Your wish is my command, Seirios … xD One letter to BC Sr., the asshat, coming right up xD And, I have noticed that I keep finding Sara Bareilles songs that work well for my titles – so I just keep using them …

Third installment in the series; sequel to ch.2 of Seirios Aster's Little Lion Man, Blue in Green. Go read that first. Or don't. Whatever you want really. xD

As a warning; this chapter's kinda gross xD There are several unpleasant scenes including piss, vomit, saliva, blood … Just saying.

Love on the Rocks

"Hot as hell, cold as ice – sip it slow 'cause it's so nice … Dulls my senses, drives my pain; but I do it again … Burns a bit to the touch, dangerous if it's too much … If this bottle could talk …" ~Love on the Rocks by Sara Bareilles

.

The view in here is beautiful as well! What in the buggering fuck was wrong with him? The only reason that Barty Crouch Jr. didn't bash his face into the wall for his stupidity was the fact that it already felt like he had done that for a few hours previous to his friend's arrival –

"I suppose," Reg said before falling over and cursing. Also, Regulus seemed to completely miss the implications that the blond had just laid out in front of him, which was another perfect reason to not self-flagellate while his fellow sixth year Slytherin was in the room. Excellent. He had forgotten that one thing he could usually count on from the youngest Black was obliviousness to the point of near mental deficiency… "I mean, yeah – the lake's pretty and all, but on the surface … I dunno. I guess I just like the bright green of the grass against the grey sky." Yes; that was one of the blond's favorite colors, actually – again entirely Regulus' fault of course, but … His best mate's eyes were striking normally, a slightly cloudy, pale blue more often than not but … When he was being serious – really, deep-in-thought serious… They darkened, almost hardened slightly, to a perfect, storm-cloud grey …

"Right. Merlin, maybe I should take some of those damned pills," he said, shaking his head slightly and nearly punching himself, once again ecstatic that Regulus was not any sort of a mind-reader. His head hurt too much to do anything so far as concentrating for occlumency; not that his friend knew that Barty had read up on that subject a little bit in his paranoid delusion that someday Regulus might try to figure out what was on the blond's mind for real … "They should knock me out, right?"

"Yeah; they should – I mean, they knock me right out, but I tend to say ridiculous shit as they're kicking in." Barty couldn't help the muffled snort that escaped him as he pressed his face against the pillow; that was the understatement of the year. Cats and ferrets and tea parties and broken French … Reg talked about the weirdest shit when he was drugged sometimes …

"You need any water or anything?"

Barty nearly jumped a mile off the bed, turning to face Reg without meaning to – Merlin, when did he get so close? He was across the buggering room the last time the blond had seen him. And then he remembered the reason that he had been avoiding looking at Regulus in the first place; he had been thinking about staring at his best mate's eyes for a non-descript amount of time – falling into them, really … Which had made his face more than slightly pink because Reg was standing right there …

"I know you didn't have anything for breakfast, and I could go get you something from the kitchens." Evidently the blush that was staining what felt like his entire face was going to go unnoticed too – this was just painful … Wonderful, but painful. No wonder he'd kept his feelings from his friend for so long, even given the amount of time he spent around the dark haired Slytherin – he was so bloody oblivious that even Barty candidly confessing his feelings would probably make him ask for clarification …

"I, uh, I'm fine," Barty managed, keeping his gaze trained away from the other Slytherin's. "I've a glass of water. Should be enough for the pills." Which was true – but he was used to taking these little things often enough that honestly, he probably didn't even really need the liquid to help it along.

One pill makes you larger … And one pill makes you small … he absently smiled a little to himself when the melody started up in his head as he was left alone and Reg flicked the lights out, pill bottle in hand. He could barely see it in the almost misty light that washed the dormitory after he crawled under the blankets, but it was enough that he could eventually pop the cap off and shake out a few pills into his hand. Looking at them for a long moment after putting the bottle on his nightstand, he glanced at the aforementioned glass of water, which had been there since yesterday, and decided that he'd rather just swallow them as they were.

