😭😭

4 - James Potter

Ball of sunshine, what can I say? I relate to his need to constantly be of help to others, neglecting my own feelings just so that they have less to deal with

5 - Marlene McKinnon

TCOPTP Marls you will be iconic to me forever. "Will you still call me cherry?" UHM YES? also when they use Cherry Bomb for the intro song. Also she's iconic in Art Heist, Baby! Hot pink guitar? Sign me THE FUCK UP. I was also really sad that her entire family died fr😖😖

6 - Lily Evans

This woman. She is the EMBODIMENT of magic. She is insanely smart, but knows she has to work for it, imo making her smarter than the rest. She is more than just "Harry's mum" and I HATE HATE HATE how most fics give my poor girl Lily such a shallow personality, making her focus solely on academics. Also this girl is so headstrong and I love her so much for rejecting James so much - she knew she didn't want it, so she didn't have it.

7 - Barty Crouch Jr

Im sorry but this man is so bloody cool. Polyjuiced himself to be his bf's killer for an entire year is mad work and I respect the dedication. What a guy fr. Also, the man is insanely smart. All O's in his OWLS? mad work.

8 - Evan Rosier

Crimson Rivers Evan destroyed me. I related to him so much as he didn't have any friends, and neither did I at the time that I started reading Crimson Rivers ( I still havent finished it hahah) and it just broke me fr. Also he's lowk iconic (EYE-Conic? Get it?)

9 - Tonya

Ughh oh my god I love her. Tonya babe come back the kids miss you (me) she deserved so much better than Tomny, she had such a hard upbringing (if it can even be called that) and she was treated badly by Tomny imo.

10 - Grant Chapman

This man made me hurt SOOOO much. He was with Remus for so long, just for Remus to inevitably up and leave when Sirius escapes from Azkaban? I'm ALL FOR WOLFSTAR but this man was with Remus for like TWELVE YEARS whilst Sirius was (wrongfully) imprisoned. He was such a sweetie pie and I love him, he deserved so much better :((

Also when he meets Teddy and instantly knew, that HURT ME - it's been ages since I read it but I'm still bleeding fr

[sixlane]

hii the regubartylily anon here u said ur curious about my other rarepairs so here i am to talk about that because well i love my silly rarepairs and i love yapping about them

in no specific order:

sybella, sybill trelawney x bellatrix black. they make me insane. i believe it was @/quillkiller who came up with them and i havent been the same since.

regulily. im a basic bitch i see two cool people kissing i become obsessed. they are exactly who i want to be. im not sure how i imagine lily because theres so many versions of her but every single one fits with reg perfectly

regtunia. im not sure whos post it was but someone made a moodboard and @/foursaints reblogged it and oh my god. oh my fucking god. they leave and sirius and lily are so happy that they are following in their footsteps but they just want a simple quiet life they dont want to rebel. they both feel abandoned and neglected. they are two sides of the same coin.

regubartylily, you and ren are geniuses. i cant decide whether i like the happy ending (regulily & rosekiller) or the bad ending (barty gets murdered) more. there is something compelling about the idea of both reg and lily projecting onto barty and wanting things from him. im not sure if they actually care about him or is he just providing them with attention. idk. it makes me feel kinda bad for him but also thats barty crouch jr. he deserves it. hes also the perfect pure pookiebear that hasnt done a thing wrong in his entire life but like. also he should suffer. you understand.

everything that @/quillkiller comes up with. im a fan. i clap whatever they say. effiebarty. maryjames. alectolily. bartyrosiers. lurthur. bellucius. i cheer

what r ur fav rarepairs??

omg hi!!! this is so interesting thank you for sharing! and i’m so happy to see regubartylily crack your top 5 hehe. i will say you’re absolutely right that jen is a rarepair genius. i too eat up everything she posts.

sybella is so interesting i don’t think i’ve every come across that (i gotta go stalk jen’s blog) but in a similar vein i loveeee sybillily. kara @/sugarsnappeases has talked to me about them extensively and has an amazing fic for them. they’re so interesting. like the girl who’s doomed and the one who doomed her. it gets me!!!!

