(no subject)
Title: Nothing
Type: Slash
Genre: ANGST. With a side of sexing.
Pairing: Severus/Barty, Severus/Voldemort, hinted Bellatrix/Voldemort
Prompt: if you wanted honesty
Rating: R, at least. Let's just say Adult.
Warnings: Language, oral sex, voyeurism, and angst
Word Count: 1,710
Summary: Bella's a rat and Severus must prove his loyalty.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge.
Darkness settles onto the scene as if a corpse in a coffin and the November wind blows with an unnatural chill that the black cloaks of the Death Eaters cannot keep out. As though it’s a piranha, it bites at Barty’s skin, aiding the cold, dripping sweat’s already productive work. Severus is calmer, stolid, though he doesn’t want to meet the Dark Lord’s eyes; he only stands - a gravestone in the center of the circle - while Barty whimpers and cowers by his side. Bellatrix stands at the head of the circle, honorably placed behind the Dark Lord Himself, smirking smugly with one hip out and just begging for someone to hex her, the rat. No, Barty corrects himself. Calling her that is a great disservice to rats. She’s not even a flea on a rat; she’s probably even too low to be a parasite on a flea on a rat. He’d love to call her a bitch, but dogs are even better animals than rats and putting them on a level with her filth is just sick and wrong.
A shudder passes through the assembled as He steps forward, lowering the hood of his black cloak to reveal the white skin and red eyes that symbolize fear across the Wizarding World.
“Well, well, well,” He hisses, frowning. “I have previously exacted discipline on many of my servants…but I never thought that I would see you two here, least of all for what my darling Bella tells me you’ve been doing.”
“My Lord, please,” Barty snivels. “It’s not true! None of it-”
“Crucio.”
He whispers the curse like it’s hardly worth the effort, and Barty hits the mud with a dull thump and an agonized scream. Even before he falls, though, his body is on fire, coiling and twisting in agony. It’s a miracle that he manages to force his eyes open, just for a few seconds to see that, through an incredible force of will, his Severus is looking straight ahead, unflinching. And it’s for the best, he reminds himself several times. He might be in pain now, and Severus isn’t helping as he usually would, but they’ll both be grateful later…if there is a later. Finally, the pain stops and, despite the aches, Barty sits up and stares at Him.
“Consider that a warning,” He says with that dangerous calm. “Now, you two live together, and Bella claims it’s love. Explain yourselves…Severus?”
“He…he showed up at my flat, my Lord,” Severus explains calmly, but only able to hold the Dark Lord’s eyes for a few seconds at a time. “He was completely soaked through - it was raining and he was in no state to Apparate - after his father threw him out. What was I supposed to tell him? ‘Sorry your father’s an insufferable git and you’re now homeless, Barty. Have fun sleeping in the park.’”
“This is true, but what about the other activities she described?”
“…Yes. We’ve had sex, but it doesn’t mean anything. He’s just the former schoolmate who sleeps on my mangy sofa.”
“I see…and you, Barty?”
“I’m just in it for the sex!” It’s a lie, but a necessary one. It hurts, but he has to do it. “He…he’s huge, and really good!”
The eyebrows go up with piqued interest. “Oh really?”
“Yeah! I…I’m only loyal to you, my Lord, b-but I have needs!”
He hates the fact that he’s crying, but, apparently, it lends himself well to his defense: two long-fingered hands wrap themselves around his shoulders and an unnatural strength pulls him out of the mud. Lower lip shaking, he looks up into the pale face and red snake eyes of Lord Voldemort. Resistance proves futile, and he lets a whimper slip…and He smiles. Granted, it’s not a warm smile, but it’s lukewarm, slowly getting to warm.
“Don’t be afraid,” He whispers. “I believe your story, pitiful though it is.”
“Thank you, my Lord, you are merciful, and benevolent, and-”
“Silence. I do not need you to count my qualities. I ask only that you reaffirm your loyalty to me.”
“Yes, my Lord. Of course,” he sighs, relieved. They’re getting off which just a slap on the wrist. Bellatrix won’t be happy later, but…the truth is hidden and they’re getting away.
“Bartemius Crouch, Junior: do you swear yourself to me in loyalty until taken by death or betrayal?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Will you come when summoned, act when told, and die for me, should I order it so?”
“I will, my Lord.”
“Will you do whatever I ask of you, when I ask it done?”
“Anything and everything…whatever you request, my Lord, I’ll do it.”
Although his smile is only half-there, it’s warmer, and that’s the best Barty can hope for. “It is done. Welcome back, Barty.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“Severus, on the other hand…”
With the same strength as before, He shoves Barty aside into Macnair - almost a foot taller, and much stronger, he catches the blonde boy easily. For whatever reason, even though they’re around other people, he doesn’t take those huge hands off of the thin shoulders and, instead, squeezes them reassuringly. Of all people, Barty never would have guessed that Macnair would be the one to know…but he does. He had the unfortunate pleasure of opening Slughorn’s store cupboard while they’d been in there. Clothes had been on, and they hadn’t been snogging, but even if the position of Severus’ hand hadn’t given it away…they thought they were hidden and, his grades aside, Macnair isn’t an idiot. He’s one of the few good people who know…which is odd, considering that Barty never thought that “Macnair” and “good” would go together. Granted, there was the one time that he knocked James Potter and Sirius Black out for picking on Barty as Severus’ stand in.
And he can’t keep Barty’s insides from twisting like a labyrinth, but as long as he keeps the boy on his feet, things stand a chance of being all right.
Amidst the reckless silence, He strides across the small space between Himself and Severus to confront him face-to-face. Although they’re close in height, the Dark Lord seems to dwarf Severus, reducing him to a child in need of scolding…and he still holds himself up straight. He doesn’t even flinch though it’s obvious a curse is coming. Cruciatus, maybe? But He puts the wand away and sticks His arms out to the sides like He’s being crucified…is He going to hug Severus? That doesn’t fit…the Dark Lord doesn’t hug people.
“My robes, Bella.”
It’s almost rehearsed: she sweeps forward, undoes the knot around his waist, and pulls the robes off smoothly, letting them fall ominously to the cemetery ground, where they make a pile of shadows at the alabaster feet. The Dark Lord is now completely naked in front of his followers; only Bellatrix seems pleased by this, as her raised eyebrows and wolfishly lustful grin make painfully obvious. With nothing protecting Him from the next chill, the Dark Lord doesn’t shiver or even flinch, merely raises his head and smirks, his eyes narrowing viciously.
