Hii, i see you in nearly all the marauders fic comments omg 😭😭 U seem so sweet and like u write alot, would u ever consider posting a fic rec of the best fics u read? 🫶🏻🫶🏻
aelinwya's all-time favorite fic recs
omg hi darling !! your message is so sweet and made me so so happy, thank you 🥹 i actually don't write fics myself (yet) but i probably will in the future when i gather enough courage
here are some of my favorite fics i've read and the lovely authors who wrote them, these are fics that have stayed in my heart even long after reading them, and the writers are truly just angels and so sweet !! hope you love reading these just like i did 💗
disclaimer! : this post is regularly updated and i always add new fics on here that have captivated my heart <3
MARAUDERS :
JAMES POTTER :
pizza fight by @luveline (i'm sobbing i want my own james this is so cute)
fell from heaven for you! by @bartonomy
is it over now by @zrvllya
do you really want to hurt me? by @zrvllya
hear it in the silence by @ghostedgwen
under that attitude by @ghostedgwen
lost in translation by @bartonomy
shades of wrong by @ghostedgwen
you dote on james when he's injured by @moonstruckme
james gives you the hug of the year by @moonstruckme
all the reasons we're not in love by @dismalflo
james tries to help when you have a sore tooth by @luveline
sorry by @cosmal
coworker james x sick!reader by @luveline
a knock on the head by @dismalflo (oh this is so cute)
SIRIUS BLACK :
my girl by @colouredbyd
on thin ice (series) by @moonstruckme
sirius taking care of drunk!reader by @luveline
gorgeous by @cassiopeiasdaughter
i think he knows by @theemporium
blisters by @cosmal
shitty IT job by @dismalflo
REMUS LUPIN :
the archive by @dismalflo
midnight zoomies by @colouredbyd
sparks by @zrvllya
sweater weather by @zrvllya
the art show by @dismalflo
i'll hold your hand through all of christmas day by @crescenthistory
matchmakers association by @dismalflo
paradise by @luveline
still here by @sunskisser
remus x autistic!reader who is comfortable stimming and unmasking around him by @luveline
notes in the margins by @dismalflo
REGULUS BLACK :
a bet on "not quite together' by @colouredbyd
all that is left to say by @colouredbyd
the great war by @zrvllya
the nightingale (series) by @colouredbyd (dalia's writing will touch the deepest parts of your soul, i'm in love with her fics)
you occupy my every thought by @crescenthistory
sweet like honey; karma is a cat by @crescenthistory
and what will come of us then? by @crescenthistory
sacrifices by @aetherraeys
BARTY CROUCH JR :
barty x black!sister!reader by @crescenthistory (i can always rely on carina for heart-warming fics, especially with barty and regulus jsksk)
this isn't fun anymore by @crescenthistory
LILY EVANS :
academic rivals by @moonstruckme
in absentia lucis, shoebox regnant ✴︎ 1.5 by @aurelia-in-the-margins
lily and whimsical!reader befriend a ghost by @moonstruckme
MARLENE MCKINNON :
locked out by @crescenthistory
i think i'm in love with you by @daystarpoet
sailor song by @zrvllya
POLY!MARAUDERS :
emt!marauders help after you're pressured into drinking too much by @moonstruckme
lover, you should've come over by @amnmesias
murdering flicker by @colouredbyd
secrets have teeth -> part two & part three by @colouredbyd (i'm in absolute awe oh my god)
roommate!marauders x reader by @moonstruckme
ghost hunter!marauders x new recruit!reader by @shadesofhogwarts
alone by @sunskisser
banana bread by @dismalflo
you're being hurt and your boyfriends protect you by @writtenbymoonflower
your emt boyfriends coax you into a hospital visit by @moonstruckme (all of mae's poly!marauders drabbles are just amazing, i recommend all her fics!)
whimsical!reader tries some alternative healing methods by @moonstruckme
your emt boyfriends comfort you through vertigo @moonstruckme
your emt boyfriends show up after your car wreck by @moonstruckme
emergency contact by @cosmal
homesick by @thesweetestofdreams
reader is attacked by greyback by @heaven4lostgirls
POLY!WOLFSTAR :
the time turner (i'm crying but also screaming this is so good and i never knew i needed this concept — i'm in love) by @starry-eyed-moony
scary dog privilege by @colouredbyd (i'm obsessed with this fic)
sirius is plagued with a bleeding remus and a fainting you by @moonstruckme
thawing out (series) by @moonstruckme
your boyfriends love you unconditionally by @moonstruckme
POLY!ROSEKILLER :
evan and barty help you ward off a creep by @ervotica
dissecting is just a hobby of his by @tiredofthehumanlife
POLY!JEGULUS :
celestial bodies by @glamourscat
you all reassure harry after he overhears an argument by @juleswritesstuff
POLY!BARTYLUS :
secrets by @evermoreness
oh my, love is a lie! by @colouredbyd
POLY!MOONWATER :
broken vases by @colouredbyd
hospital visit by @crescenthistory
PLATONIC/FAMILY MARAUDERS :
'til all that's left is glorious bone — by @colouredbyd
-> — so you'll bury your own (part 2) by @colouredbyd
if i follow you to the river (series | i am obsessed with this and cannot stop thinking about it, one of the best series i've ever read <3) by @amnmesias
always an angel, never a god by @amnmesias (honestly as someone with no friends and no one to comfort me, this fic hit very hard and i know i will be re-reading this a lot)
we are friends (slytherin emeralds x reader) by @crescenthistory
stop, you're losing me (james x sister!reader) by @amnmesias (don't mind me i'm just over here sobbing)
home by @amnmesias
you learn the consequences of a shared bathroom (marauders roommate au) by @moonstruckme
summary: the secrets out now and now everyone is guess where they stand, where to go from here and how things will ever return back to normal.
a/n: giving yall a relatively angst free chapter! and thank you all for the love on this series and those waiting sooo long MWAHHH ily and i hope yall like this part bcs i hate it lmao x not proofread
It settled into the air.
Not light or airy like smoke—it didn’t veil the room and drift between the space between you. No, it hung heavy, smog-like. Polluting—tangling around you, suffocating, smothering.
Inescapable.
Bouncing off the walls, pitched and frantic, like a cruel reminder of how they were ejected out of his mouth.
Love.
In love.
In love with. He’s in love. With you.
And Regulus didn’t look upset, didn’t look the slightest bit surprised, actually. His gaze just stayed on Barty, brows twitched up into concern, the sympathy in his eyes almost unbearable—and for a moment, it made Barty forget what he’d said.
Forget what he’d done.
Just for a moment, though. Because he caught that look on your face—wide-eyed, lips parted slightly like he’d just knocked the air out of you.
You could still feel the crack and fizzle his words left on your skin, the room suddenly feeling too small and too large all at the same time, overbearing—spinning.
Barty just stood there, chest heaving, words still whistling in the space between you, thick and terrible and irreversible. Hands trembling at his sides, nails biting into the meat of his palms in a desperate attempt to anchor himself—but it was useless.
So he turned.
With no noise, no warning—just the sudden pivot of feet against floorboards, spinning with all the grace of someone trying to outrun their own skin, reaching for the door. That bloody door again. Regulus' eyes caught it instantly, that same familiar ache flared in his chest—the sight of Barty leaving, again, always on the wrong side of it.
But this time, the door wasn’t given a chance to open wide enough.
It slammed shut.
With a sharp crack of magic that echoed like a whip across the room—startling and final. Barty flinched, breath catching in his throat as his hand flew back like he'd been burnt. He stilled. And then he turned.
You hadn’t moved. Not really. Just your brows—pinched upwards, your eyes wild with panic, locked on the floor with a sheen of something soft and terrible and raw blooming there.
Barty kept his face turned away, scrubbing his palms over his eyes harshly, like he could erase himself if he tried hard enough. His voice dropped to a tone, wrecked and shameful: “I didn’t want you to know...”
A whispered confession, one so soaked with guilt that it nearly burned when it left his lips.
It fell deaf on your ears.
Because you were still locked in the past—trapped in the moment he’d said those words.
Barty’s chest heaved as his gaze flickered between your face and the sealed door, the space between all three of you stretching taut like a string about to snap.
And then—softly, almost inaudibly—you breathed, “You love me.”
Not a question. Not quite a statement. More of…a recitation. A dazed echo of the words that still rang around the room like ghosts.
Barty’s spine curled inward.
It all cracked open again—splintering—his panic flooding back in a tide. He took one uncertain step forward, hands twitching, reaching halfway to yours before falling short. Hovering.
Unsteady.
Outstretched but not touching—as if breaking the invisible wall he’d placed between you would cause some natural disaster, a tornado, or tsunami of emotions that he wouldn’t be able to control, wouldn’t be able to keep a lid on.
Not that he was doing a good job of it now.
He was trembling almost; barely stepping closer, teetering on the edge of your space like you were some sort of wounded animal that would run away at the slightest wrong move—and everything Barty had done so far was wrong.
So wrong.
Because despite all his careful and fretting motions towards you, his mouth betrayed him. One again, spilling, spewing—purging all half-formed thoughts that entered his mind.
