Okay, I know it's not the best snow animation in the world but hey, let's pretend it works and we'll have a magic cover xD I'm still happy, even if it's not perfect! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°
The Black family townhouse was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.
Not peaceful.
Never peaceful.
Just empty.
The kind of empty that creaked.
The kind that watched.
The old ancestral house sat hunched against the grey London sky like a corpse dressed in silk, all dark windows and iron gates and heavy velvet curtains swallowing the weak summer sunlight whole. Portraits muttered behind walls. Floorboards groaned beneath nobody’s feet. Somewhere deep in the house, pipes rattled like old bones.
And right in the middle of it all, sprawled across the enormous leather sofa in the drawing room with his shirt half-unbuttoned and smoke curling lazily from between his fingers—
Regulus Black grinned.
“Merlin,” he said lazily, exhaling toward the ceiling. “I love being unsupervised.”
Barty Crouch Jr. snorted from where he lounged against the armchair opposite him, boots kicked up on the antique coffee table like he was trying to personally offend every dead Black ancestor at once.
Which, to be fair, he probably was.
“You’re evil,” Barty informed him.
Regulus looked delighted by the accusation.
“I know.”
He looked gorgeous saying it, too.
All sharp pale skin and dark curls falling into his eyes, stretched out lazily in expensive pureblood heirloom silk while holding a lit joint between elegant fingers like he’d been born for decadence. His cheeks were faintly pink already, pupils blown wide from the weed, expression soft around the edges in a way he’d never allow at Hogwarts.
At Hogwarts he was composed.
Controlled.
Perfect.
Here?
Here there was nobody watching.
No teachers.
No reporters.
No parents.
No Sirius.
Especially no Sirius.
Which meant Regulus Black could finally fucking breathe.
Barty watched him with openly hungry eyes.
“Y’know,” Barty said conversationally, reaching for the bottle of firewhisky beside him, “your family’s terrifying.”
Regulus barked a laugh.
“Only now noticing?”
“No, I noticed when your mother threatened to skin me alive for sitting wrong.”
“She says that to everyone.”
“She called me a diseased little rodent.”
“She says that to everyone too.”
Barty took another drink.
“Comforting.”
Regulus smirked and stretched like a cat across the sofa.
“You survived. Congratulations.”
Barty’s eyes dragged slowly over him.
“Barely.”
The air between them thickened.
Heavy.
Warm.
Smoke curling through dim summer light.
Regulus noticed the look immediately and grinned like he’d won something.
Which he probably thought he had.
Regulus loved being underestimated.
It was his favourite thing in the world.
Sirius had always been the spectacle.
The heir.
The rebel.
The runaway.
The scandal.
Every newspaper article screamed Sirius Black’s name in bold ink like he was the centre of the fucking universe.
Sirius Black disowned by noble family.
Sirius Black sorted into Gryffindor.
Sirius Black seen with blood traitors.
Sirius Black this.
Sirius Black that.
Meanwhile Regulus sat quietly in the background smiling politely while nobody paid him a second glance.
It was perfect.
Nobody watched the spare.
Nobody cared enough to.
Which meant nobody noticed when Regulus slipped out at night.
Nobody noticed when he smoked.
Nobody noticed when he skipped pureblood events.
Nobody noticed when Barty Crouch Jr. started sneaking into his bedroom.
And nobody—
Absolutely nobody—
Had noticed that the Minister of Magic’s son had his tongue halfway down Regulus Black’s throat on a regular basis.
Regulus adored it.
The secrecy.
The irony.
The sheer fucking audacity of it.
If the papers ever found out?
God.
The scandal alone might kill half the Wizengamot.
The Black spare and Barty fucking Crouch Jr.
Regulus nearly laughed every time he thought about it.
“You’re doing that smug thing again,” Barty accused.
Regulus blinked lazily at him.
“What smug thing?”
“That thing where you look like the human embodiment of a secret.”
Regulus burst into laughter.
“You say the sweetest things.”
Barty rolled his eyes, though he was smiling.
His hair was dyed again.