“You, Severus, I don’t believe. Your story seems too…contrived and perfect to be real.”
“My Lord, I have never lied to you.” Severus chokes back something and speaks with gritted teeth and contracted eyes.
“Maybe not, but I still have trouble trusting you when you say that he just showed up, and you just took him in and fucked him without feeling anything.”
“He came on to me-”
“That may be the case, but you must either reaffirm my suspicions or re-earn my trust.”
“He means nothing to me!”
“If that’s the case…get on your knees.”
“…What?”
“Did I stutter? Get. On. Your. Knees.”
Severus’ lips twitch, but he maintains his calm and kneels. He doesn’t even react when the Dark Lord puts those spider fingers on his head. He runs them through Severus’ hair the way Barty does when they’re alone, and Barty feels his feet taking over his brain, trying to throw him forward. Macnair keeps him back, though, with a simple pull on the shoulders. Although he probably doesn’t mean it to be painful, his flexing fingers get past the skin and little bit of flesh and muscle to Barty’s bone, saying through the sensors they set off and the bruises they’ll leave, “Idiot! Do you want him to find out?” And, ever the good boy, Barty lowers his head and stays put. Despite his head’s position, he can still see what happens next and he almost vomits:
Severus goes down on the Dark Lord. He just does it like it’s nothing: puts one hand on the ground to keep himself up, and then just puts His cock in his mouth. Just does it, like it doesn’t mean anything. Must be good for them, since he wouldn’t do it unless it was, but is it real? Does Barty really mean nothing to him, or is it just an act? He doesn’t mean nothing to Barty, quite the opposite, actually. No, no…he’s just a good liar. That’s why the Dark Lord doesn’t trust him and why every one of his motions looks genuine and why each delicate, snake-like flick of the tongue on His shaft has the appearance of reality. It doesn’t mean anything, It doesn’t mean anything, He doesn’t mean anything…or maybe Barty’s the one who doesn’t mean anything.
Severus is good, and even the Dark Lord has to relent to that truth. He pulls at Severus’ hair and lets a moan escape His lips; Barty knows the noise well. He makes it several times a week, if he’s lucky. And it belongs to him alone, not this despotic lover-thief. Again, Macnair has to keep him back, but this time, he leans down to Barty’s ear, letting his thin, scratchy mustache brush the skin like his rasping voice brushes the eardrum.
“Do you have a bloody death wish?” he hisses, nearly inaudible.
Barty shakes his head “no,” but says nothing.
“Then quit it.”
Barty nods and chokes down his pride, and they watch on in silence. At least…everything else is silent, save the occasional gasp or moan. But in Barty’s head, a tattoo sounds: “It’s all for the best, it’s all for the best, it’s all for the…”
Title: Not Even For Me
Part: 1 of 2
Type: Slash
Genre: Angsty, very
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: tomorrow is something we remember
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Language, slashiness, angst, almost character death
Word Count: 3,277
Summary: Mysterious illness, a bad day at work, and an accidental OD.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge.
Severus gets home late from his job at the Diagon Alley apothecary, shambling through the door - into dim light, still an improvement on the humid, dark-as-his-hair night and the fluorescent lights in the halls - grumbling, and with a headache so big he’s close to hitting it with a stick. Unlike usual, Barty doesn’t rush to greet him…he understands of course, since Barty’s been ill recently, but he selfishly wishes for that loving embrace, plump-lipped smile, and to run his fingers through that hair (the same color as straw in the sunlight, though Barty can’t hear any of Severus’ rare flattery without blushing). As he kicks the door closed, he reminds himself that his selfishness is fairly reasonable: he both opened and closed the shop, and it was full up all day with Hogwarts students being noisy little brats while buying their potions ingredients. And it was like that the day before, and probably will be the same tomorrow. If he needs anything at all, it’s Barty’s hopelessly, unfailingly adorable optimism and assurance of love. They both know that the optimism is a bit of a front, something he insists on to keep himself from going completely mad, but it’s also the best thing to come home to after a day of minding those hell-beasts.
Bloody little pestilences and their bloody noise…for all their awfulness, not even Potter and Black were that terrible, in school or when they’d stopped by. Even they could respect the sanctity of the apothecary. Under its roof, Severus was safe when those twin terrors popped in to buy things to make potions for their respective ball-and-chains (what Evans and Lupin, who were - admittedly - not terrible people, saw in them was never obvious). They were even pleasant to him, asked how it was going even though they had no interest…and it was forced on Black’s part, of course, but still…those children! Merlin! It’s quite a wonder that he hasn’t hexed one of his customers yet, and it’s not like they don’t deserve it…at least he has a Barty to come home to, even if he isn’t making himself evident at the moment. Poor boy’s probably dead asleep…
Muttering curses under his breath at nothing in particular (at his customers, at his shoes when they won’t come off, at whatever the hell is making Barty get sick), he throws down his satchel bag by the sofa, which is about the only thing they have that isn’t second hand. It was a moving-in gift from Barty’s mum, and one of the last things he ever accepted from her that was more than a box of cookies she and their house elf made. Shaking the thought out of his head, Severus sulks back into the kitchen: there’s nothing wrong with Barty’s refusal to accept help from home; it’s perfectly fine and understandable; after all, he’s nineteen and his father’s been a distant prick since anyone can remember…his chip-on-shoulder is acceptable here.
As he rubs the bridge of his nose, he rummages through the medicine cabinet for those headache-curing pills. Technically, they’re Barty’s, Severus bought them for him (foregoing the new potion-making book that tantalized him every day as he walked past Flourish and Blott’s) a few months ago, when he could barely stay up past eight in the evening because of crippling headaches. He still doesn’t know that Severus hasn’t bought the book, though, when his head is clearer, he questions its absence - it still stares at Severus out of the bookshop window…he’s been putting money aside from what they need to get by in the hopes that he can buy it soon…but they needed the pills first, since he can’t be at home, making potions all hours of the day. The Leaky Cauldron’s never short of help or patronage, so Barty can get time off and still get paid; the apothecary, on the other hand, is Severus, the witch who owns the place, an older wizard with too many health problems to be reliable, and a vapid girl who just needs a job so her boyfriend won’t call her a mooch. Besides, if he’s sleeping, Barty will never miss just one to help out his lover.