“No—I mean, yes—I didn’t mean to say it—I’m sorry—fuck—" His voice was a tremor of panic and confession, words tripping over themselves in a breathless, too-fast rush. "It’s not—I tried to stop it, I swear, I swear—You have to understand, Tres. I’m not trying to ruin anything, I wouldn’t— You’re with Reg, it’s you two—I know that—”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
The words landed quietly, even—soft, like the gentle snap of a twig—barely louder than a thought, yet enough to still the room.
Regulus.
If Barty’s head had whipped any faster, it surely would have spun off his neck—staring at his friend wide-eyed, lips still parted with the remnants of his hysteric rants. Even as he continued, Barty could only gape at him, like his words were foreign—of a different frequency that he couldn’t comprehend,
“It doesn’t have to be that way—just us…”
Oh.
Oh.
This was bad—unfair actually.
Because now Barty was waiting for your answer, for your reaction—praying it wasn’t negative, that you wouldn’t revolt and shun the idea. Shun him.
It was bad because now he was hoping.
And Regulus for all his level-headedness, had spoken on a whim—thrown out what he’d been thinking about since he’d noticed the way Barty looked at you, the way you looked at him—what he’d contemplated for weeks in Barty’s absence.
He wasn’t sure how you’d react, he wasn’t sure what reaction he wanted. This was completely uncharted territory. But all Regulus wanted was to fix this—correct the mistake that made everything unravel in the first place.
And for some reason, the idea of—whatever it was he’d indirectly suggested, didn’t seem so bad—maybe it was because it’s with Barty, maybe it’s because it was you. And quite frankly, Regulus would do anything for you.
Anything.
He’d burn the world—him with it—if that’s what you wanted.
You’d become somewhat of a parrot. Body still stiff as a board, but at least your lips moved, at least your eyes finally shifted from their seemingly endless bore into the stone you all stood on—flitting between them both before landing on Regulus.
“You want…?” you didn’t finish the thought, like the words had escaped you. Not exactly hopeful—it wasn’t a yes or a no, rejection or acceptance. It floated somewhere in the middle.
And Barty didn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he could.
Hands still half-lifted between you, trembling faintly—ghosting at the edges of your presence without daring to touch. Not yet. Not until you gave him something-any emotion, a reaction, permission, forgiveness, anything.
You still hadn’t looked at him. Not fully.
Your gaze lingered on Regulus instead, as if whatever steadiness you had left was tethered to him—waiting for him to say more, tell you what exactly he meant, what he wanted, but he didn’t. And when you spoke again, your voice was quiet.
“I—Are you—you’re okay with that?”
He shifted slightly, just a flicker of movement like a breath passing through him. “It doesn’t have to be…messy or complicated—we don’t have to figure everything out right now either.”
“You’re serious,” you said—not a question, not a joke.
Regulus gave the smallest nod. “I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t.”
Another pause.
Shorter than the last break of silence, but just as thick and weighty with indecision, with a shaky exhale, you spoke again—turning your eyes to Barty—finally—slowly, cautiously, like he was something volatile. Eyes searching his face, and he let you.
Didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stood there and let you look.
Hands just barely shifting away from you, curling in like the weight of the words—and your silence—was finally catching up to him.
“Do you hate me?”
Barty blinked. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? No. No—I could never.” His brows arched high on his forehead, knitting together as he swallowed thickly.
“I-it was just eating me up. I didn’t want to ruin anything, Tres—I had to leave.”
Your hands were twitching at your sides.
A restless sort of ache, a tension that built with every breath Barty took—every word that slipped from his mouth, soaked in shame and frayed regret. Brows furrowed and drawn tight with a frown. It was too much. Too many unsaid things. Too many weeks spent wondering. And before you could talk yourself out of it, before hesitation could dig its claws in again—you were moving.
Arms wrapping around him.
Tightly.
No warning. No preamble. Just motion. Need. Comfort.
Barty sucked in a sharp breath, stunned, stiff—but then, then—he melted.
Completely crumbled into you like he'd been holding himself up for too long. His chest sagged against yours, hands still hovering, still unsure even as his body folded into the contact like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.
Your face pressed into the fabric of his shirt, words muffled and breath shaky.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered—pleaded. “I’m sorry, J. I didn’t—I didn’t know. I didn’t realise. I—”
The words were barely coming out fast enough—tangled in your throat, rushed from your lips, a breathless confession you hadn’t even known was building until now. “I should have—I should’ve just—Junior, I’m so sorry—”
He didn’t speak.
He just breathed. Finally, relinquishing all the air in his lungs as if to give it to you as a peace offering.
Eyes squeezed shut so tightly it hurt—because this. This. This was all he’d let himself imagine in the quietest moments, in the loneliest stretches of night. Your arms around him. Your warmth, your voice, close and real and right here.
He almost couldn’t let himself believe it.
So he just stood like that for a second longer—soaking in the weight of you, the heat your body radiated, the shaking vibrations of your voice against him.
Only then did he move.
Slowly, like he was afraid the spell would break if he wasn’t careful, like the moment would vanish into smoke and he’d wake up in a gasp of breath in Avery’s dorm. His arms rose from his sides, his hands hovering just an inch above your back—then resting there, curling gently.
For a while he just held you to him in a soft, gentle embrace—brows pinched high on his forehead as he relished in the first real contact he’s had in weeks.
You barely registered the tender brush of Regulus’ fingers over the back of your arm, or the sound of his receding footsteps. Like you couldn’t bear to spread your attention between anything other than Barty and how his arms were wrapped around your middle.
But he wasn’t just holding you anymore, he was squeezing, melting, grasping at the fabric of your robes as if to conjoin on an atomic level.
Neither of you spoke for a long while.
There was nothing left to say—not yet, not tonight. Words had run their course, stripped raw and exposed, and now there was only silence. Not the cold kind that, as of recent, graced the room far too often. Not the kind that pierced or burned, judged or waited with bated breath.
It was warm, yearning—yielding, overcome with unspoken forgiveness and fragile relief.
You let the embrace drag, neither of you moved much since wrapping yourself around each other—crumpling into a silent mass of limbs at the base of Regulus’ bed. Legs tangled, your head resting gently against his shoulder, while his hands fidgeted at the hem of your sleeve, softly grazing your skin like he was still convincing himself you were real.
That’s how Regulus found you—curled together on the dorm floor in the brittle afterglow of everything, footsteps muffled against the rug as he returned with a levitating tray in tow.
“Sweet-talked one of the cooks into letting me bring up some dinner,” he said simply, setting the tray down with a little clink of ceramic.
Tea and warm, slightly smushed sandwiches. Your stomach answered for you with a small, unmistakable grumble, and Barty huffed a quiet breath, the edge of a smile curling his lips
“We’re not eating on my bed, though,” Regulus added casually, already flicking his wand to conjure a small cloth on the floor. “I refuse to wake up with crumbs in my sheets.”
A huffed chuckle slipped passed your lips as you peeled yourself away from Barty—the three of you gathering around the tray on the floor, knees bumping, fingers brushing as cups were passed between you.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough, the room had settled into the habitual domesticity it had been deprived of for so long. You sat beside them, watching the way Regulus absently buttered a scone for Barty with extra without being asked, and the way Barty’s long limbs stretched along the rug like he’d never left.
Then the clock near Regulus’ bed—always five minutes too fast—blinked back at you accusingly, and your stomach dropped.
“Shit,” you muttered, pushing your plate away and standing quickly. “I’m gonna be late for my rounds.”
Barty blinked up at you, brow furrowed. “You barely ate.”
You crooked a faint smile, straightening your robes as you shrugged, “Happens more often than it should.”
Regulus was already dusting off his hands, rising with you. “I’ll walk you.”
But as he stepped towards you—because Barty didn’t move. He didn’t rise with you. Didn’t reach for his cup. Just sat there, legs still folded beneath him, gaze lingering on the half-empty cup.
And you saw it. That small flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his lips twitched, the way his shoulders curled inward like he was preparing for solitude to stretch across the room again. Before Regulus could reach for the door, you shifted slightly.
“It’s fine, Reg. I can go alone.”
Regulus frowned faintly. “Are you sure?”
You were still paused by the door, looking between them with a glint in your eyes as you spoke, lips twitching up at the corners, “Actually…maybe you can do something else instead.”
A small, soft smile tugged at your lips. “Go get your stuff,” your voice was soft, and yet the words were firm—convicted. “From Avery’s dorm. Bring them back.”
He just blinked up at you, lips slightly parted. “What?”
There was a short pause, holding your sights on him as your voice rung in the room again, in a quiet coaxing sort of tone. “Bring a bit of life back into the room.”
Barty stared up at you, wide-eyed for a moment before his features split into that smile—the one you hadn’t realised you missed so achingly until now. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and flashed the faintest edge of his pearly canines.
It was boyish, crooked—painfully him.
Regulus was already flicking his wand, cleaning up the dishes with practised precision. He smoothed the front of his robes with a lazy swipe and looked back at Barty with one raised brow.
“Well?” he said, dryly amused, holding out a hand. “Off we go, then.”
Barty hesitated—just for a breath—then reached up and took it, raising to his feet with an exaggerated groan. His smile didn’t fade; if anything, it threatened to grow, tugging at the corners of his mouth like it was almost too much.
This was the kind of normal he hadn’t let himself believe he could have again.
You were already at the door by the time they stood, hand resting on the knob. You looked back at them both, light from the sconces catching in your lashes, “I’ll see you both at breakfast, yeah?”
