I love Slytherin Barty — but imagine good-boy Ravenclaw Barty.
He wanted nothing more than his father’s respect. Perfect grades. Quiet obedience. The kind of boy teachers praised and trusted without question.
In fourth year, Ravenclaw and Slytherin shared several classes. For one of them, Barty was paired with Regulus Black. Regulus — a diva in every sense — insisted they work in the Slytherin dormitories. Had he known what would follow, he would have chosen the safety of the library or an empty classroom instead.
Evan, Regulus’ roommate, noticed Barty immediately. The shy posture. The careful words. The way he tried so hard to be good. Evan knew, almost at once, that he wanted him. Wanted to destroy him.
That night, he walked Barty back to his tower. At the door, he kissed him goodnight. Not really a kiss, just a brief, almost innocent peck on the cheek. Still, it lingered.
The next morning, Evan asked Barty to sit at the Slytherin table. He talked him into skipping their next class. It was the first rule Barty ever broke and he broke it with a boy who looked like an angel and felt like temptation. The morning after, Evan didn’t have to ask again. Barty was already there, waiting at the Slytherin table.
That night, they met by the lake and drank until the world softened around the edges. It was the second rule Barty broke and the first time his father heard of his disobedience.
The letter arrived the next morning. The first his father had ever sent while Barty was at Hogwarts. Cold and filled with disappointment. Barty had expected it to hurt. Instead, it made him feel light, almost euphoric. High on defiance.
From then on, he followed Evan whenever he could. The feeling never faded when he was near him. And Evan adored the way the good boy unraveled, piece by piece. Each broken rule drew them closer. Each step away from obedience tightened the bond between them.
One night, Barty asked Evan to pierce his lip.
That night, Evan didn’t walk him back to Ravenclaw Tower. It was the first time Barty slept in the Slytherin dormitories because Evan kissed him properly, finally, as if there was no turning back.
I'll fake it until you give up (or will it be me?)
Ravenclaw!Barty - Gryffindor!Reader
Summary: The five times Barty tried to hint at a relationship with you, being actively blocked in the process, and the one time you were the one who did it.
Rated: Explicit (+18)
Ella's Notes: This was supposed to be a one shot, yes I know. But it got out of hand and it was so ridiculously long that no one would have the patience to read something like that. So I split it into two parts - but before you kill me, the second part is practically ready, so I'll post it very soon. Let me know what you think of this first part!
In this story I didn't go into any details about the Slytherins mentioned and Barty himself having any association with Voldemort, nor anything about Death Eaters. In fact, you can even pretend that this scenario doesn't exist in this fic, because that was my intention. I wanted to create something independent, an alternative and lighter version of the events. Maybe in a future opportunity I'll write something within this canonical reality, but that's not the case this time.
Happy reading!
Word count: 6,5k
Lovely tags: @just-here-for-ff @amel1ee
Dividers: @saradika-graphics
English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.
i.
You felt bad for the blonde girl next to you in History of Magic class, having to put up with your frustrated huffs every few minutes, born of a complete and utter lack of understanding of the subject. Each class made you feel more confused than the last. Which, honestly, was understandable considering who was teaching.
Professor Binns, oblivious to the students dozing off and openly drooling during his lecture, continued to float tediously around the room with his hands clasped behind his transparent body, reciting every tiny and unnecessary detail about the Goblin Rebellion, his favorite topic to lecture on, with the energy of an old and broken vacuum cleaner.
You glance with some irritation at the nearly blank parchment on the table, your meager notes consisting only of dates and names fished here and there throughout the ghost's monotonous and endless speech - nothing that would guarantee you a good score in the upcoming N.E.W.T.s.
You hate with all your might that your impeccable grade record in all other classes is constantly tarnished by this one hellish subject, year after year.
How was it possible that after so much time listening to the same long and exhausting lectures about the damned rebellion, you still hadn't learned anything substantial about it?
It was clear that this was all Professor Binns' fault and his innate ability to put anyone to sleep in ten minutes of class - five if the day was particularly hot.
"And with that, I conclude today's class." The old ghost's dull, drawling voice rings out and for the first time since class began you feel excited by something he says, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "For the next class I expect from each of you a detailed essay on how Urg the Unclean went from a simple goblin to a renowned leader of the XVIII Rebellion, even having his own image on a Chocolate Frog Card."