…But they’re suspiciously absent, completely not there. They’re supposed to be right between the Pepper-Up Potion and the Hangover Potion, but there’s a hole where their bottle goes. Oh Merlin…he’s ill again after all. Sure, it’s probably expensive to go to Saint Mungo’s, even just for a quick look over by a Healer so Severus can rest easily, but…it’d be better for him. And if that’s not enough motivation, he’ll stop making his mum and Severus worry. And, to be fair, his mum hasn’t looked so good the past few times she’s come down with their house elf, which she doesn’t need to do…they live in the seedy part of London, and she’s probably ill herself, and it’s obviously not doing her any good to worry because her nineteen-year-old son won’t let people help him.
He sighs and closes the cabinet door. It’s an irritant, yes, but he supposes he’ll just have to cope with a headache. He’s coped with harder things before, so he can cope with this. Now, just to find Barty, make sure he’s okay for now.
“Barty?” he calls, flinching at his own noise. “Barty, are you there?”
No answer comes…really unusual. Even ill, Barty’s a light sleeper. So he goes around and checks the sofa, hoping to find Barty, as he’s thought, sleeping off whatever happens to be ailing him right now. …He’s on the sofa. But he’s definitely not sleeping, though his eyes are closed. His skin is normally pale, like his mum’s, but now it’s ghost-white, like the Bloody Baron’s; even his freckles barely show up, and his blonde hair is limp and dulling to a half-brown, his breathing shallow, and, when Severus touches him, he’s cold. …He’s never cold. Severus is always the cold one. When he brushes Barty’s face, he doesn’t stir. Remembering how his mother checked his father after nights of heavy drinking, he presses two fingers to the pulse point on Barty’s wrist (upturned, since, even ill, he refuses to consciously burden Severus). Finding little, maybe nothing, he moves up to his neck. It’s slow, fading fast. …Oh, fuck.
This has only happened once that Severus was there to see, and it wasn’t with Barty. But Tobias Snape - undisputed Muggle king of drinking everyone else in Spinner’s End under the table and making his wife sob - nearly drank himself to death one night, before Severus’ fourth year, and he had only been saved by a combination of a cold shower and the magic he so despised. A quick survey of the room shows Severus all he needs: the pill bottle lies open on the floor, a lone white tablet next to its opening, and a glass of what he hopes is water sits, nearly gone, on the second-hand coffee table. Fucking…the last thing they need is for the other die, and…an overdose is a death so pathetic that neither can think of someone for whom it would be too good. But Severus saw his mother save his father, and he knows what to do.
With all the strength and delicacy he can muster, he pulls Barty up off the couch and drags him the short distance to the bathroom; with a flick of his wand, he runs a cold shower and clambers into it. He places Barty in front of him, so that he can get more of the water’s effect, and, although he doesn’t like the cold pounding on his skin, he stays in to keep Barty up. Lightly, he slaps Barty’s cheeks, to no apparent effect. Skin’s still cold, and the freckles are fading fast.
But he’s still breathing, even if it’s light, nearly inaudible. Time for magic: pointing his wand at Barty’s temple, Severus bit his lip and mustered all the will he can, desperately thinking: Ennervate! Ennervate! Damn it! Work already! Ennervate! Damn it, Barty! Ennervate! You are NOT ALLOWED to fucking DIE on me! Oh, Merlin, why did I let you take those? Ennervate! Why didn’t I MAKE you go to Saint Mungo’s? Money’s not important and your mum can pay if we need her to! Ennervate! Ennervate! Damn it! Ennervate! Come on, already! Ennervate! Ennervate! Enner-fucking-vate!
Finally, it works, and Barty coughs and splutters back into life. One particularly strong hack sends both of them slipping down onto the bottom of the shower; it doesn’t occur to Severus to turn the shower off. To facilitate the coughing, Severus eases him up, one hand on his back and the other on one of his hands…he’s still cold, but he’s warming up quickly to spite the freezing water. But the cough subsides and Barty slumps forward, bowing his head and breathing heavily. Instinctively, Severus runs a hand up and down his spine in a slow, steady rhythm, and he shudders, and - for once - it’s not a comforting sound; it sounds too much like what they have only just avoided.
“Thank you,” Barty chokes out like it takes too much effort.
“What did you think you were doing?” Severus whispers.
“Severus, I-”
He cuts himself off, coughing again. Met with no resistance, Severus turns him around and finds that it isn’t coughing at all; it’s crying, making his face wetter than the shower water, like all that is riff-raff and doesn’t matter. Then, he lets reason take a break; his boy needs him. Without a word, he places a hand on Barty’s back, near his skinny waist, and uses the other to caress his face, wiping the one cheek’s scalding tears away with his thumb. Carefully, he eases Barty down closer to him, nearer his chest and between his own legs, and he kisses his lips. It’s delicate at first, but slowly begs its way into a more intimate display. Snake-skilled and caring-yet-slippery, he strokes Barty’s tongue with his own, trying to coax out an explanation in exchange for comfort in the form of a twisting, turning loss of self in each others’ mouths and spider-like fingers seeping into his sopping hair. The closeness of their chests dissipates completely into being fully pressed together, and Barty relents, putting his hands on Severus’ shoulders…before he pulls away…
“Severus-”
“Sssh,” Severus murmurs, moving his fingers to Barty’s lips. “Get yourself cleaned up, put on some dry clothes…I’ll make tea and we’ll talk.”
Barty nods. “Okay…talk. Talk is good.”
He backs off, smart boy that he is, and sinks to rest on his knees, head down and breathing still coming in pants. For a brief moment, it looks as though he’s staring at his arm, the right one, with the Dark Mark on it (blazing black against the bare white skin of his inside arm)…but no. He’s not. He can’t be. Joining had been a quick decision for both of them, but Severus went first and Barty played the incredibly effective “I’m your lover; include me in all parts of your life” card. There was no way he could argue…but Barty had been almost unfailingly healthy until the ceremony…no. No one else had gotten ill after joining the Death Eaters; the two things are completely unrelated. Besides, this is what he wanted, and he’s only ever second-guessed himself. In an attempt to comfort him, Severus kisses his cheek and turns the water off before leaving the shower; he only makes a weak, mewing sort of noise, but it’s better than nothing. There’s silence until Severus pulls off his soaked robes (luckily, the shirt and trousers he has on underneath them aren’t even damp) and begins drying his hair with the first towel he grabs out of the closet.
“Sev,” Barty sighs, restraining a whimper as a trade off for using Severus’ nickname; he’s the only one who can get away with it, and only rarely. “It still hurts…”
“It’ll hurt for a while, love.”