Dark at the roots but streaked violently through with faded red and black, messy curls hanging around pierced ears glittering silver in the low light. Tattoos crawled up his arms beneath rolled sleeves, ink disappearing beneath rings and chains and sharp bitten knuckles.
He looked nothing like the Minister’s son.
Not anymore.
Not since he’d decided being disappointing was more fun.
Regulus thought he looked gorgeous.
“You’re staring,” Barty said softly.
Regulus didn’t even bother denying it.
“Yeah.”
Barty’s expression shifted instantly.
Dangerous.
Warm.
Obsessed.
“C’mere then.”
Regulus went willingly.
Of course he did.
He slid off the sofa and into Barty’s lap in one smooth movement, straddling him easily while Barty’s hands settled immediately on his hips like they belonged there.
Which they did.
Regulus sighed happily as Barty tilted his head back to kiss him.
Slow at first.
Lazy.
Smoke and firewhisky and sharp teeth.
Then deeper.
Hungrier.
Barty kissed like he was trying to start fights with God.
All greedy mouth and rough hands and low pleased noises in the back of his throat every time Regulus moved against him.
Regulus adored it.
He tangled fingers into Barty’s curls and kissed him harder.
“Fuck,” Barty muttered against his mouth.
Regulus grinned into the kiss.
“Romantic.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Barty bit his lower lip hard enough to make him gasp.
“There,” Barty said smugly. “Solved.”
Regulus laughed breathlessly.
“You’re a dick.”
“Yeah,” Barty murmured, dragging his mouth along Regulus’s jaw slowly, “and you’re obsessed with me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Tragic.”
“Really devastating.”
Barty’s hands tightened on his hips.
Regulus shifted in his lap.
Not subtle.
Very deliberately grinding down.
Barty inhaled sharply.
Regulus smirked instantly.
There it is.
Barty was already hard beneath him.
Warm and heavy through his trousers where Regulus pressed directly against him, slow grinding movements pulling rough little breaths from the taller boy’s throat.
Regulus loved this part.
Loved watching Barty lose composure.
Loved teasing him until he went half-feral.
Barty grabbed his hips harder.
“Reg.”
Regulus only rolled his hips again.
Slow.
Pressure dragging right against Barty’s cock through both their trousers.
“Fuck,” Barty hissed.
Regulus’s own breath caught a little at the friction.
Pleasure sparked low in his stomach instantly, warm and dizzying, and he pressed closer automatically, grinding his pussy against Barty through the fabric while Barty’s head fell back against the chair with a low groan.
“Careful,” Barty muttered darkly.
Regulus leaned down until their mouths were barely apart.
“Or what?”
Barty’s pupils looked enormous.
“You know exactly fucking what.”
Regulus grinned.
Smug little thing.
“Maybe I like seeing you lose it.”
“Oh, you definitely do.”
Barty kissed him again, rougher this time.
Hands roaming.
Possessive.
One dragging beneath Regulus’s shirt against warm skin while the other stayed clamped hard on his hip guiding every movement.
Regulus moaned softly into his mouth as he rolled against him again.
And again.
Building friction.
Building heat.
The room smelled like smoke and expensive cologne and summer sweat.
Outside the windows, London traffic hummed faintly somewhere far below.
Inside?
The world had narrowed down to this.
To Barty’s hands.
To Barty’s mouth.
To the hard length pressing between his legs every time he moved.
Regulus pulled back just enough to look at him.
Barty looked wrecked already.
Flushed cheeks.
Swollen lips.
Hair messy from Regulus yanking on it.
Perfect.
Regulus smiled sweetly.
Then deliberately ground down harder.
Barty swore violently.
“There he is,” Regulus teased softly. “Missed that.”
“You’re actually evil.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
Barty stared at him for one long moment before laughing breathlessly.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
Regulus leaned close enough to brush their noses together.
“I think I do.”
Then he kissed him again.
Hard.
Messy.
Barty groaned into his mouth and hauled him closer until there wasn’t space left between them at all.
Regulus could feel every reaction he pulled from him.
Every twitch.
Every sharp inhale.
Every desperate tightening of Barty’s hands against his body.
It made him feel drunk with power.