He had honestly forgotten that Regulus kept a bottle of what was essentially muggle medicine mixed in with his socks in case he sustained a Quidditch injury and decided that he wasn't going to the infirmary, or Poppy wasn't giving him enough by way of a painkiller … Or at least, that was what he'd told Barty. And true, there were some times that he didn't want to be arsed to get himself from the field to the med witch when the dormitory was closer, especially when the other team's beater was fucking off, but … The blond had the sneaking suspicion that he kept them there at least in part for when Barty's brain was attempting to split in two because it had missed the memo that he was a human, and so needed to undergo sexual reproduction, not budding … And let's not get on the subject of when his brain remembered the fact that sexual reproduction was a thing …

However, when his headache turned into a migraine, and that migraine was bad enough that he was laying face down on his bed, head turned just enough so he could avoid suffocation, he rarely felt the initiative to drag his sorry arse down to the infirmary for something strong enough to knock him on said sorry arse … Seemed like Reg was always there offering the bottle and some water to him, sometimes outright coaxing him into taking them if it got bad enough he could barely see, which had happened before, though rarely … He didn't even know where Reg got them from, really – he'd never bothered asking.

Laying down, he realized hazily that he wasn't sure exactly how many pills he'd taken … Hmmm … … He also couldn't really remember if he was supposed to take two or four, so perhaps that evened things out in some way? He was also reasonably certain he was really not supposed to take these on an empty stomach … Whatever; he was tired – muggle medicine confused him more often than not, and he didn't really care to learn about it … Or male boxes … or anything else muggle-ish … Mostly because he had a headache, so he didn't care about much right now.

And if you go … chasing rabbits … you know you're … going to fall …

It was likely several hours later before Bartemius Crouch Jr. woke, but he honestly had no idea. The good news was that his headache was completely gone – excellent. The bad news was that not only did it feel like his stomach was eating itself, but it felt like it also wanted to expel anything from it that was living there in the first place. Not excellent. Gagging slightly as he tried to roll over, he groaned – he felt like complete shite, barring the fact that his head was no longer pounding, which was, as previously mentioned, excellent.

"Fu~ck …" he groaned again before something between a hiccup and a gag caused him to close his mouth; he was sure he hadn't eaten anything that day, but that didn't mean he couldn't get rid of something – somehow he was sure his body would find a way, even if it had to produce the stuff he was throwing up.

Alright; that was pretty gross.

Subject change in 3 … 2 … 1 …

Barty needed to pee.

Yeah; not a whole lot less gross, but at least it was something. Also confusing, as he hadn't had anything to drink that day, but then, he always had to pee right after waking up, regardless ... However, that now left the trouble of him actually getting to the washroom without losing … Well, whatever it was he had in him to lose at the moment. A heavy sigh escaped him, but he managed to get himself out of bed after a very long and tedious argument with the sheets – he really needed pajamas that fit him better, or a bed that wasn't so clingy. Unsteadily he reached up and grabbed the bedpost so he didn't fall over, attempting to focus his eyes so that he only had one pair of feet. Yup … probably was only supposed to take those pills after eating … he thought to himself as he started across the room, body shaking a little, though he wasn't sure if it was because he was cold, or because he was going to fall over and die, or because of some other unknown circumstance … Or some weird combination of all of those things.

The trek to the bathroom was a lot less eventful than it had been the night before – he didn't run into anything or anyone, and he was so focused on putting one foot in front of the other and climbing the stairs without going for a dive off of them, that he didn't really have room for much deep thought. Making it to where he was going, he was quite certain that if he tried to stand up, the best case scenario would be him bashing his face against the wall in an attempt to stay upright – and the worst was all around unpleasant so he didn't consider it for more than a moment before going into a stall and awkwardly sitting down on a toilet to go instead. He remained sitting after he'd flushed it though, setting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands; it was cold in the bathroom, which actually made his stomach feel a little bit better – maybe he'd just stay there for a while.