The smile dies as quickly as it appears and you slam your forehead against the tabletop with an exasperated groan between your teeth, hearing Pandora chuckle beside you, though she’s certainly as bored with the task as you are.
You turn your face away from the cold surface of the table, cheek pressed against the wood and a defeated look on eyes as you glide disinterestedly across the classroom — which looks as ready to kill themselves as you do. Your expression, however, sharpens immediately when you notice him.
Unlike the other students, who are either openly drooling over their desks as they take the best nap of the school year, or rolling their eyes so hard they might as well end up in the back of their heads in exasperation over this class, he remains irritatingly unfazed.
At first you wouldn’t think he was paying attention in class, not with the nonchalant way he rests his face on his hand, elbow propped on the table. His gaze isn't even on the boring Professor Binns, who's still talking (detailing the damned assignment about Urg the Unclean). His face is tilted over his palm, a sly, soft smile on his lips. And he's looking at you.
You keep the side of your face flat on the table as squint at him suspiciously.
You couldn't say when you first became aware of his stares. And even after you noticed it, for a long time you wondered if you were just imagining it. Of course it could only be your imagination. Why, after all, would he be staring at you at every opportunity he got? There was no apparent reason for it in your mind.
But time passed and what was apparently just imagination changed into an irrefutable certainty. You couldn't pretend not to notice his stares, especially since he never tried to be subtle about it; whether it was over the steamy cauldrons in Potions Class, or from the Ravenclaw table during meals, or the piercing gaze he gave you as he skilfully glided through the air on his broom during a Quidditch match, or even from a strategically positioned spot on the table in front of you as you tried to concentrate and study in the library...
Whatever it was, he was always looking.
And it was already disturbing you. Because, no matter how hard you tried, you simply couldn't understand why.
Of course, your mind always ran to the worst possibility of all. Some cruel little game orchestrated with his friends.
Although he was a Ravenclaw, you knew that most of his friendships was centered around Slytherin. Somewhat questionable friendships, such as; Evan Rosier, Regulus Black, Bellatrix, Rabastan Lestrange, Lucious Malfoy, Severus Snape, Wilkes...
Regulus Black and Evan Rosier seemed to be the most 'normal' of the dysfunctional group nicknamed by the other students as the Slytherin Gang; Regulus with his usual superior and disinterested attitude and Evan with the restless and endless energy of a Cornish Pixie. The others, however, were much more openly unpleasant and frightening.
It was not uncommon for you to have to give detentions to Rabastan Lestrange and Bellatrix Black on your nights of patrol as a Head Girl. You would constantly find them doing something they definitely shouldn't, like sneaking out of the dungeons after bedtime to make out indecently in the castle corridors in plain sight, or even cornering some poor younger student to torture with their cruel psychological games - and sometimes physically.
In any case, Barty Crouch's constant association with this group made you automatically label him as one of them, making you wary and suspicious, especially after noticing his stares at you.
Maybe Bellatrix and Rabastan were using him as a channel for revenge on you after all those detentions?
Although, knowing the sadistic and selfish streak of the duo, you doubted they would plan to inflict any torture methods on you through anyone other than themselves.
But anything was possible and the longer he stared, the more paranoid you became.
He smiled a little wider and his stupid crystal blue gaze slowly blinked at you, almost as if he could read your mind.
You blushed, widening your eyes slightly. Could he be a legilimens?
You knew he had the intelligence for it. He was intelligent enough that you were absolutely certain that, even though he didn't seem to hear a single word Professor Binns was saying, he already knew every annoying detail of this subject by heart.
Merlin, he had managed to perform and do ridiculously well in TWELVE O.W.L.s during the fifth year! Which is almost impossible to do, unless you're a damned time traveler, or someone with a level of intelligence and academic commitment that is destined for creatures of superhuman level.
You had your suspicions, and envy, thinking that perhaps he had access to a Time-Turner. But, since Time-Turners were only granted through a direct request from the Head of House to the Ministry, who fully trusted that the student would not use it recklessly, you ruled that possibility out almost immediately. No one in their right mind would trust that Barty Crouch Jr. would not use a Time-Turner to open rifts in space-time and permanently alter events of the past and future for purely selfish reasons, least of all the very sensible and intelligent Head of Ravenclaw House.