bartylily is probably my biggest rarepair if they can even be considered rare anymore 🥲. there still aren’t many fics for them but i think they’re kinda taking off on tumblr which so so fun. they’re so special to me and i’ll love them forever.

and then of course we’ve got regubartylily and jartylily. my cursed threesomes. what can i say i love to stick barty in the middle of a preexisting ship and see what happens.

i’ve also talked about evjames a couple times. i don’t ship them at all but i think they’re hilarious when put in a relationship together.

honorable mentions to ludora (lucius and pandora) and pandoraleco (which has been brewing in my mind lately… more later perhaps)

MWAH thank you for coming back to share with me!! feel free to yap at me anytime <3

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

I hate Cursed Child so much, but I can't help but feel like it had *some* worth as a story... And as of late I've been repeatedly overcome with the urge to try to write a better story for Delphi... One where she was raised in a far better environment, because I feel like she had potential to be a far more fun and interesting character if she'd just had a better life...

The concept of Delphi is not a terrible one by itself. 

It would be difficult as hell to have it realistically happen, because Voldemort...not only could he not love, but he was planning to be immortal. To go on forever. He would have no need for an heir, and probably wouldn’t want one because he’d see them as competition. The most likely situation is Delphi being an accident, but even then I find myself doubting that Voldemort would have any interest in sex. Sure, Bellatrix would give herself to him in a heartbeat, but I feel like he’d have more important things to do. Then again...he apparently told Barty Crouch Jr all about his father. He crossed that personal line. It could be that Voldemort was aware that Barty was projecting onto him as a father figure, and fed that instinct to seal Barty’s undying loyalty. And he might have done the same thing with Bellatrix. Okay, Delphi’s existence can be justified.

The main thing about her that I didn’t like was that she was just a one-dimensional wannabe Death Eater. She was heartlessly evil, and while it was cool to see another secret villain, I could have lived without her flirting with a fourteen year old boy. I said before that Voldemort wouldn’t want an heir, and Delphi is deluding herself if she thinks that the “Augurey” would be a thing. Even if she genuinely had no intention of taking the spotlight, Voldemort wouldn’t trust that and he wouldn’t care. He would kill her. Seriously, they could have done something so interesting with Delphi, tied it in with the themes of Scorpius and Albus trying to deal with their family’s legacies. But instead they just made her evil because she was Voldemort’s daughter. That’s morally ignorant, and it’s fucking boring. 

I’ve been playing with this idea too, if it wasn’t obvious. A fix-it fic for Cursed Child, because you’re right, the story did have some worth. Scorpius’ character in particular, and his bond with Albus. I thought Albus was a decent character too. There were a handful of really good scenes in there. The bedroom scene with the old blanket, despite being a Chekhov's Gun for something really stupid...it got emotional. Hell, I don’t even mind the “Sometimes I wish you weren’t my son.” Line. Everybody hates that line with a passion...I don’t. This is Harry James Potter we’re talking about. He nearly killed Draco with an untested combat spell. He is nothing if not impulsive. I can believe he’d say that to Albus. I don’t believe he would mean it, but he would totally say it. Seriously, the way he treated McGonagall bothered me way more. 

I think I know how to fix Delphi.

Concept: It’s the first war. Yes, the first war. Voldemort is gathering more and more followers. Saying what he needs to say, to secure their loyalty. Discovering what buttons he needs to press, and they pressing them. Preying on Snape’s loneliness. On Barty Crouch’s daddy issues. And he realizes that the quickest way to keep Bellatrix starry-eyed is to let her believe he “loves” her. So he sleeps with her. Ding dong, there’s a baby at the door. This baby is not Delphi. But Bellatrix lets everyone believe it’s her husband’s child. But before she can tell Voldemort the truth, he meets his downfall at Godric’s Hollow. Not long after, the Lestranges are arrested, and little baby Jane Doe becomes a Ward of the Ministry, eventually adopted out to...the Diggorys. She grows up calling Cedric “cousin.” At some point, she discovers the truth about her heritage, and eventually has a daughter of her own. She names her daughter Delphi, and Delphi is born in the same year as Albus, Rose, and Scorpius. 

