(no subject)
Title: Not the Right Thing
Type: Slash/Gen
Genre: Dark/Drama
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: five shades of white
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash, language, thematic elements out the arse, character death, skillful manipulation, Cruciatus use
Word Count: 3,268
Summary: True or not, love is not known for running smoothly.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge. holycrapi'mDONE!
Barty drums his fingers against the windowsill, staring out at the pure, white snow on his father’s little plot of land - that, the house, his wand, and Winky are the only things he’ll acknowledge as his anymore. The feeling of the wood against Barty’s skin is exhilarating and makes him shudder with a longing delight… were it not so real, he’d say it had to be a lie. Finally, it feels like forever since he’s touched something other than the damn Invisibility Cloak; his lips twitch, trying to smile.
Some Christmas gift. He’s free for the day, but still presumed dead and he couldn’t even do anything if he wanted to - Winky has him bound to her and she won’t leave the house unless Master says so, which he didn’t and won’t. He might be at work on bloody sodding Christmas, but he knows that his “good-for-nothing son” can Apparate and, if Winky leaves the house at all, the Dark Lord will have his most loyal servant back sooner than he would anyway.
Still… he’s rather content to stare at the snow and see something other than a haze for once. Amazing how much he took for granted once. Anymore, everything that once seemed so commonplace is like candy you can’t eat. Aside from this, he’s only been free twice in the past year, and one was last Christmas. The other time didn’t last more than a few minutes… it should hardly count, save that he was himself, if only briefly, and he needs to hang onto that.
Severus was a year older than he is, so he was seventeen already, which meant that this was probably illegal, but that didn’t stop them. Ever since they had brushed hands while cleaning up a potions mess - caused by that Gryffindor son of a bitch, James Potter, and his three cohorts; Sirius Black, blood traitor and all around bastard, successfully blamed Severus for it, and Barty helped just so it would go faster - the dark-haired boy had been something of an obsession. Rabastan had Zabini (luckily, she graduated when they were in their third year, but this didn’t keep him from dwelling on her whorishly obvious charms), Regulus had his Quidditch fan club, and Rosier had a string of Ravenclaws that he always “accidentally” got paired up with in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.
Barty had sun-deprived skin, greasy hair, and eyes so dark he had to strain to see the soul when it should have been easy. But he didn’t mind that, on the surface, he made a bad choice - and from a surly demeanor to their elegant broom closet snogging space, it appeared that way. One touch of those pale fingers or exhalation from the colorless lips and his knees went weak, world went hazy.
He didn’t even feel the broom handle jammed between his shoulder blades as Severus pushed him further into the wall.
The smoke rising off the potion was a sharp knife-cut of white against the dank dungeon walls and the mixture’s red was only rivaled in its pigmentation by the red on Barty’s face.
“I… I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play stupid,” Severus said calmly. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not playing! Now… what’s the p-point of th-the armadillo-”
“You are playing; don’t think that I can’t see it. I have seen your work before, and I know that you’re not bad at potions. Hell, you’re better than my other tutoring subject-”
“Lupin?”
“Yes, Lupin. You’re far better than him and he’s a year above you. Speaking of which, he should be showing up for his session in less than ten minutes, so let’s clear this up.”
“…Cl-clear what up?”
“You’re playing stupid in order to get tutoring sessions. That much is obvious. Now, I want to know why.”
“I’m not playing! I really need-”
“You need to tell me or I’ll ask Slughorn to give you someone else as a tutor. After all, it’s my OWL year; I shouldn’t be wasting time when you don’t need my help. Fancy spending a few hours alone with Dolohov? Because that’s what you’re going to-”
“You, okay?!”
“…Care to run that by me again?”
Immediately, Barty wished that he had blushed instead. All the color fell off his face like it had jumped off and his knuckles went similarly white as he shoved his clenching hands into his pockets. To avoid a head-rush, he looked at his feet, but the beginnings of the spinning sensation still came and his brain felt blanker than the Transfiguration essay he hadn’t started writing yet.
“I…” he sighed. “I… you… I j-just wanted t-to spend more time with you.”
“…Why?”
He couldn’t help himself anymore. For two years now, he’d tried to stay on the right track, think about schoolwork and not Severus, but, now, his mind went blank and passions only led astray. Before he realized it, he was standing on his toes, cupping Severus’ face with one hand, and kissing the older boy.
