#bartylus fic

Your fingers are already numb, curled tightly around your scarf, and your thoughts are consumed by a single, glorious truth: Barty is in the dorm, and according to the sacred cuddle schedule, it is your turn—not Regulus’s.

You love both of your boyfriends, you really, really do, but cuddling with Regulus is an actual nightmare. 

He’s beautiful, devastatingly beautiful, but he’s also so bloody cold, and curling up with him feels less like affection and more like someone’s slipped a block of ice between your ribs. You have endured it before, out of love and obligation.

Barty, on the other hand, is blessedly, unfairly warm, like some ancient elemental spirit of heat and comfort wrapped in sleepy eyes and strong arms. 

And while most people assume that being in a relationship with two boys would come with all sorts of complicated emotional drama, the truth is, the only real conflict you ever face is the bitter, eternal war between you and Regulus over who gets to absorb Barty’s body heat first. 

Today, the universe has aligned. Barty is in bed, warm beyond reason, and by all that is holy in the cuddle constitution, that warmth belongs to you.

Which is why you’re here, running full speed through the corridor like your life depends on it, because if Regulus gets there before you, he will wrap himself around Barty like a smug, aristocratic scarf and never let go, and you won't have any leftover heat.

Your footsteps echo sharply as you sprint down the stairs, nearly slipping when you round the corner that leads to the Slytherin dormitory.

You slow just enough to give the stone wall the correct password, then push through the entrance, half-blind with purpose and windburn.

But the second your eyes land on the corridor leading to your shared room, your stomach drops.

There he is.

A sleek black cat sits calmly just outside the door, tail flicking with smug precision. His pale green eyes meet yours, gleaming with the unmistakable glint of mischief.

“Regulus, you little shit,” you hiss, voice thick with betrayal.

He meows, almost mockingly, then turns and bolts.

Your legs move before your brain catches up. “Oh no, you don’t!” you shout, slamming your bag against the wall as you give chase. 

Your boots skid on the polished stone floor as you race after him, your scarf flapping wildly behind you like a flag of war.

He darts around corners with practiced grace, sleek and unbothered, tail curling just so as if to taunt you. You, on the other hand, are panting and flustered, your frozen fingers clenched into fists as you throw yourself forward, heart pounding not from fear but from pure, unfiltered indignation.

He’s going to beat you to Barty. 

And you’ll be damned if you let that smug little bastard steal your heat slot.

“Regulus!” you yell, chasing him as he darts like a shadow toward your dorm door and the warm, toasty boy inside.

You lunge the moment his slick black tail flicks around the corner, and just as Regulus-still in cat form—is about to slink triumphantly into the dorm room, you skid in front of the door and slam it shut with both palms.

The thud echoes like victory.

You whip around, hair disheveled, chest heaving from the chase, as the cat freezes just inches from the door. 

He glares up at you with those imperious green eyes, his tail flicking like an insult, his tiny cat nose twitching in blatant offense—as if you’re the one committing treason.

But you’re already reaching into your robe pocket with the righteousness of a lawyer mid-trial, and you produce the parchment scroll with theatrical precision.

Barty’s gold-inked title gleams at the top like a royal decree: “Heat Access Schedule: Property of Bartemius C. Crouch Jr.” It sparkles obnoxiously.

You crouch to his level, unravel the scroll with theatrical flair, and jab your finger at the bold, clearly marked time slot.

“Regulus Arcturus Black,” you pant, triumph dripping from every syllable as you flash him your most evil grin, “it is my time. Seven to eight thirty. Right there. And I quote—‘Lap and chest privileges at full discretion of Y/N.’ That clause was reviewed, signed, and stamped with Barty’s wax seal. This is legally binding under the cuddle constitution and you damn well know it.”

He blinks slowly.

Then slowly, too slowly, he lifts his paw, unsheathes one delicate little claw, and rips the parchment in half. The sound of tearing paper is somehow louder than it should be.

You freeze, staring at the ruined remains of the schedule as they flutter pitifully to the floor like the ashes of your last shred of patience.

“Are you kidding me?!” you shriek. “You absolute menace! I need my cuddles, Regulus! Stop being a selfish little—”

You launch forward to grab him, but he’s already leapt backward like a slippery shadow, tail high and smug as he bolts for the dorm.

“Get back here!” you yell, nearly tripping as you scramble after him.

“YOU'RE A CAT, NOT A THIEF!—COME BACK AND FACE ME LIKE A MAN!”

He lets out a low, unimpressed meow that sounds suspiciously like a scoff. You swear he raises an eyebrow, somehow, despite having fur.

“Fine,” you mutter, standing up with exaggerated weariness.

“If rules don’t mean anything to you, then I guess I’ll just go all alone into the cold, where I’ll probably freeze to death. But no, it’s okay—don’t worry about me.”

You sniff loudly, tugging your scarf higher over your nose like a tragic orphan. “It’s not like I haven’t been feeling faint all day. I mean, I’m only showing early signs of hypothermia—tingling fingers, shivering spine, loss of will to live—minor things, really.”

You wobble slightly on your feet for effect. “I was just hoping for a little warmth. A little kindness or cuddle, maybe. But clearly…” You sigh as your voice breaks. “Clearly I was wrong.”

The silence stretches.

Then, with the softest rustle of fur and magic, Regulus shifts.

It begins with a shimmer around his paws, a ripple of something ancient and practiced. In the space of a heartbeat, where the cat stood, there is now a boy—pale-skinned and annoyingly elegant even barefoot in a dorm hallway.

His black curls fall into his eyes as he studies you, his expression exasperated but ever so slightly fond.

“Oh, amour,” he murmurs, voice like velvet steeped in sarcasm. “Are you truly that cold? I am so sorry.”

You blink at him, lips trembling—not from cold, but from the effort it takes not to laugh.

And in that single, suspended moment of sympathy, you twist, grab the door handle behind you, and barge inside.

“Barty!” you yell, throwing yourself onto the bed in a blur of scarf and limbs.

Behind you, there is a stunned silence.

“You sneaky lying maniac!” Regulus bellows from the hallway. “Tu es un démon! Une menteuse! Une petite actrice  dramatique—je vais te tuer!”

You hear the slam of the door, the rapid slap of bare feet against stone, and then he is chasing you again—but it’s too late. You’ve already landed on Barty, who is lying sideways across the bed with his arms open in sleepy confusion.

He jerks upright with a startled grunt, arms instinctively catching you even as his eyes snap open wide.

“What the—what the bloody hell is going on?” he exclaims, voice pitched somewhere between alarmed and scandalized. “Did you just launch yourself at me?”

You look up at him, breath catching in your throat. His hair is tousled from sleep, shirt rumpled, and his hands are already settling instinctively around your waist despite his confusion.