Which, of course, didn't help with the question of how he did it.
You yourself had fought tooth and nail, basically living like a living dead person throughout the school year to fit as many classes as possible into your free time during the day, and still managed to complete ten out of twelve O.W.L.s. Of course, at the time, you felt incredibly proud of this, since the standard was for a student, even the smartest, to only complete around seven or eight. Your pride, however, deflated considerably when you discovered that Barty Crouch, a guy with a questionable sense of humor and a worrying level of disinterest in seemingly anything that didn't have a pair of nice legs and a skirt, had surpassed you.
Indignation and envy aside, you felt like you were being pushed to the limit with these constant stares.
Pandora thought he was in love with you. An opinion that, respectfully, you laughed in her face when you heard. There was no way in hell that something like that would happen. Not only was Barty stupidly attractive and therefore completely out of your league - but the mere idea of someone being romantically interested in you made you feel...well, weird would almost be a descriptive enough word.
You didn’t want romance. You never really understood the appeal of it, not at such a young age. Love distracts, it makes people lose sight of the goal, it makes them silly and vulnerable. And you didn’t have time to be silly and vulnerable, not with the weight of so many responsibilities on your shoulders, with dreams and grand ambitions waiting for you in the future. And surely no guy who had trouble keeping himself from cumming as soon as he got in your pants would understand that well enough. You were used to keeping yourself apart, it was almost a defense mechanism at this point. While other girls your age were collecting love, you were collecting good grades in the classes. And that was okay.
Don’t get me wrong, you weren’t necessarily a pessimist (but you certainly weren’t someone who believed in anything; your mother always told you that there was more wisdom in proving it for yourself than in believing in mere whispered words here and there). You just didn’t really understand how this whole love thing could be remotely interesting at your age.
And anyone with half a functioning brain cell knows that Crouch is chaos incarnate: loud, mischievous, and impossible to ignore. He's determined to break every rule ever made by man, but somehow still manages to be absurdly endearing while doing it. It just makes you want to run — to hide. He's definitely the kind of trouble you try to avoid as much as possible in your life.
And that's why the possibility of him being in love with you was definitely not encouraged. In fact, you vehemently refused to even acknowledge it. Simply because it wasn't possible — by any means. Neither would he be interested in you in that way, and much less could you afford to accept any soft feelings from him, on the off chance that they were real. So you cling to the only coherent explanation for all this supposed interest of his: cruel intentions.
Yes, that had to be it.
And it's with that thought in mind that you hurriedly gather your things as soon as Professor Binns finally finishes his almost endless speech and dismisses the class.
You don't look to the side as leave the classroom with brisk steps, but feel his gaze following you anyway.
ii.
Regulus Black was very handsome.
Like, unfairly handsome.
You stare at the Slytherin with a fair amount of jealousy oozing from your pores, a pout on your lips and a furrowed brow. The guy, for his part, doesn’t even seem to be aware of your spiteful gaze upon him, taking elegant, measured bites of the chocolate pudding on his plate, nodding discreetly every now and then to agree with whatever his chatterbox neighbor is saying.
He clearly doesn’t want to engage in any conversation with the boy, but he’s too courteous and polite to make any rude comments about it. Because of course, he’s Regulus Black.
With his aristocratic nose elongated in an undeniably masculine way, but maintaining a delicate curve and a pert tip in a disturbingly cute way - the soft dusting of freckles over the bridge only intensifying the cuteness. His thick, dark eyebrows, drawn in a perfectly symmetrical arch. His pale, smooth skin like the most flawless marble sculpture. His beautiful, onyx curls, framing the sides of his face like he was some ethereal creature from a fairy tale. His eyes, deep-set and beautifully flickering between green and blue, surrounded by the most ridiculously thick curtain of dark lashes you’d ever seen on anyone. And that was just Regulus Black’s face. It was taking absolutely everything in you not to start a detailed analysis of his damn tall, ripped Seeker body.
Now, you hadn’t planned on spending the night cataloging how many unfair ways Regulus Black managed to be more pretty than any other boy you’d ever seen in your life — by Merlin, he was prettier than most GIRLS you’d ever seen, too. You definitely didn't plan on feeling completely humiliated by his appearance that night, as if you looked like you'd been beaten by a Whomping Willow and never recovered from it.