"-ut how did you get it though!" suddenly door was being pushed open pretty hard as two Slytherin males, probably seventh years by the sounds of it, came in, talking in hushed voices. Barty honestly couldn't have given a fuck less – he just wanted the world to stop moving even after he'd closed his eyes.

"I'm just a genius s'all," another voice sneered, and the blond was in no condition to try and figure out who it was or what they'd said. They didn't seem to notice there was anyone else in the room with them however, though to be fair Barty was encased in a stall at the moment, so they likely didn't see any evidence of someone else being there. They did what they'd come to do, namely take a leak, before he heard one say conspiratorially to the other,

"Yeah, but firewhiskey? A whole bottle? We can't have that stuff in the castl—"

"Shut up you idjit! D'you want the world to know what I've got under m'bed?" the second voice hissed, interrupting the first, who sheepishly apologized, though there wasn't much urgency in the tone – it was likely they were just paranoid that there were ears in the walls, or the walls had ears, or however you said that.

He was going to puke.

"… Right … Anyway; dinner time so we may as well get down there," the first voice said after the water from the faucets went off; he didn't get a response, but Barty heard the door open and close – not that it mattered much to him, but the thought of dinner made him twice as nauseous as he had been a moment ago…

The sounds of retching were likely not heard in the common room, but the blond was more concerned with the raw feeling his throat was slowly developing as whatever he was expunging burned the entire way up, and the entire way back down if he didn't get it all up in one contraction. It was a good few minutes before his body left him in peace, shaking, coughing, and gasping a little with one hand on the toilet seat, which, since he had previously been sitting on it, was not at all cool against his overheated face. God he hated it when he threw up ... Not that anyone would like it, he supposed, unless they were out of their tree, but …

Dragging himself off the floor a bit later, he leaned over the sink and splashed his face without much accuracy, getting his robes wet too, before gargling water and spitting to try and devise his mouth of the taste of bile. He stayed where he was for a moment, and was grateful that at least he felt a little better … And by felt a little better he meant he could probably walk straight now. Maybe possibly. And then, a thought occurred to him after he let out another breath; someone had smuggled Firewhiskey back from Hogsmeade … Someone in Slytherin … the entire house being presumably at the Great Hall eating dinner … … Hmmm …

Ten minutes later he was exiting the Slytherin common room, bottle of alcohol tucked under his arm inside his robes, carefully making his way up the stairs – you didn't think he was dumb enough to be on the piss with pilfered booze ten steps away from where he'd stolen it from, did you?

Let it never be said that Bartemius Crouch Jr. was in Slytherin for no reason.

And besides; he was sure he needed it more than whatever seventh year wanted to get some girl drunk and have a good shag behind the curtains in an empty classroom … Hell, taking it was Barty doing his civic duty as a student – if he took it then they wouldn't be out of the common room after hours, and there wouldn't be any pregnancy scares in Slytehrin. He was helping his fellow house mates – and wasn't that what it was all about …? Well, actually no, it was about Barty getting completely sloshed, but whatever.

He eventually found himself in the staircase leading to the owlery, which was about as far away from the dungeons you could get … However it was far too ruddy cold in with the owls at this time of year, especially since the front of his robes were still damp from the erratic splashing he'd done in the bathroom – but luckily, since Hogwarts tended to think of everything, there was a room or two built into the tower, so that they had a slightly irregular shape, for the purpose of writing letters before you sent them off. Ducking into one of the few doors leading off of the winding stairs, he was pleased to find that it was warmer in there than it was in the hall, simply because there was only one small window and it in fact did have glass in it. This didn't keep Barty from shivering, but sitting down at the table in the middle of the room, he would be warm soon enough.

Maybe he would write that letter to his parents – at least then he'd have a reason to be up here. There were some scraps of parchment hanging around, as well as an inkwell and a rather sad looking quill after some more digging. Sighing and rolling up his sleeves, he left the bottle unopened, sitting on the table next to him; he was already feeling like he should just return it to where he'd found it like he'd never gotten it – not so much because he felt bad he'd stolen it; more so because if anyone ever found out that he'd taken it, he'd be in for some hurt …

Sighing, he started scrawling out a response to that awful howler he'd gotten earlier –

Morning,

I got your letter today at breakfast. I'm s*–

Fucking inkblot.

