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Barty Crouch Jr. had always been good at pretending. Pretending he wasn’t lonely, pretending he didn’t crave warmth, pretending he didn’t notice how hollow his home was compared to everyone else’s. But with Regulus Black, there was no pretending. Regulus was everything Barty could never be—quietly beautiful, with sharp edges hidden behind soft, restrained movements. He carried the Black family name like a burden, yet somehow he made it look like it belonged to him.
And Barty? He was the boy in the shadows, desperate enough to orbit Regulus like a moth circling fire.
—
He remembered the first time he heard Regulus talking in his sleep.
They had been forced into the same dorm for a week after a storm wrecked part of the dungeons. Everyone else had fallen asleep quickly, exhausted by the chaos of being moved. But Barty stayed awake too long, staring at the ceiling, restless, listening to the rain pound against the windows.
And then he heard it—Regulus’s voice. Low, cracked, barely audible.
“Don’t leave me.”
The words didn’t belong to Barty. They never would. But he let himself imagine, just for that night, that maybe Regulus was dreaming of him.
Barty rolled onto his side, eyes fixed on the shape of Regulus in the next bed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He wanted to reach across the space between them, to hold him, to be the answer to that desperate plea. But all he could do was lie there and memorize the sound.
It lived in his chest after that, aching like a bruise.
—
The smile hurt the most.
Regulus didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was like sunlight breaking through clouds after days of storm. It was quick, fleeting, gone before anyone else even noticed. But Barty noticed. He noticed everything.
And every time, it twisted inside him, sharp as glass. Because it was a smile he would never earn. It belonged to others.
To Sirius, even when Regulus claimed to hate him. To the faceless girl Regulus once kissed in the library, the one who made his lips twitch upward for an instant. To the rare moments when Regulus let his guard down with someone who wasn’t Barty.
Never Barty.
And every time, he thought: I’ll never get that. Not from him.
—
“You don’t believe in destiny, do you?” Barty asked one night, sprawled across Regulus’s bed as though he belonged there. His shoes were off, but he hadn’t bothered to ask permission. He never did.
Regulus sat at his desk, quill scratching parchment, back rigid with focus. He didn’t look up. “Destiny’s for people too afraid to admit they chose the wrong path.”
Barty forced a laugh, though his chest tightened. “Then what’s ours?”
Finally, Regulus glanced at him, eyes like storm clouds. “To break.”
And Barty thought, at least I’ll break with you.
—
It was always questions with him.
Why Regulus stayed when he clearly wanted to run.
Why he flinched when anyone got too close.
Why Barty himself couldn’t stop hoping for scraps, even when scraps were all he would ever get.
Questions that never had answers.
Because the truth was simple. Regulus Black would never be his.
But Merlin, Barty would always be his.
—
He heard the whispers—Regulus snapping at his friends, brushing them off with cold words that didn’t fit him. Barty noticed what they didn’t: how his hands shook afterward, how his mouth tightened as though he regretted it.
“You’re not happy,” Barty told him once, leaning against the cold stone wall of the dungeons.
Regulus’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile, wasn’t anything at all. “Happiness is for people who can afford it.”
Barty almost said I’d give it to you. But he didn’t. He bit his tongue until it bled.
—
The worst was watching Regulus fall for the wrong people.
People who didn’t see him, not really. People who wanted the Black name, or the danger that clung to him like smoke, or the beauty he wore like armor. Regulus changed for them—softened when he should’ve stayed sharp, hardened when he needed softness.
Barty wanted to scream, He’ll never love you like I could.
But Barty wasn’t enough. He never would be.
—
Still, there were moments.
Quiet ones. Nights when Regulus let him stay, when they sat side by side in silence, shoulders barely brushing. When Regulus didn’t tell him to leave, didn’t flinch when their hands touched briefly. Moments that Barty held onto with both hands, greedy and desperate.
Sometimes, late at night, when Regulus’s walls cracked just a little, Barty imagined telling him. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even if you break me, I’ll love you still.
But the words stayed trapped in his throat, burning like poison.
Because Barty knew how the story ended.
Regulus would come to his senses. He’d realize Barty was just a shadow, a temporary comfort, a distraction at best. He’d leave him behind, with nothing but questions and the kind of silence that killed.
And Barty—stupid, reckless Barty—would still be his. Always.
Even if he never got to be loved back.
—
One evening, Barty caught him staring out the window, moonlight cutting across his face. Regulus looked achingly fragile, as though he might shatter if touched. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
“You’ll never be mine, will you?” Barty asked, barely above a whisper.
Regulus didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer.
And that silence was louder than anything.
Barty swallowed the hurt and forced a crooked smile, though no one could see it. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll always be yours.”
Regulus’s shoulders tightened, but he said nothing.
And that was all the answer Barty would ever get.
—
Barty Crouch Jr. was many things—liar, dreamer, fool. But he would always be Regulus’s. Even if Regulus never belonged to him.
Because love, for Barty, wasn’t something he got back. It was something he gave away, even when it tore him apart.
And Regulus would never know just how much of Barty’s heart he already owned.