“Fuck me properly already,” Regulus whispered against his mouth with a smug little smile.
Barty froze.
Actually froze.
Then his expression went dangerously blank.
“Oh,” Barty said quietly.
Regulus felt a thrill go straight down his spine.
There it is.
Barty’s hands slid slowly up his thighs.
“Careful what you ask for, Black.”
Regulus just grinned wider.
“Make me regret it then.”
Barty kissed him hard enough to steal the breath from his lungs—
And the drawing room lights flickered once against dark velvet walls as smoke curled lazy and silver through the ancient house.
-
The wizarding newspapers lost their collective fucking minds three days later.
Not quietly, either.
No.
It was catastrophic.
Absolute social annihilation splashed across glossy moving front pages in violently animated black ink.
The first issue hit breakfast tables at six in the morning.
By seven, every owl delivery service in Britain was overwhelmed.
By eight, half the pureblood population was allegedly “deeply distressed.”
By nine, copies were being secretly passed around Hogwarts dormitories like contraband.
And right there on the front page of The Daily Prophet beneath massive screaming silver letters was a moving photograph of Regulus Black straddling Barty Crouch Jr. in the alley behind some dingy London club.
Barty was sitting sprawled on the seat of his motorbike, leather jacket half-open and cigarette hanging from his mouth while Regulus sat in his lap kissing him hard enough to make the photograph blur slightly with movement.
One of Barty’s hands was fully up the back of Regulus’s shirt.
The other was gripping his thigh.
Regulus, meanwhile, looked devastatingly smug about the entire thing.
The headline read:
BLACK FAMILY SPARE CAUGHT WITH MINISTER’S SON
And below it:
Regulus Black, previously overshadowed younger brother of disowned heir Sirius Black, appears to be involved in an ongoing scandalous relationship with Bartemius Crouch Junior — son of Minister Barty Crouch Senior.
The article got progressively more hysterical from there.
There were paragraphs about “moral impropriety.”
Paragraphs about “concerning rebellious behaviour.”
One columnist described Barty as “visibly corrupted by alternative culture, piercings, illicit substances, and degenerate social circles.”
Another described Regulus as “surprisingly bold for such a quiet young man.”
That particular sentence had a photograph beneath it of Regulus sitting directly on Barty’s lap outside a nightclub, head thrown back laughing while Barty bit slowly at his throat with absolutely zero shame whatsoever.
The magical photograph looped endlessly.
Laugh.
Bite.
Laugh again.
Someone had circled the visible hickey on Regulus’s neck in red ink for the print edition.
The public went feral.
Then Witch Weekly published theirs.
Which was worse.
Much worse.
Because unlike The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly did not give a single fuck about pretending to have journalistic dignity.
Their front page looked like scandalised fanfiction.
PUREBLOOD PRINCE GONE WILD?
Underneath was a full-page collage of moving photographs.
Regulus smoking while sitting on Barty’s bike.
Barty pulling Regulus into his lap outside a pub.
Regulus wearing Barty’s leather jacket with nothing underneath except jewellery and bruises.
One blurry shot of them pressed against a brick wall kissing so hard Barty’s hand was visibly under Regulus’s shirt.
And then—
The photo.
The one everyone kept talking about.
The one being whispered about in drawing rooms and passed under desks and hidden beneath pillows.
The one that got several aristocratic pureblood wives to fake fainting spells at brunch.
The photograph was grainier than the others, clearly taken from far away.
Night-time.
A side street somewhere in London.
Barty’s motorbike parked crooked beneath a flickering streetlamp.
Regulus sat on the bike seat, legs spread slightly, head tipped back against the handlebars with his curls a complete mess.
He very obviously was not wearing trousers.
Or underwear.
One of Barty’s jackets had been half-thrown over Regulus’s lap, obscuring the actual view enough to keep the paper barely publishable, but there was absolutely no ambiguity whatsoever about what was happening.
Especially not because Barty was on his knees between Regulus’s thighs.
One tattooed hand gripping Regulus’s bare leg.
The other hooked beneath the jacket.
His mouth very visibly buried between Regulus’s legs while Regulus’s fingers tangled hard in his hair.