Barty, annoyed at his own handwriting, had felt compelled to write in that last part, though that meant that he'd have to tear off more of the parchment than he otherwise would have before so he could start over again. Sending letters to his parents with poor penmanship was something that usually warranted, not a howler, but at the very least a displeased comment or two in the response letter. Something that Barty wasn't sure he could take many more of. Right; let's try this again.

Morning Sir,

I received your letter at breakfast …

Startling awake, blond hair flew back and forth across his face as he gasped, heartbeat accelerating quickly as he searched for the source of his sudden wakefulness. Disoriented for a long while, Barty eventually calmed his breathing, remembering where he was and what he had been doing before he had at some point drifted off again. Looking around he took a breath, letting it out and glancing out the window as best he could to try and figure out what time it was. As far as he could see it was pitch black out there, which meant he'd slept for a few more hours, and it was probably past curfew, so he was going to get in trouble for being out of the dungeons.

Great, he thought to himself with a small shiver, just fucking great … Leaning back in his chair and wincing because he had a stiff neck, he realized he felt something on his face. Reaching up, realized that the letter he'd been writing had managed to stick itself to his face. Peeling it off, which was actually a little painful, he realized it had been adhered to his skin with spit, courtesy of the fact he had probably been sleeping with his mouth open again, and so, had drooled all over it. Of course that meant that whatever his response letter had said, and believe you me he had no idea what he had written, it was ruined now, so it didn't matter.

"Fuck," he moaned, throwing the smeared parchment and leaning back in his chair, putting his hands on his face and likely smudging the ink that was left all over his cheek. Sighing heavily, he eventually allowed his arms to drop to either side of himself, at the moment at a loss for what to do until his eyes landed on the bottle he'd set down earlier and had, in all likelihood, forgotten about. Why not? He thought in a tired tone of voice as he reached for it, fingers painfully tight because of the temperature of the room he was in, got nothing better to do … At the very least it'll take the chill off. It's bloody freezing in here …

Taking the top off of the bottle he'd nicked, he took a drink straight from the neck before nearly slamming it down. Holy shite that burned all the way down his throat, and into his otherwise empty stomach. However, true to form, the alcohol did as Barty anticipated and after another nip he wasn't shivering as much. To be fair, he had only had butter beer for the most part on the occasional trips to Hogsmeade, and his father didn't keep alcohol in the house – excessive drinking had killed his cousin or some such. However, the blond knew that on a few occasions his mother invited her friends over and so, she kept a bottle of Red-Currant Rum in the back of the pantry underneath a stack of cans so that his father wouldn't see it. He didn't blame the woman; she probably needed a stiff drink now and again – though with the amount of time his father ever spent looking at anything in the house, it would surprise the teen if Bartemius Crouch Sr. would notice a bottle if it was left in front of him on the breakfast table. Every once in a while Barty had been known to take just a little from said bottle, after it had been opened and before it was down to less than half, to make sure no one noticed that it contained less than the last time it was used. The last thing he needed was for his mother to know about that …

Another long swig or so later, and he did have to admit that he felt much better than he had previous to climbing all the way up the damned west tower and trying to write that fucking letter; he wasn't cold any more, which was a huge plus as far as he was concerned, and he felt really comfortable despite the tower and lack of a fireplace in the small room he was in. Glancing around, he stared out the window for a long time; the rain appeared to have stopped – or else he just couldn't see it, but either way it didn't much matter to him, he guessed … Mind wandering, he was having a hard time tracking exactly where it was going exactly; the sky earlier had been gray – his favorite color, like stormclouds ... That got him to Regulus after not too long, and well … That got him to drinking some more of the burning liquid, because that was part of the reason why he was in this mess in the first place. Not that he could remember what the mess was, or anything, but he was sure he was in some sort of mess and that Regulus had something to do with it, since Regulus often had something to do with his troubles when he was being self-deprecating …

