Chapter Text
Later, some people speculated that there must have been one single moment, one defining moment, that pushed him to rebel. There hadn’t been. It had been more… an increasingly frustrating chain of events that had led Regulus Arcturus Black to realise that he’d made a fatal error... one he’d correct, or die trying.
Much to Regulus’s dismay, the more distant he felt from the Cause, the more Barty seemed to throw himself into it… and so the more distant he became to Regulus.
They had initially grown close due to their similarities, but it was now that their differences shown more starkly than ever.
Barty had always been passionate, arguably too much so, but Regulus had always rather thought that his influence had been the kind of rational counterweight Barty required. But now... with Bellatrix and Dolohov and Mulciber's combined influence... well…
The point was, there was no one moment where Regulus had decided enough was enough. Seeing Kreacher so abused had merely acted as the catalyst to his desertion, but he’d long decided the Cause was dead by the time the Dark Lord had asked him for use of his house elf (and Regulus, disillusioned though he was, knew better than to say no to the Dark Lord).
He knew, when he’d had time to recover from Kreacher’s story, to pause and collect his thoughts in order to regroup, that he was going to die. If the cave didn’t kill him, he was quite sure Barty would (and wouldn’t that be romantic?)
He wished, in a brief pang of childish longing, that his brother were there. That he could go to his brother for help; tell him how in over his head he was, how disgusted he was, that Muggles may not be as good as Wizards (and they certainly weren’t), but that the Dark Lord had shown himself more than willing to kill those from even the most ancient families if they got in his way.
And Regulus wasn’t about to let that stand.
But that didn’t mean… he couldn’t go to the Order, even if he knew how (which he certainly did not). They would never accept him, and, frankly, he didn’t trust that even Dumbledore could protect him from the consequences of desertion.
(If Barty didn’t kill him…. Bellatrix would torture him…. Leave him so broken he’d be begging for the sweet release of death).
A look at his wristwatch caused him to start. He was due to meet Barty. He couldn’t back out… Barty would come to him instead, and he’d see Kreacher alive and well, and… Regulus wasn’t about to let that stand.
Regulus was sure the Dark Lord thought Kreacher dead.
So, rather than risk his life in the moment, he sighed and Disapparated to Barty’s dismal flat in Knockturn Alley. It wasn’t Barty’s flat, proper, as he was still under the thumb of his pompous, terrible father, but he’d managed to secure enough money (through which means Regulus didn’t want to know) to get a secret place in a friend’s name.
Regulus, quite frankly, wasn’t sure how he got away with it, but he knew better than to ask that question
Barty was sitting leisurely on the ancient sofa that dominated the tiny living space. Regulus couldn’t deny that Barty lit up when he entered the room any more than he could deny the feeling of warm affection that flowed through him at the same.
But he had to do this. Even if Barty would never understand, even if it would make him murderous. Regulus had a conscience, for Merlin’s sake, and… if not for him, then for Kreacher and for Narcissa’s future child, and, loath as he was to admit it, for his brother. He had to do it. There was no alternative.
(Even if begging Barty to piss off to Siberia or somewhere the Dark Lord might not find them was becoming more enticing with every moment spent in the dingy apartment… he didn’t need silk and silver and family heirlooms… he just needed Barty ).
But then Barty was kissing him, and rather than argue, or confess his stupid (suicidal) plan, Regulus kissed him back.
He realised, as they stumbled their way to Barty’s cramped bedroom, that he was doing this for Barty, too. He had to die, he knew, but Barty… Barty could live, and move on, and find a safe job somewhere in a postwar world.
He didn’t let himself think that it was much more likely that Barty wind up in Azkaban at war’s end. His father might have been a twat, but he’d protect his own. The Crouches were part Black, after all, and the Blacks protected their own.
(Bellatrix notwithstanding).