He fainted when he realized that Severus was kissing back.
Against the dark night and graveyard silence, the Dark Lord’s face made a beacon of light and just being able to kneel before Him, to look up at those cold eyes made Barty smile beatifically. Severus was his love, this was his drug, and he needed, in addition to and conjunction with those, the ability to prostrate himself before his Lord and whisper the words, “Master, it is done.”
The long, spider-like fingers pushed back through his fair hair, petting him in some vaguely affectionate way. That’s right, Bellatrix, he thought in laughing malice, letting his chest inflate with pride for once. I’m his favorite, not you. See the affection? All you get is sex, and that’s worthless.
“Good, Barty,” the Dark Lord said like a smile. “Very good.”
Later that night, Severus’ fingers were in the same place on his head.
Regulus was always the good boy - his parents’ good boy, Slughorn’s good boy, the effective king of their year. He made a point of one-upping anyone he could, but took a particular interest in Barty. It was annoying, but, in all honesty, unavoidable; Barty’s father was as rich as a Black and the name went far back enough - they were cousins somehow, through Charis Black - but he was present for his son in a way that Bartemius Crouch never bothered to be. “At least my father cares about me” had been the ultimate one-up for seven bloody years, and now Barty finally had the upper hand.
He stood behind the Dark Lord, a little to the side, just so he could watch as Regulus cowered; Bellatrix was on the left, looking steely, and it didn’t matter who was behind them. She didn’t even matter that much, save for proximity’s sake. All that mattered was the Dark Lord with His wand out, and Barty behind Him, and Regulus, whimpering and pleading for his life on the dead leaves and dirty ground. He should have learned from Bellatrix’s brilliant example, since he never took Barty seriously: joining the Dark Lord meant no going back, getting away, or any of that sad, poetic nonsense. To throw your wand in with Him meant absolute loyalty.
Barty let a harlequin grin slip onto his face like smoke off a potion. Under the full moonlight, the Dark Lord’s skin was practically reflective. But before any curses were cast, he had to get his until-very-recently better in the right position. A swift kick to the chest - the only thing more forceful were his kisses to Severus when he was being a recluse - sent Regulus onto his back, which only made Barty grin more. Once quite regal-looking, he looked the part of the supplicant now, eyes wide and cheeks aching for a little color; the moonlight only intensified this look.
“My Lord, please! Give me a chance, I’ll learn, I-”
“You had a chance to learn!” the Dark Lord snapped. “Your cousin and Barty provided wonderful examples! Joining me is not subject to your capricious whims, boy!”
“Crouch, tell him…”
Barty paused and licked his wind-chapped lips, letting the moment linger. Each of Regulus’ foolishly optimistic pants was a surging adrenaline rush, and his eyes were the perfect encouragement. And this is what you get for calling me a ‘useless limp-wrist’, he thought.
“There’s nothing to say.”
Regulus’ jaw dropped and his breathing slowed in surprise, and, in a flash of green light, he met Sweet Revenge.
“Rodolphus, Rabastan, see to it that they don’t leave.” Bellatrix raised an eyebrow and took in the sight before her - the Auror, Frank Longbottom, and his wife, and their infant son in a bassinet nearby. “It appears that someone and I need to have a little girl talk.”
The Lestrange brothers nodded and she pulled Barty aside into the kitchen, not sparing his thinned-out shoulder the fact that he hadn’t eaten all day. He felt sick just being in this house… they’d broken in, well, charmed the locks open, but all the same. Looking around at all the decorations - wedding pictures, pictures of the day the son was born, random shots of family Christmases filled with innocent, unaware, and smiling faces - made his face feel heavy enough to fall off. What was he doing again? Why? To what end?
A slap on the face brought him back into the kitchen… it needed to have a good Dusting Charm cast on its surfaces. Resisting the instinct to hold his face, he glared at Bellatrix to find that she was glaring back.
“I’m not a girl,” he snarled.
“No, you’re a fairy, which is just as good.” She huffed, “With this spectacle, I wouldn’t want to share my gender with you anyway, you pathetic nance.”
“What are talking about?”
“Sure, you can spout undying devotion while the Dark Lord’s powerful and Snape’s keeping you happy, but one mishap and one slammed door and you turn into this?”