So let’s look at what’s changed - Delphi is now Voldemort’s grandchild. Admit it, that one little thing makes it sound so much less ridiculous than “Voldemort’s daughter.”  which sounds like it’s straight out of a bad fanfic. Delphi is now in Albus’ year. This allows her to parallel better with him and Scorpius. I still prefer Scorbus, but there’s something to be said for a romance between Harry’s child, and Voldemort’s grandchild. That’s an interesting take, and now it can happen without being god damn pedophilia. (Seriously I know Delphi was just manipulating him but it was still predatory behavior, what the hell.) Instead of being insane and thinking it’s her destiny to bring Voldemort back, she can wrestle with her identity and if she believes there was any merit to what Voldemort wanted. At no point is the idea of him actually returning ever discussed, because his role in this story is over, god damn it. She wouldn’t be the villain, neither would her mother - let’s call her Aquilla because it sounds cool. But Aquilla and Delphi could reconnect the same way Harry and Draco reconnect with their sons. Delphi, Albus, and Scorpius could literally be a silver trio. As for who is the villain? I dunno, it’s not especially important. Could be Theodore Nott I guess? As long as it isn’t someone resurrected though bloody time travel. 

[bellatrixblackmalfoy]

A Kiss

“you’re devoid of a soul after it’s done, but you’re still alive.It’s worse than being an inferi, ....” 

Rod frowned in disgust as Evan described it

“I’ve heard it’s unbearable to watch-- but not worse than watching the Cruciatus curse.” Rodolphus swallowed thickly, the thought of it turning his stomach.

“The killing curse is the worst one, it has to be.” Amycus insisted, shaking his head. 

“You’re all absolute imbeciles. The Kiss is the worst event for a wizard to witness--do you not read?” Lucius’ usually cool drone sounded more bored than usual. which was indeed a feat. “First accounts are rare because the ministry keeps it incredibly private, most people can’t bare to watch the whole--” 

“I’ve seen it.” the higher, female voice broke through the boys hushed tones. They hadn’t noticed Bellatrix sitting adjacent to them, too worried with being overheard and keeping their voices down than actually checking the shadows. 

At least that’s what Bella thought. Lucius knew she was there. He always felt her presence, even before he could see her. And he knew her well enough that she was waiting for the right opportunity to make herself known--there was always a little playfulness she let through despite herself, Lucius noticed. 

“No you haven’t. When was this?” Rod asked, suddenly cocky in trying to call her bluff. 

She let a little smirk play over her dark red lips, “Last year.”

Rod let out a laugh, leaning back in the sofa and letting her sit beside him, across from Lucius. “There’s no way you managed to--”

“i was well accompanied” her smirk grew, knowing her words were hurting him as she met his brown eyes. “Do rest assured.” 

“Oh. Of course.” Rod snarled.

Fucking Crouch. What seemed to be the only person in the British Aristocracy able to hold her interest romantically for an elongated amount of time. Lucius was glad the git was a year above them, and his grubby unworthy hands were nowhere near Bella anymore. Though Crouch’s lack of attention after he left didn’t seem to faze Bella in the slightest.

If Bella didn’t know better, she could’ve sworn Lucius had rolled his eyes. Sure, they were still very close--but not as close as they had been. She couldn’t see why he’d take any issue with her not telling him, he decided to go off and spend his time tending to his baser needs. It’s perfectly fair that she do the same--and get certain Ministry perks in the process.

Besides, there’s nothing between them anyway. Not from his direction.

“What’s it like then?” Lucius’ deeper voice made Bella look away from Rod, and an entirely new smirk grew on her lips. 

“Fascinating.”

“Do continue.”

She blinked once, a little taken aback by how eager he was to know more. Lucius was not the type to get his hands dirty... She placed the thought aside, eager to continue. 

