#barty fluff

[crescenthistory]

Murder on the Wishlist

Pairing: Barty Crouch Junior x Reader

Summary: For the first time, you are forced to spend Christmas at home instead of at Hogwarts. Your usual companion over the holidays and devoted best friend, Barty, comforts you.

Words: 3.4k

Warnings: gn!reader, very strongly hinted at abusive homes on both parts, neglect, unhealthy family dynamics, lowkey a panic attack, angst, hopeful/comforted but not necessarily happy ending, Intense Best Friends Who Actually Are In Love, a lot of physical affection, murder is mentioned a lot, barty's killer instincts are in high gear, barty being real soft in private

Note: can you tell i like hurt/comfort fics? also i'm much more happy with this portrayal of barty, i think i'm getting somewhere

── .✦

You had been staring at the letter in your hands for what felt like hours, though you were sure only a few minutes had passed. The creases in the parchment were already wearing thin from where your fingers gripped it tightly, the sharp angles of your mother’s elegant script slicing into your thoughts. 

Dearest,

It’s been decided. You will come home for the Christmas holidays this year. Father insists. 

Mother.

That was it. Short, curt, like an afterthought. As though this decision had already been engraved in stone and she was only letting you know as a formality. The sinking feeling in your chest settled; every word felt like a weight pulling you down. You had done everything you could to avoid this, year after year, and it left a curdling taste in your mouth to know you failed at last. There was always some excuse to find for not going home for the holidays, for staying behind at Hogwarts where you could hide out with Barty. It had not been difficult most times, it was not as if it truly made any emotional difference for your family whether you were home or not. Home. The world felt acidic, because the house you were being dragged back to was not your home, never had been.

Hogwarts was not necessarily home either, but your friends were. With them, and thus at Hogwarts, you were safe, sheltered. It was only once your parents realised how content you were there, that their watchful eyes narrowed and their grip on your neck that they had seemingly forgotten about tightened. 

You’re getting older now, your mother began saying last summer. It’s time we finally making something out of you, Merlin knows you won’t.

The comments did not bite anymore, none of it really did. At least that is what you told them all, whenever your little makeshift family in the Slytherin dungeons gathered in one of the dormitories to trash your respective families. It was lighthearted, it helped you all carry the burden – but it was not real, none of your defiance could be real. The only ones who truly stood up to their parents with all the unfiltered rage each one of you harboured in secret was Barty and Dorcas, and you saw where that landed them. Dorcas living with Marlene, Barty clinging to the castle he claimed to hate. 

With a shaky breath, you crumpled the letter into your fist and shoved it deep into your robe pocket, already moving. You could not do it. Face your parents and their expectations, their cruel words, their harsh neglect. How delicately they tethered the line between neglect and overbearing – somehow hitting you where it hurts most with both. Unwanted and unsuccessful. Forgotten and watched. There was simply no way you could go through with it, but as your pace picked up to a borderline sprint down the hallways, you knew there was no way out of it either.

You needed Barty. You needed to see him now, to tell him – to feel something other than this crushing dread eating away at you from the inside.

He picked you out of the crowd that first day in the Slytherin common room, where you were plastered on the wall with fear probably written all over your face and a defensive snarl ready at your lips. He had simply looked you over, smiled and said "You seem fun, let’s go". Ever since, you were attached at the hip. He taught you the definition of loyalty – though you have since learned that Barty’s loyalty often went much, much further than most’s – and of unconditional love. Whether it was dying acid green streaks in his hair in the boy’s bathroom sink, piercing each other’s ears in your dormitories, laughing in the common room until it was so late he had to steal you a potion to help you not be so tired – it was always the two of you.

Most importantly, every single Christmas for the past six years, it has been you two. Requesting some entirely unfit dinner from the house elves, bringing it to a part of the castle you rarely got to go, and doing everything one does not do during the holidays. Creating your own tradition of no traditions, just satisfying every odd thought and instinct – though, as usual, you sometimes had to be Barty’s self control, just as he often was your bravery.

Your ears were ringing by the time you rounded the corner, hand burning around the letter in your pocket. There was no true coherent thought in your mind. Only Barty.

You found him in one of the dimly lit corridors of the dungeons, perched on a windowsill as though he had been waiting for you. He had that wild, chaotic gleam in his eyes, a constant spark that lit up whenever you were around. The only thing that felt right in the world right now.

When he spotted you, his face split into a grin – sharp and playful, yet softened only by the affection he reserved for you. "Hey, dolly!" He called out, jumping off the sill to stroll towards you.

"Barty." Your voice came out thinner than you wanted, and before you could stop yourself, you were moving toward him, burying your face in the crook between his shoulder and neck. His arms, instinctive and familiar, immediately wrapped around you, pulling you closer.

“Shit, what happened?” he asked, his voice losing that teasing lilt it always carried. “Who do I have to kill this time?” His promise to fix things for you in his own twisted way, usually made you laugh. Now, though, all it did was tighten the lump in your throat. 

As you tried to stabilise your voice to speak, he moved you around the corner into a small alcove in the wall, attempting to give you some privacy.

“My mother,” you finally choked out, voice muffled against his robes. “She– she wants me to come home for Christmas.”

His whole body stiffened, and you felt the shift in his posture against your body. Barty's hand, which had been stroking your hair gently, curled into a fist against the nape of your neck. You could practically hear his jaw clench.

“They’re making you go?” he asked, his voice sharp. “You can’t go. You’re supposed to stay with me.”

“I know.” The words tasted bitter. “I have no choice this time, she made that clear. ‘Father insists’.” You imitated your mother’s voice with teary contempt, making Barty tighten his hold on you, as if he could protect you from the inevitable with sheer proximity.

“Well, fuck him,” Barty growled. “I’m not letting them take you. You’re not going back there.”

“I don’t want to, Barty,” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek and onto his shirt. “But they’re not giving me a choice.”

“I will. I’ll give you a choice. I’ll do anything, you don’t have to go.” There was desperation evident in his voice, but his touch remained painfully soft – he began swaying you carefully back and forth to help calm down the oncoming tears. His mouth was so close to your ear, you could feel his lips moving, melting slowly into him at his words.

“I know that’s a lie, but I can't bring myself to care,” you said, feebly grasping at humour but feeling awfully vulnerable. Your voice trembled as you pulled back slightly to meet his gaze, your desperation plain. “Please make me feel better, even if it’s just for a little bit.”

Barty’s intense stare softened visibly at your pained expression, his eyes flickering with something darker, more protective. He exhaled slowly, then leaned his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face as though you were the most precious thing in the world.

“It’s not a lie. You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered, his voice as soft as the brush of his thumb against your cheek. You realised he was wiping away the wet streaks. “I don’t care what they say. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll burn your fucking house down if I have to.”

A small, humourless laugh escaped your throat, the thought of him actually doing it not entirely far-fetched. “Barty…”

“I’m serious.” He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his expression wild but laced with raw sincerity. Your arms were around his waist, holding onto the small of his back for dear life. “You’re mine, baby, yeah? They don’t get to take you away from me, not now. Not ever.”

Your heart stuttered, his words sinking into you like a soothing balm over the dread. He had always been this way – intense, borderline obsessive when it came to you. It never suffocated you, though you originally might have suspected it to; now it was the only thing that made you feel safe. Maybe that was the dangerous part, because you believed him. 

Another few tears slipped from your watery irises. “Oh, how I wish it were that simple Barty,” you murmured, sinking back into his arms, needing to be enveloped by him entirely, to drown out everything else. “We’ve talked about running away for years, but you know we can't. My life would be ruined, I would have no options for a stable, viable future, no money for the first time, nothing to fall back on, no–”

Barty cooed shushing sounds in your ear, swinging you back and forth with renewed vigour as he brought you down from the intense spiral you were ranting your way into.

“You would have me,” he whispered into your ear and you shivered into him from the immense emotion washing over you.

“And, at this point, would it not be worth it?” Barty continued, voice edged with frustration, his mind already whirring with reckless plans. “We’ve got an entire castle at our disposal. You could hide here. They wouldn’t find you. We’ll make it work.” His voice dropped even lower with promise. “I’ll make sure they can’t make you leave.”

You laughed a little at the mental image of you and Barty digging yourself further and further through secret passageways and dusty corners. "You would hate to spend eternity hiding away at Hogwarts of all places."

"I would hate spending anytime away from you." His response was immediate, thumbs rubbing circles where he held you.

You pulled back to look at him, wiping the remaining tears from your eyes as you met his gaze. His fierce protectiveness was written across every line of his face. His lips quirked into a half-smile, as though he could see the spark of hope in your eyes, no matter how small it was. You knew it couldn’t be, of course, but he pretended – maybe even believed – so beautifully.

“I don’t want to leave you behind,” you admitted softly. “Not for them.”

“You aren’t.” His voice was firm, a promise. “You belong here with me. And I swear, I’ll make sure of that. Even if I have to drag your family into the Forbidden Forest and–”

“Barty.” You laughed, genuinely this time, though it came out shaky. “You can’t just solve everything by threatening murder.”

“Why not?” he shot back, his grin widening, though his eyes remained serious. “It works, doesn’t it? It makes you feel better, doesn’t it?” For the last part his hand travelled to grip your shoulders a bit, as if he needed to make sure that he was helping you feel better, even if only slightly.

You nodded teary-eyed, having no real words for the boy and how much he eased your fears and pains. Instead, you let out a long sigh, leaning into him again, your head resting against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear calmed you more than anything else had today. “I wish we could just… stay here forever,” you whispered, closing your eyes.

“Oh, so you wanna spend the rest of your life at Hogwarts?” Barty quipped, earning a small pinch in his back that he yelped at. "What're you getting my case for then?"

“You know what I mean, Barty,” you whispered into his shirt, and though you couldn’t see it, his eyes softened at that, holding you a bit more tenderly. "I mean stay like this."

You had to hope he knew you were referring to him, because you did not have enough guts left to spell it out for him.

“Then we will,” Barty murmured into your hair, his lips brushing your forehead in a soft gesture. “We’ll make this place ours, any place you want, anytime you want. Fuck the rest of them.”

Barty pulled you impossibly closer, hoping to cure your anguish. His touch was possessive, but comforting. Like he could shield you from everything, even yourself.

“Promise me something?” you whispered.

“Anything.”

“Promise you won’t forget me while I’m gone.” There was a teasing tone to your voice, showing Barty that you were more at ease.

Still, he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again, his brow dramatically furrowed as if the thought itself was absurd. “Forget you?” He scoffed, his tone incredulous. “I think about you every second I’m not with you, love. Don’t you know that by now?”

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his touch grounding you despite his theatrics as he stared into your eyes with that intensity that always made your heart race. “You’re not just someone I forget. You’re the only thing that matters.”

You felt your chest tighten at his words, your eyes stinging again, but this time it was softer, warmer than the cold dread that had been suffocating you. His words were like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge. There had never been any move to label the care that existed between you – Evan called you a couple once and no one corrected him, and since then that had been the status quo. There had been no conversation, just unwavering loyalty and support that you could not for the life of you explain. To you, there was everyone else and then there was Barty.

“I hate this,” you admitted, voice small as you fisted his shirt into your hands. “I hate the thought of leaving you. We always said fuck Christmas, but still – I don’t want you to be alone during it.”

“I won’t be alone,” Barty began, deadly serious in that way that told you he was anything but, “I’ll have a thousand house elves to torment and pictures of you to keep me company. If I’m lucky, Slughorn’s staying over the holidays like he did in fourth year.”

