Chapter Text
__________
Barty Crouch was six years old, and he was bored.
They lived in a fairly isolated area and had a small family, the three of them - it was just his father, his mother and him.
But his mother wasn't at home right now, she had gone for tea with Mrs. Bones and Father - well, Father was never home. Barty knew he was acting a little ungrateful, his father worked so hard only for him - so he should not whine or complain.
But, maybe - maybe if he had less work, he would have more time to spend with Barty.
He snuck inside the home office quietly, he knew he wasn't supposed to be here, obviously - but once his father saw what he had done, he wouldn't mind. He had seen his father doing work there - he knew how to sort through the letters and he could do his father's signature too, very easily.
Tugging his feet once more to heighten himself on the chair, Barty pulled the peacock quill towards him - beaming as he did so. Father would be so proud, once he saw how Barty could help him.
He liked it when father was proud of him. He always tried so hard to make it happen.
It would strike him later - that he doesn't actually know what his father looks like when he's proud of him - because he hasn't ever seen it yet.
With an important flourish - just like father, he thought - he dipped the quill in the ink well and raised it above the paper -
"Barty?"
He stopped in his motion instantly, a drop of ink falling down on the parchment as his father came through the door - his eyes widening in shock, face contorting with ugly anger.
"What are you doing, Barty?" he asked, so loudly that Barty jumped in fright.
Barty opened his mouth to explain how much help he could be - but before that, his father had already come closer to the desk, and seen the small drop of ink that had fallen accidentally.
He doesn't remember much of the evening, it was all a haze of screaming and shrill, loud noises - but he remembers tears - the salty taste as he swallowed - the taste he comes to associate with cold fear - his father's furious eyes - something burning his hands - a surprising amount of pain, as red welts lash across his palms in rapid succession - his mother coming back home and talking to his father, her eyes flashing.
Why was everyone so angry?
Maybe, Barty really was an extremely pathetic son - he was never, ever going to disappoint his parents ever again. He was ungrateful, and useless - and his father was right, obviously he was. He would have to improve.
"You will never raise your wand on my son again, Bartemius, or I'm packing," she had said, deadly calm, as Barty choked back tears again and again - not understanding anything.
Packing?
But - but, he had only wanted to help father, only wanted him to spend more time with him. His mother wouldn't send him away, would she? She liked him, he thought decisively - she did. She wouldn't make him pack up and leave. Would she? He would have to go to the children's home, and he didn't want to do that.
At all.
Barty doesn't remember much of the night, either - but right before he sleeps, he realises what's changed.
His father isn't just somebody to admire and believe in - he is also to be feared.
There's a little part of him that still hopes that his father would spend time with him the next day. Or maybe come to wish him goodnight.
He doesn't come.
___________
Barty Crouch was eight years old, and wearing his new dress robes.
It was his father's birthday - and he hadn't just bought a present, but made one himself - spending weeks to get it just right. His mother had assured him that it was beautiful and thoughtful, too - and that his father would love it.
He really hoped so.
They were planning to stay at home, because his father never appreciated the crowd in restaurants, and besides, their house elves had been cooking all day, special meals that his father liked.
It would be perfect, he thought, as he straightened his hair once more. His father didn't like anything but neat and slicked-back.
They went down from their respective bedrooms, waiting in the living room for him to arrive.
His father was three hours late.
But that only meant that his father had had to work till later - his juniors were often incompetent, Barty knew that - so it was even more important that they have a good dinner.
When he finally came, Barty felt so happy, and thus, excited - that he almost barreled into him to hug him, with a loud, "Happy Birthday, father!"
He barely noticed that his father didn't exactly hug back.
His mother asked questions, trying to make interesting conversation - and Barty could see too, how much she wanted him to just smile once - but he never gave any reply beyond the occasional "yes" and soon, his mother fell silent too.
But his gift could cheer father up, right?
As soon as dinner was done, he handed over the meticulously prepared gift, wrapped with pale blue paper - in crisp, sharp folds - everything in order, just like his father liked - his eyes wide and hopeful, as he bit his lower lip.