“You cannot watch it unprotected, otherwise you won’t enjoy--”

‘Enjoy it!?” Amycus chuckled incredulously

“Shut up.” Lucius didn’t look away from her, unable to get enough of the look on her face.

Bella pulled a little bravado from somewhere to hold his gaze; her mind struggling to focus on her story under his rapt attention. “Yes. Enjoy it. Bartie’s guards created the Patronus shield, so we’d be better able to see. He was always so attentive...” she continued also not looking away. His eyes, their usual iciness replaced by burning silver now boring into her. It was new... 

“Enough about Bartie, this isn’t girl talk.” Rod cut her off once more. Lucius said nothing, silently agreeing that the less they speak of Crouch, the better.

Bella chuckled, looking at Rod once more. “Are you sure? Seeing that I am a girl--have you forgotten Rodolphus?”

“I’d ask if you were flirting, dear Bella, but I wouldn’t want Bartie and his Dementors to come after me.” he responded, all too eager to engage. 

She let out another chuckle, but continued on. And Lucius had to bite the inside of his cheek to remain silent. “The Dementor reaches its victim slowly. It drags out and feeds on as much joy from them as possible, it took the one I saw nearly ten minutes. It got closer to the victim’s mouth, and thankfully its hood peeled back just enough for me to be able too see up close.”

“How close were you” Lucius asked, earning him a raised eyebrow from her.

“Quite close” she responded, “Close enough to see what the Dementor’s mouth looks like--it is grotesque, I will concede to that, but my attention was more on the victim.”

“Why?” Lucius asked, almost sighing the word. 

“The screams--they rung through the execution room. I saw the hope slowly draining from their eyes. There was a struggle at first--writhing and screaming. She put up a good little fight. But after a while she stopped, exhaustion and defeat replaced the glimmer of hope, and then it got closer...”

He could watch her like this for as long as she’d let him. This fire, teetering at the edge of insanity was making him cross his legs. He knew she’d always been an intense kind of girl, ever since they were children. But this...this was an even wilder side of her. And he wanted to see more. 

“I’m going to be sick.” Rosier whispered, indeed looking rather pale, holing Bella’s leg for balance. Lucius hated that she didn’t slap his hand away.

“Then leave.” Lucius spoke quickly. He wanted her to keep speaking. He wanted to watch that gleam of madness in her eyes and how she was grinning at him, devilish and taunting. As if she was daring him to look away. He wouldn’t though, and he thinks she knows that.

“The Dementor gets close--centimetres away--the victim’s on the ground by this point. Unblinking. i thought she was dead, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. A little ball of light comes out of her mouth, and the dementor just...” she sighs, a smile on her lips “It devours the soul--it just--tears it apart and... the only way I can describe is ingests it. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was brilliant.”

She was too caught up on reliving the moment, but now that she was done she really looked at Lucius. He was all but hanging to her every word, though at the same time, he didn’t seem to be really listening. Bellatrix let her grin remain on her face. It had been a long time since Lucius was truly this close to her. It was a fun little challenge to see him refuse to look away, to flinch, to show anything but pure curiosity about her darkest interests.

Of course, as always, someone else’s voice broke the moment.

“You’re so fucked up Bella” Rosier chuckled, shaking his head. “Only you’d consider that a romantic evening.” 

She shrugged “Bartie knew how to show a girl a good time. I suppose I do have very...particular interests.” 

“Was Bartie as into this as you seem to be?”  Rod asked, teasing her.

“I thought this wasn’t girl talk Rodolphus” she pinched his cheek as she spoke, making Lucius stand to his feet when Rod chuckled in response. 

“Well, as enthralling as that was, i must attend to my evening affairs.” He needed to get out of here. Before he asked her to a secluded place and put himself in more danger than he was already. He needed to get the tension out, and he had more than a few willing volunteers to help him...

“Hah! Is that what we’re calling it now?” Rod asked, easily stretching his arm behind Bella’s head as he leaned back. Lucius could punch him. But then he caught the look of disdain from Bella out of the corner of his eye, and decided to just shake his head and depart. 