“Oh well, in that case, I might as well go fuck myself for all I matter,” you joked, tilting your head and rolling your eyes – but not moving even an inch away from him.

“You won’t be gone forever,” Barty said, voice lower and more genuine. His fingers were tracing patterns on the back of your neck, and you leaned into his touch. “And when you come back, we’ll make up for all the lost time. Hell, I’ll make sure we never have to spend another Christmas apart again once we graduate. We’ll do something so ridiculous every year, we won’t even remember the one we spent apart.”

You let out a breathy laugh at that, imagining the kind of chaos the two of you could wreak at Hogwarts when you got back, aching for all that was to come after that, too. Barty was always brimming with chaos to unleash, and somehow, you knew he meant every word. He always did.

“Are you dedicating all your future Christmases to me, Junior?” You quirked a teasing brow, finally sporting a small smile. Barty could have kissed you right then just to thank your lips for showing him your joy.

“I’m dedicating everything to you, baby, if it would make you happy.” He smiled at you, that lopsided grin of his that made your heart twist in ways you couldn’t explain. 

For the first time since you opened that letter, you felt something other than fear. You felt hope.

“I reckon it would,” you whisper, leaning in for a hug, this time out of gratitude instead of desperation. You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?” 

“For always making me feel better. Even if you have to lie.”

Barty grinned at that, his eyes gleaming with that familiar wild spark. “I have never meant anything more than what I say to you, love. But when you ask, I’d lie. I’d do a hell of a lot more, if you’d let me. You already know that.”

You smiled back, feeling the tension finally begin to drain from your body. With him, you could survive anything. A horrible, draining week with your parents will eventually be just that – a week – when you’re back in Barty’s arms. 

“You always make it sound so simple,” you mused, the warmth of his body soothing, but the thought of leaving him still gnawing at your insides. “Like it’s all going to be okay just because you say so.”

“It will be.” His voice had that same self-assured, almost manic edge to it, but underneath it was something steady. Unshakeable. “You know why?”

“Why?” you asked, a soft challenge in your tone, though a part of you already knew his answer.

“Because we’ll make it okay. You and me. We always do.” His fingers trailed along your jaw, lingering there, as if he needed to remind himself that you were still here with him, for now. “You think I’m going to let them take you away without a fight? I’ll give them hell. They can have your time this once, your body, but they can’t touch this.” His hand pressed against your chest, just above your heart, his eyes dark and serious now. “They’ll never touch this. Not us.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling the intensity of his words pulse through you. Without thinking you repeated his last words not us, which teased a soft smile from him.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. They felt fragile in the air between you, but Barty didn’t flinch. “I just don’t want to go back there so soon. It’s suffocating. They’re suffocating.”

“I know,” he said softly, his eyes flickering with understanding. He didn’t push you to explain further, he never had to. He knew enough, and the things left unsaid were just as clear to him as the things you told him. He hated your family almost as much as you did, and in some twisted way, you knew he was angry not just for you, but for himself too. “Your family’s shit. But you’re not them. You don’t belong with them. You belong here, with me. And if I could, I’d rip you out of that hellhole and never let them see you again. I will as soon as possible.”

“Barty…” You closed your eyes, grounded by his hand still lingering on your chest, fingertips digging into your shoulder. His words were sharp, but they smoothed you over in ways you couldn’t explain.

“You’ll come back,” he whispered, his lips brushing the edge of your temple, almost a kiss. “I’ll wait for you. And when you do, we’ll make sure it’s the last fucking time you have to deal with them. I’ll do whatever it takes. I swear it.”

There was no hesitation, no doubt in his voice. His intensity, that relentless drive he had to bend the world to his will, made you believe him. In a way, it always did. His promises weren’t just comforting; they were declarations, vows. He wasn’t just saying what he thought you wanted to hear – he meant it.

You breathed him in and took a half-step back, silently declaring yourself convinced and comforted all at once.

“I guess I’m gonna have to get you a real Christmas present this year, since we’re forced to be civilised,” you said, and he snorted.

“Nothing can ever civilise us. Not even your wretched mother.”

“Probably not,” you smiled, taking his hand to lead him out of the corner he secured for you, nearing ready to face the world. “But we can make it a game and have fun pretending.”

“If so, what do regular citizens get their person?” Barty mused, and you tried to smile through your heart skipping a few beats. Their person.

“Gonna have to guess socks.”

“Socks, that’s a good one.” He barked out a laugh at his own joke. “I’m gonna get you so many boring socks love, just you wait.”

You bumped into him as a response, and when you looked up he was already looking at you with a huge grin, clearly pleased with this turn of the conversation.

“Oh, it is on, Junior.”

[aetherraeys]

OHHHHWHHSHHW WHAT DO YPUBMEAM WE ARE SYNCED UP JABSJAHAKAHAI⁉️⁉️⁉️ IVE ALREADY SEEN A COUPLE W JEGULUS AND ITS OUGGHHSHS DOOMED !!! DOOMED I SAY !!!

all i can say,,, as a compensation,,,, men who yearn,,, are men who earn 😍

-🐠anon

anon ur brain. MEN WHO YEARN ARE MEN WHO EARN. and the ill fated jegulus makes my soul ACHE.

so yes take ur compensation with both hands and raise you yearning barty.

BECAUSE ITS 100% HIS TOP SKILL, BRO WAS BUILT TO YEARN.

yearning obsessed!barty and grumpy!reader who never gives his antics the time of day. quite literally doesn’t give him an ounce of attention—you’re rather disgruntled every time he forces himself into your space. because all you want is some peace and quiet but no.

barty crouch jr has to come barrelling into great hall, all grins and loud chattering and chaos—planting himself next to you as if you hadn’t made it abundantly clear you wished to be left alone.

but to your misfortune, barty was nothing if not relentless—another day, another token. this one was wrapped delicately, decorated with a bow and your initials. he pushed it into your space with a shining grin that made you want to wince away—just too bright.

he slung an arm over your shoulder, leaning into you whispering into your ears as he greeted you—your name leaving his lips like it was just his to say. and when you grimaced at the proximity, eyes darting to where his arm laid on you—far too casual, too comfortable—and then to his face.

gods, was he close.

so close you could feel his breath fanning over your face, could smell the fresh air that had whipped his hair into its mussed state mixing with his own scent. he wasn’t even shy about the way his watched you—eyes flickering from yours to your lips, that held a mild scowl. his own lips stretching into something more wolfish as he watched you avert your gaze. irises shaking—almost panicked.

your eyes rolled as you shrugged of his arm—yet he still stayed stuck to your side, almost magnetised. his warmth seeping through your robes.

plucking the toast from your hand and taking a large bite—simultaneously forcing the package into your still opened grasp as you gaped at him. barty continued to chew unceremoniously brows raising as motioned you to open it.

he smiled to himself when you sighed, grumbling about your toast, yet your fingers were working open the ribbon. the parchment floated lightly onto the table, revealing a book—your favourite book.

how did he know?

your brows furrowed as you examined the copy, you’d never seen one like this before—eyes flickering back to him in skeptic confusion. he just grinned at you, arm inching its way around you again. settling into the pocket of your robe.

he used his other hand to take his wand—pressing it to the surface of the cover. and it shifted, morphed, sparkled as the title floated around, an admittedly beautiful illustration surrounding it in movement.

and there was an undeniably warm sense of pride blooming in barry’s chest at the way your eyes glimmered—lips parting in awe. and he could have sworn he saw the corners of your lips twitch upwards. he was still taking in your reaction, watching as your fingers traced the edge when he murmured so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.

“drew it myself.”

that got your attention—eyes shamelessly flitting over to him. and you were met with a shockingly soft expression, almost shy.

you say wordlessly for a few more moments, eyes still stuck on barty—before you swiftly stood—his hand falling out of your pocket while his eyes tracked your movements.

maybe you’d misjudge him, maybe.

just as quickly as you stood—bag slung over your shoulder, your warmth quickly dissipating from barty’s side. you pressed a gentle peck to the tops of he cheekbones—picking up the book and tucking beneath your arm. your small thank you soft and honeyed in his ears.

and then you were gone.

robes filling with air as you walked swiftly out of the dining hall.

and barty all but melted into the seat—slumping dramatically, tracing the surface of his cheek where you lips had been—heat travelling helplessly to the surface as a cheesy grin split across his lips.

all he could do was watch your figure disappear down the corridor—cheek pressed against the hard wood of the table, a lovestruck expression plastered to his face.

it took him over a week to figure out how to animate his drawing with magic (thank you dorcas).

and gods was it worth it.

[ailoda]

updated: 10.01.25

˚☽˚.⋆ fluff

You Woke Me Up For This? (❤): barty is bored in the middle of the night, so of course he goes to you. (@crescenthistory)

Love Me, Too (❤): late nights with loose lipped Barty, a single conversation unraveled years of yearning. (@unconventional-lawnchair)

Sleepy Midnight Escapades (❤): an anxious remus goes looking for you at night when you miss curfew and finds you with barty. (@crescenthistory)

A F*ckboy Retires (❤): barty officially leaves his fboy era for reader. (@ellecdc)

Dear Future Husband (❤): your future husband is so horribly whipped. (@unconventional-lawnchair)

new! Behind Closed Doors (❤): Barty steals you between classes to make up for the time he lost. (@lucentloo)

[rosieandthethorns]

i don't WANT to read smut right now

i WANT to read a passionate, poetic, jaw dropping, tears streaking down my face, heart wrenching, giggle inducing, feet kicking, cringy yet amazing, gorgeous story written by someone who apologizes for english not being their first language(they're the best writers ever) which has 4 chapters and then makes me scream because it hasnt been updated in months and the author is mia

[ezkel]

James hasn't noticed that he's dating Regulus. they go on dates weekly, either to hogsmeade, the forbidden forest or just around the castle grounds. they hold hands and cuddle, they haven't kissed yet but they're very obviously dating. Regulus knows that James isn't aware of their relationship and that James likes him. He's willing to be patient, especially because he knows he'll be able to make fun of James about this for the rest of their lives.

regulus also has started a running bet to see how long it takes James to realise. The bets get progressively more unhinged on how and when james finds out.

Peter bets that James figures out because a glowing light from the sky will plant the knowledge into his brain. Barty bets that James won't realise until they're standing at the altar to get married. Sirius bets that Regulus will slip up. Lily bet that James will say "I love you" and that'll make him aware(it didn't, not even regulus saying it back did) Everyone has a bet, and by the time James figures out almost the entire school has placed a bet.

Pandora bets that James will kiss regulus without thinking about it and immediately pull away to say "OMG, REGULUS DID YOU KNOW WE'RE DATING" pandora is of course correct, she now has enough galleons to never have to work a day in her life.

[starlittragedies]

a lot of people tended to say that sirius and regulus looked alike, but the marauders and their friends never quite believed it. they looked much to different with one brother being so expressive with his facial features and the other wearing a mask that never slips.

it wasn’t until one day when barty had managed to convince regulus to pull a cute little joke on evan which then led to evan chasing them down the halls of hogwarts with nothing but murder on his mind. while running they managed to run into the posse of gryffindors as well as dorcas who was with them, and while passing, the group (bar dorcas) had to do a double take because the boy that had just passed them with a mischievous smile plastered on his face looked just like sirius.

[bartonomy]

RESTLESS SILENCE!