“There’s a child out there, Bella-”
“Children are dangerous. It’s a child’s fault our Master’s gone.”
“…I… I won’t-”
“So you’ll turn tail just like Lucius?”
“No! I would never-”
“Think of your Master, Crouch, to whom you swore eternal loyalty-”
“And Severus said he would always love me, and look where that got me.”
“Exactly! He went cowering back to that Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore! He’s one of the reasons the Dark Lord fell!”
“And he should pay, but-”
“So make him pay.”
Barty paused and, for the first time, took her in. It was no wonder she’d been able to talk her way out of Azkaban with a face like that. In her dark eyes, he saw Severus’ eyes. Those lying little pits where he’d once believed there was more than self-servitude… and it hurt to think that he missed looking into them for hours, missed kissing the thin lips (hers were plump, which kept him from fading out entirely). That bastard. Azkaban came into the picture and he’d run like a scared kid back to his sanctuary, and not even Barty’s damnable father would dare challenge Albus bloody Dumbledore. All his words of loyalty - to Barty and their Master - and all his promises of going down if Barty did… everything he ever said was a bloody lie. Barty snapped his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, and felt a finger idly stroking his hair, the same as Severus, the same as the Dark Lord.
“That’s it, Crouch,” she cooed. “That’s it. What did that wretch do to you?”
“He said he loved me,” Barty hissed. “He said he’d be faithful to the Dark Lord.”
“And he wasn’t, was he?”
“No…”
“He ran, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He did.”
“He abandoned you and forsook the Dark Lord…”
“He needs to pay for it.”
“And he will. They know where the Dark Lord is; we just need to convince them to tell us.”
“But the child-”
“Forget the child! He’s young enough; he’ll never remember a thing. Besides, once we get the information we need, it’ll only be a matter of restoring Him to power… then you can make Severus pay his due to you and your Master.”
“But the Curse… you said you have to feel it… they-”
“Pretend that they’re Snape.”
She was completely succinct and pulled him back into the main room; true to their word, Rabastan and Rodolphus were still there, watching over the cowering figures on their knees before them. Smirking, Bellatrix pushed Barty forwards.
“You first, Crouch,” she chuckled coldly.
Before he realized it, he had his wand out and pointed at Longbottom. Both he and his woman looked up at him, confused and pleading, and pale with a deathly shock. Yes, that’s it, Longbottom. Your boss’ boss’ son is going to cast the Cruciatus Curse at you. That’s right, you never saw it coming. I used to be such a nice boy, didn’t I? The stupor then turned to… was it disappointment? …He was only a few years older than Barty, and he’d been tolerable, for a Gryffindor. …Alice had definitely not done him any harm…
No! Screwing up his face in resolution, Barty turned Longbottom’s face into Severus’. He aimed straight and true for the Auror’s heart and barked, “Crucio!”
Barty is twelve, a scrawny excuse for a second year Slytherin, and Hogwarts is still so big… it can be terrifying, but, mostly, he just wishes that he’d quit trying to look at all the paintings and missing the trick stairs because of it. He can’t help the artwork, but it would make things so much easier; he’s clumsy enough without always having to have Rabastan pull him out of the staircases while Regulus laughs hysterically. And he doesn’t really see what’s so funny about it, since Regulus is a new Chaser and has been to the Hospital Wing with busted something-or-others twice already this week.
And he wishes he could sleep, but it’s been incredibly difficult for reasons he can’t quite peg.
But that’s what Professor Slughorn is for, he guesses. Apparently, there’s something good about him - talent or name or maybe both - because the old man’s taken a liking to him, and, if he needs a sleeping potion (which he does), it shouldn’t be too hard to get.
…Oh no. As he peeks into the dungeon, he sees a class (third year, it looks like, with Gryffindor and Slytherin together. Whoever started that tradition was dumber than Macnair and Malfoy put together.) going on. Although he gasps, he also tries to sneak away with no luck: Slughorn looks up from his papers and sees him.
…At least he doesn’t look angry. …Actually, he smiles, which is really, really weird.
“Barty!” he calls from his desk, forsaking his crystallized pineapple to do so… he didn’t have to do that. “Barty, my boy, come in! Don’t be afraid, lad!”