Bella watched him leave until his flaxen hair was out of her sight, and she crossed her arms; passing her annoyance with him off as boredom. She should hate him, but she knew this was all a game to him; she should really blame herself. Bella got caught in it every time. Any sliver of attention he’d give her, and she was putty in his hands--not that he knew that. If she had her way he’d never know. For now though, at least Rod was there to work out her frustration. 

[fuck-howard-stark]

[Image Description: Screenshot of a reply by @/willowlark369 that reads “Let’s discuss just how terrible all of the HP adults are, because no one ever wants to.” End Image Description.]

Friend, by all means, hell yes, let’s talk about it.

Vernon Dursley: went out of his way to make Harry feel like shit, quite literally locked Harry in a cramped room under the staircase, was physically and emotionally abusive. allowed/helped Dudley abuse Harry.

Petunia Dursley: went out of her way to make Harry feel like shit, constant scorn and abuse in the more “subtle” way of emotional abuse. applies to both Dursley parents, but literally locking Harry in Dudley’s old room and feeding him through a slot in the door.

Dumbledore: knowingly left Harry in an abusive home, made him the sacrificial lamb not knowing whether or not Harry would survive, explained none of this to Harry, was a lying, secretive, manipulative piece of shit.

McGonagall: knew full well that Harry was in an abusive home his entire childhood, did nothing because “oh, Dumbledore said to leave him there.”

Lucius Malfoy: physically, verbally, and emotionally abuses his son, is a pretentious motherfucker, put Tom’s diary in Ginny’s cauldron, is absolutely a disgusting racist (”mudbloods”)

Narcissa Malfoy: lets Lucius torture their son for fucking years, doesn’t say anything, fucking complicit in this shit

Alecto and Amycus Carrow: literally used the Unforgiveable Curses on students. do i actually need to say anything else here?

Barty Crouch Jr.: again, used Unforgiveable Curses on students. need i fucking say more.

Argus Filch: wanted to fucking torture kids. again, what the fuck else do i need to say here?

Cornelius Fudge: refuses to listen to reason, big part of the reason Voldemort got as strong as he did and got the Death Eaters back as powerful as he did, cared more about his shitty fucking career than, you know, everyone’s fucking lives.

Fenrir Greyback: literally targets young children, puts himself near victims right before transformation and does this on purpose, thirsts for blood even as a human, loves hurting people, i mean honestly.

Bellatrix Lestrange: literally tortured Neville’s parents into insanity. do i need to say anything else?

Gilderoy Lockhart: liar, piece of shit, can’t own up to his own actions, literally tried to attack two children because they discovered his lies.

Quirrel: helped Voldemort, tried to kill Harry, again, do i need to say much more?

Voldemort: ...do i actually need to say anything here? killed people so he could make horcruxes, tortures people for fun, you know, not a stellar individual.

Augustus Rookwood: death eater, spy, can we just agree that all the death eaters are pieces of shit? yeah? cool.

Rita Skeeter: we all agree she’s creepy, invasive, violates boundaries, disregards people’s actually feelings and beliefs and statements, and treats people like shit, right? yeah? alright.

Severus Snape: oh i’m sure i’ll get shit for this, but Snape is honestly so goddamn creepy and disturbing. he treats Harry and friends like shit, shows distinct favoritism, has been pining after Lily in a stalker way for decades, couldn’t let it go when Lily turned him down, also knew about Dumbledore’s plan to turn Harry into a sacrificial lamb and did nothing, honestly just. i hate him

Umbridge: do i need to explain. tortures and abuses children physically, mentally, verbally, and more, is racist and persecutes half bloods, controlling, violent, manipulative, gaslighting, and hateful, honestly she’s a real piece of fucking work

i’ve got a lot more opinions, but let’s start with that. the harry potter adults are pieces of shit

[eracitor]

Weird Headcanons for my Boys

Regulus Black

took piano and/or art classes growing up

loves to braid his friend’s hair. Rodolphus prefers a braid that leads into a bun. Rabastan will accept any braid but usually gets a classic french braid. Lucius will only allow him to braid his hair if he does a fishbone braid.

