#regulus x barty

What Barty lacked in tact and aptitude he made up for in loyalty and devotion.

Because he truly was a devoted friend, to both you and Regulus—loyal to a fault infact, even when he pretended not to be. And while he did banter that it comes at the low, low price of frequent trips to Honeydukes and occasional ego-fluffing, the truth was: he didn’t need to be bought. Not by you. Not by Regulus.

Which is why, despite discovering the two of you tangled up in Regulus’ bed with no room for misinterpretation, he didn’t say a word to anyone. He didn’t need to be told to know that the recent developments between you and Regulus were to be kept exclusively between the three of you.

The next morning was telling enough, when you silently settled into your usual place at the dining table—beside Pandora and Regulus stayed at the far end, comfortable opposite him, buttering his toast composed as ever. But he didn’t miss the way Regulus’ eyes linger on you for a moment when he tucked himself into the bench, or how they helplessly flickered to you whenever you laughed at something Evan said.

Catching on to the minute touches you granted Regulus when you left the table early, fingertips hidden under your robes as you glided past him, just barely skimming across his arm, or how you would perk up slightly whenever Regulus’ voice rung lowly through the Ancient Runes classroom—paying extra attention to his careful tone.

Barty didn’t say it, but he noticed everything.

Because Barty was good with secrets—He’d carry them like crown jewels.

He even had a small one of his own brewing.

It was a lazy sort of evening—the kind where the light filtered through the windows in hazy streaks and time didn’t seem to press down so hard. You were in the boys’ dorm, perched in your usual spot: stretched halfway across Barty’s bed, legs tangled over the edge, head propped up on a pillow you’d stolen ages ago and never returned.

He sat cross-legged beside you, flipping through some half-finished notes, though he hadn’t turned a page in at least ten minutes. Instead, he’d tilted toward you slightly, cheek resting on his fist, watching the way your fingers absentmindedly threaded through his tufts.

It wasn’t new, really. Casual touches had always been your language with Barty. You ruffled his hair when he was being smug, smacked his arm when he teased you, leaned against him when you were tired. It was natural, familiar.

But the way he was looking at you now—quietly, fondly, like you were made of something softer than the world deserved—you didn’t notice.

You rarely did.

“Regulus is going to combust when he walks in,” Barty murmured, lips quirking faintly.

You didn’t even glance up. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Because you’re you.”

Before you could answer, with a dramatic roll of your eyes, the door creaked open behind you.

Speak of the devil.

Regulus stepped in, shirt slightly damp with sweat and sleeves rolled up, hair a bit disheveled like he’d run a hand through it a few times on the way back. His bag slung low over one shoulder before he let it drop to the floor with a thud.

“Well, well,” Barty said with that unmistakable glint in his eye, “look who’s returned from war.”

Regulus didn’t rise to the bait, just shot him a look as he moved to the other side of the room, unbuttoning his cuffs with precise fingers.

Barty’s gaze slid over him with playful deliberation. “Didn’t know you glistened, Black. I feel like I should be offended no one warned me.”

Regulus ignored him, unsurprised.

But his eyes drifted, just for a second, over to where you were sprawled across the bed—completely unbothered, still playing with Barty’s hair like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

Regulus noticed. Of course he did.

The ease of your touch, the way your hand curled lazily in the soft brown curls near Barty’s temple, the way Barty leaned into it slightly—eyes half-lidded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the worst part?

The look Barty gave you, when he thought no one else was watching. Unapologetic. Unfairly fond.

It was obvious to everyone. Everyone but you.

Regulus didn’t say anything, but when Barty looked back up at him, he was met with one raised brow.

Barty smirked.

Then sighed, long and dramatic, as he shifted upright on the bed. “Honestly, Reg,” he muttered, stretching his arms above his head, “you really ought to learn how to share. I was here first, you know. She’s been my friend since—”

“Since you failed to con me into writing your essays?” you interjected, still not lifting your head.

He waved a hand. “Details.”

You groaned as Barty moved, your hand falling away from his hair with a grumble. “You were warm.” Barty gave you a faux-apologetic look.

“I know. I’m perfect. It’s a curse.”

“What’s the problem then, J?” you muttered lazily, stretching like a cat.

