For Quidditch League Round 13- write a romance. I chose BartyRegulus as my pairing
Prompts: photo: Tyre-Fire—Scotswood—Newcastle—upon—Tyne, Love, What is Love by Robert Louis Stevenson, and gruesome
Also for teddy as a very, very inexcusably late GGE gift... :)
Love, what is love? A great and aching heart;
Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair.
Life-what is life? Upon moorland bare
To see love coming and see love depart.
The Dark Lord sits across from you in one of the seediest bars in town, his black cloak wrapped around him as if he's holding on to a secret. As if he's holding onto something special that he's prepared especially for you. You know him by reputation only, his name caught on the ends of people's tongues out of either fear or reverence. You know him from the whispers.
He whispers too. His voice is quiet and melodic and it carries above the noise around you. He is red eyes and a silver tongue, his words snaking their way beneath your skin as your blood begins to boil and hiss.
"I was named for my father too," he says. "Such a disappointment."
You flinch and then blush because you know he noticed. You flinch because the word disappointment hits too, too close to home. It sounds like your father's voice hidden behind the Daily Prophet and your mother giving grief to the house elves. It sounds like the silence at Christmas dinners, and if you ever got up the nerve to speak, your Slytherin tie was sure to choke you back into submission.
But somehow submission doesn't seem so terrible now. Not at the hands of someone so…attentive. Someone who says your name and it doesn't sound like disappointment at all.
"Barty. You'll be so loyal to me, Barty."
It isn't a question, but you answer him anyway.
"Yes."
And maybe that's what love sounds like. But you wouldn't know.
And then you hear it. You hear it before you see it coming, the sound muffled by a Death Eater's mask and yet, looking back, it's so clear that you don't know what took you so long to see that your dark lord was never anything more than a scrawny boy just turned eighteen and so beautifully naïve.
He pulls off his black hood and mask revealing a pale face that is now flushed with excitement and wonder. He pulls you aside to talk, and when you find yourself speaking rapidly with words stumbling over each other, you quickly pause to apologize. He asks what you are so sorry for and you don't know what to say because you don't know. You don't know what else to do but be sorry whenever you open your mouth.
"Don't be sorry, Barty," he says. "I like hearing you talk."
And when he says your name, he doesn't whisper; he doesn't sound like a snake in the grass. He says it outright. Like he means it.
You don't flinch.
There are nights when he invites himself into your flat, butterbeer in hand and a pack of Muggle cigarettes poking out of his pocket. Sometimes you think he is larger than life, but perhaps it's just a trick of the light and the way he casts an impressive shadow when he throws back his head and laughs. Or perhaps, that's just how he makes you feel.
You sit on the rooftop and watch the smoke rising in the distance, betting on whether it was Bellatrix or Rosier who started the fire this time. Bellatrix is always the safer bet. Tomorrow or perhaps the next day, Rabastan will have to pay up.
Regulus's fingers inch their way toward yours and then travel up your forearm, tracing the skull and snake pattern branded into your skin. You lean into his touch, still hesitant, and you think this isn't a good idea and you really shouldn't and what if he doesn't want you to? But he's put out his cigarette and he's close enough.
He smiles knowingly before closing the distance between you. You can taste the butterbeer on his lips mixing with smoke and the bite of nicotine on your tongue. Fingers clutch at robes and hair and each other until you find yourself lounging in his arms and he's reminding you: "Don't be sorry. Please, don't be sorry."
But you don't think you could ever be sorry for this, no matter how badly your father would want you to be.
"Talk to me," Regulus says. He presses a kiss to your forehead as his hands rubs circles on your back. "I like hearing you talk."
So you talk of everything, of the Dark Lord and your family and your name and how you hate it. How you don't feel like it belongs to you, but you don't mind so much when he says it, and does that even make any sense?
He points to the sky and finds his constellation. Says he knows a thing or two about namesakes and how lionhearts don't think and that's why brave people die of stupidity. Better to be a snake in the grass, than a carcass left to decay and be devoured by the likes of Barty Crouch.
You look at him in confusion, but he only grins. "Not you," he says. "The other one."
The fires grow more frequent, and you both spend less time on the rooftop. Sometimes you'll sit on kitchen counters and he'll sing drunkenly and out of tune. Other times he paces and broods and you talk him out of his bad humor in time for him to leave or else, he pulls you up the stairs to bed.
Some nights you let him do the talking instead, until he runs out of words and all that is left is the sound of Barty, Barty, Barty against your chest. You hear it in your bones long after he's fallen asleep.
You wake up to the shuffle of feet, and a breeze at your back where Regulus ought to be. You turn to see his silhouette in the moonlight, pulling a shirt over his head.
"What's the matter?" you ask.
His shoulders sag at the realization that you've caught him. He sighs and falls back in bed, propping himself up on his side to face you.
"I have to go."
"Go where? It's the middle of the night, Reg. Go back to sleep."
"No, love. I have to go. Something I need to do."
You sit up and rub at your tired eyes. He puts a restraining hand on your shoulder as you move to get up.
"I'll come with-" you begin, but he shakes his head and covers your mouth with his.
"Stay," he says. "You have to stay."
You can't argue. You want to but you know you can't, and when he kisses you again, you decide that this is for the best. Regulus knows what he's doing. He always knows.
But then this larger than life boy turns around in the doorway on his way out, and suddenly he's but a shadow. He's that scrawny child with Death Eater robes that are too large, and his bright eyes have grown dim.
"I'm sorry," he says.
He's gone before you can reply.
"Don't be sorry."
"I know a thing or two about namesakes," he'd said.
You watch the light in your father's eyes go out, your wand outstretched and the gruesome snake burns your skin. The ink grows ever darker, signaling the Dark Lord's return. Even now you recall the whispers, the hiss of his promises itching the back of your brain.
And you still hear Regulus calling your name. Your bones ache with the need to hear it once more. Just once more.
You look down at your arm, remembering the soft touch of his fingers.
"Better to be a snake in the grass," he'd said.
But is it really?