For the Drabble prompts: #101 with Barty/Sirius?
"We all want to be somebody."
Sirius has Moody strung up in the Shrieking Shack.
If he were actually Mad-Eye, that wouldn't have been possible. That man's got a constant vigilance that can't be faked, not entirely. Mimicked, maybe; made a mockery of, for sure, but copied? Precisely? No.
"Fuckin' knew it," Sirius mutters, pacing back and forth in front of Moody. Or not Moody, as it were. "Knew someone was after Harry... Put his name in—it was you, wasn't it? Whoever you are. Fucking idiot, that's who you are."
Not-Moody doesn't make a sound. He's very still against the wall, spread out eagle-wide, wooden leg lying on the floor. Sirius would feel a little bad about that if it were actually Moody.
What if it is? whispers a voice in Sirius' head. What if you've lost it and finally cracked and poor Moody is your victim?
A beat later, Sirius snorts at the mere thought. Moody's no one's victim, ever. Never was. Never would be. If this is really him, he'd consider himself responsible for letting himself get in this mess to begin with. They'd have a chat. They could talk it out. It's fine. Sirius isn't unreasonable.
Sirius is waiting. There was a flask of polyjuice on Moody, or not-Moody, which seems evident enough of foul-play. He also smells wrong. Smells like fear, and Moody never smelled like fear, even when he had every right to.
What tipped Sirius off, though, was a different smell. Caught the scent as Padfoot, fucking about and frolicking in the Forbidden Forest, chasing memories. Came back a little early, because Harry—well, he's a brat. Doesn't listen well. Offends easily, and too independent for his own good. Always in some kind of trouble, so what's a godfather to do besides come rushing back to keep him safe? Even if all he can do is hang about in caves and woods and eat rats. Not like he minds. He always pictures Peter. Enjoys the taste.
The scent—the thing is, the scent. It was something odd. Something a little dark. Something, quite frankly, that Sirius typically associated with his family. Especially Bellatrix. The scent wafting from her even floors down in Azkaban, so distant and faint that only her muffled laughter, so similar to his own, confirmed it was her.
This man has it. That scent. Not-Moody. Not Moody, because he'd never have it. Wouldn't be able to. Only very select people can put off that stench. His family, of course. Voldemort, as much as Sirius hates to admit it, and thanks to him, all his Death Eaters, too, since they wear his brand.
So, either this man is related to Sirius, or he's a Death Eater, or—more likely—both.
A stupid part of Sirius hopes it's Regulus. Knows it's not, but can't help but wish, anyway.
The dead don't come back to life.
Except, apparently, they do. Because when the polyjuice wears off, someone who's dead is what remains behind. Not Regulus. No, that boy. Crouch. A couple years behind Regulus. Died in Azkaban, didn't he?
Sirius crosses his arms. Stares. Secretly a little affronted. He's the only one who's ever broken out of Azkaban. Just him. Takes pride in that, too.
Yet, apparently he isn't the only one. Here's this boy—no, a man now. Years it's been since he was a boy. Still a scrawny thing, though. Thin the way Sirius is. Malnourished. Hasn't been fed well. He's been playing as Moody presumably for the whole year so far, so he's had access to food, but it's no match for going a lot longer without.
"Bartemius, right?" Sirius asks, and the boy doesn't respond outside of the slightest clench in his jaw. "You're impersonating Mad-Eye. Put Harry Potter's name in the Goblet, too, I'll bet." Again, nothing. Sirius nods. "Alright, let's see how you hold up after a few days."
One thing Azkaban taught Sirius was patience. Also a healthy dose of revenge-induced bloodlust. Sirius can't get a hold of Peter, or Voldemort. But here's this boy who might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time when he got caught and sentenced to life in prison, yet there's a brand on his arm that fucking stinks, and Sirius has nothing but time and unlimited patience now to get the answers he wants.
Sirius was never squeamish, but he supposes Azkaban also taught him to be desensitized to misery. To pain. To torture and torment. Got used to it there, and finds himself numb to it now, here. Unbothered. A little bored, even.
Barty prefers to be called Barty, not Bartemius. He's a bit off in the head. Odd, really. Smart, practically a fucking genius, and he'd have to be to pull off everything he has, right under the noses of those like Dumbledore. Yet, he's strange about his own body. Detached from it. Doesn't seem to consider it his own. Talks about it like it's a tool, like Sirius can wield it however he likes, and it won't break Barty's mind. Talks about that, his mind, as if it's the only thing he owns. As if it's the only thing he knows.