“…I-I-it’s okay, sir,” Barty replies, only halfway in the door and feeling like he’s being unnecessarily loud. “I… I can just c-come back later…”
“Nonsense! My third years are just finishing up. …Don’t just stand there; come in!”
Barty nods quickly and slides into the dungeon. As he walks past the third years, he can only make out a few that he actually knows - Severus Snape is the first one he sees. He’s mysterious and working hard on whatever it is they’re making; he doesn’t even look up from it. Two he only knows by name and house - James Potter and Sirius Black of Gryffindor - look at him briefly, but return to their potion, snickering like they don’t think he can hear them. But they’re probably just being typical stupid Gryffindors, so Barty presses forward and gets to Slughorn’s desk without incident. The old man smiles at him again, and it feels like it’s only getting weirder. At least he’s not some kind of creep… just a teacher who likes Barty.
“What can I do for you, my boy?”
“Er… w-well, sir, you remember that detention I almost had with Professor McGonagall last week?”
“Yes, for falling asleep in class. Do you need me to get you out of another one, son?”
“N-n-no! I want to keep them from happening again…”
“Yes, and…?”
“Well, I… I w-was wondering if m-maybe you had some s-s-sleeping potions that I could use… or something?”
“All this fear over something like that?” He smiles broadly, his face red. “Barty! I thought you knew me by now!”
“I… I’m s-sorry, I-”
“It’s nothing, lad. Just wait right here; I’ll go get them for you.”
He stands up, claps Barty on the shoulder, and is off for the potions. And everything’s looking positive and peaceful when-
“Oh Merlin!”
And the sound of laughing follows.
Barty whips around. The sight is disgusting: the white potion from Black and Potter’s cauldron is all over the floor and, while Snape is busy trying to clean it up (and his own simmers demandingly), they’re laughing their arses off. Grinning madly, Black says some incantation and flicks his wand at Snape’s cauldron, which boils over into the other mess.
“Black!” Snape protests. “Stop it!”
“What’s that, Snivellus?” Black laughs. “You’d like more? What d’ya think, James?”
Potter shrugs. “He asked for it…”
“Stop!”
“Okay then…”
Black does it again, this time at the cauldron on Severus’ other side (it has two other Gryffindor boys at it, one tallish and rather thin, the other short, round, and snickering like this is amazingly brilliant, which it isn’t), and the mess grows larger…
Right as Slughorn comes back.
Barty never thought the old man could get angry, but he thrusts the potions at Barty (he barely manages to keep a hold on them) and storms over to the third year boys. Good. Those arses deserve it for making a mess of Snape’s potion and then laughing while he fumbled over it. …But Black’s wand is away. …Oh no.
“What is going on here?” Slughorn demands.
Black smiles like an angel. “Snape blew up our cauldrons, professor-”
“I didn’t!”
“And then his over-boiled-”
“Professor, please!”
“And James and I were just going to help clean it up-”
“That’s enough, Mister Black, thank you.”
…Are Black and Potter going to get theirs? Barty hopes so. They deserve it, walking around like they own the school and wrecking Severus’ work like this.
“The period is over. Everyone may go - except you, Severus.”
“…Professor-”
“I’ll hear none of it. Clean up this mess.”
Slughorn exits to his study, or office, or wherever he goes when class is over; everyone but Snape follows him, and Barty just watches. Grumbling, Snape sets to work cleaning up the mess and, though he can’t quite understand how he’s moving when he isn’t thinking about it, Barty sets his potions on Slughorn’s desk and sets to helping Snape.
The other boy’s hand stops moving.
“…What are you doing?” he says, shell-shocked, from the sounds of it.
Barty pauses and looks up at him; his eyes are pitch black. “…Cleaning?”
“…Why?”
“…It’s n-not fair that they m-made the mess and you got blamed. I… I j-j-just thought I’d help…”
He doesn’t say, “thank you,” but it’s obvious that he’s thinking it: he starts cleaning again, and Barty follows suit. And as they clean, their hands knock together and Barty stiffens up. It doesn’t look like Snape notices, but he smiles, which appears to be something he doesn’t do all that often. …What’s this sudden warmth? Where is it coming from? Why on Earth does he feel full of bright white sunshine?
When they’re done, Severus smiles at him again and his chest is on fire.