They knew who the question was really meant for—still, both nodded. Barty’s smile still pulled at his lips when he spoke, voice slightly rough around the edges, “Of course, Tres.”
─────────
The morning in the Great Hall was already buzzing when Regulus and Barty entered, side by side, voices low and drifting in and out of quiet laughter, no rush in their steps. They strolled in as casually as ever, unhurried in that way reserved for Monday mornings, where they stayed up far too late the night before.
And as they crossed the stone floor and made their way toward the Slytherin table, Barty slung his arm over Regulus’ shoulder like it was it’s rightful place, and Regulus let him, didn’t shift away or shrug him off. Like there hadn’t been a several-week-long silence, like Barty’s seat hadn’t almost collected dust.
They settled into their seats like their routine hadn’t been on hold the entire time, wordlessly.
And as subtle as Regulus tried to be in his instinctive searching scan over the table for you, he struggled to push down the twitch of his brows and the purse of his lips when you were nowhere to be found.
He was already in motion, pouring tea with the same exact precision he always had—no sugar, a large splash of milk—and Barty didn’t even ask before sliding the plate of toast toward himself, claiming a piece already smeared with far too much jam.
For a short while, it was just that. Low murmurs, lazy conversation, quiet clinking of china—Regulus’ eyes shifting to the entrance every so often.
Barty settled in as normal, animated in a way uncalled for so early in the morning, but it wasn’t in that explosive, wild manner that made Regulus roll his eyes and grumble out table manners.
It seemed Regulus’ face, that’s usually so bound ridiculously tight—especially early in the morning—that same face that had carried a near-permanent wrinkle between its brows for the past few weeks, had finally melted away. There was almost a softness in the tilt of his mouth now, in the way he let his eyes flick upwards to Barty every few sentences, like he was still quietly checking to see if this—if they were really back to normal.
Barty was mostly oblivious—all loose smiles and bright eyes—in a way that was warm and welcomed after so long without it.
Though the calm didn’t last very long—the short bark of laughter that left Evan’s lips from further down the table almost sounded involuntary. “Ah, so Junior’s tantrum has ended,” he drawled.
“We were starting to forget what you looked like with a functioning expression.”
Barty’s eyes had already narrowed, a scowl playing on his lips as he loaded up a response when you came bursting through the Great Hall doors in an uncoordinated flurrying mess of steps.
A whirl of robes and wild hair, tie half-formed, shirt collar skewed in the kind of chaos that could only come from having approximately five minutes to get ready after an alarm you’d definitely slept through.
Sleep still in your eyes and panic on your face as you moved, not even acknowledging the curious stares being cast your way as you made a beeline down the aisle.
Regulus, halfway through a sip of tea, froze with the cup midway to his lips. Brows lifting ever so slightly, the soft crease returning between them—in surprise more than anything. Because it’s really not in your nature to be so haphazard—barely awake, practically flying down the length of the Slytherin table.
And you didn’t even greet anyone, didn’t sit in the empty space that’s always reserved for you by Pandora, didn’t even seem to notice it.
Instead, you simply dropped yourself, without ceremony ot grace, in the closest empty space—beside Regulus.
The force of it jolted him slightly in his seat, tea sloshing dangerously close to the brim of his cup. He turned sharply, only to find you already half-collapsed over the table, face buried in your folded arms.
A beat passed. Two.
Then, muffled and grumpy, your voice came out: “Stop looking at me.”
You didn’t need to lift your head to know that there were far too many pairs of eyes burning into your slumped figure. Evan—ever the opportunist, leaned from two seats down the table, grinning wide and wolfish. “Rough encounter with the Whomping Willow, Potter?”
That earned a ripple of laughter down the table, even Regulus pursed his lips in mild amusement—because it was a painfully accurate description of your current state.
All that left you was a groan—one loud and disgruntled. Lifting your head just enough to give Evan the most exhausted glare imaginable, one hand fumbling to fix your mess of a tie with fingers that were clearly not working at full capacity.
“Very funny, Rosie,” you muttered, slumping again, eyes barely open, trying to blink away the fatigue like it physically hurt to keep them up.
No one pressed you for more. Not right away. The attention drifted off like smoke, and conversation resumed—buzzing low, scattered with buttered toast and the occasional clink of silverware.
Almost without thinking, you leaned into him.
Body tipping sideways, sagging softly against his, the curve of your shoulder meeting his arm, your temple brushing his robes. You didn’t even seem to notice you’d done it—leaning into Regulus with a familiarity that bypassed your brain entirely. As though it were the most natural thing in the world to feel the weight of you against his shoulder.
And he let you.
His body shifted slightly, enough to make the contact more comfortable, and his hand—without hesitation—moved from under the table to press warm and careful against your lower back. His fingers moved slowly, drawing lazy circles through the thin fabric of your robes, the motion soothing in a way that required no words.
You talked—well, rambled—about last nights patrol, the absolute mess that your brother and his friends had left behind, the Ravenclaw fourth-year who screamed at you, the way you’d only gotten to bed at four and then slept through your first three alarms. You talked with your face still half-buried in your arms, voice slurring slightly from exhaustion.
“…and I have a bloody headache now,” your rant finished with a huff, barely holding your head up.
Regulus listened quietly, intently—fingers slowing along your spine, and he felt it before he saw it. A pair of silent eyes.
Pandora.
He caught her eyes on him from down the table, brow arched high in silent, pointed curiosity—she didn’t say anything.
Just flickered her eyes from where his hand was frozen on your back, to his face before turning back to her plate. For a moment, he was completely immobile, spine rigid, before his hand jerked slightly before pulling away entirely—guiltily almost, like he’d forgotten himself. He cleared his throat and leaned slightly away, instead pretending to focus on something Dorcas was saying about tomorrow’s Defence class.
The conversation continued around him, fading into the background because, Regulus was never actually listening. He sat still, in that same sharp detached way only a Black could, skin still mildly humming, an awareness of being observed—watched, even if only for a second.
And yet, just as quickly as the tension had prickled across the back of his neck, jas quickly as he’d faded out of the conversation he never really partook in—mind calmed by the quiet sighs from you beside him and the slow rise and fall of your shoulders in their slumped position. Regulus just as quickly tuned back in—at the rough clattering of metal against glass from in front of him.
Of course it was Barty, another serving of toast and jam—well, more like jam with a side of toast at this point—he was using all his might to dig out every last drop of jam and lather it in excess over the wilting slice he held.
There was no attempt to hide the grimace that tugged at his lips as he watched—predictably—crumbs tumble from Barty’s overly enthusiastic bite, scattering across the dark wood of the table with no regard for neatness or basic decency.
He should be used to this. The unnecessarily messy way Barty ate, like he’d been starved his whole life and wasn’t sure when the next meal would be. And though his rattle and bang took him out of his thoughts the visual in front kept him.
Barty—lips shiny with the thick spread of jam, chewing with the satisfaction of someone who knew they were being watched and didn’t particularly care.
“Do you have to be so barbaric?”
He turned to away from Dorcas, mouth still partially full, and—Merlin—used his tongue to swipe across his lip, dragging it slow across the bottom, letting it curve over the top shamelessly to clean up the jam that had smeared there. A small, low noise hummed in his throat, self-satisfied, as he swallowed.
Then, just for good measure, flashed a grin—toothy and smug and boyish, all at once—because he knew. Knew Regulus was watching. Knew exactly what kind of chaos he was causing and how it bothered him.
And Regulus couldn’t not watch.
Even as he schooled his features into a look of distaste, pinched his brows, lips downturned into a frown. Even as he averted his gaze for a fraction of a second, trying (and failing) to pretend he wasn’t looking at the shine, at every movement Barty made—like he wasn’t fixated on the curve of jam-glossed lips, on Barty as he licked the tip of his thumb just to make a show of how unconcerned he was with Regulus' need for order.
He hummed through another rough bite, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What, this?” He waved the toast in the air for emphasis, a seed or two dropping onto the table as he did it.
Regulus actually winced. “It’s seeded, Junior.” Voice almost desperate, “There are literally two jars of seedless jam, but you picked that?”
Barty just shrugged, eyes glinting. He leaned in slightly, elbows on the table, the toast still in hand and his grin only stretching further across his lips—they still glistened, even now, and his words came out a little slower, like he was testing just how far he could push the line before Regulus looked away first.
“Mmm, I quite like the seeds. Gives it character,”
One thing Barty knew very well, was that his friend was stubborn, to a fault—and would not look away. Even as his ears tinged pinker beneath the neat curtain of dark hair, he kept his gaze steady, jaw ticking ever so slightly, mouth pressed thin—
Barty took another bite—slow, loud, seeds and all, jam spilling over the weakly curved edges of the bread, coating his fingers and dropping onto the table below in large dollops.
And, very calmly, Regulus took a long sip of his tea and muttered, “You’re vile,” he was only met with a jam-filled toothy grin from Barty as the bell rang, breaking the moment like a pebble tossed into still water.
The students around them began to gather their things in a flurry of rustling parchment and clinking cutlery. With an abrupt jolt—accompanied by the harsh scrap of the bench against stone you’re up again, panic back in your eyes, fumbling through your bag.
“What’s first—where’s my—shit, I forgot my History—”
“You have a free first,” Regulus said gently, reaching into your bag and pulling out your timetable, placing into back onto the bench. You blinked at him, shoulders sinking as you breathed out what seemed to be all the air in your lungs.
