Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling. No money is being made.
Collection of related one-shots, in chronological order, pertaining to Barty and Harry.
Written for the Harry Potter Halloween Collection Competition
Prompt: (word) Macabre
(location) Azkaban Burial Grounds
Warmth
"What is it?" Barty asked. Harry had been more silent than usual. Well, maybe not silent per se, more like pensive. He seemed distracted, even when casting the spells that Barty had been showing him.
It wasn't usual. Something Barty had learned about Harry was that Harry was very passionate about magic when he wasn't pretending to be a lackluster student. Harry was like a sponge when they were talking about magic, and he always paid attention when Barty was telling him about new spells.
Harry lowered the book he had been skimming. He looked slightly unsure and Barty was rather curious about whatever was going through the teen's mind. Unsure usually wasn't something that he associated with Harry.
"You told me your mother died shortly after she exchanged places with you," Harry said softly, but even so, Barty tensed. He may hate his father, but his mother had been everything to him. "Did you ever visit her grave?"
Barty put the book he had been holding on the table. He could feel his hands shaking.
"I… She died in Azkaban. I never went back there. They don't bury all those that die there. Most are thrown at see. Sometimes the families want the bodies, but my father never asked for hers. I don't… I don't know if they buried her."
He would never be able to tell his mother how grateful he was. She would never know just what it meant to him that she had never given up on him.
"You should go." He almost didn't hear the whispered words. He opened his eyes, he didn't remember closing them, and looked at Harry. "I know the feeling. I know what it feels like to have your parents sacrifice themselves for you. I can hear my mother begging for my life. That's the only memory I have of her voice. I… She'll never know how grateful I am. She'll never know how much it means to me that she fought for me. I would give everything to be able to see her grave. You should go."
Nothing but the crackling of the fire filled the silence in the room.
"I'm afraid." Barty looked away from the brilliant, green eyes. He didn't want to see the disappointment in them. The last thing he wanted was to appear weak to Harry. But just thinking of Azkaban – he could still feel the biting cold of the stone floor, the rattling breathing of the Dementors gliding in front of his cell, he could taste the salty air on his tongue, and hear the hopeless screams of his friends and comrades. Azkaban, one never truly leaved it, no matter how short a time one spends there.
He heard the rustling of clothes and closed his eyes. He didn't want to see Harry leave. Harry had become… he didn't really know what Harry had become, but the simple thought of Harry leaving… it was just too hard to bear.
He snapped his eyes open when he felt a weight leaning against him. Harry was beside him, his eyes full of understanding, and a small smile on his lips.
"I'll go with you."
The words were a gentle caress and Barty knew he was lost.
Barty had followed Harry's lead when it came to sneaking out of Hogwarts, and damn the teen sure knew how to get out unseen, but when it came to actually get to the burial grounds of Azkaban Barty took the lead.
He was thankful that the burial grounds weren't by the prison itself. They were still on the island, but slightly further down, almost by the shore. It was usually devoid of Dementors, and not truly monitored by the aurors. Apparently, they believed that everyone deserved to mourn their dead in peace.
It was a small consolation to those that had family on those accursed grounds, but it was something.
Still, when they reached the shore to go to the island Barty hesitated. His wand was heating up, and he knew that he should take his next dose of the potion, but he didn't want to. He wanted to mourn his mother as himself.
"Harry," he whispered and in a second the teen was beside him, concern shinning in those stunning emerald eyes. Barty didn't move, didn't say anything. He just waited for the potion to run its course.
Barty knew it had only been a couple of minutes, but it felt like an eternity passed. He studied Harry's expression closely, saw those beautiful eyes widen slightly, and heard Harry's breath catch. He wished to be closer, close enough to feel Harry's heart beat.
Even after the potion had run its course he didn't move.
Nor did he move when soft, dainty finger reached for his face. A featherlight caress traced every contour of his features, and his heart almost beat out of his chest when gentle fingers traced his lips. He closed his eyes, savoring the most tender touch he had had in years.
"Hello, Barty."
He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the warm smile on Harry's features. It was the first time he saw that smile, and he was immediately possessive of it. He didn't want anyone to see that smile, that particular smile should be his and his alone.
"It's the first time you call me by my name."
If possible the smile grew warmer.
"It's the first time I'm seeing you."
Harry grabbed his hand and pulled him towards a small boat. Barty startled slightly, he had almost forgotten why they were there.
The trip across the sea was shorter than Barty remembered, then again, he had been completely out of it when he had last made it across.
He wasn't even on the island yet and he could already feel the cold seep into his bones. It wasn't even the enjoyable cold of a fresh winter morning. It was dead and decaying, it robbed you of every drop of warmth you possessed. Barty knew the feeling only too well.
He stumbled out of the boat, only Harry's firm grasp on his hand stopping him from tumbling to the ground. That small, warm hand was the only thing grounding him.
He never let go of that hand while they made their way towards the small graveyard they could see just a little ahead. Barty was sure that if it weren't for that hand holding onto his own he wouldn't have made it two steps into the island.
The graves come into view and Barty's steps faltered.
He couldn't.
He didn't want to see.
His mother deserved better.
He couldn't.
Harry's grip on his hand tightened and he took a step forward, then another, and another. And one more.
He was afraid to look, he didn't want to see. Wasn't it enough that he had glimpsed the dilapidated graves, the dead trees, and withering flowers? Wasn't it enough that the howling wind brought the shattered screams of the prisoners to their ears? Wasn't it enough that he felt the cold settle deep in his soul, grasping at the little shards of sanity he had been able to hoard?
The grip on his hand tightened.
He looked.
He looked over every grave, eyes scanning every name carved into the rotten wood and broken stone. He staggered between the graves, his knees feeling weaker by the second. His strength left him when he reached the last one.
His mother deserved better, she deserved so much better. Still, part of him was elated that she had escaped these accursed grounds, even if it was an empty joy. It didn't change the fact that his mother deserved so much better. After everything she had sacrificed for him, she hadn't deserved the cold, dark sea.
He was pulled into a warm embrace, and he buried his head in the crook of Harry's neck. He listened to the sweet nothings whispered into his ear, understanding only a word here and there. However, that hardly mattered to him. What mattered was that he felt so incredibly warm and comforted when before he had known nothing but cold and despair in this macabre place.