He only nodded his head toward Regulus.

And just like that, your whole face lit up.

Pushing yourself up in a heartbeat, a slow, sly grin crawling across your lips. “Well, well, well…” you said in a sing-song, teasing tone, hopping off the bed and padding toward Regulus, who immediately straightened up, gaze sharpening.

Unknowingly, parrotting Barty.

Your eyes flicked over him—his rumpled hair, the damp collar of his shirt, the flushed look lingering on his cheekbones. You let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock me out before you walk around looking like that?” you murmured, all candied mischief. Leaning in close, one hand brushing lightly up his arm as you rose onto your toes, lips ghosing against the his jaw on the way up, whispering into his ear.

It had immediate effect.

Regulus flushed. Like someone had set a match to the base of his throat and let it crawl up slowly toward his ears—frozen, standing there with his shirt clinging to his chest and his lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe. His entire expression was somewhere between awe and absolute crisis.

“Next time you want to sweat like this, I have a feeling I’ll be able to help with that.”

You pulled back, utterly delighted with yourself, smile too sweet to be innocent—before he could respond—a smug undertone to your deceiving light expression, eyes glinting like you’d just cast a spell that only he could feel. Which, to be fair—you had.

Humming quietly to yourself as you turned on your heel—grabbing your bag from beside Barty’s bed, and skipped out of the room like you’d done nothing more than offer a weather update.

Whispered straight into his bloodstream and just walked away smiling.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Regulus stayed planted where he was.

Across the room, Barty flopped backward onto his bed again with an exhausted groan, flinging an arm over his eyes. “Merlin’s balls, I need a drink.”

It was fine at first.

But morning after morning, day after day, *week after week—*it was getting harder and harder for Regulus to keep a bottle on himself. He was trying so hard to be discrete.

But he wasn’t very good at pretending.

He found himself looking for you in every corridor—eyes flicking up automatically whenever laughter echoed ahead. He lingered by doorways longer than necessary, shoulders tensing the moment your voice drifted out of a classroom.

He stuck close, sometimes without realising it. A shadow trailing behind, just out of sight but never far. At meals. In common spaces. During shared patrols. It was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

Because you didn’t seem to notice.

Or if you did, you didn’t let on.

You were maddeningly unaffected—floating through your days with your usual rhythm: charming and unbothered, joking with Evan, flicking ink stains off your notes, sharing your scarf with Dorcas in the chilly corridors, and once, falling asleep in the common room with your legs draped across Barty’s lap like it was nothing. Like Regulus wasn’t trying very hard not to combust in public.

Like you didn’t spend most evenings together in the confines of his four pillar-curtained bed, sharing lingering touches, whispers, glances—things that didn't belong to the outside world.

There were lines, invisible but firm, that neither of you crossed outside the sanctuary of shadows. A glance too long could mean a rumor. A touch too light could start a wildfire.

And it was starting to grate on him.

Hated the way he had to steel himself every time your hand brushed his in passing, hated pretending your teasing didn’t undo him thread by thread. You were so casual about it—bold, insufferably charming, the very picture of unbothered. Like you hadn’t spent the previous night tangled up in his sheets with your fingers pressed into the nape of his neck and his lips mapping out constellations against your throat.

Like you weren’t his.

And yet, in the corridors, in the classroom, in the halls where words echoed and eyes lingered—he had to keep his distance. He couldn’t give himself away.

Not yet.

He told himself it was fine. That this secrecy was necessary, that he didn’t mind. But then you'd do something—like pause beside him at the common room just to trail your fingers across his shoulder with faux-innocent mischief—or catch his gaze across the courtyard and bite back a smile, and it would wreck him.

He wanted to be next to you. Always. Not just at night. Not just behind closed curtains or locked doors.

You’d caught him in the library, quiet and golden-lit under the sparse candles, the smell of old parchment lingering in the air. He was tucked well away into one of the dark empty corner that no one else ever went near with a stack of dense tomes, hoping to distract himself with some heavy reading. Movements like still water, imperceivable—he hadn’t seen you enter, hadn’t heard your footsteps, but then—

You were just there.