PAIRING Barty Crouch Jr. x quiet!fem!Ravenclaw!Reader

SYNOPSIS Barty Crouch Jr. hated silence. You thrived in it. Being paired together for a Potions project in the library should have been simple—but Barty refuses to let the quiet win.

CONTENT WARNING obsessive! barty, possessive! james, angst, fluff, the boys not asking yn abt her feelings LMFAO lmk if i missed something!

WORD COUNT 5k words

library.

Barty Crouch Jr. prided himself on many things—his sharp mind, his quick reflexes, his ability to get under people’s skin ( much to Regulus’ and Evans dismay) when he wanted to. But patience? That had never been one of them.

And yet, patience was exactly what was required when he found himself sitting across from you in the library, parchment spread between you, potions textbook propped open, the air between you thick with silence.

It wasn’t just any silence. It was a suffocating, calculated quiet, the kind that settled around the you like a second skin. You liked it. Humming in contentment as you flipped through the book to gather enough information for your assignment.

It drove him mental.

You had been partnered up in Slughorn’s class earlier that day, much to Barty’s irritation. You were everything he wasn’t—controlled, meticulous, the sort of person who took diligent notes and never spoke unless you had something of actual substance to say. The worst part? You were no outcast. Despite your quiet nature, you were as well-liked, hovering at the edges of the Marauders’ usual chaos, laughing softly at Pandora Lovegood’s dreamy theories, and using your smart mouth (Gideon insists) to get the Prewett brothers out of trouble from Mcgonnagall. You were… respected.

Barty was tolerated, at best.

Now, in the dim glow of the library’s enchanted lanterns, you sat across from him, quill in hand, completely ignoring him. Well, unintentionally, he had been fussing in his place since you both arrived an hour ago, trying to get you to do merlin knows with him.

Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in his chair. “You could at least pretend to be interested in conversation,” he muttered.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t find unnecessary conversations stimulating.”

He scoffed. “How very Ravenclaw of you.”

You merely hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing more, flipping to another page in his (you lended yours to Peter after he accidentally got soaked by the bucket of water from the black lake intended for Snape) textbook.

Barty’s fingers drummed against the table. He could handle a lot of things—detentions, duels, even his father’s unrelenting scrutiny, but this? This was insufferable.

So, naturally, he decided to make it his mission to ruin the silence.

It started small.

A flick of his wand, and your inkwell slid ever-so-slightly across the table. You caught it before it could spill, shot him a glance, and continued writing.

Next, he nudged your parchment just out of reach. You didn’t even blink, simply shifted your chair forward and carried on.

Fine. If you were going to be stubborn, he’d up the stakes.

With another subtle movement of his wand, your beloved muggle book „The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie“ the one you had tucked beside your Potions text, began to quiver. Slowly at first, then more violently, the pages ruffling as though caught in a windstorm.

you sighed, set your quill down rather roughly, and calmly muttered, “Finite Incantatem.”

The book stilled.

Barty whistled. “Impressive.”

You finally looked up at him, expression unreadable. “It‘s a First Year spell. Are you always this restless?”

He grinned. “Are you always this boring?”

There was no offense in your gaze, only quiet scrutiny. “No. But I also don’t feel the need to fill the silence just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Barty opened his mouth, then shut it again.

No one had ever called him out so plainly before. Most people either avoided him, tolerated him, or challenged him outright. But you… you understood him in a way that unsettled him.

And worse, he had no idea what to do with that.

The pranks escalated.

By the end of the week, Barty had:

• Transfigured your quill into a small snake (you turned it back with no regard of his presence, only Trelwaney who shrieked in horror).

• Enchanted your book to read aloud in a dramatic voice (you merely bookmarked your page and waited for him to get bored).

• Jinxed your notes to rearrange themselves whenever you tried to read them (you rewrote them without complaint).

Each time, you met his antics with infuriating patience. No anger. No exasperation. Just quiet indifference, as if you knew exactly why he was doing it.

It wasn’t until he charmed your beloved novel to hover just out of reach that you finally had enough.

With a soft Expelliarmus, the book yanked itself free from his spell and slammed down onto the table between you. you met his gaze, eyes burning with guarded anger.

“Why?” you asked, voice level but firm.

Barty leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Why what?”

You exhaled, slow and measured. Merlin, was he testing your already low patience “Why go to such lengths just to get a reaction?”

Barty opened his mouth to fire back something witty, but the words caught. He couldn’t answer.

Because the truth was something he didn’t want to admit. Because silence had never been kind to him. Because silence meant expectation, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the loneliness of never being enough. Because he didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t constantly react to him.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—something raw, something unguarded. And for the first time since you had been paired together, you didn’t seem like you were trying to solve him.

You just saw him.

The silence stretched between you once more. But this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. This time, it felt like something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The library had become a battlefield.

Barty didn’t lose. Not at duels, not at arguments, and certainly not at mind games. But after a week of relentless pestering, pranks, and jinxed books, but all he was met with was radio silence.

And Barty hated being ignored.

Tonight was no different.

You were back in your usual spot in the potions section near the back, candlelight flickering over parchment, and you were sure you could hear people snogging in the aisle next to you. Barty wasn’t writing. He was watching, and it pissed you off.

“Fascinating,” he drawled, chin resting on his palm.

You sighed, not even bothered to look up. “What is?”

“You,” he said simply.

At last, you glanced at him, one brow slightly raised. Not surprised, not flattered, only curious and slightly amused. As if he was some interesting tale from Trelawney‘s weekly horoscopes

Barty leaned forward, smirking. “You’re too patient for someone who spends time with the Marauders. They’re reckless. Loud. Gits.”

Your lips twitched in almost a smile. “And yet, I don’t find them insufferable.”

“Lucky them,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You don’t actually hate them, do you?”

Barty scoffed, leaning back. “Tell them that, and I’ll hex you.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You could have joined them, you know. You’re clever enough. Quick-witted. You keep up with them in class.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I wanted to associate myself with obnoxious Griffins? I have a reputation to uphold ”

You only raised your eyebrow at that. “Oh yes, because being a maniacal, havoc wrecking wizard is soooooo important”

He roared into laughter, clutching his stomach like you have given him the funniest joke in Salazars sake. Tears were dripping out the corner of his eyes with his ropes falling messily over his shoulder.

After his sudden burst of emotions, there was silence, well, as much as you could say from Barty‘s loud wheezing trying to calm himself down and a group of second year Hufflepuffs discussing the use of Mandrakes, the space between you two was peaceful

Then, you shrugged, rolling your shoulders back to ease the growing pain (or the growing tension that is about to engulf you two) “or maybe, its because you’re lonely.”

Barty went still instantly.

For a moment, the pleasant quietness became oppressive, thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then,he laughed again. Though, now, it was short, sharp, utterly devoid of humor. “You think you know me?”

“I think,” you started, carefully trying to puck out the right words, “that you spend too much time trying to get people to notice you, y‘know?.”

His smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yet, you’re the one paying attention.”

This time, you didn’t look away.

Checkmate.

Barty wasn’t sure when it started.

When you became the first person he looked for in a room. When silence with you stopped feeling suffocating and started feeling… different.

It was a slow, creeping thing, like poison slipping into his bloodstream.

You weren’t like the Marauders. You didn’t fill space with noise or demand attention. You simply were, an observer, someone who noticed things most people didn’t.

And Barty hated being noticed.

The Slytherin common room was quiet this late at night, with most students crammed at the Hufflepuff quidditch After-party after they had won against Ravenclaw earlier that day. Except for Barty and Regulus.

The younger Black sat in one of the loveseats by the fireplace, posture perfect as always with his messenger bag on his side while across from him, Barty sprawled lazily on the couch, legs stretched out, looking more reckless (or crazy according to Evan) than usual.

Regulus had been watching him for the past ten minutes. The tension in his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his Black-Green hair in agitation or the way his knee bounched when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, as if this thought gave him immense pain, he sighed. „You’re obsessed.“

Barty stilled. „What?“

„With her.“ Regulus arched an eyebrow knowingly

Junior scoffed, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically, flailing his arms „Oh, not you too!

Regulus ignored him. “It’s pathetic.” Barty turned his head, smirking. “Funny. Sirius said the same thing about you once.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. “Sirius is an idiot.”

“And yet, here you are, acting just like him—concerned about my well-being, giving me the I know best speech.” Barty sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s sweet, really.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care what you do.” Barty grinned. “Liar.”

Regulus exhaled sharply. “What is this, Barty?”

Barty hummed, considering. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Reggie”

Regulus frowned. “You’re distracting me by talking about my idiotic brother. So spill, what are you afraid of? ”

Barty’s smirk faltered. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared into the flickering fire, expression unreadable. Then, with a slow breath out “Everything.”

Regulus didn’t press. Didn’t have to. He understood better than anyone what Barty really meant. The weight of expectations. The suffocating presence of a father who saw only duty.

Regulus studied him for a moment. “You don’t get attached to people. Especially not to someone like L/N. " Barty’s smirk returned, but it was weaker this time. “Maybe she’s just different.”

Regulus leaned back, unimpressed. “Or maybe you just don’t like that you can’t control her.” Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “And yet, I keep coming back.”

Regulus tilted his head. “That’s called liking someone, Barty.”

Barty scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please. I don’t like people.”

“Then why does James Potter look like he wants to murder you?”

His expression darkened. “Because he knows.” the curly haired boy hummed thoughtfully. “Knows what?”

Barty looked him dead in the eyes.

“That she’s mine.”

Regulus sighed, standing up. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

But as he walked away, Barty didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, watching the fire, thinking about you.

It was , like Regulus said, James who noticed first.

Barty had expected it, really. The four eyed boy was too perceptive for his own good, especially when it came to people who operated in the gray spaces between morality.

One evening in the Gryffindor common room, James leaned against the couch where you were reading, arms crossed. “So,” he mused, “are you finally going to tell us why Crouch won’t leave you alone?”

You barely glanced up. “Because we’re Potions partners.”

Sirius, sprawled across an armchair, snorted. “Right. And I’m Minister for Magic.”

Remus, ever the voice of reason, tilted his head. “You do spend an awful lot of time with him.”

Peter nodded, mouth stuffed with fizzing whizzbees. “It’s weird.”

you sighed, closing your book without marking your spot first, which you internally curse. “He’s… frustrating.”

Sirius smirked. “But?”

You hesitated. Just for a moment. “But he’s not as easy to hate as people think.” That was all they needed to hear.

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Merlin help us, she’s sympathizing with the enemy.”

Remus grinned knowingly. “This is going to be fun.”

James Potter knew you better than anyone.

He had known you since you two were small—before Hogwarts, before the Marauders, before any of this. You had been his first real friend, little pigtails following him around, who always listened when he rambled about Quidditch, often times playing the referee and giving yellow cards to his imaginary opponents and someone who was there when he needed you.

And now? Now you were spending too much time with Barty bloody Crouch Junior.

James didn’t like it. Not one bit.

At first, he thought nothing of it. A Potions partnership was just that—a school assignment. But then he started noticing things.

The way you lingered in the library after hours.

The way Barty watched you fondly when he thought no one was looking.

The way you didn’t seem nearly as irritated with him as you should have been.

And that was unacceptable.

James wasn’t stupid. He knew who Barty Crouch Jr. was. The arrogant, sharp-tongued Slytherin who played by his own rules, who didn’t care about anyone but himself and his best friend‘s brother. And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your schedule, your attention—things James had always had without question.