He’s definitely a Capricorn

has had a crush on Rodolphus forEVER, although some of the reason he likes Rodolphus so much is because Rodolphus is basically a Slytherin, pureblood supremacist version of Sirius. Rodolphus is (in Reg’s mind) who Sirius could have been. Rodolphus is the wildest someone could get and still follow aristocratic society

He’s got a reputation that he keeps so clean that it fucking hurts, which means that he misses out on kid stuff a lot because he’s too busy thinking about estate affairs and dining etiquette. His friends are the only thing that bring out the kid in him.

I think most of these stupid boys actually have a part of muggle culture that is their guilty pleasure. His is definitely the books. He LOVES classic literature and he will slip muggle books into wizard book covers so his mother doesn’t know.

He’s actually a major romantic but being logical is regarded as more important on his list of things he needs to be which is why he’s not out there courting anybody. 

this boy treasured Slug Club and duelling club and Slytherin quidditch practice and any activity where he got to be with his friends more than anything in the world (because his parents sucked and expected him to be everything Sirius refused to be because now they “only had one son” and it was a lot of pressure and anyone Regulus is my favorite character in history every of characters so yeah there’s that).

Rabastan Lestrange

serious cryptid and loves all mythical creatures. His favorite class is Care of Magical Creatures, and he believes in all things out there and he wants to meet and study all of them

he’s very particular about who he befriends, because humans don’t have predictable behavior like most animals/cryptids

He’s asexual and aromantic. He’s only into platonic friendships, and then only barely. 

‘Scuse me?? This boy is a Taurus???

He and Regulus are best friends and have a strong bond of brothers, similar the bond between Marauders. I would almost say platonic soulmates. Regulus is the only one who can understand his deep love of creatures that are “below” them, but more than that, they just understand each other on a fundamental level

both he and Rodolphus have long, curly wild hair, super thick and too wild to tame. I’m talking like viking ass huge hair.

He’s one of those strong-and-silent, animals-not-people type. I imagine he talked to people the same way April Ludgate does in Parks and Rec. He tries to scare them on purpose and never says anything genuinely unless he’s talking about how much he loves creatures more than humans. He’s a Creepy Boi (TM)

Rodolphus Lestrange

plays guitar like it ain’t no thing. Now here’s Wonderwall (Maybe not Wonderwall but you better believe his muggle guilty pleasure was their music. He was a part of the rock scene going on in England back in the day)

rocks the perfect man bun. I cannot picture him without a man bun, he has one I swear to god. 

He is arranged to be married with Bellatrix, not by choice. Most marriages are because there is not a whole lot of purebloods left. He, like Bellatrix, feels nothing for his fiance, although he does care about her and her family.

Sometimes I hc that he and Regulus are a thing, like done behind Bellatrix’s back that throws her into an insane rage. However, ultimately I don’t think that would be Regulus or Rodolphus’s style. Regulus cares too much about his image, and Rodolphus isn’t much of a romantic. I would probably say more likely he flirts with Regulus like he flirts with everyone else, leading Regulus to have a huge crush on him.

Favorite class? Honestly it’s divination, although he doesn’t really tell anyone. Not because he’s embarrassed, but he’s just very subtle about the things he likes; he’s not gonna geek out about it but he’ll be like “ah, shit, that’s cool.” He’s an Aquarius, btw

Lucius Malfoy

his marriage with Narcissa is an arrange marriage but they are romantic soulmates. If it hadn’t been arranged, Lucius would have proposed on his own. Lucius, although seen as strong, is actually very weak while Narcissa is assumed to be weak when in fact she is very strong. This dynamic works very well for them.

He won’t admit it to anyone but he’s an exquisite dancer and he loves it. He knows every step to every formal dance, and couldn’t step on someone else’s foot if he tried.

He’s a fucking Virgo

Charms and Potions are the subjects he’s very good at, although I wouldn’t say he really liked them. He liked being good at them and showing off, but he didn’t dislike or like either. He was probably in the Slug Club (IDK if he really was but he seems like someone Slughorn would loooooove)

He’s surprisingly good at knowing the value of most objects. He’s like a wizarding Pawn Shops guru. He’s very tricky about buying things cheap and selling them high. He honestly would have done muggle pawn shopping too except he (like all the boys) were grossed out and vaguely scared of muggles.