Sliding into the narrow alcove beside him with that familiar glint in your eyes, a whisper of jasmine trailing after you. His breath caught before you even said a word.

Your hands found his collar first—fingers curling into the soft fabric, pulling him in as you leaned forward. He barely managed a startled noise before your mouth found his, plush and eager and so deeply familiar it punched the air from his lungs. Kissing him with a delicate vigour, like you had every right to—like you were claiming him all over again, and Merlin help him, he let you.

He gripped the edge of the table like it could anchor him, heart hammering wildly as your lips brushed down to the corner of his mouth, then along the curve of his jaw, peppering kiss after kiss like a spell cast only for him.

Breathing your name like a prayer.

“Someone could—” he whispered hoarsely, even as his hand found your waist. “Someone could see.”

Your only response was another kiss. Then another. His restraint frayed with each one, chasing your lips with his for more—

It was whiplashing the way you’d tempt and then pulled back, smile honey-sweet and cruel with mischief.

“Bye, Reggie,” you whispered, and then you were gone—vanishing around the corner with a bounce in your step, leaving Regulus flushed and dazed, chest heaving.

He blinked. Ran a hand through his hair with a sharp exhale.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking toward the exit like you might reappear.

You didn’t—Not until the evening in his dorm.

Moonlight was casting small pale ribbons of shadow across the dungeon floors, the room was quiet, just the two of you, enjoying your momentary slither of privacy with each other. Pressed against Regulus, your hands warm against the bare skin of his chest, your mouth finding his again and again like you were starving for him. Like he was the only air you needed.

He kissed you like you were a secret he never wanted to share—fingers tangled in your hair, other hand at the small of your back, pulling you closer. He couldn’t get enough.

Didn’t want to.

And for once, there was no hiding. No room for restraint. You were curled up on his bed, tangled in his sheets, soft gasps and laughter muffled into each other’s mouths.

His lips brushed your throat, then your cheek, then your temple.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered into your skin.

“Then I’ll die with you.” smiling against him.

It was perfect. Warm. Safe.

Until the door creaked open, you both froze.

Barty.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t stumble or act surprised—just stood there in the threshold for a moment, eyes unreadable, lips twitching into something that tried to be amusement, respectfully averting his gaze as the door shut behind him with a soft click.

“Merlin,” he drawled, voice light, “I swear if I walk in on you two one more time, I’m going to start charging admission.”

You laughed, easy and unbothered, slipping off the bed as if nothing had happened. Regulus sat up slower, watching you grab your wand and stretch with that infuriatingly charming grin.

“I should head down, two rolls of parchment on the effects of Stinksap won’t write itself,” words accompanied with a heavy sigh.

You leaned over, pressed a lingering kiss to Regulus’ jaw—too long for propriety, too short for satisfaction—before slipping past Barty with a pat to his shoulder.

“See you at breakfast, Junior,” you called over your shoulder.

The dull click of the door was the last sound in the room for a while, Regulus’ fingertips ghosted over where you lips had been, resting at his jaw, eyes fixed on it for a moment too long. Then looked back at Barty as he flopped onto his bed without a word, arm flung onto his forehead like usual. But the rhythm of his thoughts was different now. Louder.

And what Regulus saw it—saw right through him.

It wasn’t irritation. Or jealousy.

Something quiet and aching and hidden—floating behind his eyes as he stared up at his ceiling aimlessly—almost unblinking, and unaware of Regulus subtle watchful eye. Then abruptly sitting up, legs swinging over the edge of his bed carrying the motion of his swivel as his feet hit the floor with a soft pad—but not once did he lift his eyes.

Even look at Regulus.

Lips pursed into a tightline, head hanging for a moment before he rose to a stand—collecting and organising some items, uncharacteristically quiet. Taking his towel and drapping it over his shoulders stalking over to the door.

“You alright, B?”

The words rung clearly through the short stillness that had veiled the room, and it had Barty stop in his tracks, hand hovering over the doorknob.

He could hear the low rustle of fabric, could feel Regulus’ eyes boring into his back, unable to mask the way his shoulders rose and fell with the sigh he let out through his nose. “Yeah, gonna go take a shower,”

With that, he slipped out of the room.