Type: Slash/Gen
Genre: Dark/Drama
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: five shades of white
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash, language, thematic elements out the arse, character death, skillful manipulation, Cruciatus use
Word Count: 3,268
Summary: True or not, love is not known for running smoothly.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge. holycrapi'mDONE!
Barty drums his fingers against the windowsill, staring out at the pure, white snow on his father’s little plot of land - that, the house, his wand, and Winky are the only things he’ll acknowledge as his anymore. The feeling of the wood against Barty’s skin is exhilarating and makes him shudder with a longing delight… were it not so real, he’d say it had to be a lie. Finally, it feels like forever since he’s touched something other than the damn Invisibility Cloak; his lips twitch, trying to smile.
Some Christmas gift. He’s free for the day, but still presumed dead and he couldn’t even do anything if he wanted to - Winky has him bound to her and she won’t leave the house unless Master says so, which he didn’t and won’t. He might be at work on bloody sodding Christmas, but he knows that his “good-for-nothing son” can Apparate and, if Winky leaves the house at all, the Dark Lord will have his most loyal servant back sooner than he would anyway.
Still… he’s rather content to stare at the snow and see something other than a haze for once. Amazing how much he took for granted once. Anymore, everything that once seemed so commonplace is like candy you can’t eat. Aside from this, he’s only been free twice in the past year, and one was last Christmas. The other time didn’t last more than a few minutes… it should hardly count, save that he was himself, if only briefly, and he needs to hang onto that.
Severus was a year older than he is, so he was seventeen already, which meant that this was probably illegal, but that didn’t stop them. Ever since they had brushed hands while cleaning up a potions mess - caused by that Gryffindor son of a bitch, James Potter, and his three cohorts; Sirius Black, blood traitor and all around bastard, successfully blamed Severus for it, and Barty helped just so it would go faster - the dark-haired boy had been something of an obsession. Rabastan had Zabini (luckily, she graduated when they were in their third year, but this didn’t keep him from dwelling on her whorishly obvious charms), Regulus had his Quidditch fan club, and Rosier had a string of Ravenclaws that he always “accidentally” got paired up with in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.
Barty had sun-deprived skin, greasy hair, and eyes so dark he had to strain to see the soul when it should have been easy. But he didn’t mind that, on the surface, he made a bad choice - and from a surly demeanor to their elegant broom closet snogging space, it appeared that way. One touch of those pale fingers or exhalation from the colorless lips and his knees went weak, world went hazy.
He didn’t even feel the broom handle jammed between his shoulder blades as Severus pushed him further into the wall.
The smoke rising off the potion was a sharp knife-cut of white against the dank dungeon walls and the mixture’s red was only rivaled in its pigmentation by the red on Barty’s face.
“I… I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play stupid,” Severus said calmly. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not playing! Now… what’s the p-point of th-the armadillo-”
“You are playing; don’t think that I can’t see it. I have seen your work before, and I know that you’re not bad at potions. Hell, you’re better than my other tutoring subject-”
“Lupin?”
“Yes, Lupin. You’re far better than him and he’s a year above you. Speaking of which, he should be showing up for his session in less than ten minutes, so let’s clear this up.”
“…Cl-clear what up?”
“You’re playing stupid in order to get tutoring sessions. That much is obvious. Now, I want to know why.”
“I’m not playing! I really need-”
“You need to tell me or I’ll ask Slughorn to give you someone else as a tutor. After all, it’s my OWL year; I shouldn’t be wasting time when you don’t need my help. Fancy spending a few hours alone with Dolohov? Because that’s what you’re going to-”
“You, okay?!”
“…Care to run that by me again?”
Immediately, Barty wished that he had blushed instead. All the color fell off his face like it had jumped off and his knuckles went similarly white as he shoved his clenching hands into his pockets. To avoid a head-rush, he looked at his feet, but the beginnings of the spinning sensation still came and his brain felt blanker than the Transfiguration essay he hadn’t started writing yet.
“I…” he sighed. “I… you… I j-just wanted t-to spend more time with you.”
“…Why?”
He couldn’t help himself anymore. For two years now, he’d tried to stay on the right track, think about schoolwork and not Severus, but, now, his mind went blank and passions only led astray. Before he realized it, he was standing on his toes, cupping Severus’ face with one hand, and kissing the older boy.
