He's fourteen when he loses the person he loved the most.

Mum is so sick—the most sick that she's ever been. She lays in bed all day, never leaving the room. She has women that come to the house now, three times a day, to bathe her, dress her, feed her. Nurses come to give her medicine and make her comfortable, but they all say the end is inevitable. They're just making her comfortable now.

Father doesn't want anyone to see her. He doesn't want Barty to see her, and he tries to stop him visiting Mum in her room whenever he can. However, he can't say no to her when she expressively asks for her son, using the few remaining words she has left.

So Barty visits her, alone with her near-corpse in the dark room. She can't bear the sunlight so the curtains stay closed, and the lights are dim. She's as thin as a rake, swamped by the thick blankets on her bed, and her skin appears almost translucent. Barty stares at her bony, brittle hand as it sits in his palm, counting the pale blue veins that web beneath her skin.

"It won't be long, my love," she croaks.

Barty feels tears well in his eyes. "I don't want you to die," he whispers. "I don't want you to leave me with him."

Mum flexes her hand weakly, in a desperate attempt to return his grip on her hand. "You're strong, Barty," she murmurs. "You can survive him. You can survive him like I couldn't."

Barty falls across his mother's frail form, hugging her close as he weeps into her chest. His weight must hurt her, but she says nothing. With great difficulty, she lifts a hand to rest on his head comfortingly. "Be brave, my love."

…

It rains at Mum's funeral. It's the kind of funeral that Barty's read about in books, where everyone stands around the open graves in black suits and holding umbrellas, and the rain falls in thick grey sheets. The solemn man leading the service asks if anyone wants to say any words, and Barty has a sudden surge of confidence. Before he can offer to speak, Father puts a heavy hand on Barty's shoulder, and shakes his head firmly.

When they return home that evening, Father scolds Barty for almost embarrassing him at his mother's funeral. Barty runs to his bedroom before he can fall victim to his father's volatile temper.

He lays on his bed and weeps. He weeps for his mother, whose death finally seems so real. He weeps for how lonely he suddenly is—even after weeks of feeling as though the house was empty with Mum wasting away in her bedroom, now that she's really gone, he feels truly alone. He weeps for the future, and his path which he's so unsure of now.

Everything is going to change.

…

Whenever he's not at boarding school, Barty spends hours, sometimes entire days, locked in the closet on the second floor hallway. There's no room to sit so he has to stand upright against the old heating cylinder, the cold metal almost freezing his blood. When he's finally let out, his father either ignores him or beats him, berates him or starves him.

Barty doesn't have to do much to warrant a punishment from his father. Sometimes it's a perceived wrong look, or he says the wrong thing, or Father isn't happy enough with his grades or work ethic. Sometimes there doesn't even seem to be a real reason, and his father just punishes him for someone to take his anger out on.

For the longest time, Barty lets him. He has nothing to say, nothing to feel. Really, it was all he'd ever known. He had suffered at his father's abusive hands all of his life, as Mum had when she was alive, but it only got worse after her passing.

He goes back to boarding school during the weeks, and tries his best to hide the bruises and marks from his roommates. He's ready with excuses on his lips, but he doesn't need them. He doesn't really have any friends at school—he's too bookish, too outspoken at the wrong times, he gives the other boys reason to think he's strange or peculiar or someone you don't want to hang around with. They avoid his eye in the corridor, he is picked last for team sports, and Barty rarely has a partner for class projects.

Unless Regulus picks him.

Regulus is popular; a beautiful boy from an aristocratic family, with a sharp elegant face and an almost haughty exterior, but the pretentiousness seems to fade when he's talking to Barty. Most of the other boys would be ridiculed for hanging around with Barty, but not Regulus. Regulus has a different hold on his status in the school—because of his family name or his popularity, Barty doesn't know.

He doesn't care. Because his world is a little bit brighter when Regulus is in it.

"You seem to excel at getting into fights when you go home for the weekend." Regulus's voice is idle and his dark grey eyes bore into Barty as he watches him try to quickly change into his pyjamas in the shared bathroom. Regulus is leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded. Barty hopes he manages to cover his bruised torso before anyone sees, but Regulus sees - Regulus always sees.

"It's nothing," Barty starts, trying to gather his excuses. "I—"

"Spare me," Regulus murmurs, as he steps further into the bathroom. "Don't insult my intelligence with your excuses."