Leaving Regulus perched up on his elbows, gaze once again, lingering on the door. Running a hand roughly through his hair, he sunk back against the sheets—rolling onto his side and burying his face into the pillow you’d laid on.

Trying to push down the almost dejected expression Barty had on his face, trying to quiet his mind with the lingering scent of you.

Groaning inwardly as he failed, replying the moment Barty frozen at the door—eyes scanning over both of you, shoulders sinking faintly. He knew too well what Barty sounded like when he lied, and the words he spoke at the door were most definetely not true.

Barty had no reason to shower—he already had during his free after Lunch, but he just needed an excuse, a second to compose himself. Even as he tried to walk casually, quietly—down the stairs and through the common room, your laughter floated around the room. Hung in the air in a way that had his throat tightening.

It seemed the odds were not in his favour today.

Because as he padded wordlessly behind the sofa, ignoring the way he struggled to swallow, fighting the urge to let his eyes fall on your turned back. You clearly had a sixth sense, perking up slightly at the sounds of his footsteps, voice light and teasing.

“Where you off to, Junior?”

You still hadn’t turned, but he could already picture the sly smile on your face from your tone—and he still didn’t stop his walk, mustering up as cheery a voice he could manage.

“Drain diving, Tres. Someone needs to keep Reg’s hair at bay,” he said, without missing a beat.

It was good. Solid. The kind of line he’d use any day of the week—and as sarcastic as it was, it lacked it’s usual dramatics. He was gone before you could say anything, before you could point out the lack of energy in his voice, or how he didn’t turn to you.

The water hit too cold at first.

He let it.

Let it numb the way his stomach was twisting in knots, the way the image of your mouth on Regulus’ jaw wouldn’t stop replaying on a loop behind his eyes. He tilted his head back, let the droplets soak through his hair, tried to will it all away.

Because he saw it—every time Regulus reached for you like he couldn’t help himself, Barty saw the same yearning reflected in himself.

An ever present slight burning ache settled under his ribs, aggressive and invasive, and impossible to ignore whenever you were in the room. It wasn’t that he was envious exactly—more like he was mourning—grieving.

Barty wasn’t stupid.

He knew it wasn’t your fault.

You were the same. Completely, achingly the same.

Still laughed at all his worst jokes. Still tugged at his scarf when it was crooked. Still looped your arm through his like gravity didn’t apply to your affection. Still smiled at him with that easy, unguarded brightness that made people fall in love with you in the first place.

And it killed him.

Because you hadn’t changed.

He had.

And now every time your hand brushed his in passing, every time you leaned into his side on the common room sofa or knocked your forehead against his in mock exasperation, he felt like he was drowning in a tide no one else could see.

He’d always known you were tactile—warm, generous with your affection. With your attention. Sometimes your fingers would still find his hair. Still ruffle it with a grin. Still tug affectionately at his sleeve. And he hated that it made his breath catch. You’d always loved easily, freely, and it had never meant more than that.

He found himself reeling in silence from touches that were meant to comfort him. From the way you reached for him like he was still safe to you, like nothing had shifted.

Until it did.

Until he started wanting it to.

Because he loved you. But not just the way he was supposed to. Not just the way a best friend does.

And you didn’t know, couldn’t—he’d made sure of that.

It was late the next afternoon when you found him on the edge of the Quidditch pitch, where the grass flattened beneath old boot tracks and the air carried the smell of damp leather and wind.

You plopped down beside him with a soft sigh, pulling your legs to your chest and letting the golden haze of the sunset warm your face. Shoulders bumping his lightly, and you didn’t move away. Just tilted your head toward him, lashes fluttering as you smiled, eyes squinting at the last light.

“So,” you said, lazy and light, “if you had to choose between fighting ten Blast-Ended Skrewts or one McGonagall-sized Bowtruckle—what would it be?”

Barty scoffed. “Are you serious? The Skrewts. At least I’d die with dignity.”

You burst out laughing. Loud and bright and so carefree it made his chest twist. Turning your face toward him, sun-warmed and glowing, and he couldn’t breathe for a second. Not with how close you were. Not with how your eyes crinkled when you smiled at him like that.

Just like you always had.