The moving photograph looped in horrifyingly clear motions.
Barty pulling Regulus closer.
Regulus arching sharply.
Head tipped back.
Mouth open.
One shaking breath.
Then loop.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The caption beneath it simply read:
MINISTER’S SON SPOTTED IN EXPLICIT ENCOUNTER WITH BLACK HEIR
Which was technically incorrect.
Regulus was not the heir.
But apparently half the press had forgotten Sirius existed for the first time in their lives.
Another article gleefully pointed this out.
FROM INVISIBLE SPARE TO SOCIETY OBSESSION
The article itself was even worse.
It dissected Regulus like prey.
His appearance.
His grades.
His social circles.
His relationship with Sirius.
His sudden “dramatic transformation.”
One reporter wrote:
“For years Regulus Black has remained largely ignored by both society and the press in favour of his older brother Sirius Black’s increasingly public rebellion. However, recent events suggest the younger Black brother may have been engaging in considerably more shocking behaviour away from public scrutiny.”
Another newspaper ran with:
BARTY CROUCH JR: REBELLIOUS PHASE OR POLITICAL DISASTER?
And included photographs of:
Barty smoking outside clubs
Barty flipping off photographers
Regulus laughing beside him
Barty carrying Regulus over his shoulder at three in the morning
Regulus wearing Barty’s rings
Matching bite marks
Matching bruises
Barty with lipstick smeared across his throat in the exact shade Regulus wore at a gala two weeks prior
Someone even published a timeline.
A full fucking timeline.
Tracking every known sighting of them together over the last year.
There were circles.
Arrows.
Annotations.
One paper confidently declared:
THEY HAVE LIKELY BEEN SECRETLY INVOLVED FOR MONTHS
Another corrected it the next morning with:
SOURCES CLAIM RELATIONSHIP MAY HAVE BEEN GOING ON FOR YEARS
The public ate it alive.
Especially because neither of them denied a single fucking thing.
If anything, the next photographs got worse.
Barty openly smirking at cameras now.
Regulus lounging on the back of his bike with sunglasses on while holding up two fingers at the paparazzi.
One spectacularly disastrous front-page image captured Barty dragging Regulus into an alley by the belt loops while Regulus laughed so hard he nearly dropped his cigarette.
The headline beneath it simply read:
CAUGHT AGAIN.
-
The morning started peacefully.
Which, in hindsight, should have been everyone’s first warning sign.
Sunlight spilled gold across the kitchen windows of Potter Manor, warming the old wooden table buried beneath plates of toast, jars of marmalade, half-finished tea, and the remains of whatever monstrous breakfast Fleamont Potter had decided constituted “a light meal.”
James was halfway through his third helping.
Sirius was lounging sideways in his chair with one sock missing and his hair still a disaster from sleep, stealing bacon directly off James’s plate while Euphemia pretended not to notice.
Fleamont sat hidden behind the morning paper muttering darkly about Ministry taxes.
It was domestic.
Quiet.
Normal.
Then the owls arrived.
Too many owls.
James looked up immediately.
“Oh, someone’s in trouble.”
Sirius grinned lazily without even looking.
“Probably me.”
Three newspapers landed directly in front of him.
The Daily Prophet.
Witch Weekly.
And The Evening Oracle.
All three had BLACK in massive screaming letters across the front page.
Sirius snorted.
“There we are,” he said smugly, reaching for his tea. “Knew it’d be something.”
James leaned over immediately.
“What’ve you done now?”
“Nothing recently,” Sirius said proudly.
“That’s worse somehow.”
“Thank you.”
Sirius grabbed the nearest paper one-handed, still completely relaxed.
“Let’s see what flavour of public menace I am toda—”
He stopped.
Dead.
James blinked.
“…Pads?”
Sirius didn’t answer.
Which was alarming.
Because Sirius Black always answered.
Usually loudly.
Instead he stared at the newspaper with the expression of a man witnessing divine horror.
James leaned closer.
“What?”
Nothing.
Sirius made a strangled sound.
James frowned harder and snatched the paper directly from his hands.
There was a beat of silence.
Then another.