They are silent as Regulus fills the sink with warm water and dampens a flannel. Barty stares at his hollow reflection in the mirror as Regulus coaxes him to remove his shirt once more. He lets the tears slip down his face while Regulus sponges down the bruises and scratches on his back with the gentlest of touches.

Barty doesn't understand why Regulus is so kind to him, but he's weary, and he decides he doesn't want to understand.

He just wants to be.

…

Barty is sixteen when he has to miss a week of school due to his injuries. He's sixteen when something snaps and twists and breaks inside of him, and he realises he isn't going to take it anymore.

So he runs. He throws some clothes in a rucksack and resorts to stealing money from his father's wallet, then returns to school, not truly knowing where else to go. He doesn't know anything better than boarding school—despite only having one real friend and a plethora of people who didn't like him, Barty much prefers to be at school. He can lose himself in his books and his studies, and it's the only time he feels truly free.

Being at school through the week is fine enough, but then when the weekend comes and everyone else is leaving for their parents houses, Barty hangs back. The school is going to close, but he hides under his bed in his dormitory, hoping he can hide until the cleaners finish their shifts and then he can just remain at school while there's no one else there. No one would need to know. By the time Monday rolls around, he can just pretend he arrived back at school earlier than the rest.

It's a stupid plan, and Barty is intelligent enoiugh to know that it will never work in a million years, but he has to try something. He can't stay with his father. He won't.

"I'm not strong like you were," he whispers to himself as he lies flat on his back under his bed. "I'm not like you, Mum."

Barty waits for an hour, listening to the sounds of students shouting and laughing in the courtyards outside the dormitory building. He's surprised when the door to the dorm opens again so soon, and he stiffens under the bed, trying to make himself invisible.

"Are you planning on staying under there all night?"

Barty peers out from under the bed, looking at a pair of shiny black shoes that stand patiently to his left. He sighs and pulls himself out from under the bed, then climbs to his feet to face Regulus.

Regulus is dressed for travelling, wearing a long jacket and a scarf looped around his neck. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm just not going home."

Regulus sits on the bed beside Barty. "You came back to school with a black eye and a crooked nose," he observes. "Your bottom lip isn't swollen anymore, but it was on Monday."

Barty says nothing, just looks down at his knees.

"What kind of dysfunctional father does that to his son?"

Barty feels the backs of his eyes burning with tears and a lump growing at the back of his throat. He can't cry. He won't cry in front of Regulus. He won't be so weak.

But Regulus reaches out and takes Barty's hand in both of his. "You're not a fool, Barty. You know that you'll get caught if you try to live at school during the weekends."

"I can't go back home," Barty murmurs. "I won't."

"Of course you won't," Regulus replies. "You'll come home with me."

…

Barty is surprised by Regulus's decision. He doesn't know Regulus's parents, but he's heard stories of how strict and traditional they are. His worries are answered as they near Regulus's manor house in Greater London, and Regulus turns to face Barty.

"My mother must not know that you're here," Regulus tells him. "She won't be happy about it. But I can sneak you in. Mother spends most of the weekend out of the house, and Father is shut up in his office most of the time. My brother sneaks his friends in all the time, and they've never been caught."

Barty is mildly alarmed. He's never done anything like this before. If he tried to sneak a friend back into his own home, his father would lock him up in the boiler cupboard for the whole weekend. As Regulus leads him towards the glossy black front door, he feels a sudden surge of admiration for how brave Regulus is, and how rebellious.

No one is in the hallway when they enter the house. Regulus shouts out a greeting, and puts his finger to his lips when he looks back at Barty. He puts his coat on the coat stand and leads Barty up a flight of stairs, guiding him to his bedroom.

"You'll have to stay in here, obviously," Regulus explains. "I have my own bathroom. Sirius uses it from time to time as it's joined onto his room too. But don't worry about him."

Barty nods as he places his rucksack down gingerly by the door. "Will your parents not come into your room?" he murmurs.

Regulus scoffs. "Mother and Father have no interest in coming into our bedrooms," he replies. "Father never leaves his study except for mealtimes, and Mother spends all her time in the sewing room or drinking through her wine stores. You'll be perfectly safe here."

Safe. Barty isn't sure if he's ever felt safe before, but he realises that he might have found safety, in the confines of Regulus's bedroom.

…

He feels safe when he sleeps in Regulus's bed. There's no other choice, Regulus tells him before they go to sleep. He doesn't have a couch in his bedroom and Regulus isn't about to allow Barty to sleep on the floor, or sleep on the floor himself. Not when there's a perfectly good king-sized bed on offer.