Your voice drops, soft and a little breathless. “Barty,” you say, eyes searching his face, “I missed you.”

His brows draw together, tension easing just slightly as his lips twitch into something warmer, something fond.

“I missed you too, trouble,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers through your hair.

You barely have a second to enjoy the warmth of his chest and the way his heartbeat slows beneath your cheek—before the dorm door slams open behind you.

Regulus bursts in, wild-eyed and betrayed, breathing like he’s just sprinted across the castle and looking absolutely offended by the sight of you already cuddled into Barty’s arms.

“Putain de voleuse de chaleur !” he snaps, voice sharp and scathing. “You stole him! You stole Barty’s warmth, you freezing little traitor—sorcière glacée !”

Barty immediately tenses beneath you, looking from Regulus to you with the wide-eyed panic of a man caught in the middle of a house fire.

“What,” he says slowly, carefully, “did you both do?”

There’s a pause.

You and Regulus both inhale like you’re about to deliver reasoned, mature explanations.

And then—

“You ripped the contract!” you shout, flinging your hand toward Regulus.

“I’m colder than you!” Regulus yells back at the same time.

“You used your cat form to cheat and get here faster—”

“You cuddled him twice yesterday, for longer than your allotted time slot—”

“I needed this, my fingers were numb, Regulus—”

“I have poor circulation!”

“You tore up the only system we had—”

“You lied about being sick!”

“You always turn into a cat and sneak under the blankets—”

Their voices collide, climbing louder and louder until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Barty sits frozen between you, arms half-raised like he’s afraid moving might trigger further destruction.

Eventually, Barty sighs—a long, slow breath that carries all the patience and quiet surrender of a man who has given up.

He simply lies back down on the bed, rolling gently onto his side as if inviting the chaos to come to him. He pulls the blanket up over his chest, closing his eyes briefly before lifting one arm just slightly—an unspoken offer.

You and Regulus exchange a glance, both of you frozen for a moment, then drawn in by that quiet invitation like moths to a flame.

Without hesitation, you slip forward and curl into the warmth of Barty’s chest, your hands sliding beneath the soft fabric of the blanket, seeking the steady, comforting heat that only he can provide.

Regulus follows, settling on the other side of Barty, his cold fingers lightly brushing against your arm. His breath is soft and steady as he presses closer, resting his cheek near the curve of Barty’s neck, as if he’s finally found a place where he belongs.

The three of you lie there, perfectly still, the silence full and heavy with the weight of shared warmth and unspoken affection.

After a moment, Regulus slowly blinks up at you, his eyes shining with quiet tenderness.

“Je t’aime,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle.

You smile softly, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Je t’aime, me or Barty?” you tease lightly, nuzzling closer.

Regulus’s lips curve into a mischievous grin. “Je t’aime, you and barty.”

Barty stirs at that, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the congestion weighing on him. He coughs softly, then says, “I love you too, Black.”

You both laugh quietly, the sound mingling with the gentle rhythm of Barty’s breathing.

Though Barty feels utterly miserable beneath his fevered skin, the contentment of being held by both of you is clear in his softened expression. His arm tightens just a fraction around your waist as he lets himself drift toward sleep.

He doesn’t complain, not really. If anything, there’s a sort of smug peace to him now, even in the throes of whatever miserable cold he’s caught. His fever, for once, has a purpose. His body, too warm to be comfortable for himself, is perfect for the two of you.

And even if his throat aches and his head’s spinning and his entire being feels like it's made of soup, he can’t help but feel vaguely victorious. He is loved, wanted, fought over. He is, in the worst of health, still the prize.

And for one perfect, quiet moment, it works.

The dorm is warm and dim, your breath soft against his collarbone, Regulus’s curls tickling the back of his neck, all of you tucked under the covers in one tangle of limbs and shared heat.

Barty lets his eyes fall shut. His body relaxes.

He starts to drift.

And just as the room settles into a perfect, peaceful stillness—

Barty always paced when he was in the middle of a story. He could never simply stand still and speak. Words moved through him like electricity, fizzing in his hands, his shoulders, his mouth. He walked from the wardrobe to the bed, from the bed to the window, from the window back again, grinning like he had personally survived an assassination attempt and come out of it with gossip.

“And then,” Barty said, pointing at nothing, “then he looks me dead in the eyes, Reg, dead in the eyes, like I’m supposed to be intimidated by a man who thinks a navy waistcoat is a personality, and says, ‘Crouch, this isn’t how we usually handle client follow-up.’”

He scoffed.

Regulus did not blink.

Barty turned sharply on his heel. “This isn’t how we usually handle client follow-up,” he repeated, putting on a voice so dry and pompous it probably deserved its own office. “As though the way they usually handle it isn’t by sitting there with their thumbs up their arses until someone richer than them has an opinion.”

The mirror stared back.

Regulus stared too.

There was a softness to his face he had not noticed before. Or maybe he had noticed it and pretended he had not. His cheeks looked fuller. His shirt sat wrong across him. Everything felt wrong. Skin. Fabric. Bones. Breath.

He could feel his body in layers.

Too much body.

Too present.

Too loud.

Barty was still talking.

“So naturally,” Barty continued, “I smiled at him. My terrifying little polite smile. You know the one.”

Regulus did know the one.

He did not say so.

“The one that makes people start apologising even when I haven’t done anything yet,” Barty said with obvious delight. “And I said, ‘Marius, darling, if I wanted the usual handling, I would’ve asked the stationery cupboard to run the account.’”

Barty laughed at his own line, bright and sharp, then pointed at Regulus’s reflection.

“You would’ve loved it. He went purple. Not red. Purple. Like a cursed aubergine in cufflinks.”

Regulus swallowed.

His throat ached.

A cursed aubergine in cufflinks, he thought faintly.

Usually, that would have got something out of him. A huff. A glance. A soft, unwilling smile. Barty lived for those. Collected them greedily, as though every small crack in Regulus’s composure was treasure.

But Regulus’s mouth would not move.

His fingers tightened on the shirt button.

The mirror showed him that too.

Everything showed him everything.

Barty drifted closer again, still talking, still blazing with that careless, beautiful, unbearable life of his.

“And anyway, that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that he tried to follow me into the lift afterwards, which is bold, because I had just metaphorically stabbed him in front of three departments and a woman from legal who absolutely wants me carnally.”

Regulus heard none of it properly.

The words blurred.

Carnally. Lift. Legal. Waistcoat. Honeymoon.

Barty’s voice rolled over the room, filling every corner. He had been talking about work, then about dinner, then about a possible honeymoon itinerary with the same amount of violent passion he brought to everything. Italy had been mentioned. Greece. Some expensive hotel suite with a balcony. A private beach. A bath big enough for two people and Barty’s ego.