He didn’t realize just how much it bothered him until he saw you two together.

It was a late evening in the library, and James had come to find you. Instead, he found your little pest stuck to your side.

Barty was leaning back in his chair, smirking, while you sat across from him, rolling your eyes but not actually telling him to leave you alone. There was something different in the air between them—an ease James didn’t like.

Not one bit.

“Oi.”

You looked up, blinking in surprise. “James?”

Barty groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”

James ignored him, focusing on her. “We were supposed to go over Transfiguration notes, remember? Minnie was bugging me to take lessons with you”

You frowned. “That’s not until—”

“Now,” James said firmly. Barty snorted. “Territorial, aren’t we, Potter?”

James’ jaw clenched. “Just making sure my best friend isn’t wasting her time.” He just grinned, all teeth. “Oh, trust me, she’s not.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples to ease the incoming headache. Is it from Barty‘s constant yapping, the oh so frustrating instructions of the Felix Felicis, or James bickering? Who knows. “James, we’re just working on Potions.”

“Right,” James muttered. “Because that explains why he won’t stop staring at you.”

Barty raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You jealous, Potter?” James hated how his stomach twisted at that. “Of you?” He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Good,” Barty said smoothly, “because she’s free to spend time with whoever she wants.” The Gryffindor bristled. “And you’re free to bugger off.”

“James.” your voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension. you stood, gathering your books. “I’ll meet you in your common room later, okay?”

James hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Fine.” But his glare at Barty said this isn’t over.

As he left, Barty chuckled under his breath. “Protective, isn’t he?”

“You love making things worse, don’t you?” you simply glared at him. Barty grinned. “Admit it. You’d be bored otherwise.”

You only shook your head at that, exasperated. But this time, you didn’t argue.

And Barty? He liked that just a little too much.

James Potter wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what he told himself. But this—this infuriating, undeniable thing happening between his best friend and Barty bloody Crouch Jr.—was driving him mad.

It wasn’t just about Barty. It was about you.

You were his best friend. The one person who had always been there before Sirius, before Remus, before Peter. You had an unspoken understanding, a rhythm that no one else could touch.

And yet, somehow, you were slipping out of reach.

Because of that foul git.

Because wherever you were, Barty was not far behind.

Pandora Lovegood was an odd one. Everyone knew it.

She spoke in riddles, saw connections where others didn’t, and had a habit of appearing exactly where she was needed.

So James should have known better than to groan when she plopped down next to him on the bench in the transfiguration courtyard, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re sulking,” she observed. “I don’t sulk,” James muttered.

She smiled, entirely unconvinced. “It’s about her and him, isn’t it?” He scowled, borderline pouted. “There is no her and him.”

Pandora tilted her head. “Not yet.” at that, James sat up straighter. “Yet?”

Pandora just hummed again, her dreamy expression betraying nothing. “I think you’re afraid.”

“Of what? Crouch?” He snorted. “Please.”

“No,” Pandora mused. “Not him. You’re afraid because for the first time, she’s paying attention to someone else.” James didn’t respond. Because that would mean admitting she was right. The Rosier smiled knowingly. “You can’t stop it, you know.”

“Stop what?”

She simply shrugged, standing as if that answered everything. “The inevitable.”

James groaned. “Merlin, you’re worse than Moony.”

But as she walked away, her words lingered. And James hated that more than anything.

James found Barty alone that evening, leaning against the cobble stone wall just outside the Charms Classroom. He didn’t hesitate.

“Stay away from her.”

Barty turned, raising an eyebrow. “Potter,” he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “This is getting predictable.” James stepped closer, jaw tight. “I’m serious.”

“Sirius is the loud one,” Barty quipped. “You’re the one with the tragic hero complex.” James hated that he had a point. “Whatever game you’re playing,” he said sharply, “she’s not a part of it.”

Barty’s smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Who says it’s a game?”

James scoffed. “Oh, please. You don’t care about her. You just like getting a rise out of people. And I won’t let you use her to do it.” Barty’s expression darkened.

“Use her?” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Funny, coming from you.”

James stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

Barty leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “It means you don’t like that she’s spending time with me—not because you think I’ll hurt her, but because you can’t stand the idea of not being the most important person in her life.” James clenched his fists. Barty’s smirk was sharp, knowing. “Hits a nerve, doesn’t it?” James took a slow breath. He would not hex him.Not yet, at least.

“She’s my best friend,” James said coldly. “And I trust her. But I don’t trust you.” Barty’s gaze flickered—just for a moment. Then, with an infuriating grin, he stepped back.

“Well then, Potter.” His voice was almost mocking. “Let’s see who she trusts more.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

James stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides. Because for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure who would win.

You were avoided him.

Not subtly. Not carefully. Just completely ignoring his existence

It started the week following the small… confrontation in library. Barty walked into Potions, expecting you to be at their usual table at the back, books already open,quill tapping absently against parchment, asking about his usual trouble with filch and a soft smile gracing your lips. Instead, your lips never opened and gaze never left your paper.

No glance in his direction. No acknowledgment at all.

Barty stared. His fingers curled into fists beneath the desk.

Fine.

But then it kept happening. In the corridors, you veered away when you saw him approaching. In the library, you sat with James, Sirius, even Remus—anyone but him. When he did catch youe eye across the Great Hall, you looked away so quickly it felt like a slap.

It wasn’t anger. It was erasure, like he wasn’t even there.

Barty Crouch Jr. had never been ignored in his life. People watched him. They feared him. They respected him, hated him, wanted to be him. But you—you were acting as though he was nothing.

And he couldn’t stand it.

At first, he played it off. Shrugged, smirked, pretended not to care. But then a week passed. Then another. And with every second of silence, something inside him frayed. He found himself watching you too closely. Waiting for you to look at him. Wanting your attention, even if it was anger, frustration, anything but this emptiness.

And when James Potter threw an arm around your shoulders at the Slytherin party, whispering something that made you laugh—

Something in Barty snapped.

You didn’t know how it had come to this.

One moment, you had been talking with Evan about absolute nonsense, nursing a cup of firewhiskey mixed with something you didn’t want to know, trying to focus on anything other than the tension between James and Barty, the way they seemed to be circling each other like wolves.

And now…

Now you were backed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned corridor, heart pounding as Barty loomed in front of you, eyes blazing with something wild, something dangerous.

“You’re avoiding me.” His voice was low, accusing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You flinched. Not because you were afraid of him, Merlin, no—Barty is lunatic at best—but because there was something desperate in his voice, something fraying at the edges.

“I just needed space,” you said carefully. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Space? From me?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought he might actually grab you, hold you there like he could force you to listen. “You belong with me.”

The words sent a chill down you spine. Not because of their meaning—but because of how much he believed them. “Barty,” you whispered, voice betrying you slightly, much to your annoyance “you don’t own me.”

His jaw clenched. “I never said I did.”

“But you act like it,” you shot back. “Like I’m something for you to win. Like James and I can’t be close, like I don’t have a choice in who I spend time with.”

Barty exhaled sharply, stepping closer, invading her space. “You do have a choice.” His voice was low now, almost a plea. “So why do you keep running from this?”

This. Whatever this was.

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse racing as he stared at you, expression laced with something desperate.

“This isn’t normal,” you whispered. Barty tilted his head, studying you. “Since when have I ever been normal?”

Your heart ached at that. Because he wasn’t. He was sharp edges and chaos, wildfire wrapped in silk. And you were intrigued.

“Tell me to leave,” Barty murmured, voice softer now, more dangerous. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I will.”

You opened your mouth, words mingling in your head, yet none of them escaped your lips.

Barty’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t triumphant. It was something else—something satisfied yet frustrated, as if he hated how much he needed you to not push him away.

The next day, you felt off-balance. Everything was the same, yet nothing was.

The Great Hall was as loud as ever, filled with students laughing, chattering, passing notes between bites of dinner. James sat beside you, talking animatedly with Sirius about the shenanigans they pulled at last night‘s party. Remus was reading. Pandora was off in her own world, stirring her tea with the wrong end of her spoon.

It was normal.

But you weren’t . Because he was there. Across the room, at the Slytherin table. And he wasn’t acting normal at all.

Barty Crouch Jr. was watching you. His elbow was propped on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes fixed on you with that sharp, playful intensity. Like he was waiting for something. Like he could still feel last night as much as you could—the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the way he had opened your eyes.

Your stomach twisted but not in the usual dread

You quickly looked down at her plate, poking at the food with the fork, suddenly very aware of every movement, every breath.

It was fine.

You could pretend it hadn’t happened. You could move on, act normal, be the person she had always been. You could-

“You okay?”

James’ voice cut through your thoughts.

You startled, nearly knocking over your pumpkin juice. James frowned, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

“You’re jumpy,” he observed. “Weird day?”

Yes. Extremely weird.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

James didn’t look convinced.

Barty was still watching. You could feel it. Your pulse quickened. You needed to get out of here.

With a forced smile, you pushed back from the table. “I just remembered-I have to grab something from the library before class.” James raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

You turned before he could question you further, walking briskly out of the Great Hall, heart pounding.

You should have known he would find you.

It had been inevitable. Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the kind of person who let things go. He didn’t believe in backing down, in walking away—especially not from you.

And so, a day after the Slytherin party, after you had spent the night pretending you weren’t looking over your shoulder for him, he found you.

The Astronomy Tower was, to your luck, empty. The moment you stepped onto the stone balcony, the cold air biting at your skin, you felt him before you saw him in your peripheral vision.

He was leaning against the railing, staring out over the darkened grounds, sleeves rolled up, hands tense against the stone. He looked different in the moonlight. Less sharp, less manic, less like the Barty Crouch Jr. the world expected him to be.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I hate my father.”

His voice was quiet. Hollow. You stiffened, startled by his sudden honesty, by the rawness in his tone.

Still, you didn’t leave. Didn’t move.

Barty exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmured. “To be expected to be perfect. To be a reflection of someone else, someone you loathe.”

Your chest ached at the exhaustion in his voice.

You stayed silent, waiting.

Barty let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “He thinks he can mold me into whatever he wants. A loyal son. A future politician. A Crouch through and through.” He scoffed. “But I’m not. I never was.”

He turned to look at you then, and for the first time, there was no smirk, no amusement—just something raw and vulnerable, something you had never seen before.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “that’s why I wanted you so much.”

Your breath caught unexpectedly.

Barty’s eyes flickered over your face, unreadable. “You don’t try to make me be something.” His lips twisted. “Even when you hate me, at least it’s real.”

Something heavy settled between you, thick and undeniable.

“And”, he started, face twisting into something uncomfortable, trying to find the right words. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you—like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

Then-

“I hate him too.”

The words were sharp, bitter, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your breath hitched. “Barty—”

“No.” He turned to face you fully, eyes burning. “I hate the way he hovers around you like he owns you. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something filthy. I hate that no matter what I do, he’s always there.”

Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice, the way his fists clenched like he was barely keeping himself together.

“He’s my best friend,” you said softly. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. He’s waiting.”

You frowned at that. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to wake up,” Barty muttered. “For you to realize that he’s the safer choice. The one who won’t make your life complicated. The one who fits neatly into your perfect little world.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You think this is about James?”

Barty scoffed. “It’s always about him.”

Frustration flared in your chest. “Barty, I chose to stay away.”

He stilled.