"They tortured you," Sirius says, four days into his long, drawn-out investigation. "Voldemort. The Death Eaters. Probably my dear cousin, too, I'm sure."
"No," says Barty. "They never hurt me."
Sirius isn't sure he believes that. Barty is too accustomed to pain. Or no, his response suggests that. He detaches with startling ease. Retreats back into his own head. Hides somewhere. Sirius hasn't hurt him in days. Barely did the first day. Drew a little blood—knows how important blood is, especially to people like him—but hasn't done anything since. Changed tactics as soon as he knew he had to.
Sirius takes a bite out of a rat's tail, chewing thoughtfully. Barty pisses himself without flinching, without shame, as if it's not a filth he's responsible for, as if it doesn't touch him. Sirius cleans him with a flick of his wand, considering.
"So, who then?" Sirius points the half-eaten rat tail at him, eyebrows raised. "Who made you like this?"
"My father," Barty says dully. Retreated again. Distant. Hiding. He's more forthcoming like this. Speaks as if he's forced to. Trapped. Out of control.
It takes two more days for Sirius to get it out of him, anyway. What his dad did to him. Years of Imperio, total control over him, whole-body force. Only his mind to keep, and it remained out of reach until he got it back. He's never letting it go again.
It's a pitiful thing. Cruel. Sad.
Sirius uses it, of course.
"Right, well, I'll just have Dementors summoned for you, then," Sirius informs him. "Since you don't want to give me answers, I'll make sure you get kissed. Leaves you a shell, you know. You won't even have your mind, once it's done."
That does the trick. Everyone's got a breaking point, and Barty's a loyal bastard, perhaps especially to Voldemort most of all, but Voldemort isn't here, and Sirius is the only one who can save him from his fate now.
So, Barty gives in and comes clean. Took a while. Took longer than most, and the right kind of torment, the right kind of threat, but Sirius wasn't above it. Never would be, where his godson's safety is concerned.
Besides, Barty's stunted, like Sirius is. Emotionally. Physically. Got frozen in time, tossed in the deep end of a prison unlike any other, and never had the space to grow. Deep down, he's still that boy. Scared. Angry. Looking for everything his father wouldn't give him. Voldemort saw it, and used it. Bellatrix doted on him, too. Took care of him. He meant it when he said they never hurt him.
"You can't—" Barty shakes his head. "You can't let them do that to me. I'll—I can take you to Peter. I can—"
"Oh, don't worry, you and me—we're a package deal now, Bartemius," Sirius drawls, and doesn't even necessarily mind the thought, honestly. He's a bit lonely. Buckbeak isn't one to snuggle. "If you want to keep your life, and more importantly, your mind, you'll stick with me. If you try to run, I won't kill you. I'll capture you. And I'll drag you all the way back to Azkaban myself. You believe that?"
"You've got a choice here," Sirius tells him. "I can't make it for you. We all want to be somebody, but I can't tell you who that is for you. So, what'll it be?"
"I just want to be me," Barty whispers.
Yeah, that's what Sirius thought.
Sirius nods and lets him down from the wall. He crumbles in on himself. He's been up there for over a week. Barely seems to conceptualize that his limbs are his own. Too long they spent on strings, perpetually someone else's puppet. It was invasive. Wrong. Repulsive.
Sirius can fix it. Can't do much right, these days, on the run as he is. Already fucked up too badly with those long gone, but this boy—this young man, only four years younger—is someone he can do right by.
Straighten him out. Save him, like he couldn't James. Protect him, like he couldn't Regulus. Give him someone worth being loyal to, like he couldn't the whole world.
Barty's still young. Stunted. Impressionable. Controlled by all those around him, desperate for someone to devote himself to. He'll be easy enough to manipulate. Not in a malicious way, but like a kicked puppy. Feed it well, pet it, teach it to do tricks, give it a home...
Well, if he's going to bite anyway, it doesn't hurt to spare those Sirius loves from the sting.
Besides, they're both on the run now. It's not like they can live freely. It's not like they have anywhere to really go.
So, Sirius sends Dumbledore a letter. Updates him. Tells him where to find the real Moody. Tells him the original plan to bring Voldemort back. Tells him everything he needs to know, and tells him, as always, to watch after Harry. To keep him safe.
Then, Sirius gets Barty up, a broad hand cradling the back of his neck, and says, just a little too warm, "Now, where did you say Peter was again?"