Any moment now, his father would open it and see the homemade giftbox that Barty had made - with the mason jar filled with little notes that described Barty's love for his father, the special quills he had bought, the drinking mug, the cravat, the bar of dark chocolate that his father liked, the poem. The poem that had taken him hours to get right - with proper rhyme schemes and pentameters.
The poem that would make his father realise just how much Barty admired him.
But his father didn't open the gift immediately - with the enthusiasm that Barty had imagined.
He kept it on the table first and asked, his voice curt, "What's in this, Barty?"
"Its - its your birthday gift," he said, a little hesitantly.
He had done it all right, hadn't he?
"I made it myself. I've been working on it for almost a month," he added, proudly.
"But you had your exams last week," his father said, and Barty's heart sank, his shoulders slumping. "Were you working on this while you were supposed to be studying?"
"Just an hour or two," he said quietly, defensively folding his arms.
"You know you can't waste your study time for something as worthless as this, Barty," his father replied, sternly. "You have to give in your best. You weren't even a part of the top two positions this year."
"I was a part of the top three," he whispered, his ears ringing - hands trembling - whether it was out of fear or anger or just disappointment, he didn't know - or maybe just the word, worthless.
His gift was worthless.
"You will do better from now on," his father said, looking at the gift - like he was going to open it - which would still be worth it - Barty thought.
"Thank you for the gift," he said, finally, picking the still-wrapped present and getting up from the table. "I've had quite a long evening, so I'll be turning in early. Goodnight, Barty."
Barty watched him go.
"Do you think he wants to open it alone?" he asked his mother, who was clenching her jaw - her eyebrows pinched together. "Maybe he doesn't like to open presents in front of other people?"
"That - that must be it, darling," his mother said, smiling faintly. "I'm sure he'll love it when he opens it. You don't worry about it anymore, alright?"
He nodded - disappointment still heavy on his chest, but his father had thanked him, and taken the gift along, so that meant something, right?
Almost half a year later, Barty will find the unopened present lying somewhere at the back of a closet, covered in dust and he still won't fully understand what he did wrong that day. But it must be his fault. He would just have to improve, then.
__________
Barty was eleven years old, and so, so scared.
He was eleven.
But his letter hadn't come yet.
It had almost been half a day, and wasn't the letter supposed to reach at midnight the night before? He had had some very rare bouts of accidental magic - and his mother had told him he wasn't a squib.
But if his letter didn't come, that meant he wasn't magic, right?
He ignored his heart drumming - what if the letter didn't come at all? What would his father say?
He wouldn't want a filthy squib for a son. Nobody did.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe - it wouldn't do to panic. The letter will come, any minute now, because - Barty was magical. He was a wizard, he knew it, and the owl was late.
But owls are never late, a voice in his head told him. It sounded vaguely like his father. Owls aren't late, and you're just trying to convince yourself that you're not a squib.
You're lucky your father has a late night shift and wouldn't come back home for a while. Because what would you show him if he asked for your letter?
"Eat, Barty," his mother said, pushing his plate closer to him. "You're looking very pale."
"But - but, my - my letter," he said, his voice so desperate and small. "It hasn't - my letter will come, right?"
"We'll deal with it, honey," she said nervously, clearly evading the question.
He pushed the plate away, feeling sick. Squibs didn't deserve food like this.
It all made sense now, he thought savagely. Obviously, your father couldn't love you - wouldn't love you. You're just a worthless squib.
And when he came - what was Barty going to say?
Thankfully, he wouldn't come until the evening, and Barty would have something ready by then, something that could be said without seeming like scum -
"Elizabeth, I'm home!"
Or not. He willed his breathing to slow, almost running upto his room - to avoid the miserable confrontation that was to come.
Why're you running, Barty?
Because you're a coward, his father replied in his head. You're a coward - and a squib.
He locks his door - hears his mother explaining in a hushed voice which she thinks isn't audible - his father shouting angrily about how he came home early from work specifically for that letter.
But he's heard all that before.
He wonders how long would it be till his father comes up and yells at him, scorn in his eyes, he wonders how long will it be till his father tells him, once again - just how useless he is.
But he doesn't come. And somehow, that hurts even more - he isn't even worth his father's anger anymore. He's just - not worth anything.
He doesn't realise when he starts crying or how long he cries for - but he's drowning in self loathing, in so much fear - so much hatred, because he can't even recieve a letter right.