“Oh.”
You stood still for a beat, bench jutting out awkwardly into the walkway and pressing uncomfortably into the back of your knees, collar still partially popped on one side. And as much as Regulus knitted his brows together in a show of sympathy, the corners of his lips couldn’t help but join his brows—curving upwards in to a slight smile.
The smallest of huffed chuckles passed his lips as he took in the rare sight that was you—hair askewed on one side, the fabric lines of your robe indented into your cheek, a frown spread across your lips as you squinted at the mahogany of the table.
Completely and utterly out of sorts, like you’d been caught in a herd of first years.
It was sort of ridiculous, really—how someone usually so immaculately composed, polished to the point of precision, could look this dishevelled. You’re the type to show up early and leave late. Reviewing notes with breakfast, timing every action down to the second with efficiency that would make another head spin.
And now, here you were, half-dressed and fighting sleep while standing, looking like you’d just about survived a skirmish in the Forbidden Forest. It was endearing, in a way Regulus wouldn’t admit to even in the privacy of his room. Alarming, but mostly—just very, very human.
If he spent another minute surveying your disordered form—and though it would be a minute well spent, in his opinion—Regulus was going to be late. But as if on cue, Barty was already making a stand.
Toast hanging from his teeth while he slung his bag over his shoulder, he tilted his head at you, gesturing vaguely with the piece of half-eaten bread still between his fingers. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get your brain to catch up with your body, yeah?”
You groaned quietly in protest but swung your legs recklessly over the bench—Regulus tucking it in neatly behind you while your fingers continued to fruitlessly tug at your collar. Low moans and grumbling complaints about the morning still left your lips when Barty reached for your bag and hoisted it over his shoulder with a faint oof.
“You know,” he muttered as the three of you stepped out into the corridor, “you could keep a small troll in here and still have room left over for a cauldron.”
Regulus didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at his lips when you responded. “It’s called being thorough.”
“You’re a hoarder.”
As you approached the stairwell, Regulus left without a word, just a small squeeze of the elbow—turning and disappearing down the hallway before you could even register his absence.
Trudging.
That’s what you were doing back to the dungeons, not gliding like usual, not even walking. Heels scraping despite Barty kindly taking the burdening weight of your ridiculously heavy bag—you still dragged your feet across the stone like it was thick with sludge that prevented you from lifting your feet even for a second.
The journey wasn’t filled with chatter or uncomfortably silent, just quiet in the way you both liked—and for a while, it hung between you like worn-in fabric. Still, he spoke after a moment, flicking his eyes over your slumped figure.
“We could swing by Pomfrey, you know. Get you something for the headache.”
“No,” it was instant, you didn’t even look at him. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t press, just huffed lightly through his nose as he shifted your bag higher on his shoulder. The common room was empty when you reached it, echoing slightly with the soft click of the door closing behind you. You were already peeling off your robe and dropping your things onto the nearest table, sliding into the chair like muscle memory.
His lips turned into a frown. “What are you doing?”
“Revising,” you replied flatly, already pulling your textbook toward you and flipping it open with a sigh. “I didn’t get to last night. Mocks are around the corner.”
Barty stared at you like you'd grown another head.
“Right. Because what your splitting headache needs right now is Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants,” he said, snatching the book and reading the title with a flat look before closing it with a soft thud.
A scowl formed on your lips, immediately flinging his hand off the cover and opening it again with a stubborn shove. “I need to make sure I’m prepared. I’m not confident in Herbology.”
He rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “You’re not confident in sleeping either, apparently.” Hand already closing the book again, you shot him a glare, forcing his palms away from the spine—pointedly straightening the pages, retrieving your quill and ink.
And with that, Barty shut the book again—this time with enough force that it nearly clipped your fingers—before sliding it neatly under his arm. You took a breath through your nose, trying not to snap, knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. Instead of arguing, you reached for your bag and retrieved another textbook.
Barty scoffed, already pulling out his wand. Before you could so much as lift a hand to guard it, the book flew neatly out of your reach and into his other arm.
“You didn’t even see me get my wand out,” he said plainly, brows raised in challenge. “See? You’re in no state to study.”
You glared, lips parting for what would’ve probably been a biting reply, when the common room door slammed shut with a sharp bang behind you—someone else passing through. The sound echoed painfully through your skull and made you wince so visibly that Barty didn’t need another word of argument.
He’d already rounded the table, one hand reaching for yours. “Come on, Potter—up you get.”
You stared at him, hand still outstretched where he’d taken it, frozen for a beat. The lack of sleep, the pressure building in your skull, head still pounding, the heavy weight of your eyes—it all made the idea of continuing this particular fight feel like trudging uphill in wet socks.
So you let him tug you to your feet.
And he didn’t gloat—didn’t smirk or jeer or revel in his victory. Just held your hand loosely as he led you toward the boys’ staircase, your limbs heavy and reluctant, but not resisting.
The room was still, warmed by the late morning sun—fuller now. Robes flung carelessly over the edge of his trunk, boots with socks hanging out them, duvet scrunched in a pile on the left side of his bed—like he’d never left.
You were moving on autopilot now, shoes kicked off, tie discarded onto the desk as you climbed onto the mattress like your bones ached from the effort of being awake. He hadn’t even put down your bag before you were scooting over to one side of the bed, lodging his pillow under your head. The one you insisted was softer, that smelt of him—bergamot and freshly burnt oak wood—and faintly like your shampoo.
There was only the rustle of fabric and soft padding of Barty’s feet towards the bed, your eyes were already slipping shut, lashes fluttering low and breath starting to steady. He didn’t say anything, only moved to sit on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he reached for the duvet and tugged it upwards—though it ended up bunched awkwardly at your knees.
He didn’t fix it. Not yet.
He knew you slept a bit curled. Even now, worn down, your body seemed to be trying to hold itself together in sleep. One arm crooked under your pillow, the other slack between folds of sheets and robes. A furrow between your brows, like your mind hadn’t quite settled. He wanted to smooth it away.
So he did.
With soft, careful fingers—brushing once across your forehead, then pushing gently through your hair, letting his palm rest briefly at the crown of your head. He stayed like that for a while. Quiet—still. Just breathing you in.
And it was all so…normal.
Like he hadn’t spent weeks avoiding the place, storing his stuff elsewhere, sleeping in corners of the castle, other dorms or just not sleeping at all. Like it didn’t all spill out in this room the night before.
Barty tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze drift over your sleeping face—the soft rise and fall of your chest, the slackened line of your lips, the slight twitch of your fingers as your body fell deeper into sleep. Gods, did he want to freeze this, tuck it away—keep the moment still for at least a while. Memorise it—you—in the thousands of ways he already had—because somehow, it still didn’t feel like enough.
And though there was safety in this moment, in the quiet, calm of his room—it still burned in his mind, ripples of it, settling in the pits of his stomach, refusing to be suppressed. The uncertainty, that whatever this was—You, him, Regulus—it had blurred the lines, smudged them beyond repair.
Even how he’s looking at you now, how he’s holding you—fingers carding through your hair that’s splayed across his pillow, it was probably too much, wasn’t his right—not that that ever stopped him before.
So he didn’t move his hand, didn’t pull away despite the heavy weight that pressed beneath his ribs, he just kept brushing his thumb gently against the curve of your head, each motion steady and rhythmic.
Pushing the thoughts aside, telling himself that this was enough, that it would have to be.
─────────
Days were passing, thankfully uneventful. No drama, no tension—no cryptic silences or loaded stares. A comfortable rhythm was set between the three of you, one that hadn’t existed in a while, like things had finally fully settled.
Just long days, early nights, things felt manageable, a bit more solid again—peaceful. The quiet of the late evening air was no longer haunted by Barty’s looming absence or the harshness of Regulus’ indifference. It was nice to stroll around the castle on patrols that felt more like opportunities to enjoy the cool breeze and clear skies, and walks to stretch your legs than actual responsibilities.
Being paired with Regulus was a welcomed rarity, even after hours of watching him woosh around corners blazing after third years, it was still wildly entertaining even as your shift drew to a close.
Rounding the exit of the Faculty Tower, you made your way through the empty corridors with no disturbances—the clock chimed, signalling the end of your patrol just as you crossed the passed the South Wing. It was too tempting, really—the Courtyard bathed in moonlight—you were drifting, veering off towards the open space, padding across the stone before you could stop yourself.
A quick detour never hurt anyone, right?
“Where are you going?”
You could already hear the disapproval in his tone, could clearly envision his crossed arms and chastising gaze. But your feet didn’t want to stop, already angling toward the archway, and your lips were already shaped in a quiet, mendacious: “Nothing.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow, already sceptical. "Why on earth are you in the Courtyard?"
You didn’t slow, shrugging as you turned to face him—still pacing, deviating farther away. "There’s a full moon tonight. I want to see it."
He exhaled sharply. "We aren’t allowed in the courtyard during patrols, why would we be after?"
"So stop me, then," you said, a mischievous smile spreading across your lips, brows clocked upwards in challenge as you walked backwards. The was that glimmer in your eyes, of something impish and wild. Tonight rules were feeling like mere suggestions more than anything.