“I chose to keep my distance,” you continued, voice surprisingly steady despite the inner hurricane you felt. “Not because of James. Not because of anyone else. But because you—”a sharp exhale left your mouth. “You scare me.”

Something flickered in his expression. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Because this, the fire between them, the way he looked at you like he was drowning and you were the only air left—

It was too much. Barty was too much. And you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to handle it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, Barty stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his warmth, enough that your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

Your pulse raced. “Then stop—” “Stop what?” His voice was rough now, almost desperate. “Wanting you? Needing you?”

“Barty—”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to stop.”

And maybe that was the real problem. Because Barty Crouch Jr. had never been good at letting things go.

And neither had you.

So when he reached for you, fingers brushing against your wrist like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, you didn’t pull away.

And when he kissed you, desperate and reckless and full of something sharp and aching,

you kissed him back.

[ervotica]

27. kisses for cover at a party with poly!rosekiller. reader goes to evan to get a guy off you, he makes out with you, barty sees and is like "yay i wanna join" and then just devours you

ahhh i love them! poly!rosekiller x fem!reader, college!au ✩ 900 words

You slip beneath the handsome guy at the pub with practiced ease, dipping under his outstretched arm in an attempt to shake your unwelcome admirer of the evening.

To his credit, he doesn't flinch but rather curls his arm round the nape of your neck, tucking you into his shoulder in one fluid movement until you're mostly obscured. He dips his head low enough to murmur in your ear; his voice is like smooth, dark honey.

"Who you hiding from, lovely?"

"This bloke's been following me round all night," you admit, voice high and breathy. "He's still looking, I think. Will you- will you pretend to know me until he goes away?"

He grins and the sight almost blinds you; crinkled eyes and a soft smattering of freckles across his high cheekbones. Miles and miles of brown skin and a curly blonde mop that sits high on his head.

He really is lovely.

And if you'd met him under different circumstances, you'd be nervous for an entirely different reason.

"Consider it done, okay? No need to fret."

He tips his head lower until his nose brushes yours. You hold your breath in anticipation.

"Let's give the prick a show, yeah?"

Your insides flush white-hot as you wait for his lips to make contact. It's a languid sort of kiss, building in intensity as your mystery man flattens his tongue against your bottom lip. He palms at your neck, angling your face upward until you have no choice but to part your lips and let him lick into your mouth, soft and slow and deep.

You push up on your toes - encouraging him closer - and you feel the corners of his mouth tip up even as he indulges your wordless request.

The kiss ebbs and he pulls back. You bite your lip and try to pretend that he didn't just give you the best kiss of your life.

"I'm sorry," you say, cadence twinged with embarrassment. "I don't even know your name."

He smooths the pad of his thumb over your pencil lined eye and smiles, unperturbed. His expression is softer this time, something akin to fondness lingering in his eyes.

"Evan," he murmurs. "And you?"

"Y/N."

A weight settles at your back and you go rigid, pushing back into Evan's space with a startled gasp.

"It's okay, lovely girl," he placates with ease, as though he's known you for much longer than a few minutes. "This is Barty."

This boy is taller – sharper round the edges than Evan, but no less beautiful. His face is shrouded by thick, dark hair that contrasts so heavily with his pale skin it almost looks unnatural.

"Hi, pretty," he coos. "Oh, she is gorgeous, Ev. The gorgeous ones always love you."

"Hi," you almost whisper. You're suddenly even shyer under Barty's fervent gaze, red-hot at his rapt attention.

He folds at the waist and twirls one of your loose curls between his fingers. From here you can smell his breath, mint and vodka and something sweeter that lingers on the tip of his tongue.

He steps closer, right into your space until you're sandwiched snugly between the two of them.

"Do I get a kiss?" he asks, borderline pleading. Intense, for a man you've just met.

Your throat works around a thick swallow and you look down at your feet, suddenly overwhelmingly shy.

"Um..."

"Don't be jealous, babe," Evan placates, a lithe hand massaging teeny circles into your shoulder.

"I find a pretty little thing snogging my boyfriend and I'm supposed to not be jealous?"

You balk. Your eyes gloss over, and wet and wide and painfully apologetic.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't know. I'm really sorry."

"Shh." Evan loops an arm round your waist and tugs you neatly into his side. "He's teasing. He just wants a kiss, too, if you're willing to give it."

You can't deny that Barty is beautiful – all long, milky limbs and dark features. You nod tentatively.

"Okay."

Evan plants his chin in the juncture of your neck as Barty leans in, long fingers roaming the expanse of your waist with a fervour you've never felt before. Your stomach flips.

Barty's kiss is far more fervid. All tongues and clashing teeth as he angles his head to get more of your mouth on his– as though he wants to eat you whole.

You whine into his mouth when his hand settles on the dip of your spine and presses down, forcing you to arch up into him. There's not a part of you that isn't being touched in some way.

Especially not when Evan trails his lips along your pulse point and begins diligently sucking a bruise under your jaw.

Barty gets you by the nape of your neck and probes his tongue further into your mouth. He's persistent, flicking his tongue behind your front teeth until you gasp and open your mouth wider to grant him more access.

"There's a good girl," Evan says, voice rumbling against your back.

The trail of spit that stretches and bows between the two of you when Barty pulls back to get a good look at you has you feeling faint.

"Can we keep her, Ev?" Barty nuzzles his nose against the soft swell of your cheek.

"What do you say, angel? Can we keep you?"

You're too dazed to answer with more than a nod, curling your own arms around Barty's waist to keep him pressed against you.

[uramakimochi]

THE MARAUDERS & REGULUS + GIRLFRIEND!READER AS INCORRECT QUOTES

next

///

REMUS

Remus: Who ate my chocolate?? I'm gonna fucking ki-

Y/n: I did, i'm sorry Rem.

Remus: Kiss you and buy you some more, it's okay my love, you haven't been eating enough.

Y/n: You know, Remus always gives Sirius flowers, i wish you'd do that too.

JAMES

James: Okay.

- Later -

James: *gives Sirius flowers*

Sirius: ???

James: I don't know mate, i'm confused as well.

SIRIUS

Y/n: Siri, your hand is on my butt.

Sirius: It was an accident.

Y/n:

Sirius:

Y/n: It's still there.

Sirius: It's still an accident.

REGULUS

Sirius: Hey Reggie what are you looking for?

Regulus: My will to live.

Sirius:

Regulus:

Y/n: *enters the room*

Regulus: Oh wait, there it is.

> BONUS BARTY CROUCH JR BECAUSE WHY NOT <

Barty: Listen to me. Love is a scam.

Regulus: You're making a Valentine's Day card for Y/n right now.

Barty, pointing the glue gun at him: You're on thin fucking ice.

///

LEMME KNOW IF YOU WANT MORE^^

[b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m]

Evan, trying to flirt with Barty: *Brushes a strand of hair out of Barty's eyes*

Barty the touch starved, lovesick mf: *Shakes his head to get as much hair as possible on his face so Evan will touch him again*

[crescenthistory]

Ohh you should not tempt me when it comes to Barty. May I request an ARGUE with roommate Barty ⁶⁴⁾ movie nights please??thank you in advance, have a lovely day!

YES i see you picking up the things i was putting down in the last drabble — movie night's coming up. thank you, hope you're having an even lovelier day<33

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

i will ARGUE for prompt 64 "movie nights" with roommate!barty

carina's 2k celebration

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

previous roommate au drabble

cw: reserved!reader, not yet established relationship, physical affection, tension, fluff, gn!reader, implied financially unstable reader

wc: 1.3k

It was a seemingly normal, domestic tradition, you supposed. One that most roommates engage in, especially if they were friends from before.

While you and Barty most certainly were strangers when you moved in, you had to admit you were warming up to him – your connection might even be labelled a friendship. You were generally careful with such assertions, one to take it step by step and bide your time, but Barty made it easier to be brash. He had that effect on people, and you were most certainly not immune.

Thus, when he insisted on weekly – “biweekly at the very least, Dragă” – movie nights from essentially your first week of living together, you weren't one to argue. This man was renting you a comfortable room in a sizable flat for a price that seemed to mock the current housing market, after all. If movie nights are his big demand, you just considered yourself lucky.

You had one settee and one regular sofa situated around a TV screen that probably cost more than you earned in a year. Where you sat and what you watched seemed to vary greatly from night to night; Barty was not one for routine, you had come to learn, despite his insistence on certain rituals. 

Luckily for you, that meant he often let you choose.

“What’re we watching tonight, darling?” Barty asked as he plopped down beside you on the dark green settee, despite there being ample room everywhere else. He wasn’t fond of space, not with you. He leaned his head back against the cushion, hair blending in with the fabric, and rolled it to the side to look at you. It amazed you how at ease he was.

“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” you mumbled as you distractedly tried to get comfortable in your seat. 

“Something slowing you down?” You didn’t need to look at him to know he was teasing you with a raised brow.

When you did look at him, his gaze oddly softened.

“I just can’t for the life of me get comfortable.” Your muttering was something you had been shamed for in many a friendship, but strangely not with Barty. “It’s like my clothes are too tight.”

It had been a long day, working a gruelling shift to pay off your student loan debts that you preferred to pretend didn’t exist. It was the kind of shift that left you feeling uneasy more so than exhausted.

“No such thing as too tight, Dragă,” Barty drawled with glee while he slid further into his seat – clearly not facing the same issues as you, as he sprawled out like he owned the place. Probably because he did. “But maybe changing out of your clothes would help?”

You swatted at his knee closest to you in reprimand.

“Not like that,” he groaned through a grin. “Just change into your pyjamas. We’re at home.”

An odd sensation settled into your spine at him calling your shared flat home – even though you had been living here for quite some time now. You sighed and looked down on your every-day clothes with contempt. “Yeah,” you relented. “It’s just– God, it’s been a long day.”

Barty’s eyebrows furrowed and his mouth pressed down into something akin to a pout, as if he was distraught that the sensory input of the day had been too much for you. “Well, the day is over and night – movie night, might I add – has commenced, so there shall be no more uncomfortableness. Go change, I’ll make tea, and we’ll be golden.”

You had been the one to convert Barty into liking tea just two months ago, which his friend, Regulus, had shamed him immensely for. You were apparently not the first person to make that conversion a mission, but you were the first to succeed. His offering to make it made you smile, even though you feared the execution of said making might turn it back upside down. 

“Thanks, B,” you mumbled, getting up and stretching out some of your body’s discomfort. “I’ll be right back.”

When you looked back down after cracking your neck, you saw his eyes still trained on you with a mixture of mirth and domesticity that seemed to contrast his general style and personality. It made you shiver a little as you moved past his sprawled out limbs, making a beeline for your bedroom. 

“You better!” he called out after you. “I’m not watching chickflicks on my own, that would be quite sad.” 

“Who said we were watching chickflicks?” You called back over your shoulder, shimmying out of your clothes. 

There was a heavy sound followed by a rustling of limbs, indicating that Barty physically rolled off the settee to get to the adjunct kitchen. On the way he murmured, “Well then, you’re no fun.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escape you, followed by a relieved sigh as you were finally clad in your preferred pyjamas. This was what you needed. It’s taken you a while to feel comfortable enough around him to be in your comfort-wear, but you were glad you were past that now and able to live freely in your current home. A voice in your head took note of how it was Barty who noticed you were uncomfortable and needed to change, a sign of familiarity that struck deeper than you anticipated.