Barty pretends to be asleep for most of the night. He watches the boy sleeping opposite him, focusing on his smooth, pale face, his relaxed jaw, his sweep of dark, curly hair falling over his face. Regulus is safety, he realises. Regulus is freedom. He doesn't understand why Regulus—the preppy, popular kid who seems to have it all—wants to help him, but he trusts him. He trusts him completely.

…

In the morning, Barty is startled awake by a knock at the door. For a moment he forgets where he is, until Regulus shifts beside him. He realises they are pressed close to one another, face-to-face, their arms hanging loosely over each other.

Before either of them can move, the door swings open, and there's a subsequent gasp from the doorway. They sit up, and to Barty's horror, his father stands in the doorway beside Regulus's tall, elegant mother.

Barty scrambles out of bed and backs up against the wall. He looks over at the window, at the bathroom—anywhere he could possibly escape. Mrs Black raises her neat blonde eyebrows, and shakes her head. "Regulus Arcturus Black," she murmurs dangerously. "You know the rules on house guests. How dare you bring uninvited guests into our home."

"Why are you in my room?" Regulus asks, sitting up in bed and pushing a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Mother. There were extenuating circumstances that meant Barty needed a place to stay," he shoots a glare at Barty's father, "I would have spoken to you sooner, Mother, but I was concerned for the welfare of a friend—"

"Mr Crouch went to collect his son from school yesterday, and he was nowhere to be seen," explained Mrs Black coolly, her pale eyes sharp and focused on Barty. "He had to call the administrators before reporting his son missing, and they explained that the boy only has one friend at school," Mrs Black looked back at Regulus. "Pathetic little boy. You always did like to take in the strays."

"Bartemius," Barty's father says gravely. "Get your things."

"Mother!" Regulus tries to interrupt, but Mrs Black glares at her son.

"Be quiet, Regulus," she snaps. "I expect better of you. We will discuss your misdemeanors when your friend leaves."

"Bartemius." His father's voice was sharp.

Barty looked down at his feet. "Leave me alone," he whispers. "Please just leave me alone."

…

Father's fingers dig into Barty's arm as he drags him back home. Barty knows that the nip of his biting grip will leave marks by tomorrow, but that's the least of his concerns.

When the door is closed, his father whirls around to glare disgustedly at Barty. "Just when I think you couldn't get any more perverted," he snarls, spraying spittle across the room, "I catch you sleeping in a bed with another man."

"He's just my friend," Barty whispers, but it doesn't mean anything to his father.

"Disgusting," he hisses. "Shame of my blood. Go—out of my sight, to the cupboard. You're not going back to school for the rest of the year."

…

Barty's father makes good on his word, and for the rest of the year, he stays at home. While Father is in the house, Barty is allowed to stay in his bedroom and have dinner in the dining room. But most of the time, his father is at work, and he doesn't trust Barty not to try and run away and embarrass him again, so he is locked in the boiler cupboard.

He's locked in it for hours on end, and when he's finally let out at the end of the day, he almost always falls to the ground to land at his father's feet, exhausted from standing upright for so long. He crawls to his bedroom and collapses on his bed, and spends the rest of the night listening to the sounds in the house.

He has to listen, because the sounds he hears will depend on what kind of night he will experience. If Father is quiet and retreats to his bedroom early, it will usually be a quiet night. But if Barty can hear him aggressively tapping away on his typewriter in the office next door, or shouting down the telephone at one of his work colleagues or clients, then Barty knows he will have fresh bruises by the morning.

…

Not long after Barty's seventeenth birthday, his father announces that he can return to school for his final year in order to finish his exams. He has a story already spun for the administrators, a fine tale of a sick family member needing Barty's care.

Barty is silently ecstatic, but he won't show his father his excitement for fear of him revoking his promise. He worries about completing the year—he doesn't know how he will be able to earn the perfect marks that his father expects of him when he's missed so much school already. He's tried to keep up with his studies by reading his textbooks by torchlight during the night, but it's not the same as learning in the classroom.

When he's taken back to school, Barty feels like he can finally breathe again. He finds his dormitory and empties his suitcase and puts all his things back where they were, until he finally feels like he's home again, truly home. He sits back on his bed and runs his hand over the familiar woolen bedspread.

"Barty!"

