A/N: For the wonderful, amazing Sam. I love you, darling. Enjoy. You are too sweet, darling. I love you too. ohmygosh!

I.

You tell yourself he's no good. All your life, Father has warned you about people like the Blacks. He says they're dangerous, that people like that will only drag you down.

"Be a good boy, Barty. Can't have any stains on your record if you want to work at the Ministry."

"Yes sir," you've always said, ever the good boy, always trying to please a man who only acknowledges you as his shadow, as an extension of himself.

II.

He crashes into your life when you sneak away to the Quidditch pitch for the precious rush of nicotine in your lungs. One minute, he's in the air, executing trick after trick, then he's directly in front of you, wearing an amused smirk.

"Shame, shame, Crouch," Regulus laughs, plucking the cigarette from your fingers and fitting it between his lips.

Part of you wonders how he can make such a filthy habit look so damn beautiful.

"What would your father say if he saw his golden boy breaking the rules?"

You scowl. "I'm not his golden boy."

"Suit yourself, mate," he says, slipping the filter between your lips and holding it there. "Go on then."

You inhale, fingers brushing over his as you regain possession of your cigarette.

As Regulus mounts his broom and takes off for the skies again, you find yourself thinking you need a new hiding spot.

III.

You don't think about him much. At least you try not to.

Then, over summer break, he sees you in Diagon Alley, purposely bumping into you. "Wotcher, Crouch," he says with a grin and a wink. "Having a good summer?"

"Wotcher," you echo before bruising fingers curl around your wrist, and your father drags you off.

"I've told you about his kind, Barty."

"Yes sir," you say quietly, stealing a glance over your shoulder, catching one final glimpse of dark hair as Regulus ducks into a shop. "It won't happen again, Father."

"Good. Nothing good will come from that boy. Keep your distance."

"Yes sir."

OoOoO

Night after night, Regulus invades your mind. You see his cold grey eyes, the flip of dark hair. His small but mischievous smile burns in your memory.

You touch your cheek, wondering what it would feel like to have his fingers on your skin, his mouth on your mouth.

"Stop it!" you scold yourself, dropping your hand and grabbing a cigarette.

You can't afford to think about him.

IV.

"Didn't get you into trouble with Daddy dear, did I?" Regulus asks, pulling you into an empty corridor.

Though his tone is teasing, he doesn't come off as snide. You relax slightly, though your heart races nervously in your chest. "That was a month ago. Why would you care?"

He smirks. "Who says I do?"

You shrug, looking around, worried someone might see you.

You're not doing anything wrong, you remind yourself. Just talking.

"See you around, Crouch."

"Barty," you correct, but he's already gone.

V.

You find him atop the Astronomy Tower, looking up at the stars, still as a statue. "Sorry."

Regulus laughs. "Payback for me find in your hiding place?" he asks with a sideways glance in your direction.

"I didn't mean to-"

"Stay. I don't mind."

Your feet move you closer, ignoring your mind's insistence on going back to your dormitory. Leaning against the railing, you pull a cigarette from your pocket, placing it between your lips and lighting it.

"You did care."

Regulus turns his attention to you, a questioning brow raised. "Excuse me?"

"About my dad. Whether he was upset with me."

He shrugs, his gaze returning to the stars. For several uncomfortable seconds, he says nothing, and you chew on your cigarette filter just for something to do.

And then, "So what if I cared? Does it surprise you?"

"Yes," you admit.

Regulus snorts. "Guess I'm full of surprises."

OoOoO

You find yourself returning night after night. Mostly, you and Regulus just watching the night sky together. Some nights, you talk.

"You hate him, don't you? Your father."

Your cigarette nearly drops from your mouth, and you burn your hand trying to right it. "What makes you say that?"

"Intuition."

Eyes rolling, you take a deep drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs. "I don't hate him," you correct, shuffling your feet uncomfortably.

It isn't something you like to talk about. The expectations, the pressure, never quite measuring up to man whose name you carry.

"You don't like him, then."

Reluctantly, you nod. Even that small, quiet admission feels like a screaming betrayal somehow.

Regulus laughs, but there is no humor, no warmth in the sound. "Can't blame you there."

You watch him nervously, heart racing through you can't explain why. "Regulus?"

He turns, and you catch his lips with yours. Regulus pulls away, grinning. "You taste like menthol."

"I'm sorry."

"No," he says, tucking his fingers under your chin and guiding you closer so that your lips brush. "I like it."

He's more skilled, more confident. His lips overtake yours, and you go slack against him, trying to mirror his movements.

"Your father would kill you," he laughs into your mouth.

"I don't care."

VI.

"You want me to what?"

You stare at him, trying to find some semblance of logic in what he's said. There's none.

"Join the Dark Lord with me," Regulus says, as casually as asking if you have the time.

"You're mad," you snort, shaking your head. "I don't... I don't share your prejudices. Why would I-"

"Because your father wouldn't approve," Regulus says, brushing his fingers along your neck.

You remember spending the summer wondering what his touch would be like. You remember sliding your fingertips along your own flesh, imagining it's his hand. Your imagination hadn't done it justice.

"And because you'd be with me," he adds, placing a kiss to your neck. "Burn with me, Barty."

And even though every fiber in your body screams for you to say no, even though you hear your father's voice reminding that the Blacks are bad news, you find yourself pressing into his touch, your breathing uneven.

"Well?"

"Yes," you whisper.

VII.

Trembling fingers fumble with a cigarette.

Gone. He's gone.

You shake your head, wishing you could deny the truth. Regulus has left you alone.

You light the cigarette – your fourth in less than an hour. The cold menthol stings your lungs, but you don't care.

Gone.

You laugh, but the sound is choked by the sob you can't let out.

You should have known.

VIII.

Father visits you in Azkaban.

"I told you, didn't I?" he says. "That boy dragged you down."

You slump against your cell wall, eyes peering through the bars, beyond him.

You want a cigarette. You want him to shut up. But mostly, you want Regulus.