None of that was in the plan, but at some point during Professor Slughorn's endless ramblings and the pretentious comments from the students of this small and select club of supposedly exceptional young people, you found your mind wandering to unwanted places. Unfortunately, Regulus Black was the one sitting right in your line of sight, on the other side of the table - and the poor guy was the victim of your mental fixation to escape boredom.
At first, you saw Slughorn's invitation as an invaluable honor. After all, you had been included in the extremely selective list of the most promising students at Hogwarts. Your body practically vibrated with excitement in the days leading up to the meeting. You picked out a cute dress for the occasion, fixed your hair and even applied a light layer of makeup. Your expectations were admittedly high and you planned to leave the meeting with some good friends and a lot of extra knowledge in your pocket.
But the meeting was nothing like you imagined.
Yes, the students present were all exceptionally talented in one way or another, and the food was quite good too. But the whole thing proved to be nothing more than a parade of superiority and arrogance, so dull and unsatisfying that it drained your energy within the first few minutes.
Slughorn was genuinely proud of having assembled such a group of model young minds, but the students were only concerned with proving who was better than the other. There was no stimulating conversation and extra knowledge as you had imagined - it was just an irritating and inconvenient contest of who had the best and most absurd lived experiences (most of them made up, you were sure) and who, in fact, stood out with it.
You wanted to leave within the first fifteen minutes of this verbal ordeal, but forced yourself to stay for the sake of Professor Slughorn, who was genuinely elated by the whole thing.
Black and you were the only ones who hadn't shared any stories with the others, resigning yourselves to discreet and scattered comments here and there, just enough to let them know you were present.
To escape the absolute boredom, you let your mind wander. And that's how you ended up hyper-fixated on Regulus Black and his immaculate beauty. The Slytherin proved to be a very effective source of distraction, although his flawless face showed no emotion, remaining as expressionless as a doll - it was clear that the guy also wanted to get rid of this meeting urgently.
Your attention is only broken when a dramatic noise sounds at the entrance of the room, announcing someone's arrival.
Your eyes widen when you see none other than Barty Crouch Junior stumble into the room, spectacularly late. He smiles broadly at the alarmed looks at his indiscreet entrance, walking calmly with his hands in his pants pocket.
There must have been some mistake, you think in bewilderment as you watch him walk over to the table as if he belonged there.
Maybe he was just here to deliver a message?
Your hunch is proven wrong when he seems to notice your presence with a surprised look, his arrogant smile softening immediately to give way to a more natural, more sincere one. Even with a few options open, you sigh in no surprise when you hear him sit down in the empty chair next to yours, sliding in with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, as if he was destined from the start to end up sitting next to you tonight.
You refuse to look at him, turning your face downwards as you busy yourself with sinking the spoon into your own half-eaten chocolate pudding. His audacity to sit next to you only makes you more frustrated - it's not like you're sending out the least bit receptive vibes to his company.
"It's very good to have you with us, Crouch. Even if you arrived later than agreed. It's a shame, I'm afraid you missed some very interesting experiences from your colleagues."
You want to roll your eyes at what Slughorn says from the head of the table, hardly classifying any of those made-up nonsense as remotely interesting, but his presence beside you makes you too tense to do so.
"I'm sorry about that, Professor, I had to finish some important work before I came. I promise I'll be here on time next time."
There's not much sincere regret in Ravenclaw's voice, in fact you swear you can hear something mischievous in his words, which almost makes you want to lift your head to look at his expression.
But, determined as you are to ignore anything Barty would no doubt say to start a conversation, you tilt your head down a little more so that your hair partially hides your face, still showing great interest in the pudding. Crouch, breathing beside you, makes a small sound of confusion at the obvious walls you’ve been putting up, before the sound turns into something akin to amusement.
“You know, ignoring me isn’t going to make me leave,” he says cheerfully — far too cheerfully for someone who’s supposedly (and rightly so) being ignored on purpose.
His recognition of your intentions means you can’t keep up your charade any longer. So, with a heavy sigh, you peer through your hair, already knowing what to expect.
There, right next to you, casually sitting like he was the male protagonist of some clichéd, cheesy romance novel, Batry Crouch smiles.
You feel your eye twitch.