“We need somewhere dramatic,” Barty said. “Somewhere worthy of us. I don’t want a beige honeymoon. I refuse. I want sun, silk sheets, questionable room service, and you looking devastating in something tiny enough to cause international tension.”

Regulus breathed in.

His chest rose strangely against the shirt.

He looked down.

Mistake.

Instant, violent mistake.

His stomach was not obvious. Not yet. Not to anyone who did not already know. It was still only the beginning of a change, a quiet adjustment beneath skin, a secret written in flesh before it had been spoken aloud. A few months along, the healer had said. Kindly. Carefully. As though Regulus had not gone silent in the chair, one hand curled around the edge of it hard enough to hurt.

A few months.

A baby.

His baby.

Their baby.

The thought should have been impossible. Terrifying. Beautiful. It was all of those things at once, and the combination left him dizzy.

He loved it.

He knew that with a fierceness that almost frightened him. There had been no question in that part of him. No hesitation. The moment the healer had said it, the moment Regulus had understood what was happening inside him, some strange locked chamber of his heart had opened, and light had poured through.

Mine, he had thought.

Ours.

Then, almost immediately after, the rest of him had begun to collapse.

Because love did not stop the body from feeling like a betrayal.

Love did not silence the old ghosts.

Love did not erase the sudden, brutal awareness of what he had been born with, what his body could do, what his body was doing now without asking whether he could survive being reminded.

His stomach twisted.

He pressed a hand lightly over it before he could stop himself.

The touch was gentle.

The feeling it brought was not.

In the mirror, Regulus saw the movement. Saw his own hand. Saw the careful curve of his fingers over the place where everything had changed.

He dropped his hand at once.

Barty, oblivious and delighted, flung himself backwards onto the bed for half a second, then sprang up again like gravity bored him.

“And during our honeymoon,” he said, voice dipping into something wicked and fond, “I hope you understand I’m going to be an absolute menace. A devoted husband, obviously. Romantic. Attentive. Disgustingly in love. But also a menace. I’m going to keep you in bed until neither of us remembers what country we’re in.”

Regulus’s breathing thinned.

“I mean it,” Barty went on, strolling up behind him. “Twenty-four seven, Reg. Every day. I’m going to kiss you until you forget every language you know. I’m going to make you blush every morning and ruin you every night and then order breakfast like I’m a civilised person.”

His grin softened into something adoring.

“You look so fucking sexy, by the way.”

Regulus closed his eyes.

Do not say that.

Do not look at me.

Do not want this body.

Do not remind me I have one.

Barty did not hear the thought. Of course he did not. He only saw Regulus standing still in the mirror and assumed, because Barty often assumed desire was a room he could walk into uninvited and be welcomed, that silence meant shyness, or challenge, or invitation.

He came up behind Regulus and slid both arms around his waist.

Regulus went rigid.

Barty did not notice immediately.

He pressed himself close, chin hooking over Regulus’s shoulder, his mouth warm against the side of Regulus’s neck. He smelled faintly of smoke, expensive cologne, and cold city air, as though London itself had tried to follow him home and got caught in his coat.

“There he is,” Barty murmured, kissing beneath Regulus’s ear. “My gorgeous boy.”

Regulus’s eyes opened.

In the mirror, Barty looked radiant behind him.

Barty always looked half-wild, even when he was still. His curls were slightly untamed from pacing and dragging a hand through them. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His grin was pressed against Regulus’s skin like a promise.

Regulus looked trapped inside himself.

Barty swayed them slightly, as though they were dancing to music only he could hear.

“My fiancé,” Barty said, pleased with the word in a way he had never managed to hide. “My beautiful, terrifying, impossible fiancé.”

Regulus’s jaw clenched.

Barty kissed his temple.

“Still can’t believe you agreed,” he whispered.

Regulus stared at their reflection.

Barty’s arms around his waist.

Barty’s hands over his stomach.

Regulus stopped breathing.

There.

There.

Barty’s fingers rested carelessly, affectionately, exactly where Regulus could not bear them and desperately wanted them all at once.

The room shifted.

The mirror seemed to tilt forward.

Barty’s hand moved gently, thumb rubbing a slow arc over Regulus’s shirt.

“Reg?”

It was quiet.

Not teasing now.

Regulus did not answer.

Barty lifted his head from Regulus’s shoulder. His expression in the mirror changed first at the eyes. The grin faded. Not vanished, exactly, because Barty’s mouth always looked like it knew something sharp, but softened into worry.

“Regulus.”

Regulus swallowed again.

It hurt.

Barty’s arms stayed around him, but they loosened at once, no longer trapping. Only there.

“Hey,” Barty said, voice low. “What’s going on?”

Regulus shook his head.

The movement was tiny.

Barty went very still.

For once in his life, utterly still.

“Did I say something?” he asked.

Regulus’s mouth parted. Nothing came out.

Barty’s eyes flicked over him in the mirror, searching. His face sharpened with attention. Barty could miss a mood for ten minutes if he was on a ramble, but once he saw it, he saw everything. Too much. Too fast.

“Reg,” he said again. “Look at me.”

Regulus could not.

“Darling.”

That nearly broke him.

He hated darling except when Barty said it like that. Not smug. Not theatrical. Not weaponised. Soft. Like something held in both hands.

Regulus’s eyes filled.

Barty’s expression changed completely.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, love.”

Regulus turned his face away from the mirror.

Barty did not try to make him look back. He stepped around him instead, careful and quick, putting himself between Regulus and his reflection.

The mirror disappeared behind Barty’s body.

That helped.

Not enough.

But it helped.

Barty took Regulus’s hands.

They were cold.

“Tell me,” Barty said.

Regulus breathed out, and the breath shook so badly it sounded broken.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“All right,” Barty said immediately. “Then don’t. Not yet. Just breathe.”

Regulus made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Barty’s face crumpled with concern so raw it made Regulus want to apologise, which made everything worse, because he had done nothing wrong except exist in a body that kept becoming evidence.

“I’m sorry,” Regulus said.

“No,” Barty said, instantly. “No, don’t do that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop. Regulus, stop.” Barty squeezed his hands. “You are not allowed to apologise at me when you look like you’re about to shatter. That’s illegal. I’ll make it illegal.”

Regulus’s laugh broke halfway through and turned into a sob.

Barty’s eyes widened.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed. “Come here.”

Regulus let himself be pulled in.

For one second, he held himself stiffly, his face turned against Barty’s shoulder, hands hovering uselessly at Barty’s sides. Then Barty wrapped around him properly, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other spread between his shoulder blades, and Regulus broke.

It came out of him violently.

Not graceful tears. Not the cinematic kind. Ugly, silent at first, then gasping. His shoulders hitched. His fingers clutched at Barty’s shirt. His whole body shook with the effort of holding in something that had already burst.