He knows even as he says it that he’s lying for strength. The pain in his went away after only a few days. Even Regulus Black - according to Bellatrix anyway - only complained for a week when he got his in June, right out of Hogwarts. Barty’s was a birthday present of sorts, since he turned nineteen the same day it happened - February 21st. He spent that night, after the ceremony, asleep, and most of the next day vomiting. But…some lies are acceptable, just like some forms of selfishness.
“…You keep saying that. I mean, it’s dulled, but…is it ever going to stop?”
“It might be something else…” Severus certainly hopes so.
“Didn’t think about that…thanks…again…”
“That’s what I’m here for, Barty.”
“But you do so much more, and I never thank you or anything…”
“That is completely untrue; you thank me on a daily basis, for anything and everything I do.” His hair sufficiently dried, he kneels by the shower and looks Barty in the eyes. “There is something you could do, though, and we’ll discuss it over tea.”
“Okay…tea and talking.”
“Exactly. Now, I’m going to make the tea and you’re going to clean yourself up, okay?”
“Okay. Severus-”
“Barty, I…”
He wants to say “I love you.” It’s not hard to say “I love you” when Barty’s feverish and nauseous and languishing on the couch with a headache, or when he’s crying into Severus’ shoulder - making a tear-stain and stretching the seams thinner than he is, something he’s done for five years, just over five; he always apologizes for it, but Severus doesn’t mind, never minds, always tells him so even when he doesn’t listen. But when he looks up from his arm, or the floor, or whatever - hair sticking to his face and eyes all imploring, agonized optimism - forces out a smile and all the accoutrements (lips thinned against kept in teeth, contrite, repentant crinkles around closed eyes)…the words get stuck in his throat. It’s never been hard before. He reminds himself quickly that they just went somewhere that neither wanted to be, so it should be harder, but he doesn’t want it to be.
“…I have to make the tea.” And that’s what comes out.
Barty nods, understanding perfectly and Severus shuffles out, tongue still fumbling his inability to speak. Making the tea is mindless - cast a Heating Charm on the water, put the tea bags in when it’s boiling, maintain the heat - but it doesn’t help anything. Just the thought that, when Barty needs his help most, he’s turning into some sniveling, awkward little coward…it’s a stab to the chest. Coward. The word stings, wasp-like, all over his cheeks, radiating out from right below his eyes. It’s a slap in the face with freezing water and worse than being shown up, and - worst of all - it’s undeniable. So he can be the strong one. So he can be Barty’s backbone when a simple spine proves to not be…suffice to say, big deal if he can’t be strong when it’s really the time for it. Some help he is, more a Death Eater than a lover, and, yes, Voldemort has his loyalty, but Barty’s supposed to have his love, and he can’t give it. What the hell is wrong with him?
As the tea starts looking done, he feels two arms sneak around his waist and a still damp hear place itself on his back, near his shoulder, and he still can’t talk. Damn it all, he’s not supposed to lose his head and become inarticulate like this. He works well in his Death Eater capacity because he speaks well and makes people believe him, which is probably - now that he thinks about it - why it’s suddenly so hard to tell the truth…but it’s never been a lie before. Has it? Does it have to be for him to mean it?
“I borrowed some of your clothes,” Barty mumbles. “Mine all suck. Hope it’s okay…”
“It’s fine,” Severus sighs. Why now?
“Sev…I’m sorry. I…I wasn’t thinking.”
“…Tea’s on. Sit down, I’ll get some cups, and we’ll talk for real.”
“O-okay…”
Bloody hell. He’s being distant and it’s upsetting Barty. Not that Barty doesn’t try to hide this, because he does, but one would think that, after shagging for four years, they should be able to tell when the other is upset. It only takes a stutter. Just a quick, doubtful and suspicious stammer, which is hardly a show of how terrible he must feel, and it’s all Severus’s fault. Once at the table, they look more at their tea than each other, and no one drinks any.
“What were you thinking?” Severus finally sighs.
“Nothing…that I was ill and they weren’t working.”
“I think that settles it, then.”
“…Settles what?”
“I’m taking you to Saint Mungo’s in the morning.”
“Sev…no, really, it’s okay, I’ll be fine…I am fine-”
“No, no you’re not. You are far from fine and haven’t been so for a while. I don’t know what’s wrong-”
“Nothing’s wrong-”
“Something’s wrong because you’re not alright, and I don’t know why I haven’t put my foot down about this yet, but I am now-”
“I’m not going. I don’t need to.”
“You can’t just stay here.”
“I can, and I’m going to. I don’t need to see any Healers or anything.”
“Please? I’m just taking you to get checked over, you don’t have to tell them about tonight if you don’t want to, and, if nothing’s wrong, I’ll leave it.”
“…What if something is wrong? We don’t have the money, and I-”
“Money isn’t important to me; you are.”
“But, we-”
“If we have to ask your mum, it’s not wrong. I have my pride too, but…your health is more important.”
“…I’d really rather not.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t, okay?”
“No, not okay. You’re not, you’re not going to be if you just stay here, and it’s not if I let you-”
“Sev-”
“Listen to me: you’re not fine, that’s pretty much fact, and you won’t go for yourself - why, I can’t fathom, but you won’t. But…will you go for your mum? She’s concerned, if you haven’t noticed. She’s come down here three times already, and that’s three more times than she should have to.”
“Well, I-”
“She’s worried about you, and she doesn’t look so good herself. Don’t make her go through this-”
“I’m not making her do anything. I’d be fine if she stayed at home. I-”
“Will you go for me?”
Barty finally looks up from his tea, blinking drowsily and staring at the apparently outlandish request. He squints and furrows his brow in some attempt to understand, but it doesn’t appear to be working. This sort of thing has only happened once between the two of them: when Severus was getting ready to graduate…he wanted Barty to be there, but Barty didn’t want to come because it meant a year of separation was coming. Talking to him when he’s like this is grasping in the dark for something important, and being unable to put on a light because your wand isn’t with you. It’s all hit-or-miss, hinging entirely on whether or not Barty feels like cooperating. He probably doesn’t even know that he has that sort of power. Restraining a small noise that claws at the back of his throat like a trapped rat, Severus lets his eyes clench shut and takes one of Barty’s hands in both of his and presses the relenting fingers to his forehead, then his lips.
They’re still cold.
Barty sighs. “Fine…I’ll go…but it’s only for you, and if there’s nothing wrong, I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
“Thank you,” Severus whispers, breathing warmly on the freezing fingers.