Barty Crouch Jr.

has a crush on Regulus because of their similar backstories: raised by authoritarian pureblooded families with high places in wizard society, the Crouch family because of his father’s government position and the Blacks due to old money

A Scorpio, for sure, like for sure for sure

He, Evan Rosier, and Antonin Dolohov are basically the Three Stooges of the groups. They are always seen bickering and insulting and teasing each other. The shenanigans they get themselves into his hilarious. Rosier knew Barty Crouch Jr. growing up (the way all pureblooded families knew each other) but they didn’t become close until Dolohov joined and they became the trio

he liked Defense Against the Dark Arts but only because he saw it as a puzzle; if he understood DATDA, he could understand how to get around the defensive spells so that the opponent defense would be rendered useless. 

everyone refers to him by his entire name. No Barty or Crouch. Barty Crouch Jr. is what all his friends call him every time they refer to him.

He’s a mega fan of all things quidditch. He knows every single fact and can tell you the score of a Quidditch World Cup a 100 years back. He can tell you the stats of almost every player in the league...at least every player on the important teams. He’s a Chudley Cannons fan.

Evan Rosier

To me, he’s kind of like the Slytherin, pureblood supremacist version of James. He’s good-looking, intelligent, talented, and his background is the opposite of what you’d think. His parents are not well-off or very attractive or kind or smart. If given the chance, they would take from him everything he had. He found a family in his friends (unlike James who gave a family to his friends). 

A hard Libra. He’s very much a Libra

is very bisexual and makes it very clear from the moment you meet him. He likes men and women equally and is a charmer. I mean most Slytherins are charmer but he’s got the charm of every female villain sidekick who seduces her way into making the hero break. That’s Rosier.

is the group’s connection to the wizard equivalent to weed, which is called Muggle Beard due to the fact that the marijuana looks gnarly and gross. His connection? His deadbeat parents

Tells nothing about himself to anyone. He’s the person who literally never stops joking so much that if he was serious, you would think he was joking. Like that’s how he is, he’s always messing around.

His favorite class is maybe potions? He doesn’t really like class but he LOVES duelling club. The club is divided into two teams, with a mix of every house on each team. It’s the only place where he doesn’t give a fuck if you’re Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw. If you’re on his team, he supports you, and if you’re not, you’re GOING DOWN

Antonin Dolohov

was supposed to go to Durmstrang but his mother, who had been dating an abusive muggle man at the time, had to flee before he killed both her and her son, which brought them to England and which brought on his long-held grudge on muggles. His mom’s abusive ex broke his nose before they left, which is why it’s a little crooked.

He’s probably most definitely a Leo. That’s just it. He is.

didn’t want to make friends at first out of spite but after a while of some determined teasing from Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr. he caved

was arranged to be married to Andromeda before she ran away with a muggleborn. He was quite infatuated with her (or at least the idea of being married to someone) but after she left him, the whole thing lost its taste. He no longer felt the need to find someone to spend his life with.

favorite class was transfiguration. If he became an animagi, he would have turned into a hawk or possibly a falcon. Definitely a bird of prey. He gives out strong bird vibes.

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

Percy, Skye & now Rakepick. You really have a thing for characters the fandom hates, huh? 😂 Though ofc one of them’s a lot worse than the other 2 although the first 2 fucked up a few times as well and the fandom hasn’t really forgiven them for that. I know you find them “interesting” for reasons most of the fandom disagree with & I low-key feel bad for you. I wish I could relate to you but even tho I respect your opinions, I really don’t like any of those 3 either 😅

Thank you for your kind words! Aha, well I really am the champion of unpopular opinions, it seems to be true in every fandom I’m in. (Says the person who liked both Last Jedi and Game of Thrones S8) But I’m glad you mentioned those three in particular, because they kind of outline three different ways people can “like” a character. 