After a while he looked at the bottle in his hand, which was about a quarter of the way gone, and it occurred to him that it would probably be best to drink as much of it as he possibly could, so he could dispose of the remains and claim he'd never seen it if asked. It was only … … Glancing at the bottle in the dim light of his wand after casting what was for some reason an extremely difficult Lumos, it took more than a few seconds to read the numbers written across the bottom. The label read ".75L"; he knew that meant thee quarters of a liter because he wasn't a complete git, but he wasn't exactly sure what that all meant as far as a point of reference for how much he could drink… Didn't look like a very big bottle though, so he could probably handle it, not that he was a seasoned alcoholic or anything ... (1)

Hazel eyes blinked a few times, disoriented, before glancing at the desk and seeing the rest of the parchment scraps he had scrounged up, the broken quill, and the nearly dry inkwell … Fucking sod … he thought drunkenly to himself as he took another long drink out of the bottle and nearly choked, coughing a little bit as he hit his own chest to make it go down easier. Setting the bottle down heavily onto the wood, he leaned forward, taking altogether too long to pick up his quill because the buggering thing kept moving on him. But eventually he got it, and, wand still lit and laying on the desk next to him so he could see, he managed to get some ink on the quill, and probably his fingers too, though it wasn't like he could notice in this state. I've got your immediate response, you arsehole … he thought crossly before shaking his head slightly, attempting to clear it a little so he could write. Gone was the meticulous scrawl his letters, reports, and notes were always scribed in as he started to draft a new letter to his father in response to that thoughtful howler he'd received earlier …

'lo Old Man Gaffer,

Buggered off mywhole day today; did fuck-all 'cept sleep. Shit sleep too; got one of those headaches – you know the type. Or you don't; because you don't know shit, you stupid sod.

S'alright though; I'm a right proper boozer now – nicked me some whiskey an'everything. Wouldn't you just feel a shit if I died from drinking ust like your brothr … Bother … … brither … Bugger.

I know my potion grades're all a cock … That git .. Snp … snrp … Snake … graduated ands all to hell here. Can't focus on shit when Reg tries t'show me. Ain't like we arse 'round or nothing. Bod's real good at potions anthe like. His bod's real good. D'you even know I had a friend? No; I'd guess not. Prick.

I get headaches from not sleeping, not that you would know. Git. Didn't get much o that done last night eif… neither though. Had a good hard wank though thinking about fucking that friend I said I have. Or him fucking me; don't relly rember, but I'd take it either way. Been after his fit arse for years; should count it lucky that, like you, he can't be arsed to care. Or's too dumb to. You wrinkled old codger.

Fuck you.

Go ahead and lock me up in the house with darbies you Pennyboy.

Least I'd never see you.

Barty.

Not Bastard Cunt Jr. … ... BARTY.(2)

By the time he'd finished writing in script that was legible, if not slurred and blotted in some places, and smudged around the edges a little too, most of that firewhisky was gone, and he felt so much more … Free … than he had before he'd written it. Took him a good few minutes to roll up the parchment he'd written on into some semblance of a scroll to attach to an owl, and with that he was ready to send his response on its way. However, upon standing up he knocked over his chair.

"Bloody … fuck …" he muttered with another slur, making several swipes at it to try and set it up before just waving a hand in disgust and leaving it where it had fallen. Managing to get the wand he'd left on the desk, he also picked up the bottle of alcohol, holding it up to his ear to see if there was anything left in it, and nearly smacking himself in the head with it when he shook it around. There were a few good mouthfuls left in it, but he wasn't really thirsty any more … No sense in wasting perfectly good booze. He turned, bottle in what was once a free hand, stumbling towards the door, effectively forgetting what it was he was doing previously, but deciding that it was probably about time for him to get back to the common room anyway…