His father's right, after all.
After almost a year of doubting him, beginning to suspect that maybe it isn't Barty who's the problem, but his father -
That's again, not true.
Barty is the one who is wrong. The one always in the wrong.
Its around nine at night that he's stopped crying - just before his mother brings him a tray of food, which he refuses - but with a grateful smile. He should, obviously. She's helping him when he doesn't deserve her love. He doesn't deserve anything.
He asks her if his father's slept already. She's barely opened her mouth to refuse, when Barty runs out of the door - he has to apologise, has to do something - anything.
His father is sitting in a chair on the balcony, staring at the land beyond their house.
"Father - I," he begins, his voice breaking, not really knowing where he's going with this.
Luckily, he doesn't need to.
"You're no son of mine," he says, so quietly that Barty almost misses it.
Almost.
Tears are welling in his eyes all over again, before he even reaches his room, and he feels like utter shit.
He lays down, pretending to sleep - like this hadn't just been the worst birthday of his life, the worst day ever - his pillow damp. And at one in the morning, when Barty is just about to fall asleep from exhaustion itself - there's a tapping sound from the window.
His mind is numb as he opens the window and lets the owl in, his hands trembling as he opens his letter.
His Hogwarts Letter. A day late - his moment to shine, his happy moment - completely ruined.
On the outside of the letter, there's a red mark that wasn't originally made when the letter was released.
Redirected to Bartemius Crouch Junior, it says, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Where his father works.
The 'Junior' is underlined with a bold dash of ink.
Redirected.
Because there was nobody to receive it there.
He feels like screaming - directing all his fear, his rage - all his frustration -
His letter wasn't late. It just hadn't been delivered to the right person.
He has never hated his father or the name he shares with him so much ever before, he thinks, his chest heaving.
And now, something's changed again.
His father is not somebody who is to be admired or feared because he's always right.
His father is somebody to be disliked and avoided because when he isn't right, he makes Barty feel like dying.
___________
Its that particular night that Barty decides that in the next seven years, he would not only change his name - but anything that might link him to his father. His control freak father - who only ever gave him spite and anger and cold indifference.
He hates, hates, hates him.
His father was a Ravenclaw.
Which meant, he couldn't be one.
"Not Ravenclaw, not Ravenclaw, please - anything but Ravenclaw - even Hufflepuff, I don't care - just not Ravenclaw," he mutters, as soon as he sits on the stool.
"Oh, don't worry, boy - there's only one place for you and its not Ravenclaw," the hat whispers and Barty beams, even before it shouts, "Slytherin!"
He walks down to the table clad in green and silver, and sits next to Regulus Black, and Rabastan Lestrange - and is congratulated, but really stiffly - by Draco Black, who is Regulus's elder brother.
The Howler comes the next morning, and he absolutely loves it.
After that, it comes easy. His father never liked Potions much, and never scored above an Exceeds Expectations in it, which means - he'll never get anything but an Outstanding there. He works hard, focusing on all his subjects equally - because he wants - no - needs his father to see that his squib-not-really-his-son is getting straight O's.
His father hated quidditch, so he trains and trains even though he doesn't have the natural skill for it.
Regulus and Rabastan do, and surprisingly - they both understand why Barty needs to do it. Regulus does his seeker practices alone, but helps Rab and Barty with Beater and Keeper practices, respectively.
They become fast friends, Barty and Rabastan listening to Regulus's Sirius Rants - the same way Barty rants about his father.
Not quite the same, though, because Regulus finds his brother annoying and boisterous, but he doesn't hate him. Not even a little bit. Barty's seen them exchanging smiles sometimes.
Warm smiles.
But Sirius isn't like Draco, and Regulus likes quieter people. Barty wonders what kind of people he likes and how his life would have been if he had siblings. Its hard to imagine just having someone like that, someone you can take for granted.
Best part? Rabastan and Regulus both come from families where Law Enforcement officials, especially those like his father - who convict and imprison people indiscriminately, even the purebloods - are considered as annoying pests, and so, they both readily agree with him when he tells them that his father is an asshole.
In a month more, Barty's almost forgotten what it meant like to not be free.
He loves Hogwarts.
Hogwarts is home.