Barty held him through it.

No jokes now.

No pacing. No rambling. No manic little sparks thrown into the air to make a room brighter.

Just Barty, solid and warm, one hand stroking Regulus’s hair with uncharacteristic patience.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Regulus shook his head into Barty’s shoulder.

“You are,” Barty insisted. “You are. Whatever this is, I’m here.”

Regulus dragged in a breath.

It snagged on the way in.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room went quiet.

A deep quiet.

Not empty. Not cold.

Stunned.

Barty stopped breathing.

Regulus felt it. Felt the sudden stillness of his chest, the silence where Barty’s body had been moving. Felt the hand in his hair pause.

For one terrible second, every old fear opened its mouth at once.

Then Barty exhaled.

Not a word.

Just air.

Regulus shut his eyes hard.

“I only found out recently,” he said, voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t— I couldn’t— I tried, but then every time I looked at you, I couldn’t get the words out, and I know I should have told you straight away, I know, I just—”

“Regulus.”

“And I love it,” Regulus said, desperate now, words spilling because if he stopped he might never start again. “I do. I love it already, and that’s the worst part, because I love it and I want it and I don’t want you to think I don’t, but I can’t— I can’t stand this. I can’t stand looking at myself. I can’t stand feeling everything changing. I can’t stand knowing why. I can’t stand being reminded that my body can— that I have—”

His voice failed.

Barty’s arms tightened.

“Love,” he whispered.

Regulus shook his head again, crying harder. “I’m happy and I’m not. I’m terrified. I feel horrible. I feel wrong. And then I feel guilty for feeling wrong, because it’s ours, and I love it, Barty, I do, I swear I do—”

“I know,” Barty said, voice rough. “I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” Regulus snapped, but there was no heat in it. Only pain. “You can’t.”

Barty went still again.

Then, softly, he said, “No. I can’t. Not the way you do.”

Regulus’s breath shuddered.

Barty pressed a kiss to the side of his head.

“But I know you,” he said. “I know when you love something. You go quiet with it. Like you’re afraid the world will hear and try to take it from you.”

Regulus squeezed his eyes shut.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate the mirror.”

“Then we’ll cover it.”

Regulus gave a small, broken laugh into his shirt. “You can’t cover every mirror in the world.”

“Watch me.”

“Barty.”

“I’m serious,” Barty said, and he did sound serious, which from him was always slightly alarming. “I will wage war on reflective surfaces. I’ve been waiting for a nemesis.”

Regulus laughed again, helpless and wet.

Barty kissed his hair.

“There,” he whispered. “There you are.”

Regulus pulled back just enough to look at him.

Barty’s eyes were shining.

Regulus noticed it at once.

“You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m having an eye-based reaction to joy and terror,” Barty said, blinking rapidly. “Entirely different.”

Regulus’s face twisted.

Barty’s thumb came up carefully, wiping beneath Regulus’s eye.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, but there was no accusation in it. Only hurt, tender and restrained.

Regulus looked down.

Barty tipped his chin up again with two fingers, gentle enough that Regulus could have pulled away if he wanted.

“Not like that,” Barty said. “I’m not angry. I just want to understand.”

Regulus’s lips trembled.

“Because once you knew, it would be real.”

Barty’s face softened.

“And if it was real,” Regulus continued, “then I’d have to be real inside it. Not just numb. Not just pretending I had time to decide how I felt.”

Barty nodded slowly.

Regulus looked away.

“And I was scared you’d be happy before you saw me.”

Barty flinched.

Regulus hated himself for noticing.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Barty said quietly. “And you were right to be scared of it.”

Regulus looked back at him.

Barty swallowed.

“Because I am happy,” he said, voice thin at the edges. “Regulus, I’m so happy I think I might go insane. More insane. Impressively insane. But that is not bigger than you. Do you hear me? It doesn’t come first.”

Regulus stared at him.

Barty cupped his face with both hands.

“You come first,” he said. “You. Not my feelings, not whatever circus is currently detonating inside my skull, not the fact that I want to run into traffic and scream that I’m going to be a father. You.”

Regulus’s breathing shook again.

Barty leaned closer.

“I’m delighted,” he whispered. “And I’m terrified. And I’m shocked. And I’m probably going to start crying properly in about thirty seconds, so brace yourself because I will make it dramatic. But right now, I need to know what you need.”

Regulus pressed his lips together.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s fine.”

“I don’t want you to touch my stomach yet.”

Barty’s hands dropped from his face immediately, hovering in the air like he had been burned.

“Done,” he said. “No stomach.”

“I don’t want you to call me—” Regulus stopped, jaw tightening.

Barty waited.

Regulus forced the words out. “I don’t want you to call me anything that makes me feel like— like that.”

Barty’s eyes sharpened. “Never.”

“And I don’t want you to look at me differently.”

“I can’t promise that,” Barty said.

Regulus’s face shut down.

“No, listen,” Barty said quickly, taking his hands again. “Not badly. I won’t look at you like you’re less you. I won’t look at you like you’re fragile glass or— or like this changes who you are. But I am going to look at you and know you’re carrying our baby, and I can’t pretend that won’t make me feel something. I can promise I’ll be careful with it.”

Regulus searched his face.

Barty’s voice went rougher.

“I can promise I’ll be careful with you.”

Regulus’s mouth trembled again.

“That was almost a normal thing to say.”

“I know. Horrifying. I hated it.”

Regulus huffed a weak laugh.

Barty’s thumbs moved over his knuckles.

“Do you want to sit?” he asked.

Regulus nodded.

Barty guided him to the bed without touching anywhere he had been told not to touch. It was almost absurd, how visibly careful he became. His hands went to Regulus’s shoulders, then thought better of it, then hovered near his elbows, then retreated.

Regulus sat on the edge of the mattress.

Barty crouched in front of him.

For once, the height difference tilted in Regulus’s favour. He looked down at Barty, at the frantic brightness in his eyes, at the way he seemed to be holding himself together with his teeth.

“You can breathe,” Regulus said.

Barty let out one single, strangled laugh.

“That is a dangerous suggestion.”

“Barty.”

“I’m breathing.” He inhaled loudly through his nose. “See? Horrible. Didn’t enjoy it.”

Regulus wiped at his face with the heel of his hand.

Barty caught his wrist gently and used the sleeve of his own shirt instead.

“That’s disgusting,” Regulus muttered.

“You’re engaged to me. Your standards died ages ago.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched.

Barty smiled back, small and shaky.

Then his eyes filled again.

Regulus watched him fight it.