Type: Slash
Genre: ANGST. With a side of sexing.
Pairing: Severus/Barty, Severus/Voldemort, hinted Bellatrix/Voldemort
Prompt: if you wanted honesty
Rating: R, at least. Let's just say Adult.
Warnings: Language, oral sex, voyeurism, and angst
Word Count: 1,710
Summary: Bella's a rat and Severus must prove his loyalty.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge.
Darkness settles onto the scene as if a corpse in a coffin and the November wind blows with an unnatural chill that the black cloaks of the Death Eaters cannot keep out. As though it’s a piranha, it bites at Barty’s skin, aiding the cold, dripping sweat’s already productive work. Severus is calmer, stolid, though he doesn’t want to meet the Dark Lord’s eyes; he only stands - a gravestone in the center of the circle - while Barty whimpers and cowers by his side. Bellatrix stands at the head of the circle, honorably placed behind the Dark Lord Himself, smirking smugly with one hip out and just begging for someone to hex her, the rat. No, Barty corrects himself. Calling her that is a great disservice to rats. She’s not even a flea on a rat; she’s probably even too low to be a parasite on a flea on a rat. He’d love to call her a bitch, but dogs are even better animals than rats and putting them on a level with her filth is just sick and wrong.
A shudder passes through the assembled as He steps forward, lowering the hood of his black cloak to reveal the white skin and red eyes that symbolize fear across the Wizarding World.
“Well, well, well,” He hisses, frowning. “I have previously exacted discipline on many of my servants…but I never thought that I would see you two here, least of all for what my darling Bella tells me you’ve been doing.”
“My Lord, please,” Barty snivels. “It’s not true! None of it-”
“Crucio.”
He whispers the curse like it’s hardly worth the effort, and Barty hits the mud with a dull thump and an agonized scream. Even before he falls, though, his body is on fire, coiling and twisting in agony. It’s a miracle that he manages to force his eyes open, just for a few seconds to see that, through an incredible force of will, his Severus is looking straight ahead, unflinching. And it’s for the best, he reminds himself several times. He might be in pain now, and Severus isn’t helping as he usually would, but they’ll both be grateful later…if there is a later. Finally, the pain stops and, despite the aches, Barty sits up and stares at Him.
“Consider that a warning,” He says with that dangerous calm. “Now, you two live together, and Bella claims it’s love. Explain yourselves…Severus?”
“He…he showed up at my flat, my Lord,” Severus explains calmly, but only able to hold the Dark Lord’s eyes for a few seconds at a time. “He was completely soaked through - it was raining and he was in no state to Apparate - after his father threw him out. What was I supposed to tell him? ‘Sorry your father’s an insufferable git and you’re now homeless, Barty. Have fun sleeping in the park.’”
“This is true, but what about the other activities she described?”
“…Yes. We’ve had sex, but it doesn’t mean anything. He’s just the former schoolmate who sleeps on my mangy sofa.”
“I see…and you, Barty?”
“I’m just in it for the sex!” It’s a lie, but a necessary one. It hurts, but he has to do it. “He…he’s huge, and really good!”
The eyebrows go up with piqued interest. “Oh really?”
“Yeah! I…I’m only loyal to you, my Lord, b-but I have needs!”
He hates the fact that he’s crying, but, apparently, it lends himself well to his defense: two long-fingered hands wrap themselves around his shoulders and an unnatural strength pulls him out of the mud. Lower lip shaking, he looks up into the pale face and red snake eyes of Lord Voldemort. Resistance proves futile, and he lets a whimper slip…and He smiles. Granted, it’s not a warm smile, but it’s lukewarm, slowly getting to warm.
“Don’t be afraid,” He whispers. “I believe your story, pitiful though it is.”
“Thank you, my Lord, you are merciful, and benevolent, and-”
“Silence. I do not need you to count my qualities. I ask only that you reaffirm your loyalty to me.”
“Yes, my Lord. Of course,” he sighs, relieved. They’re getting off which just a slap on the wrist. Bellatrix won’t be happy later, but…the truth is hidden and they’re getting away.
“Bartemius Crouch, Junior: do you swear yourself to me in loyalty until taken by death or betrayal?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Will you come when summoned, act when told, and die for me, should I order it so?”
“I will, my Lord.”
“Will you do whatever I ask of you, when I ask it done?”
“Anything and everything…whatever you request, my Lord, I’ll do it.”
Although his smile is only half-there, it’s warmer, and that’s the best Barty can hope for. “It is done. Welcome back, Barty.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“Severus, on the other hand…”
With the same strength as before, He shoves Barty aside into Macnair - almost a foot taller, and much stronger, he catches the blonde boy easily. For whatever reason, even though they’re around other people, he doesn’t take those huge hands off of the thin shoulders and, instead, squeezes them reassuringly. Of all people, Barty never would have guessed that Macnair would be the one to know…but he does. He had the unfortunate pleasure of opening Slughorn’s store cupboard while they’d been in there. Clothes had been on, and they hadn’t been snogging, but even if the position of Severus’ hand hadn’t given it away…they thought they were hidden and, his grades aside, Macnair isn’t an idiot. He’s one of the few good people who know…which is odd, considering that Barty never thought that “Macnair” and “good” would go together. Granted, there was the one time that he knocked James Potter and Sirius Black out for picking on Barty as Severus’ stand in.
And he can’t keep Barty’s insides from twisting like a labyrinth, but as long as he keeps the boy on his feet, things stand a chance of being all right.
Amidst the reckless silence, He strides across the small space between Himself and Severus to confront him face-to-face. Although they’re close in height, the Dark Lord seems to dwarf Severus, reducing him to a child in need of scolding…and he still holds himself up straight. He doesn’t even flinch though it’s obvious a curse is coming. Cruciatus, maybe? But He puts the wand away and sticks His arms out to the sides like He’s being crucified…is He going to hug Severus? That doesn’t fit…the Dark Lord doesn’t hug people.
“My robes, Bella.”
It’s almost rehearsed: she sweeps forward, undoes the knot around his waist, and pulls the robes off smoothly, letting them fall ominously to the cemetery ground, where they make a pile of shadows at the alabaster feet. The Dark Lord is now completely naked in front of his followers; only Bellatrix seems pleased by this, as her raised eyebrows and wolfishly lustful grin make painfully obvious. With nothing protecting Him from the next chill, the Dark Lord doesn’t shiver or even flinch, merely raises his head and smirks, his eyes narrowing viciously.