Barty’s head picked up at the sound of you shuffling out of your room towards the kitchen to help carry the tea, and he looked at you over his shoulder with a grin. “Sleeping beauty has returned!” he declared, turning around with two steaming mugs. “Ready for a cinematic endeavour?”

A warmth crept up into your cheeks at his comment, however absentminded. “Aren’t I always?” You reached out for your mug, but he – gently – kicked you away, determined to carry them himself apparently.

“No, you aren’t. I had to talk you into this your entire first week here.” He shot you a playful glare with no malice behind it, his brow piercing tugging with the action in a way you tried to ignore.

You shrugged. “I’m still here, am I not?”

Barty breathed in sharply and nodded with faux solemnity. “And thank fucking Christ for that.”

Giving no more explanation, he set for the living room, mugs still in hand. You trailed after him, becoming more aware of the fully relaxed dynamic between the two of you and trying to disregard how much it meant. 

You sat down in your previous spots, right beside each other on the settee, with Barty setting the mugs before you, the handle turned inwards. Such a small action, yet it spoke volumes. 

As Barty settled against the cushions, one leg tossed out across the sofa and one stretching beneath the coffee table, he turned to look at you. It was a gaze you returned instantly, expecting a question, but instead he held it for a second, eyes searching yours. You realised then just how close you were to each other, how unnecessary yet somehow necessary it felt, how his hand rested mere millimetres for yours.

Then, he grinned. “Are we really not watching a chickflick?”

The laugh that escaped you was equal parts a release of your sudden onset of nerves and a genuine boisterous reaction. “Sure, B, we can watch a chickflick. Any takers on Clueless?”

Barty reached over you – more like, lunged across you – body dwarfing your lap as he dug between the cushions on the far end of the settee, producing the sleek remote. He sat back down beside you, your thighs now touching, holding the remote out for you. “As if! Hit play.”

You snorted – and then, you hit play. Retrieved your mug from the table and, subtly, settled back down against his side, bodies now fully touching. Barty leaned equally into you as he threw his long legs out on top of the coffee table, body somehow both steady and liquid.

You couldn’t claim that movie nights were a bad idea.

[aetherraeys]

evil twin !

regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k

(part ii)

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers

summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.

a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x

Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.

Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.

Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.

James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.

That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.

Of course it was hard, for the both of you.

James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.

It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.

It gave you both room to grow.

Individually. Distinctively.

Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.

You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.

James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.

He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.

And then there was you.

Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.

No less alluring.

They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.

There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.

They whispered about you long after you left a room.

Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.

Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.

There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.

Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.

You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.

Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.

Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.

He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.

Every head turned.

And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.

“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”

You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”

A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.

“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”

Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.

“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”

He winces. “Define ruin—”

“James.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”

You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”

You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.

Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.

The kind of smile that ruins people.

“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.

Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.

His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.

All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”

Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.

“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.

Sirius only grins.

James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.

The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.

James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.

“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”

You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”

Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.

Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.

James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.

You feel them. The eyes.

But you don’t look. Don’t need to.

Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.

And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.

After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.

“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”

Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”

“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”

“No problem, Pop.”

You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.

“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.

You don’t look back.

But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.

“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”

James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”

“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.

The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.

You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.

He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.

“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.

He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”

You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.

“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”

“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”

“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.

You didn’t comment, but you noticed.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.

Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.

Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.

Wandless magic.

Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”

You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”

“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”

“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.

“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.

Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”

“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”

Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.

A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.

“Bloody hell!”

The room erupted with laughter.

Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.

“Under control, was it?” you teased.

He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”

“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”

“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.

“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.

He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.

A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.

Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.

From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”

“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.

You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”

As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.

His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.

Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.

Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.

Subtle, magnetic.

You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.

Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.

There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.

And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.

There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.

Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.

So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.

The first time was in the library.

You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:

“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”

He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”

Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.

Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.

He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.

Icarus.

A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.

His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.

“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.

He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”

You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.

The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”

And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.

Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.

The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.

The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”

Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”

He only leaned in closer, grin laced with mischief, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”

“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”

Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”

Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.

“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”

“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”

Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”

For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.

“Did you wait long?”

He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.

Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.

“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.

He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”

A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.

Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.

There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.

And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.

You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.

“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.

Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.

When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.

Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”

A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”

Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”

The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.

A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.

“Teach me,”

Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.

The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.

The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.

Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

All-consuming.

At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.

“Once—accidentally,”

With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”

His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.

“Try move the coin.”

When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.

You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.

And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”

Easier said than done.

Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.

When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.

The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.

Nothing.

With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.

“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”

“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.

“Barely.”

You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.

A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.

“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”

He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.

And then—scrape.

The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.

When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”

He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.

“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”

He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.

And this time, it slid farther—too far.

The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.

He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.

Regulus was still watching you.

Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.

Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.

He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.

He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.

Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.

It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.

“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.

And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.

“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”

He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.

For a few long moment—nothing.

Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.

And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.

Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.

The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.

And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.

Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.

The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.

Bewitched.

Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”

His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.

Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“You’re a really good teacher,”

A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”

Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.

Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.

“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”

He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”

There was a beat of silence.

You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”

Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.

You paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.

He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.

He looked over his shoulder.

“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.

Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.

It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.

With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.

Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.

“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.

He was staring.

He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.

“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”

Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.

Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”

You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”

He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.

Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.

The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.

“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.

“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”

You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.

“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.

“I think you’re pretty.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.

And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.

Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.

When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.

There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.

But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.

That did it.

His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.

Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.

The curtains.

The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.

Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”

He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”

He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.

Then he paused.

Looked at you.

Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.

You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.

A beat.

His answer was just as quiet.

“…Too long.”

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.

Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.

Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.

He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.

You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.

For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.

Not that you weren’t complaining.

There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.

Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”

Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.

When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”

And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.

Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.

“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”

For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.

Just you.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.

Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.

The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.

“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.

“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”

You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”

He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”

You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”

That was all the prompting he needed.

His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.

Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”

And that made him grin.

Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.

His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.

So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.

But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.

“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”

You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.

Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.

Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.

“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”

Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”

Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.

“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”

Stammered.

You physically winced.

He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.

Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”

He paused just outside the curtain.

“…and just left her bag behind?”

Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.

A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??

But there was no time.

Because the curtain was already being drawn back.

Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.

Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.

You, still straddling Regulus.

Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.

And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.

A beat of silence.

He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”

You groaned. “Junior.”

“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.

You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.

Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”

You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”

“You’re eating a teacake.”

“I’m grieving, let me be.”

And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”

You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”

He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.

Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.

Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”

Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”

“Jun—”

“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.

Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.

Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”

With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”

[moonysraygun]

When Barty and Evan were twelve years old, Evan gifted Barty a ring made of bones that he had made with Barty's initial on it and Barty had asked Evan if it'd be alright if he put an "E" right next to the "B". Evan had stared at him quietly for a moment before taking the ring back and doing just that. When he handed the ring back to Barty he did not fail to notice the blush bloom on Barty's cheeks as he put the ring in his middle finger, when Barty swore to never take it off he didn't fail to notice Evan's ears turned bright red.

(Barty never ever took that ring off and would always fidget with it when he was upset or lonely because the ring brought him comfort.)

[dismalflo]

Hiii I saw your request for asks so here I am. Maybe one with barty x potter reader and it’s like about barty bringing out this completely different side to reader and James being like who tf is that. Like she’s so confident and funny and silly around barty because she just knows that he completely respects her even if she’s a little insane(honestly this is something I’ve been struggling to write for weeks and wanted to see how you would do it 😭)

hi babe!! thank you for requesting <3 i lovee a barty x potter!reader, hope you enjoy!

Barty Crouch Jr x fem!potter!reader who really wants to help the owls of Hogwarts ✩ 888 words

cw: fluff, james and sirius being concerned (and irritated) brothers, james is barty's biggest hater, barty is whipped for his weird gf

an: omg flo writes for barty now!! i really enjoyed writing this but this is my first time writing for him so be gentle. also i saw this request and started writing it like straight away ahhh

“What’s your sister doing?” Sirius asks, eyes still locked on you as he gives James a rough shake by the shoulders. You've apparently transformed the coffee table in the common room into your personal stage, sprawled across it, delivering a very quiet yet impassioned speech.

James casts a glance your way, then groans—a low, weary sound filled with dread.

“She’s being weird,” James mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s still half-asleep, his hoodie bunched around his neck, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. “Because of him.”

Sirius snorts, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Junior?”

“Yes, sodding Junior.” James replies grimly, as if he’s just uttered some ancient curse.

Meanwhile, you're still lying across the coffee table like it’s a velvet chaise lounge, one leg raised dramatically, arm flung over your face like a starlet in a Muggle film. Barty’s perched on the floor next to you, chin propped in his hand, looking up at you with that infuriatingly smitten grin. He’s clearly hanging on to every word of your monologue, whatever nonsense you’re spouting this time.

“I’m telling you,” you say, voice a hushed whisper but fervent all the same, “if we just trained the owls—really trained them—they could unionise. They could have everything they've ever wanted and more treats!”

James closes his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose, clearly trying to center himself amid the chaos. Sirius just whistles low, like he’s watching some particularly dramatic scene unfold in a soap opera.

“Is she talking about unionising the owls?” Sirius asks, incredulous. “Is that a—”

“Don’t.” James cuts him off flatly, still rubbing his face. “Don’t ask questions. That’s how he wins.”

You shift, sitting bolt upright on the coffee table, animated as ever, gesturing wildly as if you’re leading some kind of revolution. “—and they’re already halfway there!” you’re saying, grin wide. “They have a hierarchy, Bee. They talk to each other! I saw one of them give another a dirty look last week when it dropped a letter in the lake. And then another one had a go at it and defended its friend! That’s class solidarity, if I’ve ever seen it.”

Barty leans forward, eyes gleaming, his smile full of adoration. “You’re a visionary,” he whispers, as if you’ve just unlocked a new level of consciousness rather than plotting to turn Hogwarts’ owls rogue.

You plop down beside Barty on the floor, your leg brushing his as you settle in without a care in the world. You act as if you’re utterly unbothered by the fact that Sirius and James are watching you like you're some mythical creature they can’t quite figure out.

Barty doesn’t flinch when you sit down next to him. Instead, he turns his head, offering you a soft, affectionate smile. His hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Without a word, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple, lingering just a bit longer than necessary. When he pulls back, there’s something in his gaze—something bordering on reverence.

“I’m sure we could arrange something to go wrong in the owlery, treasure,” he murmurs, his voice low and conspiratorial, “Make it off-limits. Give you a head start.”

James huffs, shaking his head, his eyes flicking over to the two of you. You’re leaning into Barty, laughing at what he’s said while he absently plays with your hair. You look entirely at ease, a side of you James never really sees with anyone else. You and Barty—well, it's a whole different world.

"I don’t get it, she wasn’t like this before." James mutters petulantly, still rubbing his face in disbelief. "One minute she’s plotting whatever ridiculous thing, and the next—what? She’s all... sweet?" He whines, not unlike a toddler being told there's no sweets before bedtime. He watches you laugh again, a soft, affectionate chuckle, as Barty pulls you closer, his hand possessively resting on your waist. “Bloody disgusting if you ask me,” he mutters under his breath.

The comment lands just as Barty chuckles lowly, his hand firm around you. You look up at him, your eyes sparkling, and without hesitation, he places another soft kiss to your temple—so tender, so un-Barty-like.

Barty raises an eyebrow, a smirk curling up at the corner of his lips, glancing over at James. “Don’t remember asking you, Potter,” he drawls, his tone thick with indifference. “If you weren’t her brother, I swear—” His threatening tone is cut off by your gentle chiding, whispering his name.