It was a strange thing, seeing Barty Crouch Jr. try not to feel too much. Barty, who felt everything like a match dropped into petrol. Barty, who could turn irritation into performance, desire into religion, affection into a siege. He looked almost frightened of his own happiness now, as though it had arrived too large to fit inside him.

Regulus’s voice softened.

“You can be happy.”

Barty’s face crumpled.

“Can I?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“A bit.”

“A bit,” Barty repeated, nodding too fast. “I can do a bit.”

He lasted approximately two seconds.

Then he covered his mouth with one hand, squeezed his eyes shut, and made a sound that was half laugh, half sob.

Regulus stared at him.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m sorry,” Barty said, though the words came out mangled. “I’m trying to be composed.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not,” Barty admitted, and then he was crying. Properly crying. Tears spilling over, shoulders shaking, grinning through it like the world had cracked open and handed him the sun.

Regulus blinked.

Barty laughed wetly into his palm.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, Reg.”

Regulus’s own tears slowed in sheer disbelief.

“Are you laughing or crying?”

“Yes.”

“Barty.”

“I’m going to be a dad,” Barty said.

The words seemed to hit him after he said them. His eyes went wide, then flooded all over again.

“I’m going to be a dad,” he repeated, softer. “I’m going to be someone’s father. That’s insane. That’s irresponsible of the universe.”

Regulus stared down at him.

Barty looked up, tear-streaked and grinning.

“I’m going to be a father.”

Regulus’s chest ached.

This time, not only from fear.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Barty made another broken sound and dropped his forehead against Regulus’s knee, careful, avoiding his stomach entirely like it had become sacred ground he had not yet been granted permission to enter.

Regulus looked at the top of his head.

“You’re getting tears on my trousers.”

“I have just received life-altering information.”

“They’re expensive.”

“I’ll buy you new trousers. I’ll buy you ten new trousers. I’ll buy the baby trousers.”

“The baby won’t need trousers for a while.”

“I don’t know how babies work,” Barty said into his knee. “I’ll learn. I’ll become unbearable about it.”

“You’re already unbearable.”

“Yes, but now with educational material.”

Regulus laughed.

It surprised him.

The sound came out small but real, slipping through the wreckage of the moment like the first flash of a bird over storm water.

Barty lifted his head slowly.

His eyes were red. His cheeks were wet. His smile was the maddest, softest thing Regulus had ever seen.

“And I got you pregnant,” Barty said, then seemed to hear himself and nearly choked. “Holy shit. Regulus.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes.

“Careful.”

“No, no, I know, I know.” Barty held up both hands. “I’m being normal.”

“You are absolutely not.”

“I’m being sensitive and normal.”

“You’re crying on the floor.”

“Because I’m going to be a father.”

“Yes.”

“And because—” Barty stopped, bit his lip, failed to contain the grin that ripped across his face. “Because apparently I got you pregnant.”

Regulus stared at him.

Barty pressed both fists to his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said, muffled. “I’m not making it weird.”

“You’re making it incredibly weird.”

“It’s just—” Barty took a breath, then another, then gave up. “That’s so fucking—”

“Barty.”

“I’m not finishing the sentence.”

“Good.”

“I’m thinking it loudly.”

“I know.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“It’s a medical condition.”

“It is not a medical condition. It is the miracle of my terrifyingly effective devotion.”

Regulus stared at him for half a second.

Then, despite himself, he smiled.

Barty saw it and lit up like a city.

“Oh,” he whispered. “There. That. Do that again.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Please. I’m devastated. I’m a father. I need support.”

“You are not a father yet.”

“I am emotionally a father.”

“You are emotionally a courtroom fire.”

“And genetically a father.”

Regulus groaned, but there was laughter under it now, fragile and unwilling.

Barty crawled up onto the bed beside him with exaggerated caution, as if Regulus were a skittish cat and he was trying not to be scratched. He sat back against the pillows, arms open but not reaching.

Regulus looked at him.

Barty looked back.

No pressure. Not spoken, not performed. Just waiting.

Regulus moved first.

He climbed into Barty’s arms and settled against his chest, turned sideways so Barty could hold him without touching where he had asked him not to. Barty adjusted immediately, one arm around his shoulders, the other resting along Regulus’s hip.

“Is this all right?” Barty asked.

Regulus nodded.

Barty kissed the top of his head.

They sat like that for a while.

The room, which had felt too bright and sharp before, slowly settled back into itself. The bed dipped under their combined weight. The wardrobe stood open. The mirror remained behind them, no longer watching.

Regulus sniffed.

Barty leaned sideways and grabbed a tissue from the bedside table.

Regulus took it, wiped his nose, and muttered, “Elegant.”

“Devastatingly.”

“I look awful.”

“You look like my favourite person.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was the only answer I’m willing to give.”

Regulus tucked the tissue in his fist and rested his head back against Barty’s shoulder.

Barty was quiet for almost a minute.

Then he said, very carefully, “How far along?”

Regulus’s fingers tightened.

“A few months.”

Barty inhaled.

Regulus felt the reaction go through him. The shock. The maths. The sudden widening reality of it.

“A few months,” Barty repeated.

“Yes.”

“And you found out recently?”

“Yes.”

“Were you alone?”

Regulus closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

Barty made a small sound.

Not anger.

Pain.

Regulus turned his face slightly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to feel guilty loudly.”

“I can feel guilty silently.”

“No, you can’t.”

Barty’s mouth pressed against his hair.

“I wish I’d been there.”

“I know.”

“I hate that you were alone.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve held your hand.”

Regulus swallowed.

Barty’s voice dropped.

“I would’ve made a scene at the healer if they looked at you wrong.”

“They didn’t.”

“I would’ve made a scene anyway. For morale.”

Regulus smiled faintly.

Barty tightened his arm around his shoulders, still careful.

“Do you have to go back?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come.”

Regulus hesitated.

Barty stilled. “Only if you want.”

Regulus looked down at his own hands.

“I think I do.”

Barty did not celebrate. Did not make it about himself. He only kissed his temple again and said, “Then I’ll come.”

Regulus breathed out.

Some knot inside him loosened by a thread.

“And if there are things you don’t want said,” Barty continued, “or words you hate, or parts of it that make everything worse, you tell me. Or write it down. Or glare at me in a specific way until I understand.”

“You understand none of my glares.”

“I understand at least seven.”

“There are more than seven.”

“I’m expanding the catalogue.”

Regulus let his eyes close.

Barty’s heartbeat was fast beneath his cheek. Fast and uneven. He was still crying, quietly now, tears slipping down whenever the thought caught him again.

Regulus tilted his head back to look.

“You’re still crying.”

Barty nodded, lips pressed together.

Regulus reached up and wiped one tear from his cheek with his thumb.

Barty turned into the touch at once.

“My ridiculous man,” Regulus murmured.

Barty gave a wet laugh.

