The dungeon was buzzing with the usual low hum of teenage nonsense, a muffled chorus of sighs, quill scratches, and whispered insults. Professor Slughorn hadn’t even started class yet—he was still fumbling with the lock on his ingredients cabinet and humming some dreadful melody under his breath—and already, chaos simmered beneath the surface like a potion set to boil over.
Which, of course, meant Barty Crouch Jr. was being a little shit.
"Oi, Reg," came the first kick. Sharp, intentional. Right against the leg of Regulus Black’s chair.
Regulus didn’t flinch. He never flinched.
Barty grinned. Feral. Unrepentant. Slouched low in his chair behind Regulus, robes rumpled and collar twisted, like he’d either slept in a field or started a fight in one. His tie wasn’t even done up. It was dangling from his neck like a leash he refused to wear properly.
"Regulusss," Barty drawled, poking the back of his shoulder now, finger jabbing through the fabric of his robes with theatrical annoyance. "Hey. Princess. You ignoring me?"
Regulus didn't respond.
Another kick. Harder this time. A scrape of wood on stone.
Pandora Rosier looked up lazily from her notes two seats down, already smirking.
"Oh no," she said under her breath. “He’s poking the bear again.”
“I give him thirty seconds,” said Evan from beside her, calmly grinding up dried aconite. “Then he folds like wet parchment.”
Dorcas was biting her knuckle, shaking with suppressed laughter.
Another jab to the chair leg. Barty leaned forward now, all teeth and no self-preservation, and said loud enough for the first few Gryffindors to hear—
"I'm talking to you, princess."
Silence.
An actual, real, physical silence dropped over the table like someone had cast a Silencing Charm on the whole damn class.
Even Sirius stopped halfway through mocking Fabian Prewett’s handwriting and turned around from the Gryffindor bench, eyebrows raised.
Regulus turned his head. Slowly. The kind of slow that said you have made a choice, and it was the wrong one.
He looked over his shoulder with the expression of a king staring down a court jester who'd dared to speak out of turn.
“Excuse me?” he said, voice flat and cold. “Fix it.”
And then.
Something happened that no one—not a single soul—had ever seen before.
Barty Crouch Jr., Hogwarts’ resident unhinged gremlin, the boy who once hexed a professor’s toupee mid-lecture and then called it “self-expression,” went silent.
Not annoyed. Not smug.
Silent.
Then pale.
Then very, very still.
Evan’s pestle froze mid-grind.
Pandora’s smirk cracked into a grin of disbelief.
Dorcas exhaled sharply. “No fucking way.”
“Reg,” Barty said, voice cracking at the edges, “I—I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—”
Regulus had already turned back around, elegant and dismissive, as though Barty had ceased to exist. He flipped a page in his textbook. Picked up his quill. Didn't say a word.
The silence was louder than the chaos that usually surrounded Barty.
Barty leaned forward, desperation blooming across his face like a disease. His hands were twitching. One reached out instinctively like he might tug on Regulus’ sleeve, then stopped, hovering in the air pathetically.
"Regulus. Come on. Don’t do that—don’t ignore me, I was just fucking around—"
Still no response.
“Oh my God,” Mary Macdonald hissed from the Gryffindor bench, nudging Lily Evans, “he’s apologising.”
“He’s what?” Lily whispered back, craning her neck. “Wait—wait, is he blushing?”
“Not blushing,” Marlene muttered. “He looks like he’s about to cry.”
“Barty?” James Potter leaned around Remus to confirm it for himself. “Barty Crouch Jr? The menace gremlin?”
“Holy shit,” Sirius breathed. “He’s been fucking tamed.”
“Shut up!” Barty snapped at them automatically, still focused on Regulus. “Mind your fucking business, all of you—Reg, I swear, I wasn’t trying to be a dick, I thought you’d think it was funny—”
Regulus reached for a bottle of fluxweed without even glancing back.
Barty looked like he was dying.
“Don’t ignore me,” he said again, but it came out more like a plea. His hand landed on Reg’s shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, alright? I won’t do it again. I didn’t mean to piss you off, I swear on my fucking life—”
“Fifteen seconds,” Evan murmured to Pandora, who had pulled out her wand and was now recording the whole thing in the magical equivalent of shorthand.
Dorcas snorted. “He’s gonna start sobbing in three… two…”
“Regulus,” Barty practically whimpered. “Talk to me. Please. Say something.”
“C’mere, bitch-boy,” Sirius stage-whispered from across the aisle. “You need a cuddle?”
James was howling. “Do you want us to write him a poem? A bouquet, maybe?”
Barty flipped them both off with a vicious snarl but didn’t even glance their way. His entire universe had narrowed to the curve of Regulus’ back and the slope of his shoulders refusing to turn his way.
“Look, I called you princess because you are one,” Barty tried, voice frantic and spiralling. “But like in a good way. Like, a terrifying ancient royal who could have me beheaded and I’d say thank you—not like a weak one, obviously. Not that you’re weak. You’re not. You’re literally the scariest person I know—fuck, this is coming out wrong—”
“Still going,” Pandora observed.
“Yup,” Dorcas said, smug. “He’s so far gone it’s tragic.”
“He does this every time,” Evan said, now casually sharpening his quill with a practiced flick. “Thinks he’s big and bad, then Regulus hits him with one line and suddenly he’s crawling.”
“You’re joking,” Remus said, blinking at the Slytherin table like he’d just discovered a new species.
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Dorcas cackled. “This is the third time this week.”
“We’ve taken to calling it the Domino Effect,” Pandora offered helpfully. “One push. And down he goes.”
“Regulussssss,” Barty tried again, dragging out the name like it might gain sympathy if he made it into a song. “Please. I’ll buy you chocolate. I’ll do your Potions essay. I’ll throw myself into the lake. I love the lake.”
“Drown in it,” Regulus muttered.
“Oh my God,” Peter squeaked.
“C’mon,” Barty begged, “just look at me. You can hex me if you want. Curse me. Rip out my spleen—anything is better than the silent treatment, I’m fucking dying—”
“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Regulus finally said, not even turning, but letting the words drop like knives.
Barty straightened. Visibly perked up. The light of divine forgiveness danced in his wide, feral eyes.
“You spoke to me.”
“I regretted it instantly.”
“Still counts.”
“Get off my chair before I hex your dick into an endangered species.”
Barty grinned.
And sat back. Relaxed. Smug.
Like he hadn’t just suffered a public breakdown.
Like he hadn’t just had to crawl across metaphorical glass for one goddamn word.
Pandora clapped mockingly. “Bravo, Crouch. Your suffering nourishes me.”
“I recorded the whole thing,” Evan said blandly. “Might print it. Frame it.”
Dorcas elbowed Barty. “You know he’s gonna ignore you again tomorrow just to keep you in line.”
“I welcome it,” Barty declared. “He can break me. I’ll say thank you.”
From the Gryffindor bench, Sirius Black’s voice rang out, loud and full of venomous glee:
“Oi, Crouch! How’s it feel being Regulus’ bitch?”
Barty didn’t even blink.
“Feels like ecstasy, Black,” he shouted back. “I’d die for him.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Regulus turned slightly. Just slightly. Enough for one cold, withering glance over his shoulder.
“Don’t be fucking gross,” he snapped.
Barty melted in his seat. Visibly preened under the insult. Sighed like he’d been kissed.
“Oh, we are never recovering from this,” Lily muttered, scandalised and delighted.
The class erupted into chaos.
And Barty Crouch Jr. just sat there, smirking like the feral little menace he was—finally tamed, at least for now, by the sharp tongue and frozen fire of one Regulus Arcturus Black.