When he goes back to his father's house - he hardly considers it his own anymore - he doesn't even look at him once.
He shows his academic report - its all straight O's, which his mother coos over. His father gets a disconcerted sort of look on his face - like he doesn't know what to think and Barty loves that too.
___________
Its in second year that Barty first realises that everything isn't perfect.
He already knows that he's the outsider in his little trio, what with Rab and Reg spending their holidays together, and their families knowing each other - but atleast he knows that they have his back.
He's in the common room, just near a dark corner - he's almost sure nobody can see him. But he can see them. And hear their conversation.
"Why do you let Barty run around with you all the time, Rab?" Evan Rosier asks, and Barty can hear him smirking. "Don't you get tired of the little creep?"
He waits for Rabastan to defend him.
"He's just the Crouch boy," Rabastan says, shrugging. "What's the point in drowning kicked crups?"
Barty's shoulders are tense and taut as he swallows. Its not the comparison between himself and a kicked crup that does it - its the way he says 'Crouch boy' - like Barty will never be anything more than that.
"Hey, Rab," Regulus says, as he enters, leaving the door open behind him. "What're you upto?"
"Oh, you own the crup too," Evan says, leering mockingly, as Regulus looks at him with confusion. "So, tell me. Are you like Lestrange here, who keeps him around out of the kindness of his heart?"
"Who're you both talking about?" Regulus says, scowling.
"Crouch, of course," Evan says. "Feel sorry for him, too?"
Barty doesn't know what he's done to make Evan hate him so much.
"Excuse me?" Regulus says, angrily - finally understanding what the two mean, and Barty suddenly finds it easier to breathe. "Barty's my friend. And ten times the person you'll ever be, Lestrange."
He walks out, swinging the portrait shut - leaving behind him a tense silence, that Evan breaks by laughing nervously.
Barty continues his Charms Essay, and he doesn't even feel like he just lost a friend.
When they stop talking to and waiting around for Rabastan, Barty knows why - but he still asks, wondering what Regulus would tell him.
"He's a double-faced arsehole," Regulus says shortly, not even looking at him. "He was bitching about someone I lov - about one of my brothers."
Barty has no explanation to give him when Regulus asks him why he's smiling so much.
Everything isn't perfect. But its so much better.
___________
Its Draco's last year, and Regulus complains about that fact to no end.
Their group of seven has pulled away from most activities like Quidditch - and Regulus swears that they all make regular trips outside school, that they're upto something big.
They catch them sneaking around on the seventh floor once, with something that looks suspiciously like a sword - in Harry Potter's hands - but to Regulus's constant annoyance, Draco doesn't explain anything, even after a month long pestering.
Regulus's Sirius Rants have slowly become Why-am-I-the-youngest Rants, but he's happy that Harry Potter and Ginny Prewett won't be playing quidditch anymore.
Slytherin could have a serious chance at winning, this year.
Barty listens to Reg, privately thinking that the only reason people have never openly tried picking on him for being the thin, short boy that he is - the Crouch in Slytherin - is Draco. He's friends with his brother - so, he's obviously out of question.
But Barty's seen the dirty looks Mulciber and Avery pass him - he knows that Dolohov's tripped him in the hallways more than once - and that Crabbe and Goyle are the ones who steal the food packages his mother sends.
Rabastan naturally has some concentrated hatred for him - and Evan hates him too, because his father convicted Mr. Rosier with three years in Azkaban for keeping and selling Dark Artefacts.
He wonders that if Draco wasn't here, would he have the guts to even refuse anyone for anything.
He wouldn't, not really, he admits to himself. Defense or duelling has never been his forte. He would have been chewed alive in Slytherin if not for the unspoken and accidental protection Draco provides to Regulus and him.
He likes Potions more than Defense, and he loves Charms - also, if he's being completely honest, Care of Magical Creatures, because his father never let him keep a pet.
But he doesn't react to any of the Slytherins, because he thinks they would stop if he doesn't. Anyway, its not like he can fight on his own against the whole house.
He's settled down a lot more in the last two years - he doesn't do everything just to spite his father, anymore - so he's left the quidditch team.