For a moment, Regulus stood his ground beneath the archway, watching as you continued your rebellion into the Courtyard, arms outstretched with a beckoning hand. And Regulus, despite his better judgment and deeply ingrained rule-following tendencies, couldn’t bring himself to deny you. It was the first time you had looked like you in weeks—alive, glowing. The moonlight dancing along your hair, your skin, welcomed, like it belonged there.
Like you belonged there, belong to the moon, to the night—bewitching in a way that even if Regulus was a stronger man, he still would have given in.
He scanned the hall behind him, muttering, "Merlin help me," under his breath as he followed you, and despite the withering look etched across his face, his lips twitched at the corners against his will.
Your grin splits further across your face in almost expected triumph, as he makes his way to your paused position, joining you near the tall tree in the centre. Surrounded by crisp air, clear skies and the moon—hanging low and heavy above you, full and lonely.
Almost too beautiful to look at directly. You tilted your head back, wind whipping some stray strands of hair across your cheek as you admired the skies above.
And Regulus, he never cared much for things like moonlight or stargazing, except for now—he was suddenly grateful to the moon for the scene it painted before him. Finding his eyes bound to you, watching the way your lashes caught the light with each flutter, the moonkissed glimmer of your skin, making his breath halt in his throat.
Like always, Regulus struggled to look away—like he knew he was staring but couldn’t bring himself to stop, and like always, you could feel his eyes on you, art-less and penetrating, and unsubtle in a way he should be embarrassed by.
“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” you said, eyes still set on the orb above.
There was no response, just the quiet rustle of the leaves behind you, but you didn’t mind. After a beat, you turned to him, shoulders brushing, lips curving at the edges. “Aren’t you glad you came?”
He didn’t shy away from your gaze, If anything, he leaned into it, rolling his eyes with exaggerated patience, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Maybe.”
You bit back a smug grin, watching as he turned toward the sky with a triumphant hum on your tongue. And for a moment you indulged, letting your eyes run along his side profile; the harsh ridges of his nose, the sharp edge of his cheekbones, the mass of dark curls reflecting the light like they were made to shine in that very moment.
Even as you took small, quiet steps backwards, you kept your eyes on him, heels crunching on the grass and fallen leaves until you felt a thick stump beneath your feet.
“Want a closer look?” you asked suddenly. And when you spoke, your voice was much farther away than Regulus remembered, much farther than he’d like. Words leaving before he’d had the chance to follow voice.
He frowned, confused. "What do you mean a closer—”
You just barely caught his eyes, already pivoting on your heel, stepped onto the hard root, gripping the bark and beginning your ascent. The sound of urgent footsteps followed as he rushed forward, standing at the base of the tree, neck craned up to watch you hastily scale the trunk.
If you were closer to the ground, he probably would have been clearer, instead his words sounded faint, whispered and hissed like he was trying to avoid detection—”What are you doing?”
The question hung in the air for a moment, before you decided to pause. Peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of his panicked expression, widened eyes and pinched brows. And despite his clear distress, you couldn’t help but smile down at him, palms digging into the rough bark as you spoke.
“I’m getting a closer look," you said flatly, like it was obvious, like it wasn’t completely and utterly insane.
His lips parted as he sucked in a breath, before shutting. And they opened and closed on repeat in shock a few more times as he stared upwards, arms outstretched acting as a makeshift safety net or if he was using his sheer will to bring you back to solid ground, you didn’t know.
It was still entertaining though.
You turned away from him, and pulled yourself further up, tights snagging on the coarse skin of the tree, laddering across your thighs when your foot just missed the groove you’d blindly aimed for. For a moment, he thinks your falling—his entire body stiffening like he was bracing for impact, breath halting in his lungs, fingers grasping desperately at the air to steady you.
Lips parting only to release a stifled yelp.
But you don’t fall, thankfully.
By the graces of the Merlin himself, you somehow catch yourself, and pause—and Regulus only hears a small, “Oof—!”, pass your lips as you readjust your footing, followed what he’s sure is a poorly suppressed giggle.
And when you turn your sights down in him, lips still stretching into the shape of an amused grin, Regulus can only gape at you. Face morphing into an expression of unadulterated distress, and he hissed out sharply, “Be careful!”
Your eyes are still on him, rolling as your fingers search for higher purchase—scaling up to branch that looks far too precarious for his liking. Words becoming more faint the farther up you got.
“Oh, don’t get your wand in a knot, Reg!”
Regulus only pursed his lips, biting back the urge to critique your general disregard for your safety, scold you for even dragging him out here, for acutely raising his blood pressure.
But as you seat yourself far out on the thick branch, flattening out your skirt, you lean forward—head peeking out over your knees in an incline that had his pulse skipping.
You flash him a grin, looking down at him like everything is right with the world, hair whisping over your face, and he visibly softened. Shoulders relaxing, features settling into a mild grimace instead of the pinched tormented expression it held before.
It took a significant amount of self-control for you to keep your lips from stretching further across your face in triumph—having a bird’s eye view of him losing his resolve.
“Coming up?” you teased, feet swinging back and forth, brows wiggling.
He blinked, still frozen in place, voice climbing in pitch, "What!?", brows knit in sheer disbelief.
You would think you’d grown a second head with the way he was looking up at you. But you didn’t say more, didn’t ask again, didn’t beg. No, you simply let your fingers trail over the empty space you’d left beside you, like you’d reserved it just for him.
Eyes like a silent invitation, whispering to him, catching the silver light like a charm had struck them. He hated how easily he folded. How right it felt to fold.
Regulus sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he began to climb. It wasn’t graceful. Not in the slightest. His purchase was unstable, his robe got caught on a branch, and he scraped his hands more than once.
When he finally reached the branch beside you and sat down, it wobbled ominously beneath your combined weight. He stiffened in an instant, arms out and braced like the branch might collapse at any second.
"Settle down," already biting back a grin. "It’ll hold.” you said, in that self assured way that made him want to roll his eyes. Your sights already set on the skies again, missing the withering, narrowed look Regulus shot your way, still, he leaned back slightly against the tree trunk after a few cautious seconds.
Slowly relaxing.
You both stared up at the sky, moonlight filtering through the branches above you. The breeze played gently through the leaves. When your sharp gasp reached his ears, and he was on edge again until you spoke.
"Did you see that?!"
"See what?!" he hissed, already half-rising with frantic eyes.
"I think it was a hippogriff," you whispered, pointing. He followed your gaze and let out a quiet breath as the shadow of the creature moved across the sky. A few more minutes passed in a companionable silence. You glanced over at Regulus and noticed the small scrapes well hidden by the dark stain of moss and muck covering his hands.
Without a word, you turned sideways, swinging your leg over the other side of the branch and leaning forward to take his hands gently in yours. As you shuffled over, he tensed up with each quake and jolt of the branch beneath you, wordlessly, you ignore his dramatics until you’re close enough to pull his hand off of his lap.
"Gimme," you murmured.
Regulus just watched silently as you focused, feeling the warmth of your skin mix with the soft radiating hum of magic beneath your fingertips—rolling over his palm in gentle waves as the scratches and scuffs healed.
With a sharp eye, you examined your work, holding his hand with a tender touch he still wasn’t used to, breaking the silence with a quiet mumble, “Still waiting for you to teach me how to do that,”
It broke your concentration slightly, had you lips curling at the corners as you hummed back in a tone that could only mean patience as you moved onto the next hand. And when you found a set of short thin scratches lining his fingers, a series of tuts left your lips.
"You were the one telling me to be careful," you added with a smirk.
He gave a scoff of offence, almost pulling his hand out of your grasp to cross them over his chest. "Well, sorry I’m not part monkey.” he said with a roll of his eyes, “When have I ever needed to climb a tree before tonight?"
You barked out a laugh, head tipping back slightly. "You mean to tell me you've never climbed a tree before? Not even in the summer?"
Regulus was already shaking his head before you could finish. Watching your face as you gave his hand another once over, a satisfied smile gracing your lips. But as he spoke, you didn’t relinquish your hold, fiddling with his fingers, running yours over his knuckles, stretching and pulling at the limbs.
“Never went outside much, burnt too easily. Besides my parents wanted to keep a close eye on me.”
You tilted your head slightly, a soft hum slipping from your lips, tracing idle patterns into his palm.
"How are you so good at it, then?"
"James and I used to climb anything and everything. He'd always chicken out halfway, and I'd just keep going.” You paused for a moment, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you continued, corners curving into a smile, “It was like…like flying before I had a broom."
Regulus watched you carefully, “Bet he hated that.”
“Oh, ‘course he did,” you smirked, leaning back on your hands, a huffed chuckle leaving you as your eyes scanned his figure, “Made him livid.”
─────────
The library was nearly silent save for the occasional flip of parchment or quiet shuffling of books slotting themselves onto the shelves. The early morning’s sun just about drapsing throught the window, illuminating the floating dust and casting the perfect light over your desk.
You’d been there since before the sun had fully risen—an untouched mug of gone-cold tea now well out of your reach, overshadowed by the ever-growing wall of open textbooks forming a around you.
All but caged by a fortress of volume after volume, tome after tome of parchment.
It was supposed to be a Saturday. One free of tutoring, meetings, Head-girl duties. But with the way NEWT mocks loomed over you, you couldn’t bring yourself to ignore it—to relent to the cries of your bones and stay in the warmth of your bed.
No matter how tempting.
For some reason you couldn’t quite shaken the restlessness from the week. So instead of sleeping in like the rest of the castle, you’d woken up at the ungodly crack of dawn, and claimed a corner table in the library and buried yourself in notes.