“That’s father of your child, actually.”

Regulus’s eyes narrowed.

Barty’s grin returned, bright as struck flint.

“Oh, that’s going to be unbearable,” Regulus said.

“Yes,” Barty said immediately. “Awful. I’m already drunk on it.”

“Don’t make me regret telling you.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You adore me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You agreed to marry me.”

“I was under duress.”

“You proposed back.”

“You were being annoying.”

“I was being romantic.”

“You were on the kitchen floor.”

“I was overcome.”

“You had dropped an entire jar of jam.”

“And from that ruin, love rose.”

Regulus laughed again, more fully this time.

Barty looked at him like the sound had physically struck him in the chest.

Then he started crying harder.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Regulus said, but softly.

“I’m sorry,” Barty gasped, laughing through it. “I just remembered again.”

“That I’m pregnant?”

“That you’re pregnant. That we’re having a baby. That you’re going to marry me. That somehow, despite all available evidence, my life has become disgustingly perfect.”

Regulus’s smile faded slightly, not gone, only sobered.

“It won’t be perfect.”

Barty wiped at his face and nodded.

“No. It won’t.”

“I’m going to be difficult.”

“You’re already difficult.”

“Barty.”

“I know.” He sobered too, the grin gentling at the edges. “I know, love. It’s going to be hard. Some days are going to be awful. You’re going to hate things. I’m going to say something stupid and you’ll want to throw me out the window. We’ll panic. We’ll fight. We’ll learn. I’ll probably buy the wrong kind of something and insist it’s revolutionary.”

“You will.”

“And you’ll call me an idiot.”

“You are.”

“And I’ll love you.” Barty’s voice cracked. “Through all of it. Every second. Even when you can’t stand being looked at. Even when you can’t stand being touched. Even when you don’t know how to feel. Especially then.”

Regulus went very still.

Barty shifted, careful enough not to startle him.

“You don’t have to perform happiness for me,” he said. “You don’t have to make it pretty. You don’t have to make this easy so I can be excited.”

Regulus’s eyes burned again.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“No, but it is honest.”

Regulus sniffed.

Barty kissed his forehead.

“We’ll do it badly at first,” Barty said. “Then less badly. Then perhaps with alarming competence. And if anyone has an opinion about you, your body, our baby, or the way we handle any of it, I will become a legal event.”

Regulus stared at him.

“A legal event?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know yet, but there will be paperwork.”

Regulus shook his head, but he was smiling again.

Barty saw it.

He softened everywhere.

“There he is,” he whispered.

Regulus’s smile trembled.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I came back.”

Barty looked at him for a long moment.

Then he said, “You did.”

Regulus’s throat tightened.

Barty brushed hair back from his forehead.

“You went somewhere horrible in your head,” he said. “And then you came back. I’m allowed to be relieved.”

Regulus had no answer for that.

So he tucked his face beneath Barty’s chin and breathed.

Barty held him.

The mirror stood behind them, useless now. Powerless. A sheet of glass with no teeth.

After a while, Regulus said, “You really want this?”

Barty’s arms twitched around him.

He seemed to choose his answer with care, which was rare enough to be startling.

“I want you,” he said. “And I want what you want, if you truly want it. And if you truly want this baby, then yes. God, yes. More than I know how to survive.”

Regulus nodded slowly.

“I want it.”

Barty inhaled sharply.

Regulus lifted his head.

“I’m scared,” he said.

Barty nodded.

“I’m miserable.”

Barty nodded again.

“I might be miserable a lot.”

“Then I’ll be there a lot.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Good thing I’m obsessive.”

Regulus gave him a look.

Barty smiled.

“And devastatingly in love.”

“That too.”

“Mostly that.”

Regulus leaned his forehead against Barty’s.

For a moment, they were quiet enough to hear the city beyond the window. The distant hush of traffic. Someone shouting below, muffled by glass. A siren far off, rising and falling like a wounded mechanical bird. Ordinary life going on without permission.

Inside the flat, everything had changed.

Nothing had moved.

Barty’s hand stroked up and down Regulus’s arm.

“Can I ask something potentially stupid?” he said.

“No.”

“Brilliant. I’ll ask anyway.”

Regulus sighed.

Barty’s voice went shy in a way Regulus almost never heard.

“Are you… are you all right with me being excited sometimes?”

Regulus pulled back enough to look at him.

Barty rushed on. “Not when you’re upset. Not over you. Not in a way that makes you feel alone with the difficult parts. But if you’re all right, or if there’s a moment when it doesn’t hurt, am I allowed to be excited? Because I can suppress it, but I should warn you now, it may come out through my ears.”

Regulus studied him.

Barty looked genuinely anxious.

The sight did something strange to Regulus.

There was fear in him still. Dysphoria still, waiting in the corners. The awareness of his body had not vanished just because Barty loved him. It would not be that easy. He knew that. They both did.

But there was something else now too.

Barty’s tear-streaked face. Barty’s trembling mouth. Barty trying, impossibly, to make his enormous joy small enough to fit in Regulus’s hands without hurting him.

Regulus touched his cheek.

“Yes,” he said.

Barty froze.

“You can be excited sometimes.”

Barty’s eyes widened.

“Sometimes,” Regulus repeated.

“Right.”

“And not loudly in public.”

“Define loudly.”

“Barty.”

“Understood. Whisper-volume insanity.”

“And not to strangers.”

“What about enemies?”

“No.”

“What about people who deserve to be emotionally inconvenienced?”

“No.”

Barty nodded solemnly. “Very restrictive, but I accept.”

Regulus rolled his eyes.

Barty leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft.

So soft it almost hurt.

No demand. No heat pushed where it was not wanted. Only mouth against mouth, trembling slightly, saltwater and breath and love.

Regulus kissed him back.

Barty made a broken little sound against him and pulled away before it could become anything else.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Regulus frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want to kiss you for six years.”

“That sounds medically unwise.”

“I’m going to be a father. I’ve lost all sense of proportion.”

“You never had any.”

“True.”

Regulus leaned into him again.

Barty settled back carefully, taking Regulus with him until they were lying against the pillows. Regulus curled into his side. Barty kept one hand in his hair, the other safely at his back.

After a minute, Barty whispered, “Reg?”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to say something.”

“Must you?”

“I must.”

“Fine.”

Barty’s voice shook with wonder.

“We’re having a baby.”

Regulus closed his eyes.

The words landed differently from Barty’s mouth.

Still frightening.

Still huge.

But warmer.

“We are,” Regulus whispered.

Barty made another strangled noise.

Regulus opened one eye. “Are you crying again?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m silently celebrating.”

“You’re leaking.”

“I’m full of paternal feeling.”

“You’re full of something.”

Barty laughed and sobbed at the same time, burying his face in Regulus’s hair.