He fainted when he realized that Severus was kissing back.
Against the dark night and graveyard silence, the Dark Lord’s face made a beacon of light and just being able to kneel before Him, to look up at those cold eyes made Barty smile beatifically. Severus was his love, this was his drug, and he needed, in addition to and conjunction with those, the ability to prostrate himself before his Lord and whisper the words, “Master, it is done.”
The long, spider-like fingers pushed back through his fair hair, petting him in some vaguely affectionate way. That’s right, Bellatrix, he thought in laughing malice, letting his chest inflate with pride for once. I’m his favorite, not you. See the affection? All you get is sex, and that’s worthless.
“Good, Barty,” the Dark Lord said like a smile. “Very good.”
Later that night, Severus’ fingers were in the same place on his head.
Regulus was always the good boy - his parents’ good boy, Slughorn’s good boy, the effective king of their year. He made a point of one-upping anyone he could, but took a particular interest in Barty. It was annoying, but, in all honesty, unavoidable; Barty’s father was as rich as a Black and the name went far back enough - they were cousins somehow, through Charis Black - but he was present for his son in a way that Bartemius Crouch never bothered to be. “At least my father cares about me” had been the ultimate one-up for seven bloody years, and now Barty finally had the upper hand.
He stood behind the Dark Lord, a little to the side, just so he could watch as Regulus cowered; Bellatrix was on the left, looking steely, and it didn’t matter who was behind them. She didn’t even matter that much, save for proximity’s sake. All that mattered was the Dark Lord with His wand out, and Barty behind Him, and Regulus, whimpering and pleading for his life on the dead leaves and dirty ground. He should have learned from Bellatrix’s brilliant example, since he never took Barty seriously: joining the Dark Lord meant no going back, getting away, or any of that sad, poetic nonsense. To throw your wand in with Him meant absolute loyalty.
Barty let a harlequin grin slip onto his face like smoke off a potion. Under the full moonlight, the Dark Lord’s skin was practically reflective. But before any curses were cast, he had to get his until-very-recently better in the right position. A swift kick to the chest - the only thing more forceful were his kisses to Severus when he was being a recluse - sent Regulus onto his back, which only made Barty grin more. Once quite regal-looking, he looked the part of the supplicant now, eyes wide and cheeks aching for a little color; the moonlight only intensified this look.
“My Lord, please! Give me a chance, I’ll learn, I-”
“You had a chance to learn!” the Dark Lord snapped. “Your cousin and Barty provided wonderful examples! Joining me is not subject to your capricious whims, boy!”
“Crouch, tell him…”
Barty paused and licked his wind-chapped lips, letting the moment linger. Each of Regulus’ foolishly optimistic pants was a surging adrenaline rush, and his eyes were the perfect encouragement. And this is what you get for calling me a ‘useless limp-wrist’, he thought.
“There’s nothing to say.”
Regulus’ jaw dropped and his breathing slowed in surprise, and, in a flash of green light, he met Sweet Revenge.
“Rodolphus, Rabastan, see to it that they don’t leave.” Bellatrix raised an eyebrow and took in the sight before her - the Auror, Frank Longbottom, and his wife, and their infant son in a bassinet nearby. “It appears that someone and I need to have a little girl talk.”
The Lestrange brothers nodded and she pulled Barty aside into the kitchen, not sparing his thinned-out shoulder the fact that he hadn’t eaten all day. He felt sick just being in this house… they’d broken in, well, charmed the locks open, but all the same. Looking around at all the decorations - wedding pictures, pictures of the day the son was born, random shots of family Christmases filled with innocent, unaware, and smiling faces - made his face feel heavy enough to fall off. What was he doing again? Why? To what end?
A slap on the face brought him back into the kitchen… it needed to have a good Dusting Charm cast on its surfaces. Resisting the instinct to hold his face, he glared at Bellatrix to find that she was glaring back.
“I’m not a girl,” he snarled.
“No, you’re a fairy, which is just as good.” She huffed, “With this spectacle, I wouldn’t want to share my gender with you anyway, you pathetic nance.”
“What are talking about?”
“Sure, you can spout undying devotion while the Dark Lord’s powerful and Snape’s keeping you happy, but one mishap and one slammed door and you turn into this?”