Barty hadn't even heard the door open. He stands up as a flash of black and white lunges at him, skinny arms wrapping around his neck and a mop of curly hair brushing against his face. He awkwardly hugs Regulus back, until Regulus releases him. He leans back, gripping Barty's upper arms, his wide grey eyes searching Barty's face.

"I didn't think you were coming back," he whispers.

"Neither did I," murmurs Barty. "I'm...I'm sorry I couldn't get in touch."

"No," Regulus lets go of Barty and shakes his head. "No, don't you apologise. I'm sorry. I tried...I tried to find you, but I didn't know where you lived, and Mother wouldn't tell me anything. I've been to the administrators in the school, but they couldn't share any information. I tried."

Barty watches in surprise as Regulus's normally flawless face begins to splotch and redden, and tears begin to spill down his cheeks. He lifts his head slightly to look up at Barty—he's only slightly shorter than him—and speaks in a broken whisper. "I thought you'd died. I thought he'd killed you. I blamed myself—I shouldn't have let him take you. I shouldn't have let my mother—"

Barty rushes forward and presses his lips suddenly to Regulus's. It's messy and their teeth clash, and Barty's never kissed anyone before so he doesn't have a clue what he's doing, but Regulus doesn't back away so maybe he's doing something right. His brain is blank but he's surprised when Regulus softly kisses him back, reaching down to entwine his fingers with Barty's. Barty doesn't dare open his eyes in case he's dreaming, and he tastes Regulus's tears mixing into the kiss. When they pull apart, Regulus's tears are drying on his face, and he's smiling.

"That was a surprise."

"I'm sorry," Barty whispers, feeling his face begin to burn. "I don't know why…"

"Never apologise," Regulus replies, and squeezes Barty's hands. "I've wanted to do that for a long time."

…

Being back at school and back with Regulus injects life into Barty. The fear and the anxiety begins to ebb away as the days pass. He goes home at the weekend and tries to keep his father happy, staying tight-lipped and out of his father's way. When he returns to school, he finds he can suddenly laugh and enjoy the company of another person.

Regulus helps him with his studies, and somehow Barty manages to pass his subjects—though he doesn't pass all of his exams with flying colours, so he expects punishment for his failures. But as the time goes on, he feels like he cares less and less.

He's experienced so much pain at the hands of his father. How much worse could things get for him?

In the nights when all the other boys have gone to sleep, Regulus climbs into bed with Barty. He massages the tension out of his shoulders until Barty is putty in his hands, he strokes his hair gently and whispers promises into his ear. Promises for the future; that Barty doesn't have to remain with his father once he turns eighteen. That they can live together, if Barty wants. Regulus has an inheritance and land in his name, and he will share all of that with Barty, if it keeps him happy. Barty's heart swells with happiness, but he's still plagued with insecurities.

All his life he's been made to feel worthless, unwanted, rejected by his father. Why would someone like Regulus be so kind to him, when he was nothing?

"Why do you want to help me, Reg?" Barty whispers one night, while Regulus combs his fingers through his fringe. "You could have anyone. Why me?"

"I don't want anyone else," he says softly. "I just want you."

…

They graduate from school, and Barty returns to his father's house, but he's adamant it will be the last time. He plans to stay docile and dormant until he turns eighteen in a few months time, and then he'll leave. He'll leave, and he'll never look back at his father again.

When Barty and Regulus get off the train in London, Regulus gives his hand one last squeeze before they part. It's a small gesture, unnoticed by most, but Barty feels eyes boring into him and a familiar panic rising like bile in his throat. When Regulus drifts away towards another platform, Barty turns and sees his sharp-nosed father glaring at him across the station.

He wasn't supposed to be collecting him. He'd previously ordered Barty to take a taxi back to the house when he arrived in London, and he would arrange payment when he was dropped off.

Father turned on his heel and started stalking towards the car park, with Barty trailing behind him slowly.

…

It was a week before Father spoke a single word to Barty. He orders him down to his study, and Barty sits patiently in the chair in front of his desk, his hands folded in his lap. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Father?"

His father clenches his jaw until a twitch starts in his jowl. "Don't be so insolent, boy," he spits.

Barty purses his lips and remains silent.

"Tell me right now," he orders. "What atrocities have you engaged in with the youngest Black?"

Barty raises his eyebrow and primes his tongue to lie. "Nothing, Father."