Time was passing relatively fast—students filtering in after the breakfast hour was finally up. And you’d become thankful of the warm light the sun was casting onto you, allowing you to enjoy the last whisps of the autumn sun despite being stuck in the castle. You’d built up a steady rhythm, reading through chapters, note-taking, practise questions.
It wasn’t until a soft thud sounded near the edge of your table that you noticed a figure standing on the other side. For a while, you ignore it—each time it moved a seat closer incrementally, almost like clock work.
Every thirty minutes or so until it was sat one seat across from you, casting a small shadow over your textbook.
Your lips pursed as the gentle, rhythmic tapping of feet sounded in front of you, and you made no efforts to disguise your fed up huff as your concentration broke—dropping your quill into the pot as you finally looked to see who couldn’t possibly find another seat in the Library.
Barty.
You swallowed the reprimand that was ready on your tongue. And Barty wasn’t looking at you, not exactly anyway.
He was sitting, foot jumping in that same pattern over and over, legs sprawled out in that familiar, carelessly deliberate way of his—eyes darting around the room like he was trying to avoid your line of sight, and somehow still watching from his peripherals.
You shook your head as you turned back to your books, lips fighting to curve a the corners.
Minutes ticked on.
A stack of fresh notes joined your pile. Barty occasionally tilted his head, tracking the movement of your quill or reading a stray heading upside down. He said nothing as he watched you underline something in Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants for what must’ve been the fifth time. Even leaning back at one point, arms crossed, observing you like you were the subject of a particularly strange case study.
Both sitting in comfortable silence, while the sun made its way across the room, shifting from where it had been warming you for hours. You ignored the way your hand was beginning to cramp and the way your stomach was grumbling in hunger, when he moved again.
Leaning forward suddenly, fingers that had been drumming against the wood coming to a halt. "Alright. That’s it.”
You paused, brows raised. "What?"
"It’s hours. This is inhumane. You haven’t blinked since breakfast."
"Because I’m revising," you said flatly, lifting your quill like a threat.
"And I’m thrilled for you, really, I am." He stood, walking around to your side of the table and planting his palms on your book as he leaned back. “But you haven’t had a sip of water in hours and I’m taking it upon myself to intervene.”
You squinted at him, peeling his fingers off the edges and taking it into the safety of your grasp. “I have to finish this section.”
"You don’t, actually. Not today. You can miss a paragraph or twelve without Hogwarts collapsing.” Barty was quick and sly when he wanted, pushing passed the blockage of paper you’d encaged yourself in and plonking himself gracelessly onto your desk.
"Junior—"
He was already closing the book in front of you. "Nope. No more Latin-rooted names of aquatic plants. No more tiny scribbles in the margins that even a magnifying glass wouldn’t help with. I’m invoking emergency intervention."
Before you could protest again, one by one the stack of books on your desk were whipping past you and showing themselves to the shelves behind you. Your lips were still parted, the start a sentence hanging silently in the air when you turned to him—shoulders sinking slightly in defeat.
And he just beamed at you, that victorious shit-eating grin that flashed almost all 32 of his pearly whites, before he hopped off of the desk with a pip in his step, taking your bag that was hanging off your chair and roughly stuffing your parchment into it.
You let your head fall against the back of the chair with a groan. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, still you love me.” He offered his hand with flair and dramatics, head bowed—one hand behind his back and a makeshift curtsey. You looked at him for a long moment, debating when he spoke again.
“Come on. There’s sun outside. Grass. Water.” You still hadn’t budged at any of his bribing suggestions and his voice dipped lower into honeyed coaxing tone. “There’s a bed…teacakes…Regulus…”
He was wiggling his fingers insistently until you took his hand and stood—the loud creak from the chair as you shifted was answer enough. And Barty only barely held in a bark of laughter as you dragged yourself to a stand.
Trailing behind Barty and out of the library—shoulders brushing with each trudge through the castle. Bag slung half-heartedly over your shoulder, grumbling beneath your breath about how much work you’ll have to catch up on, how crumbled your notes are because of him.
Barty just hummed along in agreement, just happy to have gotten you up and out of that rickety chair and back into civilisation.
Corner after corner, you found yourself standing at the door of the dorm, and he pushed open the door with a dramatic flourish, as if unveiling a grand retreat rather than the partially organised mess of shared books, robes half-draped over chairs, and a faint lingering smell of peppermint.
“Reg is tutoring,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for his desk. “So you’re stuck **with me for now, Tres.”
You only muttered back the pattern of his words in a higher, mimicking tone pitch, eyes darting towards the nearby armchair where he stood before drifting to his bed, half-made, pyjamas scrunched at the bottom, pillows astray by the headboard. You didn’t sit. Not yet.
And Barty only scoffed a laugh at your parroting, already digging roughly through the drawer of his desk, like a goblin seeking treasure.
“Got some things from Honeydukes,” he said, tone light. “You can thank me later.”
Clearly, his words went right over your head, because he was met with silence, the room filling with the sound of plastic and paper rubbing against each other as he rummaged. You wandered to the side of the bed, the back of your knees pressing against the edge of the mattress while you recited the effects of Dittany in your head.
After a few moments of rocking on your heels you broke your silence, “I should finish that chapter.”
He didn’t even look up, “You’re being uptight again.” The rummaging paused for a moment, and you could almost hear the sneer on his lips when he finished.
“I don’t know why you try so hard to be the smarter Potter.”
It’s almost like his goal was to irritate you today, the second interrupted study session of the week, the insinuation that was just as ludicrous as it sounded, like it you were competing with James of all people—you were—like he was competition at all—he definitely is.
The scoff was left your lips in a rush, like it’s one purpose was to be heard and debunk whatever Barty was implying. And your face scrunched with displease as you huffed, “I needn’t go to any particular lengths to beat my bonehead of a brother.”
There was another short moment of quiet before the rustling continued and you flopped onto the bed in partial disbelief and minor defeat. Because you couldn’t go back to studying now, not after that, not when it would make you look like a try-hard, not when it would prove Barty right.
You let your knees dangle off the edge of the bed, one shoe tossed towards where Barty still stood hunched over his desk, it didn’t hit him—although if it had, you’d have no objections.
The bedding relaxed around your form, fingers loosely laced on your stomach, feet swinging idly when the sound of several small clunks filled the room. When you craned your neck at the sound, it only continued as you sat yourself up onto your elbows—you found yourself looking at Barty’s body still crooked over the desk.
But now, his hips pressed awkwardly to the side of the open drawer trying to stop the spillage—boxes upon boxes of unopened chocolate frogs, practically leaping their way out and onto the stone floor.
“What all that?” you asked, peering toward the open drawer. “Are those…are those Chocolate Frogs I got you?!”
His body was as stiff for a fraction of a second before he began to scramble, stuffing the draw with the ones that were cliffing an exit—frantically dropping to the floor. Your eyes widened and your voice pitch in shock, he’d been stashing each ‘Congratulations’ frog.
“Junior—! You’ve been hoarding them?! Did you miss the edible memo?”
Even as he tried to stuff them roughly back into the draw, it refused to close—brimming with the gold and navy packages that seemed eager to escape. He hissed out his defence, “Not all ****of them!”
After a few more desperately aggressive and forceful slams, the drawer finally submitted, and his shoulders slumped in relief before he turned to meet your scandalised gaze. More justifications just seemed to spill out of his lips.
“They’re not for eating anyway,” he said quickly. “They’re—trophies.”
You all but gaped at him, brows pinching slightly in confusion.
“I—Well-”
“You wouldn’t understand,” he added loftily, like the idea of sentimental sweets was some noble calling. Before you could respond, he tossed a liquorice wand at you—it hit your stomach with a soft thump.
If the red tint that peeked out from beneath the collar of his top wasn’t enough indication the conversation was over, the way he whizzed around the bed, suddenly very interested in filling the room with anything but your voices, already fiddling with the record player in the corner.
He nudged the needle, adjusted the volume, and stood back with a proud little nod. No music yet, but his foot was already tapping in anticipation, like he could hear the melody before it started.
“Did you pick a song yet?” you asked.
“I’m building suspense,” he said, glancing at you over his shoulder.
You stayed where you were on the bed, still half-propped on your elbows, gaze drifting as he moved lazily about the room. The record finally crackled to life as he shuffled over in mismatched socks, liquorice wand hanging limp from his lips when flopped onto the bed beside you, sideways and upside-down, head hanging briefly off the side before twisting to look at you with a dramatic sigh.
“Why do you look like—like, physically tense. You need to un-clench before your bones fuse.”
“I am relaxed,” you replied flatly, though your spine did seem to ease into the mattress just a little more.
Barty snorted and lifted his wand with a casual flick, pointing it toward the ceiling above his bed. With a quiet swish, the wood-panelled canopy shimmered, then faded—revealing an illusion of the sky above, charmed just like the one in the Great Hall. The same light you’d both admired in the courtyard now glowed faintly overhead, with drifting clouds and a sun-tinged sky.
You blinked up at it.
“When did you learn to do that?” you asked, a little awed.
He smirked, not even trying to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Read it in Advanced Illusionary Theory. It was either that or a spell that makes your shoes bark. You’re welcome.”
“You chose correctly.”
“Obviously.”