“You, Severus, I don’t believe. Your story seems too…contrived and perfect to be real.”
“My Lord, I have never lied to you.” Severus chokes back something and speaks with gritted teeth and contracted eyes.
“Maybe not, but I still have trouble trusting you when you say that he just showed up, and you just took him in and fucked him without feeling anything.”
“He came on to me-”
“That may be the case, but you must either reaffirm my suspicions or re-earn my trust.”
“He means nothing to me!”
“If that’s the case…get on your knees.”
“…What?”
“Did I stutter? Get. On. Your. Knees.”
Severus’ lips twitch, but he maintains his calm and kneels. He doesn’t even react when the Dark Lord puts those spider fingers on his head. He runs them through Severus’ hair the way Barty does when they’re alone, and Barty feels his feet taking over his brain, trying to throw him forward. Macnair keeps him back, though, with a simple pull on the shoulders. Although he probably doesn’t mean it to be painful, his flexing fingers get past the skin and little bit of flesh and muscle to Barty’s bone, saying through the sensors they set off and the bruises they’ll leave, “Idiot! Do you want him to find out?” And, ever the good boy, Barty lowers his head and stays put. Despite his head’s position, he can still see what happens next and he almost vomits:
Severus goes down on the Dark Lord. He just does it like it’s nothing: puts one hand on the ground to keep himself up, and then just puts His cock in his mouth. Just does it, like it doesn’t mean anything. Must be good for them, since he wouldn’t do it unless it was, but is it real? Does Barty really mean nothing to him, or is it just an act? He doesn’t mean nothing to Barty, quite the opposite, actually. No, no…he’s just a good liar. That’s why the Dark Lord doesn’t trust him and why every one of his motions looks genuine and why each delicate, snake-like flick of the tongue on His shaft has the appearance of reality. It doesn’t mean anything, It doesn’t mean anything, He doesn’t mean anything…or maybe Barty’s the one who doesn’t mean anything.
Severus is good, and even the Dark Lord has to relent to that truth. He pulls at Severus’ hair and lets a moan escape His lips; Barty knows the noise well. He makes it several times a week, if he’s lucky. And it belongs to him alone, not this despotic lover-thief. Again, Macnair has to keep him back, but this time, he leans down to Barty’s ear, letting his thin, scratchy mustache brush the skin like his rasping voice brushes the eardrum.
“Do you have a bloody death wish?” he hisses, nearly inaudible.
Barty shakes his head “no,” but says nothing.
“Then quit it.”
Barty nods and chokes down his pride, and they watch on in silence. At least…everything else is silent, save the occasional gasp or moan. But in Barty’s head, a tattoo sounds: “It’s all for the best, it’s all for the best, it’s all for the…”
Title: Not Even For Me
Part: 1 of 2
Type: Slash
Genre: Angsty, very
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: tomorrow is something we remember
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Language, slashiness, angst, almost character death
Word Count: 3,277
Summary: Mysterious illness, a bad day at work, and an accidental OD.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge.
Severus gets home late from his job at the Diagon Alley apothecary, shambling through the door - into dim light, still an improvement on the humid, dark-as-his-hair night and the fluorescent lights in the halls - grumbling, and with a headache so big he’s close to hitting it with a stick. Unlike usual, Barty doesn’t rush to greet him…he understands of course, since Barty’s been ill recently, but he selfishly wishes for that loving embrace, plump-lipped smile, and to run his fingers through that hair (the same color as straw in the sunlight, though Barty can’t hear any of Severus’ rare flattery without blushing). As he kicks the door closed, he reminds himself that his selfishness is fairly reasonable: he both opened and closed the shop, and it was full up all day with Hogwarts students being noisy little brats while buying their potions ingredients. And it was like that the day before, and probably will be the same tomorrow. If he needs anything at all, it’s Barty’s hopelessly, unfailingly adorable optimism and assurance of love. They both know that the optimism is a bit of a front, something he insists on to keep himself from going completely mad, but it’s also the best thing to come home to after a day of minding those hell-beasts.
Bloody little pestilences and their bloody noise…for all their awfulness, not even Potter and Black were that terrible, in school or when they’d stopped by. Even they could respect the sanctity of the apothecary. Under its roof, Severus was safe when those twin terrors popped in to buy things to make potions for their respective ball-and-chains (what Evans and Lupin, who were - admittedly - not terrible people, saw in them was never obvious). They were even pleasant to him, asked how it was going even though they had no interest…and it was forced on Black’s part, of course, but still…those children! Merlin! It’s quite a wonder that he hasn’t hexed one of his customers yet, and it’s not like they don’t deserve it…at least he has a Barty to come home to, even if he isn’t making himself evident at the moment. Poor boy’s probably dead asleep…
Muttering curses under his breath at nothing in particular (at his customers, at his shoes when they won’t come off, at whatever the hell is making Barty get sick), he throws down his satchel bag by the sofa, which is about the only thing they have that isn’t second hand. It was a moving-in gift from Barty’s mum, and one of the last things he ever accepted from her that was more than a box of cookies she and their house elf made. Shaking the thought out of his head, Severus sulks back into the kitchen: there’s nothing wrong with Barty’s refusal to accept help from home; it’s perfectly fine and understandable; after all, he’s nineteen and his father’s been a distant prick since anyone can remember…his chip-on-shoulder is acceptable here.
As he rubs the bridge of his nose, he rummages through the medicine cabinet for those headache-curing pills. Technically, they’re Barty’s, Severus bought them for him (foregoing the new potion-making book that tantalized him every day as he walked past Flourish and Blott’s) a few months ago, when he could barely stay up past eight in the evening because of crippling headaches. He still doesn’t know that Severus hasn’t bought the book, though, when his head is clearer, he questions its absence - it still stares at Severus out of the bookshop window…he’s been putting money aside from what they need to get by in the hopes that he can buy it soon…but they needed the pills first, since he can’t be at home, making potions all hours of the day. The Leaky Cauldron’s never short of help or patronage, so Barty can get time off and still get paid; the apothecary, on the other hand, is Severus, the witch who owns the place, an older wizard with too many health problems to be reliable, and a vapid girl who just needs a job so her boyfriend won’t call her a mooch. Besides, if he’s sleeping, Barty will never miss just one to help out his lover.