Then—
James choked.
Actually fucking choked.
Tea went everywhere.
“Oh my fucking GOD—”
Sirius lunged across the table instantly.
“DON’T READ IT OUT LOUD—”
Too late.
James was already wheezing.
“REGULUS?!” James shouted, voice cracking violently. “REGULUS?!”
Euphemia looked up sharply from her tea.
“Language.”
“No, Mum, ignore the language, REGULUS—”
Fleamont lowered his paper.
“What about Regulus?”
James shoved the newspaper toward them with shaking hands while laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
“Oh my God,” James wheezed. “OH MY GOD.”
Euphemia adjusted her glasses delicately.
Then froze.
“…Oh.”
Fleamont leaned over her shoulder.
“…OH.”
Meanwhile Sirius looked moments away from spiritual collapse.
“This is not happening,” he said weakly.
James was crying laughing now.
Literally crying.
“Oh this is the best day of my LIFE.”
“JAMES.”
“NO, LOOK AT HIM—”
James slapped the moving photograph dramatically.
Regulus, sitting in Barty’s lap outside a club, grinning lazily while Barty kissed down his throat.
The image looped.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Sirius made a noise like a dying animal.
“That’s my BROTHER.”
James looked delighted.
“That’s Barty Crouch Junior’s tongue on your brother’s neck.”
“I CAN SEE THAT.”
“Oh this is unbelievable.”
Sirius grabbed at his hair.
“No no no no no no—”
James flipped the page.
Then screamed.
“Oh, FUCK OFF.”
Sirius immediately looked terrified.
“What.”
James looked up slowly.
His grin turned downright evil.
“Oh, Pads.”
“What.”
“Oh, you’re gonna hate this one.”
“James.”
“Pads.”
“James.”
James turned the newspaper around.
Sirius saw the motorbike photo.
And the world ended.
“OH MY FUCKING GOD.”
Euphemia inhaled tea wrong.
Fleamont went violently red.
James collapsed sideways in hysterics.
“THAT’S REGULUS?!” Sirius yelled in absolute horror.
“THAT is very much Regulus,” James confirmed gleefully.
“WHY WOULD THEY PRINT THAT?!”
“Because it sells papers!”
“HE’S BARE ARSED ON A MOTORBIKE!”
“And Barty’s eating him out behind a leather jacket,” James added helpfully.
“JAMES.”
“I’M JUST DESCRIBING THE PHOTO.”
Sirius looked seconds away from climbing directly into the fireplace and vanishing permanently.
“Oh my GOD.”
James wiped tears from his face.
“Honestly? Fair play to him.”
“FAIR PLAY?!”
“I didn’t know he had that in him!”
“That’s because you weren’t supposed to know!”
“Well the entirety of magical Britain knows now.”
Sirius groaned so hard it sounded painful.
James, meanwhile, was still staring at the newspaper like it was the greatest artistic achievement of the century.
“…You know,” he said thoughtfully.
“No.”
“Half the wizarding world is definitely using this as jerking material.”
“JAMES.”
“I’m serious.”
“STOP TALKING.”
“That motorbike photo?” James continued conversationally. “Christ. People are gonna lose their minds over that.”
Sirius looked ready to commit homicide.
James grinned wider.
“Honestly, I might save that one for later myself.”
“YOU ARE NOT JERKING OFF TO MY BROTHER.”
“Why not?”
“WHY NOT?!”
“Pads, your brother is objectively fit.”
Sirius gagged dramatically.
“And Barty’s apparently got skills,” James added, still examining the photograph critically. “Good for him.”
“STOP LOOKING AT IT.”
“I’m studying the composition.”
“You are studying NOTHING.”
James ignored him completely.
“Actually, y’know what’s really shocking?”
“That THIS EXISTS?”
“No, that Barty pulled Regulus.”
Sirius stared at him in outrage.
James gestured wildly at the paper.
“Look at him! Regulus is hot as fuck.”
Sirius covered his face with both hands.
“And Barty,” James continued thoughtfully, “is an absolute freak.”
“THANK YOU.”
“So honestly? Good for him.”
“JAMES.”