Unlike Regulus, with his ebony curls elegantly arranged around his face, Barty always had that look of someone who tossed and turned all night in bed and didn't even bother to use a comb when he woke up. Locks of light brown hair stuck out in every direction, a mess of strands as chaotic as absolutely everything about him. A few lighter strands stood out among the brown mess, oscillating in a rich shade of gold and honey. And oh Merlin, did the look suit him.
"You look so beautiful tonight. I like that dress on you." He comments, seemingly oblivious to what his words spoken out of absolute nothingness could do to you. Or perhaps very purposefully aware of them. "By the way, you always look beautiful so..."
He's waving his hand in the air as if to emphasize the point that those supposed good looks were normal for you. And of course you get really nervous. It's true, no matter how much you try to deny it to yourself. No matter how much you deny the reasons for being nervous either. You're just not used to compliments, from anyone. Yet you appreciate them very much. Not that you're ever going to admit it, especially to someone as unruly as Crouch.
But you're worried that ravenclaw will notice how nervous you really are anyway, Merlin knows that would only boost his ego and further intensify his apparent commitment to poking you in the most annoying ways. It's a colossal effort to try to calm yourself down while simultaneously trying to stop the blush that was forming on your face. But by heavens, it's really challenging to do so when he's staring at you so openly and intently - oh my, he really doesn't have any respect for the boundaries of proper social behavior, did he?
Your eyes sparkle, cheeks turning pinker as you stare at him with a mixture of shyness and a violent session of anger daggers from beneath your lashes. You’re visibly flustered the longer he stares at you (and unlike you, he’s very comfortable with it), your hands fidgeting with each other on the table in a nervous gesture, having long since given up on poking at the poor chocolate pudding.
Barty blinks briefly at your nervous gesture before returning his eyes to yours. “You know you look so cute when you’re all blushing like that,” he teases playfully. “You look like a little strawberry or something.”
You let out a low, uncomfortable meow in your throat, feeling like you could burst into a ball of flames at any moment. What kind of dysfunctional compliment is that? He’s so horrible at it!
“But then again, I’ve never seen you blush that much,” Barty continues as if the observation wasn’t completely humiliating and unnecessary, his head tilted closer to your flaming face with genuine interest. Your gut churns and protests, seemingly trying to eat itself. What’s with that damn look on his face anyway? “Wait…do I make you shy, princess?”
You hate him. You hate him so much, You swear to Merlin, Barty is the worst. He can’t let a girl blush without drawing undue attention to it?! Sure, it’s a little like baking in your dress from how hard your body is blushing, and yeah, maybe you’ve never reacted like that to anyone else — but that’s no big deal!
Except Barty’s looking at you like it is. Like he wants to cut you open, dissect your insides and see for himself just how deep your supposed secrets are, and it’s doing things to you.
Your face won’t stop burning. “What a stupid ideia, of course you don’t — of course I don’t…” Your sudden, complete inability to form a coherent sentence only makes you more frustrated. “Just shut up, Crouch.”
But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. This is Barty.
“If you’re going to lie about this, at least be convincing,” he smiles wider, a sickly sweet humming sound in his throat, as if the whole situation pleases him beyond words.
You frown, hissing through your teeth as you ball your hands into fists, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Stop smiling, idiot. This isn’t funny.”
The teasing glint in his blue eyes softens to something gentler at your discomfort.
“I’m not smiling to make fun of you little lion, believe me.”
Barty hums, lifting his hand from the table to reach out towards what appears to be, to your complete horror and shock, your face. Any naughty joke dies in your throat, your eyes widening in response, a blush creeping across your skin. A sharp gasp escapes your parted lips and you blink owlishly at those fingers so close to reaching your cheeks.
The boy freezes along with you, surprised by your reaction, his fingers frozen in midair as if he had been struck by a Glacius. You barely notice, though. All you can hear is the anxious beating of your own heart, the electricity that seems to crackle from the fingertips that threaten to brush against your skin.
He’s not…he shouldn’t be touching you. And he’s not, in fact. But then why does that make you feel suddenly dazed and pliable like long-whipped cream? It’s almost a disappointment that he hasn’t extinguished those last few inches and touched your flaming cheeks. You almost regret not knowing what his fingers would feel like on your skin.