…But they’re suspiciously absent, completely not there. They’re supposed to be right between the Pepper-Up Potion and the Hangover Potion, but there’s a hole where their bottle goes. Oh Merlin…he’s ill again after all. Sure, it’s probably expensive to go to Saint Mungo’s, even just for a quick look over by a Healer so Severus can rest easily, but…it’d be better for him. And if that’s not enough motivation, he’ll stop making his mum and Severus worry. And, to be fair, his mum hasn’t looked so good the past few times she’s come down with their house elf, which she doesn’t need to do…they live in the seedy part of London, and she’s probably ill herself, and it’s obviously not doing her any good to worry because her nineteen-year-old son won’t let people help him.
He sighs and closes the cabinet door. It’s an irritant, yes, but he supposes he’ll just have to cope with a headache. He’s coped with harder things before, so he can cope with this. Now, just to find Barty, make sure he’s okay for now.
“Barty?” he calls, flinching at his own noise. “Barty, are you there?”
No answer comes…really unusual. Even ill, Barty’s a light sleeper. So he goes around and checks the sofa, hoping to find Barty, as he’s thought, sleeping off whatever happens to be ailing him right now. …He’s on the sofa. But he’s definitely not sleeping, though his eyes are closed. His skin is normally pale, like his mum’s, but now it’s ghost-white, like the Bloody Baron’s; even his freckles barely show up, and his blonde hair is limp and dulling to a half-brown, his breathing shallow, and, when Severus touches him, he’s cold. …He’s never cold. Severus is always the cold one. When he brushes Barty’s face, he doesn’t stir. Remembering how his mother checked his father after nights of heavy drinking, he presses two fingers to the pulse point on Barty’s wrist (upturned, since, even ill, he refuses to consciously burden Severus). Finding little, maybe nothing, he moves up to his neck. It’s slow, fading fast. …Oh, fuck.
This has only happened once that Severus was there to see, and it wasn’t with Barty. But Tobias Snape - undisputed Muggle king of drinking everyone else in Spinner’s End under the table and making his wife sob - nearly drank himself to death one night, before Severus’ fourth year, and he had only been saved by a combination of a cold shower and the magic he so despised. A quick survey of the room shows Severus all he needs: the pill bottle lies open on the floor, a lone white tablet next to its opening, and a glass of what he hopes is water sits, nearly gone, on the second-hand coffee table. Fucking…the last thing they need is for the other die, and…an overdose is a death so pathetic that neither can think of someone for whom it would be too good. But Severus saw his mother save his father, and he knows what to do.
With all the strength and delicacy he can muster, he pulls Barty up off the couch and drags him the short distance to the bathroom; with a flick of his wand, he runs a cold shower and clambers into it. He places Barty in front of him, so that he can get more of the water’s effect, and, although he doesn’t like the cold pounding on his skin, he stays in to keep Barty up. Lightly, he slaps Barty’s cheeks, to no apparent effect. Skin’s still cold, and the freckles are fading fast.
But he’s still breathing, even if it’s light, nearly inaudible. Time for magic: pointing his wand at Barty’s temple, Severus bit his lip and mustered all the will he can, desperately thinking: Ennervate! Ennervate! Damn it! Work already! Ennervate! Damn it, Barty! Ennervate! You are NOT ALLOWED to fucking DIE on me! Oh, Merlin, why did I let you take those? Ennervate! Why didn’t I MAKE you go to Saint Mungo’s? Money’s not important and your mum can pay if we need her to! Ennervate! Ennervate! Damn it! Ennervate! Come on, already! Ennervate! Ennervate! Enner-fucking-vate!
Finally, it works, and Barty coughs and splutters back into life. One particularly strong hack sends both of them slipping down onto the bottom of the shower; it doesn’t occur to Severus to turn the shower off. To facilitate the coughing, Severus eases him up, one hand on his back and the other on one of his hands…he’s still cold, but he’s warming up quickly to spite the freezing water. But the cough subsides and Barty slumps forward, bowing his head and breathing heavily. Instinctively, Severus runs a hand up and down his spine in a slow, steady rhythm, and he shudders, and - for once - it’s not a comforting sound; it sounds too much like what they have only just avoided.
“Thank you,” Barty chokes out like it takes too much effort.
“What did you think you were doing?” Severus whispers.
“Severus, I-”
He cuts himself off, coughing again. Met with no resistance, Severus turns him around and finds that it isn’t coughing at all; it’s crying, making his face wetter than the shower water, like all that is riff-raff and doesn’t matter. Then, he lets reason take a break; his boy needs him. Without a word, he places a hand on Barty’s back, near his skinny waist, and uses the other to caress his face, wiping the one cheek’s scalding tears away with his thumb. Carefully, he eases Barty down closer to him, nearer his chest and between his own legs, and he kisses his lips. It’s delicate at first, but slowly begs its way into a more intimate display. Snake-skilled and caring-yet-slippery, he strokes Barty’s tongue with his own, trying to coax out an explanation in exchange for comfort in the form of a twisting, turning loss of self in each others’ mouths and spider-like fingers seeping into his sopping hair. The closeness of their chests dissipates completely into being fully pressed together, and Barty relents, putting his hands on Severus’ shoulders…before he pulls away…
“Severus-”
“Sssh,” Severus murmurs, moving his fingers to Barty’s lips. “Get yourself cleaned up, put on some dry clothes…I’ll make tea and we’ll talk.”
Barty nods. “Okay…talk. Talk is good.”
He backs off, smart boy that he is, and sinks to rest on his knees, head down and breathing still coming in pants. For a brief moment, it looks as though he’s staring at his arm, the right one, with the Dark Mark on it (blazing black against the bare white skin of his inside arm)…but no. He’s not. He can’t be. Joining had been a quick decision for both of them, but Severus went first and Barty played the incredibly effective “I’m your lover; include me in all parts of your life” card. There was no way he could argue…but Barty had been almost unfailingly healthy until the ceremony…no. No one else had gotten ill after joining the Death Eaters; the two things are completely unrelated. Besides, this is what he wanted, and he’s only ever second-guessed himself. In an attempt to comfort him, Severus kisses his cheek and turns the water off before leaving the shower; he only makes a weak, mewing sort of noise, but it’s better than nothing. There’s silence until Severus pulls off his soaked robes (luckily, the shirt and trousers he has on underneath them aren’t even damp) and begins drying his hair with the first towel he grabs out of the closet.
“Sev,” Barty sighs, restraining a whimper as a trade off for using Severus’ nickname; he’s the only one who can get away with it, and only rarely. “It still hurts…”
“It’ll hurt for a while, love.”