Regulus let him.

For a little while, he even enjoyed it.

That was the strangest part.

Not the fear. He had expected fear. Fear was an old room. He knew its furniture.

But this, this flicker of amusement under the grief, this tenderness rising through the dysphoria like green through cracked pavement, this was stranger. Harder to trust. More dangerous in its hope.

Barty sniffed loudly.

Regulus groaned. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

“I’m reconsidering.”

“You can’t. Baby.”

Regulus lifted his head sharply. “Do not weaponise the baby.”

Barty’s grin went crooked and delighted.

“Oh,” he said. “That annoyed you.”

“Barty.”

“I won’t weaponise the baby.”

“You were about to.”

“I was absolutely about to.”

“I know.”

“But I won’t.” Barty held up a hand. “I am a changed man.”

“You found out ten minutes ago.”

“And look at my growth.”

Regulus stared at him.

Barty stared back, eyes still wet, grin still trembling.

Then Regulus did something unwise.

He smiled slowly and said, “You know, I suppose this does mean you were very effective.”

Barty went utterly still.

Regulus watched the words strike him.

His eyes widened.

His mouth parted.

A flush climbed his throat.

Regulus arched one brow.

Barty whispered, “Regulus.”

“What?”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said it with your face.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You absolute menace.”

Regulus’s smile sharpened, the first familiar blade of it returning. “I’m emotionally fragile. You can’t accuse me of anything.”

Barty pointed at him, tears still drying on his cheeks. “That is evil.”

“Yes.”

“I am trying to be respectful.”

“You are trying very hard.”

“I am trying not to think about the fact that I—”

“Go on.”

Barty clapped a hand over his own mouth.

Regulus’s eyes glittered.

Barty spoke through his fingers. “You are cruel.”

“You like me cruel.”

“I love you cruel. There’s a difference.”

Regulus leaned back into the pillows, calmer than he had been all evening. Not fixed. Not cured. Not suddenly shining and whole. But here. Present. In his own skin, however uneasy, with Barty beside him and the mirror behind them.

He looked at Barty and found him still staring, overwhelmed all over again.

“What?” Regulus asked.

Barty shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Barty swallowed.

“I’m just looking at you.”

Regulus stiffened slightly.

Barty noticed. Of course he did.

“Not like that,” he said. “Not at your body. At you.”

Regulus studied him.

Barty’s expression was open in a way that made him look younger. Softer. Almost frightened.

“I keep thinking I can’t possibly love you more,” Barty said. “And then you ruin my life by proving me wrong.”

Regulus looked away, but not before Barty caught the blush.

Barty’s grin bloomed slowly.

“Oh, that still works.”

“Shut up.”

“My gorgeous boy.”

Regulus’s breath caught.

This time, it did not hurt.

Not much.

Barty saw that too.

His voice gentled. “My brave boy.”

Regulus closed his eyes.

“My fiancé,” Barty whispered. “My Regulus.”

Regulus reached for his hand.

Barty gave it immediately.

Their fingers locked together.

“Say it again,” Regulus murmured.

Barty’s thumb stroked over his knuckles. “My Regulus.”

“No.” Regulus swallowed. “The other thing.”

Barty went silent.

Then, carefully, reverently, he said, “We’re having a baby.”

Regulus breathed through the ache.

Again, the words were terrifying.

Again, they were beautiful.

Again, they were real.

He pressed Barty’s hand tighter.

“We’re having a baby,” Regulus repeated.

Barty broke again, smiling so hard it looked painful, tears spilling freely.

Regulus watched him for a second.

Then he laughed.

Not because it was easy.

Not because everything was fine.

Because Barty was crying like an idiot on their bed, because his shirt was still half-buttoned, because the mirror had lost, because the world had changed and somehow left them both breathing.

Barty laughed too, helpless and wet, dragging Regulus closer without touching anywhere he should not.

“I’m going to be such a good dad,” Barty said, voice wrecked with conviction.

Regulus hummed. “Debatable.”

“I am.”

“You’ll teach the baby crimes.”

“Only tasteful ones.”

“No crimes.”

“Light fraud?”

“No.”

“Verbal intimidation?”

“Barty.”

“Fine. Literature.”

“You don’t read.”

“I’ll start. For the baby.”

Regulus smiled into his chest.

Barty kissed his hair again and again, like punctuation. Like prayer. Like he could press enough love into Regulus’s skin to make the hard parts gentler.

The flat settled around them.

Outside, London kept moving. Inside, Barty held him and cried and grinned and whispered the truth until it became less sharp in Regulus’s hands.

We’re having a baby.

You come first.

I’m here.

My Regulus.

And for the first time since the healer had spoken, Regulus let himself rest inside the words.

Not without fear.

Not without grief.

But with Barty’s arms around him, with his own hand curled safely in Barty’s, with the future no longer a locked door but a room neither of them knew how to enter yet.

They would enter badly.

Loudly, probably.

With Barty crying on expensive trousers and Regulus threatening murder before breakfast.

But together.

For tonight, that was enough.

“Okey,” Bee says through a bite full of apple where she’s propped against the backside of a seat, “Fuck, marry, kill—”

“Not playing this anymore,” Regulus replies, stabbing at her ceasar salad in lackluster fashion.

But Bee continues, unbothered, because Regulus doesn’t mean it. Because she’s said a similar variant of that same sentence for the last two rounds already. Yet she’d still given Barty thoughtful answers. And so will she this time, too.

Bee lets her gaze rove over the students on the grounds. It’s sunny outside, unusual for this early in the springtime, so naturally the meadow in front of the enormous, colosseum-esc entrance of the university is packed with people. Small groups of them studying, some more active with frisbees or slack lines and similarly lame shit and some loners here and there with a book or simply headphones.

Bee picks her way through the masses to choose. “Mmh,” she makes thoughtfully, tongueing at the corner of her mouth, “Callisto Greengrass,…Amycus Carrow—”

Regulus, visibly oh so disinterested looking, makes a retching noise at the mention of his name.

“aaand…” Bee’s eyes keep skipping off people. Not interesting, jock, bland, Barbie much?, ew, tool, is that the janitor?, meh, oh—

Who do we have here?

Bee squints and as the girl shifts, long hair gliding over a shoulder, revealing a sweet, rounded, freckled face she grins. Teeth glinting and digging sharply into a chapped bottom lip.

“—and Lily Evans,” Bee concludes, proudly.

That pick in particular manages to raise Regulus’ head with curiosity, following Bee’s line of sight.

“Who?” she asks.

“Evans,” Bee repeats, imploringly, “Miss organisation committee co-president in her very first year.”

And she sees it—in Regulus’ expression—the moment she makes the connection, the moment her eyes land on Lily, recognising her, remembering her. Or, the thoughts Regulus has had about her, rather.