"You lie!" Father shrieks suddenly. For a fraction of a second, Barty feels like a child again—a battered, bruised child that cowers at the sound of his father's voice. He feels anger burning in his veins as he thinks of that child. When his father raises his hand to strike Barty, Barty stands and grabs his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

"No," Barty whispers, glaring at his father. "You will never lay a hand on me again."

A sense of power washes over him all of a sudden, as he realises how pathetic and frail the man before him is. He's not the monster Barty has always seen; the devil at the end of his bed ready to punish him or lock him in the cupboard; the bogeyman who wants nothing more than to torture his own son. He's just an old man, looking up at Barty with flickering dark eyes, as though he was only just seeing him.

When had his father become so small?

"Release your grip on me, boy," Father snarls, but Barty doesn't miss the slight quiver to his voice.

"Did you ever release yours?" Barty murmurs. "Do you ask for my mercy now, Father?"

Before his father can give him an answer, Barty uses his other hand to grab the back of Father's head and smash it down into the desk.

…

When Regulus opens his front door, his face splits into a smile. "Barty." He flings his arms around Barty's neck, and Barty hugs him back, burying his face into his neck and breathing deeply.

"I missed you," he whispers. "I missed being held by you."

Regulus pulls away and looks at Barty. "Are you okay?"

"I need your help," Barty says. "I didn't want to involve you in this, but…" he pauses. "I wouldn't be coming to you for help if I could handle it myself."

…

"You've tied him up," Regulus says.

"Yes."

"He's in the shed."

"Yes."

Regulus looked away from Mr Crouch, who was tied to a chair in the middle of the garden shed, with a piece of tape over his mouth. He was glaring angrily between Barty and Regulus. "Barty...what are you planning to do?" he hisses.

"I don't know," Barty says honestly. "I just...he was going to hit me again...and I snapped. I couldn't take it anymore. I…" Barty cards his hands through his hair and looks at Regulus, exasperated. "This is why I needed your help. I don't know what to do."

Regulus remains quiet for a long time, watching Barty's father intently. Barty watches Regulus, wondering desperately what he's thinking. Does he think I've gone mad? He wonders. Does he think I'm crazy?

Regulus's face hardens as he stares at Father, and eventually he walks over to him and rips the tape away from his mouth roughly. He crouches down in front of him, his steely eyes suddenly cruel. "Why do you hurt him?"

Barty's father spits on the floor beside Regulus. "I don't care what family you come from," he snaps. "If you're...involved...with my son, you're disgusting. Abominations. Your mother will find out about this, boy, and you'll be exiled from your family faster than—"

He's cut off as Barty charges forward and punches his father squarely in the nose. He's momentarily awed by how it cracks under his fist and sprays like a crimson fountain. Father coughs and splutters, but says nothing.

"Don't you dare speak to him like that!" Barty hisses. "I don't care what you say to me, what you do to me—but don't you dare!"

Regulus pulls Barty back by the arms to the other side of the shed, and cups his face in his hands. "Take a breath," he whispers. "We can show him."

"Show him?" Barty murmurs, looking between Regulus's eyes.

Regulus nods, and turns back to Barty's father. "He thinks we're an abomination," he says. "Let's show him an abomination." He pulls Barty's face towards him and kisses him firmly.

Barty hears the disgusted sound his father makes, muffled by the gurgling of blood in his nose and throat, but he realises he doesn't care. Regulus is right. He puts his arms around Regulus's torso and pulls him close, deepening the kiss.

"Disgusting…" Father roars. "You're no son of mine!"

Barty finds himself smirking into Regulus's mouth as Regulus curls his hands into Barty's hair. "Come on," Regulus murmurs into the kiss. "Outside."

"Where are you going?" snarls Barty's father. "Untie me at once!"

Barty turns to glare at his father. "You can get yourself free," he snaps. "After I leave with Regulus. It may be a few months until I am legally free of you, but I'm leaving today." He lets go of Regulus and moves closer to his father, lowering his voice. "And you're not going to come after me, do you understand?"

Father purses lips as he stares angrily at Barty. "Fine," he hisses. "I am glad to be rid of you anyway, filth. Where are you going to go? Who will have you?"

Barty laughs. "Where am I going?" he moves back to Regulus and leans in for another kiss. "Before I leave this cesspit you call our home," he murmurs. "I'm going out into your garden to fuck my best friend."

Regulus sniggers as Barty pulls him out of the shed. They ignore Barty's father's nasal screams and protests, and Barty shuts the door firmly.

"He'll get out eventually," Barty says. "But for all I care, he can die in there."