Notes: For Bex's Het vs. Slash competition. My chosen pairing was BartyJr/Regulus. This is sadly unbeta'd because Design is stealing my soul.
long before you read this.
To you, Amortentia is parchment, leather, smoke, dew. It's the wind against your face as your hand closes around the golden snitch. It's your brother forgetting his jacket in your room after a late night talk. It's the sight of a lit cigarette between Barty's lips when no one else is looking.
That was two years ago, anyway. You wonder what Amortentia would smell like today, just today, when there's nothing in the world left for you and every step is a step closer to death.
"What's wrong, mate?"
You shake your head. Why is Barty even asking? He's the one with dark circles around his eyes. He smokes cigarette after cigarette. None of his defiance remains in the thin, hawkish lines of his face. He drags his feet as the two of you walk aimlessly through muggle London. Those streets know you by name; you're two lost souls with nowhere else to go.
If you could answer, you'd tell him that the note is heavy in your pocket. It's heavier than the locket that carries it. You want to believe it's a lie. But you'd rather die before your Master realizes you know his secret. You're almost glad it ends tonight. The words are written - there's no way back. Right now, you're so obsessed with your own written word, that you feel both arrogant and silly. After all, you've read all the great writers, curled up in blankets, your tea getting cold as it floats next to you, your lit wand tracing the words like a man's fingers would trace his lover's curves. And every now and then, a phrase would get to you and stick with you for what feels like eternity.
I know I will be dead long before you read this...
Eternity ends tonight, and it's like Barty can tell. You've never been able to lie to him, after all.
"I can ask the same question," you say.
"Long night, Regulus. Consider yourself lucky."
"Do I hear remorse?"
"Remorse? For making the word a better place?" He drops a half-consumed cigarette and steps on it firmly. His hand never shakes when taking lives. "They knew we were going to be there."
You know every piece of information he gives you is forbidden. You know you could pay dearly for any crack in the facade. But today, you can't bring yourself to care.
"Was Sirius there?"
"Yeah. He's alive."
That's why you love Barty. He won't make your life harder for your brother's choices, no matter what he thinks of them. He's loyal to you, as much as he's loyal to anyone who's done him well. You smile wryly. The Hat said you're courageous - but you've always known there's no place like Slytherin to find friends like Barty.
You wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it's killing you.
"Who was hurt?"
"I wasn't." And that's all Barty can say. You'll have to read the Daily Prophet to understand what happened... but you don't really have the time, so now you'll never know.
You've read on life and death and the afterlife. You know there's a way out. You could run away. You could stay home tonight. So maybe life is an option - but a miserable one, between four walls that close in around you like a noose around your neck. You serve a Master you despise and live a life without aim and purpose. Some might call it courage... and maybe it is courage. But you think of it on the simplest terms: You're committing suicide. Life is killing you slowly, anyway.
The sense of finality covers you at last, and you realize you've never experienced anything stronger. You explode the moment Barty places a cigarette between his lips and the matches come out. You don't know whether it's nerves or a protective instinct, a need for things to be okay. But you can't bear the sight that once weaved its way through Amortentia. You feel your breath quicken, and then you're slapping his hand with the back of yours, sending the box of matches flying out of his hand and into the floor.
"Stop that, will you?" You almost yell.
The thing is, this is the moment in which Barty would throw a punch. But you can't let him. This is the last time you'll ever see him, so you just tangle your hands in his hair and crash your lips onto his. You kiss him with the joy of a life you won't get to live. You kiss him until you're sure this moment will be seared into eternity, and that no reaction of his will matter when it's all said and done.
"Regulus..."
"Forgive me, Barty," you say nonetheless, breaking away and avoiding his gaze. He deserves a letter more than the Dark Lord does. He deserves an admittance of guilt. Because without you, he'd be a different man. He would've never known what it feels to draw smoke into his lungs and let it slip away. He would've remained unmarked.
Without you, Barty would be a better man.
When it's evident he's not going to hit you, you finally look up at him. He's shaking his head. His eyes shine brighter than stars, an island of light in the middle of the fog.
"Regulus," he whispers. "I've been wanting to do this for so long..."
Your resolve cracks. You're too dazzled to hold him back, so you accept him into your arms with a sweet form of resignation. If you'd known, you would've kissed him long ago. Or not at all. You would've dissolved into a moment in time with a quiet, unheard goodbye. You wouldn't have started something you won't have time to finish. You wouldn't have wished with all your might that you'd had the strength to change your mind.
"Let's go to my place," he suggests.
You close your eyes. In another universe, you would've said yes. You crave the feelings of his hands on your body. You crave his kisses. You crave his love. But this is the path you chose and it stands before you as the only alternative. It's more than duty. It's more than redemption. It's more than suicide. It's the realization that nothing you've done so far holds any positive weight, and it's too late to fix it. And you won't drag him down with you any longer.
"This won't happen again," you tell him.
"Regulus please-"
"Barty, I need you to understand. This can't happen."
You don't beg. You don't demand. You offer your words as fact and it's cruel, really, that you know these words to be true in a higher level. No matter how much you want it, tomorrow won't happen.
You blink, and he's Disapparated in a fit of what you know to be rage.
You feel that air is being stolen from your lungs. Maybe it's better not to say a proper goodbye, after all, because life is weighing down on you, dragging you down and filling you with fear. You can only hope that the memory of his kisses will make death easier, when the time comes. You hope the imprint of his touch will be in death what it won't be in life. You try not to think about Barty any longer, because if you do, you won't be able to fulfill your self-imposed mission. Your last thought of him is that maybe he can be saved before it's too late, but you're the only one who can.
And you're not there anymore.