He never enjoyed it much, not like Regulus, who looks his happiest when he's not on the ground, his dark hair whipping around him, so pale that he looks like an angel. Death angel, he thinks, with a small smile - as Regulus catches the practice snitch and cheers, flying higher than Barty can see from the stands.
He comes zooming down fast - and for a split second, Barty thinks he's falling and his heart stops - but then he's laughing - his cheeks flushed, the wings of the snitch fluttering before he releases it again.
"I've been practicing this new thing," he yells, over the wind, grinning widely, and in one fluid, elegant movement - leaps up and stands on his broom.
Barty wants to shout at him to sit back down, he's going to break his head - but Regulus doesn't appear to be listening, as he spreads his arms, levelled straight with his shoulders and glides over to him, like he's riding a muggle skateboard.
Barty's gaping - he's never seen such skill on a broom - he doesn't even realise when Regulus is right in front of him, his hand stretched.
He looks stupidly at the hand offered, surely Regulus can't mean him to -
"Trust me," he says, laughing - but his eyes are sincere, so Barty takes the hand, and jumps on the broom right in front of him, Regulus steadying him when he stumbles, and they glide higher, standing sideways - their hands entwined, until Reg turns to him.
It feels like he's seeing Regulus's eyes for the first time.
Regulus's eyes - which are now eyeing Barty's lips with an unmistakable expression. Oh.
Oh. Barty gets it now.
Or some of it. Probably. Perhaps. He should -
Its like Regulus knows how unsure and slow he is and that his brain is streaming utter shit at him - because he smiles slowly and leans in, one hand on Barty's neck.
Its definitely and absolutely the best first kiss anyone can ever have - Regulus tastes like lemons and spearmint and flowers and - Merlin, this boy is bewitching, he thinks, inching closer to Regulus Black, fifty feet in the air.
___________
He should have known it was all too good to last.
He curses himself for being so obvious about his relationship with Regulus, and so gullible, for being so completely stupid - then, he curses Evan fucking Rosier for being an utter bastard and his fucking father, for making Evan hate him - and Rabastan Lestrange, who has no right to say that Barty betrayed his trust, after what he said about him.
"What will daddy say when he gets to know his darling son's a shirt-lifter?" Evan asks, jeeringly, with a swift kick to his chest, making him gasp painfully even as he thinks that there is so much factually incorrect about that statement.
Darling son, really?
Evan had come running to him right before Regulus's big quidditch game - the final match of the year, between Gryffindor and Slytherin - and told him frantically that Regulus needs his help, he's panicking. Reg had been a nervous basket case all morning, so Barty didn't even question why Evan Rosier of all people would try helping.
But now that he's locked inside a tiny old Charms classroom, because Rabastan and Evan ambushed him from the back, he seriously regrets that.
Also, he doesn't want to be late for Reg's match.
Everything depends on him, as usual, this year. The new Gryffindor Seeker is shit - but James Potter is a phenomenal Chaser - and the fact lies there, that Regulus will catch the snitch, but in how much time?
Because, Potter, if given around half an hour, can score enough to win - even if Regulus gets the snitch.
He tries inching inconspicuously to his wand, with the hand that isn't broken - but Rabastan notices and kicks it away with a laugh.
"You don't belong in Slytherin," he says, like Barty didn't know it already. "You could be a Hufflepuff, but I don't think they like poofs anymore than us."
They laugh, like their insults are not incompetent and ineffective, at best and simply stupid, at worst.
His disdainful glare must have been too obvious - because Rabastan's smile falters and he raises his wand, with an ugly expression on his face.
There's a dark blue stream of light and -
Sometimes, Barty forgets that Rabastan is literally the brother of Rodolphus Lestrange, who is You-Know-Who's right hand man, and that he knows several painful dark curses, that aren't a part of their curriculum.
There are moments, though, like this particular one - when he remembers it.
He brings his hands to his face, and it comes away covered in red - are his eyes bleeding? - and the pain is too much - there's a whistle in the distance, meaning Regulus's match must have started -
He suddenly realises that if Rabastan wants to, he can kill Barty right now. He's completely at their mercy.
Its funny that when he thinks of his own death - his first thought isn't even about himself. What about Regulus, they had just started -
The door swings open, quite calmly - even though, Barty's sure that Rabastan put a hundred locking and silencing spells on the room.