The higher being was the only one who knew what benevolent force was looking out for him on his way back to the dungeons; he needed to go nearly across the castle to get to the entrance of the common room, which entailed going down at least two stationary sets of stairs and waiting for several more to move without plummeting to his death … Something must've had Argus Filch's attention that night, and something even better must've been keeping Mrs. Norris, because there was no other way for him to have achieved what should have been completely impossible … Especially having fallen down one of those flights of stairs. But somehow, some way, he managed to get back to the wall that lead to the common room, wand and alcohol in hand, even though he was now bleeding from the head where he'd incurred a rather impressive gash that he couldn't actually feel. Leaning against the wall so that his mouth was nearly touching the cold stone, though Barty didn't realize it was cold, he smeared the blood from his injured temple across it for a while as he thought aloud drunkenly, saying several things that could've been the magic word, and quite a few that couldn't, before he managed to come up with the right thing.

"Sss … Sss-srrr … Blo'dy … .. SssSerpent …" the blond managed to slur out, though those 'S's were killers when your tongue felt like it was two sizes too big for your mouth … Still holding his wand, the wall opened after what almost seemed like a moment of deliberation and Barty nearly fell on his face – which was good because he might've hit said face on the ceiling if he had tried to just walk straight in to the short, low-ceilinged passage that went from the hall to the common room.

There appeared to be no one in the common room as far as he could tell, not that he was looking – stumbling a little bit, his eyes lit on the fireplace. He wasn't cold, but he liked the fireplace, and he was reasonably confident that he was sick of stairs; he'd almost thrown up twice in the way because of their obnoxious moving from place to place. Nearly falling face first into the fire, he pitched forward and managed to land on his arse next to it, far too close for comfort. An ember would have no trouble at all jumping out of the fireplace and onto his very flammable robes, not that it was much better than embers at this point anyway … But he wasn't thinking about that…

There was something in his hand.

What the hell …? No; no … That was just his wand. Right. He had picked that up. Absently, he set the wand down, fingers still full of ink from that inkwell he had nearly shoved them into in order to get ink on his quill.

Quill …?

Oh wait; yeah – there was that letter he needed to send his father – it had been under the wand. Stupid thing was trying to hide. Why; so I can get a fucking howler again? Fuck you too – damned thing… he thought crossly as he threw it at the fire, or at least what was left of it. However, it bounced off of the embers of a log someone had put on hours earlier, skidded back over the ashes, and rolled onto the floor next to Barty's wand. The force made the blond slump over, fingers of his other hand still clutching the forgotten alcohol bottle, and he slowly slid into a more horizontal position, letting out a very slow breath. In fact, most of his breaths were very slow now – his breathing in general was slow.

"Bas'rd …" he muttered at the rolled up parchment, though he didn't really make a move to do anything about it's insolence of the non-burning variety. He was pretty tired, actually, after that walk. Hazel eyes started to close, and he realized he felt something running across his nose. Well that was annoying. Reaching up with all the accuracy of, well, a drunk, he beaned himself soundly in the face, managing to wipe away what he failed to identify as blood, which was still steadily streaming over his skin before his hand fell down, sleeve of his robe partially hiding his face …

The End …?

Sorry this one was so long; I just kept going on and on and on … Poor Barty; he's so drunk he doesn't realize he's probably going to die of hypothermia – I mean, that tower wasn't exactly insulated or anything …

Footnotes:

1 – I have to put a disclaimer here that I did do some research; assuming that Barty has a normal tolerance for alcohol and weighs between 160-170lbs, this amount of alcohol within an hour or so will kill him. It could however give him alcohol poisoning if he drinks most of it. It would take at least 690mL (.69L) to kill him …

2 – I would like to apologize to any British person reading this for all of the stereotypical slang, and any other person in the world reading this who has no idea what half of this shit means. I would also like to apologize to myself for not actually looking any of this up xD On another note, any spelling/grammar/punctuation errors you see here were entirely on purpose. Or at least pretend they are if I've missed any really bad ones.