What?
The thought comes so quickly, so naturally, that it almost makes you jump.
“Huh...” He breathes and you blink pathetically, coming back to the present with a startled expression and hands strangely damp with cold, nervous sweat. His eyes grow curiously darker, and he realizes, you know he does, you know the exact moment he understands something that not even you are willing to acknowledge, and holy shit, no. Just—no. No.
And when you turn your face away to escape that undesirably intense eye contact (and the equally undesirably feelings that come with it), you realize that damn Regulus Black has finally gotten tired of pretending to pay attention to what the boy next to him is saying. Because now his attention is completely focused on you and Barty and the strange exchange that just happened.
He’s wearing what you’d initially think is a completely neutral expression, but a closer look reveals the slight lift of his eyebrow as he slowly, appraisingly slides his eyes between you and Barty, as if silently contemplating something. For some stupid reason, as he stares at you like that, you feel a lot like a child caught by mom doing something their shouldn’t. He seems to find whatever he’s looking for when he allows a small, almost imperceptible smirk to lift the left corner of his lip, his sharp gaze shining with far more mischief than you’d expect from someone as emotionally distant as him.
You silently wish the ground would open up and swallow you right there, taking you to the deepest abyss - or any fucking place where you can just forget this whole thing ever happened. Your face is so heated with humiliation that you can literally feel your cheeks tingling with red, which only makes Regulus’s smirk grow a little wider.
Your resentment towards Barty Crouch Jr and his colossal guilt in this unspeakable situation grows along with that stupid grin.
“I’m leaving,” you announce abruptly, much louder than necessary, glad that Slughorn is now too engrossed in a conversation with a Hufflepuff in the far corner of the room to notice your cowardly and untimely exit. Before you do, however, you narrow your gaze at Barty while practically hissing through your teeth. “And, by Merlin, you better forget this whole thing ever happened or I swear I’ll spell you and make you vomit slugs all weekend, Crouch. I’m just going to — damn, just...bye.”
And then you’re off, without even allowing the ravenclaw to answer you — he’s already said too much, anyway.
Your stubborn gryffindor streak is trying too hard to sugarcoat the situation and convince you that this was a brave and completely strategic exit, to avoid more trouble. But the truth is, it's just you running, shamelessly running away with your tail between your legs while you can still feel Barty Crouch's gaze burning into the back of your neck and Regulus Black's annoyingly knowing smirk etched into your mind the entire way.
iii.
You never neglected your duties as Head Girl, ever.
So it was extremely unusual that you, on your patrol night, would be hiding in a dark, secluded alcove with a gray cat curled up on your lap while you cried everything you hadn’t cried in longer than you could remember.
You supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later, given the circumstances. But it was really inconvenient that it was on the night of your patrol.
A few days ago you received an owl from your parents with the news that your aunt, probably the person you loved most in the world, had passed away. Despite your intense feelings for her and the absolute shock of reading the letter, you didn’t shed a single tear. Not that night and not in the nights that followed. You grieved, of course; silently and internally. But for a moment you truly believed that this was it - this was all the grief you would ever feel.
Maybe you felt things differently than other people. Maybe you didn’t need to wallow in grief and tears like most people tended to do during their mourning.
And then, as you were patrolling the halls earlier that night, you spotted a cat approaching. At first, there was nothing special about it; cats were everywhere in the castle. Except this cat, furry and gray and with the smug air of someone who was countless miles above you in the social hierarchy, was almost identical to the cat your beloved aunt had kept. The same cat you spent the summers teasing, fluffing its soft, well-groomed fur while the animal gave you its best utter scornful glare — your aunt’s laughter ringing in the background, amused and affectionate.
And that was it.
Before you even realized what was happening, you felt the first tears roll down your cheeks, chest shaking with a shaky sob that fought to escape your lips. Like a burst dam, you felt something break inside you, intense and abrupt. There was no way to control the torrent of emotions that threatened to suffocate you, all you could do was run to find a place where no one could witness your collapse.
The cat, surprisingly, followed your hurried steps all the way, settling between your ankles as soon as you found a safe alcove, wrapping its long tail around your legs as you slid down the wall until you fell to the floor. You cried and sobbed and it purred the whole time; its soft, furry little body rubbing against your skin in a strangely comforting way. It made you feel a little better with its presence, the way it went out of its way to keep you company - as it knew it would do you good at that moment.