And right in the doorway, stands Luna Lovegood, who smiles serenely like the whole scene in front of her, is something from the pages of a nature calendar.
Rabastan is staring, and finally - Barty can see, he isn't so cock sure anymore. Lovegood may be a slightly insane Ravenclaw, an odd bird, really - but she's also a seventh year prefect and more than that, she's a part of the gang.
The Gang. With capitals.
She simply walks - unrestricted, to Barty and offers him a hand to stand. He accepts hurriedly, even though his vision is red and blurry - and his hand is slipping, covered in blood -
She suddenly reaches for his eyes and he shuts them instinctively, before something wet touches his eyelids, and the pain - vanishes. Just like that.
Luna Lovegood apparently, has a transparent Magic Healing Balm - and that's saying something, because everything around him is literal magic.
She just has something that's - more magic.
Before leaving the room, Barty wonders if Evan or Rabastan would stop them - they don't, but Luna stops and turns around, still with that small smile.
"You'll both be going to Blaise after dinner," she says, her voice suddenly colder, contrasting with her smile - which makes Barty think that his injury was a lot more serious than she let on. "I'm sure he'll want to talk to you after I tell him about this."
Evan scoffs but doesn't refuse. Rabastan is just glaring, his wand clenched tight.
They walk out together, Barty is still confused and cleaning up his face, fixing his finger bones - but thanks her for the help - which she accepts with another wide smile.
He wonders if maybe Ravenclaw wouldn't have been that bad.
Which is when he realises, that if he didn't go to Slytherin, he would never have become friends with Regulus -
Regulus. Oh, fuck.
He hastily thanks Luna again, as she says something about wrackspurts around his head that make him lose track of time - before running, sprinting to the pitch.
He looks at the score - and oh shit. There's almost a gap of one fifty points, with Gryffindor at the lead - and the quaffle is in Potter's hands, he's streaking towards the goalpost, dodging left and right - passing to Mckinnon - who passes back.
He looks for Regulus but he can't see him anywhere, is he alright?
Then suddenly, there's a glint of gold somewhere, and Barty sees Regulus diving from above the clouds - going so, so fast - even a slight turbulence would make him fall and break his face -
Right before he reaches the ground, almost six feet up, Reg jumps up on his broom and the crowd gasps, there are scattered cheers and claps - as he stands straight up on it, his face screwed up in concentration.
He glides just a yard further - and closes his right fist on something - his face breaking into a wide grin as he flips off the broom, landing perfectly gracefully on the wet grass.
There's silence for a second before the Slytherins explode around him.
Barty watches as Sirius, Draco and Harry Potter lift Regulus and James up collectively and Regulus offers a handle of the Match Trophy to James, who accepts with an easy grin, cheering and laughing.
Its the perfect win, Slytherins and Gryffindors both cheering - their total scores for the main Quidditch Cup tied at an exact equal.
Barty finds himself running - his eyes only on Regulus, who still hasn't seen him and seems to be searching the stands.
He crosses Pettigrew and Lupin and a reluctantly smiling Lily Evans, Zabini is there too, not looking bored as per usual, but with a shit-eating grin on his face, he can see the Prewett siblings and Hermione Granger, who Barty makes small talk with in the Library.
He slips past and suddenly, he's right next to Sirius Black, who stares at him for a second blankly, before smirking devilishly - and lifting Regulus and passing him onto Barty's shoulders.
Regulus protests for a second, before he sees him - and his face breaks into the most brillant smile that Barty's ever seen - his lips forming a question that gets lost under all the noise.
He swings his legs down - his arms are right around Barty's neck - and he smiles at him like he's his whole world.
And then, they're kissing - Sirius and James are yelling - people are clapping and whistling - but Barty can see literal stars in his eyes.
And Regulus is the most beautiful of them all.
___________
There are torn letters and frayed hems of soft sweaters and wine chocolate truffles.
There are rainy nights in the dungeons and old muggle neon lights and silences that aren't awkward.
There are broken mirrors and sunsets and impromptu dances in the common room.
There are burning howlers and stolen snitches and two strips of muggle photo booth pictures.
There are nightmares and warm hugs and ink tattoos that they freely chose to take.
____________