He had to look away. Had to force his eyes back to the sky before they gave too much away.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, completely at ease. “You’re still my favourite person to be stupid with, you know that?”

Gods, it burned.

Because that meant everything to him. And not enough.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

And you didn’t hear the break in his voice. Of course you didn’t. Because you hadn’t changed. Because this was normal. Comfortable. The two of you, tucked into each other’s space like you belonged there.

Like he wasn’t burning alive from it.

You reached for his hand without thinking, absently fiddling with his fingers the way you always did. He froze—just for a moment—and you didn’t even notice.

But he did.

He noticed everything.

The way your thumb brushed over his knuckles. The softness in your touch. The way his heartbeat thundered at your smallest movements. And how much it hurt, knowing it was just another day to you. Just another friend to touch and lean on and love in your way.

You didn’t know what it was doing to him.

Didn’t know how he went to sleep every night wondering when it had changed for him, wondering why he couldn’t seem to undo it.

You were with Regulus now. And you looked so good together. There was a softness to him around you, a steadiness you brought out that Barty had never seen in him before. And he was happy for that. Honestly, he was.

But somewhere inside, he was still quietly grieving.

Grieving the could-have-been.

Because before Regulus, before the stolen glances and secret kisses, before the whisper of your name like prayer from someone else’s mouth—he’d let himself think that the swirling in the pits of his stomach was nothing.

And now, looking at you—one of his best friends, his light, his treasure, the person he was closest to—and knowing that nothing had to be different between you, but everything was different in him…it made him feel like he was quietly rotting from the inside out.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. Let you keep holding it.

And didn’t say a word.

The first Quidditch match of the season had finally rolled around, Hufflepuff V Slytherin.

Slytherin had, of course, won.

The match had been a brutal thing, all wind-lashed faces and thunderous roars from the stands. Hufflepuff had held their own for the first half, but once Regulus caught the Snitch, there was no denying it—the green and silver crowd had erupted.

And you, in the middle of it, had clapped with gloved hands and a too-wide grin. Not just for the House victory. Not even for Barty’s wildly impressive Bludger send-off or Evan’s smug little mid-air feint.

But because Regulus had looked up into the crowd moments after the win, and you knew he'd been looking for you.

He had asked you the night before, voice low, lips brushing your ear in the quiet of the library—

“You’ll come tomorrow, won’t you?” “I need my good luck charm,”

Your smile had been immediate.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you replied in a hushed tone.

So you came. Because he asked. And because you believed in him.

Now, you stood just outside the changing rooms, shoulder-to-shoulder with Dorcas and Pandora—hands buried in your coat pockets. Holding a chocolate frog for Barty, your usual offering of victory—it had become what of a ritual. A quiet constant. A way to be there without being seen.

The door creaked open and voices spilled into the hallway, bright and loud, energy buzzing off them in waves. Evan walked out first, hair still damp, dragging his broom behind him and already mid-laugh at something Barty had said.

And Barty—flushed, sweat-damp, beaming—was in the middle of some animated retelling of a mid-air collision, wild gestures slicing through the air like a Bludger. Regulus followed just behind them, quieter, polished, composed in that effortless way only he could manage—even after an hour in the air.

You felt the pull in your chest.

Regulus’ eyes found you immediately. That quiet, private smile cracked through his usual composure, like the sun peeking through mist. It had your fingers twitch at your sides. Thought, just for a second, about running to him—throwing your arms around his neck, kissing him full and proud, like you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not yet. Not when everything between you still lived in the shadows.

Before the longing could settle, Barty was already on you. Half-charged and grinning, still vibrating from the rush of play, arms thrown around you without warning.

“Oi—Barty!” you laughed, half-gasping, “You’re soaked!”

He only laughed louder, pulling you into a tight, jostling hug that had you wriggling with a grimace. “Victory sweat, darling—it’s sacred.”

You rolled your eyes, but your laughter was genuine, echoing down the corridor. Subtly flicking your gaze toward Regulus in the midst of it, catching the slight stiffening in his shoulders—watching the smile he’d worn moments ago dulled at the edges. He wasn’t angry—Regulus didn’t do anger—but you knew that look.

A barely visible twitch of disappointment. A small ache he couldn’t say out loud.