Because Regulus’ eyelids flutter and the tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips before, suddenly, her face goes blank again, the signature crease between her manicured, dark eyebrows reappearing.

Bee barely refrains from giggling.

“Kill Evans,” Regulus answers, immediately.

“Ah ah ah—” Bee chides, clicking her tongue, “Honest answers, love.”

Predictably, Regulus doesn’t like that.

She huffs, irritated, and lets herself fall into the backrest of her chair, dramatically. Her arms cross, going a full level 3 on the Regulus-Black-annoyance-scale, which is right before ‘snapping & bitching’, and only topped by ‘toddler tantrum’—though Regulus prefers the term ‘princess predicament’ for the latter.

It’s a miracle, really, that Bee’s never made acquaintances with that stick up Regulus’ ass with the amount of times she’s been in there.

“I’m waiting,” Bee sing-songs. She lets her hand find its way up Regulus’ neck, fingers taking a grip at the roots of her thick, wavy hair. With a slow twist of her wrist she urges Regulus to look back into the direction of Lily, forcing her to rethink her decision.

Her back is tense, cheeks rosy and Bee sees when she swallows thickly, instantly affected by the controlling touch.

Regulus makes a grumbling noise, still acting all prissy and reluctant, because that’s just her thing, Bee guesses. Just like it’s Bee’s thing to keep poking fun at her until eventually she loses her cool and explodes, or, in rather few but still existing cases, doggedly tries to one-up Bee. Trying to make a snide remark even closer to breaking than pushing their boundaries than Bee, something even nastier, a stab wound even deeper, even closer to something important. But only close, never purposely dead center. Never fatal. Maybe they like to leave scars on each other like this, as evidence perhaps. Some fucked up form of security.

I know you well enough to know where it hurts just right. Look, this right here I caused after you said something mean about my shoes in 3rd year. And remember this? You did this after I insulted your brother one too many times when we were drunk the night before graduation.

But, well, what can Bee say? That’s just how they work. And they like it that way. Bee would choose this over any other sort of relationship a hundred times over and the decade they’ve known and stayed with each other is evidence enough that for Regulus it is entirely the same.

It’s a unique bond to have and Bee treasures it.

“Fine,” Regulus hisses between her teeth, “Kill Amycus.”

Bee’s grin widens and she drags the nail of her thumb rewardingly along Regulus’ scalp, “There we go. Good girl.”

“Marry Callisto, I guess,” she continues in a petulant mumble.

Bee’s grip tightens again. “Why?”

“Ngh- ’Cause she’s sitting on a fuck ton money of real estate inheritance.” Regulus is glowering at her now, pale grey eyes gleaming threateningly and Bee loves it. Loves the way Regulus thinks she’s winning now, how she thinks she’s the one a step ahead, not Bee. Loves how Regulus’ triumph carries naivety each and every time, so sweet and mouth watering like a sugar coated piece of sour candy.

“And…?” Bee goads.

Regulus huffs, gnaws on her bottom lip until it comes away swollen. She takes a deep breath before— “Fuck. Evans.”

She says those two puny words like it physically pains her to do so, like Bee is actually forcing them out by a string wrapped in barbed wire and not like she’d been secretly fantasising about it months ago. Because she had and Bee knows.

“Yeah,” it rolls off Bee’s tongue syrupy slow. She relinquishes Regulus’ hair in favor of grabbing her by the jaw instead, knocking around her head gently, “yeah, you gonna fuck Evans, huh?”

Regulus is helplessly staring back into Bee’s eyes, up from under long lashes, lips parted. “I- no, it’s just a—”

“Oh, but you would,” Bee cuts her off knowingly, bending her long torso over Regulus, “You want to.”

And Bee’s got her squirming in her seat now, black nylon clad thighs and the shortest plaid skirt moving against scratched, faded green plastic. Because Regulus is feeling things that make her nervous—excitement and shame, desire and resentment and confusion.

Eventually Regulus’ face falls into a cute frown, eyes averted but defiant, “Doesn’t matter anyways.”

Bee searches her gaze again, ducking lower, “Why wouldn’t it matter?”

“Because,” Regulus huffs, “I’d never in a million years simply walk up to her. I’d probably barely even do so with a good enough reason.”

That’s not a satisfying answer. “Good enough reason like…your best friend really badly wanting to watch you get flustered by a foxy redhead?”

Regulus bats a hand at her, tsking. “Good enough reason like, fuck if I know, like a- a group project, perhaps.”

Bee lets herself sit with that thought for a moment.

She imagines long nights at the library, messily done up hair, focused eyes tearing through page after page while teeth nibble absentmindedly on the end of a pen. Short skirts rucked up, blouses undone comfortably by a few buttons, a peak of a lacy bra, or a nipple even if she’s especially lucky. Bee imagines the warm, familiar weight of Regulus in her lap and the strange and exciting feeling of wrapping her free arm around a chubby waist. Each hand toying with a head of hair, one wavy and black and smelling of shea butter and one thick and straight and auburn red.

Barty was known to enjoy a good wanking, it wasn’t anything shocking. Late one night he found himself scrolling on one of his favorite underground porn sites when he came across a live. A boy with black hair and pale skin laid in the center of the screen, a shockingly large in comparison dildo being lazily thrust in and out of his hole. Regulus. His best friend of seven years was recording himself using a dildo, and from looking at the comments, it seemed as if this was not something unusual for him. 

The people watching kept donating increasing amounts of money as Regulus brought himself closer to the edge. Barty hadn’t noticed his own pants were unzipped until that moment. Despite knowing it was wrong, he began to stroke himself in rhythm with Regulus’s thrusts of the dildo. Right before Regulus was going to cum, he yanked the dildo out, panting heavily. He was edging himself and god, Barty loved it. If he was in his right mind he’d have known better, but he reached out and donated to the live stream. Regulus continued fucking himself on his dildo again and when he came, Barty came at teh same time.

Regulus quickly ended the stream and Barty found himself laying on the bed panting, finally processing what had just happened. He’d just gotten off to his best-friend like some kind of perv. Not only that, but his surname that showed when he donated was battycj, one Regulus would certainly recognize if he’d noticed that donation in particular. All Barty could hope for now was that Regulus had been too busy to notice. He heard his phone ding.

“Hi battycj. Enjoy the show?”

It was Regulus. Because of course it was and of course he’d noticed, that’s what Regulus did. He took a deep breath and replied.

“Perhaps ;)”

“Maybe you should guest star next time.”

Barty froze and re-read the message over and over. There was no way it could mean what he thought it did. His phone rang and he answered the FT only to see Regulus there, still shirtless.

“Well B? Wanna join next week’s stream?”