Sirius, for his part, is enjoying the show, his eyes flicking between James and Barty like he’s waiting for some kind of standoff. But Barty just looks bored, fingers absentmindedly brushing through your hair. James, of course, glares, but doesn’t have the energy to continue. Groaning, he sinks back into the couch like he’s been defeated by some cosmic force.

“Whatever, mate,” James mutters under his breath. “Don’t know why you had to go for sodding Junior, Y/N.”

Your only response is a laugh, echoing through the common room like James has told the funniest joke in the world. He’s happy for you, really—just not thrilled about the massive hurdle you’ve put in the way of his acceptance. And that hurdle, of course, is Barty Crouch Jr.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Marauders and Lightning Era Masterlist

started - 08.13.2024

last updated - 02.12.2025

Credit for Dividers

All triggers and small summaries listed in the fanfiction

Matured audience advised

Random fic ideas

Faceclaims

HARRY POTTER and CO.

-In The Absence of Goodbye (Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort - Enemies to Lovers to Strangers to..)

Bartemius Crouch Junior x Fem!reader

Summary: Concept- After being sent back in time to spend a year in the Marauders Era, reader is thrown forward in time and has her memories erased. But was she truly sent home? Aka: Dumbledore underestimates Barty's absolute disregard for order when it comes to his vixen.

-HIATUS We'll Heal Together (Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort) 13/? parts Remus Lupin/Sirius Black x Reader

Part 1-9 can be read as a standalone. Summary: Harry Potter grew up without the warmth of a family he should have known. A father in James Potter, a mother in Lily Potter, a God Father in Sirius Black, and an uncle in Remus Lupin. Oh, and let's not forget, a godmother in {Y/N} {L/N} Alt Summary: Starts at the end of Chamber of secrets and into the Prisoner of Azkaban with the first chapter, Harry meeting his father's old friends, and starts learning the fate of {Y/N}, who has long since been presumed dead. there seems to be more of a story hidden behind her disappearance, and in turn, her reappearance.

-Good boy, Pads {Mini-Siris}

Summary: Long hours, late nights, and dark alleyways. Good thing you have a guardian angel looking out for you. {Aka: Padfoot protects a muggle reader on her walk home}

-Expectations

Summary: Reminiscing on some romantic encounters, you have come to the conclusion Harry Potter is not someone you'd ever date. HURT/COMFORT

HEADCANNONS

Jealousy, Jealousy

Where the boys get jealous... (Feat. Barty, Regulus, Sirius, Remus, and James)

POLY!SHIPS

-Poly!Marauders+Lily x Fem!Reader

- Zombie Apocalypse Au

-Loving You is Easy

Summary: Being younger than all your respective partners was never a big deal; until they graduated and you were left behind. As your mental health declined and their lives started without you, a break was needed.

-Lily's Touch {Omegaverse}

Summary: The reader is experiencing her first heat, and nothing matter how hard she tries, she can't get the nest right.

-Jily x Slytherin!Reader

Jily x Slytherin!gnreader Summary: An interesting situationship with Jily}

-Sirius/James/Remus Band Au

Summary: Reader has a horrible encounter on stage and the boys comfort her

-What's Your Name? {Sneak Peak}

Moonwater Fluff

-Status Quo

Summary: Early mornings and the Status Quo of the Marauder's house hold. {THIS FANFICTION IS INSPIRED- no, actually, basically a tribute to @/ellecdc's PadVix fanfiction. I would be amazed you are reading any of my stuff and not having read theirs but the link is here if you need it.

REMUS LUPIN

-Spoiled Brat (Pt 1?) (Lil Angsty, +18, fluff)

Summary: When your escapism over the summer turns a bit more real, as you fall in love with a half blood your father would never approve of}

-Think like a Lupin (Angsty, lotta angst, happy ending! fluff +18)

Summary: Your parents are planning to marry you off the second after you graduate, but after an unfortunate encounter with a werewolf, plans change.

-Break a Leg Not My Heart (Some angst, mostly light hearted fluff)

Summary: You get hurt during Quidditch practice and Remus doesn't leave your side. Friends to lovers.

-Meeting Royalty (Fluff, Suggestive)

Summary: Meet cute but make it royalty} Part 2

-Too Late (Angst, no comfort) {Pt.2}

Summary: Remus comes to terms with a love lost to his own insecurities.

-Stray

Summary: Post war Remus finds home for his heart

-It Repeats Itself

Summary: Even years after the war the effects of Voldemort's reign still had waves of effects. One just so happened to have a poor girl caught in the cross fire. (This is more of a concept then a fleshed out story-a little cliche)

-Just thinking about Sirius testing tattoo ideas on you...

-Over and Over Again

Summary: The legend of soulmates and the myth of endless lives tied to one another permanently was once a myth you don't believe. Until you met Remus Lupin.

BARTY CROUCH JUNIOR

-The boy I knew {Sneak peek}

Summary- When Barty knew love

-The Boy I Knew {Part 1} (Angst, Fluff, +18)

-Do You Some Good

“When we’re done here, we can go back to hating each other. Deal?” “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I actually prefer things like this.”

-Dear Future Husband

-Cat and Mouse

Summary: The reader can never truly get away Barty, no matter how hard she tries. He'll always find his family.

-Love me, too

Summary: Late nights with loose lipped Barty, a single conversation unraveled years of yearning.

-I am not writing this because I could not mentally take it but...

-Trust and Obedience

Summary: Small snippets of moments between you and Barty, where you really should have picked up on his spiral.

Potter!Reader;

-Everything is Blue

Summary: As things escalate with Barty he draws a line in the sand.

-I Might Still Hate You

Summary: An unexpected guest shows up at your house late at night.

-Not Quite Poison- {Pt.2}

Summary: after a chance meeting in the library; a whirlwind love affair between Barty Crouch Jr and the youngest Potter blossom, but neither of them were prepared for how life would go after.

-They'll Be Alright

Summary: James Potter learns to like tolerate his sisters taste in men.

-Making Mistakes - {Pt.2}

Summary: After a horrible break up in 7th year, Barty and you haven't spoken a word to eachother. Then, he comes barreling back into your life begging for forgiveness, will you trust him?

JAMES POTTER

-Fall in Love in a Night (A lil angst, basically just a fluffy fluffy love story)

Summary: College AU, Muggle AU, James falls in love with the some of the worst parts of you }

-Fix it Yourself (All the Angst, lil comfort) +18

Summary: Falling in love with James Potter was a whirlwind affair full of lies and heartbreak. Everything comes to a head when he asks you to fake date someone so Lily will give him a chance.

-Little Lupin (Fluff)

Summary: James has a little crush on little Lupin

-Masterpiece

Summary: James Potter goes a little too far with a girl everyone happens to like.

-Just Kiss Her

Summary: You find a few unsent letters with your name on them- literally.

-Bed Hopper

Summary: After creating a tradition of cuddling James before bed, you'd think you'd have the path down by now.

-Not Made for Easy

Summary: Years of loving and yearning unfurl the night before graduation. A dramatic love confession.

-Why Couldn't It Be Us

Summary: James grappled with the reality of loosing the love of his life.

SIRIUS BLACK

-Casual (Angsty, fluff at the end) +18

Summary: Sirius falls for his most recent hook up, and she refuses to cave to what she wants}

-Fix it Yourself (All the Angst, lil comfort) +18

Summary: Falling in love with James Potter was a whirlwind affair full of lies and heartbreak. Everything comes to a head when he asks you to fake date someone so Lily will give him a chance.

-Like my father {Blurb}

Summary: Reader wants a man to love her like her father loves her mom. She just hasn't met him yet.. maybe.

-Kiss And Make-Up

Summary: Pool side at the Potters, Sirius takes you for a swim.

-Rock 'n Roll

Summary: Sirius stays home with a hangover, but the reader is always there to lend a hand.

-Just thinking about Sirius testing tattoo ideas on you...

-Self Fulfilling Prophecy

Summary: Potters love like it's a sport, but it seems that only a Black can challenge that.

FRED WEASLEY

-Summer Talks

Summary: Fred lets you know what he's waiting for

-Too Much Like Me

Summary: James finds out Lily's type in men is apparently genetic.

-Burning Bright, Falling Hard

Summary: Fred Weasley and you share a quiet moment in your room

HERMIONE GRANGER

-Invisible (Lil Angsty, basically just fluff) Blurb

Summary: Reader is a bit of a punk like Sirius, with Remus's insecurities. She doesn't believe she deserves a girl like Hermione. No real plot just Angst straight into fluff

MATTHEO RIDDLE

-But daddy I love him (Lil Angst, fluff)

Summary: Harry finds out his sister is dating Mattheo Riddle Ft. James, Lily, Remus, Sirius - No war au }

" Dinner Party " (Pt 2)

Summary: The Potters throw a dinner party; Mattheo meets the family} Wc- 4142

-King's Gambit

Summary: You go to a Ministry gala with your family, meeting and dancing with Mattheo Riddle, who is just looking to cause some trouble,

REGULUS BLACK

-Monarch butterfly (Hurt/comfort) wip

Summary- Monarch butterflies only live for up to six weeks. Their life brings an unspoken joy to the people who witness it, a peaceful feeling to the life that last so much longer then their own. They bring smiles to the faces of children, they bring good luck for those who choose it, they bring so much value to lives they will never truly be a part of. Your butterfly was, and always would be, Regulus black.

BLAISE ZABINI

-Before a Stranger

Summary: Friends before a stranger

[peppermintkissesxoxo]

an afternoon stroll

rosekiller x gn!reader

cw: d/s relationship dynamics, little daddy kink towards the end, reader gets carried by Evan, mostly fluff

wc: 2.7k

𓆩♡𓆪

"Pet, hands to yourself," Evan tsks as his arm languidly reaches out, fingers pinching the back of your top to pull you back onto the path with ease. 

Your fingers were just a hair away from grazing the bush housing vibrant purple berries practically glowing in the dim forest light, just for a split second before you're firmly pulled away and tucked into your boyfriend's side. "Ev, c'mon!" You throw your hands up as you huff out a whine. "Wasn't gonna touch..." You lie. 

The blonde haired boy scoffs, clicking his tongue. "Yeah you're very believable. Don't throw a tantrum now, precious, you know I won't be on your side," he murmurs while doting a kiss to the crown of your head, a possessive hand placed on the fat of your hip to keep you close to his body, holding you captive. 

Your heart flutters at his usual blasé tone, affection seeping through your body as you snuggle into his side. You love how effortlessly dominant Evan is. It makes you feel taken care of, safe. And it's saved you from the many dumb decisions that have had you just a brush away from death upwards of 10 times throughout the duration of this walk. 

Evan has spent the better part of this stroll through the forbidden forest tugging you away from various flora and greenery that you like to call "pretty glowing plants," which are in fact poisonous and likely fatal to the human touch. Hence why they grow only in the forbidden forest. And he's spent the other part reigning in Barty when he wanders off too far or gets hit with a wave of boredom and starts acting a little too feisty with his wandering hands. 

Evan can't quite decipher if he's in his own version of heaven or if satan personally sent the pair of you up to him to compete for who could make him have a heart attack first. 

Up ahead a skipping Barty twirls around and comes sprinting back over, having heard you getting a scolding and alerted that you needed him to defend your honor, of course. 