Still, he said nothing. Walked quietly beside Evan as Barty slung an arm over your shoulder with little fanfare, prattling on.

“I swear this is the real reason I play.” Barty crowed, accepting the chocolate frog with the reverence of a trophy.

“Not the glory? The House Cup?” you teased, resting your head against his damp robes despite yourself.

“Nope. This,” he said, holding the chocolate frog aloft like it was a prize. “My muse. My reward. My one true love.”

An exasperated snort built in your chest, and you let your gaze wander—back to Regulus. He was a step behind, his hands shoved in his pockets, the shape of his lips pressed thin. He looked at you again and your heart tugged.

The win didn’t feel like a win to him.

Not when he had to keep his distance. His eyes lingered a moment too long on where Barty’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, the casual intimacy of it—the way your body leaned toward him like it had done a thousand times. There was nothing scandalous about it. You and Barty had always been touchy, always unguarded.

Regulus didn’t see nothing.

He saw what he wanted to be doing. And what he couldn’t.

You slowed your pace, letting Dorcas and Pandora pull ahead with Evan and Barty leading the charge in boisterous celebration. When you felt Regulus fall into step beside you, you let your hand drift close—barely brushing his knuckles.

He relaxed.

Didn’t need to look at him to feel it, the subtle melting of tension.

“You were incredible,” you said softly, glancing sideways, smile tugging at your lips. “So controlled. So cold-blooded. Honestly, it’s terrifying how attractive I find that.”

His lips twitched, eyes dancing with restrained amusement. “I missed two passes.”

“You caught the Snitch.”

“Hufflepuff’s Seeker is twelve.”

“Hufflepuff’s Seeker cried.” you added with a snort.

He tried not to smile. Failed.

You slipped your arm casually around his shoulder, light and teasing—and Regulus very nearly stopped walking. He wasn’t used to this—getting to have even a fraction of you in public. It still made his stomach twist in the best way.

You scanned the hall. No one looking. Heart fluttering.

“A win’s a win,” you whispered, leaning in close, lips ghosting against the shell of his ear before pressing a soft forbidden kiss—too quick, too daring—to the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, you were gone again, dashing up the corridor with a light giggle, calling out to Dorcas and Pandora to wait up.

He stood stunned for a moment, flushed redder than the post-match sprint had made him, hand half-raised toward where you’d been—then with a grinning groan, he shoved it through his still slightly damp hair, picking up into a jog to catch up.

Because damn it, if he couldn’t hold your hand in front of everyone yet, the least he could do was walk beside you.

Even if his lips still burned where yours had kissed him, moments like that made it worth it.

And he’d chase you anywhere if you let him.

The Slytherin common room pulsed with victory. Music thrummed low through the stone walls, enchanted vinyl humming in the corner while the fire crackled with an almost celebratory ferocity.

The air buzzed with laughter and lazy conversation, bodies tangled across couches and sprawled across plush carpets.

Someone had dragged the green velvet cushions off the window seat; a pile of them now acted as makeshift thrones in the middle of the room.

Evan and Mulciber had charmed the fire to flicker house colours. Barty was lounged across the sofa, hair still wet, cheeks flushed, talking animatedly with Dorcas about some ridiculous midair save he’d supposedly made.

Pandora was upside down on an armchair, feet kicked over the back, humming absently to herself and passing a bottle of firewhiskey to the next person without lifting her head.

You were nestled near the hearth, legs tucked to one side on the thick rug, eyes glowing in the light. Comfortable. Warm.

A half-full glass was handed to you—offered with a wink by Avery, already slurring as he tried to convince you to toast to their clean sweep victory. But you just smiled and held up a hand, shaking your head. “I’m alright.”

That was all you said. Casual. Offhand. But Regulus, seated just across from you on the low couch beside Barty, didn’t look away.

His eyes flicked toward you, narrowing just slightly.

And you could feel it, of course you could—that quiet little thread tugging between you two again, subtle as a breath. He knew your tells. The slight purse of your lips. The measured tone. You were fine—but he was still watching. Barty noticed the flicker of scrutiny in Regulus’ gaze and raised a brow, curious.