Small sobs escape your lips and the weight on your chest threatens to suffocate you for a moment and you choke, covering your mouth.
It's clear that this is undoubtedly a dramatic and unfortunate consequence of trying to internalize your feelings as you always do. But the worst thing is knowing that, when this sudden storm of emotions passes, you'll do it again. Because that's what you always do with your feelings. Run and hide.
The only consolation is knowing that no one other than the poor cat who had the misfortune of crossing your path (or would it be the opposite?) is witnessing this embarrassing moment. You're alone.
At least you think you're alone — until you're not anymore.
The flames in the braziers arranged on the stone walls cast shadows on the floor as someone approaches. And you don't need to look up to know who it is. There's no need to, because you feel the weight of his gaze, the same impossible-to-ignore gaze as always. You know it's Crouch without a doubt and you don't want to be seen like this. Not by anyone, but certainly not by him.
This seems to be enough of a motivator for the cry to die in your throat and suddenly your focus is solely on getting away of here. Get away from him. You need air, space, something.
You stand on shaky legs so fast you feel dizzy, your balance already precarious from the headache from crying so much, and the impact makes you stumble. For a split second, you think you might fall — your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts — and then a strong hand grabs your wrist, another braces on your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground. The cat running away during the confusion.
You don’t process what happens immediately, the abrupt turn and your own reeling mind making it hard to form a coherent judgment. Your mind is still stuck on running away and I can’t breathe, and it takes a second to realize that Barty is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful on your body, his expression wavering between amusement and concern.
“Hey hey little lion, what’s the rush?” He teases as always, but his voice loses its careless tone as he seems to get a better look at your face. And you can only imagine the shitty visual you’re giving off. The flames on the walls highlighting the wet trail of tears on your flushed cheeks, your eyes puffy and red from crying, teeth sinking into a quivering bottom lip, hair messy around your face. You look like hell, and you know it.
It doesn’t help that Barty is still examining your face, his eyes narrowing beneath heavy brows that furrow together.
You pull away from him, a little too quickly, a little too abruptly.
“I’m fine.” You spit before he can elaborate on whatever it is that’s on his mind.
Crouch doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?Because honestly, princess, It's not what it seems.” He tilts his head to get a better look at you. "Did someone hurt you? Tell me who made you feel like this, please, I swear I-"
"I said I'm fine." You cut off the endless stream of words, looking down as you adjust your shirt against your body, shifting the weight to your other foot, ignoring the new wave of tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. In the same way that you purposefully ignore how his readiness to solve whatever it is that made you feel so bad makes you feel...things. "Go bother someone else, Crouch."
Barty exhales, something heavy in the sound. You look up at the sound, almost uncomfortable with the change. For the first time, his blue eyes aren't filled with that same joy or mischief its always had. Just something inquisitive, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don't have the strength to deal with right now.
"Why...why do you do this?" he asks, softer now, but no less intense. Your brows furrow in confusion at the question, eyes still bright with unshed tears. He sighs, giving you a look that is nothing short of wistful. “Why do you try so hard to pretend that you don’t need anyone to care? You always act like you carry the whole world on your own and you’re doing just fine.”
Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips tighten. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge how close his words are to the truth. Your throat tightens.
“Why do you care?”
Barty lets out a sigh, tilting his head slightly, his eyes scanning your face as if you’re something he’s trying very hard to decipher. Then he laughs, low and humorless.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” His voice is lower now, something dangerously close to vulnerability. Your fists clench to the point of pain at your sides. “I care because it’s you.”
You blink at him, unable to understand, unable to accept whatever it is he’s trying to tell you. In fact, something inside you whispers that you do. But it feels like too much, like more than you can handle, more than you can comprehend. You feel impossible, a being made of knots and thorns, too tight in your own skin.
“Please,” you sigh then, tired and tearful, the next wave of tears finally spilling over your waterline to run down your wet cheeks, “let’s not do this now…I just, please—”
“Shhh,” he silences your incoherent protest as he pulls you closer with a firm but still gentle tug on your wrist. Your head sinks into the hard planes of his chest as you follow the pull with the naturalness of a wooden doll, your eyes wide and still leaking water — because, Merlin, he’s hugging you.