He knows even as he says it that he’s lying for strength. The pain in his went away after only a few days. Even Regulus Black - according to Bellatrix anyway - only complained for a week when he got his in June, right out of Hogwarts. Barty’s was a birthday present of sorts, since he turned nineteen the same day it happened - February 21st. He spent that night, after the ceremony, asleep, and most of the next day vomiting. But…some lies are acceptable, just like some forms of selfishness.
“…You keep saying that. I mean, it’s dulled, but…is it ever going to stop?”
“It might be something else…” Severus certainly hopes so.
“Didn’t think about that…thanks…again…”
“That’s what I’m here for, Barty.”
“But you do so much more, and I never thank you or anything…”
“That is completely untrue; you thank me on a daily basis, for anything and everything I do.” His hair sufficiently dried, he kneels by the shower and looks Barty in the eyes. “There is something you could do, though, and we’ll discuss it over tea.”
“Okay…tea and talking.”
“Exactly. Now, I’m going to make the tea and you’re going to clean yourself up, okay?”
“Okay. Severus-”
“Barty, I…”
He wants to say “I love you.” It’s not hard to say “I love you” when Barty’s feverish and nauseous and languishing on the couch with a headache, or when he’s crying into Severus’ shoulder - making a tear-stain and stretching the seams thinner than he is, something he’s done for five years, just over five; he always apologizes for it, but Severus doesn’t mind, never minds, always tells him so even when he doesn’t listen. But when he looks up from his arm, or the floor, or whatever - hair sticking to his face and eyes all imploring, agonized optimism - forces out a smile and all the accoutrements (lips thinned against kept in teeth, contrite, repentant crinkles around closed eyes)…the words get stuck in his throat. It’s never been hard before. He reminds himself quickly that they just went somewhere that neither wanted to be, so it should be harder, but he doesn’t want it to be.
“…I have to make the tea.” And that’s what comes out.
Barty nods, understanding perfectly and Severus shuffles out, tongue still fumbling his inability to speak. Making the tea is mindless - cast a Heating Charm on the water, put the tea bags in when it’s boiling, maintain the heat - but it doesn’t help anything. Just the thought that, when Barty needs his help most, he’s turning into some sniveling, awkward little coward…it’s a stab to the chest. Coward. The word stings, wasp-like, all over his cheeks, radiating out from right below his eyes. It’s a slap in the face with freezing water and worse than being shown up, and - worst of all - it’s undeniable. So he can be the strong one. So he can be Barty’s backbone when a simple spine proves to not be…suffice to say, big deal if he can’t be strong when it’s really the time for it. Some help he is, more a Death Eater than a lover, and, yes, Voldemort has his loyalty, but Barty’s supposed to have his love, and he can’t give it. What the hell is wrong with him?
As the tea starts looking done, he feels two arms sneak around his waist and a still damp hear place itself on his back, near his shoulder, and he still can’t talk. Damn it all, he’s not supposed to lose his head and become inarticulate like this. He works well in his Death Eater capacity because he speaks well and makes people believe him, which is probably - now that he thinks about it - why it’s suddenly so hard to tell the truth…but it’s never been a lie before. Has it? Does it have to be for him to mean it?
“I borrowed some of your clothes,” Barty mumbles. “Mine all suck. Hope it’s okay…”
“It’s fine,” Severus sighs. Why now?
“Sev…I’m sorry. I…I wasn’t thinking.”
“…Tea’s on. Sit down, I’ll get some cups, and we’ll talk for real.”
“O-okay…”
Bloody hell. He’s being distant and it’s upsetting Barty. Not that Barty doesn’t try to hide this, because he does, but one would think that, after shagging for four years, they should be able to tell when the other is upset. It only takes a stutter. Just a quick, doubtful and suspicious stammer, which is hardly a show of how terrible he must feel, and it’s all Severus’s fault. Once at the table, they look more at their tea than each other, and no one drinks any.
“What were you thinking?” Severus finally sighs.
“Nothing…that I was ill and they weren’t working.”
“I think that settles it, then.”
“…Settles what?”
“I’m taking you to Saint Mungo’s in the morning.”
“Sev…no, really, it’s okay, I’ll be fine…I am fine-”
“No, no you’re not. You are far from fine and haven’t been so for a while. I don’t know what’s wrong-”
“Nothing’s wrong-”
“Something’s wrong because you’re not alright, and I don’t know why I haven’t put my foot down about this yet, but I am now-”
“I’m not going. I don’t need to.”
“You can’t just stay here.”
“I can, and I’m going to. I don’t need to see any Healers or anything.”
“Please? I’m just taking you to get checked over, you don’t have to tell them about tonight if you don’t want to, and, if nothing’s wrong, I’ll leave it.”
“…What if something is wrong? We don’t have the money, and I-”
“Money isn’t important to me; you are.”
“But, we-”
“If we have to ask your mum, it’s not wrong. I have my pride too, but…your health is more important.”
“…I’d really rather not.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t, okay?”
“No, not okay. You’re not, you’re not going to be if you just stay here, and it’s not if I let you-”
“Sev-”
“Listen to me: you’re not fine, that’s pretty much fact, and you won’t go for yourself - why, I can’t fathom, but you won’t. But…will you go for your mum? She’s concerned, if you haven’t noticed. She’s come down here three times already, and that’s three more times than she should have to.”
“Well, I-”
“She’s worried about you, and she doesn’t look so good herself. Don’t make her go through this-”
“I’m not making her do anything. I’d be fine if she stayed at home. I-”
“Will you go for me?”
Barty finally looks up from his tea, blinking drowsily and staring at the apparently outlandish request. He squints and furrows his brow in some attempt to understand, but it doesn’t appear to be working. This sort of thing has only happened once between the two of them: when Severus was getting ready to graduate…he wanted Barty to be there, but Barty didn’t want to come because it meant a year of separation was coming. Talking to him when he’s like this is grasping in the dark for something important, and being unable to put on a light because your wand isn’t with you. It’s all hit-or-miss, hinging entirely on whether or not Barty feels like cooperating. He probably doesn’t even know that he has that sort of power. Restraining a small noise that claws at the back of his throat like a trapped rat, Severus lets his eyes clench shut and takes one of Barty’s hands in both of his and presses the relenting fingers to his forehead, then his lips.
They’re still cold.
Barty sighs. “Fine…I’ll go…but it’s only for you, and if there’s nothing wrong, I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
“Thank you,” Severus whispers, breathing warmly on the freezing fingers.