“She doesn’t drink firewhiskey,” he offered with a lazy grin, nudging Regulus with his shoulder. “Too much of a Potter. Neither of them can handle wizarding liquor.”

“Oh, sod off,” you rolled your eyes, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “It’s not that I can’t handle it—just that if I do, the night takes a turn.”

A few people snorted, but it was the way your eyes lingered—just a beat too long—on Regulus that made his throat go tight. A subtle, sly smirk danced on your lips. No one else saw it. No one else ever really did.

But he felt it, and it forced him to look away, ears tinged pink—the heat of your gaze—an unspoken thing sparking between you like flint and steel, hand curling around his glass tighter.

Dorcas let out a dramatic boo. “That’s exactly why you should drink.”

“Come on!” Evan bellowed. “What’s a party without a little chaos?”

The chants started immediately. First Dorcas, then Evan, then Wilkes and Pandora, all falling into a rhythm of exaggerated pleading.

“Drink! Drink! Drink—”

“Oh, fuck’s sake—” you groaned, laughing as Dorcas elbowed you, almost toppling you into the fireplace. “You lot are so dramatic.”

Rising to a stand, slow and measured, the room quietened slightly for a moment. And Regulus frozen, he knew that look. That wicked glint in your eye that always spelled trouble. That smirk that made his pulse stutter.

You walked toward him like you had no plan and every plan all at once. And that was the thing with you—you were unpredictable.

Devastatingly so.

Stopping just in front of him, gaze locked on his, and his breath caught.

Barty shifted beside him, watching with vague amusement, but Regulus was still, glass in hand, eyes tracking your every step like a storm was about to break.

Wordlessly, you reached down, plucking the glass of Firewhiskey out of his hands, fingers ghosting over his, and he remained still blinking—brows raised in mild surprise.

And with a swift turn on your heel, your facing the room like a performer stepping into the spotlight, and chugged.

The room erupted.

A chorus of shouts and laughter exploded around you as you tipped your head back, throat bobbing as you drained the glass with barely a wince. The firewhiskey burned—harsh, bitter, like swallowing heat—but you didn’t stop. When the last drop was gone, you lowered the glass, wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, and bowed with a theatrical flourish.

Pandora let out a shriek of delight, accompanied with a war cry-esque noise erupting from Evan. But it all faded into the back, because your eyes were not on them at all.

They were on Regulus.

And the look you gave him made something in him unravel. Slow and deliberate as you leaned down—just enough to press the now-empty glass back into his palm. Touch warm and lingering against his, forcing saliva to unconsciously pool in his mouth—swallowing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, heat rising to the tips of his ears again.

Because you looked at him like he was something worth devouring.

And Regulus, for all his control, felt undone.

There was a tingle beneath your skin now, the firewhiskey spreading quick and heady in your bloodstream, setting your nerves alight. So, naturally, you went where you felt safest—chaos be damned. There wasn’t enough space on the couch between Regulus and Barty.

But you didn’t let that stop you.

With a smug grin, you yanked a cushion halfway out from under Barty, ignoring his protest, and dropped yourself to the floor between them, legs crossed, back pressed to the couch, arms draped lazily over both their knees like you owned the space.

Barty let out a mock offended noise but didn’t move.

Regulus, however, had gone entirely still.

Your head tilted back until it rested gently against the edge of the cushion behind you—just under Regulus’ knee. You looked up at him with a lazy grin, mischief written across your features, and the firelight caught in your eyes like gold.

He looked down at you, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with a little more effort than usual.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low.

“Mmm,” tongue darting out to wet your lips as they stretched into an even wider smirk. “Getting there.”

And the tension between you buzzed, humming through the floor like a livewire, tucked beneath laughter and music and the haze of firewhiskey.

The alcohol licked like lightning down your spine, curling hot and fast through your chest until your cheeks were flushed and your limbs were loose with warmth. You weren’t drunk—not really. Just dizzy. Buzzing. Drunk on the music, the magic in the air, the heat of laughter blooming all around you.

You’d had just enough to drink for your thoughts to feel dreamy and untethered, a honeyed buzz settling into your chest and behind your eyes. Like gravity had decided to let go of you for the night. Your inhibitions drifted somewhere behind you, too far to reach back for.