"Rosie! Be nice! It's not Treasure's fault the berries are practically seducing us with their sick glow!" He reasons as he comes up to your side to hug your arm, jostling the pair of you in the process. 

It earns him one bored look from said boy. Evan's hold on you doesn't budge, but his eyes glimmer with a cruel playfulness. In a split second his free hand whips out to grab a fistful of Barty's shirt. He pulls the shorter boy against his body by the fabric, stopping you in your tracks simultaneously, now caught in the middle with wide eyes. 

Evan leers down his nose, eying up Barty. The light in his pupils carry just a hint of mischief, a deviation to his normal dead gaze. "Watch it, Bee. You're walking on thin ice today," his low tone rumbles the threat, though you all know it's actually affectionate. 

Barty tongues the inside of his cheek, fighting a toothy smirk, but it's inevitable. He gazes up at the blonde boy with hearts in his eyes. "Kay, Rosie. I can be good," he purrs in a sly manner. 

Your lips quirk up at his blatant lie, stomach heating at the heavy tension thickening between the boys. 

Evan scoffs, leaning down further to whisper against Barty's lips. "Liar." Then he claims Barty's mouth in a deep kiss, his tongue licking behind his teeth sensually, only for a moment, before he releases his shirt and lazily shoves him backwards, ending the kiss quick only for the sole purpose of leaving Barty on the tip of satisfaction. "Don't stray, idiot," he smirks. And then Evan turns back to the path and pulls you along with him. 

Barty is practically beaming with delight at Evan's shove, his cheeks tinted slightly red and his maniacal smile wide with adoration after that kiss. He catches up to you both quickly, hooking a finger into one of your belt loops and leaning down to dote kisses over your shoulder. 

You giggle softly, your shoulder traveling upwards at the ticklish pressure of his lips. 

Barty melts. "Gods, Treasure I swear an angel is born everytime a sound leaves your lips," he coos in between kisses, voice gooey like molten lava. 

Even Evan can't help but let a soft smile tug at his mouth. He can't get enough of your voice either. 

Then Barty's hand is rustling through his pockets to pull out a handful of something. Your eyes catch on the movement as he pushes his hand into your direct line of sight. "Found you something, angel," he purrs, eyes purely fixed on your expression. 

His hand unfolds to reveal a glimmering holographic crystal, a tiny skeleton crow head, and a stick with various colors of moss growing on it, all laid out on his palm. 

Your heart thumps hard in your ribcage. 

It's become a common ritual now for Barty to gift you random trinkets he's found while exploring. It's like he has a secret sense for the little beauties, a keen eye for anything pretty. He's been doing it just for fun since he was young, but once he found you, his Treasure, it made sense that he'd start gifting you the little gems he's found.

It finally clicked when you found out that his animagus is a magpie. 

"Thank you, baby," you coo, your heart flipping a thousand times over as he gently slips the little treasures into your palm. You pick up each one and admire them with equal appreciation, your heart full. 

Barty grabs a handful of your ass while you're distracted, kissing up the side of your neck. Heat creeps up your chest but you're too zoned into the treasures to be pulled from your task of examining. 

After you've looked them over, and Barty has sufficiently groped you till you're hot in the face and a good bit aroused, Evan scoops up the items to deposit into his pocket for safe-keeping until you return to the dorm. "I'll keep them safe for you, darling."

"Yeah you better keep them safe, Rosie. Spent an hour finding those beauties," Barty quips back with a smirk. 

Evan's silence is the only reply he receives, but you give Barty a quick kiss on the cheek to show your appreciation.

The three of you already started walking back to the castle a while ago, but you've still got a ways to go considering how deep into the forbidden forest you traveled. 

Your legs feel like they're turning to led, your body leaning heavily against Evan. You definitely didn't wear the right shoes for this kind of walk which makes it so much worse. The Doc Martins you picked out earlier, a recent gift from Barty, are beginning to rub against your heels with a sharp, unpleasant friction. 

Now, this is something in which Evan consistently reminded you would happen when you were getting ready to leave the dorm. He almost pulled you over his knee for your stubbornness but you held out and won in the end, i.e. Barty threw you over his shoulder and ran out of the dorm with you before Evan could get to you. 

"Ev..." You murmur, sagging into his side more heavily. 

A tired sigh escapes his nose. "Pet." He already knows where this is going. You want to be carried.

You groan softly, pulling away from both boys to cut in front of Evan and abruptly stop him in his tracks. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. 

The sudden obvious height difference makes you a bit hot. Evan is effortlessly intimidating, he always has been. Nonetheless, it's not going to stop you from getting what you want.  You lift your arms and press your hands to his shoulders, pushing out your bottom lip in a soft pout and putting on "the doll look," as the boys like to call it. 

Evan's gazes down at you with a bored look. 

You scrunch your nose at him and suddenly his hand is gripping your jaw, his face inches from yours. 

"No," he murmurs gruffly, like one would when scolding their disobedient puppy. He's trying so hard to be stern and act like your cute little fucking face doesn't make him want to fall to your every whim. No, he's the one in charge in here, he will not let you get your way like a spoiled brat. 

He may give into you sometimes (a lot of times) but today he's less inclined to spoil you, particularly because said current issue is because you didn't listen to him earlier. 

Though your lips can't pull up into a smile because of your smushed cheeks, your eyes do all the talking. You know he won't be able to resist for much longer. Or... you think so. 

His dead gaze traces over your pretty face. "You're really testing the limits today, doll," he mutters gruffly. 

Heat pools in your lower belly and you resist the urge to swallow as your heart starts to race. You're pretty good at catching Evan's tells by now, the little facial ticks or body language that reveals his true feelings and intentions under his stoney exterior. 

But right now, you're not quite sure whether you're about get a bruised ass or get scooped up into his arms. The uncertainty makes you tingly all over in the best way. 

You experimentally palm at his shoulders with your hands, maybe your touch will sway him. "Please? M'sorry, I'm being good now," you mumble sweetly. 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, hand releasing your face and gently pushing you backwards in the process. "No. You ask me one more time and we're going to have a problem, pet. I told you not to wear new shoes for this kind of walk. Don't expect sympathy from me," he deadpans, side stepping you to continue walking on the path. 

You huff at his rejection, your stature deflating. 

Barty rushes to your aid, palms pressing to your waist, just about ready to scoop you up into his own arms and carry you instead. He can't have his beautiful Treasure's poor feet aching. 

"Don't even think about it, Junior! They can walk," Evan barks from up ahead, not even needing to look back to know what Barty's attempting. 

Barty freezes, locking eyes with you. You both know you'll be in trouble if Barty helps you. This is something Barty certainly doesn't mind, but you do, and that's the only reason he pauses, surveying your expression carefully. 

You smile softly, threading a hand through his messy brown locks and pulling him into a loving kiss. 

"Thank you for trying, Bee," you murmur sweetly as you pull away. 

It's then that Barty catches a certain twinkle in your eyes. His heart skips a beat. He knows exactly what you're about to do. You're going to pull out the big guns. 

It shouldn't be a surprise that due to Evan's dominant nature it's become a thing for you and Barty to casually call him Daddy outside of the bedroom. It started as a joke but then it stuck rather quickly. It's not sexual (most of the time), and it's not an all the time thing, but it is typically said when Evan's stern nature is especially prevalent. 

Hence, your choice to pull the Daddy card. You turn and call out to Evan, voice soft and airy, pleading, "Daddy, please!" 

Evan pauses, the name sending a familiar jolt through his body. He lets out a deep sigh and rolls his shoulders, of course you'd pull the Daddy card, little brat. But it has him turning around anyways, and he's no sooner striding back to you. 

"Sorry?" A raised eyebrow is directed towards you once he's a less than a foot away from both you and Barty. He crosses his arms over his chest and it only serves to make his tall build broader. 

You swallow harshly, resisting the urge to take a step back. Are you intimidated out of your mind and slightly regretting your choice to test him? Yes. Are your panties a little wet? Maybe also yes. 

Barty places an arm in front of you, shielding you slightly, his eyes locked on Evan. "Ev c'mon..." he laughs nervously, trying to diffuse the tension, and also trying to ignore how hot Evan looks when he's pissed off. He's got to defend his Treasure right now. 

Evan raises a hand to silence Barty. "No, no. If the little doll wants to go down that route I'd like to hear what they have to say." Evan smiles down at you with fire searing in his gaze, a warning. 

A harsh shiver dances up your spine and suddenly you're staring down at your shoes, heat creeping up your neck as you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "W-Well um—" 

"No, head up. Look at me, you know better," Evan's bored tone interrupts your mumbling, his expression almost blank aside from his narrowed gaze.

Your head snaps up in a rush, wide eyes blinking at him sheepishly. "Sorry, Daddy." 

He clicks his tongue, eyeing your fidgeting hands. "Enough with the fiddling, and speak up properly. If you have something you'd like to ask, now is the time, pet. Don't bore me," his blunt tone is final. 

You nod your head quickly. 

Barty has migrated to behind you for support, letting you lean back on him while his hands rub soothing circles on your hips. He's drinking up the charged tension between you and Evan. That being said, his eyes are entranced with the expression Evan's wearing. The way he's looking down at you, like you're a just a pretty little doll that needs to be put back in their place. He feels dizzy with delight. 

You start, hesitant, "I-I'm really sorry I didn't listen to you about my shoes, Daddy. My... my feet really hurt and I don't think I can walk back without getting bad blisters. Will you... um, will you please carry me back to the castle, Daddy?" You bat your eyelashes up at him gently and make sure to keep your voice soft, your cheeks scorching. 

Evan's silent for a moment, but then you catch the proud glimmer in his eyes and you know you're in the clear. He rolls his eyes and then opens up his arms and gestures you forward. "Come, Pet. You're forgiven." 

Your face practically lights up. Barty gently pushes you towards Evan and you don't hesitate to step forward and press your palms to his shoulders. 

Evan bends at the waist and wraps an arm around your lower back, scooping his free arm under your bottom to lift you onto his hip as he straightens. You wrap your arms around his neck as he does, body buzzing with a warm tingly feeling you always get when you're touching either of your boys. 

"Thank you..." you murmur shyly. 

Evan presses a soft kiss to your temple in response. 

Barty barks out a laugh. "You've gone soft, Ev," Barty taunts said boy, itching for a reaction even though he's much enjoying the sight of Evan carrying you like a little doll. "All it takes is a "please, Daddy" and they've got you falling to their every whim." He smirks. 

Evan merely rolls his eyes. After all you and Barty have put him through today, he's exhausted about 90% of his usual will to bite back. "Quiet, Bee. I think we're all in need of a nap when we get back," he murmurs as he starts walking with you still in his arms. "Go run ahead, Junior. Your energy is quite the opposite of infectious." 

Barty beams, catching up to Evan to kiss him on the cheek and then doing the same to you. "It's like you read my mind, Rosie! I was craving a little run!" And then he's off, sprinting down the path, his figure getting smaller and smaller the more distance he catches. 

Evan tilts his head toward you, his nose brushing the side of your face. He sighs, hugging you tighter to him. "You two are going to kill me one day, you know that, precious?" His voice sounds tired, but fond. 

You laugh softly, turning your face so your nose brushes his. "Mhm. But you love it," you murmur back, eyes practically smiling at him, bursting with love. 

He presses forward to lay a soft kiss on your lips.

"I am quite the masochist, aren't I?" He muses when he pulls back, a soft smile pulling at his lips.