Your nose is buried in the white dress shirt of his uniform, and the first thing you notice is how strangely good he feels. Warm and comfortable against the chilly wind that blows in through the hallway’s openings, smelling like the wood that fuels the flames of the many fireplaces around the castle’s many and the fresh mint of the tea you drink before bed. And you don’t know what to do with it, what you’re supposed to be doing here. Your body is stiff and trembling as he gently wraps his arms around you, as if you’re something priceless, leaning in so he can bury his nose in the roots of your hair.
“Relax.”
And as if that small, whispered ‘relax’ was all you needed to pull yourself out of your own mind, you slowly feel every muscle beneath your flesh give way and do exactly what he asked; your body relaxing against his, doe eyes blinking against the softness of his shirt, lips parted as you let his presence comfort you.
He feels safe, trustworthy. And it’s so rare that you feel this way that even though you know it would be over in an instant, you don’t want to, and it doesn’t matter, and…your fingers ache to touch him back. It feels like a lifetime before you allow yourself to and you’re returning it. You wrap your arms around his waist to hug his back, gripping the fabric under your hands so tightly it hurts, but you can’t bring yourself to let go, face sinking into his chest to sob some more. Please, don’t make him let go.
“It’s okay, we’ll have time to talk later,” he murmurs into your hair, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he doesn’t. He lets you cry and sob into his shirt, completely ruining it in the process. But Barty doesn’t care, not even when you sniffle and move to pull away after realizing how messy you’ve been. He just mumbles, 'It's okay, princess, I just want to help you feel better' - something that makes you blush and cry a little more. Because, good heavens, no one has ever said something like that to you.
At one point, you realize that you're both sitting on the floor, his back against the wall and you're half-sitting on the floor, between his legs, face still against his chest - feeling his deep, even breathing calm you down.
By the time tears stop falling, you're exhausted. You've been exhausted for so long, but this kind of exhaustion is different. Better. You realize that you're lighter now than you've felt in a long time, thanks to Barty Crouch Junior. And you...don't know how you feel about that.
And you're too exhausted to think about it.
But you do know one thing.
You don't hate this comfortable contact with him. You don't hate his fingers gently combing through your hair, untangling knots you didn't even know were there. You don't hate his whispers close to your ear, reciting the name of every constellation visible in the dark sky.
You certainly don't hate this moment of peace, a white flag you've raised to wave lazily between the two of you.
When you pull away some time later, struggling to smooth out your wrinkled skirt and shirt, you mumble a thank you to him with heated cheeks and shy eyes. And when he smiles back with his hands in his pockets and head tilted to the side, telling you not to mind, that it was nothing - and you freeze, feeling...
Disappointed?
It was nothing, really. This could never be anything other than 'nothing'. But for some reason, hearing that from him hits you in a completely unexpected and senseless way.
He notices the change in the shine in your eyes, rushing to rephrase what he said with a series of 'wait, that came out wrong' and 'please, I didn't mean it like that'. But you calm him down, assuring him that everything was fine and that it really was nothing, he’s more than right about it.
Before he can argue with that, you’re walking, smiling over your shoulder as you bid him a hasty goodnight before rushing off to your dorm.
barty is the kid in school who would always say "oh my god i totally failed that test" and get 100% or be like "my grades are so bad" but have a 4.8 gpa
I love slytherin Barty who was always kinda crazy and joined the death eaters to defy his dad but there’s a special place in my heart for raven claw Barty who only joined the death eaters because he wanted to protect Evan and regulus and went insane when they died
ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan ravenclaw barty and slytherin evan
Contrary to popular belief, I do not have a problem with ravenclaw Pandora. I have a problem with Pandora being the ONLY ravenclaw in the Skittles. Now Barty and Pandora both being ravenclaws and being friends first before Pandora introduces her bff Barty to her brother and his friends… that I can get behind.
Also Pandora CONSTANTLY tries to set Barty up with Evan, and Evan is like “yeah sure I mean he’s cute or whatever”, meanwhile Barty is weirdly resistant to the idea because he’s never had a long term relationship and what if it doesn’t work out and what if Pandora won’t want to hang out with him anymore if he breaks up with her brother, but then Evan just kisses him and he knows he’s absolutely gone for him.