The bed dipped slightly as he shifted, arm sliding behind his head, elbow grazing yours, knees resting over his where they hung loosely over the mattress edge. For a while you chattered mindlessly, both staring up at the enchanted sky, munching on sweet after sweet. Basking in a soft breeze wasn’t really there, but the ceiling gave the illusion of it anyway—clouds drifting, golden light dimming.
“I’m going to miss the hours of sunlight this winter.” you murmured, not really expecting a reply.
“Mhm.”
You turned your head to glance at him, wand spinning between his hands, feet tapping the air occasionally as he stared upwards.
He must have felt your gaze, because his eyes flickered to you—lazily from your face to where your hair spilled over the pillow between you, before they moved back to the ceiling. And without thinking, his fingers reached out and combed over a few strands, slow and unhurried.
Then brushed your temple, down toward the ends near your collarbone, and back up to your scalp moving in soft and rhythmic strokes.
You didn’t stop him.
Instead, you let your head roll slightly closer, just enough that your brows nearly touched. The air around you warm with magic, music spinning in the corner, the scent of honeyed sheets and sweet liquorice lingering between the blanket and him—the gap between you just barely a slither.
His fingers slowed where they threaded through your hair, but didn’t stop. You shifted slightly on the pillow, fingers still thrumming lightly against you stomach when you turned your face toward him.
Maybe you shouldn’t have.
Because he was already looking at you.
You almost flinched at the sudden eye contact, brows instantly drawing together at his expression. There was something in his eyes, almost solemn, like he didn’t want to be where he was and yet couldn’t bring himself to leave—a sort of resignation that was uncalled for, that made your lips fall limp into a frown, made your comfortable tapping halt abruptly.
Though neither of your looked away. Just held each others gaze, limbs still knotted, time suspended in several drawn-out moments of silence.
Until you cracked.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
It was meant to be a simple question, but for some reason it came out like an accusation, taut and defensive. Maybe it was the way the pits of your stomach were bubbling uncomfortably, that force your tone to shape something harsher than you’d have like—or that fact that you felt suddenly restless, picking at the fabric of your shirt.
For a moment, Barty’s hand froze in your hair, his thumb paused on your hairline before it continued its’ soft, soothing motion.
Still your face didn’t relax—if anything it wound tighter, creases hardening between your brows as he muttered.
“No reason.”
It was so dismissive, so painfully and obviously a lie, you weren’t even sure why he bothered saying anything at all. You were almost scowling now, the frown on your lips cemented deeper into your face, edged with something harder, meaner. You blinked at him, like you were giving him the opportunity to try again, to choose a different answer.
To tell the truth.
Still, you were met with silence, and that same sobering expression on his face that made your throat dry.
“Barty. You’re an awful liar.”
Your voice was shockingly serious, and your words lacked the lightness you weren’t sure they were meant to reflect. The sheets rustle slightly beneath you and his hand slipped from your hair as you shifted away from him, staring at him head on.
Even the way you moved away from him, it had only an inch, a matter of millimetres—and yet it felt oddly like a punch in the gut to him—he remained quiet, didn’t shy away from your scrutinising gaze. He watched, with his lips pursed together tightly, feeling the absence of your warmth from his side and fingertips—silently wishing to himself that your face would change, wishing he could find the words.
Truly, Barty hated that expression, the way your eyes were panicked and how you said his name—lacking everything that made it feel like it meant anything. Hated how he could feel the stress radiating off of you in harsh waves as if his silence was eating you up from the inside, hated how he could feel your breathing shallow and how stiff your body was, like you were bracing for impact or preparing to flee.
Hated how he was the cause.
Again.
“Spit it out.”
It was more of a plea than a demand, it lacked the bass it needed.
Even as he stared at you, wishing he’d looked away before so he didn’t have to witness the slight fear building behind your eyes like you’d done something wrong, wishing he could save himself the regret of what his next actions were likely going to cause.
Part of him wanted to shrink under the intensity of your gaze—retreat—but he knew you weren’t going to give up or let it go, it wasn’t in your nature. He stayed quiet for another moment, lips parting as he audibly sucked in a sharp breath.
“What is…this—?”
It’s like he was silently motioning to you, between you and your semi-tangled forms.
You knew what he meant, what he was referring to. The way you drifted together helplessly, too comfortable with your bodies intertwined—and you knew how he felt about you, how situations like this blurred the lines even more than they already were.
Crossed them, actually.
Lines that had yet to actually be set, lines that determined whether this was okay, lines that determined what this was.
He didn’t need to ask it again, or reiterate the question—but he did anyway. Not that you had an answer for him.
“What are we?”
Oh, how the tables have turned.
Your lips suddenly felt much heavier, weighed down. His words resigned you to simply blinking at him, no bark or bite left as your shoulders sagged. Folding in on yourself like every molecule of air had frozen in your lungs, no inhaling, no exhaling—even if you could breathe, you were sure the air would be completely unyielding to your will.
What exactly were you meant to say?
‘I don’t know’ definitely was not an appropriate answer. Were you meant to dismiss it, say you’ll ‘figure it out’ like Regulus had the first time?
Although you weren’t trapped, by any physical means at least—your body wasn’t moving as fast as you wanted. Like the mattress beneath you had become quicksand, softening around you, absorbing each move you made. And he could feel them, you—moving in slow motion, untangling your limbs with painstaking hesitance.
Barty used your silence to say more, to say what he wanted because you asked, because the ball was already rolling—spiralling down the hill, and he couldn’t possibly make it any worse.
So he moved.
Closer—shifting onto his side, matching the form of your sinking figure.
Just there.
A mere breaths length away. So close in-fact that the small specks of green in his eyes were visible, looking down at you as he spoke, voice low and laced with what you could only name as resignation.
“You don’t know.”
It’s like he stole the words you hadn’t dared to say right off your tongue. And frankly, there wasn’t much use in denying it—trying to water down reality. Because he was right, you didn’t know what this was and there was no amount of silence that would change that.
Still, he hadn’t stopped looking at you, watching you, frozen in his bed, sinking into his sheets. Brows pinched while your eyes darted across his face as he spoke again.
“Does it matter? Gods, I hope it doesn’t.”
That made you pause, made your sluggish attempt at an exit come to end.
You’d finally swallowed the lump in your throat, the word was barely even there—a poor excuse for speech, a pathetic use of your vocal chords—only just making it into the slither of space between you.
“Why?”
The seconds churned like days could pass between them. And the room was quiet for a moment, and then another and another, each passing slower than the last. Almost as if he was waiting for something, even when his lips parted and you could have sworn he was going to speak—end the anguish his silence inflicted, he waited some more.
Just to see if it would pass.
Barty was sure he should have stayed quiet, avoided the answer that rung noisily around in his skull like a bell over and over, because this really wasn’t the right time, or place, or—
“Because I want to kiss you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Each word he breathed seemed to travel slow motion, loitering in the space between you—curling its ways into your mind and echoed.
Neither of you dared to take a single breath, not yet. Not when he was so close, to you, to your lips—to taking everything he wanted, whether it was his to take or not.
You hardly noticed the gap between you getting smaller and smaller, really you couldn’t fathom focusing on anything but him even if your life depended on it—with the way your heart thundered beneath your ribcage, drowning out the music that still crackled in the corner of the room was not nearly as distracting as the way Barty looked at you.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking down to your lips just the once, like he was scared of it. Like that singular glance would ruin him, like he was resigning himself to an inescapable fate—drinking in their glisten and stain, coloured by the candied wand.
And it’s not like you’d never kissed before.
You had—once, it was nothing serious, far from it. Fuelled by fire-whiskey, messy and quick, your teeth had knocked into each other’s; a drunken dare that neither of your prides were able to ignore. That kiss didn’t count, it was long forgotten, meaningless.
This one?
This one did—it meant everything to Barty. Because he didn’t care if he had the right to anymore.
Even then Barty didn’t rush it, he wouldn’t dare. He savoured the blurred moment like he’d never get the chance to be this close again, each touch was slow and tentative—fingertips against your cheek, brushed tips of noses, his breath fanning across your lips.
It was a small kiss.
Just the simple press of his lips to yours—the warmth of his hand trailing down to cradle your jaw. No theatrics, no excessive boldness that might take away from the moment. From you and him and the soft, pillowy feeling of your lips.
A quiet sigh of contentment passed through his nose as he pressed closer, relaxed into you, pushed his lips against yours as if they’d supply him oxygen.
It wasn’t long before you pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, heartbeats ringing in your ears. Even for the short fraction, all Barty can do was look, watch, marvel at you like looking is drinking and he’s desperately parched.
Those mere seconds where your lips were but a breath apart, seemed torturous. His brows wound tightly together, high on his forehead, lips wet, irises swallowed almost entirely by the darkness of his pupils.
A chase had begun.
His blood practically vibrated in his veins, the surface of his skin set alight from this simple touch alone—like he’d been given the smallest taste of salvation and now nothing less would suffice.
He barely gave his lips time to shape your name before they found yours again, refreshing your mind of their honeyed taste before it even had time to settle. You found yourself reeling, palm pressed firmly against his chest, fingers curling in on themselves, tugging, pulling him in closer as if your bodies weren’t already flush.
Kisses slipped away from your lips—your skin burned and hummed under the trail he began across your throat. It was no longer soft and timid; no—it was anything but. Feverish and indulgent and all Barty knew how to be.