You burned bright—laughter sharp and sweet in the air, cheeks warm, movements fluid. James-like, someone mumbled. Dorcas maybe. You didn’t catch it, but Regulus did. The way you were sparkling now, a little unhinged, that same Potter edge—chaotic and captivating.

The games had started at some point—card games from both worlds, charmed cups floating in midair, enchantments that made losing feel like something more than embarrassment. You and Barty had teamed up for the next round of some ridiculous Muggle game that Evan swore he remembered the rules to, though no one was really convinced he was playing it right.

You were curled up beside the couch again, cross-legged, giddy and unfocused, blinking down at the set of cards in your hand like they might start speaking if you stared hard enough.

And Barty—unapologetic as ever—had been peeking at your cards, barking out a laugh when you hissed at him.

“Oi!” you yelped, jerking your cards to your chest. “Cheater.”

Barty threw his head back with a laugh, completely unbothered. “We’re on the same team, you lunatic.”

You blinked. “Oh. Right.”

On the other side of you, Regulus was watching—shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable but for the faint twitch of his lips.

And when you leaned back against the couch again, huffing dramatically about your “genius being under appreciated,” the floor just…felt wrong. Cold. Hard. Unfair, really.

So, without warning, you wormed your way up into the impossibly narrow space between Regulus and Barty on the couch, folding your legs up to your chest, half-sinking into both of them as you settled like a cat who had decided the whole world belonged to you.

Barty snorted, shifting his hip to give you just a bit more space.

Regulus, ever composed, didn’t move.

But his gaze lingered on you—soft and slow, too fond for anyone who might’ve been watching not to notice. You were humming some nonsense to yourself, tapping the edge of the card deck against your shin, and it was like the whole world had dulled for a moment, the only sharp point left being you.

The game stretched on. Someone cheated. Someone else hexed the cards. You were lost.

And by the time the game ended, your spark had dulled to a flickering glow.

Barty elbowed you when you sighed dramatically, cards falling from your grip. “You’re a sore loser.”

“Stupid game anyway*,*” you mumbled into your knees, the top of your head now resting against your arms, voice muffled and sleepy. You didn’t even react when Regulus’ hand brushed gently down the slope of your spine—once, then again. Reassuring. Instinctual.

Head lifting slightly at the contact, lips parting to murmur something incoherent, but then you slumped again, boneless.

“She’s out,” Barty chuckled, shifting slightly.

There was a pause—silent and unsure—before he glanced at Barty, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I can’t—” he started. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t finish the thought.

Couldn’t risk being the one to carry you up. Not in front of everyone. Not when they’d notice. Barty rolled his eyes, already pushing up from the couch. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He bent down and picked you up like it was nothing, an effortless thing, your head instinctively tucking against his collarbone. You barely stirred.

No one batted an eye.

It wasn’t strange, not with you and Barty. Not anymore.

Regulus stayed behind, surrounded by friends, laughter bouncing somewhere far off as the warmth of your body left his side. He sat with the echo of your absence in the space where you’d been, hands limp in his lap, teeth clenched, a bitter ache pulsing low in his ribs.

When he finally made his way upstairs—after the room had nearly emptied, after he’d made sure no one would follow—he opened the door to his dorm quietly.

You were there.

Curled in the centre of his bed, arm tucked under your cheek, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. Barty was lounging on his own bed, one arm draped lazily over his stomach, the other supporting his head.

Regulus crossed the room without a word, sinking onto the mattress beside you, hand reaching out instinctively to brush a strand of hair from your face.

And Barty was watching, the way Regulus’ touched you with the most fragile of hands—looking at you like you were made of moonlight. Like you’d hung the stars in the sky—a fond, unguarded tenderness in his gaze. He pushed down the lump in his throat with a hard swallow, detering the dull ache in his chest with a teasing tone;

“You could at least try not to look so in love with her in front of everyone,” Barty said lazily, voice cutting through the silence with a dry chuckle.

Regulus didn’t respond at first.

Just kept staring.

His hand hovered for a moment longer over your temple, finally pulling back like it hurt to let go. Then, finally—quietly, tiredly—he turned to look at Barty.

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

part (iii)