“There’s a child out there, Bella-”
“Children are dangerous. It’s a child’s fault our Master’s gone.”
“…I… I won’t-”
“So you’ll turn tail just like Lucius?”
“No! I would never-”
“Think of your Master, Crouch, to whom you swore eternal loyalty-”
“And Severus said he would always love me, and look where that got me.”
“Exactly! He went cowering back to that Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore! He’s one of the reasons the Dark Lord fell!”
“And he should pay, but-”
“So make him pay.”
Barty paused and, for the first time, took her in. It was no wonder she’d been able to talk her way out of Azkaban with a face like that. In her dark eyes, he saw Severus’ eyes. Those lying little pits where he’d once believed there was more than self-servitude… and it hurt to think that he missed looking into them for hours, missed kissing the thin lips (hers were plump, which kept him from fading out entirely). That bastard. Azkaban came into the picture and he’d run like a scared kid back to his sanctuary, and not even Barty’s damnable father would dare challenge Albus bloody Dumbledore. All his words of loyalty - to Barty and their Master - and all his promises of going down if Barty did… everything he ever said was a bloody lie. Barty snapped his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, and felt a finger idly stroking his hair, the same as Severus, the same as the Dark Lord.
“That’s it, Crouch,” she cooed. “That’s it. What did that wretch do to you?”
“He said he loved me,” Barty hissed. “He said he’d be faithful to the Dark Lord.”
“And he wasn’t, was he?”
“No…”
“He ran, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He did.”
“He abandoned you and forsook the Dark Lord…”
“He needs to pay for it.”
“And he will. They know where the Dark Lord is; we just need to convince them to tell us.”
“But the child-”
“Forget the child! He’s young enough; he’ll never remember a thing. Besides, once we get the information we need, it’ll only be a matter of restoring Him to power… then you can make Severus pay his due to you and your Master.”
“But the Curse… you said you have to feel it… they-”
“Pretend that they’re Snape.”
She was completely succinct and pulled him back into the main room; true to their word, Rabastan and Rodolphus were still there, watching over the cowering figures on their knees before them. Smirking, Bellatrix pushed Barty forwards.
“You first, Crouch,” she chuckled coldly.
Before he realized it, he had his wand out and pointed at Longbottom. Both he and his woman looked up at him, confused and pleading, and pale with a deathly shock. Yes, that’s it, Longbottom. Your boss’ boss’ son is going to cast the Cruciatus Curse at you. That’s right, you never saw it coming. I used to be such a nice boy, didn’t I? The stupor then turned to… was it disappointment? …He was only a few years older than Barty, and he’d been tolerable, for a Gryffindor. …Alice had definitely not done him any harm…
No! Screwing up his face in resolution, Barty turned Longbottom’s face into Severus’. He aimed straight and true for the Auror’s heart and barked, “Crucio!”
Barty is twelve, a scrawny excuse for a second year Slytherin, and Hogwarts is still so big… it can be terrifying, but, mostly, he just wishes that he’d quit trying to look at all the paintings and missing the trick stairs because of it. He can’t help the artwork, but it would make things so much easier; he’s clumsy enough without always having to have Rabastan pull him out of the staircases while Regulus laughs hysterically. And he doesn’t really see what’s so funny about it, since Regulus is a new Chaser and has been to the Hospital Wing with busted something-or-others twice already this week.
And he wishes he could sleep, but it’s been incredibly difficult for reasons he can’t quite peg.
But that’s what Professor Slughorn is for, he guesses. Apparently, there’s something good about him - talent or name or maybe both - because the old man’s taken a liking to him, and, if he needs a sleeping potion (which he does), it shouldn’t be too hard to get.
…Oh no. As he peeks into the dungeon, he sees a class (third year, it looks like, with Gryffindor and Slytherin together. Whoever started that tradition was dumber than Macnair and Malfoy put together.) going on. Although he gasps, he also tries to sneak away with no luck: Slughorn looks up from his papers and sees him.
…At least he doesn’t look angry. …Actually, he smiles, which is really, really weird.
“Barty!” he calls from his desk, forsaking his crystallized pineapple to do so… he didn’t have to do that. “Barty, my boy, come in! Don’t be afraid, lad!”