Liking Percy is similar to liking Beatrice. 

I can understand why the characters in-universe and parts of the fandom might dislike them, and I suppose that’s valid...but I will never understand it. There are characters out there who I will gladly pledge my sword, my bow, and my ax. That I will defend until my dying breath because they’ve truly done nothing wrong in my eyes, and I want to share their side of the story if I can. Percy could be annoying, sure. But no one ever talks about how the majority of the Weasleys openly disliked him, the twins bullied him with impunity, and Molly and Arthur took a stance that, in my personal opinion, was a bit too neutral. Likewise, I can understand Penny’s desire to protect Beatrice, and her confusion at how much Beatrice has changed. I can understand people thinking she gets in the way (which used to be a much more popular opinion) but she lost a year of her life to the Cursed Vaults, so of course she’s traumatized and coping with it as best she can. She has, in my opinion, just as much skin in the game as MC, and she’s actually older than they were when they started poking around. So why can they investigate, but she can’t?

Liking Skye is similar to liking Merula.

Here is the type of garbage character I shamelessly stan, but I can also concede that the Antis are correct in almost every detail. Now, I can provide an alternate perspective, a different point of view, and explain why they are sympathetic to me, but I will never say that the Antis are wrong. Because with how unlikable these disasters make themselves, it’s pretty much inevitable. I agree, Skye is obnoxious and self-centered, the story gives her too much focus, and she constantly makes mistakes. That being said...it’s crystal clear why she behaves the way she does. She was raised a child celebrity in Quidditch culture. Her social skills and her empathy are stunted as a result. She’s shown that she can be friendly, in my opinion, but more often than not, she screws it up. Still, I can’t help but root for her. Merula is the same way. She’s practically on a mission to make everyone hate her, and she crosses all sorts of social lines, like making fun of MC’s potentially dead brother, or their very literally dead best friend. Merula has never apologized for the abuse she put several people through. And yet...god, I feel so bad for this child. She lost her parents, had her girlfriend best friend stab her in the back...had another one of her friends ditch her for her rival...was betrayed again by what she viewed as a surrogate mother...she’s all alone. Her worldview is so fractured, and her aversion to showing weakness is only digging her deeper into these terrible, unhealthy habits. I want her to heal. To grow. I believe she can do it. 

Liking Rakepick, as I’ve tried time and again to explain, is similar to liking Barty Crouch Jr.

What can I say, I’m a sucker for the problematic mentor trope. As a child, I watched Nickolodeon, and I was drawn to villains like Chase Young, and Vlad Plasmius. Characters who were definitely not good guys, but still had a kind of teacher-student relationship with the hero. It’s a creative dynamic. Now, that doesn’t mean I always like it - I absolutely hated it when Cersei tried to pull this crap with Sansa in Game of Thrones - but sometimes...it just kinda works for me? Plus, I think we need to acknowledge that we can admire a villain without condoning their actions. This isn’t me saying that Rakepick or Crouch are misunderstood, or more “complex” than simply being wicked. This is me enjoying their wickness. Admiring a villain for just how well they villain. Yes, I just used that word as a verb. Barty Crouch Jr fooled Albus frigging Dumbledore for ten months. No other villain has done that. I think he’s extremely underrated, one of the cleverest antagonists in the books. Rakepick is, or was, one of the smartest and most ruthless characters in the HPHM story. I don’t think it’s giving undeserved credit to admit that Rakepick is a force to reckoned with. She broke MC’s wand before they could cast a single spell. She is, I do believe, the only character to canonically defeat them. And she wiped the floor with them. I don’t know what else to say. Liking villains doesn’t mean you would defend their choices or consider them good people. Barty Crouch Jr. used what I consider to be the most evil spell in the series to help torture the Longbottoms into insanity. Rakepick has used it more than once without a care in the world, including the unspeakable incident in the Portrait Vault. And that’s not even getting into what she did to Rowan. Do I hate these characters for what they’ve done? Of course. But do I still think they’re cool? You bet I do! And there shouldn’t be anything wrong with that.