“I mean I’m a little jealous.”
Sirius looked betrayed beyond words.
“Not of Regulus,” James clarified quickly. “Of Barty.”
Sirius stared blankly.
James pointed at the paper again.
“Look at your brother.”
“I DON’T WANT TO.”
“I’m just saying if I looked like that I’d also have people on their knees for me.”
Fleamont abruptly started coughing into his tea.
Euphemia pinched the bridge of her nose.
James leaned back in his chair looking deeply entertained.
“Honestly I might flirt with him when we get back to Hogwarts.”
Sirius’s head snapped up.
“You’ll do fucking WHAT?”
James shrugged innocently.
“What? Maybe he’ll let me ride the bike too.”
“JAMES.”
“Maybe Barty shares.”
“JAMES.”
“Maybe Regulus likes Gryffindors now.”
Sirius launched a piece of toast directly at his head.
James ducked, cackling.
“Oh, he’s protective now!”
“That is my BABY BROTHER.”
“Your baby brother is apparently getting railed against motorbikes in public.”
Sirius screamed into his hands while James nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
I like to imagine this is Snarry and so when Harry went to the photoshoot he asked Snape to go for support -which is really just snarky comments to make Harry laugh- and the picture they chose is the one where Harry looks off to the side at Snape💚
I've been using Pinterest pose references and cool guy photos as reference and found one with this getup and decided I needed to draw it so bam! Enjoy 💚🐍💚
Psst...should I make a Snape Witch Weekly or Potions Quarterly cover?
i LOOOVE when all those wild ideas about ginny and Molly drugging Harry with love potions from a Certain Strain of Fanon get turned into witch weekly trash rumors in fic
A Statement from the Readers of Witch Weekly, Upon the Occasion of the Potter-Malfoy Wedding
We knew the first time we saw them together in public, of course! Well. Some of us knew. Some of us were still insisting the poor boy was straight, which anyone with a Witch Weekly subscription should have known was nonsense. Take that photograph on page two, November 3, 2001. We can remember it like it was yesterday, the way he was looking at Charlie Weasley on the dancefloor! His eyes were hotter than all those laser lights bouncing around! Well, and who wouldn’t look at Charlie Weasley like that? “Because he was reminded of Ginevra,” our broomsticks!
Excuse us. Some of us are a little excitable, due to the occasion.
We were saying: it was clear as a sunny day in January, those boys were head over heels on their first re-encounter. We saw all we needed to, there on page one! Among the dozen pictures from the opening of the new hospital wing, the way their gazes caught and clashed! The way their eyes kept dropping to each other's lips! And then— heads together, tilted close to hear amid what surely was a din of conversation, as if they were the only two in the world. Now that is romance, right there on the glossy page for anyone to see. And what could be more interesting than that?
So it was hardly surprising, to us, of course, when we saw them together again three issues later. We had debated it hotly in the meantime: where would they go? A formal date, a paparazzi shot of one leaving the other’s home in the early hours? A casual encounter easily explained? When we tell you, not a one of us could have predicted— except yes, fine, except Amelia, but her sight isn’t strong enough to see the biscuits in the tin half the time, so none of us listen to Amelia— well. Who, now honestly who, (besides Amelia) could have predicted the Scene at the Harpies Match?
And what a scene! Many of us screamed when we saw it! Four dozen of us dropped our tea cups and had to wait for our hands to stop shaking before we cast Reparo. Others bit our own hands nearly hard enough to draw blood, and Cuthbert fainted dead away onto a blessedly convenient chaise. That first image, the quick glances when they thought no one was looking, just missing each other's eyes over and over! The way the wind ruffled their hair, and that extra inch of throat from an open collar. That would have been enough to keep us going for another week, surely! But there was more.
Angry faces, flushed cheeks, and then! The way he stood up so quickly and strode out (on those legs, Merlin keep us), and the way he jumped up to follow! And of course. The pièce de résistance, which of course you would have seen: the confrontation against the wall of the stadium, braced against each other, furious, and— excuse us while we sigh— the Kiss.
After that it was full speed ahead, wasn’t it? We were witnessing a love story for the ages.