“…I-I-it’s okay, sir,” Barty replies, only halfway in the door and feeling like he’s being unnecessarily loud. “I… I can just c-come back later…”
“Nonsense! My third years are just finishing up. …Don’t just stand there; come in!”
Barty nods quickly and slides into the dungeon. As he walks past the third years, he can only make out a few that he actually knows - Severus Snape is the first one he sees. He’s mysterious and working hard on whatever it is they’re making; he doesn’t even look up from it. Two he only knows by name and house - James Potter and Sirius Black of Gryffindor - look at him briefly, but return to their potion, snickering like they don’t think he can hear them. But they’re probably just being typical stupid Gryffindors, so Barty presses forward and gets to Slughorn’s desk without incident. The old man smiles at him again, and it feels like it’s only getting weirder. At least he’s not some kind of creep… just a teacher who likes Barty.
“What can I do for you, my boy?”
“Er… w-well, sir, you remember that detention I almost had with Professor McGonagall last week?”
“Yes, for falling asleep in class. Do you need me to get you out of another one, son?”
“N-n-no! I want to keep them from happening again…”
“Yes, and…?”
“Well, I… I w-was wondering if m-maybe you had some s-s-sleeping potions that I could use… or something?”
“All this fear over something like that?” He smiles broadly, his face red. “Barty! I thought you knew me by now!”
“I… I’m s-sorry, I-”
“It’s nothing, lad. Just wait right here; I’ll go get them for you.”
He stands up, claps Barty on the shoulder, and is off for the potions. And everything’s looking positive and peaceful when-
“Oh Merlin!”
And the sound of laughing follows.
Barty whips around. The sight is disgusting: the white potion from Black and Potter’s cauldron is all over the floor and, while Snape is busy trying to clean it up (and his own simmers demandingly), they’re laughing their arses off. Grinning madly, Black says some incantation and flicks his wand at Snape’s cauldron, which boils over into the other mess.
“Black!” Snape protests. “Stop it!”
“What’s that, Snivellus?” Black laughs. “You’d like more? What d’ya think, James?”
Potter shrugs. “He asked for it…”
“Stop!”
“Okay then…”
Black does it again, this time at the cauldron on Severus’ other side (it has two other Gryffindor boys at it, one tallish and rather thin, the other short, round, and snickering like this is amazingly brilliant, which it isn’t), and the mess grows larger…
Right as Slughorn comes back.
Barty never thought the old man could get angry, but he thrusts the potions at Barty (he barely manages to keep a hold on them) and storms over to the third year boys. Good. Those arses deserve it for making a mess of Snape’s potion and then laughing while he fumbled over it. …But Black’s wand is away. …Oh no.
“What is going on here?” Slughorn demands.
Black smiles like an angel. “Snape blew up our cauldrons, professor-”
“I didn’t!”
“And then his over-boiled-”
“Professor, please!”
“And James and I were just going to help clean it up-”
“That’s enough, Mister Black, thank you.”
…Are Black and Potter going to get theirs? Barty hopes so. They deserve it, walking around like they own the school and wrecking Severus’ work like this.
“The period is over. Everyone may go - except you, Severus.”
“…Professor-”
“I’ll hear none of it. Clean up this mess.”
Slughorn exits to his study, or office, or wherever he goes when class is over; everyone but Snape follows him, and Barty just watches. Grumbling, Snape sets to work cleaning up the mess and, though he can’t quite understand how he’s moving when he isn’t thinking about it, Barty sets his potions on Slughorn’s desk and sets to helping Snape.
The other boy’s hand stops moving.
“…What are you doing?” he says, shell-shocked, from the sounds of it.
Barty pauses and looks up at him; his eyes are pitch black. “…Cleaning?”
“…Why?”
“…It’s n-not fair that they m-made the mess and you got blamed. I… I j-j-just thought I’d help…”
He doesn’t say, “thank you,” but it’s obvious that he’s thinking it: he starts cleaning again, and Barty follows suit. And as they clean, their hands knock together and Barty stiffens up. It doesn’t look like Snape notices, but he smiles, which appears to be something he doesn’t do all that often. …What’s this sudden warmth? Where is it coming from? Why on Earth does he feel full of bright white sunshine?
When they’re done, Severus smiles at him again and his chest is on fire.