Like the air had condensed and buzzed with desire.
Each touch felt more like praise than the last as your hands found their way to tangle into the soft tufts of his hair. There was no stopping now. When he brought his lips back to yours; the palms of his hands hot against your waist, greedy and eager, as he pulled your lip between his teeth.
That earned him a sound, one not entirely foreign, because it was your voice and his name. But it wasn’t like normal, laced with playful exasperation or something of the sort, and it certainly was nothing like the way you said it last.
It was soft and breathy and moaned out in a gasp, and his head all but spun at the way it sounded on your lips. For a moment Barty couldn’t help but think how selfish Regulus was for keeping this to himself. It was all messy devotion—like the taste of your lips was the only thing keeping him sane.
The drag of your fingertips across the nape of his neck forced a groan to slip past his lips and onto yours—Barty was sure he’d died and had gone to heaven, willingly helpless to the push and pull, the endless tide of your lips that kept him from something as sweet as air.
You were entirely caught up in the moment, time had melted away with the tingle of your lips, the way he smiled against them and the dizzying hum beneath your ribs.
It was bliss that all came crashing down with a sharp, jarring knock at the door.
Loud. Impatient. Unfriendly.
Barty’s head whipped toward the sound, and you both froze, limbs still tangled, breaths still uneven. His hands firmly pushed into the fabric of your clothes, lips flushed and hair askew—a scene with only one explanation.
Another knock—louder this time. Followed by a very familiar voice.
“Barty. Open the door.”
it took all my might not to scrap this entire fic...lol i hate this
can i request setting 33 with dialogue 1 please? for poly rosekiller or bartylus😊
oooh sure! thanks for playing!
poly!bartylus x gn!reader who wasn't supposed to mix alcohol [473 words]
CW: ³³⁾ a mens’ bathroom, ¹⁾ “it’s too early for this.”, no gender markers used for reader, reader has hair that can be moved from the nape of their neck, implied vomiting, hanging over the edge of the toilet
Regulus was biting his tongue so hard that his teeth tasted metallic, willing himself not to say the words dancing on the tip of his tongue.
His brain was a steady mantra of don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.
Barty didn’t have such qualms nor the self-restraint.
“It’s too early for this.” He announced to the empty men’s bathroom, eliciting a whimper from your frame that was curled up on the floor of a stall with your head hanging over the edge of the toilet.
Regulus figured he ought to be grateful that it was so early in the evening, seeing as the bathroom’s were hardly dirtied by the drunk and depraved who would come to haunt these stalls as the night wore on. Your knees likely safe from the grime having only recently been disinfected.
Regulus bit back a sigh as he pulled some toilet paper from the dispenser. “Are you almost done, amour?”
You let out a whimper that really didn’t amount to much but Regulus correctly translated to a resounding no.
“Treasure, I thought we decided we weren’t going to mix our alcohol tonight.” Barty drawled; the we was an attempt to soften the blow of his reprimand seeing as the rule was really only ever enacted for you.
Something that sounded an awful lot like ‘sorry’ left your sad, sorry lips as the door to the bathroom opened up.
“Whoa,” an equally drunk looking bar patron murmured as he swayed in surprise, eyes glued to the point past Barty and Regulus to where you were hunched over the toilet.
“Yeah, yeah. Nothin’ to see here,” Barty huffed dismissively, though he kept his gaze locked on the bloke as the block kept his gaze locked on you, “go on, move along you fuckin’ wanker.”
The bloke did, indeed, move along once Barty straightened and took a few menacing steps towards him, Regulus taking the opportunity to move into the stall now that he was no longer vying for space with Barty.
He crouched behind you and moved some of your – now sticky – hair away from the nape of your neck; you shivered at the cool air that accosted you.
“Let me know when you think you can make it home without throwing up in a cab and we’ll leave, alright?” He murmured into the space behind your ear.
You were truly pitiful, whimpering in response though you dutifully nodded at his instruction before lurching towards the toilet bowl again.
“It’s too early for this…” Barty muttered again, though his gaze fell soft and sympathetic as he stationed himself against the hinges of the stall again like your very own personal bouncer keeping everyone out of your very own personal hell.
Honestly? Regulus couldn’t help but agree; it was going to be a long night.
Summary: more than friends, less than lovers—but somehow all of the above? [0.9k]
Warnings: i think none? lmk if there is any!
A/N: not my best work and i sorta kinda hate this but its been collecting dust for a while and i can barely write rn so why not! (dividers by @cursed-carmine)
You’ve always been more, you think. Even from the beginning—right after the three of you were sorted into Slytherin together—there had been a pull. An undercurrent.
You were best friends first, of course. A strange constellation of personalities that shouldn’t have worked but somehow always did. You’d never find one without the other two. Barty, loud and bright like a flare. Regulus, quiet and cutting and endlessly watchful. And you—somewhere between them, the balance point of all your contradictions.
Even now, even after the slow realization that there could be more, that maybe there was more, that potential still hung in the space between you all like static. You never said it out loud. None of you did. It didn’t need words—just lingering glances, late night touches that felt too tender for friendship, the way their shoulders always ended up brushing yours in the dark like gravity had decided it was easier that way.
The ‘more’ was never acknowledged. Just allowed to quietly grow.
“Y/N,” Barty groaned, flopping dramatically across the length of the common room couch like a man starved for attention. One arm dangled off the edge, the other sprawled across his forehead like he was a character in a Victorian novel mid-faint.
“Yes, Junior?” you answered dryly, not even looking up from your book where you sat on the rug beneath him. Your back was against the couch, your shoulder brushing his leg.
“I’m bored. You two are so boring.”
“You’re always bored,” Regulus muttered from the armchair across from you, legs curled beneath him, hair tied back loosely in a silk ribbon you suspect was once yours. He didn’t look up from his parchment either. “Have you considered developing a personality?”
Barty gasped, wounded. “I have a personality. You’re just both determined to crush it under your big heavy books and lack of fun.”
“Maybe we’re just immune to tantrums,” you said, turning a page without missing a beat. “We’ve built up resistance over the years.”
“Oh, shut up,” Barty huffed, nudging your shoulder with his foot. “Come do something with me. Something reckless. Something that doesn’t involve rereading Hogwarts: A History for the seventeenth time.”
“It’s not that many—” you started.
“Seventeenth,” Regulus confirmed, deadpan.
You glared. “Traitor.”
“I merely observe.”
“You’re both insufferable,” Barty grumbled, stretching like a cat and dropping his head back to the couch dramatically. “Honestly. What are we doing with our lives?”
“Surviving adolescence?” Regulus offered mildly.
“Wasting our youth,” Barty declared. “And our good looks. We should be out hexing something. Or someone. Preferably someone annoying.”
“So, yourself?” Regulus asked, looking up briefly. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Barty threw a cushion at him. Regulus caught it one-handed without blinking.
“Merlin,” you groan. “We argue like an old married couple.”
“Are you saying you’re in love with us, sweetheart?” Barty said teasingly.
Silence.
It was meant to be a joke. Just one of Barty’s usual, offhand pokes meant to stir the pot and maybe get a rise out of one or both of you. But the silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been.
Your fingers paused on the page.
Regulus’s smirk disappeared.
Barty sat up slowly. His voice, when he spoke again, was a little quieter. “Wait. I—was that…”
Regulus looked away first. Back to his parchment, though you could tell he wasn’t reading anymore. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered.
“I’m not,” Barty said. “Or—well, not right now.”
Your voice came soft, a thread of something vulnerable pulling tight. “You’re not wrong, though.”
More silence. Thick and humming with unspoken things.
Barty swallowed. “Okay. So. That’s a thing.”
Regulus didn’t respond, but his jaw had gone tight.
You looked up at Barty, meeting his eyes. “Is it not a thing for you, too?”
His mouth opened, then closed again. His brows furrowed, like he was caught off guard by his own words before he even spoke. “I just… wasn’t expecting to actually talk about it,” he said. “It’s weird, right? When you joke about something for so long and then suddenly it’s not a joke anymore.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Weird.”
Barty rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the easy grin he usually wore nowhere to be found. “I mean, I care about you. Both of you. That’s not new. It’s just… different now when you say it out loud.”
Regulus’s voice came soft, careful. “Different doesn’t mean bad.”
Barty looked over at him, a softness hidden in his expression that you knew all too well. “No, it doesn’t.”
You sat with that. All three of you did. The weight of knowing something had changed, or maybe always been there, but now it had names and edges and consequences.
And yet—you still sat in the same positions. You still touched—Barty’s leg against your shoulder, Regulus’s ribbon still loosely tied with the faint scent of your perfume on it. You were still you. Nothing had changed, but somehow everything had shifted. And that was almost more frightening than if everything had shattered.
Regulus stood abruptly, folding his parchment in half. “I’m going to bed.”
“Reg—” Barty started, half-rising.
Regulus shook his head, not unkindly. Just a little too fast, a little too forceful. “I just—need to think. That’s all.”
And then he was gone, disappearing up the stairs without looking back.
You leaned your head against Barty’s knee, and he instinctively rested his hand in your hair.
“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” Barty said quietly. “But not tonight.”
You both sat there a while longer. Not talking. Just existing in that strange, stretched moment—after the change but before the fallout. Still tangled. Still three points of a constellation that didn’t quite know its shape anymore.
